Up in Smoke (16 page)

“Well, boys and girls, anybody got any brilliant ideas?” Leon's honey-dipped southern voice was crystallized with irritation.

“I need to go home,” Cass murmured to Bernie.

He squeezed her hand lightly. “Wait for it.”

“Get him on the phone, Bernie,” Jack said, “and I'll talk to him.”

“Jack,” Molly said in a warning voice.

Cass wondered if Molly was happy being married to Jack. He wasn't exactly a restful person to be with even back when they'd been together; now he was focused like a predator on the prowl.

Bernie took a cell phone from his jacket pocket and punched in a series of numbers. He talked a few seconds and handed the phone to Jack.

“Hey, Jerry, Jack Garrett here.” He listened.

“Uh-huh … well now, the Senator may have been mistaken about … yeah, we did meet. A little while back we were both in Boston and it was a good opportunity to … we did. We talked … uh huh, uh-huh … about a lot of things. One thing we talked about was how interesting the primaries were going to be this year and the chance the party had of giving the president a hard time … especially about the war on terrorism … uh-huh, when was the last time you heard him say anything about jobs? People around here want … Well, no, that's not exactly … no, I said we had to run it out, get a discussion of the issues.… Yeah, and then we had to all get behind whoever the nominee was.”

Jack's hand was tight on the phone and Molly watched like she was ready to pounce if he said a wrong word, but his voice was calm. “No, Jerry, we didn't have any kind of discussion about that. It's way too soon anyway. First, the senator has to get out there and see if he can beat some of us.… Yeah, it happens. Misunderstanding. No problem.… Yeah, thanks.”

Molly looked relieved when he hung up and handed the phone back to Bernie. “How much can we trust this Donovan guy?” Jack asked Bernie.

Bernie shrugged. “He's a reporter. From all I know, he's honest. But he's a reporter.”

“So,” Todd said. “Anyone got any ideas how to go with this?”

“Get something against him,” Leon said.

Jack looked at the game on television, gently touched his wife's cheek, and smiled again at Cass. He'd always been able to track five things at the same time. Molly liked the smile for Cass even less the second time.

“Why am I here?” Cass said.

“We're getting there,” Bernie said.

Jack stood up, jammed his hands in his pockets, and started pacing. “Follow the middle road. If we beat Halderbreck, we're set for the gold. Right, Bernie? Of course, there's always the possibility we may not beat him. But taking the middle road and losing would put us almost certainly in a position where he'd pick us for number two spot. Lord, Lord, then I'd have four years of walking in the shadow of an idiot.”

“We need to figure how much,” Leon said, “to distinguish you from Halderbreck and how hard you need to push against him. This campaign shows a rift in the party, you're the future, Halderbreck's the past. Take him on. Be anti-Halderbreck and you'll stand out from the crowd.”

“Not too anti-Halderbreck,” Todd said. “You want the votes. Not just the antis, the whole party.”

“I can't let him slice and dice me,” Jack said. “First, he makes me a queer, then unpatriotic for saying we face other problems besides the fucking terrorism threat. Now he has me begging for second place in the
Journal.
”

“He has to be careful, too,” Leon said. “Slicing you makes you look important. Otherwise, why slice, you know?”

“What about the polls?”

“What about them?”

“New Hampshire, where do we stand?”

“Three,” Todd said with great satisfaction.

“And Senator Halderbreck?”

“Oh, hell, he's something like nineteen.”

Everybody laughed, except Cass. Why had Bernie been so insistent that she come? She was sitting here like a bump on a log and nobody but Molly paid the slightest attention to her.

Todd shoved his glasses up his nose and looked at her, an openly judging look that was far worse than being ignored. It made her very nervous. With the chair groaning in protest, Leon heaved his considerable bulk up and lowered himself onto the floor where he stretched out on his back, put his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. Bernie got up and rattled through the soft drinks on the dining room table. He found a Coke and held it up to question if she wanted one. She shook her head. He popped the tab, sat back down beside her, and patted her hand.

“We have to do something,” Leon said. “If we don't come on strong, Halderbreck is going to pull some kind of shit like this again. He does it often enough and voters are going to start believing him.”

