“Let’s get this over with,” was shouted from the back of the room, to much agreement.
“Just hold your water,” cautioned Fitz, uncertain himself as to when Mitch would appear. Then he read off the scratch Rene handed to him. “We’ve got ER chief Dr. Ally Schwartz here to give you the medical update.”
“We’re just completing a few tests,” she said, offering little more. “All I can say is that, considering the description of the accident scene by the paramedics, it’s a miracle that Mr. Dutton is still alive.”
While the doctor fielded questions, Rene stood to the side and fanned herself with Xeroxed copies of the prepared statement she’d so meticulously written. Those halfsecrets she was holding so tight strained at her insides, proving far more powerful than any infidelity. The secrets smelled like death. Sweat beaded through her fine makeup. She had questions that Mitch would have to answer.
“Where’s the eggs Benedict?” joked Mitch as he was wheeled into the press conference.
He wore a borrowed robe, a fresh plaster cast for his broken hand, and a Houston Oilers baseball cap to cover his bandaged scalp and singed hair. At his request, he’d forgone the expected pain drugs in exchange for a lucid tongue. And as he waited for the room to hush, he floated Rene an encouraging smile.
Just listen, was the telepathic message he was sending her.
“Today we’ll see what’s more important to Texans,” continued Mitch. “Politics or football.”
The line barely lightened the room. A fusillade of questions followed, overwhelming him. His head ached.
Fitz stepped in to hold up his hands until all were hushed. “The candidate has a statement.”
Mitch cleared his throat and leaned closer to the banded microphones. “Thank you for coming. I know it’s Sunday and most of you have families waiting for you. So I’ll make this brief.” Through heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes, he made an effort to connect with the faces before filling his lungs with air and speaking forcefully from the wheelchair.
“Early yesterday evening, my wife received a call from her great-aunt in Eureka, California. She is recovering from a stroke. She’d missed the last flight out of Cathedral, so I drove her to Houston and kissed her good-bye,” he began without even a sideways glance at Rene. He wanted this to sound real and matter-of-fact. Then he unwound the tale.
“Sometime after midnight, upon my return to the Island, a pickup truck followed me and pulled alongside my car. I could not identify the occupants even though I know there were at least two. They were shouting from an open window. And though I don’t recollect everything they said, I recall abusive language and something about, and I quote, ‘campaigning for McCann.’ A moment later, they pulled ahead of me, and one of them in turn threw an object which smashed my front windshield, causing me to lose control of the car.
“I’ve already given complete statements to authorities from the South County Sheriff’s Department and Texas State Highway Patrol, copies of which will be made available. I thank God for my survival. I thank Ms. Lila Gonzales and Chuck Bonnerz for coming to my aid. And I thank the efficient emergency technicians along with the doctors and nurses of the Blessed Virgin Hospital for my care through the last ten or so hours.”
At what looked like the end of the statement, the media crush became alive with questions, reporters muscling to get theirs in first. But Mitch held up his cast-covered right hand to halt the onslaught.
“In answer to the obvious question, I must first say that after Friday night’s debate, I am embarrassed at my behavior and I humbly apologize to my opponent. Violence is never an answer to a problem, and especially has no place in politics.”
“However…” He then switched hands, lowering his right and raising his left index finger as if to draw a punctuation point in the air. “Let me add that where I sought only to throw a single punch at the man called Shakespeare McCann, retribution like this will not stand. If my opponent, or any supporters of my opponent, seek my untimely demise before or after election day, then let me offer this one caveat. I will not run. I will not hide…”
And then, as if to direct the message right through the cameras to Shakespeare McCann himself, he let slip with his own subtle impression. “Y’all know where to find me.”
With a nod to a nurse, Mitch was quickly wheeled from the room. Representatives from the Highway Patrol moved in to take the podium and block the wave of insatiable media that crushed after the candidate. Dr. Schwartz squeezed in to address the horde. “I’ll be taking questions on the condition of the candidate if you’ll please just relax!”
