Gathering String (41 page)

There was no note, no explanation. Inside was the framed picture Tess had done of Tonquin Park on Vancouver Island. The first of her paintings, the one she’d spent so much time meticulously playing out with watercolors. The one he’d nearly begged her for when he’d seen it hanging in her workroom. Propping it against the kitchen table, he studied his own indistinct figure in the background, and could almost hear the patter of the rain on the leaves, and the rising of their laughter.

It was a hell of a gift. Sam couldn’t take his eyes off it, his hands buried deep in his pockets, the fingers of his right hand flipping the St. Francis medal over and over. In the first wild, hopeful moment, he’d let himself believe she’d sent it because she wanted him to think of her, because she wanted to stay in his life. But Sam Waterman was too hard-headed a realist to be fooled for long, even by himself. He was glad he was alone.

He'd given too many kiss-off gifts not to know one when he saw it.

It was nearly midnight, and Christmas was almost over. In his hotel suite, Swede Erickson sat alone, going over briefing papers for the next day’s campaign stops. But he was having a hard time keeping his mind on his work. It had been a lousy holiday. If he hadn’t been playing catch-up from entering the race so late, he might have been able to steal a couple days back home. As it stood, he was lucky to get the one day free. He’d brought his mother and Pete out to celebrate with Betty and the kid, but it hadn’t helped.

His mother was upset, although she was doing her best not to show it. Waterman and his fucking profile had been a shock for her. Swede knew he probably should have warned her, but he had hoped the Politifix editors, or whatever they were calling them these days, would object to Waterman’s confidential sources and cut the story. Swede still hadn’t been able to uncover how Waterman laid his hands on that autopsy report, but he’d given Newhouse, the hospital director, hell for it.

One look at his mother’s face when the driver brought them in from the airport told Swede she was struggling with the disclosures and the media attack that had followed. And he swore he would make Waterman pay.

“She asked me if you lied to her, if
we
lied to her,” Pete had told him when Swede pulled his brother aside and asked him how she’d taken it. “I told her it had to be a mistake, but I don’t think she believes me. How did that guy find the report? I thought you took care of it.”

“I did,” Swede shot back. “But someone slipped up someplace and missed a copy. It’s out now, but I’m working on damage control, for Mama’s sake.”

“For all our sakes,” Pete corrected. “Have you thought,” he swallowed hard, “that other reporters might start looking into things about Pop, Swede?” His voice took on the whining tone that always raised Swede’s hackles.

“No one is going to find anything else,” Swede clenched his jaw, “because there isn’t anything else to find, right?” Pete looked uncertain. Swede’s voice dropped low. “Think about it, Pete. He’s dead and gone, and he was the only one who might have talked.” Peter nodded. “Now you just keep reassuring Mama, and so will I. It’ll die down. I’ll take care of the reporters, Waterman especially.”

Pete smiled shakily. “How?”

“There’re lots of ways,” Swede looked over to the doorway, where he could hear his wife trying to engage his mother in conversation.

Pop.” Swede started for the door.

tell him, if that’s what you’re asking. Even if I did, he’s not like the rest, Pete.”

And now, as Swede Erickson sat alone, tucking away the binder with the next day’s schedule, he believed he’d found the easiest way to give Sam Waterman something more to worry about than the Presidential race.

On January second, the
New York Times
ran a small story on the inside of the main section, reporting that Brian Newhouse, the director of the veterans' hospital in Knoxville, Iowa, was calling for a federal investigation inquiring how information was leaked from hospital files to Politifix reporter, Samuel J. Waterman:
"Mr. Waterman’s story dealt in part with the death of Carl Erickson, father of presidential candidate Swan August “Swede” Erickson. The investigation should fall to federal authorities, Mr. Newhouse insisted, due to the violation of the federal Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act. Mr. Newhouse said the law’s privacy provisions had been violated when Mr. Waterman received a copy of Carl Erickson’s autopsy report from an unnamed source. Politifix General Manager Michael Dodson’s only comment was to say the management of the political news website stood by the story and the reporter.”

