"You remembered."
"Yep."
"Look, about yesterday . . . I think I came off sort of like a head case. I'm sorry. I don't want you to think I'm out of control."
"Vulnerability is more attractive than invincibility.' "Is it?"
"For me. Somebody who isn't afraid to show his weakness is always more interesting than some showboat with all the answers."
Soon they were in the air, heading out over the San Gabriel Mountains, leaving the L. A. nightmare behind.
Ryan looked at Lucinda, struck by her composure and beauty. He tried to see Mickey in her, but there was absolutely no family resemblance. Silence hung like a velvet curtain between them.
"So you're working on your doctorate," Ryan said, pushing it away. "What's it on?"
"Bereavement. Guess you know a little about that." "More than I need to, I think."
Suddenly he was very, very tired. Something about being here with Lucinda relaxed him. Within a short time, he fell asleep.
He awoke some time later and saw that she was looking at him. He turned his eyes away and thought, "God, could I be getting this lucky?"
The answer was waiting in New Haven.
Chapter 12.
THE SHADOW RETURNS
AT FIRST, IT WAS JUST A VOID, AN ALL-CONSUMING NOTHingness, and then the dark shape passed him--bigger than before--evil and deadly, trailing pieces of Matt's clothing i n the currents behind it. The Florida Sea World T-shir t f rom the trip last summer, curling in the blackness, waftin g i n emptiness. Matt's shirt, then his tennis shoes caught o n s omething. The shape went by him in silence but the roa r t hat followed was the blood pounding in his ears. A simia n e ye swept past, seeing him, seeing the shallow desires tha t g uided him. He didn't think he could stand another pass , another look into that eye, but the shadow turned and cam e b ack.
"Are you ready, Daddy? Here we come."
Ryan bolted up out of a sound sleep, his heart racing. He didn't know where he was but finally put his thoughts in order. Pool house. The guest room. He was at Mickey's father's New Jersey estate. It was eleven-thirty in the evening.
He got up and moved slowly to the bathroom to look at the now-familiar mask that greeted him after bouts with the shadow--hollow eyes, tight lips, a look of desperation.
He dressed, left the pool house, and went wandering out on the grounds. It was cold, but at least the chill made him feel alive. A full moon turned the landscape silver. And then he saw her by the garden. She sensed him before she could have known he was there.
"Couldn't sleep," he said, as she turned.
"Me neither."
They stood in silence.
"Isn't Rex buried around here someplace?"
"He's over there." She pointed to the right.
"You warm enough?" he asked.
"I don't get cold. It's a family trait. Good circulation or something."
"Whatta you doing out here?"
"I was . . . I was talking to God." It had never occurred to him that she was religious. Ryan had no formal religion. He believed that something out there governed things, but he found his church in a field of flowers or a beautiful star-filled night. Ryan had never felt close to God in formal settings.
"What were you telling Him?"
"None of your business." She grinned. "Come on, let's go inside. You look frozen."
They moved through patio French doors into the living room. She turned on one light, and they sat down on the couch in front of the unlit fireplace. She picked up a pillow and put it in her lap. It was funny how comfortable he felt with her. He didn't have to be anybody. With Linda, he always had to help create an image of perfection for others. Only occasionally were they focused on something else, like the night they found the bird in the house.
"You look sad," she said, reading him again, perfectly. "I guess."
"What are you thinking?"
"Nothing, really."
And then suddenly he wanted to tell her--share it with her--even though it made very little sense.
"It will probably sound odd."
"How will I know unless you tell me?"
He smiled and let a long-protected thought go free. "In our Bel Air house, Linda and I were about to go to bed when we heard this chirping sound," he started slowly. "I walked into the entry and there was a robin sitting on the chandelier. Linda and I knew we had to get it out. We had to save that bird. It became the most important task on earth. So we opened the doors and all the windows and we tried to flush it out . . . Linda waving a towel at the poor thing, me swinging a broom, and then it would take off, flying into walls, landing on the floor. Every time we'd almost get to it, the bird would take off and fly into another room."