On the outskirts of Meyers stood an aging, gated community built upon a bulldozed plateau, called Villas Las Lomas. The one-story homes were once pricey, boasting private security and one of the few views afforded in the pancake-flat real estate that was South County. But the glory days were gone. The homes were well tended, but reasonable and middle-class.
As for the homeowners, they hadn’t a single complaint about their most famous neighbor, other than they never really saw him. Shakespeare’s old-model Caddy would usually be spied easing into the automated garage around midnight, only to be gone by daylight the next morning. The curtains were always drawn. The gardeners would come and go. The same went for the pool man. When local Republicans thought to stop by one weekend and give Shakespeare a neighborly high-five, they found a note next to the doorbell reading:
Please don’t disturb. Candidate sleeping.
The rental house had come furnished. Shakespeare’s only additions were the TV. The easy chair. And the computer. The rest was the landlord’s flea-market leftovers. Easily abused. The motel-quality paintings were stacked behind the couch, replaced by thousands of those colored three-by-five cards. Each scrawled upon and pinned into the drywall, floor to ceiling.
Scattered on the tabletops were piles of Internet printouts and downloaded speeches. Reagan, Buchanan, Kennedy, Goldwater, LBJ, Nixon, Gingrich, Clinton, Perot. And loaded like ammo on top of the big-screen TV were hard-core videotapes mixed with sound-bite rewinds of “Larry King,” “CNN Inside Politics,” “Washington Week in Review,” and “Meet the Press.”
This was the McCann bunker. But that particular Sunday, it was church. In the semidarkness, where the black density of night bled into daylight, Shakespeare sat in that big easy chair, drinking mescal from his chalice, a Rush Limbaugh gift mug.
Mitch Dutton was on the big screen.
“Why doesn’t somebody ask him where’s the fuckin’ body?” bitched Shakespeare to the worm, scratching his temple with the muzzle of a revolver registered to Hollice Waters. He’d pinched the weapon from the dead writer’s glove compartment before he’d sunk the car in the reservior, briefly amused that, when it came down to it, for all his aspirations, Hollice was like every other Bubba in Texas. Gun in the glove box. Six-pack in the trunk.
But Shakespeare was no longer amused. He was deadly drunk and thinking of the possibilities. Suicide was always an option. Swallow the barrel and pull the trigger. Bring it all to a peaceful ending. The cold muzzle felt good against his skin. It smelled of cleaning oils, and the cylinder spun like grease.
I killed Hurricane. I killed Hollice. I killed that rich little bitch. Must I now kill Dutton?
The worm wouldn’t answer, so he sucked it back into his throat and washed it away whole with the rest of the booze. The bottle was drop-kicked into some dark comer to join the other empties.
He opened the revolver’s cylinder and dumped out all six .357 rounds onto the carpet. Dropping to his knees, he retrieved three cartridges and randomly reloaded them into the gun, snapping the cylinder shut and giving it a hard twirl. “Speak to me!” demanded Shakespeare, screaming out against the recessed corners of the tract house.
There were no answers. At least, not from the worm. All he could hear was the TV talking at him from Bloody Mary’s Hospital of the Damned.
It’s me or him. One of us will die. One of us will win.
A fifty
-fifty chance. That’s what he gave himself to beat the revolver. He spun the cylinder once more, drew back the hammer, and took the muzzle into his mouth. His thumb slipped easily inside the trigger guard and rested.
Fate is my teacher, said the worm from inside Shakespeare’s hollow gut.
He pulled the trigger and the hammer fell with a resounding, metallic thud. The empty cylinder echoed. The lot was drawn.
As he turned his attention to the TV screen, the fog lifted and he was renewed. He celebrated fate’s decision by leveling the revolver and unleashing a single shot. The gun bucked and the TV summarily imploded in a display of sparks and crinkling glass. The tube smoked and sizzled in the bullet’s wake. In Shakespeare’s universe, Fate had just chosen sides.
THIRTEEN
MITCH WASN’T certain what he’d say once he was faced with Rene. She’d done him the favor of a lifetime, a chore dutifully performed with no questions asked. In exchange, she’d surely expect an explanation. Some form of truth.
