by John Lutz
He was a little nervous about the interview. Rogers might be an egotistical blowhard, but he never seemed to have any trouble making up his mind. If he believed Harper, he would take quick, decisive action. If he didn’t, Harper might well be treated to the sarcasm and insults for which Rogers was famous.
Harper kept glancing at the phone on the table beside him. Laura was just across town, at New York University Hospital. He was thinking about calling her, but he kept putting it off. He wanted to see how his meeting would go. He’d told Laura that once he delivered his warning to the bomber’s next target, he’d feel that his job was done, whether the man believed him or not. Now he was hoping that when he called Laura he’d be able to say he’d done just as he promised, and was on his way home.
A door opened and Courtney came out. She was smiling and her hair bounced on her shoulders as she approached him with long-legged strides. “We’re ready for you now, Will.”
Harper stared at her and then at the screen, where Speed Rogers was still raging about the perfidious senator. “What—? Who—?” Harper asked.
“The whole staff. A special meeting’s been called to hear you.”
“What do you mean by staff, exactly?”
“Oh, we’ve all got job titles—writer, producer, researcher—but basically what we do is make Speed Rogers Speed Rogers.” Smiling, she nodded at the television screen. “You don’t think he dreams up all these ideas on his own, do you?”
Harper hadn’t thought about it. He shrugged and said, “Lead the way.”
Scrambling out of the low-slung sofa, he followed Courtney’s blond head through the door and down a narrow, busy corridor. They came to a set of double doors that were standing open. She motioned Harper through.
It was a small meeting room. The windows gave a view of other midtown towers, with the green of Central Park showing through the gaps between them. Rogers’s show was playing on a TV set in the corner, but the volume had been muted. Eight or ten young people, casually but expensively dressed, were lounging around a long table. None of them paid the slightest attention to Harper. Some were reading newspapers or magazines. Others had their feet up on the table and were chatting with each other, or making phone calls. A few were tapping keys on laptop computers or BlackBerries. Despite their casual attitudes, they gave off a buzz of nervous energy. Harper felt as if he were standing next to a humming power line.
By now he’d seen enough of Speed Rogers’s operation that he wasn’t surprised to discover that the famed right-winger’s staffers didn’t look like Mormon missionaries. These were media people who’d graduated from the best universities and come to New York seeking fame and fortune. Rogers would have hired the most imaginative people. He’d be confident they would adapt themselves to his politics.
Harper wasn’t at all sure these were the people be should be talking to.
Courtney urged him forward with a hand on his shoulder, toward the head of the table, where a dark-haired woman was rising to her feet. “Naomi Glidden, this is Will Harper.”
She was a thin woman with a narrow face. Her brown eyes were large and her smile was very broad; there seemed to be genuine friendliness in it, though Harper couldn’t be sure. She had long, crinkled black hair tucked into a rather ragged bun at the back of her head, and was wearing the kind of glasses that were now in fashion: flimsy-looking ones with tiny oval lenses, such as you saw people wearing in old newsreels. Harper couldn’t guess her age. The long hours and ceaseless pressure of media jobs aged people prematurely. Then they got plastic surgery, because it was important for them to look young. Naomi Glidden had no wrinkles or bags, but you could tell somehow that the days of carefree youth were far behind her.
“Will, pleased to meet you. Thank you for bringing this to us.”
It seemed a strange way to talk about a death threat. Harper said, “I was hoping I could speak to Speed Rogers personally.”
“Everyone does,” she replied wearily. “I can’t commit to anything at this stage. Sorry.”
“All right. Can I talk to his Security Chief?”
“Not necessary. I’ll be sending him an e-mail as soon as this meeting’s over. Chief Clifford’s a very able man, by the way. Our security is fully capable of dealing with any threat to Speed.”
“This is a different kind of threat,” said Harper.
“That’s exactly what we want to talk about.”
She waved him to the seat at her left hand. Then she addressed the table. “So. The Celebrity Bomber. What do we think of this?”
