(2012) Political Suicide

by Michael Palmer

  “What does that tell you?” Papa Steve asked.

  “That he’s a liar, but I already knew that. What now?”

  “What now is that you get me the ballistics report and we take it from there.”

  CHAPTER 30

  After two sets of woefully misleading directions from two locals, Sarah eased her rental car to a stop in front of the office of the Belmore Current, the newspaper Edith Harmon had taken over four years ago after fleeing North Carolina.

  EASTERN MAINE AT YOUR FINGERTIPS, the sign over the front door proclaimed.

  Sarah pulled on the door handle before realizing that the interior lights were shut off and the place was locked. Damn. She felt momentarily deflated. Then she noticed a small handwritten note secured to the door by a suction cup.

  Gone to Laundromat. Be back soon.

  In her experience, nearly every town, no matter what size, had at least one Laundromat. Belmore had the Caribou, located across the street from the office of the Current.

  I might not be an investigative reporter, she thought, but I have a pretty good idea where I’m going to find Cassie Wilkins, née Edith Harmon. Before heading there, she surveyed Edith’s office through the glass front door. She had seen the inner workings of a newspaper before, but never one so small. Edith, it appeared, had a talent for economical use of space. Shelving units lining the walls were stacked with legal-sized boxes, all of them clearly labeled.

  The printer sat atop a three-drawer filing cabinet, and a foldout table in the center of the room provided a work area for two of the smallest laptop computers Sarah had ever seen. The Current was at most a two-person operation, which truly surprised her. She had picked up a copy of the newspaper on her drive into town and been impressed by the depth and breadth of coverage. Edith Harmon, it would seem, was as good at writing and running a newspaper as she was at disappearing.

  This is it, Edith, Sarah thought as she traded the chilly morning air for the humid heat of the Laundromat. I’ve found you. Now, let’s see what you have for me.

  The powerful odor of detergent hit her head-on, and reminded her of the piles of unwashed clothes she left back at her condo—a common occurrence anytime a major trial took over her life. There were two rows of stainless-steel washing machines, and double-stacked dryers of the same brand lined the walls. Sarah had not used a coin-op since her days at Princeton, back when there were gladiatorial battles for every available machine.

  Looking around, she saw four people in the Laundromat, two of them under the age of five. The mother of the rambunctious boys playing peekaboo through the round glass door of a front loader was a heavyset woman decorated by a mural of tattoos on her thick, sleeveless arms. The other woman was folding clothes fresh from the dryer at the far end of the room. From behind, she was petite, with shoulder-length curly dark hair. She was dressed in jeans, worn Western boots, and a wool-blend bomber jacket that fit snugly to her slender body.

  You’ve got to be Edith. I just hope you don’t bolt when you learn why I’m here.

  Finding this woman had proved to be no simple feat. As resourceful and connected as Grayson Devlin was, Sarah had given him precious little to go on—a no-longer-extant blog from years ago, and something about two Mantis soldiers killed during an apparent robbery attempt at the Reddy Creek Armory in Raleigh, North Carolina. She had found no news stories about any armory robbery, Reddy Creek or otherwise, and no other blogs that mentioned anything about the place.

  As it turned out, what little Sarah had to go on was more than enough information for her boss. Sarah did some advance legwork before approaching him with her request for help. The mystery blogger, she concluded, had to have been an investigative reporter. There were three newspapers in the Raleigh area that would employ a reporter interested in a robbery at Reddy Creek—News & Observer, Raleigh Downtowner, and the Metro. Not surprisingly, Devlin had contacts at each. After less than two days, he called Sarah into his office.

  Pay dirt.

  “Her name is Edith Harmon,” Devlin said. “She used to work for the News and Observer.”

  Sarah’s eyes brightened. “That’s great news,” she said. “Where is she at now?”

  “She’s dropped the Edith Harmon name and goes by Cassie Wilkins,” Devlin said, glancing down at his notes. “She runs a small newspaper in Belmore, Maine.”