"What happened?"
"Finally, after at least an hour, she caught it. The robin was so tired, it just let her pick it up. She carried it outside and set it on the ground. We watched for an hour, but it wouldn't fly. Finally we went to bed. In the morning, it was gone."
"Was that before or after Matt died?"
"It was the night he left. The next day, we went to Santa Barbara and he died. How'd you know that?"
"Because of the way you said it."
"It was like an omen," he said. "He was in our life. We put him out and the next morning he was gone."
"It will get better, Ryan. All things change and become something else. Pain often forces us to grow."
She reached out and took his hand.
"I'll see you in the morning." He stood as she got to her feet. And then he kissed her. It was a quick kiss and not quite on the mouth.
"Don't leave without saying good-bye," she said as she turned out the lights and started up the stairs. He walked back to the pool house and stood there in silence. Something was different. It took a moment before he could identify what it was. It was a sense of calm, the first peace he'd felt in months. He turned off the light and stretched out on the bed. He thought about the shadow. He would fight it. He felt some of his confidence return. Like i n c ollege when it was third and long and they called his number. Back then, he knew if the ball came near him, he would catch it. For the first time since Matt died, he looked forward to what tomorrow would bring.
Chapter 13.
LOOKING FOR A PONY
THE DOOR OPENED AND RYAN WALKED INTO A FLURRY of activity. Twenty people were milling on the small concrete floor, which had few offices, little furniture, and no carpet. A volunteer was pulling campaign fliers of Haze Richards's last gubernatorial election out of a box. The Haze Richards Presidential Campaign Headquarters in Rhode Island was a study in organized confusion. Ven and Van were on phones trying to get airline schedules to Iowa.
"I need forty seats, minimum . . . to Des Moines," Ven said. "How 'bout Iowa City or Cedar Rapids?" He listened for a moment, then said, "Okay, book it," and slammed the phone. "Hicks," he said, glancing up at Ryan.
"I'm Ryan Bolt . . . looking for Malcolm Rasher. He's expecting me."
"Mal," Ven yelled at the top of his voice.
A door opened twenty feet away and Malcolm Rasher looked out He was handsome, a tall, black yuppie, with a Polo wardrobe and rimless glasses. "What?" Malcolm yelled back.
"There he is," Ken Venable said Ryan introduced himself to Malcolm Rasher and they shook hands.
"You gonna make the documentary?" Malcolm asked. "Tell you the truth, Mr. Rasher, I don't know what I'm doing here."
"We're pulling the troops together right now. This is a scoot an' shoot operation. You got a crew, equipment, anything?"
"Before we pay for all that, don't you think I oughta know what I'm trying to say?"
"Probably right. Come on." He led Ryan into a conference room with a scarred wooden table. There were half a dozen people sitting around talking.
"Sit down and buckle your seat belt, Ryan."
In a few minutes, the other members of the team had arrived and Malcolm closed the door. There were ten including Ryan.
"Okay, everybody shut up and
turn on your tape recorders," Malcolm started. "All of this is only gonna get said once. I'm available for questions, but try and steer clear of bullshit. We're gonna sink if we don't get the Big Mo immediately."
Nine small tape recorders came out and got turned on. Ryan wished he'd brought one.
"Okay, let's start with introductions. We're going to have a name and job test tonight at six. Everybody has to know everybody else, what they do and their phone numbers. If any of you thinks this is stupid, you haven't worked a campaign where people don't know each other. I've made out my fact sheet with my job definition and phone numbers--it's on the long table outside. Let's go around the room. . . . To my right is our campaign chairman, Albert James Teagarden, A . J."
A. J. waved. "I'm going to be working on strategy, message, and polling with Ken Venable and Guy Vandergot. Anybody has any ideas, I want to hear them. I'll have more to say in a minute. My fact sheet is on the table."
Then a pretty woman sitting next to Teagarden stood. Her ash-brown hair was silky and her figure showed the hours she'd spent in the gym.
