by Paul Harris
Mike missed a shot and Dee bent over to take her turn, effortlessly putting her ball in a pocket.
“Maybe it’s a coincidence.” Mike said. “Maybe it’s nothing to do with his time in Central America. Perhaps the cops are right. The shooter is just crazy.”
But even as he said the words he did not believe them. He remembered the look the woman gave him in their last meeting in prison. When he said Hodges owed his success to her. She looked angry, hateful, full of spite. But not insane.
“Nope. I don’t buy it,” Dee said. “I don’t like coincidences. I don’t believe in them. We got to keep digging. The stakes are getting higher every day.”
And with that she cleared the rest of the table.
* * *
THE KNOCK on the door of Mike’s hotel room woke him. He glanced at the glowing alarm clock on the bedside table; it read 1:43 a.m. He turned over, wondering if he dreamed the sound, when it came again. Tap, tap. Then a low whisper, seeping through the wood, coiled into his memory like a snake.
“Mike, Mike, Mike…”
Jaynie?
It couldn’t be. Mike bolted upright. Then he stumbled over to the door and switched on the light. He kept the chain on, but opened the door a crack, and peered into the corridor.
She stood there, thin and forlorn, her brown hair, still parted in the middle as he remembered it and falling over her face. His Jaynie. But she was changed so much he drew an intake of breath. Her face was gaunt and lined, her cheeks shadowed by hollows. She looked ten years older than when he last saw her – when she hurled pots and pans and screamed at him to leave her alone. That Jaynie, at least, was full of fire and life. But the figure before him did not look like she could lift a plate, let alone throw it.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
She smiled at his voice, her eyes lit up and her dimples, that he once loved so dearly, flowered at the corners of her mouth. For a moment, he saw his old lover there, standing in the shell of who she used to be.
“Mike!” she said. “Let me in. It’s freezing out here.”
She shifted her weight from foot to foot and held herself with her arms. But Mike knew she wasn’t cold. The hotel corridor was every bit as warm as his room. She was tweaking. She was high.
What else could he do? He opened the door anyway. She hugged him and he felt her twig-like arms grab him around his waist. She held him tight; her fingers dug into his back and triggered memories that flew into his mind. Of endless nights together. Of happy times. He wriggled out of her grasp and beckoned her to sit down. She perched on the bed and Mike sat in a chair. A brief frown, intended to be flirtatious, creased her brow and she patted the bed beside her. Mike shook his head.
“How did you find me?” he asked.
“Sean came around,” she said. “He said you were working with the Hodges campaign and then I read in the paper that he was speaking here. So I just got in my car and drove. It’s only a few hours and there aren’t many hotels in this town. I knew you’d be in one of them.”
She was always someone who went anywhere on a whim. Long before the drugs took hold, when they were just teenage lovers, she often took him off on wild goose chases, sudden hunting trips in the woods, or on inflated inner tubes down a river. She was a beautiful, carefree soul, who dragged him onto life’s dance floor, always whirling and twirling, yet never seeming to get anywhere.
“It’s good to see you, Mike. You look great,” she said.
“You too,” he lied. She knew it too. A tremor of her lower lip showed it for just a moment, like a cloud flitting across the sun, and then she continued with breezy cheerfulness.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this, Mike. Working on a presidential campaign! For a guy like Hodges too. What’s he like?”
But Mike was in no mood to chat.
“Jaynie, it’s the middle of the night. Why are you here?”
She looked at him and the light slowly faded out of her eyes. The cheerfulness evaporated. Her shoulders sagged and her head fell down.
“I just wanted to see you, Mike,” she whispered.
Mike closed his eyes and felt his heart swell. He could not equate the girl he fell in love with and the woman he married, with this broken spirit. He went over to her and held her close. She rested her head on his chest and he stroked her back, kissing the crown of her head. Just once. Just like he had always done. His touch seemed to calm her. Whatever drug she was on, she was at the end of her high. The toxins left her system and she drifted off into sleep. When her breathing steadied and he knew she would not wake, Mike lifted her gently onto the bed and pulled the covers over her. Then he went back to the chair, used his jacket as a blanket, and tried to sleep himself.
