Hidden Memories (2 page)

The door to her room suddenly swung open, and a security guard peeked inside. “Excuse me, this man says he’s a relative.” Casting the visitor a suspicious glare over his shoulder, the guard continued, “But he’s carrying a press badge.”

“He can come in,” Sage said when she saw Drew Evans standing in the doorway. They’d met in a psychology class at Columbia University and become immediate friends. The campus rumor mill had tagged Sage and Drew a couple, but their relationship was platonic. Few had believed their “just friends” explanation, so by their junior year they’d stopped trying to explain their brother-sister bond.

Drew rushed over to Sage’s bed and hugged her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. Got a hell of a headache,” she said, rubbing her hand across her forehead.

“I’m glad you weren’t seriously hurt,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. He settled on the edge of her bed. “When I heard about the explosion at the headquarters, I immediately thought about you. Then when I saw you on CNN being carried off in an ambulance, I almost lost it,” he said, grabbing his stomach. “You know you’re my heart, girl.”

“I know,” Sage said, smiling softly, feeling the genuine love that shone in his brown eyes. Drew hadn’t changed much since college, except that his round, coffee-colored face had gotten rounder and his stocky, muscular build stockier. An extra-large sweater and size 38 jeans covered his broad body, which was a little thick in the waist from drinking a six-pack of beer nightly. He still didn’t shave, having inherited his father’s baby-smooth complexion.

“Ah, you just wanted to make the front page,” he teased, tapping her leg with the folded newspaper.

Drew could never stay serious or sentimental for long. She said with an understanding smile, “Of course I did.”

He flipped open the morning newspaper with a picture of Sage lying on a gurney.
“Voilà.”

Sage quickly scanned the article. The explosion had been caused by a crude bomb made of dynamite wrapped together with grey duct tape, a detonating device, a timer and a windup alarm clock. “Damn,” she said when she finished reading the article.

“So tell me what happened,” Drew said. “If you’re up to it.”

Sage inhaled deeply and nodded as the memories of the last twelve hours swirled in her mind. “Ramion was walking me to my car. We had just left the building, and were going to the light to cross the street. I heard this loud boom, then I felt the ground move…no, it rattled. I thought the world was coming to an end,” she said, pausing to reflect on her words. “I stumbled a little, and that’s when Ramion grabbed my hand and we started running. I don’t know where we were going, but we were moving fast. It was raining glass and wood, and something hit me in the head. Ramion pulled me into the store.” Her voice cracked. “I was bleeding. He was bleeding…”

“Sounds scary.”

“Yes. What’s really scary is to think that, if Ramion hadn’t come when he did, I might have still been in the building.”

“I knew I liked the brother,” Drew teased. He lifted the tray covering her food and nibbled on a piece of bacon. “Mind?”

“Help yourself.” Sage paused, struggling to maintain her composure. “I thought I’d lost Ramion too. It hit me suddenly that all the men in my life have died. My father, Randy, Broderick.” She closed her eyes and added softly, “I couldn’t stand to lose Ramion.”

“Nothing like that is going to happen,” Drew said.

“I know, I know. I’ve got to stop thinking like that.” Her mouth suddenly dry, she sipped her orange juice.

A columnist for the
Atlanta Times
newspaper, Drew said, “Anyway, you know the press is going to want to interview you.”

“I hadn’t thought about it, but I’m not going to grant any interviews. This campaign has already been sidetracked with the white supremacy threats and the mysterious FBI files. I’m not about to become another distraction. The election is four weeks away. Getting Cameron the governorship, that’s what this is all about.”

“Yeah, and that’s precisely why you’re in the hospital. They don’t want Cameron to be governor. Whoever ‘they’ are.”

“Whoever ‘they’ are may have just scared away the voters. If they can blow up campaign headquarters, what’s to stop them from blowing up the polls?”

