Hidden River (Five Star Paperback)

by Adrian McKinty

  “We all need something, Pat,” I say lamely.

  “Yeah, we do,” Pat agrees.

  “And what about you, Patrick, is there someone in your life you’ve been hiding away?”

  “Well, actually, I was in a long-term relationship until last year. Of course, he left me when I started to get sick.”

  “Shit.”

  “Shit is right,” Pat says with disgust.

  The sun is making its way across Colfax and the street is yawning, waking up, putting on its usual show. Guys appearing on the street corners, women walking hand in hand with little kids, other kids playing basketball. Old men talking. Big old cars playing N.W.A. and Public Enemy, bigger, newer cars blaring Tupac and Notorious B.I.G.

  And as always the professional dealers, easy and unobtrusive, and the rookie dealers looking around a million times to see how much attention they can bring to themselves.

  I stretch.

  “Pat, it’s time I was heading,” I say.

  “Not yet,” Pat says, and rubs his hand over his gaunt, unshaven face.

  “Love to stay, Pat, but it’s twelve o’clock. I’m supposed to be downtown by one.”

  “Don’t know why you’re working for those right-wing bastards. Strip-mining the national forests, polluting the skies. Drought all year, couple of snowstorms which did nothing, and they’re talking about the Wise Use of water to promote business, which means less conservation. I mean, Jesus, how about telling the goddamn Coors family to give some of their surplus water to Denver.”

  I can’t help but suppress a smile. Pat clearly cares a lot more about this than I do. I don’t mind arguing for fewer environmental regulations, I’ll argue any point of view if I can get some dough out of it.

  “Pat, I have to go.”

  “Ok, mate,” Pat says, which makes me grin again. Pat’s taking on a bit of an Ulster accent and vernacular hanging out with us. And though we have screwed up our murder case and I am exiled from Belfast, at least it seems we are doing a bit of good for someone in this world.

  * * *

  July in Denver. Insanely hot. One hundred and one degrees says the board outside Channel 9. Drenched with sweat, I ride the elevator up to the CAW offices. Pat says Denver is livable for a few weeks in October and a few weeks in April. Winter and summer, the rest of the time. I can well believe him. People with sense leave town at this time of year for cooler places like a blast furnace or the surface of the sun.

  I walk into the office.

  I’m well liked now, established.

  Abe says hi, he’s wearing the same Sex Pistols T-shirt he’s had on for the last week. Johnny Rotten is so coated with gook he has taken on a three-dimensional quality. Still, the place is air-conditioned and the offices are losing their chaotic feel and taking on a semblance of order.

  The weird thing, the really weird thing is that apart from Abe no one has mentioned either Victoria’s or Klimmer’s death. Charles runs a tight ship and I suppose they want things upbeat for the new staffers like me. Or maybe they’re trying to be very positive in front of the camera crew, which has shown up twice more to follow Charles around.

  Dozens of posters have gone up over the bare walls, nature scenes with words like “Perseverance” and “Serenity” underneath them. They’ve hired another couple of secretaries and the campaigners are coming together as a group. Aye, they’re looking to the future, not dwelling on the unpleasantness of the past.

  Every day starts the same. Abe and Steve brief us about the evening’s assignment, where we’re going, what the rap is for the day, what to look out for. We do rehearsals, practice raps, role-playing and if there’s time left we stuff envelopes and write to our congressmen. There are about fifteen campaigners now. The organization is getting bigger.

  We don’t see Charles and Robert at all until around five o’clock, when the van is ready to go. Sometimes Charles drives, sometimes Robert drives, sometimes Amber comes along.

  No one will admit it with Abe or Steve around, but arriving at the office at one o’clock is a waste of everyone’s time. I suppose if you’re dedicated to the cause it’s all well and good, but I sense that most of the campaigners don’t give a shit about the forests or the Wise Use policy and are only here because they hope they can make cold cash.

