The Run (32 page)
“Call Tom Black and get him on it, too,” Will said. “Get him to Chicago, if necessary.”
Kitty picked up the phone and started dialing.
“Was that all Sam had to say?” Tim asked.
“Well, no,” Will replied. “Larry Moody is going to die in the electric chair three days before the election. The Supreme Court turned down his appeal.”
“Oh, shit,” Tim said.
“We need to think about how this can hurt us,” Will said. “I’m not really sure that it will. Sam thinks Eft will try to find a way to use it against me in the Washington debate.”
“We’ll be ready for that,” Tim said. “But there’s something else I’m not sure we can be ready for.”
“What’s that?” Will asked.
“Charlene Joiner,” Tim said.
“I hadn’t thought about Charlene,” Will admitted. “What do you think she’ll do?”
“God only knows, but you know how hot she is to save Moody’s life. I have a feeling it could be noisy. I’m not sure how we can plan for that.”
“Neither am I,” Will said.
Zeke Tennant was driving north through Virginia toward Washington when flashing lights popped on in his rearview mirror. He pulled the Ford Taurus over to the shoulder of the interstate and watched in his side mirror as a state trooper approached.
Zeke took a couple of deep breaths and lowered the window. His weapons were in the trunk; he’d have to handle this with his hands, if it came to that. “Morning,” he said.
“Good morning, Colonel,” the trooper replied, seeing the eagles on the collar of Zeke’s starched and pressed camouflage fatigues. “Can I see your license, registration, and proof of insurance, please?”
“Sure,” Zeke replied. He dug his license out of a pocket and reached into the glove compartment for the other documents. He handed them over. “Mind if I get out?” he asked. “I’d like to stretch my legs.” He couldn’t handle the man while sitting in the car.
The trooper looked at him carefully, then at his license. “Go ahead, Colonel.”
Zeke opened the door, got out, and made a show of stretching.
“Come back here and take a look at something,” the trooper said, beckoning him toward the rear of the car.
Zeke followed him.
The trooper pointed at the place where the license plate should be. “See the problem?”
Zeke grimaced. “Damn dealer,” he said. “I only bought the car this morning.”
“Maybe the plate is in the trunk,” the trooper said. “Shall we take a look?”
The sniper’s rifle was in the trunk, and Zeke had no intention of opening it. “Sure; let me get the keys,” he said, walking back toward the driver’s door. He was about to kick back at the trooper when he saw a brown envelope lying on the backseat. “This must be it,” he said. He opened the door, retrieved the envelope, and took out the plate. “I thought they had put it on the car.”
“You’d better put it on now,” the trooper said.
“I don’t have any tools; I’ll stop at the next service station and get it done.” He wanted to get away from this guy before he was recognized.
“I’ve got a screwdriver in the car,” the trooper said. “Just a minute.” He walked back to his patrol car, got in, and began looking for something then he picked up a microphone and began speaking into it.
Zeke walked slowly toward the patrol car; he’d move as the trooper got out. Then a hand came out of the car with a screwdriver in it.
“Here you go,” he said. “Be with you in a minute; I’ve got a radio call.”
He’s recognized me,
Zeke thought as he walked to
ward the rear of his car. He knelt and began removing the screws from the empty license-plate frame. In a moment, he had the plate attached, and as he rose, the trooper approached. Zeke was ready for the fight.
“Sorry to trouble you about that, Colonel,” the trooper said, “but somebody else would have stopped you eventually.” His hand came toward Zeke. “Can I have my screwdriver back?”
“Oh, sure,” Zeke replied. “And thanks for letting me know about the plate.”
“Not at all,” the trooper said. “Drive carefully.”
Zeke got back into the car, sweating. “Fucking car salesman,” he muttered to himself. “I damn near killed that trooper.”
Zeke crossed the Potomac and drove to the Fairfax Hotel, where he had booked a room. He changed into his first-class uniform, then enjoyed a good lunch in the Jockey Club restaurant. When he had finished and signed the check, he went to the concierge’s desk.
“Good afternoon, Colonel Waldron,” the man said, glancing at the name tag on his uniform. “How can I help you?”
