Lewis Cole: Primary Storm Part 17

"As a matter of fact, I do. For the duration of the campaign."

"I hope the Lafayette House is charging you full freight."

"I'm sure they are," he said. "Last time, you gave me three hundred seconds. May I request half of that this morning?"

I s.h.i.+fted the papers from one arm to another. "All right. One hundred fifty seconds. Go ahead."

He looked at his watch. "At this time tomorrow, if you haven't agreed to make a statement on behalf of the Grayson campaign, we're going to publicize your Pentagon background and something new as well, something that has just come to our attention."

"And what's that? My unpaid parking tickets from the city of Boston?"

"No," he said, his voice triumphant. "A revelation about your background with Barbara Hale. Your choice. Either the word comes out and it comes from you, or it comes from us. And you get some very nasty news media attention. You come out in support of General Grayson, and you don't have to say anything about Mrs. Hale. Just your support of the Grayson campaign would be enough."

I thought about that, thought about what it might do to the Hale campaign, how Barbara would feel, G.o.d, how Annie would feel ...

Remembered Annie's plea. No more bad news, please, she had said. No more bad news about you and Hale.

"No," I said. "No, what?"

"No, I'm not going to say anything tomorrow, and no, neither will you."

He laughed, unfolded his arms. "Or what?"

"Or you'll regret it."

A smile was still on his face, and he reached over and grabbed my upper arm, squeezing it hard. "Mr. Cole, I may be retired navy, but I'm still in shape. Much better shape than you, I would guess. If anyone's going to be hurt, it's going to be you. And if you think you can threaten me, prevent me, stop me from doing what's right for General Grayson's campaign, then I just have three words for you. Bring it on."

I pulled my arm free, nodded, and walked past him. "Consider it brought."

Outside the sun was still s.h.i.+ning and it looked like the day might improve, when I got to my Ford Explorer and saw that some thoughtful person had keyed both sides of my vehicle. On the pa.s.senger's side it was just a series of scratches, but on the driver's side, inspiration must have set in, for scratched in the paint was PIG.

Not very imaginative, but the point had been made. I got in and went home.

At home I went through the papers and made two phone calls to Felix Tinios, but he wasn't home or reachable through his cell phone. I got his to-the-point message twice: "Leave your name and number," which I did. An attempt to reach Annie was also equally unsuccessful.

Usually I like to take my time going through the morning papers, contrasting and comparing the different coverage and editorials, but this morning, well, there was too much going on. I had a late breakfast and even later shower, and as I was putting on a pair of socks, the phone rang.

"Lewis?"

"Hey, it's the soon-to-be-famous Paula Quinn," I replied. The expected laugh didn't come from the Tyler Chronicle's best reporter, but what she said next made me close my eyes in embarra.s.sment. "Not famous enough, if you forgot our lunch date today. I'm all by myself at the Harborview Restaurant."

I said something that James had said just that morning, and then said, "Ten minutes," and I finished dressing and got the h.e.l.l out.

By the time the check arrived and I had pa.s.sed along my credit card to the waitress, overruling Paula's earlier promise to pay, Paula's mood had improved. Some time ago we had shared a brief romance that hadn't panned out, and after some rough patches, we were doing well. Odd, but I didn't have that vaguely uncomfortable and queasy feeling with her that I had with Barbara Scott Hale. Maybe it was because Barbara was married and Paula wasn't, or that there was still a sense of unfinished business with Barbara and me and none with Paula, but I didn't want to think too much about it. Instead, I just sat and enjoyed lunch with her, admiring her little upturned nose, her smile, and the cute way her ears would sometimes poke through her blond hair.

Despite its name, the Harborview was in the center of Tyler proper, and only by standing on the roof and holding on to the fake cupola could anyone see a view of Tyler Harbor. Still, it's a popular place with the locals and tourists, and today, even in January, it was fairly busy. We sat in a booth that overlooked a mound of plowed, dirty snow in the parking lot, the cars and SUVs out there lightened by a faint white sheen that comes from the salt dumped on the roads to keep them clear.

I looked around and said, "I get the feeling most of these people won't be here come the day after Primary Day."

"So true," she said, sipping at her second iced tea. "You know the musical and movie Brigadoon?"

"Sure. About a mythical Scottish village that only appears to the rest of the world every hundred years or so."

"That's right. And this little state of ours is like Brigadoon. For three years in a row, we're just a little backwater, the p.r.i.c.kly state north of Ma.s.sachusetts that is mostly ignored by the rest of the world. Then ... in that fourth year, something magical happens. This little state of just over a million people becomes power central. Pretty funny, isn't it. This little state of tax avoiders and sensible-shoe wearers and independent cusses plays a prominent role in who the quote leader of the free world unquote is going to be. If anyone had a question of whether G.o.d had a sense of humor, our little state and how we pick the president should settle it."

