The Killing Vote

by Bette Golden Lamb

  The lid seemed to float away from her glass jar and she stared at the fresh grass inside. Cat-like, she shifted to hands and knees, then trapped the creature inside the jar. She squealed with delight.

  “Della! Della! Let the poor creature go!”

  She shook her head, watched how it beat its wings against the hard glass. Each flap left a residue of lemon-colored powder. It fought hard and with its last strength, flew upward, Della crashed the lid home—a prison door slammed shut.

  At first she was engrossed with her captive. But soon it became lethargic. Worried that her nesting grass had become stale, she replaced it with fresh blades, adding even more. But the creature perched on the end of one thin spear, its wings barely pulsating.

  Della cried. Her beautiful friend was shrinking into nothing. She removed the cap, up-ended the jar, and dumped it onto the lawn.

  As she stared at the dying butterfly, a toddler came bounding up and grabbed the insect before she could stop him. The boy clenched the creature in his grubby little hand, then tossed it aloft, trying to get it to take wing again. It dropped to the ground, dead.

  Della wanted to bring back it back, make the butterfly life its wins again. But she was floating away, far away from her childhood. It was gone and she was climbing higher and higher and higher, then falling down, down, down and crashing into nothingness.

  Chapter 17

  “Friggin’ scare job?”

  “Those are my orders,” Al said, easing out of the black Chevy Malibu. “And don’t let that Jason-Does-Dallas thing of yours flip us into nightmare alley. Got it?!”

  Denny fell into step. “Can’t find a jazzier ride to heist?” he said, ignoring the order. “Jeez, an old Malibu.” He barked out a laugh. “Bet there’s even a kid seat in the back. What are you, some kind of soccer mom?”

  An arm whipped out, snatched Denny by the collar. “Listen, you turd. If you can’t keep your mouth shut, I’ll find a way to shut you up—permanently.” He glared at Denny under the streetlight then roughly shoved him away. “Don’t know why the hell the boss always sticks me with your sorry ass. I’ve about had it with this arrangement.”

  “Okay, for crissakes.” Denny rubbed at his throat. “Keep your goddam paws off me.”

  Al glared into his partner’s eyes a moment longer, then reached out and shoved him away. “Keep your big trap shut until we’re back in the car and out of here.”

  They walked silently down the tree-lined street; most of the houses were protected by tall hedges on all sides. It was long past sunset and the word was that the Yosts rarely missed a Friday night out at the movies.

  The two of them tucked in against the scraggily hedge of the Yosts’ home. Through a small gateway they could see the dim glow of a porch light over the front entrance, but there were no lights on inside and the nearest street light was too far away to expose them. Al made a circling sign. They split up to cover the full perimeter and met again at the back of the house.

  Creeping up the stairs of a large redwood deck, Denny tripped on a loose board; the sound stopped them mid-step. When everything remained silent they moved on. Al turned on a small, thin-beamed flashlight, tested the screen door, found it unlocked, and slowly slid it open. He used a shim to release the latch of the sliding glass door, and they were in.

  “Friggin’ kid’s play,” Denny said as if he’d been the one to get it done. Al ignored him and played the flashlight beam across the room, stopping briefly at a spinet piano and a sofa positioned flat against an opposite wall. The rest of the space was filled with bookcases.

  “You do the sofa,” he said to Denny. “And keep it quiet.”

  “Why? Ain’t nobody here.”

  “Just do it!”

  “Hate this kind of thing, Give me something to blow up--.”

  “Shut your mouth and do as you’re told.”

  Al drew a pair of wire cutters from a back pocket, pulled away the top of the upright piano, placed it on the floor, and pressed one boot into the middle of it until it cracked. He then cut through each piano string, nodding slightly at the twang following each snip.

  Across the room, Denny grabbed a planter and dropped it into the middle of a glass coffee table.

  “You’re so damned stupid!” Al growled. “What is it you don’t understand about being quiet?”

