Lewis Cole: Primary Storm Part 14

It was something to see her work, but what pleased me most was that during one break in the call, she reached over and gave my thigh a quick squeeze. "Thanks for the drive in, and a promise for better things later," she said.

I returned the favor, squeezing something else, and she laughed and returned to her cell phone as the buildings of Manchester came into view. The state's largest city, it's a mix of poor neighborhoods and office buildings in the center of town. New immigrants from Latin America and Asia jostle for jobs in places where the accents were once Irish or French-Canadian. The headquarters for Senator Hale were on Elm Street, the main drag for Manchester, and I pulled in next to a fire hydrant. Highly illegal, but I planned to be there only for a few moments.

Annie dumped her cell phone in her purse and reached behind her for her overnight bag. I kissed her a few times and she said, "Thanks, dear one. I'll see you later."

"Bad weather coming tonight," I said. "Are you coming back to Tyler, or are you going to stay here?"

"Stay here, I'm afraid," she said. "But look at it this way. Less than a week to the primary, and then you get me all to yourself."

"Lucky me."

She made a wrinkling gesture with her nose. "I'd like to think I'm lucky as well. Take care."

"You, too."

She walked into the storefront, each and every window obscured by HALE FOR PRESIDENT signs, and already she must have been in campaign mode, for Annie didn't turn and wave at me as she went inside.

But that was okay. I drove away and in a matter of minutes, I was in a parking garage that was adjacent to and serviced the Center of New Hamps.h.i.+re.

I was early so I bought a New York Times and The Wall Street Journal and settled down in a lounge area next to the check-in counter, and I surprised myself by letting the papers go unread. There was a floor show going on near me, and despite myself, it was fun to watch. Guests and a.s.sorted hangers-on were moving about the lobby, talking and arguing and speaking into their cell phones. Camera crews were stationed by the doors, gear piled at their feet, like soldiers on a long campaign. The reporters from different organizations came to and fro, and I recognized a few network and cable television correspondents. They always had the best skin. The reporters made it seem a point of pride to wear their IDs and credentials around their necks, as if they were some well-bred species of animal that had been awarded a number of blue ribbons.

It was amusing to see the looks on the faces, to hear the s.n.a.t.c.hed bits of conversation, and in some way, it was like a high school reunion, as old relations.h.i.+ps were started up again. And more than a few times, I heard, "See you in South Carolina!" knowing that was the next big primary after New Hamps.h.i.+re's.

And before I knew it, it was time.

I gathered up my newspapers and walked to the bank of elevators.

At 8:01 A.M. I knocked on the door to room 410, and it opened quickly, as if she had been waiting for me. Before me was the wife of the senior senator from Georgia, barefoot, wearing blue jeans and an Indiana University sweats.h.i.+rt.

I went in and she kissed me on the cheek and said, "Old reliable Lewis. I knew you'd be here if you could, right on the dot."

"Thanks, I think," I said, and followed her in, and I was surprised at how small the room was. It was a typical hotel room with two double beds and a television and bathroom and small table with a chair, but for someone like Barbara, the possible future first lady, it seemed all wrong. She sat on the bed and curled up in a familiar pose that made something inside me ache with memory, and I took the chair across from her.

I said, "Another way to keep your sanity, above and beyond sneaking out to bookstores when no one's looking?"

"You know it, Lewis." She rubbed her face and said, "When you are where I am, you're constantly on. You're surrounded by staff, by consultants, by campaign workers. They all demand and expect the perfect candidate's wife, the perfectly scripted fembot, the perfect arm candy for the next president. I have a room here paid for by the campaign that's the size of my first d.a.m.n apartment. This one's been rented in the name of my mom. It's nice to slip away and wear old clothes and watch television programs that aren't news shows, and know that the phone won't ring."

"Sure is." I looked at her and she looked at me, and I recalled what I had done less than an hour ago, dropping off Annie at her place of work, and I tried to keep my voice even and gentle. "Barbara, what's up?"