“Let’s go with it,” said a young man halfway down the table. He had thick brown hair, glistening with styling mousse. His skinny frame was enveloped in an unstructured jacket, as if he were trying to emulate the bulk of his boss. He wasn’t wearing one of the loud vests that were Rogers’s trademark, though. “We put Will on the show as soon as possible—Wednesday, if we can clear the schedule.”
“Now, wait,” Harper said, “I have no intention of—”
Naomi laid her hand on his forearm. “At this stage of the meeting, Will, we’re just throwing out ideas. We don’t allow any negativity. Go on, Stuart.”
Stuart continued. “Just picture it. Speed interviewing a former hero of the NYPD about a threat to his own life. Can you imagine the calls we’ll get? Speed’s fans will be outraged. They’ll rally to his defense, light up the switchboard. Remember when Howard Stern attacked Speed? That brought in five thousand calls in the first ten minutes of the show. And that was just dirty words. For a threat to Speed’s life—”
“From the same nut who killed Rod Buckner,” Courtney put in. “This pathetic loser has silenced one of America’s strongest voices for national pride and a strong defense and gotten away with it. Now he’s threatening—”
Harper leaned forward. “Excuse me, but I think you’re all going off on a tangent here. For one thing, the bomber isn’t political. He also killed Congresswoman Wylie, remember.”
“That was more than a year ago,” shrugged Courtney. “Everybody’s forgotten her. But Rod Buckner is Number Six on the Times paperback bestseller list this week. We should definitely go with the Buckner tie-in.”
There were murmurs of agreement around the table.
Harper turned to Naomi. “I’m not sure what I’m doing here. Do you believe me? Do you understand that Rogers’s life really is in danger?”
Before she could reply, an Asian man spoke up from the end of the table. He was the only one in a suit, and it was obviously tailor-made and had plenty of silk in its dark blue material. “All right, let’s talk about that. Suppose Will is wrong.”
“Go ahead, Howard, suppose,” Stuart invited.
Howard politely introduced himself to Harper. His last name was Woo. Pushing his glasses up on his nose, he returned his attention to the room at large and continued: “Worst case scenario: Suppose we go public with the threat. Weeks pass. Nobody tries to kill Speed. What would happen?”
“A Saturday Night Live sketch,” said a young black man. There were murmurs of agreement. “Probably more than one. They might even start doing a count—‘Speed Rogers is still not dead.’”
A silence fell over the table as everyone contemplated this prospect.
Finally, Stuart spoke. “I say Speed can handle it. Say a week passes and no attack is made, okay. Speed says it was all a hoax. Like the time back in ninety-two when he announced he’d changed his mind and was voting for Clinton. Remember how many calls—”
Harper smacked the table with his open hand. It was the maimed one. He raised it high, and it got everyone’s attention. The room fell silent.
“A bomb did this,” Harper said. He looked around at the young faces. “You have to understand, what we’re talking about is for real. Your boss’s life is at stake. Or that’s what I think, anyway. If you’re not going to take seriously what I have to say, you should let me talk to him. You owe him at least that much.”
He sat back, lowering his arm. The staffers looked s
omber now. They exchanged glances. Then Stuart spoke up, “Sorry, Will. No offense meant. But Speed gets a threat from some crackpot or other every day.”
“This isn’t just another crackpot. He’s killed twenty-two people already. Your boss could be number twenty-three.”
He’d turned as he’d spoken. At the end he was addressing Naomi directly.
She frowned. “We have to deal with all of the ramifications, Will. We have to foresee all the ways in which Speed’s words and actions can be perceived. He has millions of people tuning in to him every day—confused, frustrated people, looking to him to focus and direct their anger. A threat to Speed Rogers matters not just to him but to the whole country. Before I make such a thing public, before I let you on the show, I have to—”
“I’m not trying to get on the show. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. And you don’t have to make the threat public.” Harper was amazed at the effects of fame, at the unreal world these people lived in. Speed Rogers must be completely insulated from the real world and its everyday concerns. His staff didn’t even want to tell him about a possible attempt on his life.
