Up in Smoke (6 page)

“Welcome,” she whispered. “Whatever is to come, you're now part of it.” The last small spoonful of ashes she trickled into a tiny suede pouch, took it to the bedroom and put it on the bedside table. When she went anywhere, she'd carry the little pouch in her pocket or purse, so they'd always be close.

Access to the attic was in the hallway. Cass carried in the ladder and climbed up. Steep pitch to the ceiling and bare wood floor thick with dust, the attic was filled with remnants of her childhood and castoffs her aunt couldn't bear to part with. Twin-sized bed leaned against a wall, desk under the window. Shelves piled with board games, jigsaw puzzles, and books. Piggy bank, dress form, old birdcage. She'd forgotten about her aunt's canary. Buddy? Billy? The poor thing led a perilous life, the neighbor's cat always skulked around scheming ways to grab it.

Cass picked up the piggy bank and shook it. It rattled richly. Why had she never smashed it and taken the coins? Shaking the dust off the suitcases, she dropped them one by one to the hallway below and firmly closed the door on the rest of life's leftovers. Weepy hours went by, broken now and then by a teary smile, as memories unfolded while she packed her aunt's clothing. At five thirty, drained and exhausted, she realized she had to pick up the dog before the vet closed at six.

“Where did you say you got this dog?” Dr. Newcomer asked.

“On the old highway into Hampstead. Is it—What's the matter with it?”

The black dog gazed at Casilda with eyes that said what the hell did you get me into? This wasn't in our discussion.

“
It
is a she,” he said. “The limp is nothing much. She's got a bruise, probably from a kick. The head wound is more serious.”

Inside a shaved strip along the dog's head, ran a row of neat little stitches.

“My guess is she was hit with something that has an edge but isn't necessarily sharp. The wound is more a gouge than a cut. Something came down hard on her head and scraped away a section of skin and hair.”

Cass put three hundred dollars on her credit card, stuck the vial of antibiotics in her pocket, filled out a card for a found dog, tacked it on a corkboard with half a dozen others and took the dog out to the car.

At a pet store, she bought dog food, bowls, collar, and leash. The Black Dog in the passenger seat looked on with anxious eyes as she loaded items in the trunk and kissed her when she got back in the car. “It's only temporary,” she said.

10

Em, sitting on the bed in her motel room, watched the television, transfixed.

Garrett was in a hall, standing behind a table, talking to a roomful of people. “I feel quite strongly that anyone who takes a life should pay for that action. But taking another human life doesn't begin to make amends. Only God has the right to take a human life—”

Somebody has to pay. God's law, an eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Retribution for those who ignore God's law. A death for a death.

The scene on the television set changed to another hall, this one with a stage. Garrett stood, passionate as Hamlet, words hard as sharp stones.

“… the Bill of Rights. Does any one of you feel that James Madison had bigots in mind when he wrote it? The right of madmen and psychopaths to use assault weapons and handguns to slaughter innocent men, women, and children? I think not, ladies and gentleman, I think he'd feel this country had let itself become a land of potential victims by letting a small group be in charge.”

Nausea tickled her throat. She ran to the bathroom and bent over the toilet, heaving in spasms a vile mess of brown hate and fear.

Shaky, she straightened and flushed. Her throat burned and her mouth tasted awful. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and swished around some mouthwash. The knife felt heavy in her purse. She snapped off the television. It was time.

*   *   *

Damn, Bernie thought. In his room at the Garrett farm, he was watching the opposition on the little handheld television. In politics, any outrageous lie repeated often enough takes on the glimmer of truth and sooner or later is believed.

Someone—and Todd suspected the Halderbreck's campaign manager, it takes one to know one—planted speculation about Jack's marriage with focus on Molly Garrett. She didn't always accompany the governor when he traveled, but Wakely Fromm did. He lived with the Garretts. Had lived with Jack before he married and continued to live with them after he married. Fromm seemed to be with Jack far more than his wife.