  Yeah, it’s been a week and I’ve been patient, laying the groundwork, being nice, friendly. I’ve endured Abe’s theories about why the Clash, the Ramones, and the Undertones were feeble imitators of the Sex Pistols. I’ve listened to him talk endlessly about the New York Mets. Tedious, but necessary. I’ve been cultivating him. Encouraging him. None of the Mulhollands will talk, but I know Abe will.

  Abe was a University of Colorado student at the Earth Sciences Institute in Boulder. He started working for CAW during his vacations and stayed on after he graduated. He’s only twenty-five, but he’s the fourth in command.

  For the last two days we’ve been getting lunch at the Sixteenth Street Pub around the corner from the office. Abe’s a lightweight, anyway, a 6-percent Stella Artois loosens his tongue.

  We talk about the movies and when he’s finished his pint and it’s going to his head a wee bit I come straight out with it.

  “Abe, why is there a film crew following Charles around?”

  “I can’t tell you because we’re not supposed to talk about it. Robert would kill me. Charles would kill me.”

  “Abe, you know you can trust me,” I say, trying to ignore Abe’s choice of words.

  Abe takes a bite of his burrito and looks around the bar. No one else from CAW is there. And Abe wants to tell me, he just needs that final push.

  “Abe, come on, what the hell’s going on? It hardly seems fair that everyone else is allowed to know and I’m not.”

  “Everyone else doesn’t know,” Abe protests.

  “Come on, mate, I won’t say a bloody thing, I can help better if I’m in the know.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Yeah, ’course it is, come on, what’s the deal with the camera crew?”

  “You won’t breathe a word?”

  “No.”

  “Ok, listen, I swear to God, don’t tell anyone.”

  “I won’t, just bloody get on with it.”

  “Congressman Wegener will be seventy years old on August sixth,” Abe says slowly and significantly.

  I look at him.

  “That’s it?” I ask. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Everyone thinks he’s going to run again next year in 1996, but he’s not, he’s going to announce his retirement on his birthday. He’s only told the chairman of the Colorado GOP and the chairman has only told Charles.”

  “Who has told you? Amber, Robert—”

  “Listen, Alex, you can’t breathe a word of this. Once he makes his announcement, there could be a feeding frenzy. Wegener represents the Eighth Congressional District, solid Republican, a safe seat, whoever succeeds him is guaranteed a place in Congress.”

  “And it’s going to be Charles. That’s why he’s taken a leave of absence from his law firm. That’s why they’re filming him, campaigning door to door,” I say.

  “The state GOP has had its eye on Charles for some time. He’s thirty-eight, successful, he has a seriously photogenic wife, and he’s founded an environmental organization, us, which could be the GOP’s route into the environmental debate, political turf solely occupied by the Democrats. Charles will have no serious competition for the seat, he’s being anointed, but it goes further than that.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t say, you know.”

  “Don’t start that again,” I tell him.

  “Ok, well, but you gotta keep this quiet.”

  “Sure.”

  “Ok, look, what do you think’s going to happen at the general election next year?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Dole will lose. Dole will lose to Clinton and the GOP will be thrown into turmoil. They’re going to need to move
toward the center to beat Gore in 2000. They’re not going to pick someone like George W. Bush or Pat Buchanan. They’re going to pick moderates, and Charles will be a young, moderate, environmentalist, outsider congressman from a Western state. Do you see?”

  “See what?” I ask.

  Abe’s boiling with excitement. The momentum’s there, he’s giving me this secret, something he can’t contain anymore.

  “Don’t you see, Alex? Charles could be an ideal vice-presidential candidate for someone like John McCain or even Colin Powell. Powell-Mulholland in 2000? This isn’t penny-ante shit. This is the big enchilada.”

  “Jesus,” I say, impressed by his seriousness about it all. But surely it’s a fantasy, a long shot, more than that, a delusion. Who ever heard of a two-term congressman getting to be a vice president, no matter how good the demographics.

  “Long shot,” I said.

