I’ll bet she’s trying to get Daddy into an empty row so they can make out.
Diane stopped in mid-aisle to spy through the shelves. Something on a book’s spine caught her eye—the author’s name: Pola Nilsson-MacLeish. Diane took a step back; every book on that shelf was by the same author. They were college textbooks, at least a dozen different titles. She looked down the aisle to the sign marking the section. It read Economics.
“Holy cow!” she muttered as she pulled one of the textbooks from the shelf. As she leafed through it, her eyes opened wide with astonishment. The pages were crammed with mathematical formulas—and this is no simple algebra, either! I can’t even follow this stuff!
She pulled another book from the shelf and found it, too, was filled with mathematics, most of it far too advanced for her to comprehend.
By the time she had riffled the pages of the third book from the shelf, Diane Gelardi was completely in awe of Doctor Pola Nilsson-MacLeish—so in awe that she did not realize Doctor MacLeish was now standing beside her.
“Well, what do you think?” Pola asked, startling Diane and causing her to drop the book to the floor. “Do you agree with my analysis, Diane?”
Diane could hardly contain her excitement. She scooped the book from the floor and hurriedly scanned page after page as Pola smiled down at her. Finally, Diane’s finger fell on a single, complex equation. She looked up at her newest hero, her eyes sincere and bright, and said, “Agree with it? I don’t even know what any of it means yet! But you’ll teach me, won’t you, Pola?”
Neither Pola nor Diane realized that Joe, standing at the end of that same aisle in the rear of the store, was watching them. The midday sun cast its warm light through the sole window at the front of the bookstore. This light formed the backdrop that framed his two ladies, wrapping the vision of their happy, animated conversation in a bright halo.
Something about that book in Diane’s hand, I guess. Whatever it is, I think it’s done the trick.
He did not want the moment to end. He could go on looking at the two of them like this forever.
Chapter Ninety-Two
The staffer on the ladder struggled to dislodge the PILCHER FOR PRESIDENT banner high on the wall. On the floor of the cavernous room below him, dejected staffers packed up the detritus of a failed presidential run in disillusioned silence. The campaign headquarters, like the campaign itself, was closing down.
With a mighty tug that almost spilled him from the ladder, he finally broke the banner free. It fluttered slowly to the floor, landing silently between a row of desks. Staffers carrying boxes to the trucks outside trod on the banner like it was not even there.
A television still in a corner played the evening news. Allegra Wise was on camera. Several staffers stopped to listen as she spoke.
“Congressman Pilcher announced his withdrawal from the presidential race via letter to the Republican National Committee,” Allegra reported. “No plans for a public statement by the former candidate have been announced.”
More glum faces gathered to watch the woman on the black and white screen.
“Staffers at his congressional offices in Washington and Pittsburgh responded to this reporter’s inquiries with ‘no comment.’”
A female staffer began to gently sob. A few more, including some men, dabbed at their moist eyes as Allegra completed her report.
“The congressman has remained out of the public view since eye witnesses, on this network last week, corroborated the Swedish murder allegation against him. This reporter has been unable to determine the congressman’s current whereabouts.”
Leonard Pilcher was a bit unsure of his current whereabouts, too. He was alone, driving a piece of shit station wagon on a deserted, two-lane road in southern New York State. Or maybe I’m in northern Pennsylvania…All I know is the sun’s setting behind me, so I’m heading east, like I want to be. I may be going a little out of my way, but I can’t risk driving through Philly or New York City. He had not bothered to consult the road map, crumpled in the passenger’s foot well, for the past hour.
When the three-day drunk, locked in his den, had finally ended, he decided it was time to hit the road, alone and anonymous. That could be a difficult proposition for a public figure, holed up in a mansion with a small army of reporters waiting at the gate for him to emerge.
Once the booze started to wear off, he had come up with a plan. Reporters, after all, were only human: they’ve got to eat, sleep, and shit just like the rest of us. He could watch them from his den window. Right after sunrise and sundown, their numbers thinned considerably for an hour or so.