It was amazing, seeing the look on her face change from that of an old college friend to that of a candidate's wife, morph from relaxation to cool hostility. For a moment I felt a flash of sympathy for this woman who could never be quite comfortable with new acquaintances, could never know if someone wanted to be her friend because of who she was, or because of her position and power.

"I'm not sure what you mean," she said.

"Barbara ... this has been wonderful, catching up with you and our times back in college, but in less than a week, the primary will be over and you and your husband and the campaign will be heading to South Carolina. I'll still be here, in Tyler Beach. In the meantime, you and I are playing 'remember when,' and the only thing I can do is damage the campaign. Some smart reporter, still wanting to know how and why I might have been involved in the shooting, might decide to tail me for a bit. And can you imagine the headlines if a story comes out that you and I have been seen together?"

"Sounds cool and logical."

"It sounds right, Barbara, and you know it. So. What can I do for you?"

"I need your help," she said. "How?"

She folded her arms tight against her chest. "I ... I need you. I need you ... because I think someone's trying to kill me."

And then she started weeping.

I was on the bed with her, holding her, the scent and touch bringing back memories of college years so hard it made me feel lightheaded for a moment, and there was that sour tinge of regret, of what might have been, how our lives would have been different if she had come back from D.C., if I had been more aggressive in tracking her down, in finding out why she had gone east and had never come back.

Old regrets, still feeling fresh.

She turned to me and said, "All right, all right, maybe I'm being a bit hysterical ... but, Lewis, I don't know who to talk to, who I can trust."

"What's going on?"

"There's been two attempts. The first was a month ago, outside Atlanta. I was driving our Lexus and I got in a car accident. Flipped right off the road and into a drainage ditch. Almost broke my d.a.m.n nose when the airbag popped open. It was at night, a light rain ... but no reason why it should have happened. The Georgia Bureau of Investigation kept Jackson and me informed through their investigation ... managed to keep most of it out of the newspapers. Seems like my Lexus was sabotaged. Brake lines were cut, the tires were underinflated, making it easier to roll over."

"Who did it?"

She smiled, though her eyes were full of tears. "Who the h.e.l.l knows? The Georgia Bureau of Investigation are still investigating and Jackson ... he just nodded at the right places and told me that the professionals should handle it, and by then, the Secret Service were with us, and there was a campaign to run."

"The car accident was the first attempt. What was the second?"

"You should know," she said. "You were there."

"The campaign rally?"

Barbara nodded. "Nothing I can prove, Lewis. But I managed to see a preliminary report from the Secret Service on the shooting. From where the bullets impacted the wall behind the stage, it was apparent that I was the target. Not my husband. Me."

"Why?"

She rubbed her arms, as if the room had suddenly gotten cold. "Despite all the polls and predictions, the Hale for President campaign is a hollow sh.e.l.l. We're running on credit and optimism. We need to nail down the New Hamps.h.i.+re primary for another round of funds and campaign people to come streaming in. You see, there comes a point in any campaign when the well goes dry. And it remains dry unless the landscape changes. A scandal in another campaign. Some string of good news. Other things."

Now I felt cool as well. "Other things ... like the shooting or killing of a candidate's wife just before the primary."

A sharp nod. "You have no idea politics is a dirty business. Not as dirty here as in other places but when certain people and certain groups have an idea and confidence that they are going to be part of the new crew come next inauguration, then they can get a bit crazed. They get so close to those centers of power and influence that they do things they wouldn't otherwise do."

"So if a candidate's wife is wounded or killed ... "

"My G.o.d, an orgy of publicity ... can you imagine it? The sympathy vote would roar right in, the funding would increase, they'd have to drive away the excess volunteers with a fire hose ... and those people backing Jack would be very, very happy."

Having her in my arms now seemed to be quite wrong, but I couldn't move, couldn't disturb the moment. "All right ... having said all of that, Barbara, what can I do to help?"

