12 Rose Street (11 page)

“No, and I didn’t push it. Warren did tell me that in the past few days Graham Meighen has been hitting up Ridgeway’s supporters hard for cash donations.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. That campaign is well financed, and since he was disbarred, Slater’s been a model steward of other people’s money. Since Ridgeway was first elected, Slater has never spent a dime more than he had to on an election. There’s no reason for Graham Meighen to be going around town cap in hand.”

“Maybe not, but Warren told me that on Wednesday, Graham Meighen approached him personally asking for a donation.”

“And … ?”

Zack chortled. “Warren told Meighen to go to hell, that he was supporting me.”

“And we missed the moment,” I said. “Let’s at least celebrate it. I haven’t had an Old Fashioned in twenty-five years. Why don’t you pick up a jar of maraschino cherries on your way home and we’ll go crazy.”

Jill Oziowy called just as I was putting the casserole in the oven for dinner. As always her voice was vibrant. Jill set her own course, and she had a gift for taking people where she wanted them to go. “I watched the podcast of Zack’s news conference this morning,” she said. “It piqued my curiosity, so I pulled up our coverage of the Cronus murder. Gruesome stuff going on out there in the Queen City.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” I said.

“Fill me in.”

I gave Jill the condensed version of all that had happened from the time Cronus warned us that a child would be abducted from the R-H opening. When I finished, she said, “Sounds like a story to me.”

“A story that continues to unfold,” I agreed. “I hate loose ends, and there are many, many loose ends here. The problem is I don’t have time to follow them up. Scott Ridgeway, our current mayor, is a lightweight. Everyone knows he’s a puppet for the developers, but he’s affable; he’s enthusiastic about all the ceremonial stuff mayors have to do, and until the Racette-Hunter opening, he’d never met a camera or a
microphone he didn’t like. He was scheduled to speak that night and he froze. His campaign manager had to literally push him onstage, and when Ridgeway just stared at the audience, his campaign manager had to haul him off. The mayor has been
AWOL
ever since.”

“No candidate disappears for two full days during a tight campaign,” Jill said.

“No, and Zack just learned that Ridgeway’s cash cows are getting skittish. The
Leader-Post
is doing some polling today and tomorrow, and Milo O’Brien, our political gun for hire, thinks we may be pulling ahead.”

“You don’t sound exactly jubilant,” Jill said.

“I’m not,” I said. “I’m worried.”

“Come on, Jo, you’ve been doing politics for a long time. You’re too smart to get sucker-punched.”

“In an ordinary election, yes. But from the time Cronus warned us that a child would be abducted, this has not been an ordinary election. Jill, I think there’s a connection between Ridgeway’s campaign and Cronus’s murder.”

“You think they had him killed?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that Cronus had me take a buddy photo of him with Zack and Brock Poitras, the candidate for city council in our ward. Cronus sent out the photo with a cryptic message – all numbers, seemingly random. Within twelve hours he was dead.”

“I’m coming out there,” Jill said,

“Are you serious?”

“You bet I’m serious. It’s been a long time since I’ve done real journalism. This smells like a red meat story, and I want to be the one doing the reporting.”

“This may get ugly.”

“It couldn’t be any uglier than what’s going on here.”

“Trouble in the halls of Nation
TV
?”

“Just our biennial bloodletting.”

“And you’re caught in the middle?”

“I’m the target. Yet another young turk has been brought in to save the network. He wants Nation
TV
to pull back on hard news and focus on ‘lifestyle programming’ so we can capture the eighteen to forty-nine demographic. Same old, same old – shorter segments, less analysis, more focus on self-help, home improvement, and fun. He’s getting a lot of support from the brown-nosers upstairs. I seem to be the only one standing in his way.”

“Hey, déjà-vu all over again,” I said. “Remember the water-skiing squirrel?”

Jill chuckled. “God, I’d almost forgotten. Same situation. Different young turk. If that squirrel was still alive Nation
TV
would give him his own show – prime time.

“You won that battle, and you’ll win this one.”

“I’m not optimistic,” Jill said. “But I’m not going to oblige the network by falling on my sword. I’ve been a journalist for over twenty-five years. I want to leave a legacy. If this Ridgeway story is half as hot as I think it is, I’ll be able to force Nation
TV
to admit that investigative journalism has a place in network television.”

