Primary Storm

by Brendan DuBois

  "I will. You watch out for the media up in the parking lot, all right?"

  "Sure. Not a problem."

  "And ... thanks. Thanks for coming by."

  He grinned as he opened the door, and I stepped outside with him. "It's wintertime, there's not much to do, and days like this, Lewis, you make a fine, distracting hobby."

  And when my friendly hobbiest left, I went back inside.

  At my phone, the answering machine announced in little red numerals that there were thirty-six messages waiting for me.

  How nice to be so bloody popular.

  I grabbed a pen and a slip of paper, sat down, and started going through the messages. It didn't take as long as I expected. Four of the messages were from pollsters or campaigns, thirty-one were from various media outlets --- only one of whom I intended to contact --- and in the middle of the mess, one from Annie.

  "Lewis, call me on my cell, all right? I've heard about ... your troubles. Call me when you can."

  I called her back. No answer. I left a message, and then looked again at the phone. I made the call, and there was the cheerful voice of Paula Quinn, my reporter friend from the Chronicle.

  "Lewis," she said. "How sweet you'd call me back I'd think you'd be angling to go on one of those cable round-table shows. Or a major network. Or an exclusive with The New York Times."

  "I'm not friends with any of them," I said. "Just with you."

  She laughed. "One of the few advantages of being a reporter in a small newspaper during the primary. Look. Are you up to talking to me?"

  "Absolutely."

  "All right, I'm leaving friend mode and now going into reporter's mode, all right?"

  "Sure," I said. "And I'm going into source mode. Fair enough?"

  I could make out the tapping of her computer keyboard.

  "Considering this is the biggest story in the Western Hemisphere today, you can go into any mode you'd like."

  "Thanks. Look, everything and anything I say from now on, I'm not to be quoted by name or inference. Just say 'a source close to the investigation.' Does that work?"

  "Works fine, and you're being a dear, but deadline is fast approaching. Can we get going?"

  "Absolutely."

  So I talked to Paula for a bit, answering the best I could, and despite my short answers, I think she was pleased that she was scooping the entire journalistic world with exclusive details on the attempted assassination attempt against Senator Jackson Hale. And to show her pleasure, she squeezed a lunch date out of me for later in the week, with a promise to pick up the check. Later in the afternoon the illness that had saved me from a longer stay at the Wentworth County Jail rallied and assaulted me again. The nausea had returned, along with a set of chills that made me shiver every few minutes. I had called Annie twice more and had left her messages both times, the last one saying, "I'm feeling awful again, so I'm unplugging the phone and crawling into bed. Join me if you can."

  Which is what I did, but before crawling into said bed, I went around and made sure the windows were locked, that the door was locked, and the sliding glass door leading out to my first-floor deck was locked. I also did a quick weapons inventory, and aside from the missing Ruger, my twenty-gauge shotgun, my eight-millimeter FN-FAL, and my nine-millimeter Beretta were all in place. I went upstairs and retrieved my Beretta from my bedroom, took a long shower to warm up my chilled bones, and then slid into bed. I read for a while and soon enough, the sounds of the ocean put me to sleep.

  The creaking door from downstairs woke me up. I reached over to the nightstand, grasped my pistol. It was cold and awkward and yet comforting in my hand. I sat up, moist and cool, and knew my fever had broken. There were footsteps on the stairs coming up to my floor, and I aimed the pistol out toward the open door, waiting. Waiting.

  The wind rattled the windows in my bedroom. I waited and ---

  Damn.

  I lowered the pistol and pulled the sheet over it, just as a figure appeared in the doorway. I called out, "Hello, Annie."

  "Lewis," came the familiar and lovely voice. "Didn't mean to wake you up."

  "You didn't, not to worry," I said.

  She came in, and as she undressed, I tried my best to quietly put the Beretta back on the nightstand, and she said, "That's a new one, Lewis. Usually you can get me into bed with a soft word, not a weapon."

