Red Herring

by Archer Mayor

  At that, Ike straightened and glared at the screen. “You fucking cow.”

  He remained that way for a couple of minutes, lost first in panic, then confusion, and finally deep in thought.

  He’d done good work until now. Planned everything out. Taken his time. Something had messed up. He hadn’t figured out what from the articles, but it probably had something to do with the other big news, which had caught his eye because of the mention of blood.

  He frowned angrily. He’d screwed up. He knew that now. He’d just wanted to mess with their heads, leaving those drops of blood. He’d also wanted to do something extra that his mom knew nothing about, just to prove that he could. She was always ranting about what an idiot he was, how all the brains had gone to Ben. He was sick of it—and of playing second fiddle to a fag who’d died of AIDS in prison. That was the winner he was being compared to? Ike was the one who paid for her medicines and the groceries, hustled to come up with the rent, took care of the laundry and even helped bathe her, for Christ’s sake. And now the bitch had thrown him under the bus.

  No surprise there.

  It made him mad. He’d figured that by doing all this shit with the two women and the kid in the truck, at least he’d gain his mother’s respect, and that Ben might be finally put in his grave.

  But not a chance.

  He kept staring at his own photograph, floating in the center of the screen. Fucking cops.

  He leaned forward and scrolled down a little. What had he noticed earlier but not really read? Something weird. He stopped and studied the words more carefully.

  “No shit,” he barely said aloud.

  He’d just understood the connection between the head cop and the loudmouthed politician.

  “Damn,” he added, his earlier confusion yielding to a renewed sense of purpose. “He thinks he can grab my mom? Guess what I can do to his old girlfriend?”

  Lyn stood with her back against the wall of the so-called Governors’ Ballroom, in Montpelier’s Capitol Plaza Hotel. It was a vast, resonant, brightly lighted room, reminiscent of a documentary she’d once seen about aircraft carriers and their below-deck hangar spaces. And the sound was deafening—ten times the noisiest bar she might ever have tended in the old days. There had to be over three hundred people here, shouting, chanting, moving around holding signs and singing inane ditties like “Gail for Gov,” and “Make Zigman the Top Woman.”

  To Lyn’s jaded eye, it was all faintly juvenile and even a little scary, when she considered the experience and education level of some of these wannabe cheerleaders.

  She began to question why she’d bothered making the trip at all. She wasn’t politically inclined, sometimes had no real knowledge of the people running, and found most politicians to be contemptible hypocrites.

  Of course, this one was a little different. At least, she hoped so.

  As she was considering all this, the wall right next to her cracked open a couple of inches, revealing an inset door and half the face of a youthful man.

  “Miss Silva?”

  Startled, she stepped away from the wall and stared at what she could see of him. “Yes?”

  “Gail would like to see you, if that’s okay.”

  Feeling instantly like an idiot, she pointed to herself. “Me?”

  “Sure.” Two beckoning fingers appeared through the crack. “Come on in.”

  Thinking of Alice in Wonderland, Lyn stepped forward and was absorbed by the door quickly yawning open and instantly closing behind her, cutting down the deafening noise like a guillotine. She found herself in a dark and empty corridor, facing a thin young man, probably still in college, wearing a white dress shirt and a narrow tie, loosened at the throat, who stuck out his hand in greeting.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m Phil.”

  She shook the hand distractedly, looking around. “How did you know I was here?”

  He gave a broad, toothy grin. “We peek out at the crowd before every one of these, checking who’s there. It helps a lot sometimes. You never know, right?”

  He turned and began leading her down the hallway. “Come with me. Gail’s got a couple of minutes yet. She was really tickled to see you.”

  Lyn followed at a quick pace, impressed that Gail had even remembered what she looked like.

  They entered another side door, traveled fast through a room filled with more people, all working at anything from stapling signs to wooden stakes and stuffing envelopes to typing on laptops, and stepped into what seemed to be an improvised office and green room, combined.