She sighed. "I'm not proud of what I did, Lewis, but after seeing you at the bookstore, I wanted to know more ... wanted to know more about what you did after college. So I had you checked out."

"Lucky me."

"Your time at the Pentagon is still in deep black, but not what you've done with yourself afterward. You write a snappy column for Sh.o.r.eline but you've been involved in some criminal matters over the years, poking around, asking questions, working as an investigator without a license. And that's what I need."

I squeezed her gently with my arms and got off the bed and back into the hotel room's chair. "What you need is beyond what I can offer, Barbara. You have the Secret Service, the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, the New Hamps.h.i.+re State Police, probably even the FBI at your fingertips. You don't need me."

"Right. And in anyone of those agencies, there might be people supporting one of the other candidates, who'd take great pleasure in leaking a story about a crazed wife, who's gotten paranoid and thinks someone's trying to kill her."

"And what can I do?"

"What you've done in the past. Poke around. Ask questions. See what you can find out from the locals, from the cops to the party organizations. I know I'm grasping at straws, Lewis, but ... "

I looked into those familiar blue eyes, listened to the soft cadence of her voice, and I knew I couldn't do a d.a.m.n thing. The election was just a few days away and my contacts were limited, no matter what Barbara thought about my talents. There was no way I could find out who was trying to hurt her-if, in fact, somebody was trying to hurt her-before the primary election. Not a chance in h.e.l.l.

So I should gracefully decline, and get out of this room, and let her go on with her life with her maybe soon-to-be-president husband, and in less than a week, she and her husband would be gone from my state and my life.

Just a few days.

I looked at her again. It looked like she hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in days. If I told her no, I knew what would happen. More stress, less sleep ... And maybe this whole thing was why Annie and the others thought she was a diva. No wonder they had the impression that Barbara hated the campaign, if someone was actually trying to hurt or kill her.

And if I said yes ... perhaps a chance at some peace and relaxation over the next few days. Then she would leave, go to South Carolina and beyond, and in the crush of campaigning that would follow, other issues would rise up, other demands on her time, and I think she would eventually move on. And maybe I would get an inaugural invite sometime next year.

Maybe.

"Okay," I said. "I'll do it."

She held her hands up to her face and then lowered them.

She swung over a bit to the nearest nightstand, scribbled something on a piece of paper. "My private cell phone number. Call me if you have anything, all right?"

"Sure."

She came over to me and I took the number from her hand, and I looked at her and she looked at me, and it was like the flow of water, reaching its natural state. She just sat in my lap. The smell and the sense of her being there ... I put my arm around her still slim waist and pulled her close. A bit of her hair tickled me. I kissed her and she kissed me back, and before it got any further, I said I had to leave.

Which wasn't much of a lie, but it worked.

I got out of the hotel room and a few minutes later, left to go home. By the time I got back to Tyler Beach, an hour later, clouds had rolled in, thick and gray and threatening. I listened a bit to the radio as I drove back east; we were going to have a nice dump of six to eight inches of snow overnight. Of course, given the time of year, most of the weather report was centered around campaign speculation, over who it might help and who it might hurt. As I went up Atlantic Avenue, heading to my home, I had a thought of what the snow might achieve, in terms of cover, and I was thinking so hard that I missed the turnoff to the Lafayette House parking lot.

And as I made an illegal U-turn to come back, I had another thought. I went into the short-term parking area and after parking my Explorer went inside to the gift shop, where Stephanie Suss.e.x was at work, handling a small crowd of people. Before me was a group of j.a.panese visitors, talking slowly and with great precision to Stephanie, and I waited in an area of the small store that had Tyler Beach T-s.h.i.+rts and sweats.h.i.+rts for sale, as Stephanie carefully packed up the group's purchases.

When they left I walked over and Stephanie placed my morning ration of newspapers on the gla.s.s-topped counter. "You're late," she said.

"Yes," I said. "And good morning to you, too."

