Primary Storm (31 page)

Harmon spat something on the ground, his voice as sharp as Barbara's. "His payroll. His gratitude. Damn him, if it weren't for me, he'd still be some little state senator cutting ribbons at Piggly Wiggly openings. I made him, and now I'm gonna unmake him, and steal his woman in the process."

He leered at me and squeezed Barbara tight, and in looking at her and looking at him, I could not imagine what had brought them together, what they hoped to do, and then I gave it up. Trying to fathom who they were and what they were doing was like trying to understand quantum theory with a third-grade math education. It just made my head hurt.

And the time for thinking was over. "Barbara ... "

She didn't say anything. My throat thickened and I said, "Just the other day, some smart man warned me of the danger of manipulation. I just wish I had appreciated how smart he really was."

Still no answer.

With a touch of impatience, Harmon said, "Upstairs, friend. Now."

"Or what? Plan to shoot me and dump my body with a rifle in my hand in front of Hale campaign headquarters?"

"Nope. Or I take my stun gun and shoot ten thousand volts into your private parts, then drag you upstairs. Either way, you're going upstairs."

Barbara's head was lowered again, as if that earlier outburst had tired her. "So ... is that it? That's all it's been since you've been here? Me as a tool so you can spend your days with ... with this creature?"

Her voice soft, she said, "He loves me, Lewis. He will do anything for me. Anything. And he will save me from going back to D.C. anymore ... so I can stop wearing that damn happy wifey mask."

She turned and went up the stairs. Harmon grinned at me, like a good ole boy sharing a joke with another equally good ole boy. I started up the stairs and Harmon gave me a wide berth, and as I got to the top of the stairs, Barbara was there and I had a quick thought of making a break for it, but the other woman --- -Carla --- stood there with a wary expression on her face, a nine-millimeter automatic pistol pointed in my direction.

Harmon joined us and said, "Permit me to introduce my companion, one Carla Conchita Lopez. Carla was once a member of the Guatamalan People's Army ... or the People's Army of Guatemala ... or some damn thing, until she got a taste for capitalism and headed north. She got caught up in an immigration sweep in Atlanta couple of years back ... and long story short, my cousin from INS dumped her in my care. Old Spenny. Old stupid Spenny, couldn't hit a target to save his life, and he sure as hell didn't. Jesus, you were supposed to call the cops when you found his body in your yard. Why the hell didn't you do that, boy?"

"Guess I forgot."

"Where is he now?"

I said, "In a safe place. You want to trade? His body for my freedom?"

He grinned. "Not much of a trade. Sorry."

Harmon went to a pile of clothing by the door and said, "The cuffs, babe. Toss him the cuffs."

With her free hand, Carla reached into a pocket in her slacks and pulled out a set of handcuffs, which she tossed to me. I caught the jangling pieces of metal and looked over to Harmon.

"Put them on," he said, "or I tell Carla to shoot you in your kneecap. Either way, it don't matter to me, 'cause the cuffs will be where they belong. Carla's one tough bitch, buddy, and some of the stories she told me about down south would make your balls ache. So do what you're told and don't fuck with her."

I was still looking at Barbara, still trying to remember those magical days in Indiana, at the university, and then giving up. No more time for the past. None. I had to focus on the here and now, as hard as it was. Barbara stood by Harmon, and she was still not looking at me.

“The handcuffs, Lewis. Now."

I slowly put one cuff on one wrist, and then the other on the second wrist. The clicking sounded as sharp as a sliding saw hitting a bone. "All right," I said. "Your patsy is ready. So? Shoot me now, or shoot me later? And do you trust me with a gun?"

Harmon walked over to the small pile of clothing on the floor. "Who said anything about a gun? Carla, keep an eye on 'im."

He bent down, picked up what looked to be a cloth vest, and my aches and pains and cramps went right away as I saw the wires leading up from tubes of material, fastened to the outside of the vest. He held it up like a fisherman proud of the trophy he had just captured and was about to bring home.