  Lyn was trying to take it all in when she heard a familiar voice call out. “Lyn. My God. A sight for sore eyes.”

  She turned to see Gail come at her, arms wide, and gather her into a close embrace. “I can’t believe you came to one of these.”

  Lyn smiled awkwardly. “Well, I did say I was going to vote for you. I guess I had to see you in action.”

  Gail stepped back and took her hand. She called over to Phil. “How much time?”

  He didn’t have to check his watch. “Three minutes.”

  She pulled Lyn along after her, muttering, “I’ll take it.”

  She led them through yet another door, and into an even smaller room with a few chairs and a card table covered with paperwork.

  There, she paused a couple of seconds, collecting her thoughts as Lyn watched, and then laid a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder.

  “I am so sorry for all this fuss and bother,” she began. “But I just couldn’t believe it when I saw you in the ballroom. It was like the answer to a prayer.”

  “Really?” Lyn said, baffled. “Why?”

  Gail looked her directly in the eyes. “Because I was distracted and tired and a bit of a jerk when we met the other night, and I wanted you to know that I admire and appreciate you and think you’ve been great for Joe in ways I never was or could be.”

  She waved her hand in the air a couple of times as if warding off black flies, and added, “I know I’m sounding like an idiot right now, but I just had to get that off my chest, and I don’t have any time anymore to simply think things through.”

  “You weren’t a jerk the other night,” Lyn assured her.

  “I was,” Gail protested. “Or at least I felt like one inside. I didn’t expect you to open Joe’s front door, and when you did, I had a completely different speech in my head, and felt terrible that I never got to tell you how I felt. It was like having a golden opportunity to speak your mind and then discovering you have laryngitis.”

  She laughed and scratched her head. “And now,” she continued, “I sound like I’m on speed.”

  This time, it was Lyn who took her hand and led her to one of the chairs, sitting opposite her, commenting, “You must be exhausted.”

  Gail merely sighed, smiled, and nodded.

  “Gail,” Lyn told her, “I really appreciate what you said. I mean, I know I don’t need anyone’s blessing to fall in love with someone, but you two had years and years together, and it means a lot to me that this is okay with you.”

  Gail suddenly leaned forward and kissed the other woman’s cheek. She looked on the verge of crying. “You have no idea, Lyn,” she admitted. “I felt terrible when we broke up, but I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

  There was a knock on the door and Phil stuck his head in. “Sorry, Gail. Time’s up.”

  Both women stood and hugged one last time.

  Gail suddenly laughed. “You want to be onstage with me? You don’t have to do anything, and there’ll be lots of other people. It’ll give you my view of this circus.”

  “It is kinda cool,” Phil pitched in, opening the door wider to escort them out.

  Lyn looked from one to the other. “Really? I wouldn’t be in the way?”

  They both laughed as Gail told her, “I’m the only one they all want to run over, for one reason or another.”

  Lyn was swept along, self-conscious of the clothes she’d chosen that morning and feeling completely ou
t of her element. But Phil and Gail had spoken the truth—the stage on which she soon found herself was vast and crowded, filled with yelling, cheering, waving people, and she quickly found a spot, again against the wall, from where she could see past Gail’s back as she stood at the podium and addressed a throng of upturned, enthusiastic faces. It was an amazing moment, very much at odds with the barroom crowds she knew so well, and she instantly sensed the appeal it must have for so many office seekers.

  She didn’t hear the speech; didn’t even pay attention. Her thoughts were lost in the conversation just past, and on the surreal surroundings of the moment. She was therefore caught off guard when everyone began moving around her, the noise crescendoed into wild cheers, and Gail turned around, extended her hand, and asked, “You want to walk out with me?”

  Without a second thought, she took the hand and joined the triumphant march toward the front door of the hotel and the street outside, side by side with Gail.

