by Laura Hayden
Message seven: “David’s plane was delayed in Philadelphia. Alex is still covering.”
Message nine: “Whatever you do, call me before you turn on the news.”
Kate’s stomach immediately clenched again.
KATE TURNED THE TELEVISION ON just in time to watch the view switch from a well-known news anchor in his shirtsleeves to an on-site reporter from a local Manchester affiliate.
“—outside of the New Hampshire headquarters for presidential candidate Charles Talbot, where approximately thirty minutes ago, an unidentified gunman entered the building and began firing. One campaign worker was killed and two others injured. Governor Talbot was not present at the time. He was speaking at the morning service at Antioch Baptist Church. Officials say that the gunman escaped in the resulting melee and is still at large. The names of the deceased and injured have not yet been released. But we do know that the victims were transported to Catholic Medical for treatment.”
They switched to a split screen with the network studio, the field reporter relegated to the right-hand side.
“Carl, have they released any information about the gunman?” the anchor asked.
“All we’ve been told is that he’s a white male between the ages of forty-five and fifty-five, wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, a navy blue jacket, and a red ball cap with a black insignia. Probably the most bizarre aspect of the case is that witnesses say the shooter’s shirt read V4M, which as you know is the text slogan meaning ‘Vote for M’ in reference to current front-runner in this race, Emily Benton. Ms. Benton’s camp has not released a statement as of yet, but officials believe that the gunman was acting on his own volition and isn’t directly connected with former Governor Benton’s campaign.”
Kate turned off the television, walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped—pajamas and all—into the icy cold stream of water.
For once, she was relatively certain this disaster wasn’t her fault. But that didn’t make it any less a disaster, so she prayed for those injured and for the family of the dead campaign worker.
Then she got to work.
Twenty minutes and four terse calls with Emily later, Kate sat in the New Hampshire campaign headquarters, hair still damp, sipping a mug of weak tea and fighting a rising nausea that wasn’t food related. While riding over in the cab, she had dictated a first draft media response over the phone to the main headquarters in Virginia. Once she arrived at the office in Manchester, it’d been nearly impossible to get through the gauntlet of media that waited outside the front entrance. The last thing she’d wanted them to think was that her ragged looks were due to fear rather than food poisoning. An off-duty Manchester cop and campaign volunteer had given her safe passage through a back door, unseen by the hungry press corps.
Once inside, she isolated herself in the conference room and hammered out a second draft of the statement, then e-mailed it to the Benton inner circle of legal, political, and media advisers who were already on e-mail alert. They vetted it, made changes particular to their own expertise, and sent their recommendations back to her in record time.
Now she sat at the conference table, staring bleakly at the finished product as the words on the page swam in and out of her vision. The statement covered the salient points without sounding overly defensive. Another key to not looking or sounding defensive would be to have someone other than Emily make the statement. If folks at the various campaign stops asked her specifically about the attack, Emily would make the appropriately sympathetic remarks and say a statement was forthcoming.
Even during the best of times, Kate didn’t want to face the press, but in her current condition? No way. But Dave Dickens would be there shortly. He would be the one to deal with the cameras and deliver the press release.
Kate and Emily had courted Dave for their staff not only because of his rock solid experience running the campaign for the Democratic candidate in the 2004 race but also because Dave had the polished delivery and trustworthy looks of a network news anchor. Most people believed he was working for Emily solely so he could become the next White House press secretary. But Kate knew Dave’s real goal was to make the jump from his current position to a network news desk. She thought his chances of doing that were pretty good. His odds would get even better once Emily became president. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt them to have a familiar face who admired their politics riding a network anchor desk once Emily got into office.
Dave dashed in moments later, changed into a crisp white shirt, and reviewed the copy for all of five minutes. Then he stood in front of the cameras and delivered the statement flawlessly—almost without consulting his notes—to the platoon of reporters who had been camped out by the main entrance, awaiting an official response from the Benton camp. After presenting the statement, he deftly sidestepped the persistent souls who clamored for more information by pleading ignorance of the actual details of the crime and referring any subsequent inquiries to the Talbot camp, the hospital, or the local police.
“Let me close this press conference by saying that Ms. Benton, along with her staff, extends her deepest sympathies to the family of the deceased, to those injured in this terrible tragedy, and to their families. We’ll keep all of them in our hearts and our prayers. Thank you.”
The last bit was an ad lib but a suitable one in context, even if anyone who really knew Emily wouldn’t use her name and the word prayer in the same sentence.
Bentons didn’t pray for things to happen. They made them happen.
Once the press had their ration of attention, the glory hogs drifted away, allowing the headquarters staff to get back to the business of conducting the campaign, watched from a distance only by the serious political reporters. Even the seasoned pros understood when Kate issued the order to bar them for the day.
Still feeling under the weather, she retreated to Alex’s corner office, where she commandeered his couch as her recovery center.
After a while, Dave came in to check on her. “You look terrible,” he said from the doorway. “Can I get you anything? Hair of the dog?”
“I’m not hungover,” she said, pushing herself to a semi-upright position. “I got food poisoning or something last night.”
