The Candidate

by Lis Wiehl

  Jenny hesitates, then comes over, sits on the edge of the bed, and crosses her arms, looking straight ahead.

  “I’m working on a story that I think might be important. Very important. I think there might be something wrong with Mike Ortiz.”

  Jenny frowns, and Erica can see she’s trying to stifle her curiosity, but out it comes. “What do you mean? Like, what wrong?”

  “Well, that’s just it, honey. I don’t know exactly what. But when he came back from his time as a prisoner in Iraq, his affect seemed different, flatter. And he seems to be controlled by his wife, to an unnatural degree.”

  “Is that a crime?”

  “It’s not a crime, per se, but if something . . . unusual . . . did happen while he was a hostage, I think the American people have a right to know it. He could be our next president. I think the Buchanan bombing, the assassination and suicide that followed, and then the hit-and-run of Martin Vander might all be connected to the Ortizes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Right now I have ten questions for every answer. But there’s so much at stake. I feel a real responsibility to follow this investigation. I may come up empty-handed, but I have to try.”

  “Do you have to try on Saturday?”

  “I have a piece of potential evidence that needs to be examined by an expert up at Harvard. I feel very real time pressure. The nominating convention is coming up, and then it’s only a couple of months before the election.”

  Jenny looks down and says nothing.

  “My offer to cancel still stands.”

  “Oh sure, cancel—and then when President Ortiz turns out to be a robot, blame me.”

  “That would be a weight on your shoulders.”

  “If I can handle you, I can handle anything.”

  Erica can’t stifle a laugh.

  “There’s one thing I want in return.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My allowance raised to thirty dollars.”

  “But that’s emotional blackmail.”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  Since those three words are one of Erica’s mantras when she’s conducting an investigation, what can she say? “All right, thirty it is.”

  Jenny sticks out her arm, and mom and daughter shake hands.

  “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

  “Please don’t get all syrupy, Mom.”

  Without thinking Erica reaches out and grabs Jenny, pulls her tight to her breast, kisses the top of her head again and again, squeezes her, holds her, hugs her, now and for always.

  Then she looks up and sees Becky in the doorway.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt. I forgot my glasses. I knocked and rang the bell, but when there was no answer I tried the door and it was open and so I just came in and got them.” She holds up the retrieved glasses. “Bye now.” Becky disappears.

  A shiver races up Erica’s spine. She takes Jenny’s hands in her own, looks her in the eyes, and says, in her most serious mother voice, “Listen, Jenny, don’t mention anything to anyone about what I told you. Even Becky.”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Erica kisses Jenny one last time and then goes and locks the front door. Then she goes to the living room window and looks down. She watches as Becky leaves the building, crosses Central Park West, and then reaches into her bag, takes out her cell phone, and makes a call.

  CHAPTER 30

  AS HER TRAIN APPROACHES BOSTON’S South Station, Erica’s baggage includes more than the briefcase on the seat beside her. She and Boston have a checkered history—this is the town where she first tasted success. And where she wound up in jail for DUI and reckless endangerment. But all that’s behind her. Isn’t it?

  Erica usually finds train trips relaxing, but she’s too filled with expectation, even foreboding, to enjoy this one. She’s deeply unnerved by Vander’s death, which she is growing convinced was murder, flawlessly planned and executed. She’s almost afraid to learn what the frail manuscript that she has gingerly tucked into her bag is about.

  She leans back in the seat and closes her eyes, hoping to grab a moment of peace—instead, she flashes on Becky standing there in the doorway of Jenny’s room, silently watching them. How long was she there? How much did she hear? Was she lurking out of sight, listening, before she appeared in the doorway? Erica tries to quell her doubts about Becky. She’s just a kid from the wrong side of the tracks who’s trying to get a toehold in the big leagues. Erica remembers her own youthful missteps. And Becky is good for Jenny. If Erica replaced Becky it would be a big disruption in Jenny’s life. Not to mention her own.

