“I gotta go now. Campfire is in fifteen minutes. I guess I’ll see you Monday.” She made no effort to disguise her disappointment. Katie’s tone reminded Josh that for all her virtues, Katie was quite capable of being a sullen teenager.
Josh felt terrible. No parent ever liked to disappoint their child and Katie had already endured a lifetime’s worth of disappointment. He told her he loved her and hung up. It was a while before he could stand.
He was about to lock the newspaper’s front door when he became aware of the rhythmic sound of the copying machine coming from the business office.
Inside, he saw a table full of clean glass jars and Furbee hunched over a machine that was spewing out copy after copy of a poster. The big type at the top of the poster read, “We Can Save Her Leg!” Underneath was a photograph of his daughter.
Chapter Forty-Three
Dorn steeled himself as his cab arrived at Vivace, one of his regular Georgetown haunts since he was first elected to Congress. He hopped out, opened the door for his wife Sally and whisked her into the busy restaurant.
Heads swivelled to track him. He sighed. Advice and requests for autographs were sure to follow.
There was a time not so long ago, Dorn recalled wistfully, when truce was observed in Washington, D.C. starting at quitting time on Fridays. When senators and congressmen called a temporary halt to the political wars and launched no broadsides, fired off no statements, initiated no ideological offensives. When even the most dedicated lobbyist refrained from the usual well-financed incursions to claim territory in the heart and mind, and golf became simply about putting the ball in the hole and winning the card game afterward.
When—except for the pro-forma Sunday morning political talk shows and shooting footage of the President at church—even the media disarmed, content to subsist until Monday on stories about buses plunging into ravines in South America or ferry disasters in the Indian subcontinent.
Back then, Dorn could fish Saturday afternoon, then go to dinner in Georgetown with his wife and have a drink, or maybe several, plan for the week ahead and never be asked for his position on an issue or even be recognized.
All this had ended with the advent of twenty-four hour cable news and the Internet.
Now, he couldn’t go anywhere without people yelling at him—usually just, “Hey, Harry” for some reason—or asking him to stop and pose with them for pictures. Only a few days ago, he had been amused to encounter a time-saving alternative—a sidewalk entrepreneur charging tourists $10 to be photographed with a life-size stand-up of him that came from God-knew-where.
He was relieved to see his favorite maitre d’ sweep quickly toward him. The maitre d’ dramatically kissed Mrs. Dorn’s hand and hugged the congressman like a long-lost friend.
“The balcony this evening?”
Dorn was tempted. Not only was a balcony table a spot to see in, it was a spot to be seen in, a wonderful venue for a politician intent on staying in the public eye. But not on Saturday night with no truce in place. “Perhaps the Red Room . . . if it’s available?”
The maitre d’ bowed grandly. “Of course. Follow me.” He led the Dorns past walls with custom reliefs and Italian tiles down a hall past another dining room and into an alcove with a baroque red wallpaper, red oak floors and a single table. “Godere,” he said, exiting with another sweeping bow.
Dorn pulled out a chair for his wife of thirty-eight years and seated himself.
Washington society regarded their long marriage as quaint, their weekend dinner tradition as charming. In fact, Dorn knew—and he knew that his wife knew—these days theirs was largely a marriage of convenient mutual admiration where sex had ceased being a matter of importance. She enjoyed the perks and the status. He enjoyed the political benefit of appearing to be an unquestionably devoted husband. They both valued the social convenience.
Dorn ordered a Manhattan for Sally and a double scotch on the rocks with a twist for himself and tried to focus his attention fully on his wife.
He had learned that much in his marriage could be forgiven, even frequent absences and suspicions of infidelity, if he devoted his complete attention to Sally even for just a few hours a week. That was particularly true if he divulged enough Capitol Hill truth and gossip during their leisurely dinners to allow Sally herself to feel like an insider with information she could in turn selectively share.
