Primary Storm (29 page)

Downstairs I grabbed my coat and a duped copy of the Lafayette House surveillance tape, and in addition to my cell phone, I thought about bringing something else. I hesitated, and then shrugged and went back upstairs. Better to be safe, and I thought Felix would approve, though I'm not sure about Diane. From my bedroom I grabbed my nine-millimeter Beretta and shoulder holster, and slid it on underneath my cardigan. The heavy weight on my shoulder felt almost comforting. I then went downstairs and outside to the crisp January morning. Freshly showered, fed, dressed, and armed, I felt like I was ready to take on the day and win.

My Ford Explorer started right up and in a matter of moments, I was heading north. My plan was a simple one. I was to see Audrey Whittaker and see her I would, for there was no doubt --- with the primary just two days away --- that she should be either home or somewhere reachable. Then, I would show her the tape, and tell her my demands: layoff. Just layoff whatever the hell she was doing. For I was doing this for two women in my life, one past, one present, each of whom was hoping for the very same thing. For Barbara, and for Annie, I would ensure that things would be quiet, at least, for this upcoming primary, so their man would have a clear shot at the White House.

After Tuesday ... well, I'm not sure but I thought I would probably be an accessory to covering up a crime. I had no doubt about the circumstances of Spenser Harris's death, or whoever he was. I just wasn't too upset about it, since he had been part of something that was going to put my butt in jail, and if his body was to be dumped on the side of a road in rural Massachusetts sometime this spring, well, I'd let the professionals sort it out.

In the meantime, it was a glorious Sunday and the road was clear on my drive to Wallis and the home of Audrey Whittaker, and I was going to take care of everything. And tomorrow night I'd be at that party with Annie, and wish good luck to Mrs. Barbara Hale and her husband, and after Tuesday, everything would be back to where it should be.

In any event, that was my plan.

And as the old joke goes, if you want to make God laugh, make plans.

I looked quickly to the right before I turned into Audrey Whittaker's house, to see that little stretch of beach that had caused such heartache to a Massachusetts family that didn't like being bossed around by an old New Hampshire lady. I wasn't too worried about what she might do to me ---- even if she did shoot Spenser Harris --- for I was fairly independent and relied on almost no one else for my health and livelihood. And I was also sure that we would reach some sort of understanding, for it was in her interests, as well, to keep up her appearance as the grand dame of New Hampshire politics. And if it was going to take a bit of time to reach an agreement, the Beretta within easy reach would ensure that I wouldn't end up like Spenser Harris.

There was no checkpoint at the driveway entrance so I sped right up, and noted a couple of SUVs in addition to the Jaguar with the WHTKR vanity plate. I parked my Explorer and got out, and shook my head again at the PIG scraped into the paint. I would really have to get that fixed, one of these days.

Up at the massive oak door, I pressed the doorbell but didn't hear a thing. Maybe it's a sign of being rich and powerful, that you can't hear your doorbells from outside, so I pressed it again.

This time, the door opened up.

I waited, duped tape in my hand.

"Yes?" came the woman's voice, and I hesitated, disappointed, for it wasn't the right woman.

Instead of Audrey Whittaker, there was a young, strong looking woman, wearing black slacks and a black turtleneck shirt, and her blond hair was cut quite short, and seemed to be a dye job.

"I'm looking for Audrey Whittaker," I said.

"Is she expecting you?" she replied, and her voice had a slight Hispanic accent. I thought I had seen her before, perhaps the last time I had been here.

"No, but it's urgent that I see her. My name is Lewis Cole." She smiled and shook her head. Now I was sure. She had been with that catering crew that night, no doubt one of Mrs. Whittaker's employees. "She's not here, but if you come in, I'm sure I can get somebody to help you."

"Thanks," I said, walking in and letting the door slam shut behind me.

I was in the large reception area, and it looked so different from the last time I was here, with the people milling about, the HALE FOR PRESIDENT signs, the check-in table and the coat area. Now, the place looked like it really did, wide and open and almost sterile. My house was old and small and was cold in the winter and too warm in the summer, and beach sand sometimes got into the sheets and the sugar container, but at least it was a home. This was an estate, and I decided I didn't like it.