"Carla here, when she was active in her little revolutionary movement, developed some nice skills, including bomb making. And what's gonna happen here, Lewis, is that you're puttin' this vest on ... and in about twenty minutes, ol’ Senator Hale is coming here for what he thinks is goin' to be a quick campaign stop to say thanks to that ol’' bitch Audrey Whittaker, who is over in Concord expectin' the senator to have a drink with her ... and when he comes up that driveway, why, you're gonna run out to meet him. You see, for the past half day, you've been holdin' the three of us hostage, which we're gonna swear to the investigatin' authorities. Plus, in that vest is some love letters you've written to Barbara ... love letters that come from your computer that we didn't have a chance to use the first time around ... and that little scandal will defeat that little bastard tomorrow."

The cuffs were cold and made my bleeding wrist sting even that much more.

"If stopping him is so important, why not put the word out about me? If that's the scandal you're looking for."

Harmon said, "Who humped who twenty years ago --- so what? --- but a crazed stalker, tryin' to kill the senator over a long ago love affair ... so much juicier, so much juicier that you dumb Yankees up here, who hate scandal so much, will give the nomination to somebody else ... and give me and Barbara a good laugh when we're done, just to see what we managed to pull over that numb Jackson."

I said, "Just so you know, Harmon, there's another copy of that surveillance tape. A copy I mailed to a trusted friend. Let me go and we can settle this ... settle it so nothing else happens, nobody gets hurt."

Harmon said, "Carla? The tape?"

She shook her head. "Can't make out your face. Can make out the license plate of the car. That's it."

Harmon turned to me, triumphant. "That ol' biddy lends her car, her house, and sometimes what's left between her legs to people she wants to help. So by the time investigators try to figure out what's what --- especially with no body for Spenny --- whoever's president will be working on his second term."

Barbara had moved next to Harmon like an obedient puppet.

She was by the door, Harmon standing next to her, and Carla, in turn, standing next to him. All three of them standing in a row, looking at me.

I said quietly, "Barbara ... you know what's going to happen. If I go out there wearing that vest, he's going to trigger it by remote control. Barbara, he's going to kill me. He's going to kill me in the next few minutes. Barbara."

She said nothing. Just reached out and sought Harmon's hand, which he gave her. He was holding the vest with one hand, squeezing her hand with the other.

"Now, Lewis. Put the vest on now."

I lowered my head and moved forward, gauging my steps, and when I got close to Harmon and Barbara, the vest now held out to me, I tried to catch her eyes, tried to look at her, tried to make her see the man who was in front of her.

But she was studiously ignoring me.

And so I went up to Harmon and Barbara, and slugged her in the chin with my left elbow as hard as I could.

Chapter Eighteen

Barbara yelped and fell to the ground, still holding on to Harmon, and he stumbled and Carla shouted, and I grabbed the doorknob with my cuffed hands and opened the door and ran outside, almost tripping on the slippery steps, but I ran and ran and ran out onto the driveway. I was moving quick and thinking even quicker, and I knew the grounds would hold no shelter for me, not with the snowbanks of the driveway and the snow-covered lawn. I would slow down instantly in the thick snow and be a quick and easy target, so I stuck to the curving driveway, running and running, hoping that its gentle curves and the high snowbanks would hide me for a few seconds, for I was sure Carla was right behind me, with a shoot-to-kill order, and somewhere back there, both she and Harmon and yes, damn it, Barbara, had a Plan C to take care of everything.

It was cold and windy but I didn't mind. I was moving quick, the cramps and discomfort in my legs and arms now overlooked, the open entrance to the estate now before me, wide open, and as I ran toward the opening, I had a fearful thought that perhaps there was some automatic system back at the house to close the gates, but nothing happened as I approached the stone columns and the silent cast-iron gates.

There. Right through. Now I was at Atlantic Avenue. Look to the left, look to the right. The road here was fairly straight.

No traffic. None.

