The Candidate (12 page)

Dee shook her head and walked to the window. She looked out over the snowy white streetscape of Berlin. It was still early and barely a soul was moving outside in the half-gray morning light.

“What is it with you men? You can’t trust a single one of you not to follow your cock into the strangest damn places. Ya’ll ain’t got the discipline that we women have. I mean we have the same desires. Believe me, I’ve been tempted by enough skirt in my time. But, by Christ, I’ve got my priorities straight. I know what’s important.”

Mike opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it.

“It’s especially true with big dogs like our Jack. I mean just look at Bill Clinton. That fool had the world at his fingertips and he let it all slide for a blow job from the office intern.”

Mike did not know what to say. Dee turned around and looked at him. She sounded more puzzled than angry.

“But I tell you one thing, if this is somehow linked to a woman then I’m amazed Christine hasn’t cut his pecker off. She may look like she’s just a country club blonde but that one’s made of steel underneath those nice clothes. There’s some cold, hard metal tottering around on those stilettos.”

Mike was surprised. He did not think of Christine like that. She appeared such a typical candidate’s wife. Perfect for any occasion, an asset in front of the TV cameras and also in private at any number of fund-raising dinners. Politically, the only disadvantage to their marriage was she and Hodges were not able to have children; denying them the picture-perfect image of the All American nuclear family. But Christine more than made up for it. She created a virtue of the issue by becoming a sympathetic and powerful spokesperson for childless couples and infertility clinics.

“But she sent the money, not Hodges,” Mike said.

“Yeah,” said Dee. “That’s what gives me hope. I guess the truth is we don’t know what this means. My guess is Stanton’s people don’t either. They just want to put the information out there and see where it goes. But I don’t like the coincidences here. Our friend in jail is from Guatemala. Now it seems our candidate is sending money down there for God knows what reason.”

Dee sat down again.

“We have to run a deeper game on our own man. I want you to get yourself back to Iowa. Keep digging on our shooter. Then follow up this lead. Go to this place in Guatemala on the money transfer… what the fuck is it called…? Livingston? Find this guy Carillo who collected the cash.”

Mike knew this was coming. But still it felt like a shock. He was going to dig up dirt on Hodges himself. Investigate his own candidate. For the good of the campaign.

“You okay with this, Mike?”

Mike nodded. Dee came up to him and rested her hand on his shoulder.

“Jack can’t know anything about it, Mike. We need to find out the truth if we are to protect him. Maybe even protect him from himself.”

She held his gaze.

“You trust me, Mike, right?”

He looked back at her.

“I trust you,” he whispered.

* * *

DEE WATCHED from the back of the hall as Hodges walked into the high school gymnasium. It was the last stop in Berlin before they drove south for a lightning set of meetings in the rest of New Hampshire. There was not going to be time here for much of a speech, just a few words and a wave at the mob of school kids herded obediently into the room. Hodges walked a line of teachers and shook each by the hand as the crowd of children applauded and cheered. The youngsters actually looked interested, she thought, which was rare. Still, there was one sure thing that kids these days were impressed by: celebrity. Hodges was definitely that now.

She watched him carefully. She traced the lines of his face and read his lips as he spoke with each person he met. Her mind still rang from this morning’s bombshell. Perhaps if she peered hard enough she could read Hodges’ mind, discover if any dark secrets lurked there. But, of course, there was nothing. Just Hodges flashing his winning grin, seducing people with his glow, giving them hope and making them believe in him. Dee folded her hands across her chest. A surge of anger stirred deep in her breast. Images of her childhood rose up; her family, mired in poverty struggling in Louisiana. She could almost hear her grandfather’s native Cajun French whispered in her ear, swearing at the injustices of a forgotten world in the language of the bayou.

“Don’t you let me
down, feet pue tan,
” she thought. “Don’t you ever let me down.”

* * *

IOWA WAS different to Mike now. As he pulled up at the familiar gates of the jail he felt like someone left behind after the party ended. The streets were still lined with placards and posters. The gardens, covered in snow, still had yard signs poking out of the drifts. But many of them were for campaigns that had now collapsed. The lights were on, the glasses swept away, the floors mopped. The party was over and moved on to New Hampshire. Iowa was a state with a political hangover.

Mike even felt his own senses dull from being back here. He felt a throbbing ache pound at the back of his head that did not dissipate as he walked into the harsh light of the jail and smiled at the guard assigned to meet him. Mike was amazed at how easy it was. They could dodge normal procedure simply because the governor liked Hodges and Dee had the governor’s private number on speed dial. But that was the way the world worked and Mike knew he must take full advantage of it. As a guard led Mike through the jail to the interview room he quizzed his companion. Prison gossip was hardly a reliable source of information but it had already paid major dividends.

“You guys got anything new on this woman? A name even?” Mike asked.

The guard shrugged his shoulders.

“We’ve been running checks on all the mental health institutions from here to Maine, seeing if any of them have a psycho missing. We’ve got nothing. No matches at all,” he said.

“She spoken a word yet?”

The guard laughed. “Nope. She’s a Grade A nutjob. They’re the ones no one can legislate for,” he said. “I just thank God she missed your Senator. Didn’t get anyone killed.”

“Well,” Mike said. “I thought we’d give it one last try and see if we can get something out of her. She might prefer to talk to a civilian and not a cop or a guard.”

The man held open the door to the interrogation room and ushered Mike in. The shooter was already there, her jumpsuit a flash of color in the bright, white room. The guard carried on talking about her as if she was not present.

“Maybe,” the guard said. “But I doubt it. It’s time to just shut the door and throw away the key on this one. She’s not going to see the light of day again for a long, long time.”