“You’re right,” Drew said, instantly hitting on the title for his editorial column in the Sunday edition of the newspaper: “Don’t Let Fear Keep You Away From the Polls”.

“Cameron’s going to need every vote he can get,” Sage said, finishing the glass of orange juice. “It’s damage control time.”

* * * * *

Her eyelids drooped while watching
Hawaii Five-O
and Sage drifted off to sleep, the episode about a hotel bombing too painfully familiar to watch. She didn’t hear the light tap on the hospital door or the quiet entrance of two FBI agents. Her eyes flashed wide open when she suddenly heard her name. Sage sat up, still groggy from sleep, but the sight of two conservatively dressed men standing near the bottom of the hospital bed immediately awakened her. She stared at them suspiciously.

The two men, as if on cue, whipped out their badges. “Don’t be alarmed, Ms. Kennedy. We’re with the FBI,” said the older agent, a black man in his early forties, sporting a grey-speckled, neatly trimmed Afro. He stood over six feet tall.

Sage studied their identifications, making sure their faces matched the photos on the badges.

“He’s put on some weight since then,” the younger white agent said, referring to his partner’s expanding girth. He was all-around average in height, weight and looks. His bright-red hair was his distinguishing feature.

Sage responded to their humor with a thin smile. “Have a seat, Gentlemen.”

“No thanks,” the black agent said, stepping closer to the bed. “I’m Agent Jim Bennett and this is Agent Ron Davis.”

Sage nodded. “You apparently know who I am.”

“Yes, Ms. Kennedy, and we’re sorry that you were hurt in the explosion. It can be a traumatic experience.”

Sage nodded. “I’m okay. I’m going to be released tomorrow.”

“We’re trying to find the persons responsible, so we need to ask you some questions if you’re up to it,” Agent Bennett said, removing a notebook from his jacket pocket.

“Sure,” Sage said, while adjusting the bed to an upright position.

“What time did you leave your office?” Bennett asked.

“We left about eight fifteen,” Sage said, thinking about the ten-minute diversion in the elevator. She would never tell them about that.

“You left with Ramion Sandidge?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see or hear anything as you were leaving?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Ramion came into the office and we talked for a few minutes. I was about to leave, but if Ramion hadn’t come when he did…” she said, her voice dropping with the reality of her words. She paused briefly and said, “I might have stayed longer.”

“When you walked down the hall to the elevator, did you notice anything?” Agent Bennett asked.

“I told the security guard that we were leaving. I heard him radio to somebody that he was securing the floor.”

“Did you hear or smell anything unusual?” the younger officer interjected.

Her dark brows drawn together, Sage pondered the question for a minute. “No.”

“What about in the elevator? Did you see or hear anything?” Agent Davis probed.

“No,” Sage said.

Both FBI agents took notes as they questioned Sage. “We’re aware of the threats Mr. Hudson has received since the campaign,” Bennett said. “In recent days, have you received more threats or anything out of the ordinary?”

“No. We got a lot of threatening letters in the beginning, but then they tapered off. Every time the media reports that Cameron is narrowing the lead, we get a bunch of hate mail. A special security team has been assigned to protect Cameron during the campaign,” Sage said. Suddenly thirsty, she reached for the pitcher of water on the bedside table and poured herself a cup.

“We know about them,” Bennett said, nodding. “We’ll be working with the security team and the ATF during this investigation.”

“Can you tell me any details?” Sage asked.

“We don’t have anything substantial,” the black agent said. “We’re following up on different leads.”

“Even the ones that might not seem important,” Agent Davis said.

“It’s unbelievable what some people will do,” Sage said, then took a sip of water.

“Believe me, we want to catch this person,” Agent Davis said.

“Or persons,” Bennett said.

“Persons?” Sage queried with a raised brow.

“Usually there’s more than one person involved in something like this,” Agent Bennett said. “We’ll be in touch. Be careful, Ms. Kennedy.”