Ah, hell.

Then the sound of an engine.

Look, look, look, a voice inside me started screaming.

A dark blue pickup truck came around the corner, heading in my direction. I ran toward it, holding my arms up, yelling, pleading, and ---

The truck sped up and passed me by, the older driver grimly staring ahead, pretending I didn't exist.

Of course.

Who in hell would stop for a crazed man with no coat, standing in the middle of the road, wearing handcuffs?

The sound of the gunshot spun me around, broke my stillness. Carla was running down the driveway, followed by Harmon, and I looked again at the roadway.

Nothing. Just an empty road, both sides with high snowbanks. Can't go back. Go down or up the road, and be exposed like a fumbling ant on a kitchen counter.

Can't wait for another disinterested driver to intercede. Only one place to go.

Forward.

So I ran across the two-lane road, hands still cuffed before me, and I scrambled up the snowbank and down the other side, feet digging into the crusty stuff, my legs and back now wet through from the snow. I now had cover, for a minute or two, and I was panting and shuddering, for it was still cold, still windy, and before me were snow-covered rocks and boulders, and the waves of the Atlantic Ocean, coming in, like they always do, nasty and gray-looking.

Plans. I had very grand plans. To stay alive and maybe move south, move among the rocks and boulders, keep some cover between me and my pursuers, and if I was very, very lucky, I could make some good progress, until ...

Until what? Saved? Rescued? No one knew I was here, and sure, maybe tomorrow or the next day, Felix would receive the Lafayette House Videotape that I had mailed him, but I didn't have tomorrow or the next day.

All I had was right now, and right now was pretty damn grim. I went down the first set of rocks, looked at the place where there was a level snowbank, not much else, and I thought that must be where Audrey Whittaker's illegal-and to a certain Massachusetts family, dangerous-beach was hidden. Right now, it didn't look dangerous. Just looked empty. Audrey. One of these days, maybe I'd offer an apology to her for having thought she had something to do with this mess.

I moved across the slippery rocks and boulders to the south, scrambling as best as I could, hands cuffed before me, lungs burning with heavy breathing, my back suddenly feeling itchy and exposed, not letting the thoughts of betrayal overcome me. There would be plenty of time for that later. Right now I had to move, had to hide, had to ---

Another gunshot. I ducked, glanced behind me, saw a figure up on the snowbank, saw that it was Carla, and I slipped and fell, striking my right knee on an exposed piece of rock, making me snap my jaw in pain. I got up, my bare and handcuffed hands redraw from being dunked into the snow, and I kept on moving, weaving, thinking that if only I could get more rocks and boulders between me and my pursuer, and if that campaign convoy from Senator Hale finally got up here, even Carla might not want to be running around with a weapon in the midst of all the Secret Service and news media and-

Good thoughts, great thoughts, right up to when I got up on a piece of New Hampshire granite, slippery cold with ice, and fell into the ocean.

The cold felt like a telephone pole being swung against my chest, and I raised my head, coughing and sputtering, completely drenched, salt water in my mouth and nose, and my feet flailed about until I got traction and stood up, and I tried to slog my way back to shore, and I made one step and two ---

The waves rolled in, banged me against a couple of rocks, and then dragged me out. The shock to my system made everything look gray, like some sort of veil had been pulled over my eyes. I moved my feet again, this time feeling nothing under me, and the weight of my wet clothes was starting to drag me down. The part of my mind that was still thinking rationally knew that in January in the Atlantic Ocean, I had just a handful of minutes left before hypothermia closed its cold fist around my heart and killed me. That's it. No appeal, no good nature, nothing. Just the cold facts.

I coughed and gasped and raised my head again. I hated being in the ocean even on the hottest days of the year, and in January ... there was no coastline before me with open, inviting, sandy beaches and on-duty lifeguards looking for swimmers in trouble, swimmers like me. No, except for that strip of land converted by Audrey Whittaker, this was rocks and boulders and fissures and-