by Joshua Corin
“What are you going to do with it?”
Rafe pocketed the keys. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe I’ll sell it. I’m sure there’s some Hells Angel who’d love to get his greasy hands on this piece of shit. Or maybe I’ll just keep it in my garage, untouched, unused. Collecting dust. I haven’t decided yet.”
Rafe offered a small grin. He couldn’t restrain himself anymore. Victory—vengeance—was too sweet.
“So,” he said, “let’s get you into this party.”
For expediency’s sake, they decided to avoid the front door. They probably could have talked their way past the bodyguards, but it would have been a long talk, especially given Tom’s recent violent encounter with them. So they decided to try the back.
The back lawn was littered with the nation’s top media reporters and cameramen, noshing on their complimentary burgers. A few gave Esme, Rafe and Tom a passing glance, then returned to their gossiping. The servants were setting up the last of the tables for the speech. Governor Kellerman was scheduled to deliver the momentous address from the Liebs’ back porch at 7:30 p.m. so the cable anchors could provide analysis during their 8:00 p.m. broadcasts. The musical guest—Tom Petty—would be performing shortly thereafter.
Esme, Rafe and Tom ascended the steps of the back porch, passed the podium and flag stands that Kellerman’s advance team had set up, and approached the guard standing by the kitchen door. He was a Nordic fellow—buzz-cut blond hair, frozen blue eyes—and he flashed them the world’s tiniest smile.
“The guest entrance is around front,” he said. His accent was very streets-of-Chicago. So was the C-shaped scar across his left cheekbone. “Have a delightful evening.”
“Actually,” replied Rafe, “my wife here, Esme, is with the planning committee. We just wanted to, you know, avoid the line.”
“I’m afraid this door is closed to guests. Have a delightful evening.”
“Right, but we’re not guests. Like I said, my wife Esme—”
And right on cue, the back door opened and Amy Lieb popped out.
“Esme! Rafe!” She wrapped her arms around them both and planted kisses on their cheeks. “You both look so wonderful!” Amy, for her part, looked wonderful too. She wore a narrow gold dress, and looked very much like a flute of champagne. “Did you just arrive? Everything is going so well!”
“We actually are having trouble getting in,” Rafe answered.
“What do you mean? Your names are on the list.” She turned to the bodyguard. “Their names are on the list. This is Rafe and Esme Stuart. They’re among my closest and dearest friends.”
“Ma’am, we were instructed not to let any guests in through the rear entrance.”
“But they’re not guests. I just told you. They’re friends. Who’s this?” She eyed Tom, who had taken off his leather coat. Underneath he had the common sense to wear a suit, albeit with a tie made out of leather string.
“Tom Piper,” he said, oozing Kentucky charm, and kissed Amy’s hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Tom’s an old pal from Washington,” added Rafe.
“Well, come on in! The more the merrier!”
Amy held open the door, wide enough for all to enter. The bodyguard frowned and stepped aside and Rafe, Tom and Esme strode into the kitchen, where a platoon of hyperactive chefs were putting the final touches on the evening’s gourmet appetizers.
“It smells a little bit like heaven, doesn’t it?” Amy observed. She looked to Esme for confirmation. Esme nodded and smiled. She didn’t say anything. She hadn’t said a word since Rafe had sprung his scheme.
Did she think what he did was right? No. Yes. Maybe. He was her husband. She had chosen him. She had said as much to Tom on the phone. She had made her choice and now she was standing by it. And if that meant Tom got hurt, well, at the end of the day, Tom wasn’t family. Rafe was. For better or worse, as the vows went. Her marriage had been teetering on the brink of something dark and she had rescued it! To be critical of Rafe now would have invalidated all that progress. Even if he deserved her criticism. Even if his treatment of Tom had been nothing more than petty adolescent—
Enough. What’s done was done. Rafe got what he wanted and now Tom would get what he wanted. Everyone would be happy.
“Where’s the governor?” she asked.
“Oh, he’s upstairs with his Special Guest.” Amy let out a sly chuckle. “Even I don’t know who he is. I think it’s going to be General Phillips. But the world’s going to find out in less than an hour, and the news will come from here. From my house. I’m so giddy I could burst! Oh, crap, that reminds me. I was heading outside for a reason. I have an interview with MSNBC. Let me introduce you to Paul Ridgely and then I’m gone.”
Paul Ridgely was the governor’s ubiquitous campaign manager. He was the favorite media surrogate for the campaign, always present with a sound bite. At thirty-one, he was astonishingly young for such responsibility, but in his short career he had already orchestrated three successful senate runs for the Democrats. Plus he was a native-born Ohioan, and that appealed to Kellerman’s loyalists. Amy brought Esme, Tom and Rafe with her through a flurry of chatter and exchanged business cards and into the study, where Paul was entertaining an audience of tipsy businessmen on the art of on-the-road cuisine.