Mike didn’t respond, but sat down and waited to hear the door clang shut behind him. Silence now filled the room. There was not a flicker of recognition as he looked at her. He waited for a few moments and gathered his thoughts. He came here with a speech planned, a monologue to tease something out of her, prompt her to react again like last time, with a terrifying flash of temper. But, facing her, it faded from his mind, sucked out of him as she ate up all the energy from the room. He sighed and closed his eyes. What did he have? Just one fact. Just one thing he knew that no one else did. No one apart from an immigrant meat plant worker in the frozen wilds of west Kansas.

“You are from Guatemala,” he said. “You are a Mayan. You speak Kaqchikel.”

She looked at him now. Mike felt the hairs on his arms stand up as she lifted her head and stared. It was like the temperature of the room plummeted to below freezing and he stifled a shiver that trembled down his spine. He forced out more words, half-expecting to see his breath freeze.

“Before you tried to kill the Senator you prayed. You said the Lord’s prayer in your native language.”

Her eyes were suddenly alive. Her mouth opened slightly and she seemed human, shrinking in front of Mike’s eyes, her tanned skin warming. She hesitated and Mike nodded. His gaze never left hers and pleaded with her to break the silence. It seemed like a benediction and she opened her mouth.

“I meant to leave no sign,” she said in slow but fluent English.

He had wondered what her voice would sound like. Imagined it as hard and full of menace. But it was soft and whispering, edged only by a harshness from using muscles that were silent for so long.

“Who are you?” Mike asked.

She shook her head. “I am an Angel of vengeance,” she said.

Mike felt a pang of fear strike him and remembered the violence he glimpsed behind those eyes on his last visit. The words of the guard echoed back to him. Perhaps she was insane.

“Why did you try to kill Senator Hodges?” he asked.

“In my bible there is a description of this man. It says: “Be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walks about, seeking whom he may devour.”

“You believe the Senator is the Devil?” Mike asked.

She laughed, a ragged sound. “After a lifetime of sin, I decided to finally obey my God,” she said.

She reached out a hand, slowly, wrapping her fingers gently around Mike’s wrist. Her touch was warm, but firm.

“You know nothing,
Americano,
” she said.

Mike knew she would not speak again. He looked at her and it was like she had faded out of the room, appearing and disappearing in front of him. He stayed there for ten minutes more, looking at her, following her eyes as they wandered around the room, wondering at what she saw. He was certain it was not the same four walls that he did. Her mind doubtless gazed beyond the jail back down whatever unimaginable path brought her here. Eventually Mike got up and walked out, turning his back on her. The guard outside looked up from reading his newspaper.

“She say anything?” the guard asked.

“Not a word.”

The casual lie barely left his mouth when he felt he heard Dee’s voice in his ear, whispering her praise at his talent for deception. “You’re good at this, Mike,” she had said.

CHAPTER 9

DEE WALKED INTO McCordy’s bistro still wearing her thick woolen scarf and hat that fought off the cold of the Manchester night outside. Yet the warm blast of air inside the restaurant made her wrap the clothes more tightly around her as she concealed her face. She nodded at a waiter.

“Reservation for Jones. Party of two,” she said.

She followed the man through a bustle of tables thankfully devoid of any familiar faces. She did not want to be seen in this place, not with the man she was about to meet. It might set too many gossipy tongues wagging. But her dining companion insisted on this restaurant, smack in the middle of downtown, serving up its pricey steaks and blowing the cash gifted to them by donors with little idea it ended up being spent on such expensive meat. Still, at least he booked a private booth, hidden from prying eyes. The waiter pulled back a dark red curtain to a backroom and she saw that he was already waiting for her.

Howard Carver. Harriet Stanton’s campaign manager.

“Good evening, Howie,” Dee said. She could not resist using the pet name she knew he hated.

“Good to see you, Dee,” Carver replied, though Dee fancied she caught a slight wince as he said the words. The thought thrilled her.

Carver was everything Dee was not. He was a patrician from the old school, part of a clique that dominated the party for two decades. He was born rich, the son of a congressman. Dee suspected, rightly, he never knew anyone like her until she forced herself into his world. It was not just her sex, or even her sexuality. It was that she was born with nothing. Everything she possessed, she had taken. Everything Carver had, he was given.

Yet each presidential campaign of the last six election cycles featured Carver prominently and win-or-lose he always came back into play. He was immune to the impact of actual results. He was the epitome of the establishment, exerting firm control over Stanton’s staffing. Dee suspected – no she
knew –
he played a role in keeping her out of the upper echelons of Stanton’s staff. The fact that she now headed Hodges’ operation now must wound him deeply. Dee hoped so. She hated men like him. He was all machine with no fire in his belly for the actual voters. For him politics played out in smoky back rooms of restaurants like this. It was not on the streets or in the town halls. She sat down opposite him and ordered whisky and a burger. Carver, of course, had the steak. Rare.

“You must be scared shitless to want to see me, Howie,” Dee said, relaxing back into her chair.

Carver smiled thinly, his jowly face sagging beneath a thinning shock of gray hair.

“Not at all, Dee. Our numbers are sound. We’re going to win New Hampshire. Then we’ll be two out of two.”

Dee smiled. “Then why are you sticking notes under folks’ hotel doors? That’s a low move,
cocotte,
” Dee hissed suddenly and then, struggling, she recovered herself. “Pardon my French. You can take a Cajun girl out of the bayou but not the bayou out of the Cajun girl.”

Carver shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean, Dee. We’ve done nothing like that,” he said.

Dee looked at him. Nothing disturbed his cool demeanor. Not even his bold lie. “Really?” she snapped.