Up in Smoke

by Charlene Weir

  “Wakely usually stays at Governor Garrett’s farm. Why this place?”

  Murray shrugged. “You’d have to ask the boss that, the governor.”

  “Take a guess.”

  “Oh hell, sometimes Wakely gets tired of it all, you know?” Murray turned again to look at Parkhurst, then back at Susan. “The whole campaign thing. TV cameras, reporters always asking questions. He doesn’t always want to be on display. I can understand.”

  “And the governor? Are there times when he doesn’t want Wakely on display?”

  Murray closed up, like he felt maybe he’d said too much. “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “Did they ever have a fight, an argument, Wakely and the governor?”

  “Not really. Wakely ranted and raved sometimes, the governor was always just patient.”

  “Never lost his temper?” When Murray turned his head to look at him, Parkhurst moved from the doorway over to a cabinet, so that Murray had to turn the other way. He was pissing on tires and getting Murray’s back stiff.

  “If that ever happened, he just walked out.”

  “Since you’ve been in Hampstead, has anything happened?” Susan said.

  “Like what?”

  “Did he have an argument with anybody, make anybody mad?”

  “Maybe. But it wouldn’t amount to anything. Sometimes he ran off at the mouth and irritated people, but—”

  “What people?”

  “Anybody. People on the street, people running the campaign, people at the market.”

  “People running the campaign?”

  “Sure. They’re the ones he sees the most.”

  “Who in particular did he irritate?”

  “All of them. Leon Massy, Todd, even Bernie sometimes and he’s pretty hard to get steamed. Nora couldn’t stand him. She kept working on Molly to get rid of him.” Murray looked at her, startled. “I didn’t mean—”

  She waved that aside. “What else can you tell me?”

  “Well, I drove him here two or three times last month.”

  “To this house?”

  “No, to Hampstead.”

  “Why?”

  Murray gave her a slant-eyed look, trying to decide how much he should tell her. “He came to see a guy name Egelhoff, Vince Egelhoff.”

  Susan’s sluggish mind perked up. Vince Egelhoff, husband of Gayle Egelhoff who ended up dead in a car trunk. “Why?”

  “I have no idea. This Vince guy died in a car accident or something and Wakely was kind of shook up.”

  Skiing accident, Susan thought. Vince Egelhoff had gone to visit a cousin in Colorado and died in a skiing accident.

  “Really upset him. He’s been moody and negative and—yeah, I’d say depressed, damn depressed. He started talking about how he’s nothing but a burden, and the governor does everything for him, and everybody’d be better off if he was dead.”

  That sounded suicidal to her.

  “Do all these questions mean there’s something fishy about Wakely’s death?”

  Smart guy. “We’re trying to determine what happened.”

  “He’s been drinking a lot lately.”

  “You were worried about him?”

  “Well—yeah. It was getting so he was almost always drunk now.”

  “When did that start?”

  Murray vigorously rubbed the flat of his hand across the top of his head. “Right after he started seeing that Egelhoff guy.”

  What was it about seeing Vince Egelhoff that had Wakely drinking more than usual?

  “You left him alone tonight.” Parkhurst made it sound like an accusation and almost had Murray out of the chair and coming for him. Susan could see the intake of breath and the clenched fists.

  “He wasn’t mentally incompetent, you know, or senile or anything. He was okay by himself. For a while anyway. Sometimes he wanted to be alone and he’d tell me to get lost.”

  “Since he knew Vince Egelhoff, he also knew Gayle Egelhoff,” Susan said.

  “Yeah. He went to see her once.”

  “When?”

  Murray thought a moment. “Friday.”

  “Last Friday?” The day Gayle was killed. “What did they talk about?”

  “I never listened to their conversations but since her husband was Wakely’s friend, it was probably about him.”

  Three friends, smoke jumpers, fought a forest fire twenty years ago. Now two of them were dead. “Did Wakely own a gun?”

  “I never saw one.”

  Susan raised an eyebrow. “It’s possible he had one that you never saw?”

