Lewis Cole: Primary Storm Part 8

I lowered myself back to bed, yawned, and thought about what I should do next, and when I looked at my bedside clock ---- keeping company with my nine-millimeter Beretta --- I saw that another hour had pa.s.sed.

Time to get up and get going.

Getting dressed after my shower, I felt like I hadn't eaten well in days, so I treated myself to a coronary-encouraging breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and some shaved potato bits that pa.s.sed as home fries. I left the television off and switched on the radio to a cla.s.sical station out of Boston that never broadcast news or political commentary, and with that comfort, I ate well.

After a quick wash of the dishes, I felt better than I had in days. I went out to the entranceway to get my coat, and then to walk across the way up to the Lafayette House, to get the morning papers, and then --- Something was on the floor, by the door. An envelope.

I picked it up. An interview request, no doubt, from some enterprising news media type who had snuck down my snowy driveway. It made me think about Felix and his direct way of dealing with the news media. I thought about wandering up to the driveway with my eight-millimeter rifle strapped to my back, and decided that was going against my lawyer's advice to keep what snipers call a low profile.

I opened up the envelope, and a heavy piece of stationery was inside, folded over in threes. I undid it and there were handwritten words penned there.

A clean, well-lit place with books and companions and soft chairs. What more can anyone want?

At eleven?

The sentiment and the handwriting were familiar. I could not believe it. I could not. But there it was.

I carefully put the paper back in the envelope, went upstairs, and placed the missive in a desk drawer. Saw the time. Just past 10:00 A.M.

I sat down in my chair, looked about at my collection of books, until I saw the ones I was looking for, old and unopened for so many years. There were four of them, large and flat and on the bottom of the farthest bookshelf.

I suppose I should have gone over there and pulled them free, to reminisce about what was and what might have been, but instead, I waited.

As the time pa.s.sed, as the time always did.

Just before eleven --- and after successfully driving past the lonely remnants of the media mob that had greeted me yesterday --- I was in downtown Tyler, the small collection of office buildings and stores about a five-minute drive west of Tyler Beach. The beach is just a village precinct within the town of Tyler, and the two have always had a rocky relations.h.i.+p, like that of two brothers, one a barhopping ne'er-do-well, the other a sober, churchgoing type. But while the beach has much more to offer than the town proper, the town has one advantage the beach doesn't: a bookstore.

It's off Lafayette Road, on a small side street called Water Street, and, oddly enough, is called Water Street Books. It's in a two-story brick building, with small green canvas awnings. I walked in. There was a large area in the center, lined with bookshelves after bookshelves, and before me was a display with a current New York Times bestseller. I walked past that collection of books, with the eyes of Mona Lisa following me, and to the rear of the store, which had padded chairs and coffee tables.

There was a small table with fresh-brewed coffee and tea and some snacks that operated on the honor system, and I poured myself a cup of coffee, dropped a dollar bill in an overflowing straw basket, started browsing. It was, as described, a clean, well-lit place with books and companions and soft chairs.

I found her at the farthest end of the bookstore, curled up with a coffee table book about Shaker furniture. She was sitting in a large easy chair, windows behind her overlooking a small park, and she had on designer jeans and a dull red turtleneck sweater. A matching red knit cap was pulled over her head, her blond hair tucked up underneath, and as I approached, she looked up and smiled right through me.

"Lewis," she said. "Barbara."

She stood up and I automatically came forward, and we exchanged hugs, the touch and scent bringing back old college-aged memories, memories I didn't even know I had anymore. She kissed me on the cheek and I returned the favor, and then we sat down, holding hands, just for the briefest and most delicate of moments.

"You look great," I said.

"Right."

"No, I mean it. You look like you just left the Student Union, heading out to McGrath's Pub."

She smiled at the name of the old pub back at Indiana University, where we had spent long hours drinking cheap beer and solving the problems of the world, and she said, "You look good, too."

"Now you're the one who's lying," I said. "Face not as smooth, hair not as thick"

The smile was still there. "I like your face. It's got character.

It's got life to it. Are you all right ... with everything else?"

I nodded. "I am. I had nothing to do with the shooting."

"Of course. My staff tried to brief me last night and I told them not to bother. I knew you could have never done anything like that."

"Thanks. And was it your staff who delivered your note this morning?"