And making someone feel special, that they were the only other person in the room, was something he was good at. Continuous eye contact and the appearance of complete attention was a trick Dorn had mastered and applied not only to to his political life but also to his relationship with Sally.
Their drinks arrived. Dorn began by reviewing the pork for West Virginia that he’d buried in the current version of an omnibus spending bill—including, he proudly pointed out, a $150,000 grant for Sally’s pet cause, the West Virginia Association of Animal Shelters.
Soft buzzing interrupted his discourse. Dorn withdrew his phone and silenced the annoyance. Two buzzes let him know the caller had left a message Dorn squinted at the incoming number. Vince Bludhorn, the pest! With growing irritation, he slid the phone into his pocket.
His blood pressure soared when it buzzed with a text message as the waiter took their orders. Bludhorn again. Call ASAP!
Dorn was steaming.
“Turn the thing off, dear,” Sally said sweetly. “The world will go on.”
Dorn tried to smile. “I apologize, dear, but I need to take care of this. I promise there will be no more interruptions.” He ignored the turning of heads and slipped out to the sidewalk.
Bludhorn answered on the first ring. Dorn wasted no time on pleasantries. “Vince, forget it.”
“Hold it, Harry,” the lawyer barked. “Hear me out. We’ve got a problem down here—”
“And you need me to call someone, blah, blah, blah.”
“Listen to me!” Bludhorn shouted. He paused. Dorn could hear him breathing. “This is not going to go away that easily. The newspaper editor’s poking around, apparently prompted by my ex-wife, Little Miss Do-Good Doctor, the bitch! God, she’s trouble!”
“And you can’t handle your problem yourselves?”
“We have some leverage and we’re using every bit of it. But we need someone to talk to the editor, at least buy us time.”
Dorn had to cut the cord. “I can’t help,” he said firmly. “What would I say to stop a story anyway?”
“Tell him it’s national security. Tell him the government requests his cooperation. Offer him Secretary of State.”
“Vince, you need to switch to decaf.”
“Harry, do I need to remind you that you wouldn’t be where you are without us?”
“I appreciate all you’ve done but if you’ve got your ass in a crack over something that’s going to reflect badly on me and the Liberty Agenda, I’ll be returning everything you ever sent me. With interest.” Dorn ended the call. He was feeling much better. Independence was good.
Seconds later, his phone buzzed with a text from Bludhorn. He opened the attached photo: himself and a young girl. Both naked.
He felt ill. He’d relegated this particular worry to the back of his mind, but now it was here. When he’d started in politics, side action was acceptable—as long as it was outside your area code. And Joel Richey—no doubt diverting a few for his own purposes—had proven adept at procuring anonymous and accommodating young women who made sure Dorn was never lonely on the road unless he wanted to be. But months earlier, Dorn had made a solemn vow he would stop because if you aspire to be President of the United States, the country itself was your area code.
He examined the photo. Even in the tiny screen, he was easily identifiable. He remembered the girl. The occasion had been memorably delicious because the girl had arrived with a young friend—a friend, he only now ruefully realized—who must have snapped
their photo with her cell phone.
But how would the plant know about these women?
He speed-dialed Bludhorn. “How’d you get this?”
Bludhorn chucked. “Harry, where do you think the girls came from? Surely you don’t believe Joel found them on his own.”
Dorn slumped. He looked to see if anyone was in earshot. “I’m not the first politician running for president who’s chased a few skirts. Clinton, Kennedy, FDR. Hell, even Eisenhower. Any more, who cares?”
“About fifteen-year-olds, they care.”
Dorn leaned into the wall to steady himself. Fifteen? He’d never even thought to ask. How stupid he’d been! “Tough to prove,” he croaked.
“Is it?”
Dorn found his focus hijacked by a whirl of mental pictures; a headline reading Dorn Had Sex with 15-Year-Olds; an image of his Sally and their children; an image of himself wearing prison orange. So close he’d been to freeing himself of the plant. Now, they had him by the balls.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see two women, one holding a camera. “Congressman,” one said, “could we have our picture taken with you?”