  “Sure it’s possible. I’m not a jailer. I take care of him, not pry into everything.”

  “Do you own a gun?”

  “No.”

  “Who hired you?” Susan asked.

  “The governor.”

  “He came himself and talked with you?”

  “Not exactly. Todd Haviland. You know, the campaign manager. Look, I really have to call and let them know what happened.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Susan said.

  24

  Moonbeam slid off the bed to the floor and slithered across to the window. Moving the curtain aside a fraction of an inch, she peered out. Everything was black. By twisting her neck she could see the roof of Mrs. Hadwent’s garage and by looking down she could see the path that led along the side of the house. Couldn’t see shit beyond that. What did she expect? Bogeymen looking in the window. That thought scared her so much she almost ran screaming from the room. She couldn’t tell what was going on in the front of the house.

  Her heart was hammering so hard she wouldn’t hear a rock band on the porch if there was one. She had to go into the living room where she could see out the front. Oh God.

  Wildly, she looked around for some kind of weapon. Her old teddy bear? That’ll do it. The guy will fall over laughing. She had an inclination to pick up the bear and hug it close. Oh God, she was really losing it. Sherry would be glad to hear about this. Maybe what she needed was a shrink.

  With all the looking around and talking to herself, she hadn’t noticed that the noises had stopped. She nearly dropped with relief. Oh God, it had all been her imagination. Okay, should she climb back in bed and pull the covers over her head, or should she go out and make sure there were no murdering psychos in the house?

  She was shaking so hard her teeth were chattering. She clamped them together. She wasn’t scared. She could take care of herself. Oh boy, what she would give for a gun. Hold that fucker in her hand and nobody would mess with her. Bring on all your psycho killers, see what I do to them. Yeah, man, holding cold steel in her hand—

  Gun. Vince had a gun. Oh, Moonbeam, you stupid shit. Why didn’t you think of that before. Where the hell was it? She looked around as though it might suddenly pop up, like on the dresser or something.

  She only saw it that one time, going through the boxes in the attic looking for an old picture of her mom. Some of her parents’ things were still up there because Gayle found it hard to throw stuff away and she couldn’t bring herself to just toss out everything that had belonged to Mom and Dad.

  All of Vince’s stuff was still in the closet in their bedroom. Probably years before Gayle could have started getting rid of it. The gun had been in one of the boxes in the attic. Moonbeam had no idea where it came from. It must have been Dad’s, unless it was Vince’s. She could just see Gayle having a fit about it and Vince calming her down and saying he’d take care of it.

  Was it still there? Would it be loaded? She hoped so, because she didn’t see how she’d get any bullets, her being a fugitive and all.

  A loud thump came from the kitchen.

  Air got trapped in her lungs. Her heart rammed itself in her throat.

  Oh shit! Somebody in the house!

  So scared she could barely breathe, she eased across her bedroom to the door, stuck her head out, looked up and down the hallway. Empty. Flicker of light coming from the kitchen!

  Somebody with a fl
ashlight!

  Looking for something?

  She wondered if he had a gun. Could she race to the garage, find the ladder, run back to the hallway, climb up to the attic, rummage through boxes, find the gun, run back down and dash in to point it at him before he could kill her?

  Keeping her eyes on that flickering light, she backed into the living room. Black as night! Ha, joke. She wished now she hadn’t gone around and closed every curtain up so tight not even an ant could get in.

  What was he looking for?

  If this was just an ordinary, everyday burglar who broke in to steal something that would be just too much. Did God have a sense of humor? Maybe he was punishing her for all those bad things she did and for all the bad words she said and—

  Well, if that was true then—

  Flickering light coming her way! She started to run and banged into something that shouldn’t be there. She careened into the coffee table and sent the glass bowl tumbling. Crash!

  She whirled and ran.

  In her bedroom, she slipped into the closet, clambered up to the top shelf. She nudged a stack of sweatshirts, jeans, and boxes out of the way so she could hide behind them. She wanted to hold her breath so she could hear better, but her lungs forced air in and out with raspy pants. Her heart was so loud, probably the whole world could hear.