“Or something,” he echoed, his grin more teasing than doubtful. “Like out-and-out exhaustion. Seriously, can I get you some tea or a Coke?”
“Thanks, but no thanks. Have they released the names of the victims?”
“Not yet. And no one in the Talbot camp is talking. Of course, they don’t talk to us during the best of times. But they’re not talking to my buddies in the press, either. They’ve battened down the hatches over there, I think.”
“Let me know if you hear anything.”
“Will do.” As he turned to leave, he paused to shoot her a sympathetic look over his shoulder. “All kidding aside, if there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know. We can’t afford to have our fearless leader working at less than 100 percent.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. “Emily may think she’s in charge, but we know who the real power is. . . .”
Ugh.
What a thought.
And what a burden. . . .
Was she really that central to the campaign?
And if she was, what did it mean for this moment?
Alone again, Kate debated whether she should contact Nick. After the shooting, he was probably knee-deep in cops, hysterical volunteers, and who knew what. And did she really want to make a habit of talking to the opposition at the drop of a hat?
Then again, having a madman with a gun shoot the place up wasn’t exactly a drop of the hat.
Given the circumstances, though, she felt like she should contact Nick. She wanted him to know that Emily’s campaign really didn’t send idiots with guns to take out their opponents.
Kate compromised between her urge to touch base and her cautious side by sending Nick a text message. Hope U R OK. Call if we . . . She changed it to I can help.
Five minu
tes later, her cell phone rang.
“K?” It was Nick and he didn’t sound good at all.
Poor guy.
What could she say?
In the end, she went with “How’s it going over there?”
There was a sudden flare-up of voices in the background. “Hang on and let me go someplace quieter.” A few moments later, the noise abated. “That’s better. Sorry. I’ve had better days.”
“What happened?”
“Pretty much what you’ve heard on TV. Some idiot with a semiautomatic came in and started shooting, strafing the place. He hit three people and one of them died—one of our local staffers.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Me too. It was mass bedlam. People screaming, the gun firing, glass breaking.” His raspy voice grew softer. “It’s like I’ll never get the sounds out of my head. The only good thing to come out of the horror is that I know I’m Christian now. I prayed like I’ve never prayed before, for everybody, even the shooter. And when that campaign worker was dying in front of me . . . and I couldn’t do anything to help . . .”
Her stomach tightened. “How bad is it? Should you even be on the phone right now?”
“Probably not.” He paused, then added in almost a conspiratorial tone, “I’m one of the ones that got hit.”
The phone nearly slipped out of her grasp. “Nick! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine; I’m fine. I caught one in the arm, but it only grazed me.” He released a short bark of tense laughter, then a grunt of pain. “Funny word—grazed. Like that makes it hurt any less. But I suppose it could be lots worse. I lived.”
“Where are you now?”
“In the lobby outside the ER. They’ve just discharged me and I’m waiting for the car to come around to pick me up. I can’t wait to get back to the hotel and take one of the horse pills the doc gave me. According to him, I’ll be out the rest of the day.”
“What about the other person who was hit? Who was it?”
There was a brief period of silence. Then he spoke. “I . . . I can’t say. The police don’t want us to mention any names. They haven’t been able to reach his family yet. You understand, right? And you can’t mention me either. We’re keeping my injury under wraps.”
“Of course.” It was her turn to hesitate. The question had to be asked, and although this was probably not the best time or the best situation, at least it wasn’t the worst. She closed her eyes and plunged ahead. “Nick, they mentioned the shirt the man was wearing. You don’t . . . you don’t think that we—that Emily has anything to do with this, do you?”
His lack of response was deafening as well as frightening.
“Oh, c’mon. You can’t believe . . .” She started again. “We’ve handed out thousands of those shirts across the nation and sold tens of thousands of them on our Web site. Just because the gunman was wearing one of them . . .”
More silence.
Rising frustration made her stomach clench in protest. “Nick, if nothing else, you can’t possibly believe that I’d have anything to do with this, do you?”
He finally responded. “You? Of course not, Kate. But Emily? I can’t be sure. After all, the last time our paths crossed, she threatened to shoot me if she saw me again.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous. You know she didn’t mean it literally.”
“Do I? Look at what she did to me after our big blowout. And more recently, what she did to Mark Henderson. The woman doesn’t make idle threats. If she wants someone out of the way, she’ll find a way to remove them from the equation.”
Kate’s stomach did a somersault and she clutched the phone harder for fear of dropping it. What did he know about their involvement with Henderson’s withdrawal?
A new flare of pain sliced through her. She hated playing games with the facts.
“Emily didn’t do anything to Mark Henderson,” she said. That was a technical truth, at least.
“Okay, we’ll play it that way. In any case, I’m not going to argue with you. All I know is that when the gunman came into the office, the staff had already pegged him as either a troublemaker or a kook. One of the staffers had been outside and watched him zip his jacket to cover up the Benton T-shirt, so they figured he’d shown up to be simply a pain in the neck—you know, disrupt the office.
