Connie stood and hit the erase function on the answering machine. Quickly the tape rewound and rubbed out any record that Shakespeare or anybody else had called the night before. In doing so, she forgot about Gina. Not until later that day would she remember.
EIGHT
“SEE THERE? Fractures there, there, and a little hairline fellah right there, just above the first knuckle. See it?” Dr. Dominguez pointed out to Mitch the damage to his right hand, aided by an X ray that the old doctor held up to the fluorescent light overhead. Not that he didn’t have a view box. This was just the way he’d been checking out his X rays since the Korean War. What jet black hair the doctor had left was cut to spiky military specs. “By what I saw on the TV, looks like the other fellah got the short end of the stick, though. So be happy.”
“Are you going to have to cast it?” Mitch hated casts. As a kid, he’d had four.
“Think I’m just gonna wrap it up good ‘n’ tight.” The doctor gave him a stern eye. “That’s only if you promise to stay away from shaking hands for three weeks or so. Which, in your chosen profession, might be a hardship.” Dr. Dominguez changed his mind. “What say we go for the plaster?”
“Why don’t we wrap it?” suggested Mitch. “Shaking hands is the last of my concerns.” He left it there. He wasn’t bowing out just yet.
“Yeah. I guess you won’t need much handshaking. Just about everybody figures you got the seat wrapped up. Last night was the icing on the cake.”
“Ever hear of the fat lady?”
“How’s this for you?” offered the old war doctor. “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”
“Heard it, stole it, and wore it out,” chuckled Mitch.
“You know? I talked to your old man last week.”
“Well, you got one on me.”
“He called for a consult on his tendonitis,” said Dr. Dominguez. “But then we got talkin’. He wanted to know everything. How many points you were up. If this guy McCann was any kind of challenger. Sounded real interested in your prospects.”
“So what’d you tell him?” asked Mitch, covering up his surprise with a question.
“I told him you were gonna kick McCann’s butt!” The old doctor was sharp on this point. “You know? I never did trust him from the minute he started up with the ice cream deal.”
Mitch gave an appreciative laugh. “So what do I do about the pain? And please don’t say Tylenol.”
“Nope. I’m a believer in the old-fashioned pharmacology. Morphine when you got the stomach for it. And lesser degrees when you don’t” Dr. Dominguez scrawled out onto his prescription pad three days worth of Percocet with the relevant instructions. Two tablets to be taken with a meal. Do not drive. Do not operate heavy machinery.
The directions were fine by Mitch. With a quick call from his car phone, he informed Fitz that he was celebrating his sudden lead in the polls with a day off at his law office. There his partners would leave him alone, and between signing papers and perusing legal briefs, he could have time to think.
As he expected, Fitz put up a fight. “You think McCann’s taking the day off?”
“Well, I don’t think he’ll be doing any public appearances,” said Mitch, “unless it’s with the county sheriff to swear out a complaint.”
Fitz countered with facts and figures from the latemorning tracks to show the lead was significant, but could still swing back the other way. Rene was busy plying the media, but sooner or later they’d demand to see the candidate.
“For every action, there’s a reaction,” continued Fitz. “Politics is no different. We gotta bottle this antiwimp vaccine and get out there and sell it!”
Mitch was intractable. “My hand hurts so bad, it’s giving me headaches. And hell if I know what this medication’s gonna do. I might have an allergic reaction. I might say things in public you’ll regret.”
They’d all make do without him, he thought. Fitz, Rene. Hell, the whole staff was so damn capable, he told him, he could probably spend the next week in Bermuda and he’d still come out a congressman. And although Fitz knew bullshit when he heard it, it was bullshit sweet enough to cut Mitch enough slack to spend the rest of the day in legal peace.
“Okay. We’ll leave you be,” Fitz relented. “But you gotta check in every couple of hours.”
“That’s a deal.”