  She could hear him searching for her. Muttered curses, throwing things out of his way. She heard a muffled thud. Living room. She listened, straining to hear. Slam of closet door in Gayle’s bedroom.

  Coming down the hallway! Oh God, oh God. She buried her face in the crook of her elbow to stifle any cries that might escape. He was coming!

  He was in her bedroom. What was he doing?

  Touching her things? Ugh! Gross! She’d throw out everything she owned. Even her brand new, just bought fake diamond toe ring. She’d—

  He was moving toward the closet!

  Oh God, please let him just leave. Please let him not find me. Please God.

  There was sudden silence. Where was he? She listened.

  Then she sensed him at the closet door.

  Don’t move. Don’t say anything. Keep quiet.

  The door opened with a jerk.

  The flashlight beam slid across the hanging clothes, swept across the jumble on the floor and rose. It moved slowly along the shelf.

  A grunt. Then he started pulling things from the shelf.

  The flashlight shined right in her eyes. Blinded, she froze.

  Abruptly, she started yelling and pushing stuff off on him. Clothes, shoes, boots, books, old junk she’d forgotten she had, rained down on him. She rolled off the shelf, fell into him on the way down, and he swiped at her. She screamed as the knife cut across her upper arm.

  He grabbed at her and caught her T-shirt. Yelling, she kicked and fought and felt the shirt tear as she pulled away. She ran. He pounded after her.

  Front door. Never make it. Swerving, she dodged into the bathroom and whirled to slam the door just as he raised his arm and slashed down, slicing her throat. Falling back, her face hit the sink. Her hand clutched her neck, got all warm and sticky. Dizzy, she fell forward against the door, pinning his arm.

  Intake hiss of pain and a muffled curse. Fumbling behind her on the counter, her grasping hands found soap dish, towel, toothbrush, comb, and—. She clutched the hair spray and, aiming it at his eye peering in, depressed the button.

  He yelled, yanked his arm free and the door slammed shut. She fumbled for the lock and turned it. All that hair spray in the small space choked her. She couldn’t breathe. He kicked the door and threw himself against it. How long would it hold?

  She felt weak, her legs were getting rubbery. Blood covered her shirt and was seeping down into her jeans. She groped for the towel, wrapped it around her neck, and pressed it tight against her throat. Everything seemed wobbly and distant. She couldn’t stand up any more, she really really couldn’t.

  Slowly, she sank to the floor and sat with her back against the door. The kicking and pounding stopped. She thought she might sleep a while. Her head tilted back to rest against the door.

  Loud bang. Splintering sound.

  Ax. Cutting into the door. He must have found it in the garage. He swung the ax again. She ought to get away from the door. She really really ought to. Another swung and the ax might split her back. Okay, she was going to get up now.

  Though her muscles tensed, she could not get her feet under her and pull herself upright. She was sleepy. And cold. Towel around her throat was getting squishy with blood.

  If she got up, she could turn on the light. Right. She tried to focus on that thought, but it seemed too much effort. Who needed light? She’d just stay here in the dark and take a little nap.

  25

  Bernie didn’t like it. After taking Cass home, he went back out to the farm, feeling uneasy, dull, lightheaded, and jazzy all at the same time. This was totally nuts. Casilda Storm was a nice lady and he liked her, liked her a lot, if you came down to it. She was obviously struggling with monsters, hadn’t got over the death of her husband and child. How could he be part of herding her into election insanity? She wasn’t one of them. Far as he could tell, she wasn’t even political. How could she carry it off? Nora’s right, he thought, mistake. The crows would get suspicious. And that was a bad idea. They had means of retaliating. The pencils chose what they put in print, the cookies chose what they used in their standup television spots. All of them could slant a piece any number of ways.