Barely an hour after the press conference, after all the media had folded up their equipment and gone back to what was left of their weekends, he found himself alone with his onetime lover. She’d done her best with the rabid press. Based on little more than what Mitch himself had fed them in his brief statement, she had played it all over for mem as simply as he had implied. Politics had gotten dirty. Criminally so.
They’d been left by the autograph-seeking doctors and nurses to some peace and quiet, the only person within earshot, the deputy sheriff stationed outside the door. Rene found a comfortable chair next to the window, staring out. The day outside had started warm, but was quickly turning overcast as was the custom with Gulf skies. There could be a storm brewing. Or the next day could be fit for a bluebird. This was the South Coast and them was the rules.
“I could tell you everything,” began Mitch from his hospital bed. “I trust you that much. But with the truth would also come a burden. Crimes have been committed. A little knowledge could be dangerous.”
She kept her arms folded. She lowered her head. “I think that’s a decision for me to make.”
“Accessory after the fact. Potential for perjury. I don’t think so. If I tell you, it’s conspiracy. I keep it to myself, I stand a chance of getting out of this clean.”
“Does Connie know?”
“She knows some. But she’s in danger. And you will be, too, if you stay too close.”
“In danger from who?” she asked sharply. It was all so Goddamn mysterious. “You? Or Shakespeare McCann?”
“I want you to take that job.”
“I said I turned them down.”
“If they wanted you last week, the offer’ll still be good.”
“I said no.”
“Then you’re fired.”
Rene swiveled a look at Mitch.
“Don’t look at me like you didn’t hear what I said.”
“I heard you. It’s what you’re not saying—”
“The less you know, the better! Just pack your bags and get the fuck outta Dodge!”
“Before what?”
“Before you get hurt.”
With a knock at the door they were interrupted by the appearance of the one and only Warren Redden, Cathedral’s ever-so-politic police chief. He stood in the doorway, literally with hat in hand. He gave a gentleman’s nod to Rene, then turned to Mitch. “Is this a bad time, Mitch?”
Mitch paused. What did Redden know? Anything? Mitch had to guess he didn’t. The hulking chief wouldn’t have been standing in the doorway looking so lost had he suspected a damn thing. Mitch took in a deep breath, choosing to let the painkillers steady his voice. “It’s okay. Come on in, Warren.”
“I had something to speak to you about,” said the chief. “In private.”
“I guess that means it won’t be a public endorsement.”
“Aw, Mitch. I told you before. I’m not political.”
“Well, I’m a candidate for office, and this is as private as it gets. Anything you have to say, you can say it in front of Ms. Craven.” Then he winked at her. “She can keep a secret.”
The chief stepped over to the bed, pulling up a chair. He was a big man, and the chair proved rather small. He sat at the edge of it, leaning close to Mitch. “I know,” started the chief, “that I’ve steered kinda clear of the endorsement thing. I wanted to remain…” The chief was searching for the words, so Mitch helped him.
“Unbiased?”
“Unbiased. Yeah. That’s it,” said the chief. “You know, I’m not good at the diplomatics.”
“Nobody said you were,” jabbed Mitch. He was in control, certain now that the chief didn’t know a damn thing.
“A month or so back, I’m afraid to admit I might’ve voted for that Shakespeare fellah. Republicans, you know, are better with the crime stuff.”
“That’s the rumor. But you know I aim to change that,” said Mitch, smelling the endorsement coming. A little late. But not unwelcome. Relieved the chief apparently had no other motive for the chat, he offered his hand. “Never too late to climb aboard. Welcome to the party.”
But he was wrong. The chief recoiled. “Mitch. I said this ain’t no endorsement.”
Rene sat up in her seat, suddenly frightened. Had Mitch played him all wrong? Then into Mitchell’s waiting hand the chief slipped a short pistol, rubbed clean down to the serial numbers scratched from the frame. A .380 semiauto-matic. “That episode last night. After your debate, I shoulda seen that comin’,” said the chief. “Anyhow, I figure a lefty like you wouldn’t want a gun around. This one belongs to nobody. You use it to protect yourself, you say you got it from a friend. Not the chief of police. I never seen it.”