Then after they hung up, and unbeknownst to his candidate, Fitz gave Rene the go-ahead to schedule a Sunday morning press brunch at the Marriott. He’d have plenty of time to sell Mitch on the prospect later in the day when he’d mellowed from overmedication. On short notice, Kevin Cronyn and Brad Pustin from the National Committee had agreed to partake in the event, flying in from Washington that afternoon.
Yes. The planets had lined up for Mitch to finally slam-dunk the election. Fitz was going to leave nothing else to chance.
All day Mitch kept himself inside those smoked-glass windows of his fourth-floor office on the West Strand, ordering lunch in and washing back the first two of those Percocet capsules. And though the pain never seemed to dull enough to where he found himself comfortable within his own thoughts, the peace from the solitude and his legal readings calmed him. For the first time in months he was able to look at his surroundings and appreciate them. His office. A legal practice that did more good than bad. His life represented in the photographs that were scattered about Comfortable, he thought. Solid. Why would any man give it all up for a daily assault that was all that a seat in the House could truly guarantee?
He decided he would attend church the following day, inviting Connie to wear something cheerfully flowered. They would hold hands during the service and pray for a healthy baby. Afterward he would meet with all relevant parties and make his announcement. Mitch Dutton was going to withdraw from the race. It was the only way to save himself. The voters would have to fend for themselves.
The fiftieth anniversary bash for Gina’s parents was, as expected by their daughter, Dullsville, populated by the Geritol brigade. They’d arrived in their designer best from another decade. The old men in tuxedos, and their ancient wives hobbled by the heft of their best jewelry. And as much as Gina tried her level best to play the practiced role of the only child and adoring daughter, the chitchat swirled. She could hear the drunken ladies yammer their condolences about the Sweets’s unmarried little girl.
“Isn’t she thirty-seven?”
“Why isn’t she married?”
“And what about grandchildren?”
It was enough to make her sick.
She’d kept up her best smiles for the toast. Held her drink high, yet held her tongue when it came to saying what was on her mind.
Screw you and the high-assed horses you rode in on. At dawn tomorrow, I’m gone. Back to Europe. Paris. Milan. Topless beaches. With a truckload of condoms. Maybe later y’all can help me pack?
The cliffside house rested on stilts and rocks that rimmed the eastern end of the harbor. It made for some special sunsets, just the way Gina’s father had designed. But darkness had already descended as she made her way out onto the deck. From inside her bra she came up with a rolled joint, ready to smoke. Only she’d forgotten the matches.
“Shit.”
She knew there were plenty of old men inside who, just for a peek down her dress, would be more than willing to come up with a match to light her joint. Big mistake, she decided. Her trust money was still in Daddy-o’s back pocket, so she circled around the pool and ducked into her guest cottage. Once inside, she quickly blazed up the joint, sucked in some of that precious sinsamilla, then thought to check her machine.
Number of messages—zero.
“Little Miss Popular.”
It vexed Gina that Connie hadn’t called back. If she’d thought about it, she could make excuses. After the debate, it must’ve been as if the roof had caved in on their Flower Hill manor. Connie wouldn’t have time. Then, combined with their last words to each other…Gina tried to understand. But she was impa
tient and scared. Europe was calling for her return. A place far from—
“You were gonna help me.”
She spun around so fast, the ashes from the joint spilled down her cleavage and stung. Shakespeare was seated on that comfy bed of pillows and stuffed toys. His pummeled face obscured by shadows.
“What are you doing here?” was all she could think to ask.
“Could ask you the same question,” he said, kicking over one of her suitcases. “You comin’ or goin’?”
“I was gone…I just got back.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire.”
Gina sucked in some air, recalling where she was. Safe on her parents’ property with three hundred party guests scattered about the main house. So she huffed, “I’m going. Okay?”
“But you were gonna help me,” said Shakespeare. He stood and approached.
“I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”
“But you can.”
“No I can’t—”
Shakespeare’s fist broke her nose and dropped her. Before she could scream, he had a handful of hair and a hand over her mouth.