"I'm Susan Winter, the body woman."
Ryan had never heard the term before and wondered what it meant.
Malcolm caught his look of surprise. "A body woman or man, for those who don't know, is someone who is with the candidate constantly. She will handle hotel rooms, extra phones in the suite, making sure the hotel refrigerator has the right stuff. She's also in charge of minute-to-minute scheduling. If the governor needs to be out of a press conference and on a six o'clock plane, she's the one who tugs his sleeve."
Ryan was scribbling it all down on a yellow pad. "Vidal," Malcolm said.
Vidal Brown stood up. He was striking looking. Half-French and half-Paiute Indian, he'd been educated at Colgate. Ryan recognized him; he'd run press conferences for other Democratic campaigns.
Brown said, "I'm press secretary. I'm a twenty-four-hour commando-type Injun. No time is the wrong time. I love suggestions. Fact sheet, same table."
Next to him was a blonde with a bunch of rubber bands around her wrists, under which she had stuffed phone messages.
"Carol Wakano, and yes boys, I've heard all the Wacko Wakano jokes. I'm campaign finance. You hear of anybody with money for Haze Richards, I want the name. By the way, all mailed campaign pledges over five hundred need to be cataloged for the election review process. Anything less is exempted from that restriction."
"Rick and Cindy Rouchard," Rick said as he and his wife stood. They were Mr. and Mrs. Middle America. "We're Iowa Advance. We're going to be setting up the funders and booking the local TV in Iowa. I don't need to tell you that the Register-Guard Convention Center debate Tuesday is going to be critical to our news coverage, so I hope the candidate is ready for it."
"When we get to Iowa, Haze isn't going to stay in the Savoy Hotel with the rest of the candidates," Rasher said.
"He's going to be at a farm someplace." He turned to the Rouchards. "Find an Iowa farmer who's about to go broke. Some guy with a sad story. Haze is going to sleep there."
"Great idea," Rick said.
Then it was Ryan's turn. "I'm here to make a documentary. I don't have a fact sheet but I'll get one on the table immediately." He sat down, not knowing what else to say.
"I want you, with a crew, filming the news conference in Providence when Haze announces," Malcolm said. "I'm gonna get the local blow-dries and live-at-fives from here and Providence." Ryan knew he was talking about local TV field reporters. "Get blanket footage on the press conference. What're you going to call this documentary?"
"I don't know . . . I hadn't thought"
"We need a flashy title like . . . like . . ."
"Blizzard in Iowa?" Van said from the end of the room. "Yeah, that's the right idea," A. J. said. "But blizzards are cold, our guy is hot. Haze is on fire."
"Prairie Fire," Ryan heard himself saying.
"Perfect. 'Prairie Fire.' " A. J. grinned. "That's the documentary. We're gonna be the only ones with good Haze Richards footage and the networks will be forced to use our stuff. If they want it, I'll make 'em use it uncut."
Then Ven and Van stood up and said they were the pollsters. "You know what we do," they said and sat down. Ryan didn't know, but made a note to find out.
The two other people were staff and media relations, Ryan scribbled on his pad, making notes about their appearance so he could keep them straight for the six o'clock quiz.
Malcolm leaned back in his chair. "The candidate is Governor Haze Richards. All of you here are professional campaign workers being paid for your services. Some of you have only a marginal understanding of what the candidate represents. Our campaign chairman, A. J. Teagarden, will be able to fill you in on 'the message.' A . J. has known Haze since childhood. . . . AJ."
Teagarden lumbered up out of his chair. Most of these people he knew; some he'd worked with before and hired for this campaign.
"When I was a little boy," he started, a smile on his face, "Every Christmas I asked my parents for a pony. . . . "
Some in the room had heard the story before and started to smile.
"Christmas morning, I'd look under the tree, but no pony. I'd look in the kitchen, maybe he'd be in there. . . . After all, ponies got hungry. No pony. I'd look in the garage--everybody knows ponies need room. . . but no pony. I looked and looked. I wanted to ride him to school . . . feed him, pet him. But what I got was roller skates. So I'd put on the roller skates and you know what would happen . . . ?"