* * *
GENERAL CARILLO sat on his patio and faced the ocean at sunset. The police chief, Zaragosa, was with him again. But this time Carillo felt no resentment about the presence of the drunken buffoon. It was sad, perhaps, but Zaragosa was as close as he got to a friend in these parts. Not just a friend either. A former comrade-in-arms, who respected him, who loved him and understood his fight for his country. So it was good that Zaragosa should share in this moment of celebration and longed-for reward. This time Carillo happily broke out the good Chilean wine and also a box of fine Cuban cigars. Puzzled but grateful, it was only after Zaragosa was on his second glass and smoking one of Carillo’s fine El Rey Del Mundos that the policeman asked what they were celebrating.
“My reward!” Carillo proclaimed and raised a toast to the sun setting behind the hills behind them.
Zaragosa was puzzled but reluctant to press on.
“Let us just say, I have benefited from recent events and at last the true value of my sacrifices is being recognized. Livingston may be my home still, but I can afford to live a little more in the style of my forefathers.”
Zaragosa smiled, his lips parting to reveal teeth now stained with wine too. He did not know what the General was talking about, but the old man appeared pleased. That could only be good for him and he tentatively reached out to fill his glass again. Carillo did not stop him and so Zaragosa greedily splashed the liquid into his cup.
“We both have been soldiers. We both have sacrificed much, my friend. Now God is smiling upon me at last for my struggles,” Carillo said.
Perhaps it was the speed with which he drank the wine, or the sudden gloom as the sun finally dipped over the horizon, but Zaragosa felt a tug of melancholy pull at him. Emboldened by Carillo’s hospitality, he got up and walked to the side of the patio and looked out over the restless sea, growing darker by the moment.
“Do you believe in God, General?” Zaragosa asked.
The General snorted in surprise. “What a question!” he cried. “The church is the mother of our souls. It grants us salvation. Of course, I believe in God. Sweet Jesus, don’t tell me you have become like los Indios or the Garifunas. Are you a heathen, Zaragosa? Every week I go to mass. I do not see you there.”
Zaragosa felt stung by the words.
“And then you must go to confession too?” Zaragosa asked.
As soon as he said it, Zaragosa knew it was a mistake. But the words were already out there, hanging in the thick tropical air that suddenly started to have a chill. The General stubbed out his cigar. He stared at Zaragosa and his nostrils flared. Then he sighed. This was a happy night; he would not let the drunken ramblings of an idiot anger him.
“For what reason should I go to confession?” he asked. “I have done nothing that needs confessing.”
Inwardly Zaragosa breathed a sigh of relief and a silence fell between the two men. Carillo tried to regain his calm, drinking a deep draught from his wine cup. Do I believe in God? he thought. What a question indeed! But then, to his own surprise, he realized that perhaps he did have his doubts. Maybe he did not truly know anymore. He looked up into the skies and hoped to see a spray of stars, but the clouds glowered thick and dark above. Perhaps heaven was indeed far from guaranteed, he thought.
Perhaps that was why he chose to take his rewards here on earth.
CHAPTER 8
LAUREN THOUGHT SHE was dreaming. The sound of rustling slipped into her mind, mingling with visions of a wind brushing through trees and hews of gold and red autumnal leaves playing against her subconscious. But, with surprise, she realized her eyes were now open, adjusting to the blackness of her Berlin, New Hampshire, hotel room, and the rustling sound was real.
She sat up in bed and the sound stopped. It came from her door and her eye suddenly caught a shadow move across the thin plank of yellow light that shone under the doorframe. She rubbed her eyes.