Given this golden opportunity, Senator Halderbreck said several times on several different occasions that “there was no proof that Governor Garrett and Wakely Fromm were anything but friends and I deplore this innuendo that anything more could be made of it.” And he said it again now.

Reporter: “It's a well-known fact, Senator, that they lived together for years, even before the governor got married.”

Senator: “And so what if it is? Does this have anything to do with Governor Garrett's ability to lead?”

Damn. Give it a little time and the information floating on the air would bring the bigots out in droves. Jack spent more time with Wakely than with his wife. What did that imply? Well, any idiot could see, it clearly indicated Garrett was gay. A queer, a fairy, a pervert. Before long there'd be articles and political discussion about a person of this sexual identity in the White House. Would you trust this man to run the country?

Fate had given the opposition a magic wand and they were waving it around like a flag.

He turned off the television and slipped it in his jacket pocket. Garrett was giving an outdoor speech on the campus that was aimed at women. Day care, shelters for battered women, education to prevent child abuse, better ways of dealing with men who beat up wives, harsher punishment for crimes against women. It was scheduled for noon, the idea being that clerical workers and other nonstudents could listen if they were so inclined.

“Isn't that my jacket?” Todd said when Bernie walked into the living room. “When you going to give it back?”

They waited for Leon and Hadley and then drove to Emerson.

The sky was a soft, clean blue. Wind blew against Bernie's face with just enough bite to let him know that winter was on the way as they hiked to the plaza where Garrett would speak, a little hollow surrounded by a grassy area and stone buildings. Highway-patrol cops, waiting in a knot, were tight-lipped and tense. When Bernie ambled up, officers Art van Dever and Phil Baker were giving instructions and telling everybody to be on their toes.

“This is the kind of scary-ass thing the governor does,” Art muttered.

Todd started patting pockets. “Lost my sunglasses,” he complained.

“What are you putting on your nose?” Phil slipped on his own sunglasses.

“Picked 'em up at the drugstore. They don't fit right.”

Art and Phil left to get Jack. They'd be with him when he came into the plaza and they'd stand in front of the platform watching the crowd while he spoke. Like the Secret Service who protected the president, these cops wore sunglasses in this detail. John Hinckley would be in the history books for shooting Reagan, but a footnote would say that Secret Service agents wore sunglasses because of Hinckley. After the attempt on Reagan, agents picked out Hinckley drifting through the crowds in films of a Jimmy Carter speech. When Hinckley was picked up, he admitted he'd been there to shoot Carter, but an agent was wearing sunglasses and Hinckley couldn't tell who he was looking at. Hinckley was afraid the agent was watching him.

“Probably was,” Art had told Bernie. “The guy had the face.”

“What face?”

Art shrugged. “
Different.
You look at those old films sometime and you can just see he looks different. You can spot him without even knowing who he is.” He gave Bernie a tight-lipped smile. “Somebody's going to do it. Take a shot at him.”

“Aren't people screened for guns?”

“Situation like this? Where people just wander in? And it doesn't have to be a gun. Knife, skewer, bomb. Hell, anthrax. Some fucking nutball is going to try. I just pray it isn't on my watch.”

A few people had already gathered in front of the platform and Bernie, standing with Todd, studied them. Students, office workers, some faculty maybe, professorial-looking types anyway. Not having Art's kind of experience, Bernie didn't think he could spot
the face
even if it sat next to him.

*   *   *

Only about ten people were milling round the plaza. She was too early, Em realized, there weren't enough people here yet. Somebody might remember her.

The sun was shining, but the wind felt cold as it nuzzled her face and she turned her back to it. Hitching up the strap of her shoulder bag, she couldn't help running her hand across the smooth leather. The knife was inside. She'd have to get close. She was afraid.

Stupid to let doubts get in the way. How long would it take, to slide the knife from her bag, run toward Governor Garrett and plunge it in his heart? All she had to do was get close.