“That’s the Jill I know and love,” I said. “And I have an idea about where you can start. You have the video of Zack’s press conference. Hang on to everything that was filmed but didn’t make it to air. When Zack talked about ensuring that the foundations of the Rose Street houses were firm, he was responding to a question from an old woman quoting the Bible. As soon as Zack started in, Ridgeway’s campaign manager, Slater Doyle, jumped for his cell. I’d pay good money to know who he called.”

“Save your money,” Jill said. “I’m still on salary at Nation
TV
, and that means I’m free to ask questions, follow leads, and keep on digging until we hit pay dirt.”

“All of a sudden I can’t stop smiling,” I said. “Jill, I can’t
tell you what it will mean to me to have you here. Lately I’ve been feeling like Sisyphus, rolling my boulder up the hill and just standing by as it rolls back down again.”

“From now on there’ll be two of us to push the boulder,” Jill said. “It’ll be like old times. I’ll call you as soon as I know what time I’ll be arriving in Regina.”

“Try to book a flight that will get you here in time for dinner tomorrow,” I said. “Howard Dowhanuik and the kids are coming for brisket. Zack loves a full table.”

“And tomorrow is Ian’s birthday,” Jill said. The ache in her voice was unmistakable. “Jo, I miss you all so much.”

“We miss you too,” I said. “But tomorrow we’ll be together. And on Ian’s birthday. He would have gotten a kick out of that.”

The second-hour slot on
Quinlan Live
was good placement for Zack. Although the studio was in Saskatoon, the show was broadcast provincewide between 8:30 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. and rebroadcast at night. By the end of the day, much of the province had heard Jack Quinlan’s voice: badgering, teasing, empathizing, pontificating, enthusing, consoling.

Quinlan’s politics were as far to the right of mine as it was possible to be, but I liked him. Over the years, I’d been on
Quinlan Live
dozens of times as an academic whose views on the politics of foreign takeovers, culture, race, poverty, and a host of other issues lit up the phone lines. Jack was often outrageous, but he was always fair, and I knew he’d give Zack a chance to talk freely.

The flight to Saskatoon took only thirty-five minutes, but that was still thirty-five minutes too long for me. I didn’t exhale until the plane touched down and then it was back to business. On the cab ride to Quinlan’s studio overlooking the Saskatchewan River, Zack and I talked about questions that might prove problematic. With live radio the nutbar
factor is always high, but the producer of
Quinlan Live
was adept at using the cut-off button.

When Zack did his pre-broadcast mike check, the board was already lit up. Quinlan turned to Zack. “Ready to rock and roll?” he said.

Zack slipped on his headphones and gave him the thumbs-up. Zack had a good radio voice: deep, intimate, and assured. His précis of his relationship with Cronus and of the effect that relationship might have on his campaign was comprehensive but concise.

And then it was the listeners’ turn. Call-in shows are a landmine for candidates. As a rule, there’s some judicious stagemanaging beforehand, but the agreement Slater Doyle and I reached meant that Zack was flying without a net. My pulse quickened as soon as the first caller came on and didn’t slow until the hour was almost over.

The calls had broken about 60–40 in Zack’s favour. Zack had spent his adult life thrusting and parrying in courtrooms, so
Quinlan Live
was a comfortable arena for him. He picked up key points in the positive comments and ran with them, tying them to planks in his platform. And, without breaking a sweat, he found the weak spot in the argument of hostile callers, picked apart their case, and dug in.

With five minutes to go in the hour, there was a treat. Peggy Kreviazuk called in and in her breathy, still-girlish voice endorsed Zack’s candidacy and urged others to support him. Peggy had been a force in progressive politics in our province for close to sixty years. A regular at the weekly meetings of the Regina City Council, Peggy was one of the few people I knew who took civic politics seriously. Her integrity was beyond question, and someone in the Office of the City Clerk recognized her integrity by occasionally passing along information that Peggy could use in her questions to the mayor and council members. Two weeks earlier,
when we’d bumped into each other at the farmers’ market, Peggy and I had a spirited talk about the election. Peggy always turned heads. That day her wispy hair was an improbable but flattering shade of pink, and she was sporting a top printed with the
New Yorker
cartoon of Homer Simpson wearing a Che Guevara T-shirt. When she saw me, she extended her arms and gave me her standard greeting. “The struggle continues, Joanne.”