“I’m interested in Ford’s Theatre, where Abraham Lincoln was assassinated,” Zeke replied.
The concierge dug out a brochure. “Of course. They have tours there twice a day; you can still make the afternoon one.” He gave Zeke a map of the city and showed him how to get to the theater.
“Thanks very much,” Zeke said. He went to the front door and asked the doorman for his car. He found the theater, on 10th Street NW, and parked the car, removing the briefcase containing the sniper’s rifle from the trunk. He arrived in the lobby just as the tour was starting.
“Good afternoon,” the elderly lady who was the
tour guide began, “and welcome to Ford’s Theatre. Before we start the tour, I’d like to give you a little of the rather odd history of the building. The theater opened its doors in 1862, having been converted from a former Baptist church. Some of the church members were disturbed that such a secular use was being made of what had been a holy building, and someone predicted that no good would come of it. The theater, which was originally the Athenaeum, burned to the ground within a few months.
“Mr. John T. Ford, who owned the theater, rebuilt it, named it after himself, and reopened the doors on August 27, 1863. After the assassination of Mr. Lincoln, the War Department closed the theater with the intention of never reopening it. The government bought the property and turned it into a warehouse. In 1893 the upper floors of the building collapsed, and twenty-two government employees were killed and many others injured. The building was again rebuilt and used as a warehouse.
“It was not until the nineteen-fifties that Congress appropriated the funds to restore the theater, and in 1968, it finally became a theater again. Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the box where Mr. Lincoln was shot, then we’ll go backstage, after which you can see the little museum in the basement. Then you may wish to visit the Peterson House, across the street, where Mr. Lincoln died of his injuries.”
The woman led the little group of people upstairs. Zeke hung back at the rear and allowed the group to leave him behind. He walked back to the rear of the theater, checking sight lines, and then he saw a small sign pointing up another flight of stairs. It read
PROJECTION BOOTH
. He followed the stairs and came to a door, which was ajar. Across the little hallway was a men’s room.
He pushed the projection-room door open and found a light switch. Two large 35mm projectors filled most of the room. There was also a table with two cranks mounted for rewinding reels, and next to the projector was a single theater seat, where the projectionist could sit and watch a movie through his own window. Zeke looked carefully at the ceiling and found a large air-conditioning duct. He stood on a chair, took out a Swiss Army knife, and unfolded a screwdriver blade. In a moment he had the grating off; then he took the briefcase and slid it into the duct, where it fit very nicely. He replaced the grate, switched off the light, and left the room. As he departed, he noted a ladder fixed to the wall. He climbed and pushed open a trapdoor in the ceiling. He stuck his head up and looked around the roof. Maybe he wouldn’t have to die after all.
He rejoined the group, which was just leaving Lincoln’s box.
“Oh, did we lose you?” the guide asked.
“I was just looking for the men’s room,” he replied. As the group walked back toward the stairs, Zeke stepped into Lincoln’s box and stood, looking over the theater. John Wilkes Booth, he knew, had slipped into the box as Lincoln watched a performance of a comedy,
Our American Cousin
. He had crept behind Lincoln and fired a single bullet into the back of his head from close range.
Soon, Zeke mused, he would add another interesting page to the history of Ford’s Theatre. He’d give the tour guides something new to talk about.
THE WILL & EFT SHOW
Part Two
By our political editor
Last night, a national audience was treated to the second of two debates between the presidential candidates, but with a difference. This time, Representative Howard “Eft” Efton didn’t show. Well, not exactly, anyway. Mr. Efton, after taking a bit of a drubbing in the Atlanta debate three weeks ago, backed out, citing a campaign schedule that was too busy to include the city of Chicago, his advisors having apparently told him that he had less to lose from canceling than from showing up.