She nodded, the smile ... oh, that smile. "Yes, an eager intern who knows how to keep her mouth shut, and who loved pretending to be a reporter, begging you for an interview by sliding that envelope under your door."

I looked around the nearly empty bookstore. "Speaking of staff ... how in h.e.l.l did you get here without a media mob following you?"

The smile took on an icy edge I had never seen before. "One of the advantages of being the wife of the senator, and a possible first lady. The staff have their demands, but they also know I have a long memory, a memory of who's been helpful and who's been a pain in the a.s.s, a memory I'll bring with me to the East Wing. And if I need a chunk of time here and there for personal time, without handlers, without staff, even without Secret Service protection, then that's the way it's going to be."

"I see."

Then the ice disappeared from the smile, and the old Barbara was sitting there before me. "Listen to me, a cranky and confident b.i.t.c.h on wheels. When I get to the East Wing. If I get to the East Wing, my old friend. There's a lot ahead, and New Hamps.h.i.+re's just the second step."

"How's the senator doing?"

"With the shooting? Jack's shrugging it off. That's one of his many admirable qualities. When he is focused on a goal, on something he desires so much, he won't let anything get in his way. His opponents in Georgia. Members of his own party who thought he should sit this one out. Or one deranged shooter."

"I saw you at the rally. You must have been scared."

The barest of shrugs. "It happened so fast ... I don't think I had time to think about anything. The first shot sounded like a firecracker going off, but the Secret Service ... they move very, very fast. I have bruises on my arms where they grabbed me. They don't fool around."

"I'm glad."

She s.h.i.+fted her legs in the chair. "What I found amazing was that I saw you in the audience. That was a surprise and a half. How did you end up in New Hamps.h.i.+re?"

"Long story," I said. "Quick version is that I ended up here after working for a while at the Department of Defense. I had some old memories about being a kid here on the coast, before my mom and dad moved us out to Indiana. And now I'm a columnist for a magazine."

"Sh.o.r.eline."

"That's right."

Barbara reached out, touched the back of my wrist. "Congratulations to you, at least. You and I, back at school, we were going to be great writers. Journalists who make a difference. To report from D.C., from conflicts in Asia and Africa. Struggle and fight to bring out the truth, to change the world."

"Not much change comes from a monthly column."

"Maybe, but at least you're still writing. Me ... I'm lucky if I get to edit some of Jack's speeches. When he's in a good mood, that is."

I put my coffee cup down on the table between us. "Last I knew, back at school, you went out to D.C. on an interns.h.i.+p."

Her voice was flat. "And never came back to Indiana. And never wrote or called you. I know. It's been a long time. I hope you've forgiven me since then."

I looked at her. "I have."

"Thanks. I mean that, Lewis. Thanks." She sighed. "Such a story. Went out there, just for a semester. Interning at Congressman Reisinger's office. Not supposed to do much of anything but answer phones and sort mail ... but there was a vicious flu season that semester. Bunch of staffers got sick. So I got pushed into service, got myself noticed, and as time went on ... I didn't want to go back to Indiana. And I didn't want to report the news. I wanted to be on the inside, making the news. So I transferred out to George Was.h.i.+ngton University, stayed and worked on Capitol Hill, and eventually, I got noticed by another congressman."

"The Right Honorable Representative Jackson Hale."

That made her giggle. "Such a mouthful, right? And if you had told me that I was going to marry a Southern congressman, a guy from Georgia, I would have told you, you were crazy. But I did ... and you know why? Because I could sense he was going places. That he was going to make lots of news, and besides the fact that I was attracted to him, I wanted to be a part of it. So I got used to breakfast meetings, fried catfish, grits in the morning, and learning who races what kind of vehicle in NASCAR. Along the way, a wonderful son and a wonderful daughter. And here we are. All because of a bad flu season, all those years ago."

I made a point of looking around the store. "Yes. Here we are. A clean, well-lit place with books and companions and soft chairs."

"What could be better?" And then she looked down, as if suddenly fascinated by the cover of the book in her lap.

There was just the quickest of moments there, I think, when we were both in our early twenties, full of energy and good intentions, and recalling our shared love of bookstores, and our solemn vow to each other that if our relations.h.i.+p continued, that if we made it that much more, that we would always have to live in a place that had a fine bookstore.