The two men, separated by the length of a noisy, crowded ballroom, looked equally fatigued, equally uncomfortable.

Sam Waterman, standing within easy reach of the bar, always felt uneasy at campaign parties. They generally weren’t a good place to find any real news, and he had to be careful to avoid looking like he was joining the celebration. Just the night before, Swede Erickson had won the New Hampshire primary, and gained his first decisive victory over Frederick Morton. Tami Fuller rolled in third with her small, but disturbingly loyal, band of lunatics. In the early returns Morton and Erickson appeared to be running neck and neck, but as the night wore on, the tide had turned in Swede's favor.

And with the widening of the margin, the rumors began. Some said Fuller would withdraw; some that Morton himself might withdraw; others claimed that Griffin Cooper, the powerful Senate majority leader, would endorse Erickson to add to his momentum; still others insisted that Cooper would endorse Morton to give him a needed boost. There were many more, of course, and any of them were possible. So Sam found himself in the ballroom at 11 in the morning, at a victory brunch Erickson was throwing for campaign workers. Normally he’d have skipped it, but the new campaign communications director had given him no choice.

She was a personable woman named Carly Taylor, bright and attractive, and only in her late 20s. She’d made a hit during the midterm elections, organizing the grassroots campaign for a little known Minnesota Republican businessman so effectively he squeaked into office. Erickson had apparently been impressed enough to pick her up to replace Donnelly. While other newspeople tried to press the advantage of their experience by keeping her pressured and harried, Sam tried a different tack, remaining polite and calm, a considerable departure from his usual approach. And he seemed to be making inroads. She always looked pleased, and a little relieved, to see him. When he’d caught up with her late last night, she’d promised to meet with him at the brunch to clear up some of the gossip. So here he stood, holding a glass of orange juice he’d been careful to pay for, waiting for the show to get on the road.

Across the room, Jack Westphal watched the crowd just as anxiously as Sam. It had been a long night, and he was ready to wrap things up. His first taste of campaign turned out to be bitter. Last night, just before the returns started rolling in, he and Swede finally had a moment for the promised talk, and it was short, patronizing and uncomfortable.

Jack didn’t have to ask. In fact, he’d barely sat down before Swede launched into his explanations of the Waterman profile. First, there was a lot of happy horseshit about bailing out The Pantry from near bankruptcy, and how he had promised to remain a silent partner to keep Rolf Olsen from appearing a failure in front of the men and women he grew up with in Lindsborg.

And when it came to Carl’s death certificate, Swede still insisted that he had no idea how or why it didn’t name the same cause of death as the autopsy. When Jack realized Erickson was banking on this passing as plausible, he finally spoke up.

“Swede, I was at your house the afternoon they found him,” Jack said, cutting off the Governor’s wide-eyed mystification. “You were saying it was his heart before anyone could have possibly known what it was. Wouldn’t you call it a little coincidental that was the very cause of death on his death certificate when the autopsy indicated otherwise? Remember, I know first-hand how good you are at pulling strings.”

Erickson watched him, his mouth grim, before he finally asked softly, “OK, so what do you want to do? Post a story about it?”

There was a speculative, assessing look in Swede’s eyes that made Jack hesitate before he answered. “I want to understand why you did it. Everyone in town knew Carl had a problem. Why did you have to lie?”

The hard stare continued a moment longer before Swede murmured, “Did you ever think that maybe I didn’t want to lose both my parents? I saw you go through it, and even though I was a lot older, it still scared the shit out of me.”

Jack started to protest, but Swede held up his hand, stopping him. “You were there. You’re right. It was the first thing Mama asked me. She wanted to believe we’d put him someplace safe, where he couldn’t hurt himself any more. I knew it would kill her to know he finally drank himself to death, after everything she did to try and save him from it. You really want to tell me, Jack, that what I did to keep it from her was so bad?”