I gave her my standard response. “And so do we, Peggy,” I said.

When Peggy finished her encomium to Zack, the second hand of the large clock on the wall opposite Jack Quinlan was ticking towards the end of the hour. I didn’t allow myself to exhale. “Time for one more call,” Quinlan said. “Cassandra’s on the line. So, what are your thoughts about the upcoming civic election in Regina?”

“I’ve been following the campaign closely,” Cassandra said. Her voice seemed familiar – precise in its enunciation but with a huskiness that conveyed urgency. “You’re an impressive candidate, Mr. Shreve. I’ve watched your career. You’re a man who gets things done. You’re frank about your failings. You’re a person of character, and people whose judgment I trust think highly of you. I’ve read your platform, and what you say is correct. We live in a wealthy society. We have enough money, enough food, and enough work for everybody. Your campaign slogan is spot on. There
is
‘enough for all.’ And it
is
time that we redressed the balance between the haves and the have-nots. You’re clearly the better of the two mayoral candidates.”

When she paused, Zack jumped in. “Thank you, Cassandra. Politics can be bruising, but I’ll take a lot of bruises for a call like yours.”

“I’m afraid that I’m about to inflict a bruise too,” she said. I stiffened, and Zack shot me a quick look. “Suddenly it
seems possible that you might win,” the woman said. “It’s time to end your campaign, Mr. Shreve. Ridgeway’s cohorts are prepared to do whatever it takes to defeat you. There’s already been one tragedy. If you stay in the race,
everyone
will suffer.”

Jack Quinlan was quick off the mark. He leaned into his microphone. “These are serious allegations, Cassandra,” he said. “Do you have any specifics?” It was the right question, but it came too late. Cassandra had already broken the connection.

Quinlan wound up the show, and the news came on. Quinlan opened his mike, exchanged a few words with his producer in the control room, and turned back to Zack and me. “Cassandra was a first-time caller, and she called from an unlisted number. My producer talked to her briefly before she was on-air. He said she was rational, focused, and articulate. He thought she’d be ideal.”

“She chose a great nom de guerre,” I said. “Cassandra had the gift of prophecy, but Apollo placed a curse on her so that none of her predictions would be believed.”

When Zack and I were alone in the elevator, he pulled out his phone and started tapping away. He found what he was looking for, then handed his phone to me. “If you want to bum yourself out, check the number of Cassandra’s prophecies that came true,” he said.

“I’m already bummed out,” I said. “Zack, I recognized Cassandra’s voice. I’ve heard it before, but I can’t place it.”

“No surprise there,” Zack said. “Nothing comes easy in this campaign.”

I’d cooked the briskets for four hours the night before. They were in the refrigerator ready to be sliced, so I could reheat them for an hour before we ate. While I prepared them, Zack ran through his messages. After we’d both finished our tasks,
I glanced at my watch. “We have time for a swim before lunch,” I said.

Zack groaned. “Wasn’t Cassandra’s warning enough misery for one morning?”

“Did that get to you?”

“Nah. Trial lawyers get death threats. All the same I’m going to call Debbie. Cassandra was seemingly sane and definitely knowledgeable. We have to take her warning seriously.”

Getting Zack to hit the pool was never easy, but swimming kept his muscles toned and his blood pressure from spiking, so I persisted. That day after thirty minutes in the pool, I could see the tension drain from Zack’s body and I could feel it drain from my own.

Milo O’Brien joined us for lunch – more accurately, he was present at the lunch table as we ate. When I offered him a salmon sandwich on rye, he blew me off, opened a fresh chocolate bar, then, foot tapping, fingers drumming, gave us a snapshot of the response to Zack’s appearance on
Quinlan Live.
As erratic as Milo’s behaviour was, we’d learned to trust his reading of Facebook and tweets.

And Milo’s report was provocative. To my surprise, most of the messages had come from new supporters who urged Zack not to be intimidated and continue to fight the good fight. When he’d finished, Milo slid off his stool, slapped Zack on the back, said, “Hang tough, big guy,” and left.