Primary Storm (17 page)

It took me a long while to join her.

To get from Tyler Beach to Manchester is pretty much a straight shot, from Route 101 all the way west to the interior of our fair state. It's a trip of just under an hour, and we both skipped breakfast before we left, though Annie did find time for a quick shower. Her fine red hair was still wet as we joined the other travelers on the two-lane highway, the rising sun shadowing us as we raced west. I listened to a bit of the morning news as I drove, hearing about a snowstorm heading our way this evening, and then I got a look from my companion, and switched the radio off, as she dug her cell phone from her purse.

For most of the time we drove, Annie was on the cell phone, checking with her staff, coordinating the logistics of a luncheon meeting later that day, and basically juggling about a half dozen questions, concerns, and complaints. It sounds odd but while any other man may have felt ignored or slighted at the lack of attention, I felt a sense of pride. She was damn good at what she was doing. The highway raced through mostly open rural areas that were only developed with homes and service stations at the different exits, and though the speed limit was sixty-five and I kept my Ford Explorer at seventy, I was passed on several occasions.

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 Hampshire.

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 assorted 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 snatched bits of conversation, and in some way, it was like a high school reunion, as old relationships 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 Hampshire'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 sweatshirt.

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 damn 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 damn 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 hell 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 shell. We're running on credit and optimism. We need to nail down the New Hampshire 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 God, 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
Shoreline
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 Hampshire 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 damn 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 hell.

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?"