Primary Storm

by Brendan DuBois

  I looked around the rapidly emptying lot. "Where's your car?"

  "In Manchester, silly. I got a ride from some of the staff. You don't mind bringing me back to Manchester tomorrow, do you? Please, pretty please? I'll be your best friend .... "

  And then I knew that bag she was carrying contained a change of clothes and other essential items. Sometimes even when I was being observant, I could be as blind as a chaplain at a cathouse.

  My Annie, always thinking.

  I tried to keep thoughts of the Lafayette House and the mysterious piece of paper, weighing down my coat like a chunk of lead, out of the way. I leaned over, kissed her. '”I’d take you to Manchester, England, if that's what you'd like."

  "What I'd like," she said, her voice just a touch curt, "is to go someplace warm."

  And someplace warm is where we ended up.

  At home I built a fire and went to my liquor cabinet-all right, the space next to the handful of spices and condiments that I have managed to collect over the years-and pulled down a bottle of Australian sherry. I poured some in tiny sherry glasses and set them on the counter. Annie was on her cell phone, talking campaign talk yet again, and when she moved to the sliding glass doors that led out to the deck, I went back to the fire and looked at what Barbara had handed me.

  It was a slip of notebook paper, from the Center of New Hampshire hotel and conference center in Manchester, with a short note: Room 410, between 8 a.m. and 9 a.m. B.

  I reread it and tossed it into the flames, where it curled up and disappeared. Annie's voice rose a bit and then she said, "Fine!" and snapped her cell phone shut. "Asshole," she murmured, and she came into the living room and said, "You might not like this."

  "All right, try me," I said.

  "There's an all-hands meeting tomorrow at seven A.M. Which means ---"

  Ugh. "It means getting up early. That's all right."

  She raised the glass of sherry. "Take our drinks and go to bed?"

  "Absolutely."

  We climbed into bed after tumbling out of our clothes, and as I held my sherry glass, Annie leaned against my shoulder. I said, "Your feet are cold."

  "Tell me something new."

  "I mean really, really cold. Were you eating ice cream with your toes before going to bed?"

  In response, she moved her feet briskly up and down my shins, causing me to shiver. "There," she said, "take that, you insensitive man."

  "My legs are now insensitive," I said. "Not sure about anything else. Hold on while I try to warm up."

  I took a stiff swallow of the sweet sherry and Annie said, "I ever tell you the two types of campaign people?"

  "No, but I think you're about to."

  "Meanie," she said.

  Annie knocked her sherry back with one swallow and said, "Two types. Type one is the true believer. He or she really believes in his or her candidate, will follow the candidate around the country, will work for free pizza and a place to crash on the floor at two A.M. These are the ones who man the phones, stuff envelopes, and go door-to-door handing out campaign brochures, and will stand outside in a polling place on primary day, holding a sign, in the pouring rain, sleet, or snow. They can be a bit nutty but you can't run a campaign without them. They get teased, they get overlooked, but you can't kill them. They're like those blow-up clowns that you can punch in the head. They always bounce back."

  "I think I know who the second group are."

  She nuzzled my ear. "Then you've been paying attention these past months, Grasshopper. But let me remind you. The second type are the professionals. The poll takers, the money men and women, the consultants. They parachute in and try to stitch things together so that the true believers don't run things into the ground. Sometimes they believe in the candidate and sometimes they hate him or her. A lot of it depends on who's paying the most ... and in a campaign, a lot of times, a lot of energy that should be spent on the actual campaign is spent on gossip, revenge, and bitching over who has the biggest office. You would not believe some of the war stories I've heard since I've been with the campaign."

  "And what does this have to do with the meeting at seven?"

  "Oh, one of the pros wants to rein in us amateurs. Stop playing around and focus on winning the damn primary, and don't be so pie-in-the-sky, trying to be everything to all voters. We have a candidate who is hungry for this win, despite his wife, so knock off the amateur hour. Blah, blah, blah."