"And how are you doing?"

She smiled. "I love it. Honest to G.o.d I do. You know why?"

"Access," I said.

She stuck her tongue out at me. "Show-off. Yes, absolutely, access. The candidates need to get their message out to the locals, and the locals don't trust the big media, even the not-so-big media from Boston. So us little folks get all the attention from the candidates and their campaigns. When most times some local police chiefs enjoy their power trips by not calling us back in a day or so, it's wonderful to have media reps calling from Was.h.i.+ngton or Manhattan, wanting to know if we'd like to have a private, one-on-one lunch with the candidate that day. It's delightful"

The waitress came back with the check, and when she left I said, "So. Primary Day next Tuesday. Who's going to win?"

Paula said, "Well, of course, that depends on who you talk to, or who's going to spin what. The easiest prediction is that the junior senator from our southern neighbor, Nash Pomeroy, should win it in a walk. Favorite son and all that. And that's what his campaign is pumping ... then there's Senator Hale. A Southern boy who one wouldn't think would do well in New Hamps.h.i.+re, but he just won in Iowa, and people love a winner. So it depends on whether, one, the voters want to vote for a winner, or two, vote for somebody else to shake things up so that New Hamps.h.i.+re isn't taken for granted."

"You hear anything about the Hale campaign?"

She made a face. "Considering who you're spending time with, I'd think you'd have an inside track on that."

"Maybe yes, maybe no. What do you hear?"

"Me? Usual stuff. Campaign in chaos, moving forward on momentum, need a win here in New Hamps.h.i.+re to bring in more big bucks for the Southern primaries. But even if he comes in second-or third, which I doubt-he'll stay in it for a while. He's from the South. Lots of primaries coming up in the South."

"That's it? No other gossip or dark tales or rumors?"

"If there is, I haven't heard it."

"How about General Grayson? Or Congressman Wallace?

How are they going to do next Tuesday?"

She finished off her iced tea. "In a purely logical, mathematical sense, they will lose. But I'll predict here and now, my friend, each will declare himself a winner, no matter the outcome. They'll play the expectations game. Each side will tell pollsters and columnists and reporters that their internal polls only have them winning five percent of the vote, so when they actually win ten percent of the vote, all these sober-minded reporters can write inspiring stories of how they did better than expected, and how this has breathed new life in the struggling campaign of blah, blah, blah."

I reached behind me for my coat. "So. Who do you think's going to win?"

Paula made me laugh by lowering her voice, pretending to be some sort of television anchorman, and announcing, "Well, Lewis, the American people will win next Tuesday, of course .... "

Outside there was no breeze and the thin January sunlight felt good on my face. I walked Paula to her car and she said, "You and Annie ... how's it going?"

"Goes well, between campaign meetings and appearances." She grabbed my hand. "Good. You make it work, or I'll hurt you. Understand? She's good people, and I like what she's done to your mood."

"Thanks for the advice. And how's the town counsel, Mr. Spencer, treating you?"

She looked embarra.s.sed and suddenly ten years younger.

"He's ... he's fine ... and you know what?"

"What?"

She touched her left ear, just for a moment. "He ... thinks I should get my ears done. Flatten them so they don't poke out like they do. What do you think?"

I kissed her cheek. "I think he's a bonehead, that's what I think."

At home I tried to spend some productive time in front of the computer, to come up again with a snappy column idea for June, and after a half hour or so of false starts, it just wasn't happening. Then I logged on to the Internet, to see what nonsense was being written about the primary and my home state, and after some time slogging through stories written by reporters who think it's charming as all h.e.l.l that most of the small towns here still have white clapboard churches around gra.s.sy town commons, I spent some time searching for something about Barbara Hale and her famous husband.

I didn't find much. Through the magical powers of the Internet, I found some old file stories written when Hale was first elected senator, and a nice profile in the Was.h.i.+ngton Post's Style section, written after Hale had announced his candidacy, but not much else. It was odd to call up a search system on the Internet, and see dozens and dozens of photos of a woman who you once were intimate with, knowing that your mind's eye had clearer and better photos than what existed in the digital universe.

I also viewed some video clips as well, Barbara appearing with her husband, almost stuck to his side, as he appeared at campaign rallies in Iowa and Michigan and, yes, of course, New Hamps.h.i.+re. And in those clips, I saw her smile, saw her enthusiasm, and saw her devotion to her spouse, and something just didn't seem right.