Jack didn’t say anything, and slowly Swede smiled. “Jackie, I think you understood all along what happened. That Waterman profile burned us both, and while I’m used to it, it’s a new experience for you. But it’s old news now. Whoever wins this thing tonight is center stage tomorrow.” He leaned in close. “I got a tip for you. A really good tip.” Erickson grinned from ear to ear and Jack just waited.

"This is just between me and you. I just got off the phone with Griffin Cooper. He and I both think I’ll pull this off tonight. If so, Coop’s on my bandwagon tomorrow afternoon. If I win tonight, there’s your exclusive for tomorrow. You can post it to the
Journal
site half an hour before it's announced."

It was a sop, and Jack knew it. Less than a minute later, Swede was swinging out the door with a “Good to have you out here, Jackie. Keep your fingers crossed, but I think we’ll be celebrating come morning.”

For a few minutes after he left, Jack just sat there, staring. Trying to remember, he wondered if he had always fallen for Swede’s tossed-off explanations. Was Tess right? Had he always given Swede a pass because he was too damn close to see him squarely? The tip about Cooper was a dangling carrot, meant to distract him. It was so obvious, it was painful.

Moreover, he wasn’t buying Swede’s explanation about concern for his mother. Augusta Erickson was made of stern stuff. Jack remembered vividly her stoic good sense when he’d lost his family. With forthright, practical questions and advice, she’d helped both him and Swede plan the funeral, pick the caskets, buy the plot. There had been no dramatics, no loss of control, just an occasionally wiped tear. He remembered her telling him, in her soft, motherly tones, “You just put your head down and get through it.” She’d have grieved over the truth about Carl, as she no doubt was grieving now. But pine into the grave? Not that woman.

But what other reason would Swede have for dicking the death certificate? And, perhaps more importantly, where in God's name had Carl Erickson gotten the liquor? A bubble of suspicion formed that the two things were related.

Now Jack looked across the ballroom, watching for his wife. Tess was here somewhere, looking for people from the hometown crowd who had come out to help Swede in the final days before the primary. They were planning a slide show for the web site and a picture page for that evening’s
Journal
, and Jack wanted local faces. He couldn’t spot her, but he did spy the bar where they were handing out Mimosas.

Jack knew he stood out in a crowd, but he didn’t notice Sam Waterman’s sharp eyes on him as he weaved his way across the room. He was just reaching for his wallet to pay for his drink when he heard a Boston accent at his elbow ask, “A little early in the day for a drink, even for the working press, don’t you think?”

With a tight smile, Jack turned to him. “Just orange juice,” he nodded to the empty glass in Sam’s hand. “But if that’s what you’re having, I’m glad to stand you to another.”

“OJ, just like you,” Sam nodded to the bartender. “But let me get them. I'm on expenses.”

“The bar is open, gentlemen,” the young woman pouring the drinks explained.

“No, I’ll pay,” Jack and Sam said it together, and she looked confused. “Press,” Sam said by way of explanation, and he tossed down a ten.

Jack shrugged. “Thanks then.”

“The least Politifix could do for you, after …” Sam paused and grinned, asking instead, “How’s that head injury?”

Jack’s mouth went down at one corner. “Taking a lot of heat since that profile you wrote. Good piece, by the way. I was surprised by some of it.”

Sam nodded his thanks, not looking at Jack, but scanning the crowd in front of the dais. “So where’s Tess? I’ve spotted you a couple of times, but not her.”

“She’s here somewhere, taking pictures no one else would ever think of. She’ll be down front when Swede comes out.” Jack looked over at Sam, who was still looking over the crowd. “She’s got more energy for this kind of thing than anyone I’ve ever seen. Getting here from Des Moines was a pain in the ass. We flew through Chicago, then Boston, and finally to Manchester. I was beat when we got in, but she still hit the ground running. Must be that flying family she comes from. Her dad and her brothers are all pilots.” He watched Sam carefully. “She was even in a crash landing once, but still doesn’t turn a hair going up.”