More importantly, they had gotten used to the comings and goings of the estate handyman who usually drove this station wagon around the grounds and on errands to town. The reporters did not care much anymore about the comings and goings of this vehicle or the workingman driving it, wearing his rough, wool plaid jacket, baseball cap, and smoking a pipe.
Ol’ Henry must have rolled down the window and given them a ration of foul-mouthed shit when they shoved a microphone in his face.
It had been a simple matter to dig out an old plaid jacket and baseball cap from the outdoor clothes stored in the basement. He even found the never-smoked pipe his oldest daughter had given him a few birthdays back. Now he would be properly disguised to drive off in the beat-up station wagon, unmolested by the news media.
Hell, the car’s mine, anyway. They can’t exactly report it stolen. Not something I’d normally be caught dead in, though.
He had stuffed a healthy pile of cash from the wall safe in his den into an overnight bag. He did not count it, but he supposed it was more than enough. Buying the necessities of everyday life would be a new experience for Leonard Pilcher. He never had to do it before. He had no idea what those everyday items cost.
But hell…if the peons can afford it, it can’t be that much.
The note he left for his wife was a lie. It said he was going to spend a few days by himself at the family hunting lodge in the mountains of central Pennsylvania. He had no intention of going anywhere near it, however.
That should throw them off my scent for a while…like that bitch wife of mine could give a sweet shit, anyway. By the time anybody decides to look for me, I’ll already be back.
Then he hit the road, heading east. He needed a little time. He needed freedom—to think, to act.
Like Daddy said, you’re on your own, son. Best of luck.
It was well past midnight of that first driving day when the station wagon pulled into a rundown motel outside Albany, New York. Leonard Pilcher was desperate for some sleep. So was the desk clerk who had been jarred from his nap to check him in. Cash was exchanged for a room key with a minimum of fuss. Pilcher had signed the register John Taylor, Altoona, PA. The heavy-lidded clerk did not look capable of recognizing his own mother, let alone this most ordinary-looking man in a ball cap before him who just a few short days ago had been running for president.
As Leonard Pilcher settled into the lumpy mattress, distracted by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of headboard striking wall and the guttural, lustful moans of the couple next door, he tried to keep one thought foremost in his mind: By this time tomorrow, I’ll be there.
After a fitful sleep, Pilcher awoke with the sunrise. Stumbling to the sink, he splashed cold water on his face; he did not bother to shave. After donning clean underwear and shirt from his overnight bag, he was back in the station wagon, still heading east, searching for a place to eat.
A few miles down the road, he found it—a diner so dilapidated it looked as if a strong wind might blow it over. But the smell of eggs, bacon, and sausage cooking was invitingly strong in the rutted, unpaved parking lot.
Pilcher was stunned as he stepped inside. The clientele was mostly colored; the staff were all colored. There was a moment of silence as everyone glared at the stranger in the door, decided he was no threat, then went back about their business. Spotting an empty seat at the far end of the co
unter, away from the other customers, Pilcher breathed a sigh of relief: Oh well…Not much chance any of these jigaboos will recognize me.
He settled into the seat. The interior of the diner was only slightly less shabby than the exterior, but inside, the aroma of breakfast being fried up was far more intoxicating. A short, portly waitress on the other side of the counter approached and poured him a cup of coffee. She demanded, rather than asked, “What’s yours, mister?”
“I’d like to see a menu,” Pilcher replied.
“Hey, Clarence,” she bellowed to the cook. “Mr. Hoity-Toity here needs to see a menu!”
The diner’s occupants erupted in raucous, derisive laughter. As it died down, the waitress pointed to a chalkboard on the wall. “Can you read, man? That there is your menu.” With a graceful twirl that belied her considerable girth, she headed to the other end of the counter, saying in a voice that was loud, theatrical, and sarcastic, “Take all the time you need, your highness.”