  “Why did she change her name and leave the paper in Raleigh?”

  “Don’t know. It wasn’t easy getting the information I got from her editor.”

  Sarah shrank at the revelation. For Devlin to admit something did not come easily was significant. Years ago, he told her, Devlin and Rodgers had won a major libel suit that could have bankrupted the North Carolina newspaper. Edith’s new identity and whereabouts were a closely guarded secret, and Devlin had given his promise that her confidentiality would be protected by Sarah.

  “Meaning I’m expecting you to come back from Maine with something that’s going to help us win the Gary McHugh case,” he said.

  Winning the McHugh case would more than make up in media coverage for whatever price Devlin had had to pay or whatever marker he’d had to call in to get information on Edith Harmon. Losing the case, however, would have just as powerful an effect in reverse. Devlin had never threatened Sarah’s future as a partner in the firm, but she had heard stories of others in the past who had been ignored to the point where they had wilted professionally and eventually resigned, and she knew that possibility was constantly looming.

  “I’ll do my best,” she said.

  It took every ounce of willpower to keep from telling Devlin what she really thought about the McHugh case—how his acquittal might be the tip of an iceberg that extended to the highest levels of government and a massive conspiracy that Edith Harmon might very well hold the key to unlocking. Until Sarah and Lou learned more, they agreed it would be best to keep the reveals to a minimum, even if that meant the potentially risky move of keeping Devlin in the dark.

  Sarah’s excitement at the prospect of finding Edith Harmon was tempered by one painful, nagging question.

  Can I go back to coastal Maine? Can I really do it?

  The question was an anvil over her head. As soon as her plane touched down at Bangor’s airport, the heavy reality of the trip set in. Sarah knew returning to Maine would be emotional, but she was caught off guard by the intensity of her reaction. Twice, on her drive to Belmore, she found herself hyperventilating, and had to pull off to the side of the road and park until there were no more tears to cry.

  Unexpectedly, Sarah’s resolve to persevere came in part from Lou. Back in her office, she had referred to them as “we,” and if her tenacity in the courtroom demonstrated anything about her, it was her unwillingness to disappoint a teammate. Lou was genuine and down to earth—a great mix of toughness and spirit. She felt determined not to let him down, even if it meant painfully reliving the magic days with David.

  As she drove past the sign welcoming her to Belmore, thoughts of her last time in the state filled her mind. It was summertime then, and she and David were on one of their no-particular-place-to-go drives—David’s name for their annual road trip.

  Each July, they would pick a new state to visit, rent a car and sometimes bikes, and spend a week or two just driving around, meeting the locals, searching for the equivalent of Earth’s Largest Ball of Twine, all while savoring every second of their stress-free time alone. These were designated nonworking vacations. Cell phones and laptops were verboten. The same went for any GPS. Map use required a unanimous vote.

  Sarah had loved her road trips with David, but the drive through Maine proved especially poignant because it was the last one they ever took. Six months after the trip ended, David turned his head quickly to say good morning to her, and paralyzed himself from the upper neck down.

  “Hey, sweetie—”

  Snap.

  Did she actually hear the spinal cord snapping as the ligaments cut through it, or was that just in her mind?
>
  Snap. Snap.

  Real or imagined, Sarah awoke to the sound in her head each and every morning since.

  “David! David!”

  She cried out his name over and over again. Her husband’s only response had been to stare blankly up at the ceiling, wide-eyed and absolutely still.

  David …

  Though covered by a light dusting of snow, downtown Belmore was similar to several of the towns she and David had passed through. Beautifully restored redbrick buildings, none higher than three stories, mixed in with elegant old New England homes, funky antique stores, and an excellent selection of restaurants. Sarah took in a deep breath of cold sea air and felt every bit of its restorative powers. Of all their journeys, David had loved Maine the most.

  Standing just inside the Laundromat, Sarah inhaled the detergent-laden air, then walked down the row of machines to the petite woman folding clothes. The husky, tattooed mother, a full basket in her hands, led her two kids out into the street.