  Denny ignored the comment, stepped into the middle of the plant, and crunched his way through the broken glass to the bookcases. He started with the top shelf and flung books in every direction across the living room.

  “Is that quiet enough for you, boss man?” He didn’t wait for an answer, and got none. He pulled out a switchblade and stabbed it into the sofa. The air became heavy, difficult to breathe as particles of dusty fiber filled the room.

  Al moved down the hallway, Denny close on his heels. Together they tore the bedroom apart, slashing mattress and sheets, dumping dresser drawer contents onto the polished oak floor.

  As Denny moved to the walk-in closet, Al used the flashlight to check his watch. “That’s enough. Let’s get the hell out of here.” Denny ignored him and reached into the closet. Al grabbed his arm. “You don’t hear too good, do you, asshole?”

  “Let’s at least make it interesting.”

  “You want me to haul ass out of here without you?” He aimed the flashlight straight into his partner’s eyes.

  Holding a palm up between his face and the bright beam, Denny said, “All right, already. I got it, man.”

  * * *

  Ted pulled into the driveway, pushed the park and ignition buttons on the Prius dashboard, and pulled Mel into his arms. “Pretty romantic stuff. That couple in the movie reminded me of us.”

  Mel laughed. “Chop off thirty years, thirty pounds, get two different personalities, and they fit us to a tee.”

  “This is more what I had in mind.” He held her face in his hands and gave her a long, lingering kiss.

  “Mmm … I like that … let’s go inside instead of necking in the car.”

  “And what’s wrong with necking in the car?” He nibbled at her earlobe.

  “Right now I’m in the mood to dance.” She swayed in the seat and gave him a seductive smile.

  “We’ll make it a Frank Sinatra night.”

  They walked hand-in-hand to the front porch. Ted unlocked the door and let them in.

  Mel reached for the light switch. “How about a brandy before—”

  They both gasped at the shambles in their living room—books, plant soil, and broken glass covered floor; curtains and drapes were pulled from their rods; and the smell of spilled booze permeated the air.

  “Jesus Christ!” Ted said. “What the hell happened here?” He bent over, picked up two framed pictures; shattered glass dropped to the rug and crunched under his shoes as he followed Mel to the piano. The top lay splintered on the floor; then they saw the tangled mess of cut strings.

  Mel stood with a hand over her mouth, touched the silenced piano keys. “Why would anyone do this?” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  He drew her to him. “I’m sorry, Mel. I know how much you love your piano.”

  “Such a waste. So … so mean.” She looked from the piano to the emptied book shelves. “And all our books. Why?”

  He bent down to pick up a book, its spine broken, and tried to put it back on a shelf. It slipped from his hand and splayed open at his feet.

  “First the CORPS building, now this.” He looked into his wife’s teary eyes. “My fault,” he said. “Has to be connected to what’s going on at Galen Hospital.”

  “Is this supposed to scare you off?” she asked.

  “Can’t think of any other reason. It sure as hell wasn’t a random break-in.” He pulled her to him, kept squeezing her tighter. “Can’t put you in this kind of danger. What would I do without you?”

  She looked away from the mess, her piano. “If they wanted to frighten me—it worked.”

  He nodded.

  “But, we can’t let some anonym
ous creeps push us around. To hell with them and whoever sent them.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “First, we don’t touch the phone or any light switches,” he said. “They think that’s what triggered the explosion at CORPS headquarters. He pulled out his cell, called the police and the fire department, then made a reservation at a local motel.

  “Helluva way to end a movie night out,” Mel said and slumped down on the floor.

  Chapter 18

  W. Wade Wilson, settled into his high-rise condo for the weekend, swirled a double shot of single-malt Scotch in a heavy crystal tumbler. He liked his liquor neat when he drank, which was no longer as often or as much as most people thought. He knew the debilitating effects of booze, had seen its insidious power destroy too many careers, men and women alike. It tended to make them loud, obnoxious, and loose with information around people who weren’t to be trusted. Liquor and wine—good liquor and wine—were there to be savored, not misused to turn your life into one big fuck-up.