  Ollie Peterson saw the crowd shifting in front of the Capitol Plaza Hotel and knew it was time. He swung out of the driver’s seat, where he’d been enjoying the heater and the radio, and expertly hopped onto the hood of his battered car, which was already prepped with a tripod. He’d parked here two hours earlier, when choosing just the right camera angle was easy, and had slowly witnessed the sidewalks fill with people.

  It had been a hell of a campaign year, and he’d seen his share. As the primary newswire photographer for the state, he hadn’t missed much when it came to headline grabbers—or ribbon cuttings, bake sales, and farm fairs, for that matter. But this election had created its own form of energy. An incumbent governor, wounded but still popular; a well-spoken, good-looking, Democratic challenger with the quirky extra wrinkle of being a high-profile rape victim; and the standard spoiler from the Progressives, totally lacking a majority, but attracting enough votes to once again potentially cripple the prominent left-winger.

  In itself, not an unheard of recipe, either nationally or in backwater rural Vermont. But this time, because of the sheer eloquence and liveliness the three candidates had brought to it, the campaign had blossomed with time, until now, just a couple of days shy of the election, it had attracted national attention. Standing on his car, attaching his camera to the tripod, Ollie saw TV trucks stationed to both sides of the street, bristling with dishes and antennae. Leave it to Vermont, he thought ruefully. Always stirring up trouble.

  He bent slightly and peered through his camera lens, adjusting it so that the hotel’s steps could clearly be seen in the shot. The Capitol Plaza had a canopy he’d dealt with before—a visual eyesore that took most newbie news photographers by surprise. That’s why he’d parked here and chosen this spot. He knew from experience how the sun would angle in just right and give him the shot most others would only be hoping for.

  Not that this would result in anything other than the standard cheesy picture of a candidate waving to her supporters. Still, Ollie was a professional, and had his pride.

  A flash of sunlight off the glass doors alerted him to people exiting. He half held his breath, put all his concentration into the tiny rectangle before his right eye, and waited.

  People fanned out to both sides, nicely making an opening among those on the sidewalk, and then, in a flurry of waving hands and broad smiles, Gail Zigman and her retinue stepped into view, pausing briefly.

  Ollie hit the button on his camera, which began taking a picture every half second.

  He knew it was a cliché, but even much later, Ollie could only describe it as having sounded like firecrackers—a series of closely spaced pops, almost joyful in nature, and totally in context with the festive mood. He saw unexpected movement through his lens—people twisting and ducking; some falling from view—but nothing that truly registered in his head until the visual hole he’d been complimenting himself for finding was suddenly filled in with rushing, screaming, gesticulating people in a panic.

  He straightened and looked around, his camera on autopilot. The firecrackers had stopped. More and more people were beginning to rush toward the hotel. His car rocked a couple of times slightly from being jarred in passing.

  But for that one moment, there was no context, no logic to the story, no explanation for what had just occurred.

  Until a voice cut across the street and brought it all together. “She’s been shot.”

  Ollie dropped his eyes to the still chattering camera before him. “Shit,” he said softly. “I hope I got it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Joe walked into Barre’s Central Vermont Medical Center’s emergency room in a fog, steered there by Lester Spinney, who had a firm grip on his upper arm.

  “You okay, boss?” Lester asked, not for the first time.

  Joe didn’t respond, as he hadn’t bothered doing since getting the news eighty minutes earlier.

  The lobby was jammed with people, crying, shouting, hugging in groups. Some wore colorful hats, others had ribbons hanging from their clothes. There were posters and bumper stickers and more hats scattered underfoot, crushed and smeared with dirt and blood. It was a scene from an old Fellini movie—an absurd commingling of jarring images.

  Lester held his badge ahead of him and muscled through the crowd, muttering, “Police, please move,” to whoever needed prodding. At the front of the room, they came to a uniformed officer with a clipboard and an anxious expression, who stared at them without comment for a second, as if attempting to catalog what species they fit.

  “Joe Gunther,” Lester said simply, tilting his head toward his companion.