“The secret,” he said, “is starch. Starchy foods fill you up quickly and they absorb alcohol, which allows you to go shot for shot with the town selectman at the local bar. At the end of the night, he’s wasted and you can still walk in a straight line and he’s impressed and there’s another five hundred votes. It’s hard for anyone to accuse you of being an elitist when you’ve drunk the town selectman under the table!”
The businessmen laughed.
“Paul, these are my dear friends Rafe and Esme Stuart. Rafe is a professor at our college and Esme helped me organize this event.”
“Then I am in your debt,” replied Paul, shaking hands with each of them.
Amy whisked off to her interview just as Paul turned to Esme and Rafe’s un-introduced companion. “And you are?”
Tom held out his hand. “Tom Piper.”
Paul’s grin wavered slightly. “I believe we’ve spoken on the phone.”
“I believe we have.”
The temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” proclaimed Paul Ridgely, “we have with us tonight a special guest! Mr. Piper here is a very special agent with our own Federal Bureau of Investigation. Give him a round of applause!”
The guests clapped their hands. Esme watched Tom shift his balance. He knew where this was going and was not happy. Neither was she.
Rafe, on the other hand, clapped along with the rest. The smirk on his face could have been made of platinum.
“Tell me, Mr. Piper, how does it feel to be a member of such an historically important organization?”
Tom chewed the inside of his cheek. “Let’s talk privately.”
“Ah, see, there you go! With our FBI, everything must be private. Everything must remain opaque. Why is that, Mr. Piper?”
“You know why.”
“I know what you think the reason is,” Paul retorted. “You think the reason is ‘national security.’ That’s why our Federal Bureau of Investigation has spent millions of our tax dollars tracking down enemies of the state like Martin Luther King and John Lennon. That’s why you exerted your authority to extradite terrorists like Charlie Chaplin. It’s too bad you didn’t see fit to use our funding to stop Osama bin-Laden, but I’m sure you have your reasons. You just can’t tell us what they are. ‘National security.’”
“Are you finished?”
“Are you? When Bob Kellerman gets elected, ladies and gentlemen, the answer will be a resounding yes. Our intelligence community is an embarrassment and Bob Kellerman intends to dismantle the bureaucracy and rebuild a transparent cooperative nonpartisan apparatus. Pay attention to that word ‘nonpartisan.�
�� Currently our FBI is beholden to the executive branch. The director of our FBI is a political appointee. Bob Kellerman aims to change that, ladies and gentlemen. No more will we have lackeys controlling our intelligence. Leadership will be based not on party affiliation but on merit. Imagine that. We will have people in Washington actually qualified for the jobs they hold.”
This last comment was pointed directly at Tom. Esme watched him breathe deeply. Then, finally, he spoke:
“You’re the one who’s been impeding our investigation.”
“Here we go again, ladies and gentlemen! The ‘blame game’!”
Tom glanced at the small crowd, then back at Paul Ridgely and his smug twinkle-eyed grin. “Kellerman doesn’t even know, does he? You’ve been intercepting all my messages. This maniac is running around murdering people and the one man who can stop him doesn’t even know he’s connected. Why haven’t you told him?”
Now it was Paul’s turn to appear uneasy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. As you admitted, we’ve spoken on the phone. Since you’re all about transparency and access, why don’t you tell the nice people here what we’ve talked about?”
“No one needs their time wasted with conspiracy theories.”
“I think you’re underestimating the public’s curiosity. They do have a right to know, don’t they?”
Paul sipped at his brandy.
Tom turned to the crowd. “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but it appears Mr. Ridgely actually does value his privacy. I’m sure he’d appreciate it if you left us alone for a few minutes. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Ridgely?”
Paul sipped at his brandy.
The ladies and gentlemen got the hint, and slowly exited the room, all the while murmuring innuendoes amongst themselves: conspiracy theory, what conspiracy theory, do you think it’s about who he’s going to nominate to be his vice president, yes but why would the FBI be involved, I’ll bet it’s a sex scandal, et cetera.
“Well, Tom,” said Esme, “you sure can clear a room.”
Tom replied with a light salute.
Paul cleared his throat, indicated Rafe and Esme. “If you’ll excuse us.”
“Oh, they can stay,” said Tom. “Esme was instrumental in connecting Galileo with your boss. And her husband…well, like you, he needs this lesson in responsibility.”