  The train comes to a stop, and Erica gets off and heads to the cabstand. She’s wearing cream slacks, a blue blouse, and sunglasses as protection against the world—she’s in no mood for autographs or selfies or even understated Bostonian expressions of goodwill.

  As her cab makes its way through the narrow streets lined with charming old buildings and a palpable sense of history, civility, and respect for tradition, she thinks, America could use a little more Boston these days.

  They reach the Charles River and drive west to Cambridge. The water is sparkling, dotted with sculls and pleasure boats, the sky is blue, but all Erica sees is danger and malevolence, lurking, waiting. All the tradition in the world, all the civility, even all the lovely weather, none of it is protection in the end.

  They drive through Harvard Square, jammed with tourists soaking up the Harvardness—sidewalk singers, buskers and magicians, bookstores and cupcake emporiums, clothing stores catering to fourteen-year-old social-media addicts. They reach the vast Harvard campus—passing gates that lead to grassy yards filled with students in the last blush of innocence. They come to Divinity Place, where the Department of East Asian Languages and Civilizations is housed in an undistinguished redbrick building.

  Erica holds her bag close to her chest as she finds the office of George Yuan. The door is open, and when Yuan sees Erica he bounds up out of his chair.

  “Welcome to Ye Olde Cambridge. What a pleasure!” Yuan is young, midthirties tops, lean, and bristling with energy, with thick black hair, eyes that beam out a restless intelligence, and a movie-star handsome face he tries to soften with a pair of hip-nerd black glasses. “Sit, sit, make yourself comfortable.”

  Erica sits in a chair, expectant—she meets a lot of dynamic people in her business, but they have nothing on George Yuan. He closes the office door, sits, rubs his hands together, and makes a pro forma stab at small talk. “So . . . you found us all right?”

  “Yes. As you may know, I used to work in Boston.”

  “I do know. You were my favorite newscaster.”

  Erica is disarmed by his compliment. George Yuan is a generous guy who has managed to make her feel drawn to him within thirty seconds of meeting. “From what I’ve read it sounds like you do fascinating work.”

  “Oh, I’m just a musty academic. I’ve always admired people like you, out in the real world, making a difference.” He rubs his hands together again. “So . . . you’ve brought the manuscript?”

  Erica takes the brown-paper-wrapped book out of her bag and hands it to Yuan. He places it on his desk and gently unwraps it. The book sits there and he stares at it for a few moments before opening it at a couple of places—handling the pages as reverently as if it were a Gutenberg Bible. His focus is intense, and Erica’s curiosity is becoming almost unbearable. Finally he turns from his desk to her.

  “I don’t know how much you know of the ancient Chinese texts, sometimes called the canonical texts.”

  “That would be somewhere between zero and zilch.”

  “They’re called the Four Books and Five Classics. They were written before the Qin dynasty unified China in 221 BC, and cover history, philosophy, agriculture, medicine, mathematics, astronomy, religion, art, and literature. Together they provide a priceless record of that ancient neo-Confucian civilization. Probably
the most famous in the West is the I Ching.”

  Erica knows a little bit about China’s rich history, and she closely follows the extraordinary trajectory of modern China as it has become the world’s economic superpower. But these texts are new to her, 221 BC. That’s a long time ago—over 1,600 years before Columbus set foot in the New World. America was home to wildly scattered Native American tribes, while in China the foundations of a highly advanced civilization were being recorded.

  “There is one classic text of which so few copies exist that some scholars consider it a fraud, an imposter written centuries later by generals and military scholars. Other experts, myself included, believe this so-called ‘lost’ text is wholly legitimate, but was suppressed at the time because its methodology was rejected by the leaders of the ascendant Qin dynasty.”

  “And this is that text?”

  “Yes. Not an original, obviously. None of the original texts has survived. However, they were transcribed by ensuing generations. I would date this copy back to the late nineteenth century. This is the only time I have ever seen this manuscript outside a museum. It remains controversial, with few scholars taking it seriously. Do you know how Dr. Vander came to have it?”