The laughter swelled once again. Red-faced, Pilcher sat and endured it, slowly sipping the coffee. He stared into the cup, pulling the brim of his ball cap down to hide a little more of his face. Let these monkeys have their fun. They won’t lay a hand on you as long as they can keep running their stupid mouths…Just sit still. Let it pass. Don’t want to do anything that’s going to call more attention to myself…Damn, this coffee is good!
In another moment, the laughter ceased, and nobody in the diner cared in the least about that white man without a lick of sense in their midst. The waitress sauntered back down the counter toward Pilcher. “You ready to order now, mister?”
“I’ll take the two eggs, over easy, with hash browns. And more coffee, please.”
“Comin’ right up.”
She placed the order at the kitchen window, then returned with the coffee pot. She studied his face as she poured. “You growin’ a beard, sugar?”
After the battering he had just taken, Pilcher welcomed the small talk. “Been thinking about it,” he replied. “Makes me look a little like Hemingway, don’t you think?”
The waitress let out a hearty yelp of a laugh. “No, sugar, it don’t. He handsome,” she said, walking away.
She returned a few minutes later with his eggs. After setting the plate down, she studied his face again. “You know who you do look like?”
Tension rose rapidly in his body as he thought No! This is all I need…to be recognized in this shithole! Struggling to remain calm, he replied, “No. Who do you think I look like?”
“That guy…the candidate. That murder in Sweden guy. What’s his name?”
Pilcher bluffed a smile and shook his head. “Nah…I don’t look anything like him.”
The waitress considered his face for another moment, then nodded. “Yeah, you right. He handsome, too. But he must be one stupid motherfucker to get his high and mighty ass locked up in some foreign country.”
Pilcher shook his head again, this time in protest. “No, that’s not true. Sweden can’t touch him.”
“Sounds to me like they already did, sugar,” the waitress replied.
Chapter Ninety-Three
Joe walked softly down the upstairs hallway, the telephone receiver pressed to his ear, its cradle in hand by his hip. The phone’s long cord snaked along the carpet to the small table where the phone usually rested. He peeked into Diane’s darkened bedroom.
Softly, Joe said into the phone, “Diane’s asleep. Do you want me to wake her?”
“No, don’t wake her,” Pola replied, her voice echoing in the long-distance lines from New York. “I just wanted to tell her what I have planned for your visit here next weekend.”
“She can’t wait to come to New York,” Joe said. “You know, I’ve got to say it again, honey…I can’t tell you how relieved I am you two hit if off so wonderfully.”
With a sigh that sounded both relieved and grateful, Pola replied, “You and me both, laddie!”
Joe shut the hallway light and walked into his bedroom, dragging the phone cord behind. He closed the door gently, then relaxed on the bed to continue their conversation.
“Pola, do you really think there’s a chance you could be coming to Harvard?”
“I think so. The new Economics chairman is an old friend. He’s been chatting me up about coming on faculty there ever since I left Stockholm. Wouldn’t that be brilliant, Joseph?”
“I can’t think of anything better.”
The conversation drifted happily on into the night, full of hopeful speculation about a life together, with both their careers centered in Cambridge. Neither of them cared one bit at the moment about the long distance charges that were piling up—or anything else, for that matter.
Down the hall, Diane slept soundly. Her school books and trusty slide rule were scattered across the foot of the bed. She was deep in a beautiful dream: I’m at the top of the Empire State Building…I can see the whole world from up here!
But suddenly, something was pulling her down from her lofty, imaginary perch. She was not on the Empire State Building anymore—she was back in her bed. A strong hand was clamped over her mouth, pushing her head deep into the pillow. There was the dark shape of a man leaning over her.
I’m not asleep! This is really happening!
The scream that tried to escape from the depths of her soul sounded like nothing more than a muted grunt, stifled by the hand gagging her mouth, inaudible past the walls of her bedroom. There was the glint of a knife’s blade before her face. With the powerful kick of a competitive swimmer, she squirted from her attacker’s grasp just as the blade slashed the now-unoccupied pillow.