"Would you get a blister, A. J.?" Vidal asked, grinning.
"Bet your ass, Vidal, I'd get a flicking blister. And you know why I got the blister? Because I was so upset I didn't find my pony, I would skate and skate to get rid of my disappointment. Now what does this tale of my youth have to do with this campaign?" He grinned at them, stroking his bushy beard. "I'm still looking for ponies. A pony is anything good. A blister is anything bad. We need to avoid getting blisters.
"I did a survey ten years ago. I asked focus groups all over the country a bunch of questions, and then, last year, I asked the same questions to other groups made up of the same social and demographic cross sections. Ten years ago, when I asked people if national politicians cared about them, ninety percent said yes. Even if they didn't always agree with the result, they felt elected officials had their best interests at heart. Just ten years later, astonishingly, eighty-five percent said no--a complete reversal. Eighty-five percent of this country doesn't believe in the system anymore. They don't think politicians give a shit. The y d on't perceive any difference between the twoparties.
They're fed up and, hear me on this . . . angry. . . . They're angry as hell, yet in the face of this groundswell of anger, isn't sn't one voice out there saying, 'I can fix that. I can make the system work.' The press doesn't write about this frustration. It's not a story because everybody accepts it." He looked around the table. "This massive opinion shift has gone virtually unnoticed, unreported, and unresolved. We are in the midst of the second great American revolution and nobody's talking about it. Well, people, this is about to change. We have the strongest, most potent message imaginable. We're going to tap into that anger, tap into that frustration. We're going to be the candidacy of change. Haze has never run for national office, but every single one of these other candidates has been sucking on the national tit for years. They're a part of the system that the American public is furious with. We're gonna lump all these guys together and we're going to make them wear the clothes of that discontent. So . . . what's the message? It's simple, and it's gonna be as clear and beautiful as an Iowa sunrise."
He looked around the room, taking a minute for the dramatic impact.
"Haze Richards is going to make America work again for you."
They were scribbling it down on pads.
"No more meetings where Congress votes through their own pay raises at midnight. No more limos in the Senate garage. No more budget-stimulus packages. No more check kiting on the House bank. No
more billion-dollar peanut-farm aid programs. No more presidential air force. No more horseshit, lying, stealing, taxing and spending. No more! No more! No more! Haze Richards, the man from Providence, an outsider who hates what's happened at much as all of us. . . . Haze Richards is going to take America back. He's gonna make America work, goddammit. He's gonna make it work again for you!" His voice was thundering off the back wall of the small room.
He looked around at them, all of their faces turned up at him. "And that, my friends, is the pony every American has been looking for. That message played right wins us the presidency."
They started nodding and smiling.
"We run above the issues," Malcolm said, his voice seeming small after Teagarden's impassioned oratory. "It's not about gays in the military, or health care, immigration, abortion, women's rights, or minority programs. It's about Americans losing control of the system. We want America back and Haze is going to give it to us."
"Haze Richards is going to make America work again for you," A. J. Teagarden finished. "That's the message. Malcolm will give you the strategy." And he sat down.
The room was silent and the lean, black yuppie spoke.
"I've talked strategy with most of you," Malcolm said, "It's simple. We've got to score big at the Des Moines Register Guard debate next Tuesday if we expect to get national press coverage. Right now, Leo Skatina is polling over fifty percent in Iowa, but it's on name identification alone. He's a familiar face, but we can cut into him. The other three guys have modest and equal chunks of the rest. About twenty percent is undecided. Our goal is to beat the shit out of them at the Des Moines debate and then get the press to run with it."
Vidal said, "I got some bad . News there. Because of budget problems, most network news shows have cut back their live coverage in Iowa. The only network sending out a live team is UBC," Vidal continued. "Koppel, Jennings, Brokaw, and the rest of those media big feet are gonna chill it. CNN will be there, as usual, but even their coverage will be cut down."
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