* * * * *

“Darling, I’m so glad you’re all right,” Cameron Hudson said as he entered Sage’s house. He hugged his campaign manager, relieved to see for himself that Sage had recovered from her injuries. A large man with the massive body of a football player, Cameron’s wide, fudge-brown face, darkly chiseled features melted like chocolate as he smiled warmly at Sage.

They stood in the open two-story foyer of Sage’s designer-styled house in an upscale Atlanta neighborhood. “Come in,” Sage said, and led Cameron through her living room into the kitchen, passing Romare Bearden and William Tolliver paintings that hung on the wall. Two of her father’s paintings were displayed in the living room, and her favorite painting by him hung over her bed.

“Lady Day,” Cameron said when he heard Billie Holiday’s distinctive voice singing “Strange Fruit”.

“She’s one of my favorite singers, although this song isn’t my favorite.” Shrugging her shoulders, Sage said, “Maybe it’s my mood. Years ago they hung people on trees, now they blow people up.”

“Billie Holiday knew what she was singing about. She couldn’t get away from racism. She would perform in places that would let her entertain them onstage, but not allow her to sit in the audience.”

“I know,” Sage said, turning off the stereo. “Thanks for the beautiful flowers. As a matter of fact, they’re on the table in the dining room.”

“Sarah sends her love. Jessica and C.J. wanted to come see you, but they’re in school.”

“They’re so sweet,” Sage said, referring to Cameron’s two children.

“I want you to know how grateful I am for all the hard work you’ve done on my campaign,” Cameron said, sitting down at the kitchen table. “I credit you with making me a serious contender.”

Sage had been at the press conference when Cameron declared his candidacy for governor of Georgia. She’d baited opponent US Senator Baker into debating Cameron after mailing a fact sheet about the senator’s questionable voting record. She’d steered the campaign back to the political issues when race became the divisive focus of the campaign. She’d garnered national attention with a massive voter registration drive, registering thousands of never-registered voters and reactivating nonvoting registrants. And, she’d managed to get key political support from local and national figures.

“I know.” Sage smiled and, embarrassed, changed the subject. “I think Senator Baker is tired of denying responsibility for the bombing.”

“I don’t think he’s responsible. That’s not his style. He’s too arrogant. He considers the governorship his birthright, and he doesn’t believe for a second that he needs to scare people away from the polls to keep me from winning.”

“I suppose,” Sage said. “Anyway, I feel better knowing that the polling places will be secured, but you have to know the National Guard presence could deter voters.”

“I can’t take any chances. The FBI has several leads, but nothing concrete.”

“I’m just glad they’re treating this bombing seriously,” Sage said, and took a seat across from Cameron. She opened up two folders. “Here’s the information you need for your meeting with Rupert Williams, as well as your speech for the NAACP. Marika’s working on your schedule.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re following doctor’s orders,” Cameron said.

“We’re too close, Cam. If Baker agrees, we’re going to reschedule the debate for next Sunday. The consultants will be here Tuesday to start coaching you.”

* * * * *

Sage’s telephone rang three times before rolling over to electronic voice mail. She didn’t answer the phone. She didn’t want to be disturbed. But whoever was calling was insistent. As soon as the phone stopped after the third ring, it started its insistent peal again. When it began ringing for the tenth time in less than ten minutes, Sage finally picked up the phone. “Hello,” she said, irritation in her voice.

No one responded.

“Hello,” Sage repeated. “Who is this?”

“Sage?” The voice was tentative and fragile; it was strange and unfamiliar. But Sage knew the voice. It was the same anxious voice, resonant with undertones of suppressed emotion, that she’d heard the last time she saw her mother.

“Mama?” Sage asked. She hadn’t expected to hear her voice. She hadn’t spoken to her mother since she graduated from college.

“Thank goodness you’re all right,” Audra Hicks said, her voice high-strung and nervous. “When I heard you were in the building that blew up, my heart stopped.”