“Yeah,” Todd said. “The point is what do we do?”

They both looked at Cass and she felt like she was being eyed for the position of Thanksgiving turkey.

Todd shifted his gaze. “Jack?”

Jack looked at Bernie.

“The crows aren't going to like it,” Bernie said.

“Screw 'em,” Todd said. “Since when have they cared about us. All they want is something blood-dripping to throw at the public.”

“What's going on here,” Cass said. “And why do I feel like I'm being measured for a noose?”

“We need to leak something to the crows,” Leon said.

“Crows?” She looked at Bernie.

“Press.”

“And you want me to do it? That's why you're all looking at me? Trying to figure out if I'm capable of doing it right?”

“So she's smart,” Todd said. “Okay, what'll we say.”

“Just a minute,” Cass said.

“This is a very bad idea,” Nora said.

“The governor said,” Leon's soft southern voice took on hard corners, “that Senator Halderbreck is so stupid he needs help shooting himself in the foot.”

“Maybe he tried it and missed,” Bernie said.

“What the hell does that mean?” Todd said.

Jack grinned. “Perfect. Who do we leak it to? The Donovan guy?”

“No,” Todd said. “He's been at this a long time. He knows his prick from a hole in the ground. Anyway he's print. We need one of the cookies.”

“Female reporters,” Bernie said.

“Television faces,” Todd added.

“You want me to tell one of these—these—cookies, that—that—” Cass held a hand out toward Jack, “he called the Senator from Massachusetts stupid?”

“Got it in one,” Todd said.

“Leak it,” Bernie said.

“Why me? Why don't you do it. Or Todd?”

“I'd never say anything like that.” Todd sounded offended. “Neither would Bernie. He's an old hand. They'd never believe him. You're new. You might accidentally let something slip.”

“This is a very bad idea,” Nora said again.

Cass agreed wholeheartedly.

21

The kitchen was black as that shrivel-headed cop's heart and Moonbeam didn't dare turn on a light. Her own house and she couldn't turn on a light! She was a fugitive and old Mrs. Hadwent next door was sure to notice a light. She bashed her toe against the table leg. “Ow. Damn it! Oh damn it!” Crumpling to a cross-legged sit, she grabbed the throbbing toe. “Ow, oh ow, oh ow.” Tears clogged her throat. Why was everything so awful?

She rocked back and forth. Why did dirtbag cops have to be after her trying to throw her in jail? Why did she have to be here in the dark? Why did Gayle have to go and die? I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. I don't cry. She rubbed a forefinger back and forth beneath her runny nose.

Well, fuck it. If she didn't have a right to cry, who did? She was an orphan. Her only relative had been bashed over the head and thrown in the car trunk. Cops were looking for her. She was hiding out in her own house, not daring to turn on the light. So far, this was turning out to be the worst day of her life. And where was Rosie anyway? What the fuck happened to Gayle's dog?

Moonbeam had thought it was so brilliant, sneaking back in here. The cops were done searching and wouldn't be back, so it was the best place to hide. She just had to be careful that Mrs. Hadwent didn't notice anything, and stay away from windows and stuff. But there was food here and water. She could even take a shower as long as nobody saw steam coming out a window or something really dumb like that. And clean clothes.

Except she hadn't thought about it getting dark and not being able to turn on a light and it being really creepy and weird noises scaring the shit out of her and sounds like somebody sneaking in and maybe the psycho killer was coming back. Like he dropped something that would really prove who he was and everything and he had to break in and get it. And he wouldn't know she was here.
Oh, shit. Gayle? I really miss you.

Who would kill Gayle anyway? Of course, she did have her bad side when she came all over the heavy parent and everything and they didn't always get along like catsup and fries, but, hey, who does? At least, they had each other. Now she didn't even have the dumb dog. Just in case the cops really had taken Rosie to the pound or something, she ought to call tomorrow and ask. There couldn't be too many Belgian shepherds turned in.

Moonbeam stopped rubbing her seriously sore toe and moved carefully and slowly through the dining room and into the hallway, clutching a box of crackers. After dark, she was afraid to open the refrigerator door, thinking even that small light might be noticed. Who knows, but what the cops might be driving by at certain times all night.

