Grass Roots

by Stuart Woods

  Will jotted down the number; then he called the Atlanta campaign office and asked for Jack Buchanan. “Moody’s trial has been postponed,” he said. “Looks like I’ve got the whole week free. Can you reschedule something for me?”

  “Jesus, Will,” Jack replied, his voice hoarse, “I don’t know what we can come up with on short notice, but next week is full.”

  “You sound awful, Jack. You sick or something?”

  “No, just a late night, I guess. I was … ah, working on some stuff.”

  “Well, get some rest; you’re no good to me dead on your feet.”

  “Okay. Listen, about all you can do this week is continue with the fundraising, but you’ve already been through the initial list.”

  “I got a call from Hank Taylor this morning; says he’s got some advertising for me to look at. I think I’ll go to Washington today.”

  “Okay,” Jack replied. “When you thinking of coming back?”

  “Tomorrow—no, make it the next day. I’ve got some personal business to take care of.”

  “Will, would you mind if I come with you? I haven’t seen Millie and the kids for weeks, and she’s pretty down. I think Kitty can manage here without me.”

  “Sure.” Will looked at his watch. “I’ll pick you up at Peachtree De Kalb Airport in, say, two hours’ time. We’ll be in Washington by late afternoon.”

  Will hung up and started getting ready to leave. He was going to have it out with Kate once and for all.

  Will landed at PDK, refueled, and picked up Jack Buchanan. Jack looked tired and worried, Will thought. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing much,” Jack said. “Just a little domestic quarrel with Millie. We’ll sort it out while I’m home.”

  “Jack, if you need some time at home, we can work something out.”

  “Oh, no, it’s not as serious as that. We’ll fix it.”

  Will started to press, then backed off; it wasn’t really his business. “Let me know if I can help,” he said.

  Jack dozed off shortly after takeoff and slept the whole way to the airport at College Park, Maryland. On the ground, Will called for his car to be brought, while Jack got a cab to his home in Bethesda. Then Will called Kate at her CIA office, something he had rarely done.

  “Office of the Deputy Assistant Director for Intelligence,” a man’s voice said.

  Will nearly hung up, but he wanted badly to speak to her. “May I speak to Katharine Rule?” he said finally.

  “Who is calling, please?”

  “This is William Henry,” he replied, using only his first two names. He had done this before on the rare occasions when he had called her at work.

  There was a very long silence; then Kate came on the line, cool and businesslike. “Yes?” she said.

  “I’ve just arrived in town,” he said, matching her tone. “May we meet this evening?”

  “I’ll call you late in the afternoon,” she said. “Goodbye.” She hung up.

  Will wondered whether she was being curt because it was an Agency line. It ate at him all the way to Hank Taylor’s office.

  He was kept waiting a few minutes in Taylor’s reception room, which gave him more time to worry about Kate. It was much quieter than the last time he had been here, he reflected, remembering the music for the New York candidate, Heald, coming through the walls. Shortly, he was shown to a conference room, where Hank Taylor waited for him alone.

  “Will, how you doing?” Taylor asked, pumping his hand.

  “Fine, Hank,” Will replied, still annoyed with Kate and trying not to sound it. He was in no mood for Taylor’s backslapping, either.

  “Sit down, boy. I’ve got some great stuff to show you,” Taylor said, pulling a chair out for him. “My guy’s threading the projector now.”

  Film? Will thought. He had specifically asked Taylor to show him rough ideas before making actual commercials. “Where’s Tom Black?” Will asked.

  “He couldn’t be here today,” Taylor said evasively. “In fact, I’m not sure he’s the right man for your campaign. He’s spending a lot of time on the Heald thing in New York, you know. I’m going to give you somebody better.”

  Will started to speak, but the lights went down, and Taylor held up a hand. “Wait till you see this,” Taylor said. “Hell, wait till you hear it.”

  Will sat back in his chair and directed his attention to the screen at the end of the room. A countdown appeared on the screen, giving Will time to be annoyed again that Taylor had gone straight to film without discussing the idea with him first. And what the hell was this about Tom Black? He had begun to rely on Tom, and he wasn’t going to let go of him without a fight. He tried to clear his mind and concentrate fully on the film, which was now coming up on the screen.

