What could he say? What could he not say? How much did the governor really need to know? How much should he tell the governor in any case? Which information would be to his own advantage and which would not? What would the consequences be?
Well, he would have to say something. The last thing he needed was for the governor to find all this out from someone else.
One thought came across his mental desk more than once that night: Barrett has the tape. I know he has the tape.
And that thought was always connected with another: Your goose is cooked. Checkmate. You’ve had it. Cash in your chips—you’re out of the game.
Oh no, was his reply. Not me. I’m never out. Somebody else is going to fall, but it isn’t going to be me. I’ll find a way. Yes sir, I’ll find a way.
And he stayed awake most of the night trying to do just that.
ON A TV SCREEN: Rosalind Kline, sexy, sultry actress from the TV sitcom Who’s Got Problems?, teases and cavorts with a handsome, hairy-chested man in a large, ornate bedroom. He embraces her. She teasingly begins to finger the top button of her blouse, and then, with a little laugh and a flip of her blonde tresses, she says in her breathy voice, “Oh, I can’t take this off. I’ll catch cold!”
“Cut!” says the director off-camera.
Another angle: We see the camera crew, the sound technicians, the lights of a TV soundstage. Rosalind and the male actor break character. She gives him a pat on the shoulder as he walks off the set and is handed a can of soft drink. Rosalind turns and walks toward us, away from the bedroom set. Her name appears across the bottom of the screen: “Rosalind Kline, star of Who’s Got Problems?”
She looks directly at the camera and says in all seriousness, “There was a time when talented women like me were regarded as objects and playthings, but thanks to visionary people like Hiram Slater that was then and this is now. Women enjoy a new dignity and equality, and with important changes occurring every day in the workplace women are finding opportunities for personal growth and advancement not open to them only a few years ago. But much remains to be done, and that’s why I’m asking you to reelect Governor Hiram Slater. This is one man who cares about women.”
Cut to bold, Mount Rushmore-ish shot of Hiram Slater’s stern countenance and the slogan, “The New Dawn Lives On. Hiram Slater for Governor.”
Small letters across the bottom: “Paid for by the Committee to Reelect Governor Slater, Wilma Benthoff, Chairperson.”
Governor Hiram Slater backed away from the television set and clapped his hands in glee. “Beautiful! Absolutely beautiful!” Then he quipped, “And the ad wasn’t bad either!”
He was in his office, his desk cluttered with some serious work to be done, but . . . well, he knew the ad would be running in between some of the soap operas, and he just had to see it—not just on video, but on the air, for real, the same way the public would be seeing it. The experience was downright thrilling. Rowen and Hartly, his PR men, were doing an exquisite job.
“Mr. Governor?” came Miss Rhodes’s voice on the intercom. “Mr. Devin is here to see you.”
Slater was delighted. Now he’d have someone to share his delight with. “Great. Send him in.”
Devin came through the door looking tired and worn. His eyes were puffy and his expression somber.
“Well, Martin, things are rolling! The celebrity ads are starting to air, and they look sensational!” Then the governor noticed Devin’s countenance. “And you look like you could use some good news.”
Devin smiled weakly. “I could, sir.”
Slater went to his desk and produced a report. “Well, have you seen this? I just got an endorsement from the United Feminist Front. They’re backing me 100 percent, and that’s quite a statement!”
“Yes, sir. That’s marvelous.” Devin smiled again, but he did not dance for joy. “Mr. Governor, I’m afraid I may have to rain on your parade. You’ll recall the assignment you gave me the last time we talked. Well, I have a report for you.”
Slater sobered up, sat at his desk, and gestured toward a chair for Devin.
Devin sat and tried to recall the outline he’d written in his head all through the night. “First of all, I had dinner with Tina Lewis last night. She’s been able to confirm that John Barrett, the anchorman, and Leslie Albright, a reporter, are working on something having to do with your daughter Hillary. They’re digging it up again.”
The governor tried to remain calm, but he was visibly upset and his voice strained. “Did she say why? What are they after?”
Devin shook his head and threw up his hands. “She doesn’t know.”
“She doesn’t know? Are you serious?”
“They’re working on something, but they haven’t presented it to their bosses yet, and until and unless the story is pitched to the producers and editors, whoever’s in charge, there really isn’t anything Tina can do about it. It’s policy that—”
Slater held up his hand to stop Devin in midsentence.
“No, no, Martin, that’s where you’re wrong, or she’s wrong, or both of you are wrong. We are going to do something about it. You are definitely going to do something about it; you can consider that part of your job.”
Devin tried to maintain the appearance of strength and confidence, though he certainly felt neither strong nor confident. “Sir, unfortunately for us, it’s a free country, and . . . realistically, we can’t stop them from asking questions. They’re not doing anything illegal that anyone knows of, and they’re not violating any policy at Channel 6.”
The governor softened a little, although he didn’t like it. Devin was right. “Well . . . what else?”
“I have one small comfort: Tina says it doesn’t matter what they’re working on because whatever it is, it won’t get past her. She has enough influence to frustrate—hopefully even block—the story, and she’s agreed to do that.”