“Hello?” she called quietly to the darkness. Then she felt foolish and laughed nervously. She reached over to fumble for the bedside lamp, which stood by a radio alarm that glowed with the time. 4:34 a.m. She switched on the light and looked back to the door. A sheaf of paper had been pushed under it. It was yellow and folded in on itself. For a moment, she thought it was just the hotel bill, shoved there by a maid. But there was something about the paper that did not look like a bill. She padded across the room to pick it up. She unfolded it and immediately frowned. It was a bank statement of some kind: a photocopy of a Western Union money transfer order.
“What the hell?” she said, assuming it was pushed under the wrong door.
She examined it and walked back to her bed and pulled the covers around herself. She put on her glasses and peered at the rows of figures. She looked at the depositing account and read the words “Banco Nacional de Gautemala.” She frowned and looked at the branch location. Livingston, Guatemala. For 9,995 dollars. In the name of Rodrigo Estrada Carillo. It made no sense. She scanned the figures again, looking for an indication about who sent it. Then she saw a name and she dropped the paper onto the bed with a little yelp.
Christine Maitland. Or, as Lauren knew her better, with the addition of a married name: Christine Maitland Hodges. Lauren stared at the paper again, making sure she was correct and that she was indeed holding a bank transfer agreement wiring almost 10,000 dollars to Guatemala from the account of Senator Hodges’ wife.
She jumped off the bed and flung open the door, realizing too late, how ridiculous it would be if someone was still there. Nevertheless she looked down the empty corridor and half-expected to see a figure, her mind racing with a mix of fear and excitement. But it was silent and empty. Nothing but the dull, aching, dead artificial light of an anonymous hotel. Just another slice of life on the road. But a road now changed beyond recognition.
* * *
MIKE JUMPED at the sound of the ringing phone and stumbled through the darkness of the room to answer it. He worried that Jaynie, lying on his bed, would awaken. But she did not even stir. Whatever substance she abused left her in a vice-like sleep. He picked up his mobile. He glanced at his watch and his eyes widened at the time.
“Hello?” he whispered.
It was Lauren. She spoke in a lightning quick babble that he couldn’t understand.
“Slow down,” he said.
He heard her take a deep breath and when she spoke again her voice was loud, calm and clear.
“Mike,” she said. “I’ve got a document that you should know about. It’s related to Christine Hodges. It’s a money order showing she has been sending money overseas. I think someone’s trying to play dirty tricks on you guys and I want to talk to you before I go public with it.”
Mike was awake now. Any trace of sleep was blasted out of his system by an adrenalin surge that coursed through his body at the mention of Christine’s name. He needed to stay calm though.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s meet downstairs. Ten minutes?”
“See you there.”
Mike hung up. Dirty tricks? If someone slipped Lauren information, he was sure it came from Stanton’s campaign. He pulled on some clothes, treading carefully so as not to make any noise that might wake Jaynie. But his mind raced as fast as his heart. He knew these things happened. Christ, he’d been the victim of endless plots and stunts in Florida. But this was national politics. This was a presidential campaign. The stakes were higher. Had they really rattled Stanton so much that they were trying such things now?
Mike headed for the door and glanced back at Jaynie. She was curled in a fetal position, her eyes closed, mouth half-open. He wondered how many times he shared a bed with her and looked across at her face. He gazed at her closed lids, watched the twitching movements of her eyeballs, hinting at unknown dreams within. He tucked the blankets around her to make sure she stayed warm. A sadness welled up in him and for a moment his throat felt dry. I’ve lost her, he thought. Years ago. Long before our divorce. Yet there she was, like a ghost in his bed, sleeping as peacefully as he had ever seen her. He watched the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He leaned over, kissed the top of her head softly, and got up to leave. He had work to do.
* * *
LAUREN WAITED for him in the lobby. She sat in the empty breakfast area across from a deserted reception desk.
“I think the reception guy is playing computer games in the back,” she said with a laugh. “So we have this place to ourselves.”
Mike settled down opposite her. She looked calm and, he could not help notice, beautiful without her makeup. There was a flashy determination in her eyes that was at odds with the confusion and panic in her voice when she first called him. Clearly she had gathered her wits. Just as he had. This would not be a conversation. This would be a chess match. Two opponents, each wary of the other’s intentions, yet each needing information from the other. Lauren smiled sweetly and pushed a paper across the table between them. He picked it up and scanned the figures and words.
