The Governor's Lady (28 page)

He gave her a long look, then left the doorway and flopped into a chair at the other end of the table. “I don’t want to meddle in anything personal here.”

“I don’t see any way to avoid it. If you’re going to help me, I have to be honest with you. So here it is. It’s obvious, as you’ve figured out, that Pickett never intended for me to be anything but a stand-in. He left Roger behind to babysit. He kept his Posse in place. And last night, when I tried to do something on my own, he cut me off.”

“And you didn’t suspect something before now?”

“I didn’t ask enough questions. Pickett was vague. I let him be. Assumed too much.”

“You trusted a conniving politician whose only concern is himself.”

“Do you hate politicians, Wheeler?”

“I’ve made my living off ’em since I started scribbling for newspapers. What I hate is dishonesty. Politicians lie, to others and themselves. They rationalize what they do so well it becomes an art form.”

“Are we politicians being dishonest when we make deals?”

“Hell no. If you want to get something done, you bargain and compromise. Your father was a master deal-maker. He wasn’t a saint, but he rarely made a deal I thought was dishonest or self-serving. And Mickey understands how all that works, better than anybody I’ve ever known. She’s a consummate politician. You’ve got the bloodline, and I think you’ve got the instincts.”

“So the deal I made with Pickett …”

“As you say, you got what you needed to do your job.”

“I hate that the state’s in such a mess, but it played into my hands.”

He nodded. “Will the deal hold? Can you trust him on this?”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t know. Any advice?”

He looked out the glass door into the command post, where Doster was bustling about, trying to look importantly useful. Her eyes followed his.

“Yeah. Fire that sonofabitch.”

She pondered that for a moment. “Tell me about this place.”

He scrunched up his face so his thick eyebrows pinched together. “Public Safety is the worst kind of old-boy club. Doster and his crowd are incompetent. They protect each other’s asses and come down hard on anybody who doesn’t go along. The people in the ranks are demoralized because they know clowns are running the place.”

“Are the clowns corrupt?”

“Some minor scandals, but Doster’s bunch is pretty good at keeping the lid on. Everybody over here is afraid to talk.”

“Why didn’t somebody, Pickett included, clean out the place?”

“It’s like J. Edgar Hoover and the FBI. A whole string of presidents wanted to get rid of him, but they were afraid to. Hoover knew too much about too many people.”

“Does Doster know too much?”

“Nobody outside this building can say for sure what he knows.”

She rose at her end of the table, gathering up notes she had made during the day. “We’ll come back to this. Soon.”

Wheeler started for the door but stopped before he opened it. “Most politicians go into office with a shitload of baggage—IOUs to people who helped ’em get there. Your only baggage is Pickett, because he engineered things. You’ve got freedom most don’t have. You’ll have to bargain, just like every politician. Just be honest about it, especially with yourself.”

“I will, Wheeler. I promise you that.”

She spent most of the afternoon making calls, Woodrow beside her at another console. She talked to mayors, commissioners, fire and police chiefs, sheriffs, rescue squad members. They each seemed surprised by the call and grateful for the simple act of making contact. The calls gave her a humbling appreciation for the vastness of her job, all those people depending on each other and now on her.

She was exhausted, drained by the mental and emotional toll of the day but satisfied she had done everything she could. Cleve Spainhour, she told herself, would agree.

Woodrow appeared with two paper cups, handed her one. She took a sip, and her eyebrows went up. “Let’s go to my office,” she said with a smile.

It was just the two of them in the conference room. She took another sip and felt the scotch warm its way down into her stomach. “Glory be,” she said quietly.

They drank in silence.

“Thank you for today,” she said.

“Part of the job.”

“But more than that.”

“Well, yes …” He paused, studying his cup. “Considering everything.”

Considering everything?
She started to ask but then thought about the thing that had been nibbling at the back of her mind since this morning.

“Plato called you,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I told you, he said you might be able to use some help.”

“That’s all?”

He studied his cup again. “He said you were … that you wanted to be more hands-on.”

“And I might screw things up? Run the bus into a ditch?”

He frowned. “Look, Cooper, this is dicey.”

“What’s dicey about it?”

“You and me. Not the ancient past—that’s long over, and we’ve both lived a life since all that. But this situation now. Don’t you think?” He gave her a long, searching look.

She thought,
He’s fishing. Why? For what?

“Well,” she said, “I hope we can work together on a lot of things.”

Woodrow polished off his cup, rose. “For now,” he said. He tossed the cup into a waste can and moved toward the door.

“Woodrow, what do you mean by that?”

He stopped, stood for a moment with his back to her, then turned. He had the oddest look on his face—something she read as a mixture of wariness and confusion.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Of course not.”

He stared awhile longer, then shook his head. “My God. You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“You owe me, Cooper. You and Pickett, you owe me.”