  “He told me he was going to visit Chinatown, but that was the only hint he gave.”

  “New York City is home to the largest Chinese population outside China. A lot of secretive commerce takes place there. He may have had a lead to a rare books dealer, perhaps one operating out of his apartment, under the radar. The important thing is, we have this now.”

  “You haven’t told me what it’s about.”

  “Well, it’s a military text—but it’s not about armies and grand strategies and battlefield tactics. No—it covers the philosophy, history, and methodology of a single and peculiar element of military tactics.”

  “Which is?”

  “Well, the title is How to Conduct Warfare of the Mind.”

  CHAPTER 31

  “YOU LOOK SHOCKED, ERICA,” GEORGE Yuan says.

  “I am shocked.” Erica tries to gather herself, to make some sense of what she’s just learned. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but . . . well, it only heightens my suspicions.”

  “Which are?”

  Erica is hesitant to open up to Yuan. He seems completely trustworthy, and could possibly even be helpful, but she feels like she’s playing with fire—a serious conflagration—and she wants to err on the side of caution.

  “I’d rather not go into a lot of detail.”

  “Am I right to assume you believe the tactics described in this text are being used today?”

  “Is there a translation of the text?”

  “Ah, your evasions only add to my suspicions.” They exchange a complicit glance. “In Chinese culture we value discretion. In American culture discretion is the better part of failure. I am caught in between.”

  “So am I. Has the text been translated?”

  “Not that I know of. As I said, it was discredited for centuries and didn’t generate a lot of interest. It’s written in ancient Chinese, which is an obsolete language. Finding a translator will be difficult.”

  “But you know ancient Chinese?”

  “I do.” He leans back in his chair, locks his fingers behind his head, and stretches out his elbows—a gesture that shows off his lithe, toned body. “Okay, I’ll take a stab at it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’m up to my neck in my new book—but it will be nice to work on something relevant.”

  “I’m so appreciative.”

  There’s a pause, and as the room goes quiet the mood shifts. Yuan grows serious, even somber, and he leans forward, elbow on knees. “Erica, from what I know of this book, it is dark. Very dark. It goes to places in the human soul that are pure evil. If you’re dealing with people who are using it, you are in danger. Do you understand?”

  Erica nods.

  “Are you sure you want to move forward with this?”

  “I am. I believe the arc of history bends toward justice. I want to add my weight, my strength, to bending it.”

  There’s another pause as he considers her words. Then he says, “I am with you, Erica. As an ally. And as a friend.” He reaches out and clasps her hand.

  As Erica walks down the sidewalk to her waiting car, she is touched by Yuan’s pledge, renewed and recharged. Up above her is the cobalt blue sky, and all around her, bright, idealistic young people walk and talk and laugh and play—there is decency and justice in the world, and she wants to make it more secure for those coming up behind her. For Jenny. Erica’s spirits soar. Then she looks over her shoulder and sees a dark cloud bank sweeping in from the west.

  And she didn’t bring an umbrella.

  CHAPTER 32

  AS ERICA RIDES BACK TO South Station, she tries to put the pieces together. How to Conduct Warfare of the Mind. Is it a manual of brainwashing? Does it detail techniques to gain control of a victim’s mind, to turn him into an automaton who will do what he is told, no matter how evil?

  If so, was this mode of warfare, were these techniques, practiced on Ortiz? Vander saw him and Celeste chanting some call-and-response incantation in Chinese. And Celeste was in the lead, the dominant player. And what about Markum? And Tuttle? Is there some kind of conspiracy behind it all? Tuttle lived in Woodstock, New York, about three hours from Boston . . .

  Erica leans forward and says to the driver, “Can you take me to the nearest car rental, please?”