Naomi turned her head to one side, puzzled. He could hear surprised muttering behind him. “What I’m advising is that Speed Rogers should place some calls to his friends in Washington. People who can nudge the FBI into taking the bomber case seriously. Other than that, all he has to do is stay out of Elmhart.”
“Stay out of Elmhart?” she repeated. The muttering behind Harper grew louder.
“The bomber’s a careful planner who can’t adapt to change. His pattern calls for him to make his next attack in Elmhart. If Rogers doesn’t go there, the bomber can only wait. Just keep your boss out of Elmhart, and he’s safe.”
Naomi was staring at him through the tiny oval lenses of her glasses. “And where would you have him broadcast from?”
Harper shrugged. “New York, Washington.”
“But surely you’ve heard the program. Speed signs on saying he’s broadcasting from the heartland of the real America. Now he’s going to announce that he’s not safe there?”
“Let him broadcast from Kansas, Ohio—anywhere but Elmhart, Indiana.”
“Elmhart is Speed’s hometown. Now he can’t go home again, and we’re not going to explain why?” She was shaking her bead emphatically. “You have no idea of the repercussions.”
Harper sighed. “You’re right. How Speed’s actions are perceived isn’t my problem. I’m just trying to keep him in one piece. You have to let me speak to him.”
Naomi shook her head even more vigorously. The bun of hair above the nape of her neck was in danger of coming undone.
“It’s his life,” Harper said. “It ought to be his decision.”
This seemed to get to Naomi. At least she stopped shaking her head and looked at Harper for a long moment. Then she turned away from him and announced, “I think we’re done here, people. Thank you.”
The young staffers were surprised. It took them a while to clear the room. Naomi opened her PowerBook, tapped keys, and read the screen.
“I can get you five minutes with Speed,” she said. “But no more.”
“Okay,” replied Harper.
“One o’ clock tomorrow,” she said. “His house in Elmhart.”
“Elmhart?” Harper was incredulous. “But I’m trying to convince him to stay out of Elmhart.”
“If you convince him, he can leave.” Naomi’s tone suggested that she didn’t think there was any chance of that.
Harper pointed at the television, which was still showing Rogers’s live program. “But he’s here in Manhattan now.”
Naomi gave him a sad smile, pitying his ignorance. “From the studio he goes to Barnes & Noble. They’ve been lining up for his book signing all afternoon. After that, he’ll barely have time to limo to the heliport and catch the shuttle to Washington, where he’s speaking at a fund-raiser. There just isn’t any time.”
“You really expect me to agree to this? To fly to Elmhart?”
She shrugged. “People have flown in from London to spend five minutes with Speed. From Beijing.”
Harper sighed again, more heavily. He looked away from Naomi Glidden and his eyes happened to fall on one of the phones resting on the table. He remembered how he’d been looking forward to calling Laura, telling her he’d delivered the warning and was on his way home.
Only it hadn’t worked out that way. It had worked out the way Laura had foreseen, when they’d had that bitter argument in their unpainted dining room. You’re going to find a man who’s sitting on a bull’s-eye—and join him, she’d said.
And that was what Harper was going to do. It was the only way to stop the bomber.
He turned back to Naomi.
“See you in Elmhart,” he said.
15
Markman got off the highway at the Elmhart exit. He steered into the parking lot of the C’mon Inn Motel and parked near a sign advertising DYNAMITE PRICES FOR SINGLES. It was an old motel that would readily accept cash in advance. This was why it appealed to him. The office, a separate clapboard structure with a crooked shutter, had a wooden sign over the door declaring that it led to the office. There was a yellowed cardboard VACANCY sign in a front window.
Markman carried his suitcase inside with him. It contained not only his clothes but a powerful charge of plastic explosives. He didn’t like the idea of leaving it outside.
