Up in Smoke

by Charlene Weir

  Lingering tentacles of the dream clung in his mind. Beneath the echoes of men screaming for help, he could hear the television in the other room. Farm, he told himself. Hampstead.

  Picking up Molly’s hand, he kissed the palm. “Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.” He tossed back the blankets and got up.

  “Jack—?” She struggled out from under sheets, blankets, and comforter.

  “Don’t get up.” He pulled on sweatpants and sweatshirt and went to the hallway.

  Molly ignored his order—nobody told her what to do—slipped on the green silk dressing gown and went out after him, along the hallway toward the living room.

  Todd, looking rumpled and tired, slouched on the couch, watching television with press secretary Hadley Cane. Leon was on the floor, propped against the wall, legs straight in front of him.

  These people, especially Todd, never seemed to sleep. They were always studying the opposition research, watching the polls, keeping up on the latest developments. Molly ignored them and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. The kettle was just starting to shriek when Nora came in, wrapped in a green dressing gown very similar to Molly’s. Molly felt a flick of irritation. Nora could sometimes be tedious.

  “Tea?” she asked.

  Nora nodded and got down another cup. “Why are you up? Jack having nightmares again?”

  Molly put a tea bag in her cup, one in Nora’s, and poured boiling water in each cup.

  “These nightmares.” Nora dunked the tea bag up and down. “You know what they’re about?”

  Molly shook her head.

  “Did you ever ask him?”

  Molly transferred a dripping tea bag into a bowl. “He won’t talk about them.”

  “Maybe he needs to see a therapist,” Nora said.

  Molly sighed. “If that’s a joke, it’s not funny; if it’s serious, it’s political suicide.”

  “Did you tell him about—you know.” Nora added her tea bag to the bowl. “Going to see that woman?”

  “Of course not,” Molly said. “And you’re not to tell him either. He’s got an awful lot on his mind now, he doesn’t need anything else. I just wish he would get rid of that Cass woman.”

  “You think the nightmares might have something to do with her?”

  “Honest to God, Nora, I don’t know. He won’t hear of telling her she’s not needed.”

  The two of them stood in the kitchen talking in low voices like conspirators.

  “Maybe she is needed.” Nora opened cabinet doors, found a package of cookies, and set them on the counter.

  Molly shot Nora a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. I just wonder if there’s something going on there. They were real close at one time.” Nora opened the cookies and offered Molly one.

  Molly shook her head. “Yeah, well, that was a long time ago.”

  “Is that what he’s telling you?”

  “Nora, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying she’s going to be trouble. We have to get rid of her.”

  * * *

  “Anything noteworthy going on?” Jack sat on the end of the couch.

  “CNN just backed down on their prediction of your victory in the D.C. primary. They think all this tragedy is going to hurt you.”

  “Duh,” Hadley said.

  A perky newswoman with short dark hair was telling two newsmen, “… it’s been quite incredible. When Jack Garrett first started campaigning for the Democratic nomination, the heavy betting was that he couldn’t win over the current vice president. The smart bettors then started scrambling to rearrange their stakes. Governor Garrett had the voters thinking the vice president was right up there with the president in responsibility for the loss of public confidence in the stock market and the huge drop in the Dow in recent weeks, the discovery of allegedly illegal campaign contributions, the billions being poured into the war on drugs with, not only no success, but obvious failure, and continued spending to fight a war on terrorism that also is beginning to seem impossible to win.”

  “What can we expect in the next ten weeks?” a newsman asked.

  “Now with two deaths, one definitely murder and the other a possible suicide, the voters have definitely changed their minds and Garrett is losing—”

  * * *

  There was a tap on the door and a trooper let Bernie in. Bernie tossed Todd a jacket.

  “Hey, my jacket,” Todd said. “You finally gave it back. And about time, too.”

  Leon scooted his butt a bit closer to the wall so Bernie could get past his outstretched legs.

  “Doesn’t anybody around here ever sleep?” Jack said.