“She can block it?”
“Yes, sir.” Then Devin tried to rebuild his worth in Slater’s eyes by adding, “She does things for me. We have a certain . . . working relationship going, if you know what I mean.”
“Well . . .” Slater leaned back in his chair and considered that possibility. “Your little liaison may buy us some time, but it won’t save us. This does not look good, Martin.” He brought his weight forward again. “What about our old nemesis—Mr. Ed Lake? Is he the one who leaked to the press?”
This was a delicate subject for Devin, but he had to say something. “I have strong suspicions about him, but I haven’t found him yet. He’s left town indefinitely, and that says a lot right there.”
“Yes, it does. Well . . . if it is him, I’d sure like to know how he found out and what he told them.”
“I would too, sir. Right now I have no idea.” Almost no idea, would have been more truthful.
“Well, find out. Twist his arm a little.”
“Oh, I will. You can count on that. But there’s more. Tina said Barrett and Albright checked out the videotape the station had on Hillary’s death and funeral, and also your presentation of the scholarship to Shannon DuPliese.”
Slater saw it coming. “Oh no . . .”
Devin nodded. “I called Shannon last night after dinner with Tina, and . . .” He broke the news gently. “She told me she’d gotten a call from Leslie Albright at Channel 6.”
At that, the governor groaned, sank into his chair, and rested his brow on his fingertips.
Devin kept going, trying to keep himself and Slater afloat. “She said she didn’t tell Albright anything.”
The governor blurted, “And you actually trust her?”
Devin hadn’t rehearsed any answer to that question last night. “Uh . . . well, that’s difficult to answer . . . Haven’t we been trusting her all along?”
Slater pondered that, then nodded with realization. “Martin, that was our biggest mistake.”
“But what else could we do? She was . . . she was there, with Hillary. She saw the whole thing. Her voice is—wa
s—on that 911 recording . . .”
Slater continued, his voice rising. “These reporters have been talking to Dr. Matthews, they’ve been talking to Shannon, and who knows who else they’ve talked to or will be talking to . . . But, Martin, Shannon is the one person who can testify to anything of real consequence, and I do believe that sooner or later she is going to talk! The press is going to find out. We’d be fools to think otherwise.” He shook his head and muttered, “The old prophet was right about that.”
He got up and paced about the room, looking out the window, glaring at the floor, glaring at Devin. “So maybe it started with Lake, but does that really matter now? Not really. The press is going after it, and sooner or later they will find the leaks, and one leak will lead to another until finally the story will explode all over the media, and there will go the campaign. Bob Wilson will love this!”
Devin had come to that conclusion himself last night. “You’re absolutely right, sir. It will come out, one way or another. But I’ve been thinking about that.”
Slater sounded a little sarcastic when he said, “Oh, I’m very glad.”
Devin rose and approached the governor, lowering his voice. “Maybe you can’t keep it from coming out, but perhaps you can control how it comes out. We have some connections with the media, and we have Rowen and Hartly, our PR boys. Perhaps we could get the jump on this story and release it our way. If we go public first, Barrett and Albright lose their momentum. They won’t be able to strike the first blow, and their story will lose its novelty. We’ll steal it from them.”
Devin had struck the right chord. The governor calmed immediately. His brow furrowed as he processed the idea.
“It could work.”
“I have great confidence that it will work, sir.”
“Except for the timing. We don’t control that yet.”
“Sir?”
Governor Slater looked directly at Devin with cold and calculating eyes. “If we’re going to build momentum, or even shape the information the way we want it, we have to control when the information gets out. If the media get their hands on it first, before we have a chance to shape it . . .” The governor took a quick mental inventory and then concluded, “I think all the other potential leaks are slow enough. Matthews values his job and hasn’t revealed anything up to this point, and chances are he never will, not willingly or directly. The autopsy report can’t be seen without a court order, which the press isn’t about to get. What about the Adam Bryant School?”
Devin shook his head. “I talked to Erica Tyler, the principal. The school doesn’t want any trouble or any connection with any trouble. We’re safe there.”
“Good. Good.”
The governor had a thought, but then dismissed it. “Hm. There was that recording of Shannon’s 911 call, but that’s destroyed.”
“Yes, sir. Destroyed long ago.” It wasn’t hard for Devin to lie when necessary.
“And the master recording at the dispatch center is confidential. Ehh, I suppose we took a risk having that copy made.”
“A necessary risk, sir. We had to know who made that call.”
“Which brings us back to Shannon. She’s the only high-risk factor. The media have already contacted her, and we can’t count on her silence. Martin, have you done a lot of thinking about this?”
“All last night, sir.”
“So what’s your plan for dealing with Shannon?”
Oh-oh. “Uh . . . I haven’t thought of one yet, sir.”
The governor’s tone was that classic command tone that was not to be ignored, that allowed no hesitation. “Think of one.”