With that, the chief stood and addressed Rene. “I know you, missy. You’re the one that whips up those news boys into all that free advertising for Mr. Dutton here. Now, I’m not gonna be reading anything about what you seen here, am I?”
She simply nodded to Mitch. “He’s the boss. What he says goes.”
The chief turned back to him. “Don’t go lookin’ at this as some kind of…”
“Endorsement?”
“My job’s just seein’ that nobody gets hurt,” said the chief, though he gestured to the gun. “Least nobody that don’t deserve what’s comin’.”
Donning his police cap, he left. Rene waited for the door to close behind him. “For a minute there, I thought he was going to arrest you.”
“For what?” asked Mitch, letting the pain mask his nerves.
“For punching the opposition on TV.”
As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over. “I want you to take me home.”
“I thought I was fired.”
“You are. Just look at it as your last assignment.”
Despite the doctors’ requests that he stay another night for observation, he bundled himself into a borrowed sweatshirt, pocketed the gifted pistol along with handfuls of free prescription samples, and made it out the back way of Bloody Mary’s. Rene was waiting in her Maxima.
The thirty-five-minute drive to Flower Hill went by wordlessly. It hurt for Mitch to breathe, let alone talk. And Rene, she was planning her speedy withdrawal from the campaign, Cathedral, and Texas.
At the house she left the engine running, not even bothering to take the car out of gear. He got out of the backseat and circled around to her open window. He looked pathetic, hobbled and hunched over.
“I’m gonna miss you,” he said, trying to leave things on some kind of sentimental note.
“I hope you do,” she said, staring dead ahead. She wouldn’t even look at him.
“Well, I will—”
Rene booted the accelerator and the Maxima kicked up leaves as it hurried back down the drive.
You had it comin’, Mitch.
After a minute standing there, he resolved he wasn’t in the mental shape to assess his entire relationship with Rene at the very moment when she’d left him in the dust of his own driveway. Walking
around to the back of the house, he took the spare key from a small magnetic key holder attached to the back side of an electrical subpanel.
Key in the back door, he entered the house, disturbed not to be met by the dogs. He worried a moment before remembering Connie would have arranged for a neighbor to care for them. But the canines’ absence added to the strange darkness that enveloped the old house. Without Connie or the dogs, it felt empty and ominous.
Mitch locked the door behind him, then checked the answering machine, bypassing all the incoming calls until he found the expected message from Connie. It was short, almost tragic-sounding.
“Mitch, it’s Connie. I hope you get this. I hope…I hope you’re okay. I’m at area code 415-555-8372. It’s Sunday morning. I love you and I miss you.”
He scribbled down the number, then summarily erased all unheard messages from the machine. Pocketing the slip of paper, he poured himself a glass of water and, pillaging the refrigerator, shoved two cold hot dogs in his mouth. His head was throbbing along with his casted right hand, which with every pounding pain felt as if the swelling alone would crack the plaster. He needed to swallow the prescriptions with food. Then he needed to call Connie. It was 4:20 P.M.
The armload of goodies was dumped on the desk in his study. Prescription drugs, cordless telephone, the pistol. Mitch swallowed the prescriptions without so much as glancing at the dosages, then dialed the number Connie had left for him. The pills kicked in quickly. And soon after, he was sleeping. Or so he thought. The stoned apparitions were more memory than fiction. A haze of pain and distortion.
Mitch talked to Connie. She was well but worried. What happened? Where was Gina? Was the campaign over?
Somewhere between sleep and more pills, he showered, changed into a pair of jogging sweats, switched on the TV. Live 9 News recapped the press conference, followed by an investigative follow-up on the ongoing Hollice Waters mystery. There were no clues. The Mexican National Police were assisting the Cathedral PD, the South County Sheriff’s Department, and the FBI. Not a solid lead had turned up in over five weeks. But rumors abounded, thanks to the McCann campaign camp. Sandy Mullin was the newest suspect, with alleged ties to organized crime and the Mexican Mafia. The story ended with the new, Vidor Kingman-owned Cathedral Daily Mirror offering a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of the killer.
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