  Will was surprised to see himself standing next to the lake by the cottage at home, his sleeves rolled up, the Labrador retriever at his side. A march was playing softly in the background, as an announcer’s deep voice came in. “Georgia needs a new kind of senator,” the announcer rumbled, “one with his feet in the red clay of the state, and his mind on the stars.” The camera pulled back as Will walked along the lakeshore, throwing a stick for the dog to retrieve.

  “A man who believes every Georgia parent should choose the school that’s right for his child, public or private, with tuition paid by a voucher bought with his own tax dollars.”

  Will’s eyes widened. He had specifically told Taylor that he was opposed to such a plan.

  The camera zoomed in across the lake on Will’s face, and the film froze. “A man every Georgian can count on,” the announcer said, and the music swelled up, joined by a hearty male chorus. “Lee! Lee! He’s our man! If he can’t do it, nobody can!” The screen went black, and a title appeared: “Paid for by the committee to elect Will Lee.” The film ended, and the lights came up.

  Will turned to Taylor. “The hell you say.” He was right at the boiling point.

  “What?” Taylor said, taken aback.

  “If you think I’m paying for that piece of crap, you’re out of your mind,” Will said.

  “Now look, Will, it’s only a rough idea at this stage, but we think it’s great stuff.”

  “I told you specifically I was against that cockamamy school-voucher idea. I’m a Democrat, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Now, Will—”

  “I told you specifically not to go to film with any idea until we had discussed it.”

  “Will, this is just a rough—”

  “And the last time I was in this office, I heard that music with Heald’s name on it. What’s the matter, did he throw it back at you? I don’t blame him—it’s lousy. But you thought you could palm it off on me, huh?” Will stood up. “Where’s Tom Black? I can’t believe he had anything to do with this crap.”

  Taylor stood up too. “I told you, Will, he’s off your campaign.”

  “So are you,” Will said, walking toward the door. He stopped and turned around. “You can send me a bill for Tom’s time and expenses on my campaign. Anything else, anything like that piece of film, you can eat. I’ll expect a refund of any part of my thirty-seven thousand five hundred bucks that wasn’t spent on Tom Black. And if I don’t have it by a week from today, I’ll sue you and send a copy of the writ to the Washington Post.”

  Taylor stood, red and sweating, next to the conference table. He seemed to be trying to say something but couldn’t get the words out.

  Will slammed the door behind him and walked out of the office.

  5

  Mickey Keane sat in the steel armchair in his captain’s office and waited for the captain, whose back was turned to him, to hang up the telephone. Finally, the captain closed his conversation and turned to face him.

  “Jesus Christ, Mickey!” he said.

  Keane’s hand went to his face. The swelling had mostly gone down, but there were still many jagged, red welts where the glass fragments had been removed. He was lucky to have his eyes. “Yeah, I know, C
ap.”

  “Can anything be done about that?”

  “Aw, they’re talking about some plastic surgery, but I haven’t got the time for that right now.”

  “You take all the time you need,” the captain said. “Besides, the way you look right now, you’re bad for morale around here.” It was only half a joke.

  Keane tried to chuckle. “It’s not what I’ve got on my mind just at the moment.”

  “Yeah, I know,” the captain said sympathetically. “Let me bring you up to date.”

  “I read all the reports you sent to the hospital. Thanks for that.”

  “Well, there isn’t much more, I guess. That place was an arsenal, or had been. We found a kind of pit, a room, under the barn, set up as a firing range. We dug a lot of metal out of the dirt behind the targets, every sort of caliber, a lot of Mac Ten and Uzi stuff, shotgun pellets, nine-millimeter handgun stuff. The police range wouldn’t have that kind of variety.”

  “So it’s some sort of group, then. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. There has to be more to it than the four who hit Manny Pearl’s store.”