  “Cassie Wilkins?” Sarah asked.

  Would you run if I called you Edith Harmon? she wondered.

  The woman turned, catching Sarah a bit off guard because she did not expect her to be wearing dark, oversized sunglasses indoors on a December afternoon. She was in her late thirties or perhaps early forties, strikingly pale but pretty and feminine.

  “Yes?” the woman said, not smiling. “Can I help you?”

  Her lack of wariness was not surprising. She was, after all, the town’s newspaper editor.

  “My name is Sarah Cooper. I’m an attorney from Washington defending a man in a murder trial. I was hoping I might speak with you.”

  “About what?”

  Sarah held her breath, then decided simply to go for it. “About Reddy Creek,” she said.

  Edith Harmon’s jaw tightened. Even through her dark glasses, her eyes seemed to flash. Still, she made no attempt to check around to see if anyone could be overhearing them. In fact, they were now the only two in the place.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the woman said, under control.

  “You’re Edith Harmon,” Sarah said. “It’s important that I speak with you about Reddy Creek.”

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “Please,” Sarah said in an urgent whisper. “I promise I’ll keep your secret safe, whatever it is. An innocent man’s life is at stake. I just need to know what you can contribute that will help me with my case.”

  “You want to know what I can contribute?” the woman said.

  “Yes,” Sarah replied, “that’s all.”

  Angrily, the woman ripped off her sunglasses. Sarah reached her hand to her mouth and took a backward step. Edith Harmon’s eyes were ringed by gruesome dark scars and grotesque indentations. Her milky gray eyes showed no trace of an iris or pupil.

  “I think I’ve contributed enough,” Edith said, unfolding the white cane Sarah had not seen resting beside her laundry basket. “I’ve contributed plenty.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Edith slipped on her sunglasses and went back to folding her laundry as if nothing were happening. Perhaps she believed that tuning Sarah out would be enough for her to make the phantoms from her past simply disappear. Sarah stood several feet away, trying to figure out her next move, when she noticed safety pins attached to various articles of Edith’s clothing. One pin seemed to designate blue, two for green, and three for white. Some of the clothes, Sarah now could see, had metal tags sewn into the fabric with what had to be Braille abbreviations for the other colors. Edith kept her socks together and organized using sock savers, a contraption Sarah had seen advertised on late-night infomercials.

  “I’m no threat,” Sarah said. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not going to tell anybody your secret.”

  No response.

  “Please, talk to me, Edith.”

  Still nothing. Edith continued meticulously about her business.

  Sarah continued searching for an opening—any opening.

  “Do you use those pins to help you match your clothes?” she asked, suppressing an exasperated sigh.

  Edith turned around and faced Sarah. “Well, now, Attorney Cooper,” she said, “you just earned yourself a point.”

  “I did? For what?”

  “In all the time you’ve been standing here, you never once said I’m sorry, despite that it was clear when you came in, you didn’t know I was blind. I really detest pity.”

  Sarah laughed uncomfortably. “But … but how could you tell I didn’t know?”

  “For one thing, I heard your feet scrape against the floor when I took off my glasses. Shocked, you took a step backwards. Then the contents of your purse jangled about like you had made a sudden movement—another step backwards. It was quick. You were surprised by something unexpected.”

  “You’re right, of course, but like it or not, I am sorry. And I want to know if your blindness is related to Reddy Creek. I want to know why you ran from North Carolina.”

  Edith folded a white blouse into four perfect creases. Her gaze never veered from Sarah’s face. “I’ve been dreading someone would track me down,” Edith said. “Were you followed?”

  “No, I wasn’t. I’m sure of it.”

  Even without vision to guide her, Edith looked unconvinced.

  Sarah flashed on a psychology professor in college who told her class that 75 percent of memory and thought came from sight. Where did the substitute come from when that 75 percent was lost or had never existed at all?