  “Nah, Bill Clinton was a long shot in 1992,” Abe says, and continues to explain the concept. I pretend to be entranced. Abe goes on and on in a whisper and gradually it occurs to me that whether Charles really could be vice president in 2000, or 2004, or whenever, it doesn’t actually matter, for I see now why Alan Houghton had to die. It’s enough that Charles has convinced himself that Congress and the vice presidency are possibilities and it gave him that final push to kill his tormentor, his shadow, his blackmailing familiar. Yes. And poor Victoria got in the way. I take a sip of beer, nod at Abe, and make a mental note that I’m going to have to find out who Alan Houghton is and what connection he has to Charles.

  Abe whispering now: “Alex, listen, you didn’t hear it from me, ok? And it goes for all of us. We can’t rock the boat, we can’t do anything official until Wegener’s birthday announcement. Do you see? We all have to go hush-hush.”

  “I do see, and I see why they moved CAW to Denver. This is going to be a campaign HQ as well? Right?”

  “Change the topic, here’s Robert,” Abe whispers.

  Robert’s in the pub looking for us. Looking for Abe. He can’t find the route maps for where they’re going tonight.

  Abe gives me a look to say nothing, gets up, and they head out of the bar.

  Later…

  We get in a large van, almost a bus, and head south toward Littleton. Charles isn’t with us again tonight and Robert’s driving. Surprisingly, Amber’s accompanying her brother-in-law. I’ve seen Amber only twice since I started here. And this is the first time I’ve seen her without Charles. She’s dressed down in a sweatshirt and black jeans, but she still looks stunning. You’d have to be misogynistic, the president of Greenpeace, Maoist, and blind to refuse to join the CAW if she asked you.

  Robert drives and talks. Robert doesn’t have the charm or salesmanship of his older brother. Where Charles has us telling our favorite movies and books and gets Abe to rehearse us through doorstops and the rap (to increase group cohesion and team spirit, Charles says), Robert senses that he has to do something but is a bit of a wet blanket. He seems to have digested management guru books and gives us pep talks based largely on sports metaphors and stories about the rebirth of Chrysler.

  We drive south down Broadway rather than the highway and after a time we stop in a typical leafy suburb, or what would be a leafy suburb, were not all the trees dying and the lawns turning brown.

  “We’re here,” Robert says, and switches off the engine.

  He turns around to look at us.

  “You should tell them where here is,” Amber whispers.

  “Oh yes, Englewood. It’s a borderline area, mixed incomes, so I want everyone to go in p-pairs tonight.”

  Everyone nods.

  Amber whispers something to him.

  “Oh, yes, of course, we all have to g-get pumped up, don’t we?” Robert asks, almost rhetorically.

  “Yes, we do,” Abe says.

  “Ok, then. Um, Abe, are you ready to go?” Robert asks with fake enthusiasm.

  “Yes, I am,” Abe says.

  “I c-can’t hear you,” Robert says.

  “Yes, I am,” Abe says, louder.

  “I still c-can’t hear you,” Robert says.

  Abe yells that he’s ready to go. Robert does the same routine with everyone in the van. It’s cringe making. When he gets to me, he says:

  “Alexander, are you r-ready to go?”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” I shout, USMC fashion.

  And then something a little odd happens. Robert laughs. Strange noise, like a small animal drowning. Really, it wasn’t that funny. In fact, it wasn’t funny at all, but Robert’s cracking up about something. Snot comes out of his nostrils and he takes out a tissue, wipes his eyes, blows his nose. No peeler worth his salt makes snap judgments à la Columbo, but suddenly I don’t see Robert as the murdering type.

  “Oh my God, that reminds me, r-really reminds me. You know, I got thrown out of the ROTC after one week? I would have made the worst s-soldier in the world,” Robert says to Amber, forgetting, I think, that the rest of us are here.

  “I thought they’d banned ROTC at Harvard?” Amber asks.

  “At school. At B-Bright. They said the only one worse was Charles and they didn’t throw him out because he was l-lacrosse captain. Oh, you should have seen me, it was—”

  “Robert, the business at hand,” Amber interrupts, and gives him a look that none of the rest of us can see but which freezes him.