Behind the registration desk stood an old man with a head of bushy white hair. In a chair near the desk sat a small blond girl about nine years old, with long braids. She had a sweet face and smiled up at Markman. Some of her front teeth were missing, but it was a beautiful smile nonetheless.
He told the man behind the desk he’d like a room.
“We got a few available,” the man said. Markman had noticed only one other vehicle on the lot when he’d pulled in.
“Toward the back, if you can,” Markman said. “I don’t like any noise from the road.”
“We can do that,” the man said. “Give you 9A.” He laid a registration card on the desk before Markman.
Markman filled in the card with false information, including an alias. “Cash okay?” he asked.
“Surely is. How many nights?”
“Two. In advance.”
“Fine with me,” the man said, accepting Markman’s money.
The little girl had gotten to her feet.
“Mimi’ll take that suitcase for you, mister. That’s how she earns her keep around here.”
“I’ll carry it,” Markman said. Then he thought about it. He suppressed a smile as he handed over the suitcase to Mimi, who could barely lift it. Inside was enough explosive to blast her into particles so small they might never be recovered, but she didn’t know that.
Markman knew. It gave him a certain pleasure.
“After you,” he told Mimi, falling in behind her so he could keep an eye on her. He winked at the man, the two of them conspiring to make a child feel useful. Good Samaritans both.
Never having been to Indiana, Harper had expected it to be flat and featureless. But as he stood outside the gatehouse of Speed Rogers’s estate, he could look out over gently rolling hills and copses of tall old trees. He was leaning against a plum tree, which shaded him with a cloud of white blossoms. Spring was much further along here than in the northeast. It was so warm, he’d already taken off his jacket.
The guards at the gatehouse seemed able. They’d verified Harper’s identity and searched him, then asked him to wait for Naomi Glidden to come down and drive him to the house. But the well-armed, efficient guards didn’t put Harper at ease. Nor did the serene beauty of the estate. He kept being reminded of the day he visited Rod Buckner’s equally well-guarded and peaceful estate. The day Jimmy Fahey, Buckner, and five other men were blown to pieces.
Harper massaged his injured right hand with his left. It had been aching all morning. He was tense, and that made him clench his fists without realizing it. That wa
s why the hand hurt. It wasn’t an omen. Harper didn’t believe in omens.
An open-top yellow Jeep careened around the turn and lurched to a halt beside him. Naomi Glidden smiled at him from behind the wheel. “Hello, Harper. Jump in.”
She had tinted lenses clipped on over her old-fashioned glasses. Her long hair was loose around her shoulders and she was wearing a pink top and a short khaki skirt, but still she didn’t look any more relaxed in Elmhart than she had in Manhattan. She was checking her watch as he climbed in beside her. She swept the car around in a tight U-turn and roared up the hill. The wind lifted Harper’s hair from his head. He figured from now on he could count on Naomi to get him to his appointment on time.
“Have any trouble finding the place?” she shouted over the wind-roar.
“No. Everybody in town seems to know where your boss lives. And they’re happy to give directions. And talk about him.”
Naomi smiled. “Speed grew up here. I guess you knew that. The Rogers family has been prominent in the area for generations. Moving the show here, renovating the Old Courthouse, building this estate—Speed has been a boon to the local economy and he’s very proud of that. His roots mean a lot to him. He’s in such a good mood this morning. Happy to be home.”
“How long has be been away?”
“Almost three weeks. He took a vacation over Easter and then he had TV shows and personal appearances on the East Coast. Three weeks is as long as we ever put the show on hiatus. Why do you ask?”
Harper said slowly, “I was wondering if the bomber is already here. If he’s been here awhile, making his preparations. If all he’s been waiting for is Rogers to come back.”
Harper massaged the aching hand again. Maybe it was an omen.
Pushing her hair out of her face, Naomi glanced sideways at him. She looked doubtful and annoyed. “I hope I’m not making a big mistake, letting you see Speed. Just remember, you’re down for five minutes, and that’s all you get.”