  “Who knows?” the captain replied. “I guess you want to be on the hunt for this guy Perkerson, huh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The captain leaned back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head. “I read your report, Mick, but I want to hear from you why Pittman went into that house alone. More important, I want to know why you let him do it.”

  “I tried to talk him out of it, Captain, but I didn’t have much time, and he wasn’t listening. When I saw that the horses had been shot, I felt we had a bad one, but Chuck wasn’t listening. He was my senior; I couldn’t order him not to go in.”

  “I see,” the captain said. “Well, he always was a little on the headstrong side. Brave, too. Pittman always had guts.”

  “It was the brave thing to do that day,” Keane said, looking at the floor. “If we’d rushed the place, a lot more of us would have died.” Keane looked up at the captain. “I guess it’d look a lot better on my record if I was dead with my partner.”

  The captain reddened. “I don’t want to hear any of that shit from you, Keane. I’m not blaming you. Nobody is.”

  Keane looked through the glass partition into the squad room. Nobody in there looked at him in quite the same way anymore. He’d lost his partner, and they wondered why. “I don’t want another partner right off, if that’s all right, Captain.”

  The captain nodded. “Okay, I can understand that. We’ll let it cool off awhile.”

  “I’d like to run the search on Perkerson, though.”

  “It’s a little late for that,” the captain replied. “We’ve already run down every contact of the man’s we could establish. It’s a cold trail now.”

  “He’ll surface,” Keane said. “He’s on some kind of goddamned crusade—first the dirty bookstore, then the X-rated movie house in Charlotte. Nobody has that sort of firing range setup to train for dove hunting. It’s some sort of paramilitary thing, something political. It’s like some of those far-right-wing groups out west we’ve heard about, that Posse whatever.”

  “We’ve never had that sort of thing around here,” the captain said.

  “The Klan is that sort of thing,” Keane answered, “just not as well organized or trained. This isn’t a bunch of good ol’ boys with rifle racks in their pickups and a couple six-packs on a Saturday night before some hell-raising.”

  The captain looked at him but said nothing.

  “You see it some other way?” Keane asked.

  The captain shrugged. “You want me to go tell the chief we got a little army working the city and the state? You want him to tell the mayor that? You want the mayor to tell the Governor?”

  “My partner’s dead,” Keane said. “He died in a booby trap that would look good on the Viet Cong. He died chasing a guy who led three other guys in some sort of uniform in the murders of three people—lucky it wasn’t four. It wasn’t a stickup; it wasn’t a grudge; it wasn’t Manny Pearl’s wife trying to collect on the insurance. What do you make it, Captain?”

  “Let’s let the newspapers put the labels on it,” the captain replied. “We’ll just run it down in our own plodding way.”

  “Let me go after the guy,” Keane said.

  “I told you, we’ve run down every lead. I’ve had fifteen men on it.”

  “He’s going to do it again, you watch. Before long, we’ll have another killing, something sexy again. It’ll be Perkerson or his people. When that happens, I want it.”

  “Okay,” the captain said, “you’ll get it when it happens.”

  “I’ll know when it’s him,” Keane said. “You’ll let me call it?”

  “You’ll call it,” the captain said. “You hear something sounds right, it’s yours. Meantime, I want you to take another week of sick leave, go to Florida or something. I don’t want to see that particular face around here. Get some sun on it.”

  Keane nodded. “Yessir.” He got up and left. Walking through the squad room, he looked straight ahead. One detective stopped him.

  “Tough break, Mick,” the man said.

  “Yeah,” Keane replied, and continued out of the room. He’d go to Florida and get some sun, get rested. Perkerson wouldn’t move yet; he was too hot. But he’d move, and when he did, Keane would be on the job. Mickey Keane wanted Perkerson. He wanted to stick a service revolver in his ear and pull the trigger until it was empty.

  6

  Will Lee let himself into his Georgetown house, disarmed the burglar alarm, and turned up the thermostat on the furnace. There was a distant rumble, and warm air began to flow into the stale house.

  The telephone rang.

  Will ran to get it, but the answering machine picked up on the first ring. He snatched the phone from its cradle. “Hang on a minute,” he said. He waited patiently until his own recorded voice spoke the answering message and the beep went. “Hello,” he said.