  Bernie thought Jack looked moody, like he sometimes got. Jack had a tough competitiveness that kept him moving, from town to town, giving the same speech half a dozen times and making it sound just composed as he stood there, dropping into bed and getting up in the morning, going to another town and doing the same thing day after day. A mind-numbing existence. Fighting fatigue and any doubt that he wouldn’t be the Democratic choice, seeing dozens of local politicians, shaking thousands of hands, until his own was swollen and painful. But sometimes it was more than that, sometimes he just drifted off somewhere and when he was in that state, he wasn’t reaching people like he could when he was hot. Bernie didn’t like it that Jack looked distracted.

  “You worry too much, Bernie.” Jack stood up, put an arm around Bernie’s shoulder, and nudged him to the couch. “Don’t look at me like you’re afraid I’m coming down with a virus. It’s the end of the day. You look like shit, too.”

  * * *

  Yeah, Jack thought, he probably did look like shit. Remembering Pale Horse Mountain did that to him. Jack leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Months ago, not years, like it sometimes seemed, just before he started seriously trying for a shot at the nomination, he’d spoken with the president and thought the president looked like shit. The job aged a man like nothing else. Jack wondered why someone hadn’t run pictures, side by side, the day a new president walked into the office and the day he walked out. With this war on terrorism taking its toll, the president had aged several years in as many months.

  “So,” the president had said. “You think you’re the man for this job? Well, my friend, you might think you’ve struggled with a monumental decision by deciding to run, but that’s nothing. A presidential campaign is moving into a fishbowl. You don’t eat, sleep, or take a crap without it being noted and discussed on the six o’clock news. Strangers run your life, and you begin to suspect even your best friends of hanging around only because of what you might be able to give them. You start to worry maybe you’re not suited or not smart enough. And it’s true.” The president looked at him like he found Jack wanting.

  Jack felt a warm lick of anger.

  “Hey, it’s not you,” the president said. “It’s everybody who thinks he should take a shot at this job. You’ve got humiliation waiting while you go begging assholes for the financial means to keep going, assholes who think you should be happy groveling for their filthy money.”

  Beside him on the couch, Bernie shifted and Jack opened his eyes. A picture of Bob Sallas was being shown on television. “Does this man look like a president?” Jack asked Todd.

  “He thinks he does. And he fucking wants it.”

  “Naw,” Leon said in his soft drawl. “He’ll never get it. Shifty eyes. Look at ’em. Nobody’s gonna vote for a man with shifty eyes.”

  A clip came on of local news, a shot of Chief Wren hounded by the media surging toward her in a wave whenever she left the police department, microphones shoved in her face, questions thrown at her.

  She was the picture of a female black Irish warrior, black hair and eyes as blue as the lake of Kilarney. Jack wondered whether she’d figure out the answer to the murders.

  36

  “We’re here in the hospital room of Arlene Harlow,” the blond female newscaster spoke into the mike with solemn quiet to
emphasize the seriousness of the situation and the place, “the young sister-in-law of Governor Garrett’s friend Vince Egelhoff who…” The cameraman moved in closer to get a shot of the governor bending over to speak with the girl in the hospital bed.

  The lights were too bright and too hot, the room was too crowded with a bunch of media people. Sean Donovan, Her Ladyship’s hot-shit cousin, was one, politicals Todd Haviland, Bernie Quaid, Hadley Cane, and Leon Massy from Governor’s staff, the governor, the governor’s wife, her friend Nora, and highway-patrol cops.

  “… and Arlene can’t speak to us right now because her jaw was fractured by…”

  Demarco stayed clear of the circus and kept his eye on the kid who was starting to go gray around the edges. Tired, face slack, lips blue. Because of all the blood she’d lost when she was attacked, she fatigued easily. He could see her hands clench at the Arlene bit. Moonbeam was what she wanted. She was going to be a singer and call herself Moonbeam Melody.

  Molly Garrett stepped close, spoke to the kid, smiled and patted her hand, then stepped back and stood by her husband’s side. The politicals, Todd and Bernie, gave the kid a word or two, Leon and Hadley moved up and did the same, then the three of them faded back so the camera could have an unobstructed view of the governor. The blond was still talking into her mike when suddenly the kid’s hands curled tight around the sheets and her eyes went wild.