She fell to her knees beside the bed as her attacker whirled to strike again with his knife. The metal slide rule clattered from the bed to the floor beside her. She grabbed the sturdy device, screamed with all the might her lungs would allow, and thrust it at the attacker’s face like a bayonet.
It was the attacker’s turn to scream as he recoiled in pain and fell from the bed. His hands covered his face—Diane’s slide rule had struck him squarely in the eye. His knife had flown from his hand. It slid beneath the dresser and was lost to the darkness.
In his bedroom, Joe heard the screams. He yelled into the phone, “Hang on! Something’s wrong!” Dropping the receiver to the bed, he dashed into the hallway.
Pola’s frantic voice pleaded to no one: “Joseph? Joseph? What’s going on?”
Joe rushed into Diane’s bedroom and flipped on the light. He saw his terrified daughter crouched on the floor beside her bed. On the other side of the bed, a man knelt on the floor, hands over his face.
Her voice trembling, Diane shouted, “Daddy, he’s got a knife!”
Joe scanned the room for a manic instant but saw no knife. Moving quickly to shield Diane, he searched for something—anything—to use as a weapon, but found nothing. He pulled his daughter to her feet and propelled her toward the door. Then, he savagely pushed the bed into the assailant with an adrenaline-fueled shove of his bare foot, hoping to buy a few milliseconds of time to get Diane to safety.
The assailant was knocked back by the bed but quickly rose to his feet, his face still covered. Then he spoke: “I’m gonna kill you and that little bitch daughter, Gelardi.”
The voice was unmistakable. It belonged to Leonard Pilcher.
His hands suddenly clear of his face and balled into fists, Pilcher leapt over the bed, covering the distance so rapidly Joe could not react. But no punches landed. Instead, the two men joined into a relentless, whirling clinch as the bizarre dance of death began once again—just like on that Swedish rooftop so many years ago, when David Linker was Pilcher’s ill-fated partner. Locked together, they careened into the narrow hallway.
They were a match in strength; neither could get the upper hand as they spun and bounced off walls—but Pilcher had one advantage: he was wearing shoes. He managed a few kicks against Joe’s shins and tried to stomp on his bare feet. But locked together as they were, they were too close.
The blows stung, but the short, ineffectual jabs did nothing to deter Joe. Pilcher could not risk the wind-up—the raising of his kicking leg off the floor—that would yield crippling power. Such a move might allow Joe to knock him off balance.
So on they whirled, down the hallway—until they lurched through the door into Joe’s bedroom. Joe stumbled—over my goddamn briefcase! Suddenly free of Pilcher’s grip, Joe fell—and struck his head soundly against the dresser.
He fought for consciousness as Pilcher loomed over him. “I should have put you down like a dog back in Sweden, you guinea bastard,” the congressman muttered. “Just like your Jew-boy buddy.”
Pola’s distressed voice spilled from the phone. “Joseph! What’s going on?’
Her Scottish accent was unmistakable. Pilcher picked up the receiver and said, “I’m coming for you next, you fucking bitch.”
Pilcher returned to Joe, still supine and groggy on the floor, and grabbed him by the throat. But he made a mistake—his feet straddled Joe, who managed a respectable kick to the congressman’s exposed groin. Backpedaling and bellowing in pain once again, Pilcher collided with Diane, who had just reappeared in the doorway. She still held the slide rule—but in her other hand, she wielded a new weapon: a cast-iron frying pan. With a mighty swing, she cracked him across the back of his head with the heavy pan. Pilcher buckled—but recovered almost instantly to backhand her into the hallway. He then slammed the door shut and with a flick of the latch, locked her out…
And then Joe was upon him again. The deadly dance continued—they whirled through the bedroom, leaving a path of objects knocked from the furniture in their wake. Pilcher grabbed a tottering lamp and tried to smash it against Joe’s head…
Unpunished Page 33