Even with the events of the past week, with what I had learned about Senator Hale and his wife, and what I had learned about me and Annie, and the oppo research guy for General Grayson and Felix's own work, and the signs and the phone calls and the mailings, it was all right. This is what counted. Free people coming in for a free election, in a small step to choose our next president. It was loud and unpredictable and vulgar in so many ways, but it ended up working, more often than not.
Near the exit at the rear of the fire station was Paula Quinn, reporter's notebook in hand, and I smiled at her as I approached.
"I thought all you nasty members of the fourth estate weren't allowed inside this sacred precinct," I said. _
"Maybe so, but I have pull with the town counsel, as you know. And I'm being very polite, asking a handful of typical voters what they thought of today's primary."
I waited and said, "Well?"
“Well, what?"
"Aren't you going to ask me anything?"
She laughed. "Didn't you hear what I said? I'm looking for a typical voter. You are anything but typical."
"Maybe so, but look who's talking. How's the Nash Pomeroy campaign treating you?"
"The death threats have subsided just a bit, but my word, I owe you a big thanks for that tip, Lewis. It's really worked out for me."
"How's that?"
"You name it --- CNN, NBC, Fox --- I've been on most of the cable and news channels talking about my story. Millions of people saw me, Lewis. Millions! And just this morning, I got a phone call from a publishing house in New York wanting to know if I can do a quickie book about the primary and its history. Is that fun or what? My very first book."
"Sounds like lots of fun, Paula. I hope it works out for you."
Another smile, a touch on my arm. "I owe you. Big-time."
"Just make sure I get an autographed copy, and we're even."
"Deal."
So I left the fire station and went out in the cold, where an earnest young man who wouldn't take no for an answer claimed to be working for the Voter Resource Group, or something like that, and forced an exit poll questionnaire in my hand. I didn't feel like arguing or fighting, so I took a few minutes to fill out the form on a table set up in the parking lot, and put it in a box to be counted, tabulated, and presented as a story during tonight's evening newscasts on the primary and exit polls, where various pundits would try to decipher the results and explain the Meaning of It All.
As I put the survey form in the box, I hoped other Tyler voters and voters in the rest of the state took my lead, for I told the poll takers that I was a gay woman, between fifty and sixty years of age, making less than ten thousand dollars a year, and that my most pressing concern this election year was deep sea fishing rights. Oh, and to wrap things up, I told them that I had voted for a dead man:
Gus Hall, head of the Communist party of the United States.
Democracy in action. Sometimes it ain't pretty, but it sure can be fun.
A few minutes later, I caught up with Felix, who was standing outside his borrowed Highlander. He was talking to two young women whose campaign signs were hanging by their sides, ignored and forgotten, while he chatted them up. They both had long hair --- one blond, the other brunet --- and he looked at me and said something to the young ladies, and they went back to their assigned tasks.
I got inside the Highlander and Felix joined me, and I said, "What is it with you?"
He laughed. "Just keeping my skills in shape. That's all."
He closed the door and started up the engine, and I said, "Hold on for a second, will you?"
"Sure,"
I looked at the voters coming out of the fire station, two or three at a time, and I thought about what it had been like inside. People voting, people coming together, people doing what was right, what had to be done ...
There. There it was.
Something small in the grand scheme of things, but something, if I was lucky, could be accomplished before the end of the day.
I turned to Felix. "Feel like keeping other skills in shape?"
"Depends. What do you have in mind?"
"I need to make something right. I'll need you, and I'll need somebody else."
"Who's this somebody else?"
"Someone you've met before."
"Oh," Felix said. "Does he know he's being volunteered?"
"No, but I don't think he cares."
"Where does he live?"
"Right now, in a cooler in a storage facility in Massachusetts." Felix's face was impassive and stayed that way for a bit, and then he grinned. "See? Always told you that a body could come in handy. What do you have in mind?"
"Head south and I'll tell you," I said. "And another thing. You're going to get a videotape in the mail, either today or tomorrow."
"I am, am I," he said, pulling out of the parking lot. "And what's that about?"
"I'll tell you that, too," I said. "Plus how I got my leg dinged up."
Felix said, "Damn, you better speak fast. It doesn't take that long to get to Salisbury."
"I'll do my best," I said, and then I began talking.
Several hours later my hands were sore, and my knee was throbbing like a son of a bitch, but I was back in the Lafayette House, and back in the office of Paul Jeter. He didn't look too happy to see me, and I knew that his displeasure was going to deepen in the next few seconds or so.
"Well?" he said. "I agreed to see you because you said you had something to tell me, something of great importance to the Lafayette House. Get on with it."
"Sure, but first I need to know something from you. What's happened to Stephanie Sussex?"
"Who?"
Oh, so he was in the mood to play games. "You know who she is. Your gift store manager."
"Our former gift store manager."
"Why is she your former gift store manager?"
"I would imagine that's none of your business."
"Probably. But as a friend, I would really like to know."
"And I would really like to know why you're here. Mind telling me?"