“We let the guy come in, figuring we could film it and use it against you guys, maybe post it on YouTube. We expected a stupid stunt but not a harmful one. He didn’t say anything—just stood there looking a little crazy and lost. So the staff decided to boot him out of there. But when they asked him to leave, he pulled out the gun and started taking potshots.”
Kate heard a noticeable tremor in his voice.
“But here’s the scary part. When he walked in there, he asked to speak to me. He didn’t ask for Chuck Talbot. He asked for me—used my full name. The receptionist even told him she didn’t think they had anyone named Beaudry working there. Nobody among the campaign’s volunteer staff knows who I really am. As far as they’re concerned, I’m just some guy named Nick and they have no idea why I’m here. The press hasn’t even stumbled onto my connection with Talbot’s campaign yet. Only you and Emily know that I’m working for Chuck.”
“You can’t believe—”
“Sure I can,” he said, not letting her finish. “I know exactly how much M hated me, how much she still hates me. She’s a Benton. Bentons don’t forget, and they definitely don’t forgive. If you were me, wouldn’t you be more than a bit suspicious today?”
Indignation swelled inside her, filling the places that guilt had hollowed out. “Nick, I promise you, before God, that Emily had absolutely nothing to do with this. And you know I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Can you be sure?” He didn’t sound convinced. “Listen, Kate, I know you well enough to be sure you had nothing to do with any plans she had to hang Mark Henderson out for public humiliation. You wouldn’t have stood for it. Everybody knows he could have been nailed on the bribery charges alone. And that’s probably what you advised, right? But no, M had to go for the kill, didn’t she? If I know her—and trust me, I do—then I’m sure she orchestrated the whole ugly thing behind your back. Got those tapes into Henderson’s wife’s hands, didn’t she? In the worst possible way? Right?”
Kate clamped her mouth shut. What could she say that wouldn’t make this worse?
“Look, Kate, I trust you. You’ve always played straight with me even when I didn’t deserve it. You play fair in politics, too. So I know you’d never have gone along with a media attack on Henderson’s private life, much less arrange a physical attack on me. But what makes you so sure Emily didn’t plan, coordinate, and execute something like this without your knowledge?”
“She couldn’t have,” Kate said.
“Are you sure? Like I said, she’s done it before.”
He’s just fishing, her conscience cried. Despite his bravado, Nick couldn’t possibly have any proof concerning Emily’s involvement in Henderson’s scandals. If Nick had a shred of proof, he would have brought it to Talbot’s attention or, better yet, to the media’s attention. And somebody surely would have used it against Emily by now.
Unless Nick’s plans are to create maximum exposure and the greatest damage after the primaries, when it’ll be a head-to-head race between the two candidates from the major parties . . .
Nick interrupted her thoughts. “Just think about it, okay, K? You tend to wear blinders when it comes to Emily.” There was a noise in the background. “It’s part of your charm. I gotta go. Ride’s here,” he grunted. “Talk to you later.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Kate said. She hesitated. “I’ll pray for you and the others.”
Nick released a ragged sigh. “Thanks. So will I.”
Kate closed her phone and grasped it in a white-knuckled fist. There was no way on God’s green earth that Emily had done anything like hiring or otherwise coercing a monogrammed gunman into attacking Talbot headquarters. It was
crass, risky, and downright stupid. Emily might be crafty; she might have taken a calculated risk or two . . . dozen in her lifetime; but no one could ever call her stupid.
And having the gunman wear a Vote for Emily shirt while carrying out the attack was much too stupid for anything her friend might pull.
Kate’s conscience swiftly added, Not that Emily’d ever send a gunman . . . even if it wasn’t stupid.
But Kate’s thoughts drifted back to Nick’s cryptic comment: “Look what she did to me after our big blowup.”
Exactly what had Emily done to him?
Kate rose from the couch, moved somewhat unsteadily to the door, and locked it. Once she reached the relative safety of the couch again, she speed-dialed Lee Devlin’s home number. The phone rang several times before a young child answered, “Devlin residence.”
“May I speak to your mother, please?”
Although the voice was that of a six- or seven-year-old, the child had obviously been taught phone manners. “Who is calling, please?”
“Tell her it’s Kate Rosen. Thanks.”
“Hang on.” A second later, a small hand failed to cover the receiver well enough. Kate heard a bellowing “Mom! It’s for you. . . .”
After a few moments, Lee picked up. “I got it in my office. Thanks, Sarah,” she said with obvious affection to the messenger. After a click, signaling that the child had hung up, the tone of Lee’s voice changed completely. “Now remind me again why I gave you my home number?” she complained. “This had better be good.”
“You’re not watching television.”
“No. I was in the middle of making my daughter a snack. What now?”
“About two hours ago, a gunman opened fire in Charles Talbot’s New Hampshire headquarters. One killed, two injured. Luckily Talbot wasn’t there.”
Lee murmured something under her breath.
Kate continued. “This next part doesn’t go beyond you and me, okay?”
“Agree.”
“Nick Beaudry was one of the injured. According to him, the gunman asked for him by name.”
“Beaudry was there? Since when did he start hanging around Charles Talbot? I thought we were looking at him simply because he was one of Emily’s loose ends.”