  I carefully put my now empty sherry glass on the nightstand.

  "What do you mean, despite his wife? I thought she wanted to become first lady in the worst way. And that she didn't make any secret of it."

  Annie laughed and rolled over. "Lewis, I don't know what she was like in college, but Mrs. Senator Hale is one prime bitch diva, and coming from one who admires prime bitch divas, that says a lot. She hates campaigns, hates campaigning, and most days, she's a goddamn drag on the campaign."

  "I see."

  She finished her own sherry and said, "So ... do tell me. What was she like in college?"

  "Barbara?"

  "No, silly, the mysterious woman who lives in your basement, that's who."

  "Oh," I said. "Very fair question. We worked on the student newspaper, which is where we met. Typical student paper for the time. Lots of long hours into the night, writing and composing and pasting up. Sometimes you'd skip classes to be able to work on the newspaper. I'm sure I lost a point or two on my grade point average due to all the time I spent there."

  "What was the name of the newspaper?"

  "The Indiana Daily Student."

  She laughed. "Such an original name. What else can you tell me about her?"

  "Typical college student, I guess. Full of energy and the feeling that once you get out, you can do anything ... Long story short, we dated for a while, and then summer came and we went off to our respective internships. I did one at The Indianapolis Star. She wanted to dabble some in politics, so she went to D.C. to work for a congressman. I came back to Bloomington and she stayed in D.C. End of story."

  Well, sort of, I thought, thinking about the note I had received earlier.

  "She break your heart?"

  "At the time, yeah."

  "Bitch," Annie said, and we both laughed and Annie then sighed and said, "Dear one, do cuddle me and keep me warm, will you? I'm about ready to fall asleep, and it'll be so much better if you're holding me at the time."

  I turned the light off and rolled over, holding Annie in the dark. We nuzzled and kissed for a while, her warm body --- now even including her feet --- in my grasp, and I held her for a time in the darkness, hearing her breathing deepen and slow, as she fell asleep.

  It took me a long while to join her.

  To get from Tyler Beach to Manchester is pretty much a straight shot, from Route 101 all the way west to the interior of our fair state. It's a trip of just under an hour, and we both skipped breakfast before we left, though Annie did find time for a quick shower. Her fine red hair was still wet as we joined the other travelers on the two-lane highway, the rising sun shadowing us as we raced west. I listened to a bit of the morning news as I drove, hearing about a snowstorm heading our way this evening, and then I got a look from my companion, and switched the radio off, as she dug her cell phone from her purse.

  For most of the time we drove, Annie was on the cell phone, checking with her staff, coordinating the logistics of a luncheon meeting later that day, and basically juggling about a half dozen questions, concerns, and complaints. It sounds odd but while any other man may have felt ignored or slighted at the lack of attention, I felt a sense of pride. She was damn good at what she was doing. The highway raced through mostly open rural areas that were only developed with homes and service stations at the different exits, and though the speed limit was sixty-five and I kept my Ford Explorer at seventy, I was passed on several occasions.

  It was something to see her work, but what pleased me most was that during one break in the call, she reached over and gave my
thigh a quick squeeze. "Thanks for the drive in, and a promise for better things later," she said.

  I returned the favor, squeezing something else, and she laughed and returned to her cell phone as the buildings of Manchester came into view. The state's largest city, it's a mix of poor neighborhoods and office buildings in the center of town. New immigrants from Latin America and Asia jostle for jobs in places where the accents were once Irish or French-Canadian. The headquarters for Senator Hale were on Elm Street, the main drag for Manchester, and I pulled in next to a fire hydrant. Highly illegal, but I planned to be there only for a few moments.

  Annie dumped her cell phone in her purse and reached behind her for her overnight bag. I kissed her a few times and she said, "Thanks, dear one. I'll see you later."

  "Bad weather coming tonight," I said. "Are you coming back to Tyler, or are you going to stay here?"