  "The day I've had ... sorry, I heard someone come in." Annie came over, slid under the sheets. "But you invited me, didn't you?"

  "That I did."

  She cuddled up next to me and said, "You've been all over the news, but you knew that."

  "Yes."

  "Do you know why you are involved? Who did this to you?"

  "Not a clue."

  "Mmm ... you intend to find out."

  "That I do."

  She said, "I ... I cherish you, Lewis, but please. Please don't do anything to cause any more bad publicity for the senator. All right? I believe in him. I really do. And ... I just want him to win next week Okay?"

  I stroked her hair. "Is this my Annie talking, or campaign Annie?"

  "It's me talking, that's who."

  "I understand, dear one, I do. Whatever I do, it'll have nothing to do with the senator. I just want to know how and why I was set up."

  She touched my forehead. "How are you feeling?"

  "Tired. Drained. Whatever I had before the rally seems to be going away."

  "Good."

  She kissed me chastely on the cheek and said, "You've had a long day. I've had a long day. Let's ... let's just sleep, all right?"

  "Fine. That'll be just fine."

  She moved some more and in an instant was asleep. I held her for a bit, and then gently disentangled myself and rolled over. I lay there, listening to her breathing slow and deepen, until it almost matched the rhythm of the ocean's waves.

  I awoke with wet hair in my face. Annie was there, fresh out of the shower, it seemed, and she raised herself up. "You okay?" she asked. She was already dressed, and knowing Annie, breakfast was either ready or already consumed.

  "Feeling better. I think"

  Another kiss. "I've got to run. Campaign staff meeting in forty-five minutes, and I'm only going to be on time if I speed my pert little ass over to Manchester. I'll call you later, all right?"

  "Sure. Thanks for coming by. It ... it meant a lot."

  "Meant a lot to me, too. Especially when you didn't shoot me."

  I raised myself up and kissed her, and she smiled, and then she was gone.

  I lowered myself back to bed, yawned, and thought about what I should do next, and when I looked at my bedside clock ---- keeping company with my nine-millimeter Beretta --- I saw that another hour had passed.

  Time to get up and get going.

  Getting dressed after my shower, I felt like I hadn't eaten well in days, so I treated myself to a coronary-encouraging breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and some shaved potato bits that passed as home fries. I left the television off and switched on the radio to a classical station out of Boston that never broadcast news or political commentary, and with that comfort, I ate well.

  After a quick wash of the dishes, I felt better than I had in days. I went out to the entranceway to get my coat, and then to walk across the way up to the Lafayette House, to get the morning papers, and then ---

  Something was on the floor, by the door. An envelope.

  I picked it up. An interview request, no doubt, from some enterprising news media type who had snuck down my snowy driveway. It made me think about Felix and his direct way of dealing with the news media. I thought about wandering up to the driveway with my eight-millimeter rifle strapped to my back, and decided that was going against my lawyer's advice to keep what snipers call a low profile.

  I opened up the envelope, and a heavy piece of stationery was inside, folded over in threes. I undid it and there were handwritten words penned there.

  A clean, well-lit place with books and companions and soft chairs. What m
ore can anyone want?

  At eleven?

  The sentiment and the handwriting were familiar. I could not believe it. I could not. But there it was.

  I carefully put the paper back in the envelope, went upstairs, and placed the missive in a desk drawer. Saw the time. Just past 10:00 A.M.

  I sat down in my chair, looked about at my collection of books, until I saw the ones I was looking for, old and unopened for so many years. There were four of them, large and flat and on the bottom of the farthest bookshelf.

  I suppose I should have gone over there and pulled them free, to reminisce about what was and what might have been, but instead, I waited.

  As the time passed, as the time always did.

  Just before eleven --- and after successfully driving past the lonely remnants of the media mob that had greeted me yesterday --- I was in downtown Tyler, the small collection of office buildings and stores about a five-minute drive west of Tyler Beach. The beach is just a village precinct within the town of Tyler, and the two have always had a rocky relationship, like that of two brothers, one a barhopping ne'er-do-well, the other a sober, churchgoing type. But while the beach has much more to offer than the town proper, the town has one advantage the beach doesn't: a bookstore.