“Hold on,” he told Bludhorn. With incredible effort, he morphed into Congressman Dorn, the political up-and-comer. Welcoming. Friendly. Trustworthy. The woman with the camera persuaded a passerby to snap several photographs.
Dorn raised the phone. Took a breath. Asked, “What do you want me to do?”
Chapter Forty-Four
Pleading the need to catch up on his reading, Dorn holed up in his study when Sally left early for church. When he was sure she would not be returning for some forgotten item, he latched the door, unlocked the bottom drawer of his office desk, removed the false bottom and withdrew a worn hardback copy of War and Peace. He removed the contents concealed in its hollowed-out pages, walked swiftly to a nearby apartment building and ditched the book in a dumpster.
The contents—mementos, trophies from the past—needed to be completely and immediately destroyed. Destruction would be liberating, representing the end of the person he had sometimes been. Filled with determination, he lit the dual burners on the Thermador gas grill on his patio, distributed the girls’ underwear over the surface, closed the cover and pledged he would be worthy of his office.
Now, to the tougher issue—defusing the threat from the newspaper editor, Gibbs. It had kept him up all night. He could try the sledgehammer approach—“stay out of this, the government is aware and knows best”—but he’d found that usually only raised journalistic antennae. Beyond that, the only leverage he had was what amounted to bribes—perhaps the offer of a well-paying media relations position in the campaign or, as Richey had suggested, intervening with the insurance company on behalf of the editor’s daughter. If he wanted to go that route, he’d have to manufacture a subtle approach—nothing as obvious as “stop your investigation and I’ll help your daughter.”
Either approach required him to acknowledge being aware of the plant’s problem. For the briefest moment, the thought crossed his mind that he should resign his seat, abandon his campaign for the Senate and end the scrutiny. But even that wouldn’t get him out of the jam he was in. If Bludhorn ever leaked word about the girls, his life would be over, whether he was a candidate for the top office in the land, a member of the U.S. House, or just a citizen.
He’d start with the subtle approach, he decided. He monitored the clock anxiously until 10 a.m. and dialed Gibbs.
“Good morning, Mr. Editor! This is Harry Dorn.”
Josh sat up straight in bed. It sounded like Dorn. Still, a Sunday morning prank wasn’t beyond the imagination of his buddies from the Atlanta newspaper days. “Right,” he answered neutrally.
“Congressman Harry Dorn. I hope I haven’t interrupted your morning. I called because I’m coming to town for River Days. I’d like to see you.”
Josh still thought his leg might be being pulled. “Sure,” he said.
“Great. Tell me how things are with your daughter?”
It really was Dorn. Hope flickered. Josh quickly suppressed it, lest the gods consider it blasphemous. “Thank you for asking,” he said carefully. “We start treatment Tuesday.”
“Joel Richey said you could use some assistance. I don’t think he fully understood the issue. Let’s talk about that when we get together.”
Josh dared to speak the words. “Are you saying you might be able to help?”
“We’ll see. When are you available?”
“Anytime. I have no deadlines except for getting Katie to the hospital. The River Days section prints tomorrow. We don’t publish news pages for a couple of weeks.”
“Two weeks? There’s no paper for two weeks?”
“No.”
Dorn couldn’t believe his good fortune. No paper. No story. No problem. The plant had the time it needed. He hadn’t needed to mention the words radiation or investigation. He wouldn’t be required to pull any strings with an insurance company. He actually no longer needed to meet with the editor. But since he’d brought it up, backing out now would be awkward. “I’m coming to town this evening,” he said. “How about I swing by the office tomorrow morning, say around nine?”
“Perfect,” Josh said. “Let me tell you again how grateful I am . . . I mean, that you’d even consider helping.”
Dorn hung up and congratulated himself on his luck. Sally returned home from church a few minutes later and, as she had for years, helped him pack for his trip.