Before she collected herself enough to speak, he was gone.

She sat there for a long time, numb, unmoving.
What has Pickett done?

The door opened. Wheeler poked his head in, started to say something, stopped, gave her a searching look. “Are you okay?”

It took a moment. “No,” she finally said.

“What?”

She started to blurt it out but thought better of it. She shook her head.

“Ready to call it a day?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll get Ezra and round up our gang.”

She took several minutes to compose herself, then took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and walked out into the command center. She found General Burgaw and got a quick update. “Call me,” she said. “Anything. Thank God you’re here.”

As they headed toward the elevator, she felt somebody plucking at her sleeve and turned to see Doster.

“Governor, could I have a word?”

“Of course.” She nodded to Wheeler and the others, and they went on to the elevator.

“I just want you to know,” Doster said, “no hard feelings. If there’s been any, ah, friction of any sort, we’ll just write it off to the stress of the situation. It’s, ah, a pleasure to work with you, ma’am. Just anything you need now, remember that. Anything at all.”

He gave her a saccharine smile and thrust out his hand. She ignored it. Behind her, she heard the ring of the elevator bell.

“I’ll be in my office tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll expect to have your letter of resignation on my desk by nine o’clock.”

SEVENTEEN

The strain of the day assaulted her as she reached home. She was bone-tired, drained, a victim of post-adrenaline crash. And all the problems would be there tomorrow.

She was barely in the door when Pickett called. It had taken him thirty minutes.

“You can’t do that!”

“Of course I can. I’m the governor. I can fire the whole friggin’ bunch if I want to. Get my own Posse.”

“You are sabotaging my chance to be president. I’ve got new poll results, Cooper. I’m gaining. Money’s starting to come in. I’m adding staff. I am busting my ass, and so are a lot of people helping me, and it’s working. If I keep moving like this, I can win South Carolina and New Hampshire. And if I win there, other things begin to fall into place.”

“Pickett, the primaries are a year away, for God’s sake.”

“But now’s the time when I either become a contender or flame out.
People are beginning to think I’m real, and I either capitalize on that or slide back. There’s no standing still. One screwup and I’m dead meat.” He paused, and the silence hung between them. “You are dumping all your problems on me—Roger and now Doster.”

“I’m dumping
your
problems on you.”

He ignored that. “What the hell is going on with you? Are you
trying
to screw me?”

“What’s the issue with Doster?” she asked. “What does he know about you that you wish he didn’t?”

He hesitated. “Nothing worth sweating over. But it’s not me.”

“Who?”

”A
lot
of people. Plato, for one.”

She could guess what. Plato was a lifelong bachelor. There had never been a whiff of public scandal, but something an investigator might find by digging deeply would be another matter.

“So,” he went on, turning on his reasonable voice, “you can’t get rid of him. Later, but not now.”

“Pickett, listen to me. Doster was a pluperfect, eighteen-carat ass-hole today, fighting a turf war while the whole state was in chaos. Maybe he knows too much where you’re concerned, but he didn’t know his ass from his elbow today. If I hadn’t been able to count on General Burgaw, we’d have a lot bigger mess than we do. I won’t let Doster get away with that. You wouldn’t if you were here.”

“Yes, I would,” he came back. “I’m not in the business of stirring up shit.”

“You’re an expert at
not
stirring up shit. I told him to have his letter on my desk in the morning, and if he doesn’t, I’ll call a news conference and tell the world what an incompetent and insubordinate sonofabitch he is.”

Another long silence, and then he surprised her by saying, “I’m coming home.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Well, what would it look like if the former governor didn’t come to see his people?”

“Oh, that. A photo opportunity. Then come on.”

“And while I’m there, I’ll deal with this colossal fuckup with Colonel Doster.”

“I’m firm on this, Pickett. I will not back down on Doster.”

A long, weary sigh. “I’ll meet you at the airport at ten. Arrange a helicopter. We’ll fly over the snow and make clucking noises.”

“You have turned into a cynical man,” she said, and hung up, feeling again the abiding sense of disappointment and loss that had been at her core for such a great, long while.

Mickey was in the hallway, shuffling along with one hand gripping a rolling IV stand, the other on Estelle Dubose’s arm, slippered feet sliding along the carpet, a fierce look on her face.

“That’s enough,” Estelle said, tugging on the sleeve of Mickey’s housecoat.

“No. Down yonder.” Mickey jerked her head toward the far end of the hallway.

“You’ll get down there and I’ll have to carry you back,” Estelle said.

“Down yonder,” Mickey said, louder.

They kept moving. Cooper watched as they reached the end of the hall at a glacial pace, turned, and headed back.

“Go eat your supper,” Mickey called to her. “Then come back and talk to me, if this bossy woman doesn’t bludgeon me in the meantime.”