THE NEXT AFTERNOON Leslie was busy at her computer, trying to clarify that the hit-and-run driver who fled from police in a harrowing car chase crashed through the front window of the Parkland Credit Union after he hit the pedestrian standing outside, but that this pedestrian was not in the van the driver hit in the first place before the chase and the ensuing crash, that it was the lady with all the groceries who was first seen on the sidewalk after the initial crash and who identified the driver of the hit-and-run vehicle just before the chase ensued, and that the crash through the window was an accident in addition to the first one, and by now . . .
She was glad when the phone rang. She’d straighten out her notes later. “Hello, this is Leslie.”
“Hello. Leslie Albright?”
“Yes.”
“This is Dr. Mark Denning. You spoke to my wife a few days ago.”
Leslie scrambled, shoving her other notes aside and flipping to a fresh sheet in her notepad as she spoke amiably. “Oh yes, Dr. Denning, thank you so much for calling. I enjoyed my visit with Barbara.”
“Yes, she did too.”
“So how did things go in Sacramento?”
“Well, just great. I have a job, so we’ll be moving.”
“Terrific.”
“Anyway . . . now, I take it you know the Brewers?”
“Yes. Myself and John Barrett have been working with them trying to come to a conclusion about the death of their daughter.”
“Well, let me tell you what I can do . . .”
JOHN WAS BUSILY editing the script for the Five O’clock and having trouble with a story about a hit-and-run driver in a car chase with the cops after hitting a lady with some groceries . . . it wasn’t making a lot of sense just yet . . . when someone came alongside his desk. Leslie. She was looking rather pleasant, maybe even victorious, holding some notes in her hand.
She spoke softly. “John, I’m going to start praying more. I just got a call from Dr. Mark Denning.”
John leaned back in his chair and looked up at her, his eyes wide with expectation. “Do tell.”
“He just got back from Sacramento. He managed to get a job down there, so he was in a pretty good mood.” She looked at her notes. “He has a copy of Annie’s autopsy report in his own files, and he’s prepared to release it.”
“Praise God!” John exclaimed quietly. He noticed he was beginning to revert back to his Pentecostal roots during moments of joy, but he didn’t mind. “But . . . does it . . . ?”
Leslie smiled and nodded. “Oh yeah. It confirms the cause of death to be septic abortion.” She held up her finger. “But hold on, there are a few details to be worked out. The rules I got from his wife are the same: He’ll release it only to the Brewers, and he’d prefer some kind of legal document that would authorize him to do so. I asked him if he’d accept a Request for Medical Records like the one we used at the Women’s Medical Center, and he said that would be perfect.” She chuckled. “He says he doesn’t really need one, but if a question ever comes up he wants to cover his rear as best he can.”
“Well, let’s call Aaron Hart.”
“I did. He said I’m not his client . . . Deanne Brewer is. She’ll have to ask him to draft the letter.”
“So, will she?”
Leslie was happy to report, “Deanne’s ready. She was just waiting to hear what the next move would be.”
“What about Max?”
“Well . . . he’s simmered down a little. She says he hasn’t really abandoned us, that he still respects the memory of your father. He’s just trying to sort it out.”
“That autopsy report would make a nice peace offering, wouldn’t it?”
“I think it would. It’ll mean something finally went right for the Brewers after all this time. I think Max is afraid it won’t, and that’s why he won’t stick his neck out again. But he says if Deanne wants to get her hopes up, he won’t stop her.”
“So when will it happen?”
“Aaron Hart will have the Request Letter ready by tomorrow, and I’ve made the appointment for Deanne and I to go see Denning tomorrow night.”
John gave a low whistle. “I think this thing is going down, as they say. It’s happening fast.”
“Well, the faster the better . . . before something else goes wrong.”
“But you know what? Once we get that report, proof of how Annie
died . . . I think we’ll be that much closer to breaking through to Shannon.”
“And if we asked Deanne to call her . . .”
That thought flowed through John’s mind like warm, soothing oil. “Deanne?” He looked up at Leslie with a profound new respect. “Of course. They’ve had basically the same experience—they’re feeling the same pain.”
“Of all the people who could talk to Shannon, Deanne’s the one who could do the most good.”
John’s heart was stirring. “We could be getting close to linking the two deaths at the same clinic.”
“Maybe,” Leslie cautioned.
“We’ll see. But now . . . one more question.”
“What?”
John pointed at the computer screen. “The lady carrying the groceries—was she standing outside the Credit Union when the van came through, or was it the other pedestrian?”
“Oh, come on! You can’t make sense of that?”
“Hey, it has your name on it. Explain it to me.”
They got it straightened out.
CHAPTER 25
THE DRIVER OF the big city bus hit the brakes and lurched to a stop halfway into the crosswalk, almost spilling his passengers from their seats. Now they were griping at him, and the pedestrian he almost ran over was making an obscene gesture as he bounded onto the curb.
“Watch where you’re going!” the driver yelled through the windshield.
“Watch where you’re going, idiot!” yelled the pedestrian as the bus continued down the street. “Stupid jerk, trying to kill people out here . . . Stupid bus!”
On the side of the bus, a bold poster of John Barrett and Ali Downs reminded him that they were doing a full hour of news starting at 5.
Prophet Page 40