Voices, out in the large hallway that led into the house, and I turned at the sound of a male voice, a male Southern voice, as the man said, "I was just leaving, but maybe I can help you. Mr. Cole, you said you wanted to see Mrs. Whittaker?"

I turned and saw a man with a red beard there, a man I had seen a couple of times before, here and at the Tyler Conference Center, what was his name, it was ... Harmon. Harmon Jewett, that was it. Longtime loyal Jackson Hale supporter, a man who wanted to see Hale elected president no matter what, a man who, as Annie said, had a temper that could curl paint off the side of the house ...

And a man who was walking toward me, carrying his coat and gloves in his hands.

A belted white trench coat. And black gloves.

Like the driver and shooter in the videotape I was carrying in my hand.

I looked at his clothing and looked at him, and said, "No, I'm all set. I'll come back later."

Harmon shrugged. "Suit yourself."

I turned and before me was the door leading out of this large and empty and cold house, and as I went to the door, to safety, something powerful struck me at the back and brought me down.

I think I screamed. Or yelled. Not sure. But one thing was for sure:

I bit my tongue and struck my head when I fell. My body was out of control, was moving on its own, my legs trembling and flailing, my arms and hands spasming. The floor was cold and harsh against my skin. I tried to roll over and step back up but it was impossible, my body had suddenly short-circuited, had failed me, and I managed to look up and Harmon was standing there, looking satisfied but grim.

"So glad you came by," he said. "Saved me and Carla here from having to fetch you, you dumb fuck."

Something in his hand crackled and there was a black plastic object, blue lightning flowing between two electrodes, and he knelt down and shoved it in my back, and I screamed again, flailing.

He pulled his hand back, smiling. "Amazing how ten thousand volts can get somebody's attention. Carla, c'mon, we don't have much time, what do you have to tie 'im up with?"

Carla replied in Spanish and Harmon said, "Fuck it, we'll make do with what we got here. Damn jerk threw us off schedule. I'll take care of him, you see what the hell's on that tape he brought. Must be something important if he was holdin' it like that."

Hands worked at my necktie and my belt, and my hands and ankles were tied together, and I tried to talk but my tongue had swollen up and it didn't seem like everything was working well. Carla left my field of vision and Harmon patted me down and pulled out my Beretta and laughed in my face.

"What the hell were you going to do with that, boy?" he asked, waving it in front of my nose. "Threaten that shriveled old bitch with it, make her wet her adult diapers? Christ on a crutch, boy, she lets me and others in the campaign use her home and her food and her car to further the career of one Jackson Hale, you think you were going to do anything with this to change her mind? Or scare her? Stupid bitch thinks she's gonna get a slow dance next January twentieth with Jackson, and nothing like you can do anything about it."

Carla appeared, a bit breathless. "Saw the tape,
jefe.
Looks like you're on it, the day Spennie got whacked."

Harmon laughed and said, "Okay, destroy it, and when I say destroy it, melt the little fucker so nothin' can get salvaged off it. The way they can reconstruct tapes nowadays, there's no way I'd take a chance on that. I'll take care of our friend here. Lord knows, we're gonna need him tomorrow."

Carla left my view again, and then Harmon grabbed my legs, started dragging. My mind was foggy, my legs and arms still twitched, and there was a metallic taste in my mouth, from where I had bit myself.

As he dragged me, he kept up a little chat, like he was happy to hear his own voice. "We had you set up months ago, pal, to do what had to be done. All that hard work, plottin' and plannin' in the shadows. Thought we had every angle figured out. But how the fuck was I gonna plan on you tossin' your cookies so you didn't get arrested at the shooting and get us all those lovely headlines? Fool ... But good plans always have Plan Bs, and you're gonna be nice and set for Plan B."