  He put his feet up on the sofa and held the tumbler up to the light. The amber liquid was hypnotic, could put him into a trance if he allowed it to. Getting involved with any kind of booze was dangerous for a man like him. Tori had told him that, that night five years ago.

  He rubbed a finger lightly against his fleshy lips, could still imagine her mouth on his.

  Pretty Tori; beautiful Tori.

  Tori, with the long blond hair that brushed against his face, swept across his body, tantalized his him when they made love. He’d called her his trophy wife. But although she was young, she didn’t dance to his or anyone else’s tune.

  A sudden flush of heat aroused him as he remembered her naked body. He took a swallow of the Scotch, ran a finger around the rim of the tumbler.

  Smooth, silky skin.

  His eyes tracked to the black and white 8x10 portrait he still kept of her. Those probing eyes followed him no matter where he stood or sat.

  Sapphire eyes. Dangerous eyes.

  She was the one who pushed him into dumping his PR firm to become a political gun for hire. “Hide behind the walls, look out from the cracks, conquer the world.”

  That was how she described what he did.

  He held his glass up in a toast to her. “Would have been second-rate without you, little lady.”

  But he was without her now, without her because he’d been drunk that last night they were together. Not falling down drunk, but carelessly inebriated.

  * * *

  “You’re an old fool to let some dumb-ass senator outsmart you,” Tori said.

  “These environmental issues are sensitive—can’t just go hog-wild bullying politicians for votes. Not if you want to stay in the lobbying business, not if want to keep from having your ass nailed to the barn wall.”

  Tori sat at her dressing table, applying makeup, combing her hair, getting ready for one of the frequent functions they were obligated to attend. As always, she’d shopped for days to find just the right dress for the event. Tonight’s outfit was carefully spread out on the bed, waiting for her to slip into it. Stunning as always.

  She shifted her gaze away from the eyeliner brush, and looked at him. “Seems to me that’s exactly what happened to you last time out, got your hide hung out to dry.”

  Then her eyes took in the three fingers of Scotch he was carrying around as he paced and waited for her. “W.W., darling, you’ve been drinking too much lately.”

  He looked at his glass, started to take a sip, then sat it down on his dresser. “And why should that matter to you? You still seem to have enough money to spend on clothes and jewels.”

  She put down the eyeliner, stood—naked as a blue jay—walked slowly and provocatively over to him, and with just the hint of a smile, she slapped him hard across the face.

  His drunken response was to grab her slender neck with both hands, twist and shake her head. A loud snap made him stop, release her. He watched in horror as she crumpled to the floor in a heap at his feet, her head resting at a distorted angle.

  Surprised sapphire eyes stared up at him.

  He reacted in a frenzy of activity—tried to breathe life into her mouth; pumped at her chest; pleaded for her to move, to react. He pulled at his hair, shouted, cried.

  All the while her eyes watched him; she seemed to be waiting for him to finish all of his frantic foolishness so she could scream at him, make him own up to his weakness, his cruelty.

  But all he heard was his own heavy breathing, then the shattering crash as he threw his glass against the bedroom wall.

  * * *

  Wilson had gone over that moment endless times, trying to change the scenario, like redecorating a hideous room.

  What if he’d slapped her back?

  What if he’d screamed at her?

  What if he’d just walked away?

  What if he hadn’t fucked up?

  His cell phone rang, turning the past into the present. He stared blankly at the small lighted screen, ran the back of his hand across the tears running down his cheek.

  He finally made out the caller ID—Levi Black.

  The coincidence was almost too much for him—here was the same the person who had taken care of everything that terrible night. Only the two of them knew what really happened, knew how Tori had gone from being a wife to becoming a missing person, a statistic, a memory.