Her bedroom was really totally dark. Isn't that just perfect? She shuffled a perilous path from the doorway to her bed and climbed in. Why was she shaking so much? It wasn't that cold.

She pulled the blankets up to her chin and lay staring up at the black ceiling. When she'd been little, Gayle had pasted stars up there, because Moonbeam had been scared of the dark. Well, she wasn't little anymore, and she wasn't scared of anything.

Well, maybe some things, maybe a little. Who wouldn't be scared of a psycho killer? Why had he killed Gayle anyway? Maybe Moonbeam should check out some of those dippy mysteries with gutsy female sleuths and get some pointers on how to find the bad guy. Who would want to kill Gayle? She didn't have anything that was worth anything. Well, just look around this house. Was there anything here that was worth a dime? Of course, ugly old antiques were worth thousands sometimes. And the dirtiest and ugliest were worth the most. Her friend Monica's mother found a table in the attic and it turned out to be worth a bunch of thousands of dollars. They remodeled the whole house and put on a second story and bought a humongous television.

But that's ridiculous, there's nothing like that here. Was anything in the attic? Oh, shit, she was sorry she thought of it. Was that footsteps up there? No! No one was in the attic and no way she was going to go up and look.

She wondered if Gayle had known something. Like, well, the
big
secret. Moonbeam snorted and the noise sounded so loud she scared herself.

She rooted around to get more comfortable. Gayle had been dwelling on all that sad stuff about the fire and everything and the big fight she had with Vince right before he took off for Colorado and had that skiing accident.

Then—Moonbeam squinched up her eyes to remember better—last month just before he left to go skiing, Vince was excited about something. Moonbeam squeezed her eyes tighter and rubbed her forehead to stimulate thoughts. The governor. Yeah, that was it. Vince said he had something to say to the governor. Or maybe he said he already said something to the governor. Moonbeam was sorry she hadn't paid more attention, that she was so busy with her own shit and everything that she didn't even listen. If only she'd been home, if only she hadn't gone to the music festival, then maybe the psycho killer wouldn't have bashed Gayle. She'd be still alive and—

Tears, hot and painful, got all started and Moonbeam mashed her face in the pillow to bury the sobs.

Something scraped against a window. Moonbeam held her breath, her heart flapped like a whirligig. Somebody on the porch?

22

After hours of struggle trying to get to sleep, Em got up, pulled on some clothes, got in her car and drove, just drove, through the black night, the little town of Hampstead, and into the countryside. Two hours later when she returned she was exhausted. Surely the nightmares that tormented her would be lulled, surely God would let her sleep now, but the torturous dreams were back as soon as she closed her eyes.

Tired as she was, she plodded through her work at Garrett For America local headquarters and was thankful when her shift was over. She drove to the motel, turned off the ignition and just sat there, too tired to get out of the car. The wind whistling past the inch-open window frayed on her nerves. She was always tired now, sometimes so much she simply wanted to sleep, but when she went to bed, sleep eluded her. She started to worry she wouldn't have the strength to accomplish her mission. That must not happen. She must be successful. For Alice Ann and all the others like her who couldn't speak for themselves and had no one else to step up for them.

With a deep sigh, she gathered her purse and the two bags of food she'd bought. She fumbled for her room key and had to put the bags down to find it. “Alice Ann? I'm home, honey. Sorry, I'm late. I stopped to pick up some food. Not that I'm hungry, but I guess I need to eat. Keep my strength up, like everybody always says.”

She flicked on the light in the entryway, went into the small kitchen area and dropped the bags on the counter.

“Who's Alice Ann?”

She spun around, heart pounding, knees going weak.

Black kid. Teenager.

For the blink of an eye, everything froze. Then it came rushing back, the noise of her heart, the rattle of the room's heater, a car horn honking outside. The boy at the pawnshop. The one who'd scared her so, stolen her money. Sitting in the overstuffed chair by the bed. He held a gun. Passed it slowly back and forth from one hand to the other. Ran the barrel up and down his jaw. Grinned at her, teeth white in his dark face.