  “Can we meet at Pied de Couchon at seven?” Katharine Rule’s voice said.

  At a restaurant? Not at her place or his? They hadn’t seen each other for weeks. “If that’s what you want,” he said.

  “Seven, then,” she said, and hung up.

  Will slammed down the phone, furious. He was furious at Hank Taylor for his shabby performance, furious at Tom Black for not having the guts to be at the meeting, and, above all, furious with Kate. He stood and took deep breaths, willing himself to be calm. He looked at his watch. Five-thirty. What could he do until seven? He went into his study, grabbed a legal pad, and started to make lists, lists of things to do in the campaign. Turn all this angry adrenaline to good use.

  He made a list for Kitty Conroy, then a list for Jack Buchanan. He looked at his watch again: six-fifteen. He had to do something about another political consultant, or maybe an ad agency would be better. He had to do something about Jack, too. He had asked him onto the campaign without giving him full charge of anything. He would make Jack campaign manager, officially. Jack was smart, imaginative, and hardworking; he deserved it. At the beginning, he’d had some notion of being his own campaign manager, but that was stupid. He’d be in charge, anyway, and it was wrong of him to withhold the title from Jack.

  Will looked up Tom Black’s home phone number and called it. He got an answering machine. “Tom, this is Will Lee. I had a meeting with Hank Taylor this afternoon, and I fired him. But I want to talk to you. I’ll be at the Georgetown house at least through tomorrow night, then back in Delano. Please call me as soon as you possibly can.” He wanted some answers from Tom Black.

  Six-thirty. Will went upstairs to his bedroom, ran an electric razor over his face, and changed shirts. He got into a tweed jacket and grabbed his trench coat. Six-forty-five. He was downstairs, about to arm the alarm system, when the doorbell rang.

  Jack Buchanan stood on the doorstep, looking as if he had been hit by a truck.

  “Jack, what’s the matter?” Will asked. “Come
on in.” He hung their coats on the hall rack, then led Jack into the living room and got him into a chair.

  “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, Will,” Buchanan said.

  “That’s okay, Jack. You look as if you could use a drink.”

  “Thanks, yes, I guess I could.”

  Will went to the liquor cabinet and poured a bourbon on the rocks, then handed it to Jack and took a chair opposite him, glancing at his watch. Six-fifty, and it was a ten-minute walk to the restaurant. “What’s the matter, Jack?”

  Buchanan took half the drink at a gulp and shook his head as it went down. “It’s Millie and me,” he said. “It’s over.”

  “Oh, come on, Jack,” Will said, “not you and Millie. You’ve had an argument or something, but you could never leave Millie.”

  “It’s she who’s left me,” Jack said. “Thrown me out. Said not to come back, ever.”

  “Jack, you know she can’t mean that. You two have the best marriage I know.”

  “We did, once,” Jack said. “We never will again, though.” He began to cry.

  Will was embarrassed. He and Jack had been coworkers for a long time, but apart from a couple of dinners at Jack and Millie’s house, he hadn’t known them as a couple all that well, even though he was godfather to their daughter. Glancing at his watch again, he went and sat on the arm of Jack’s chair. Six-fifty-five. He was going to be late. Awkwardly, he put a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Take it easy, Jack. This isn’t going to look nearly as bad tomorrow. Why don’t you let me put you up here tonight? I’ve got to go out, but you can make yourself at home.”

  Jack took a deep breath and wiped his face with his sleeve, seeming to get hold of himself. “All right, Will, thanks. I guess I haven’t got anyplace else to go.”

  Will stood up. “Come on upstairs. I’ll show you where things are.” He led the way up the stairs, stopping in the upper hallway at a utility closet filled with tools and other household stuff. “I’d better get you an electric blanket. The radiator hasn’t been on in that room.” He led Jack to a guest room at the end of the hall and switched on the light. “Sheets are clean, I think, and the bath’s through there. There’s a razor and some other stuff in the medicine cabinet.” He spread the electric blanket on the bed and plugged it in.