Chapter Forty-Five
Dead flowers in the window boxes. Cobwebs in the corners of the overhanging porch. Shrubbery in need of trimming. Nice place but suffering from the prolonged bachelorhood of its occupant, Allison decided. She picked the Sunday paper from Josh’s front stoop and rang the doorbell.
The smell of oatmeal cookies wafted out when Josh opened the door, comforting aromatherapy on a cool, gray day. Maybe she’d been wrong to convict him of domestic neglect. “Smells delicious,’ she said.
“For Katie. I thought I’d be done by the time you got here. Hopefully, this next batch will work and we can figure out where to go from here.”
Allison chiseled a cookie from the sheet and bit into it. It was as thin as a quarter and almost as hard. Her father would have called the cookie a “misadventure”—his word for a botched medical procedure. She had a different term for Josh’s kitchen performance: malpractice.
Josh began mixing another batch. Only when he spooned a silver dollar-sized portion on to the cookie sheet and began flattening the mound with a spatula, did she react. “Don’t flatten them. Do it like this.” She grabbed a tablespoon and dropped a dollop of the mixture onto the cookie sheet, leaving it rough and mounded. “See if that doesn’t make a difference.”
Josh poured coffee and they adjourned to a table in an alcove of the kitchen.
“I got some hopeful news this morning.” Josh told Allison about the call from Dorn and the meeting scheduled for the next day.
“We should tell him about the radioactivity,” Allison interrupted. “Chief Holt can’t or won’t help. The state guys are away. Tomorrow’s the perfect opportunity to get the feds involved.”
“Good thinking,” Josh said. “Our meeting’s at the newspaper office at 9 a.m. You should come.”
Allison’s beeper and the stove timer sounded simultaneously. Josh pulled the cookies from the oven. Perfect. Allison checked her page.
“Not a number I recognize,” she said. She punched the numbers into her phone.
A frown crossed her face. “You’re kidding.” She made notes in the margin of the newspaper.
Josh tried to read them but they were in the illegible scrawl that physicians used for prescriptions. “Where is it now?” she asked. “What’s their time frame? You’ll need to get tested right away. Don’t wait.”
She hung up. “This is getting stranger
all the time. The fish that crashed through your transom was hot. Radioactive.”
“You’re kidding!”
“That was Carl McGraw. He took the fish to the state fish and game offices this morning. The radiation detectors they got after 9-11 went crazy. They’re keeping it in a biohazard box until they can figure out whether it’s a matter for the Health Department, Natural Resources, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission or the EPA.”
Josh was reeling. He tried to reconstruct his encounters with the catfish.
“Allison, I touched that fish. So did Maude. Others too, maybe. There’s gotta be antidotes, treatments.”
Treatments. The nightmare had looped and was beginning again. First, a medical catastrophe for his wife. Next, his daughter. Now, the agents of sickness and death had their sights on him.
Allison was bombarded with a thousand thoughts. The radiation contamination issue had suddenly assumed huge new dimensions. Using her emergency room training, she performed a sort of mental triage to help her take stock. The most immediate issue was a panicked Josh Gibbs.
“Everyone who was exposed to it will need to get tested but odds are there’s nothing to worry about,” she said. In fact, she was anything but confident. She had no idea how radioactive the fish was. That made all the difference in terms of degree of exposure.
Josh wasn’t fooled. “But we don’t know for sure.”
“Right. We don’t know.”
“A radioactive fish,” Josh said, still disbelieving.
“There’s more,” Allison said. She consulted her notes. Nothing in her training had prepared her to deliver this kind of news.
“They found a rolled-up letter in the fish’s mouth. It was mostly illegible but they could identify a few letters and one complete word—CURSE. Carl says the state crime lab is working to decipher the rest of it but their theory is someone was trying to harm you.”
Josh was incredulous. “I don’t have any enemies.”
“You’ve made somebody unhappy.”
Fallout Page 21