  "Stay here, I'm afraid," she said. "But look at it this way. Less than a week to the primary, and then you get me all to yourself."

  "Lucky me."

  She made a wrinkling gesture with her nose. “I’d like to think I'm lucky as well. Take care."

  "You, too."

  She walked into the storefront, each and every window obscured by HALE FOR PRESIDENT signs, and already she must have been in campaign mode, for Annie didn't turn and wave at me as she went inside.

  But that was okay. I drove away and in a matter of minutes, I was in a parking garage that was adjacent to and serviced the Center of New Hampshire.

  I was early so I bought a New York Times and The Wall Street Journal and settled down in a lounge area next to the check-in counter, and I surprised myself by letting the papers go unread. There was a floor show going on near me, and despite myself, it was fun to watch. Guests and assorted hangers-on were moving about the lobby, talking and arguing and speaking into their cell phones. Camera crews were stationed by the doors, gear piled at their feet, like soldiers on a long campaign. The reporters from different organizations came to and fro, and I recognized a few network and cable television correspondents. They always had the best skin. The reporters made it seem a point of pride to wear their IDs and credentials around their necks, as if they were some well-bred species of animal that had been awarded a number of blue ribbons.

  It was amusing to see the looks on the faces, to hear the snatched bits of conversation, and in some way, it was like a high school reunion, as old relationships were started up again. And more than a few times, I heard, "See you in South Carolina!" knowing that was the next big primary after New Hampshire's.

  And before I knew it, it was time.

  I gathered up my newspapers and walked to the bank of elevators.

  At 8:01 A.M. I knocked on the door to room 410, and it opened quickly, as if she had been waiting for me. Before me was the wife of the senior senator from Georgia, barefoot, wearing blue jeans and an Indiana University sweatshirt.

  I went in and she kissed me on the cheek and said, "Old reliable Lewis. I knew you'd be here if you could, right on the dot."

  "Thanks, I think," I said, and followed her in, and I was surprised at how small the room was. It was a typical hotel room with two double beds and a television and bathroom and small table with a chair, but for someone like Barbara, the possible future first lady, it seemed all wrong. She sat on the bed and curled up in a familiar pose that made something inside me ache with memory, and I took the chair across from her.

  I said, "Another way to keep your sanity, above and beyond sneaking out to bookstores when no one's looking?"

  "You know it, Lewis." She rubbed her face and said, "When you are where I am, you're constantly on. You're surrounded by staff, by consultants, by campaign workers. They all demand and expect the perfect candidate's wife, the perfectly scripted fembot, the perfect arm candy for the next president. I have a room here paid for by the campaign that's the size of my first damn apartment. This one's been rented in the name of my mom. It's nice to slip away and wear old clothes and watch television programs that aren't news shows, and know that the phone won't ring."

  "Sure is." I looked at her and she looked at me, and I recalled what I had done less than an hour ago, dropping off Annie at her place of work, and I tried to keep my voice even and gentle. "Barbara, what's up?"

  It was amazing, seeing the look on her face change from that of an old college friend to that of a candidate's wife, morph from relaxation to cool hostility. For a moment I felt a flash of sympathy for this woman who could never be quite comfortable with new acquaintances, could never know if someone wanted to be her friend because of who she was, or because of her position and power.

  "I'm not sure what you mean," she said.

  "Barbara ... this has been wonderful, catching up with you and our times back in college, but in less than a week, the primary will be over and you and your husband and the campaign will be heading to South Carolina. I'll still be here, in Tyler Beach. In the meantime, you and I are playing 'remember when,' and the only thing I can do is damage the campaign. Some smart reporter, still wanting to know how and why I might have been involved in the shooting, might decide to tail me for a bit. And can you imagine the headlines if a story comes out that you and I have been seen together?"

  "Sounds cool and logical."

  "It sounds right, Barbara, and you know it. So. What can I do for you?"

  "I need your help," she said. "How?"

  She folded her arms tight against her chest. "I ... I need you. I need you ... because I think someone's trying to kill me."