  “If you found me,” she said, “they can find me. Who was it? Who gave me up?”

  A woman and little girl entered the Caribou Laundromat. Edith’s head whirled toward the door before Sarah had even reacted to the sound.

  “It’s okay,” Sarah said.

  “I know. Thin mom, three-year-old daughter, both bundled up, wearing boots.”

  “Can we go somewhere and talk?” Sarah asked. “Please, I won’t take up much of your time.”

  Edith scoffed. “No, you won’t take up much of my time. You’ll just come here and blow my world apart instead.” With her finely shaped mouth tight, Edith tucked her laundry basket under one arm and used her free hand to flip her cane open.

  “Please, talk to me. I need your help. A man’s life is at stake.”

  “What about my life?” Edith breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. Her body language softened. “Okay, you can come to my office. I’ll give you ten minutes. I’m not promising to answer all or even any of your questions. But you’re going to answer mine. Got it?”

  “Ten minutes,” Sarah repeated. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  She marveled at Edith’s balancing act—how she maneuvered herself to the front door of the coin-op carrying a full laundry basket while working the cane.

  Could I live without sight? She wondered. Could I make it seem so natural?

  “You’re wondering if you could go on if you lost your sight, and if you can help me with my basket,” Edith said. “What did I tell you about pity?”

  Sarah smiled at Edith’s insight. “Can I at least hold the door open for you?”

  “Well, now,” Edith said, “that’s not pity. That’s just plain being polite.”

  Once outside, Edith found the curb with several practiced taps of her cane, and waited a few moments while listening for traffic sounds. Then she walked unhurriedly across the street, with Sarah several steps behind. Edith had a number of keys on her key ring, but she found the right one to unlock the Current’s front door without any fumbling, something Sarah rarely accomplished with any of the keys on her own set.

  Inside the cramped office, Edith moved about like a woman with sight. She hung her jacket on the coat tree by the door and motioned Sarah to do the same. Then she stoked the low fire in a small woodstove, crossed to the microwave at the back of the room, took a box of tea from the shelf above, and filled two mugs with water from a small sink nearby.

  “I have the steps memorized
,” Edith explained as if reading Sarah’s thoughts.

  “I was wondering about that,” Sarah said. “And also that you seem quite fluent in Braille.”

  “Metsa metz. It’s like moving to Italy with no chance of ever moving back. You learn Italian as quickly as possible, or you can forget about getting the toppings you want on your pizza. I was always pretty good at languages. Braille is just another one of them. I hope you don’t mind decaffeinated tea. Caffeine makes me anxious.”

  “I’d love tea,” Sarah said, “Any kind. No milk, no sweetener. But to be honest, I’m a little surprised you’re not more anxious. I know my showing up here was quite a shock.”

  Edith pushed some buttons, and soon the microwave was heating up the two mugs of tea. “When you’ve lost your sight after thirty-six years of seeing,” she said with her back to Sarah, “you tend to get kind of philosophical about things.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s absolutely nothing I can do about you having found me. Nothing that my getting angry or upset is going to change, anyway. But I can keep calm and levelheaded, so at least I can listen carefully when you tell me how you managed to locate me and, more importantly, why.”

  Soon, the two women were seated at the foldout table in the center of the coffin-sized office, sipping at their tea. Sarah glanced over at Edith’s computer and saw the attached keyboard was Braille compatible. She also noticed that all the tags attached to Edith’s neatly stored legal boxes were labeled with Braille as well.

  “What happened to your sight?” Sarah asked.

  Edith held up a finger. “No, you first,” she said. “How did you find me?”

  Sarah told her about Grayson Devlin and his contact at Edith’s former paper.

  “Wow,” Edith said. “Your boss must have some pretty serious dirt on Bruce.”

  “Bruce?”

  “Bruce Patterson. He’s the editor-in-chief at the News and Observer, my former boss, and the only person who knows my secret. Well, the only person besides you and your boss, I suppose.”