  As Erica drives west on the Mass Pike through the intermittent thunderstorms, she calls Moy and asks her to find Tuttle’s address. It feels good to be alone, in a car, a compact car, driving, moving toward some answers. They recognized her at the Avis counter and wanted to give her a free upgrade, but she declined—she likes the ease and feel of smaller cars.

  That’s one of the ironies of being rich and famous—people are always throwing swag at you, upgrades and perks and gift bags filled with two-hundred-dollar sunglasses and Dr. Dre headphones, and at every turn there’s a sumptuous lobster-laden buffet. Being rich and famous, of course, you can easily afford it all, while those who really need help are stretching their food-stamp budgets to feed their families and haunting the Goodwill to clothe them.

  Erica reaches New York State. She drives over the mighty Hudson, wide and slow and serpentine. She remembers her day on Josh’s boat. He’s lively and warm and a little goofy, but she senses a rock-solid integrity under his boyish locks, and when he ran his fingers down her cheek after she got that troubling call from Vander, she was touched by his sincerity and concern. They’ve spoken a few times since and have a tentative date set for tomorrow, sans kids.

  As for Greg, they haven’t spoken since that terrible night when he de facto admitted to an affair with Laurel Masson. Of course she’s burning with curiosity about its length and intensity. Was it a one-night tipsy fall into the sack? Or is it ongoing and developing into something serious? Or is it somewhere in between—a casual affair between two busy adults? Her feelings would change depending on where it fell on the scale, but the hurt is still so fresh, so raw, that Erica prefers just to push the whole mess out of her mind, out of her heart. Well, she can try anyway.

  She drives south on the New York State Thruway and then exits and heads west to the village of Woodstock. The sky has cleared and she’s charmed by the town’s ragtag, albeit upscale, hippie vibe—there’s a spontaneous musical celebration on the village green, complete with drummers and guitar players, latter-day hippie chicks, pony-tailed middle-aged men and near-naked toddlers all dancing with abandon, the scene watched over by day trippers clutching bags filled with boutique scores. It’s all borderline satirical—spruce things up around the edges and this could be Hippieland, a new attraction at Disney World.

  Moy got her Tuttle’s address—it’s right in the village—and so Erica decides to park in a town lot and walk. She puts on her shades and a cap and savors strolling unrecognized through the colorful streets. Sh
e makes her way to a neighborhood tucked away behind the village green, in a hollow beside a roaring stream. The houses are Arts-and-Craftsy, small but charming in a whimsical way. She finds Tuttle’s house, which is small and neglected. The tiny front yard looks like the toy department at the Salvation Army, and there’s a rusting wind chime that Erica finds deeply depressing.

  It’s almost a month since the murder-suicide, and the story has lost some of its urgency. No matter how big a story is, the world always moves on. Erica hopes Tuttle’s widow, Amy, will have been out of the limelight long enough to gain some perspective. She was all over the news in the days following the crime, and she came across as lost, defensive, and overwhelmed. Erica thought about calling first, but decided a surprise visit would up the odds of getting unfiltered answers. She knocks on the front door. There’s no response. She can hear the sound of a television from inside, so she knocks again.

  “Yeah, coming.” The door opens and Amy Tuttle stands there. She’s in her midtwenties and looks wan and exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes and long scraggly hair, wearing a thin shift, barefoot. She takes one look at Erica and says, “Well, shut up, look who’s here. Where’s the camera crew?”

  “It’s just me,” Erica says, extending her hand.

  Amy Tuttle looks down at the proffered hand and finally shakes it. Hers is damp and limp. “What do you want?”

  “Just a few minutes of your time, if possible. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about your husband.”

  Amy tilts her head and narrows her eyes; for a moment a little smile plays at the corners of her mouth and Erica can tell that she enjoys the attention. Always a good sign for a reporter.

  “Come on in.”

  Erica follows Amy into the house, which is so small it looks like it was built for a family of gnomes. The décor is over-the-hill-hippie—lots of low furniture, messy pillows, and swirly posters. Clearly none of her husband’s life insurance payout has come through yet.