“Yes you can,” he hissed.
NINE
THE UNDERGROUND parking at 315 West Strand, typical for most high-rises, was concrete, pillared, and darker than the average tenant would like. It felt unsafe. For years women in the building had lobbied for the building manager to install better lighting. But all they’d gotten were promises and no action.
When Mitch stepped from the elevator at nearly eight o’clock, he remembered the complaint. Monday, he said to himself, he’d make that his first order of business. Get the landlord to fix the lights. That single idea made him feel more productive than he’d felt in all the months of the campaign. He smiled to himself. He was back.
Ignoring the warning from the pharmacist, he was going to drive home. Ten minutes from the office to Casa de Dutton. Saturday night, traffic light. Plus, he felt just fine. His right hand was medically numbed and his head felt clearer than it had in ages. As he keyed the door lock on the Volvo and sat inside, closing the door behind him, the first thing he noticed was the stink. Had he stepped in something between the elevator and his car? He turned over the engine and rolled down the window. It was only a ten-minute drive. The dark garage was giving him chills.
Wimp factor, thought Mitch. Maybe the pollsters are on to something.
He put the Swedish sedan into gear and checked his rearview mirror. He jumped at what he saw.
“Evening, Counselor,” mumbled Shakespeare from the backseat. “You forgot your seat belt.”
And before Mitch could think of reaching for the door handle, Shakespeare roped a nylon cord around his neck, pulling it tight and knotting it behind the headrest in a solid square knot. Mitch struggled against it, trying to slip his fingers between the rope and his neck.
“Now, now. It’s just a safety precaution. Don’t go makin’ things worse. We’re strapped in. The sooner you drive, the sooner I cut you loose.” Shakespeare revealed a blade, the same one he’d used to kill Hollice, right next to Mitch’s cheek. He let the cold blade touch skin, letting it slide around to the base of the skull where he dug it in just a bit. Mitch flinched.
“Easy, now. This is right where I stuck Hollice Waters. Right in the little soft spot.” Shakespeare leaned closer and into a small shaft of light so Mitch could see a face nearly swollen beyond recognition. “You get where I’m comin’ from, Counselor?”
“Yeah,” was all Mitch could choke out.
“Drive slow and legal. We’re gonna have us a little talk, you ‘n’ me.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Mitch let his foot off the brake, and the car rolled backward out of the assigned spot. Then, somewhere between the fear and the Percocet, he stood too hard on the brake. The car jolted to a stop as the knife dug into his neck. He howled. “Sonofabitch!”
“Careful, Counselor!” said Shakespeare, withdrawing the blade a notch. “Now, let’s try this again. Slow and easy.”
Shifting into drive, Mitch wheeled out of the garage, circling three stories upward to the exit, out onto the Strand, and into a light rain. The streets were wet and traffic was that Saturday Night Lite.
“Wipers,” reminded Shakespeare.
Oh, yeah, realized Mitch. He reached forward and, switching on the wiper blades, asked, “Now where?”
“Just keep it the way you’re headed. This won’t take long,” began Shakespeare, removing the knife and leaning back into the rear seat. “First off. Congratulations. I made a mistake. I underestimated you. I didn’t think you had it in you to take a swing at me on TV.”
“I apologize. Is that what you want?”
“Don’t need none of that shit from you. It was the right move. Put you back up on top. Gave you the momentum.”
“What do you want then?”
Shakespeare laughed. “I want to win!”
“Then I’ll withdraw,” offered Mitch a bit too soon. He didn’t know it was a negotiation. “There’s a press conference tomorrow.”
“Well, wouldn’t that be easy?”
“I’ve already written my statement. I’m getting out of the race. I don’t like what this race has become.”
“A dogfight? Is that what you’re sayin’?”
“I’m not saying anything,” said Mitch, cautiously braking into a red light, then looking back at Shakespeare in the rearview mirror.
“Like what you see?”
“I’m saying that I’m out.”