"All right, I will," I said. I took a cell phone out of my pocket and flipped it open, manipulated a button or two, and passed it over to him. He held the cell phone with distaste, like I had pulled it out of a sack of dung, and then his expression really went south when he looked at the cell phone, and then looked at me.
"What's the meaning of this?"
"Recognize the room?" I asked.
"Of course. It's one of our suites. And who is this ... man?"
I now held my cane in my hands, to have something to do with them, I guess, or to prevent my hands from shaking.
I said, "Who the man is doesn't really matter. What matters is the room that he's in. The room is registered to a Michael Marone. You and I both know that that name is a fake. The room actually belongs to a star Boston Celtics player. I don't have to say any more about that, now do I?"
Now his face was alternating between the paleness of shock and the redness of anger. It was an amazing thing to watch.
"You ... you ... who the hell is this man?"
I reached over and took the cell phone out of his hand. It belonged to Felix and I had promised him I would bring it back to him, right after he had made some phone calls to contacts in Boston to find out certain bits of information that were turning out to be quite helpful.
"I don't know who this man is," I said. "But what I do know is this. He's dead. Quite dead. And he's in your hotel, and he's in the room of a star guest. All I need to do is to make a single phone call to a friend of mine in the Tyler Police Department, and a storm of publicity is going to descend upon this hotel like nothing you can imagine. Add in the fact that because of the primary, we have a large portion of national news media representatives in the area ... you can just imagine what will happen. That Celtic's career will take a major hit. Any other prominent guests you have here will want to take their business elsewhere. And all this negative attention will n
o doubt mean the Lafayette House will be looking for a new manager before the end of the week."
I could see the emotions struggling underneath that expression, and it was vaguely repellent, like seeing two caged scorpions fight it out. Finally he seemed to catch his composure and he said, "How did you get that body up there without being seen?"
"Trade secret," I said.
He pondered that for a moment and said, "What do you want?"
"I want Stephanie Sussex to have her job back at the gift shop. I want her to get a nice little raise. And I want her job protected, so that in a month or six months or a year, she doesn't get laid off because of some sort of restructuring. You agree to that and the body is out of here within a half hour, and nobody has to know anything. How does that sound?"
"How do I know I can trust you?"
"Because I'm such a quiet and considerate neighbor. Most of the time."
It looked like he wanted to spit at me but instead he said, "You have a deal, you bastard. Now get out of my office and get the hell out of my hotel."
I got up, leaning on my cane. "My pleasure."
I waited out in Felix's borrowed vehicle, in the rear service area of the Lafayette House, and eventually Felix came out with a laundry cart, whistling, it looked like. He maneuvered the cart to the rear of the Highlander and opened it up, and I stared straight ahead while Felix did his work back there. I wished I could have helped him, but I was still too damn sore. There was a thumping, and the sound of something being dragged across the carpeting of the vehicle, and then Felix climbed in and said, "What now?"
"Can you ... can you place him somewhere?"
"Sure."
I handed over a business card. "Good. And when you're done, make a call from a pay phone ... maybe in Maine or New York, if you're paranoid. Just let the guy on the other end know what you've done and where Spenser can be found."
Felix took the card. "You sure?" "
Yes."
"This is the Secret Service agent who arrested you last week, right?"
"Right," I said. "But he's also the Secret Service agent who arranged to have me pulled from the ocean yesterday."
Felix pocketed the card. "Consider it done."
Felix made the short drive to take me home, and riding in the rear, nice and quiet, was the mysterious Spenser Harris, ending up who knows where. I asked Felix just that question and he said, "Let me worry' about that. All right? You'll see it in the newspapers soon enough, I'm sure. Just remember this. Uncle Felix knew best ... never throwaway a body unless you know you don't have a need for it."
"But at the time, I didn't know that."
"Which is why I know best," and he glanced back for a moment, adding, "though I sure as hell didn't think this poor son of a bitch would be traveling so much."
"I'm sure he's not complaining."
Felix said, "You think? Now. Here you go. Need a hand getting inside?"
"Nope," I said, opening the door to the cold air and the sound of the ocean and the sight of my home. "I can make do."
"Glad to see that. Now it's time to go home and see who the hell won today."
I turned and smiled before shutting the door. "Don't you know who won today?"
"No, I don't. Do you?"
"Sure," I said, and as I closed the door, I called out, "The American people."
When I got inside, I found that there were five messages on my answering machine, four of which were frantic calls from the various campaigns to make sure I had voted, and if I hadn't voted, a quick call would mean I could get a ride to the polls, right up to the last minute. Not a problem at all, Mr. Cole, so please do call us if you can, they all said. I deleted all four of those messages, and I took my time listening to the fifth one, the one that meant very much to me. The phone message had poor quality, like it had been made in a very loud and very empty space, and as it started, it turned out that my guess was right.
"Hey, Lewis, it's Annie," her tired voice began. "I'm at the Manchester airport. Things are closing down here at campaign headquarters, and you know what? I've changed my mind. I'm off to South Carolina after all."