  It's off Lafayette Road, on a small side street called Water Street, and, oddly enough, is called Water Street Books. It's in a two-story brick building, with small green canvas awnings. I walked in. There was a large area in the center, lined with bookshelves after bookshelves, and before me was a display with a current New York Times bestseller. I walked past that collection of books, with the eyes of Mona Lisa following me, and to the rear of the store, which had padded chairs and coffee tables.

  There was a small table with fresh-brewed coffee and tea and some snacks that operated on the honor system, and I poured myself a cup of coffee, dropped a dollar bill in an overflowing straw basket, started browsing. It was, as described, a clean, well-lit place with books and companions and soft chairs.

  I found her at the farthest end of the bookstore, curled up with a coffee table book about Shaker furniture. She was sitting in a large easy chair, windows behind her overlooking a small park, and she had on designer jeans and a dull red turtleneck sweater. A matching red knit cap was pulled over her head, her blond hair tucked up underneath, and as I approached, she looked up and smiled right through me.

  "Lewis," she said. "Barbara."

  She stood up and I automatically came forward, and we exchanged hugs, the touch and scent bringing back old college-aged memories, memories I didn't even know I had anymore. She kissed me on the cheek and I returned the favor, and then we sat down, holding hands, just for the briefest and most delicate of moments.

  "You look great," I said.

  "Right."

  "No, I mean it. You look like you just left the Student Union, heading out to McGrath's Pub."

  She smiled at the name of the old pub back at Indiana University, where we had spent long hours drinking cheap beer and solving the problems of the world, and she said, "You look good, too."

  "Now you're the one who's lying," I said. "Face not as smooth, hair not as thick"

  The smile was still there. "I like your face. It's got character.

  It's got life to it. Are you all right ... with everything else?"

  I nodded. "I am. I had nothing to do with the shooting."

  "Of course. My staff tried to brief me last night and I told them not to bother. I knew you could have never done anything like that."

  "Thanks. And was it your staff who delivered your note this morning?"

  She nodded, the smile ... oh, that smile. "Yes, an eager intern who knows how to keep her mouth shut, and who loved pretending to be a reporter, begging you for an interview by sliding that envelope under your door."

  I looked around the nearly empty bookstore. "Speaking of staff ... how in hell did you get here without a media mob following you?"

  The smile took on an icy edge I had never seen before. "One of the advantages of being the wife of the senator, and a possible first lady. The staff have their demands, but they also know I have a long memory, a memory of who's been helpful and who's been a pain in the ass, a memory I'll bring with me to the East Wing. And if I need a chunk of time here and there for personal time, without handlers, without staff, even without Secret Service protection, then that's the way it's going to be."

  "I see."

  Then the ice disappeared from the smile, and the old Barbara was sitting there before me. "Listen to me, a cranky and confident bitch on wheels. When I get to the East Wing. If I get to the East Wing, my old friend. There's a lot ahead, and New Hampshire's just the second step."

  "How's the senator doing?"

  "With the shooting? Jack's shrugging it off. That's one of his many admirable qualities. When he is focused on a goal, on something he desires so much, he won't let anything get in his way. His opponents in Georgia. Members of his own party who thought he should sit this one out. Or one deranged shooter."

  "I saw you at the rally. You must have been scared."

  The barest of shrugs. "It happened so fast ... I don't think I had time to think about anything. The first shot sounded like a firecracker going off, but the Secret Service ... they move very, very fast. I have bruises on my arms where they grabbed me. They don't fool around."

  "I'm glad."

  She shifted her legs in the chair. "What I found amazing was that I saw you in the audience. That was a surprise and a half. How did you end up in New Hampshire?"