  And then she started weeping.

  I was on the bed with her, holding her, the scent and touch bringing back memories of college years so hard it made me feel lightheaded for a moment, and there was that sour tinge of regret, of what might have been, how our lives would have been different if she had come back from D.C., if I had been more aggressive in tracking her down, in finding out why she had gone east and had never come back.

  Old regrets, still feeling fresh.

  She turned to me and said, "All right, all right, maybe I'm being a bit hysterical ... but, Lewis, I don't know who to talk to, who I can trust."

  "What's going on?"

  "There's been two attempts. The first was a month ago, outside Atlanta. I was driving our Lexus and I got in a car accident. Flipped right off the road and into a drainage ditch. Almost broke my damn nose when the airbag popped open. It was at night, a light rain ... but no reason why it should have happened. The Georgia Bureau of Investigation kept Jackson and me informed through their investigation ... managed to keep most of it out of the newspapers. Seems like my Lexus was sabotaged. Brake lines were cut, the tires were underinflated, making it easier to roll over."

  "Who did it?"

  She smiled, though her eyes were full of tears. "Who the hell knows? The Georgia Bureau of Investigation are still investigating and Jackson ... he just nodded at the right places and told me that the professionals should handle it, and by then, the Secret Service were with us, and there was a campaign to run."

  "The car accident was the first attempt. What was the second?”

  "You should know," she said. "You were there."

  "The campaign rally?"

  Barbara nodded. "Nothing I can prove, Lewis. But I managed to see a preliminary report from the Secret Service on the shooting. From where the bullets impacted the wall behind the stage, it was apparent that I was the target. Not my husband. Me."

  "Why?"

  She rubbed her arms, as if the room had suddenly gotten cold. "Despite all the polls and predictions, the Hale for President campaign is a hollow shell. We're running on credit and optimism. We need to nail down the New Hampshire primary for another round of funds and campaign people to come streaming in. You see, there comes a point in any campaign when the well goes dry. And it remains dry unless the landscape changes. A scandal in another campaign. Some string of good news. Other things."

  Now I felt cool as well. "Other things ... like the shooting or kill
ing of a candidate's wife just before the primary."

  A sharp nod. "You have no idea politics is a dirty business. Not as dirty here as in other places but when certain people and certain groups have an idea and confidence that they are going to be part of the new crew come next inauguration, then they can get a bit crazed. They get so close to those centers of power and influence that they do things they wouldn't otherwise do."

  "So if a candidate's wife is wounded or killed ... "

  "My God, an orgy of publicity ... can you imagine it? The sympathy vote would roar right in, the funding would increase, they'd have to drive away the excess volunteers with a fire hose ... and those people backing Jack would be very, very happy."

  Having her in my arms now seemed to be quite wrong, but I couldn't move, couldn't disturb the moment. "All right ... having said all of that, Barbara, what can I do to help?"

  She sighed. "I'm not proud of what I did, Lewis, but after seeing you at the bookstore, I wanted to know more ... wanted to know more about what you did after college. So I had you checked out."

  "Lucky me."

  "Your time at the Pentagon is still in deep black, but not what you've done with yourself afterward. You write a snappy column for Shoreline but you've been involved in some criminal matters over the years, poking around, asking questions, working as an investigator without a license. And that's what I need."

  I squeezed her gently with my arms and got off the bed and back into the hotel room's chair. "What you need is beyond what I can offer, Barbara. You have the Secret Service, the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, the New Hampshire State Police, probably even the FBI at your fingertips. You don't need me."

  "Right. And in anyone of those agencies, there might be people supporting one of the other candidates, who'd take great pleasure in leaking a story about a crazed wife, who's gotten paranoid and thinks someone's trying to kill her."

  "And what can I do?"

  "What you've done in the past. Poke around. Ask questions. See what you can find out from the locals, from the cops to the party organizations. I know I'm grasping at straws, Lewis, but ... "