Why would anyone want to kill her? What would be the point? Was she overreacting, and the real attempt had been against her husband, like everyone else thought?

And for G.o.d's sake, what in h.e.l.l was Spenser Harris's role in all of this, and who had killed him and dumped him in my yard?

I looked at the clips, again and again, and there was a little tickling at the back of my skull, just the barest hint that something was wrong, and whatever it was, it was gone, the minute the phone rang.

Yes?" I answered.

"You rang?"

It was Felix Tinios, and I spun around in my chair and put my feet up on the nearest windowsill and said, "Thanks for calling me back. Sounds like you're at a hog-calling festival or something equally charming."

He sighed. "I wish. Days like this, you get a better cla.s.s of people at a hog-calling festival. Nope, I'm at O'Hare, ready to come home in an hour."

"Chicago? What in h.e.l.l are you doing there?"

"My new job, son. Oppo for the Pomeroy campaign."

"A Ma.s.sachusetts senator, and you're in Illinois?"

"The world of the oppo researcher travels far and wide. Especially when your subject has some interesting hobbies, none of which I'm going to mention over an open line. What's up with you?"

"You going to be tired when you get home?"

"Probably."

"Feel like a job?"

"A job? From you?"

"Yep."

Felix said cautiously, "It's ... it's not a moving job, is it?"

"G.o.d, no," I said. "I've had enough of those to last a lifetime. Nope, something else. Tell me, ever see the movie All the President's Men?"

"Sure. Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford. You got a newspaper job lined up for me?"

"Nope. Something else."

"Oh ... okay, I got it. What time suits you?" "Flying into Boston or Manchester?"

"Manchester. Just after eleven."

"How about if I pick you up and we go on from there?"

"Fine." And then he laughed. "Looking forward to it, if you can believe it. It'll be a nice change after digging up dirt all these days."

And after another minute or two of receiving flight and arrival information, I hung up and made another phone call.

It took some maneuvering, but I got through to the Hale for President campaign headquarters in Manchester, and actually got somebody on the line who knew Annie Wynn. "Hold on, I'll see if I can get her," and I could hear the phone clunk on a tabletop, and in the background, there was the noise of voices and keyboards being slapped and a television program, and then there was a clatter, and the phone was picked up.

"Annie Wynn."

"It's Lewis. How are you?"

A sigh. "It's been one of those days ... look, I can't talk much. Did you ride out the storm all right?"

"I did, and when I see you next, I've got a funny story to tell you."

"My friend ... it won't be tonight, I'm sorry. Maybe tomorrow." It seemed like the noise in the background grew louder.

"Well, how about dinner? I could drive out to Manchester."

Another sigh. "Cold pizza is what's ahead of me, Lewis. A wonderful thought, but I can't leave here tonight. There's too much going on. Look, I've got to run. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Deal?"

"Deal," I said, and that was that.

I put the phone down, stared at it for a bit, and then picked it up and did some additional calling.

Two hours later, I was in Manchester, wearing my best suit and best wool overcoat, and even shoes that matched. I parked about a block away from my destination, and walked gingerly along the slippery sidewalks. Snow piles were still on the sides of the street, and they were sprinkled with campaign signs from all the campaigns, like candles on a soggy slice of ice cream cake, melting on a plate.

Over my shoulder I carried a wide leather bag that b.u.mped against my hip, and which was warm to the touch. I tried not to think too much of what I had in there as I made my way to the well-lit storefront that announced HALE FOR PRESIDENT. Inside I wiped my feet and took in the scenery. There were rows and rows of battered metal desks manned by men and women, mostly young and intense-looking. Phones were ringing, photocopying machines were humming, and hardly anybody was paying attention to the four television sets in one corner, all of them turned to a different cable news channel. Posters of Senator Hale were taped to the walls, and there was the constant movement and hum of people at work.

I stood there, just taking it all in, when a woman spotted me and came over, her sweater festooned with Hale b.u.t.tons, and carrying a clipboard. She was about ten years younger than me, pudgy, with a no-nonsense att.i.tude about her.

"Can I help you?" she asked, looking past me, as if counting down the seconds as to when she could pa.s.s me off to somebody else lower on the food chain.

"You certainly can," I said, removing a thin leather wallet from inside my coat. I flashed it open and quickly closed it. "The name's Cole. I'm from the FEC. I need two things, and I need them now."

Well, that got her attention. She was no longer staring over my shoulder. "What's the problem?"

"There is no problem," I said. "And it'll remain that way if I get what I need right away."

"What's that?"

"A private office, with a door, and a campaign worker you have here. One Miss Annie Wynn."