  Levi Black, his faithful friend since kindergarten, who hung with the east side gangs and later became a made man; Levi Black, who had saved his life when he’d stupidly mouthed off to one of the Dead Eyes, a gang from The Projects. The lowlife had wanted to use W.W. for target practice, had put one .38 round into his leg before Levi arrived in a stolen Caddie, scooped him up off the street, and sped away as more slugs kerplunked into the side of the sedan.

  In the back office of a gang-connected doctor, Wade had said he and Levi were now blood brothers, responsible for each other’s lives. Levi hadn’t answered, but ever since he’d always been there to protect Wade, to save him from himself.

  W.W. patted his right leg, the leg that might have been amputated, wouldn’t be there, if it weren’t for Levi, then reached for the phone:

  “Speak to me,” Wilson said.

  “Had a couple of rubes take care of it. It’s a done deal.”

  “No interruptions, no problems?”

  “No way.”

  “Let’s hope Yost gets the message.”

  “Whatever.”

  Chapter 19

  Ted plowed through the crowds in San Francisco’s Union Square. It was packed with shoppers. Just about everyone was carrying one or more large shopping bags, each boldly imprinted with the name of a department store or an exclusive shop.

  He studied the faces and actions of the shoppers—attractive, vibrant, involved. They sent text messages as they walked, talked on cells, watched and manipulated the screens of smartphones, carried on conversations with each other while laughing and pausing to glance in store windows.

  This crowd seemed so much more independent than he’d been at their age.

  Was that really true?

  He’d been a father in his mid twenties, and while covering the Vietnam War, all around him kids in their late teens were being brutalized and killed. And back home? Mel was working at low-paying jobs struggling to raise their first child.

  Different world.

  He looked around at these pretty people. War? Americans dying in Afghanistan and Iraq? None of that seemed to have a place in this carefree environment.

  Ted found the café where Nathan Sorkin liked to meet and took a window booth so he could watch the Market Street scene and keep an eye out for the CORPS director. They’d picked a time in between the breakfast rush and the surge that would come at lunchtime, but the popular eating spot was still busy.

  He expected Nathan at any minute and was dreading the meeting. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, unable to sleep as he asked himself over and over whether the Hygea-Galen
business was something he really needed in his life.

  The answer, in the wee hours of the morning, had been no. He was going to drop the investigation, his whole investigation.

  He’d almost called Nathan to tell him on the phone, cancel their meeting. But he had too much respect for the man to not tell him face to face. Nathan would have to understand that he couldn’t put Mel’s life on the line.

  Even now he was uneasy about her. They’d moved into a motel room and a friend was with her. He wanted her here with him, but she’d made it clear that she wasn’t about to be smothered by his fears.

  And he knew she was right. But dammit, it was Mel!

  Being in dangerous situations wasn’t a new thing for him, but having his home trashed was something he’d never considered a possibility.

  Naïveté.

  Well that could get them both killed. He was willing to take the risk for himself, but not for Mel.

  He took in a deep breath, looked out, and tried to relax. It was a great people-watching spot. Off in one direction was the cable car terminus, where the operators and conductors labored to manually turn the cars around before starting the journey back up the Powell Street hill; throngs of tourists, and a few locals, stood in long lines waiting to grab a seat, or stand on a step to hang free off the sides of the cable car. He smiled as he saw a hustler trying to sell bogus tickets to unsuspecting out-of-towners, promising front-of-the-line spots to board.

  He became so wrapped up in the street opera that it surprised him when he heard Nathan Sorkin’s voice.

  “Hi,” Nathan said. “Just saw you yesterday.” He slid into the booth opposite Ted and pulled a napkin from the dispenser. As usual, he began tearing the soft, folded paper into smaller and smaller pieces. He leaned forward, gave Ted a closer look. “You’re looking kind of peaked, my friend. You okay?”

  “Not really, but before we get into that, how’s Myra?”

  “Stull critical, unfortunately. Came her straight from the hospital. Wanted to see her, but they wouldn’t let me in.”

  “If there’s anything—”