My head hurt, from having fallen and from having been dragged across the cold tile. Somewhere a door opened, the creaking hinges sounding so loud it made my head hurt even that much more, and Harmon knelt down again. "Here's the set. Old bitch Whittaker, her first husband drunk so much she didn't want a sloppy drunk living with her again, so she cleaned out first hubbies wine cellar, so it's empty now, and I hope you're not thirsty, 'cause that's where you're gonna be kept for a while ... oh, and one more thing. You be a good boy or I'll come back down there to visit you. Unnerstand?"

Again, I moved my mouth, but nothing came out, not even a whisper.

Crackle, crackle
, came the noise, and I screamed once more, quite loud, arching my back, as the stun gun was shoved into me again. Harmon got up, breathing hard. "Didn't hear a word from you, so wanted to make sure I made my point. Okay, pal, here you go. Watch that first step."

Some first step. He dragged me through the door and shoved me down some stone steps, and my head struck the stone again, and my jaw, and the back of my head, and I yelled or screamed again, and there was the slam of the door, and then, darkness.

Darkness, where everything seemed to hurt.

I was out of it for a while, not sure of the length of time. I think it was for a long while. But eventually I became aware of some things, like my arms and wrists aching, and my feet falling asleep, but most of all, the taste of copper in my mouth and the deep, throbbing, aching pain along the side of my face. I gingerly moved my jaw, and though it didn't seem broken, it sure as hell had been dinged up some.

I then was aware that I was on my side, on a stone floor. I breathed some and exerted and breathed, and managed to sit up. That seemed to have been a mistake. My head spun and nausea rippled through my stomach and saliva gurgled up in my mouth, and it took some long minutes of deep breathing before I didn't feel like throwing up.

I blinked my eyes a few times. At first I thought the room was pitch black and as dark as the interior of a tomb, but there was light coming in from somewhere. I moved my head about and made out two tiny windows, about ten or twelve feet off the ground, off to the right. I looked around a bit more and took in the small wine cellar. It looked like there were empty wooden shelves along the stone walls, fit for hundreds and hundreds of wine bottles, and not much else. Behind me was the stone staircase that Harmon had so thoughtfully tossed me down some time ago.

I tried to straighten my legs out, but I didn't have much success. I took a deep breath, tried to propel myself up, and my feet slipped and I fell back and struck my head on the stones, and all was darkness again.

When I came around the light was even dimmer. I looked to the tiny windows and saw that whatever light was coming through had to be from an outside spotlight or something. Which meant it was evening, though I didn't know how late it was. But New Hampshire winters produce pitch darkness after 4:00 P.M. or thereabouts, so who really knew. All I knew was that I was in one serious world of hurt.

I moved around some and this time, I got my legs straightened out. Took a breath. Took stock. Arms and wrists still aching, feet and hands tingling from lack of circulation. Jaw and head one big throbbing mess of a headache, but still, no apparent broken bones. Took another breath. Started to think.

Harmon Jewett. Annie had told me how he was utterly devoted to Jackson Hale, would do anything and everything to further Hale's career. And I remembered what Barbara had told me, the last time I had seen her, in Manchester. About how some crazed people in a campaign would do anything to see their man elected, even up to and including the attempted shooting and killing of the candidate's wife.

Harmon Jewett. Looked pretty damn crazed to me. Had set me up for the shooting at the Tyler Conference Center, and from his talk about Plan B, I was going to be set up for something on Monday, the day before the primary.

I didn't know the how and where, but I was sure of the why: to get his man elected.

And maybe he would get elected. I don't know. But I did know that I hadn't volunteered to be part of anybody’s damn plan, and I was going to do something about it.

I moved. Ouch, damn it, and I whispered, "Pretty bold talk for a man all bound up."

So. Time to get unbound.

By now my eyes had adjusted even better in the darkness, and I saw that except for the shelves, the place was pretty damn empty. It was about fifteen feet square and cool, and I started to move out in the center of the room, by folding and unfolding my bound legs like some overgrown centipede. I had moved about halfway out into the room when I had to stop. I was breathing so hard it made my jaw and head ache even more, and I was afraid the pain would make me pass out again. So I stopped, looked at where I had come from.