She clamped her teeth. What if she couldn't reach him? She imagined a bullet entering her brain a moment after the knife penetrated his chest—because that's all she'd have, a moment—and she'd fall dead at his feet. Would he look at her as she was dying? Would his face be the picture she'd carry into eternity? She was afraid, afraid of the look on his face, afraid of dying too soon.

“Are you all right?”

Panicky, she turned. A girl, one of the group waiting. Oh God, now she'd been noticed.

“Fine,” Em blurted. “Fine,” she repeated. “Didn't eat breakfast.” She turned her back. Walk, don't run. Walk. She strolled to the other end of the plaza.

More people arrived and they wandered around on the grass. Lots of students, men and women from town. And police. She wondered how fast they were with their guns.

A black limousine with tinted windows pulled up to the curb. A police car glided in behind it. Doors opened on the second car and police piled out. One opened the door of the limousine and when the governor got out police flowed around him. The crowd applauded and cheered. Governor Garrett waved to them.

She could do it, Em thought. She could push the knife in him and create a huge hole in his chest before the police shot her.

The governor said something and the crowd laughed. He started talking about a woman's rights.

Em felt sick again. She shoved through the people pressing in on her, nausea clawing at her throat. Just as suddenly, panic hooked onto her lungs. She couldn't breathe. Gasping and trembling, she stopped and put her arms around her chest. Air air air.

Finally, the vise loosened and air whooshed in. She panted and pulled in another chestful. Tears of shame and humiliation nearly choked her.

Coward, she accused herself. She'd been afraid to take the chance, afraid the police would kill her before she could accomplish her mission. Afraid.

*   *   *

Sean Donovan saw her when he got off the press bus. A middle-aged woman, slightly dowdy, running flat out. At first he thought someone was after her, but she made a sudden stop and clutched her chest with a panic-stricken look on her face. Maybe she was having a heart attack and he should call an ambulance.

Then she straightened and the panicked look was replaced by one of anguish. She had demons, poor lady, they were loose and they were vicious. He wondered what they were. She stared wildly at him and started walking rapidly away.

He turned to look after her. He'd seen her somewhere before, but for the life of him he couldn't remember where. Probably somebody who'd sold him toothpaste or cleaned his hotel room.

*   *   *

Em stumbled to a bench on the grass between the library and the political science building. Just to catch her breath, she told herself. And anyway, if she kept running around in a blind fit, people were going to notice and they'd, for sure, remember her. If that happened she'd never reach her goal. She needed to think. Maybe go about this a different way.

Damp wind blew against her face. She looked at the section of wooden bench beside her. Wet. And her jacket was wet. When had it started to rain? Only drizzle really, but her hair was soaked. It was four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. She felt disoriented. In her mind, she saw the knife strike the governor's chest and the blossom of red blood erupt. She saw it so clearly, she almost began to believe, then she had to remind herself she hadn't yet accomplished it.

The young woman who'd asked her if she was all right, blond hair and clear blue eyes, had looked so much like Alice Ann that pain squeezed Em's heart. Would the young woman remember her? She had to be more careful. Otherwise she'd be picked up before she could even get to the governor.

She needed an excuse, a reason for hanging around. The street was slick with rain. As she started across, she saw a police car. Her heart banged. Wildly, she looked around. Where to run? Then she forced a breath. Stop sign, he'd only stopped for a stop sign. He wasn't even looking at her, he was looking straight ahead. With the knife feeling heavy in her shoulder bag, she turned right and walked briskly. Cold drizzle fell on her face. The moisture felt cooling and good, washed away the hot sick feeling.

In the next block, she came to it. The answer. A large dingy building with
GARRETT FOR AMERICA
signs plastered all over the windows. The building at one time was apparently a grocery store, marks were still visible where check stands used to be.

A young woman at a long table, the kind with legs that folded up, watched her come in. Partitions gave the illusion of a reception area. The murmur of voices came from the other side.

“May I help you?” she called when Em hovered in the doorway.

Was this the right thing to do? If people saw her every day, they would be able to describe her to the police. Maybe she should—?