  “Oh, yes, sorry folks, f-forgot what I was doing there. Um, who’s next?” Robert asks in a still-cheerful mood.

  We go through the rest of the van and everyone claims that they are ready and enthused about going out tonight.

  “Does everyone have their m-maps?”

  We all nod and say yes.

  “Does anyone not know how to read their map?” Robert asks.

  One shy girl with curly brown hair puts her hand up.

  “Ok, I’ll go with you,” Robert says.

  We pile out of the van. It’s another warm night. Englewood looks like everywhere we’ve been going. Another white ’burb. By fluke or luck or foul design, Amber and I are the only two left without a pair, but it’s ok, I’m still new enough to need training by the top people.

  “Looks like you’re with me, marine,” Amber says, twisting her hair behind her into a tight ponytail.

  “Looks like,” I agree, somehow managing to get the words out.

  We gather our clipboards and materials and walk out into Englewood. I stare at her ass all the way to the first house and my internal monologue is: Bloody calm down, Alex, she’s just a woman.

  The first house we go to: a chubby lass, twenty years old, black hair, glasses, pretty, holding a wineglass. She opens the door, looks at us.

  “Let me guess, you’re a little bit country, he’s a little bit rock and roll,” she says.

  I have no idea what she’s talking about, and I look at Amber, baffled.

  “She thinks we’re Mormons,” Amber says.

  “What?” I say, still confused.

  “We’re not Mormons, uh, we’re from the Campaign for—” Amber attempts.

  “Let me tell you something,” the girl says, taking a large sip of wine, “I do not believe that the Angel Gabriel appeared in upstate New York and said go take dozens of wives. It makes no sense. Ok? No sense.”

  “We’re not Mormons,” Amber persists.

  “Damn right you’re not,” the girl says, “and I’m not going to be one either. And then he went to Utah? Jesus is no cowboy, I mean, come on, you people are seriously misguided.”

  “Does the issue of deforestation concern you at all?” I ask.

  “No, but converting dead people does, that’s a disgrace,” she says.

  She closes the screen door and then the front door, leaving us outside feeling very foolish.

  “What was that all about?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Amber says briskly.

  “She must have been drunk,” I suggest.

  We turn and walk down the path.

  “I just don
’t get the ‘you’re a little bit country’ thing,” I say.

  “It’s from a TV show you would never have seen, a song they used to sing, from the Donny and Marie show. You know, the Osmonds.”

  “Oh, who are Mormons, oh, I see, that was a good line, then.”

  “Yes,” Amber says.

  “Aren’t their missionaries always men, though?” I ask.

  “I have no idea,” Amber says, a bit snootily. “I don’t know anything about the Mormons.”

  The encounter has embarrassed her, she doesn’t think it’s funny at all, whereas I think it’s hilarious, it’ll amuse Pat and John when I tell them.

  “Me neither, all I remember about the Mormon missionaries is as a kid in Belfast. Our next-door neighbor would throw a bucket of water around them because he said they were the heralds of the Antichrist or something. He probably thought that because he was so filthy and they were always so clean and neat,” I say.

  “That’s right, you grew up in Belfast, didn’t you?” she says, looking at me.

  “Aye.”

  “That’s quite near a place called Carrickfergus, isn’t it?” she says.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been there,” I tell her.

  My résumé is crucially different from Victoria Patawasti’s in that respect. But even so, it’s time to change the subject.

  “Yeah, in fact, everything I know about the Mormons comes from that Sherlock Holmes story and that’s hardly complimentary,” I say.

  “You read Sherlock Holmes?” she asks excitedly.

  “Some of them.”

  “I love Conan Doyle, I love mysteries. Mysteries, puzzles, figuring stuff out, I love that stuff. It’s not Charles’s thing,” she says, her face lightening.

  “Never Chuck, or Charlie, or Chaz, always Charles, eh?”

  She frowns at me and I see that I’ve goofed up. Charles’s name is not a subject for levity.

  “Who’s your favorite mystery writer?” I ask.

  “Oh, the divine Agatha,” she says, giving me a big smile.