“Too late. Can’t take your name off the ballot. And I can’t take that kind of chance.”
“So what’s left, killing me?” said Mitch, emboldened by the narcotic. It was a patent conclusion considering the circumstances.
“Thought of it. But this late in the game? No, sir. Too suspect,” answered Shakespeare. “Hammond was killin’ enough. You. I gotta beat at the ballot box.”
Goose bumps broke out on Mitch’s skin, stopping at his numbed right hand. Hammond killed? A prime piece to the puzzle had found its place.
“Not that killin’ you’s entirely out of the question. Now, what I need is a dark side street.”
“What you need is a shrink.”
“Seen ‘em. Psychologists, psychiatrists, psychotherapists. Know what they said?”
“ ‘Sociopath’?”
“Betcha don’t even know what the word means.”
“Oh, I got a good idea.”
“Clinically, it simply means a person with antisocial tendencies.”
“I gather that would include stark raving madness?”
“If there’s a method, there’s ain’t no madness. Turn left when it goes green.”
The light had switched. Mitch waited for an oncoming car to pass through the intersection before wheeling the Volvo left and up a darkened side street.
“Stop up here on the right. Away from the streetlight.”
Mitch performed as instructed, sliding the car into an unlit portion of the block. Behind them, traffic continued to pass along the Strand, but no cars followed up the street. “So what’s your next trick?” he prompted, his patience growing thinner from the drugs. And his hand was starting to ache.
“I’m about to up your negative into the political freaking stratosphere. A vote for Dutton’ll be a vote that nobody with an ounce of human decency would ever permit.”
Shakespeare opened the rear passenger door. The overhead lamp switched on, giving Mitch one last look at the damage he’d done.
“This’ll take only a second,” said Shakespeare, slipping around behind the car, and with a twisting wrist, he punctured the right rear tire. As the car slowly sagged into the curb, Shakespeare threw open the passenger door opposite Mitch.
“For the record, I shoulda killed your wife.” Shakespeare winked. “I don’t think you would have survived it. I don’t think you would’ve had the will to fight.”
“Another mistake.” Mitch boiled and lurched against the rope.
It burned his neck. Then Shakespeare dropped the knife on the seat and walked back toward the Strand. Mitch watched McCann through the rearview mirror until he was out of sight. A cold sweat broke out on his face. And his mind reeled.
Up my negatives? But I’m quitting the Goddamn race!
He reached for the cell phone and dialed 911. His first time ever. Shock that it was to the candidate, the phone rang a total of twenty-two times before an emergency operator answered. But before she did, his mind continued flying off the handle.
Nine-one-one. What’s that, Mr. Dutton? Your opposition just tied a rope around your neck, threatened you with a knife, cut your tire, said he should’ve killed your wife, then walked? You sure it wasn’t just somebody who said he was McCann?
“Emergency operator,” answered the passionless voice.
Then there’s the knife, thought Mitch. The one Shakespeare used to kill Hollice Waters? Jesus, I didn’t even know Hollice was dead! If McCann wanted me out of the race, why didn’t he just kill me?
“Emergency operator…Hello?”
And Hammond. Shakespeare said he’d killed him, too. More threats. More intimidation. Truth or fiction? The line with McCann was a constant blur.
Blood swelled in Mitchell’s head. His vision shook. Then his ears finally picked up the voice between the throbbings in his brain. “Emergency operator. Is anybody there?”
He pressed the end button on the cell phone. He had to think. He reached across to the passenger seat and picked up the knife, slipping the blade under the rope. The sharpness of the instrument was frightening. The rope slid away and he was free. The blood instantly drained. He rubbed his neck. It stung.
Now what?
Mitch dialed Fitz. He was good at this. He’d have a clear perspective. Fitz’s line rang once before his machine picked up. So Mitch dialed the campaign office and got a teenage volunteer who knew absolutely nothing about anything, let alone the whereabouts of Mr. Kolatch or Ms. Craven.
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