But Senator Will Lee seems to have gotten better advice from his people. Not only did he show up, he dragged Eft Efton in by the scruff of the neck, as it were, and debated him whether he liked it or not. The audience arrived for the telecast to find a big-screen TV set up on one side of the stage (Efton’s), and a
lectern on the other (Lee’s). A moderator introduced both candidates, and the debate began. Lee’s staff had assembled a series of Efton’s statements from campaign appearances, speeches on the House floor, and from Efton’s acceptance speech at the Republican convention. When Efton was called on to speak, he appeared on the TV screen and made his statement; then Senator Lee was allowed to rebut. When the process was reversed, Efton clips were chosen to state the opposite position.
But if the audience was surprised by this turn of events, the biggest surprise came in the way this spectacle was conducted. The Lee campaign could have chosen Efton clips to make him look bad or to set him up for Lee’s punch lines, but they didn’t do that. Instead, they treated the Republican candidate respectfully, showing clips that Efton might have chosen himself. The result was not just a political stunt, but something very close to a real debate. Furthermore, the Lee staff issued a statement claiming that Senator Lee had not been told in advance which Efton clips would be used, so that his responses would be spontaneous.
Although Efton himself had no comment on any of this, his advisors were incensed. “This just shows how low Will Lee will stoop to win political points. This was an unethical, unfair, and un-American carnival sideshow,” Efton’s campaign manager said to reporters, conveniently ignoring the fact that Efton could have made it fair simply by showing up, as he had promised to do.
Who won? Far be it from me to offer an opinion, but an unscientific telephone call-in poll on the eleven o’clock news gave Lee the nod by a twenty-point margin. We’ll have to wait a day or two for the national pollsters to do their work and tell us how much Lee really benefited, if at all.
But one thing Will Lee seems to have accomplished is to pretty much guarantee that Eft Efton will not duck out of the final debate from Ford’s Theatre in Washington next week. And that may have been his intention all along.
Kitty put down the newspaper, from which she had been reading aloud. “And what’s more,” she said, grinning, “we’ve pulled in more than a dozen editorials from major newspapers around the country, saying pretty much the same thing.”
Will smiled and sipped his coffee. “You’re a very smart woman, Kitty,” he said.
“We’re redoing the schedule for the last week,” Tim Coleman said. “All your appearances are going to be in Illinois and California, with one or two others on the way to or from. It’s driving the Secret Service advance men crazy, but they’re getting with the program.”
Will turned to Moss, his pollster. “You think this is the right thing to do, then?”
“Will, it’s the
only
thing to do. My newest numbers project that Efton can win if he takes either Illinois or California, but for you to win, you have to take both.”
Will shrugged. “Let’s do it, then.”
Zeke was at the office of the League of Women Voters two hours before it opened, and a line had already formed. He cursed himself for not getting up earlier. His plan was all worked out, but in order to make it happen, he had to get inside the theater on the night of the debate, and that meant getting a ticket.
The doors opened, and the line inched forward. Finally, there was only one person ahead of him, a small woman with a child in tow.
“This is the absolutely last one?” she asked, holding aloft the ticket.
“The very last,” the woman behind the counter responded. “You’re very lucky.”
“But what about my husband?” the woman demanded. “My husband has to be there, too.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the woman replied, “but you’re holding the very last ticket available to the public. The rest have already been issued to the two campaigns and the press.”
Zeke wanted to strangle the woman and take her ticket.
“Why does this always happen to me?” the woman wailed.
“I don’t know,” the woman behind the counter said. “Do you want it, or not?”
The woman turned and faced Zeke. “Here, soldier,” she said, holding out the ticket. “You take it.”
Zeke accepted the ticket with a big smile.
“Congratulations, Colonel,” the woman behind the counter said. “Now if you’ll just step over there and give the Secret Service agent some information.” She pointed to a man behind the desk.
Zeke walked over. “The lady told me to see you,” he said to the man.
“Right,” the agent replied. “I’ll need your name, your date of birth, and your social security number. You’d better give me your military serial number, too.”
Zeke was happy to give the man all of that.
As the Boeing set down at Van Nuys airport, Will braced himself against the shower wall. There was something very strange, he thought, about a shower that moved around. Plumbing was supposed to be in a fixed position. As the airplane taxied toward the FBO, Will got into trousers and a shirt and toweled his hair as dry as he could get it. There was a knock at his cabin door. “Come in.”