  “Oh, damn,” the officer said, standing aside. “I’m sorry.”

  They entered a hallway, still crowded but less chaotic, and filled mostly with either uniforms or scrubs and white lab coats.

  A nurse confronted them there, quickly read the letters on Lester’s badge and asked, “Gunther?”

  Les nodded. The nurse turned and led them to a curtain halfway down the corridor.

  “She’s in here,” she said simply and faded away.

  Both men stood at the curtain for a moment, simply staring at it.

  “You want company, Joe?” Lester asked.

  Joe seemed to think that over. “No,” he finally said. “I’m good.”

  Lester released his arm, thinking that was the last word he would have used, and told his friend. “I’ll be right here. One word, and I’ll come.”

  Not answering, Joe pushed through the curtain and entered the room.

  It was a typical examination cubicle—a counter, cabinets, freestanding equipment parked in odd corners, ready for use. And, of course, the table in the center.

  Someone had placed a sheet over her, neat and wrinkle-free. It was startlingly white and unblemished, and it showed off her body’s profile as fresh fallen snow sets off the hills and slopes beneath it.

  He approached the head of the table and paused, watching the surface of the white cotton as if for signs of life.

  But of course, there were none.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he took the edge of the sheet in his hand and drew it back to reveal her face, thinking of how many times in his life he’d done the same thing with complete strangers.

  She was naked, of course. He could tell from her bare shoulders. They cut all the clothes off in cases like this, for free and complete access to the body. No discretion or delicacy when it comes to saving a life.

  Or trying to.

  Thankfully, they’d extracted the endotracheal tube from her mouth, although he knew they weren’t supposed to. He wondered if that had been for him, or just an oversight. It happened now and then. The medical examiner liked everything kept in place, but understood when things went awry.

  He bent over and kissed her cheek. It was still slightly warm, despite its pallor.

  Instinctively, he pulled the sheet lower, exposing her breasts and the bullet hole between them. They hadn’t bothered with any surgical intervention. She’d been dead on arrival. And so she was inta
ct, aside from the hole. They’d even wiped the blood off her torso, leaving her skin pale and unblemished.

  He pulled the sheet back up to her chin. Beverly Hillstrom would probably do the autopsy the law required. He shook his head at the thought—another woman with whom he’d slept, if for a single night. Such a tight circle, he thought—Beverly, Lyn, and Gail.

  And Ellen, of course—the only one he’d married. Taken by cancer so many years ago.

  Jesus, he thought. What the hell is happening?

  The curtain rustled to admit a new visitor.

  Joe turned to take her in, her hair a mess and her blouse stained with blood.

  Gail crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, Joe,” she wept. “I’m so sorry.”

  He rubbed her back and stared at the wall behind her, not seeing a thing.

  “Are you okay?” he heard her ask in his ear.

  “Oh, sure,” he said quietly.

  She pulled back slightly to study his face. “She came up to find out more about me.” She smiled wanly. “Maybe to check out the old competition. I was so happy to see her there. I wanted her close.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I was holding her hand when it happened.”

  She buried her face in his shoulder again, her body wracked with sobbing, and he rubbed her back some more.

  What happens now? he wondered.

  Ike Miller adjusted the radio. Goddamned thing kept fading out. Typical. You steal a car ’cause it’s got good tires, not too much rust, and looks like it’ll fade into traffic, and the stupid radio is busted.

  He fiddled with it some more, drifting off the road slightly and kicking up gravel.

  And he liked noise—TV, radio, CD—he didn’t care what. Anything to fill the air and give his mind a place to park itself. Not the news, though. He was sick of that. All about the shooting and the manhunt. Ike here, Ike there, everywhere an Ike, Ike. He was up to his ears in it. You’d think the crazy bastards would give it a rest.

  He liked country-western. That and talk radio. Like that Limbaugh guy—crazy son of a bitch. Ike had no idea what the hell he was talking about most of the time, but the man had style.