I closed my eyes. Her voice had gotten a bit shaky at those last few words. Even amid the ambient noise of the airport terminal, I could hear the intake of breath as she went on with her message.
"Don't take offense ... and please, believe me, it has nothing to do with you not being with me last night at the rally. I know something important must have happened, and I know you want to tell me all about it ... but I don't want to talk things out. I'm tired of talking. I like doing things. I like accomplishing things. And I helped accomplish a lot here in the state these past few weeks. And to see everybody pack up and start preparing for the next battle ... I didn't want to abandon them. Oh, hell, I do want to be with you, but these people ... I'm part of something now, something I want to see through. And ... well, it's like this, Lewis. I'm going to South Carolina because I believe in something, something very important to me. Something that I'm ready to give up my schooling and my career and other things ... for, to do what I have to do. As for you I don't know what you believe in, Lewis. I just don't know. Do you? Do you believe in something?"
She coughed and her voice quickened. "Well. They're calling my flight. You take care ... and I'm sure we'll talk sometime. And I know I'll be back to see you soon. Just not now. Bye."
I held the phone for a bit, and hung it up, and just looked outside at the wide and unforgiving ocean.
What do you believe in? she had asked. What do you believe in.
And what I wanted to say was this: I believe in you, Annie, and I believe in your dedication to the man you want to become president, and because of that, I kept secret what happened to me and his wife and his wife's lover, so that I wouldn't destroy a campaign that was so important to you.
That's what I believe in.
I listened to the message one more time, erased it, and then spent the next few hours on the couch, watching the various campaign coverage. I didn't eat, didn't drink, just kept in view what was going on with all the pollsters, pundits, and talking heads.
I paid particular attention to the representatives from the different campaigns, for like Paula Quinn had predicted a few days earlier, each and everyone of them had declared victory.
Nice to be so sure.
Oh, how I envied them that.
Chapter Twenty
The day after the primary, freezing rain set in, and I almost slipped twice in my driveway, going up to get my newspapers, even while using my cane. The lobby of the Lafayette House was full of reporters, campaign staffers, and other various primary-related folk, all trying to get out of town to the next leg of this circus called democracy, and I ignored them all as I went into the gift shop. Stephanie Sussex was there, smiling at me, back at her old job, and for a bit I felt good. I had finally made some amends to someone.
I went to pay for my morning papers and Stephanie refused to take my bills. "Are you kidding?" she said. "Not after what you did for me so I could get my job back."
"How do you know I had anything to do with that?" I asked. Her eyes flashed at me. "Don't think I'm stupid," she said. "I got fired because Paul learned I had been through the surveillance tapes. The fact I got my job back in just over a day ... I'm sure you had something to do with it. I'm positive."
I smiled as I put the papers under my arm. "Maybe so ... but I have to keep a secret."
She looked about her and lowered her voice. "So. What did you do? Hurt him? Threaten him?"
I shook my head. "Nope. I just pointed out the error of his ways, and he was eager to cooperate."
That made her laugh. "Must have been a pointer made of steel, aimed at the little bit of flesh inside him called a heart. You go on home, now, and stay out of the rain. All right?"
"Sure," I said, and as I turned to make my way out of the gift shop, Stephanie murmured something and I said, "Did you say something?"
Her face looked like I had caught he
r at something, and she said, "Urn ... just a little saying, Lewis. Something I learned in catechism class, many years ago. A righteous man will get his rewards, both in heaven and on earth, and I was saying I was sure there were many rewards waiting for you. For what you did for me."
I nodded in appreciation. "Thanks, Stephanie. I appreciate that."
She waved a hand. "Go on. I'll see you tomorrow ... and don't bother bringing any money, all right?"
"You've got it."
Outside in the lobby, I made my way to the doorway and then stopped. The freezing rain was coming down hard, sweeping across the parking lot, drenching those few guests coming in, holding up umbrellas or newspapers over their heads. The lobby was emptying out and even though I didn't feel any particular affection for the primary and what it had spawned, I could sense a taste of loneliness, of emptiness, as these driven people left my fair state and went somewhere else.
So I stood there, just watching the rain fall. I suppose I should have put the papers under my coat, and worked my way down to my house to watch the news of the post-primary, to see the talking heads at work, to build a fire and hunker down and be safe and alone in my home.
Like before.
That's what I should have done.
To go home, be safe, be quiet, be alone. Like before.
But instead, I went to a nearby bank of phones, and made a phone call, and I was lucky for the very first time this day, as a familiar and friendly voice answered.
I said, "Felix?"
"Of course. Who else?"
I smiled at his teasing voice. "Just checking. I need a favor. Like, right now."
He said, "Yesterday wasn't enough, what we did with Paul Jeter and your fake Secret Service agent?"
"Oh, it was plenty, but I'd like to think you got some professional experience out of it, experience you can use down the road."
"Maybe so," he said, laughing. "Maybe so. What do you need?"
Primary Storm Page 25