  Just as he came in the door, Molly Garrett came into the living room area from the hallway where the bedrooms were. She was the same age as the governor, forty-six, but looked ten years younger. Petite, five three and slender, short brownish hair with reddish tints where the light caught it, due to some hair person who created that sort of thing, even features a little sharp to be pretty, faint laugh lines around her eyes, blue or green depending on—. Bernie didn’t know depending on what. Her mood, maybe. She was attractive without being flashy, elegant without appearing snooty, warm enough to seem within touch and more than what she presented to the world. Quiet-spoken, she kept in the background and fit the slot of politician’s wife perfectly, but Bernie had overheard snatches of the fights coming from behind closed doors and knew she had a sharp wit that could be cruel.

  He was uneasy about her, too. Sometimes, he got a glimpse of a Molly that was more dedicated to winning than even Jack.

  “Tea, Bernie?”

  “No thanks, Mrs. Garrett. It’s late, I should be going to bed.”

  He wasn’t sure how she did it, but gently, by pushing and nudging, she got him in the kitchen. He squinted as she flipped on the overhead light. Knotty pine cabinets and table, oak floor. Wallpaper with gold and white stripes, countertops with white tile and every fourth one or so was gold. It made him want to squint. Molly took two mugs from the cabinet, white with a gold rim.

  “Losing faith, Bernie?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Thinking you can’t take care of him?”

  “Who?”

  “Jack. Aren’t you the one who has to see that all’s well with Jack?”

  Is that what he had to do? It was as good a job description as any, he supposed.

  “We’re going to win, you know,” she said.

  He thought about asking how she knew, what made her so positive, what lengths would she go to make sure? But he was tired, and he figured she probably didn’t know the answers anyway, so he just nodded.

  She was opening cabinets looking for tea bags and finally found a box of decaf Earl Grey next to a jar of instant coffee.

  “You take milk?” She opened the refrigerator packed with cans of Cokes, Diet Cokes, ginger ale, and pop-top fruit juices and snagged a carton of milk.

  “Uh—no.”

  “Why are you working for us, instead of Senator Roswell?”

  Bernie accepted the mug of tea she offered. “Been there, done that.”

  “Why didn’t you stay with him?�
�

  Why hadn’t he? Vague and convoluted reasons he wasn’t sure even he understood entirely. “It wasn’t the senator. And I learned a lot there, but after a while it was always the same, over and over again. It got old. I got tired of rounding them up.”

  “Afraid of losing?”

  “No. We always won. But it wasn’t winning, you know? And then it would come. The deals. The hundred little things we’d have to give away to get this one with us and that one with us. And in the Senate, we’d get gutted. We’d have to settle for a version that nobody wanted, but we’d all have to take it because it was the closest either side could get to what was really important.”

  “That’s the democratic way.” She was leaning against a cabinet, mug raised in one hand, other hand supporting her elbow.

  “Roswell knows how to cast a spell to catch the voters,” Bernie said. “All the good ones can do it. But it got to seem—too much like a game, you know? Their side would bring in something, we’d take it to our side and negotiate the hell out of it, stick in the candy that would look good to our voters and pass the damn thing. Wow. We got ourselves a victory, right? None of it mattered, because, just as we knew he would, the president vetoed it. But we could still claim a victory, a victory for the right side because we had forced a veto.”

  “Why do you stay with it?”

  Bernie shrugged, a little self-consciously. “I get caught up in the process and I wonder what would happen if someone who really cared about—oh hell, you know, the world and the people. Maybe I’m just jealous Kennedy didn’t come along in my time. He talked about sacrifice and what you can do for your country. He was fighting a real fight. It mattered. Everything now is just keeping on keeping on. Treading water, sheltering in place, going with the flow. It’s stale and it’s beginning to putrefy. It doesn’t have any feel to it. There’s no sense that any of it is real, or that it’s making history.”

  “But you’re still here.”

  “I want to be part of something important, something real—” He took a gulp of tea, embarrassed at his confessional rambling.

  “Stick with us,” she said. “Jack’s going to win.” She put her mug on the counter. “You need to convince Jack that he doesn’t need this Cass woman. She’s a liability.” Molly patted Bernie’s cheek and left.