That brought a laugh and as she rung up my purchases, she said, "There's a lesson there in the pa.s.sage of time, if you saw it, Lewis."

"What's that?"

"That little overseas group. From a j.a.panese television network. NTK or something like that. The woman reporter, the one who does the on-air work, she was talking about a visit she had up to Porter. We tend to forget that's a very important place for the j.a.panese."

"Some forget, others don't. The Russian-j.a.panese peace treaty. Where Teddy Roosevelt got the n.o.bel Peace Prize for manhandling j.a.pan and Russia into a peace agreement, about a hundred or so years ago."

I paid her and she pa.s.sed over the change. "Good for you, Lewis."

"That bit of history got the two of us talking, and she mentioned that her father was a naval aviator in World War II. Barely made it through the war alive. And I told her that my dad flew Wildcats off the Enterprise at about the same time. That's when we both realized our dads may have shot at each other once or twice. We both laughed, but you know what? A funny world, isn't it, how sworn mortal enemies, more than a half century later, can have their children share a moment without trying to slit each other's throats."

The newspapers were now under my arm and I said, "History sure is a funny thing. Ask you a question?"

"Sure, go ahead."

I made a quick scan of the store, noted that we were alone, and said, "The parking lot break-ins, last month and before."

She looked cautious. "Yes?"

"They've mostly stopped now, haven't they."

"So I've heard."

"Is it because of the surveillance system, keeping an eye on the outer parking lot?"

Stephanie took a bottle of gla.s.s cleaner and sprayed some of the blue stuff on the counter. "Well, I've got to give you that. That was a question. I guess your visit with our local insufferable p.r.i.c.k didn't pan out. So is it now dumped in my lap?"

"What's the problem?"

She tore off a sheet of paper towel, started wiping down the gla.s.s. "The problem is, it's how the Lafayette House has changed the past year. We used to be an overpriced white elephant, charming and fun with water pipes that banged in the middle of the night. Sort of a genteel sn.o.bby place, pretending to be one of those old New England upper-cla.s.s resorts. Hung on by our teeth, year after year, until a sharp little hotel investment group from Switzerland took over and brought in Paul Jeter to run things. Which meant a new regime. A new approach. And new rules."

"What kind of new rules?"

The paper towel was now wadded up in her fist. "Rules that change the nature of this place. No longer are we the shabby, overpriced place where your parents and grandparents once stayed. Now we are trying to appeal to the very upper reaches of wealth, to offer them an experience that they can't get anywhere else. And part of that experience is anonymity and privacy. So if a guard for the Boston Celtics allegedly has a permanently rented room here, where he keeps his two mistresses ---"

"Two?"

"Allegedly, he has big appet.i.tes ... and as I was saying, if this supposed basketball player knows he can stash his two mistresses here, away from the eyes of the Boston news media, he'll pay dearly for that privilege. And the word will get out to other folks in similar circ.u.mstances, who wish to keep their hobbies and tastes secret. So the Lafayette House develops a nice little reputation for quiet and discreet service. Publicizing the supposed fact that the parking lot is under surveillance doesn't help that reputation, now does it?"

"No, it doesn't. Where ... where might this alleged surveillance system be set up?"

Stephanie threw the wadded paper towel away. "That's why you wanted to see Paul Jeter yesterday, right?"

"Right."

"Something happen over your place that morning, you looking to find out what's what?"

"You could say."

Her face was firm. "Lewis ... I'm sorry." There was noise at the entrance of the gift shop and a couple of kids tumbled in, wearing swimsuits, carrying towels, and expressing joy at the pleasure of being able to swim in a heated pool in January.

"I see,". her head. "No, you don't. I need this job. It's relatively easy, pays reasonably well, and I get nice benefits. Nice benefits to help support a sick husband and help me do things for my church. That means a lot to me and ... I'm sorry, I can't help you."

I managed a smile. "No problem, Stephanie. No problem at all."

And so I left, newspapers under my arm, leaving her behind with her job and her history.