  "Long story," I said. "Quick version is that I ended up here after working for a while at the Department of Defense. I had some old memories about being a kid here on the coast, before my mom and dad moved us out to Indiana. And now I'm a columnist for a magazine."

  "Shoreline."

  "That's right."

  Barbara reached out, touched the back of my wrist. "Congratulations to you, at least. You and I, back at school, we were going to be great writers. Journalists who make a difference. To report from D.C., from conflicts in Asia and Africa. Struggle and fight to bring out the truth, to change the world."

  "Not much change comes from a monthly column."

  "Maybe, but at least you're still writing. Me ... I'm lucky if I get to edit some of Jack's speeches. When he's in a good mood, that is."

  I put my coffee cup down on the table between us. "Last I knew, back at school, you went out to D.C. on an internship."

  Her voice was flat. "And never came back to Indiana. And never wrote or called you. I know. It's been a long time. I hope you've forgiven me since then."

  I looked at her. "I have."

  "Thanks. I mean that, Lewis. Thanks." She sighed. "Such a story. Went out there, just for a semester. Interning at Congressman Reisinger's office. Not supposed to do much of anything but answer phones and sort mail ... but there was a vicious flu season that semester. Bunch of staffers got sick. So I got pushed into service, got myself noticed, and as time went on ... I didn't want to go back to Indiana. And I didn't want to report the news. I wanted to be on the inside, making the news. So I transferred out to George Washington University, stayed and worked on Capitol Hill, and eventually, I got noticed by another congressman."

  "The Right Honorable Representative Jackson Hale."

  That made her giggle. "Such a mouthful, right? And if you had told me that I was going to marry a Southern congressman, a guy from Georgia, I would have told you, you were crazy. But I did ... and you know why? Because I could sense he was going places. That he was going to make lots of news, and besides the fact that I was attracted to him, I wanted to be a part of it. So I got used to breakfast meetings, fried catfish, grits in the morning, and learning who races what kind of vehicle in NASCAR. Along the way, a wonderful son and a wonderful daughter. And here we are. All because of a bad flu season, all those years ago."

  I made a point of looking around the store. "Yes. Here we are. A clean, well-lit place with books and companions and
soft chairs."

  "What could be better?" And then she looked down, as if suddenly fascinated by the cover of the book in her lap.

  There was just the quickest of moments there, I think, when we were both in our early twenties, full of energy and good intentions, and recalling our shared love of bookstores, and our solemn vow to each other that if our relationship continued, that if we made it that much more, that we would always have to live in a place that had a fine bookstore.

  Old promises.

  She looked up and said, "My story. And what's yours? How did you end up at the Pentagon?"

  "Senior year," I said. "I had done my own internship the previous summer, at the Indianapolis Star. I was getting ready to apply there for a full-time gig after graduation, when I saw this little ad in the campus paper. Something about did you think you were smart enough to work in an intelligence agency for the United States government. I don't know why, I just thought it was a bit of a goof, a bit of a challenge. So I applied, got a response, took an intelligence test with a few score other college students, and after a bunch of interviews and more tests, there I was, working on the inside."

  "Regret not staying in journalism?"

  "Not at the time," I said. "Later ... yeah, there were regrets. But at the time, I thought I had the best job in the world. I was on the inside. I knew things that would never appear in newspapers, would never appear in print. I could spend the day reading, spend the day talking to people, following leads and tips, and then write reports. That's it. One week, a report prepared for one person, another week, a report prepared for the Joint Chiefs. That was my job. And at the time, I loved it."

  "Now?"

  "It's ... the past. Some good memories. One very bad memory. And here I am."

  "Why did you leave?"

  My throat felt just a bit thick I wanted so much to let it all go, but yet ... "I'm sorry Barbara. I can't say. When I left, I had to sign a nondisclosure agreement. It ... it was tough. But here I am."

  "Married?"

  "Nope."

  She smiled. "A woman friend?"

  Somehow, a tinge of guilt. Why? "Yes. A dear one. In fact, she's working hard to see your husband get elected."