Guatemala.
Shit.
His nerve-endings screamed like a tripped alarm. With an iron will, Mike kept his eyes trained on the page. He could not give away anything. He kept staring, moving his eyes rapidly up and down the sheet of paper. Lauren knew nothing about the shooter being Guatemalan, he thought. She couldn’t. He was ahead of her. He looked up and shrugged.
“I don’t understand what this is,” he said.
Lauren looked at him.
“Christine Hodges has been wiring money to someone in Guatemala. Someone thinks that’s interesting enough to slip this under my door at night. Someone wants this information out there,” she said.
Mike felt a hint of relief. She was new to this game. She had nothing yet. She fired her shot too early. Mike would try to play dumb, even as he took in the implications of her words: some bastard literally pushed this stuff under Lauren’s door. And perhaps other doors too, hoping someone would have the balls to just put it out there and see where it went.
“So?” Mike said, trying not to sound abrupt. “They spent time there in the 80s, or maybe even the early 90s. I can’t quite remember. It’s probably some charity donation or something.”
He looked at her face to see how she reacted. He watched her watching him for his own expression. Mike had a brief mental flash of poker games back in Corinth Falls, bluffing with Sean and his friends, laughing and joking as Jaynie took all their money. She was always best at convincing everyone she was on a bluff while she sat with aces in her hand. He sensed Lauren was like that too. He desperately wanted to ask if she planned to write something. But he knew to do so would only arouse suspicion. His only chance was to feign indifference.
“Someone on the other side thinks it’s important,” Lauren said.
“Maybe. But it’s not enough to get me out of bed,” Mike joked.
Lauren smiled an apology.
“It’s just Stanton’s people playing with our minds,” Mike said. “I can understand why it might freak you out when someone creeps around a hotel like that. But I’ll check it out and get back to you. Can you get me a copy of it, so I can run it by our people?” he asked.
Lauren nodded. “It’s the least I can do for disturbing your beauty sleep,” she said and jokingly added with a flirtatious smile: “I’ll slip it under your
door.”
“You know this does show one thing,” Mike said.
“What?”
“Stanton’s campaign is scared. We must have put the fear of God into them in Iowa.”
Lauren smiled. “I guess this is where the fight starts for real then,” she said.
Mike walked back through the lobby, knowing she watched him from her seat. He did not turn around. He wanted to give away nothing. He yawned and stretched his arms, wanting to signal tired boredom. But as soon as he was out of sight he ran back to his room. He needed to get hold of Dee. He fumbled with his door key, his hands now in a cold sweat as he burst into his own room.
It was empty. Jaynie was gone. The blankets were rumpled on the unmade bed. He stood still for a moment, wondering how she got out of the hotel without going through the lobby. Wondering why she suddenly left. Then it hit him; an old familiar feeling of being conned. He saw his wallet open and empty on the bedside table. A handful of dollar bills that were inside it last night were gone. He noticed a note scrawled on hotel paper beside the wallet.
“I’ll pay you back!! Love J.” it read. She even scrawled a smiley face after her initial.
Fuck! Mike thought. The sun was not yet up and already two women tried to play him for a fool. He only hoped both of them did not succeed.
* * *
THERE WAS no disguising the look on Dee’s face as Mike sat opposite her in her hotel room: stone cold fury. Her firm jaw, already broad and square, jutted out of her face and she rubbed her chin with her hand. Her eyes were wide and saucer-like, burning with anger. But she said nothing as Mike detailed what Lauren told him. Then he passed over the photocopy of the money transfer. She briefly glanced at it, just to confirm what Mike had said. Then she sat back in her chair. Mike studied Dee’s face for any hint of her thoughts, striving to see the gears turning in her mind, knowing she’d make swift calculations as to what was going on and what she could do.