  The governor put a hand over one of hers. “Something wrong?”

  Demarco pushed through to her. “What?”

  She was scared stiff, frozen and small in the damn hospital bed, camera and lights focused on her face.

  “Are you in pain?” the blond asked.

  Demarco turned and shifted so the camera got his back instead of her face. “She’d like to ask you all to leave, but she’s not able to talk.”

  “I don’t blame you,” the governor said. “We’ll get out of here and let you rest. Concentrate on getting well.” He leaned over, spoke something in her ear, patted her shoulder, put his arm around his wife and went out. Todd, Bernie, Leon, Hadley, Nora, and cops trailed after him.

  “Okay,” Demarco said. “They’re gone. What is it?”

  She typed furiously. He was here!

  “The governor? Don’t let it go to your head. He only did it to get on TV. Good for votes. Visit a sick kid.”

  Psycho killer!!!

  He looked at her, trying to judge true or false. He didn’t think she was lying, she was too scared. “You sure?”

  She nodded.

  “When?”

  She pounded the bed with her fist. Just now!!

  “Who was it?”

  If a furious scared fourteen-year-old could be said to look sheepish, then this one did.

  “Well?”

  She slid down in the bed. Don’t know.

  “You don’t know. But you’re sure he was here.”

  Yes!!!!

  “How do you know he was here?”

  She scrunched in on herself, making herself smaller and typed. I don’t know! Okay?

  If she was playing games, it wasn’t funny. “You know he was here, but you don’t know why you know and you don’t know who he was.”

  She glared at him.

  “Were you asleep when this whole circus started?”

  She lifted her pointed little chin a slight bit and winced at the pain. Had she been dreaming? If that were the case, why wasn’t she frightened right away? Why wait until the whole circus had been there for several minutes? Something had scared her silly. The wild eyes and gray skin weren’t faked. What was the trigger?

  “What scared you?” Demarco asked.

  Already said. Don’t know.

  “When did you start feeling scared? I know it wasn’t right away. The whole side show was in here for several minutes, before you felt frightened.”

  Tears brimmed in her eyes and she, angrily, rubbed at them with her fingertips. Don’t know!!!!!

  “Okay, take a breath, close your eyes. Relax. Think about when they first came in.”

  Dumb blond called me Arlene.

  “Right. You can hit her when you’re stronger. The governor said something to you. What was it?”

  Don’t remember.

  “Come on, now, tell me what he said.”

  She made a fist and pounded the bed. Wasn’t listening. Thinking about psycho killer. He was in room!

  “I believe you.” Demarco didn’t know whether he believed her or not, but he could see she believed it. “What was it that made you think so?”

  Her chest was heaving as though she were having trouble breathing, she still looked gray, and was struggling to keep humiliating tears from spilling over.

  “Okay. We’ll talk about it more later.” He tapped her wrist with two fingers. “Get some sleep. I’ll hang for a while. The guard will be at the door at all times. Nobody will be able to get in.”

  It took a good while before she settled down, but fatigue finally took over and she drifted off. He waited until he was sure she wouldn’t rouse again before he went out, worry heavy on his shoulders.

  The guard, one shoulder propped against the wall, was flirting with a nurse. When Demarco looked at him, he hustled back. “She okay?”

  “Sleeping. Was anybody here before the governor came?”

  “Not a soul.”

  “You were here the whole time? Nobody else went in the room?”

  “Yes, sir. No, sir.”

  “You’re sure. You were here the whole time?”

  The guard got huffy. “Yes, sir. All the time.”

  Demarco nodded. “If she wakes up, call me.”

  * * *

  The day was warm and Demarco shrugged off his suit coat and loosened his tie as he went to his car. Uneasiness hung over his mind like wet fog.

  Sucking in a breath, he hit the ignition. Too close to this one. From the time she came home dressed in that ridiculous outfit and looking like a teenage hooker, he was snagged. He didn’t know why she got to him so much. Gutsy little kid, managing to keep a sense of humor, even with all the shit thrown at her.