Old promises.

She looked up and said, "My story. And what's yours? How did you end up at the Pentagon?"

"Senior year," I said. "I had done my own interns.h.i.+p the previous summer, at the Indianapolis Star. I was getting ready to apply there for a full-time gig after graduation, when I saw this little ad in the campus paper. Something about did you think you were smart enough to work in an intelligence agency for the United States government. I don't know why, I just thought it was a bit of a goof, a bit of a challenge. So I applied, got a response, took an intelligence test with a few score other college students, and after a bunch of interviews and more tests, there I was, working on the inside."

"Regret not staying in journalism?"

"Not at the time," I said. "Later ... yeah, there were regrets. But at the time, I thought I had the best job in the world. I was on the inside. I knew things that would never appear in newspapers, would never appear in print. I could spend the day reading, spend the day talking to people, following leads and tips, and then write reports. That's it. One week, a report prepared for one person, another week, a report prepared for the Joint Chiefs. That was my job. And at the time, I loved it."

"Now?"

"It's ... the past. Some good memories. One very bad memory. And here I am."

"Why did you leave?"

My throat felt just a bit thick I wanted so much to let it all go, but yet ... "I'm sorry Barbara. I can't say. When I left, I had to sign a nondisclosure agreement. It ... it was tough. But here I am."

"Married?"

"Nope."

She smiled. "A woman friend?"

Somehow, a tinge of guilt. Why? "Yes. A dear one. In fact, she's working hard to see your husband get elected."

"Good for her."

Barbara looked at her wrist.w.a.tch, a delicate gold item that must have cost the good senator a chunk of change, some time ago. "Lewis ... I've been here as long as I can. It's ... it's been good to see you."

"The same."

She stood up and so did I, and there was another embrace, quicker this time around, and she said, "I just wanted to see you. Funny, isn't it? I saw you at the rally ... and, well ... you look good. I'm glad you came." The old smile. "If we're lucky, I'll make sure you get another invite. To the inauguration, next year."

"That'd be great."

Another touch of her hand to mine, and then she was out the door.

I stayed behind for a while, browsing through the books, enjoying this time in a clean, well-lit place with books, all by my lonesome.

Chapter Six.

Back home, I pa.s.sed through the dwindling crowd of news media, out there freezing for the dubious possible privilege of talking to me, including one enterprising type who wouldn't move from in front of my Ford Explorer. Considering I had gotten enough law enforcement attention already --- and not wanting to dent the fender or hood of my Explorer ---I let the driver's side window down and waited. The man was thickset, balding, with steel-rimmed gla.s.ses, and he said, "First things first, Mr. Cole. I'm not a reporter."

"Bully for you," I said.

He pa.s.sed over a business card. "My name is Chuck Bittner. I'm with Tucker Grayson's presidential campaign. I'd like to talk to you."

I tossed the business card on the pa.s.senger's seat of the Explorer. "Sorry, Mr. Bittner. The feeling's not mutual."

He tried to lean into the open window. "Mr. Cole, look, General Grayson is what this country needs, and I'm dedicated to seeing him elected. Just a few minutes of your time, and I'm sure you'll agree with me, and agree to help his campaign by ---"

I raised the window and kept on driving, and when I got down to my house, there was yet another visitor, standing outside the front door. I had an urge to keep on driving, to see if I could make my visitor run into the s...o...b..nk, but I was a good boy and turned into the garage.

I parked my Explorer, got out, and said, "Last time somebody stood there, he claimed to be a Secret Service agent. Glad to know your credentials seem to be in order. Or at least I hope."

Secret Service Agent Glen Reynolds didn't smile at my little gibe and said, "Do you want to see them again?"

"Nope."

He said, "I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes."

I scratched at my face. "Thought my attorney was pretty clear, Agent Reynolds. You weren't to talk to me without his say-so."

"Maybe I tried to call him. Perhaps I didn't reach him."

"Perhaps," I said.

"Or maybe I just wanted to see if I could talk to you without your hiding behind your attorney."

"I'm not sure if 'hiding' is an appropriate term, Agent Reynolds."

A quick nod. "My apologies then."

"All right. I guess we can talk away."

I stood there, and he stood there, and he said, "Well?"

"Yes?"

"Can we go inside?"

"Oh. Can you say the magic word?"