  He ought to step down, stay away from this case, let Osey and Parkhurst handle it.

  * * *

  Cass saw the tape of Jack in the hospital visiting the little girl on the ten o’clock news. When it was over, the blond newscaster was shown standing in front of the hospital. “The family dog is missing. We’re told it’s a Belgian Shepherd, similar to a German Shepherd and its name is Rosie. And the police say it may have been injured.”

  Cass looked at the dog sleeping on the rug by the hearth. “Rosie?”

  The dog scrambled to its feet, ears alert.

  Cass called the police department and reported she’d picked up a stray dog that may have belonged to the Egelhoff family.

  Twenty minutes later, the dog barked and sped to the door. Cass opened it, expecting a uniformed officer, but the chief of police stood on her porch.

  “Ms. Storm? Chief Wren.”

  Cass had seen her on the news often enough lately to recognize her and asked her to come in.

  The chief bent down to pet the dog. “It’s been injured,” she said examining the wound on its head.

  Cass nodded. “The vet said it was probably hit with something.” She invited the chief into the living room.

  “How do you come to have the dog?” Chief Wren sat in the wing chair by the fireplace.

  Cass, sitting on one end of the couch, explained about driving to Hampstead during the thunderstorm and finding the dog. “How is the little girl doing?”

  “Doing very well. She has some recovery time coming, but she should be fine.”

  The police chief asked questions about Gayle Egelhoff, about Vince Egelhoff, then about Wakely, and Cass’s connection with each one. It didn’t occur to Cass that the police chief, with all her politeness, was viewing her as a murder suspect until the chief started probing into her relationship with Jack Garrett. How stupid can you get? Of course, she’d be a
suspect.

  Arrested for murder? How’s that for crisis intervention? It would certainly throw a snag into her plans for Halloween.

  The chief thanked her, got up to leave, and said, “Can you keep this dog for a short while until I can make other arrangements?”

  “Uh—okay,” Cass said.

  37

  Bernie wondered what Jack said when he whispered in the girl’s ear just before they left the hospital. Jack and Molly, Todd and Leon climbed in the limo. Bernie got in the town car with Cass, Hadley and, alas, Nora. Thank God it was a short ride. Busload of crows trundled along in the rear.

  The living room in the old farm house had been made into a mock-up of a television studio to give Jack prep time and practice for the upcoming talk show. Everybody took their places.

  Todd, Carter Mercado the pollster, and Leon threw out questions. Bernie did the moderating. Nora, sitting with Molly on a couch pushed back against the wall, was her usual disruptive self, irritating everybody with idiotic suggestions and sighing theatrically at some of Jack’s responses. It didn’t take long before Todd was ready to strangle her. Cass, who only came because Bernie went after her and herded her in the car before she could escape, was in a chair angled in the corner, looking remote and far away. He slid a glance her way, worried about her. The Wanderer, Leon called her. Bernie thought she was wandering now. Hadley was in the dining room keeping tabs on the polls.

  “Always remember the basic rule,” Todd said. “Never talk about complicated issues. Stay completely away from them.” Todd slid his glasses down his nose and peered over the rims at Jack to make sure he understood. “Completely.”

  “Right. Never talk about anything important.”

  Todd ignored the sarcasm. “Never. Because your opponents can grab a piece and run with it, distort every last word you say. If they’re clever, which these are not.” He waved a hand at nonpresent opponents. “But some of their handlers are.”

  He tossed out questions, Leon tossed out questions and Carter tossed out questions. Jack fumbled and stuttered.

  They were all wanting a sound bite that would be picked up by the crows and spread across the news community to blunt the media blitz of fallout from the deaths of three people close to Jack. They weren’t getting it. This rehearsal wasn’t working and everybody knew it. They were getting boring sincerity. If this were the real thing, Senator Halderbreck would have won hands down. Even with the guy hired to critique and coach and Jack reading prescripted lines, it was obvious he was working with half a mind.