Rafe took a menacing step forward, but Tom stopped him, and leaned in until they were face-to-face. But then the door to the room opened, and the schoolyard boys backed away from each other. Esme backed away from the door. Paul, in deference, put down his glass of brandy on a side table.
“So here’s the party,” Bob Kellerman said, twirling a cigar between his fingers. “May I join in?”
24
“Hi,” he said, hand outstretched, “I’m Bob.”
His tuxedo wasn’t the flashiest. His brown hair wasn’t the most neatly combed. But when he walked into the room, there was no question he was a man of calm authority, and everyone wanted to step up their game just to impress him.
“Esme Stuart.” She shook his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Governor.”
“Rafe Stuart.” He shook his hand. “Thank you for coming to Long Island.”
“Tom Piper.” He shook his hand. “Hello.”
“Tom Piper,” added Paul, “is a special agent with our Federal Bureau of Investigation. He crashed the party armed with some wild accusations.”
Bob wasn’t fazed a bit. “How may we help you, Special Agent Piper?”
“Well, sir, it’s about Galileo.”
The governor folded his arms and leaned in slightly, intent on giving Tom every ounce of his attention. The grave expression on his face said it all: yes, he had heard about the tragic events of Atlanta, Amarillo, and Santa Fe. By now, every American had heard about—and feared—Galileo.
“We have reason to believe—we have evidence, actually—that Galileo is committing these murders because of you, Governor.”
Bob frowned—his frown seemed to fill his entire malleable face—and he looked to Paul for an explanation.
“This,” Paul pointed, “this is what I mean by ‘wild accusation,’”
“His real name is Henry Booth. He served a stint in the Middle East as a sniper for the CIA but eventually all that violence committed in the name of God got to him and he quit. He was hired by the Unity for a Better Tomorrow to vet you, Governor. In the course of his investigations, Henry Booth discovered something about you that rocked him to the core. That’s when he contacted your organization, begging you to go public with your secret.”
Paul snorted. “I assure you, Mr. Piper, Governor Kellerman received no such contact.”
“No, because you intercepted it and never showed it to him. Just like you intercepted Galileo’s second message back in San Francisco. Maybe you were trying to protect your boss, Mr. Ridgely, but in doing so you endangered lives.”
“What secret?” asked Bob. “What skeleton in my closet drove this madman to kill all these people?”
To that, Tom reached into his pocket and took out a tiny voice recorder.
“Henry played this for the head of the Unity for a Better Tomorrow, Donald Chappell. How Henry got it…well…he did his job.”
Tom pressed Play.
“—right on through November with a strategy which underlines our positive difference. Let the other guy take all the pot shots he wants. He’ll just look desperate.”
Everyone in the room recognized that voice as belonging to Paul Ridgely. Paul, at the sound of his own voice, reached again for his glass of brandy. Perhaps he knew what was coming next.
“But what about the other thing?”
This was a female voice, strident, with a Bostonian lilt.
“Kathryn Hightower,” said Bob, doling out an explanation. “She’s my communications director.” He remained nonplussed, and contemplative.
“Kathryn, I assure you—the religion problem has been sewn up. The only people in the know, other than Bob’s immediate family, are in this room.”
Esme’s jaw dropped open in astonishment, as her mind jumped ahead to the solution. Christ, the answer had been right there all along! She looked to Tom for confirmation. He nodded.
“What if they do enough digging, Paul? We need to be prepared with a response.”
“We prepare a response and I guarantee you it’ll be the response that gets leaked before the actual story and then we’re fucked, Kathryn, you and me and Bob and the whole campaign, because the American public in their puritanical wisdom want their president to be a man of faith. They love him now—he’s a hero to them now, he’s John fucking Kennedy—but this country will never elect an atheist to the Oval Office.”
Rafe cocked his head. “Wait, what?”
Tom clicked the recorder off.
“That’s a private conversation,” muttered Paul. “It’s obtained illegally and has no standing whatsoever.”
The governor sighed. “Paul, shut up.”
Paul sat down in the closest available armchair and shut up.
“So Donald Chappell knows?” asked Bob. “And he’s still supporting my run?”
“He’s trying to save your soul,” Tom replied.
“So to speak,” added Esme.
Bob nodded, taking it all in.
It was Rafe who broke the silence.
“So Galileo or Henry Booth or whatever his name is, why is he killing all these people? If he’s pissed off at Kellerman for not believing in God, why isn’t he targeting him?”
“That’s the thing,” said Esme. “He’s not pissed off at Kellerman at all.”
“No,” Tom agreed, “he’s not.”
“You said he’s been contacting me?” asked the governor.
“Yes, sir. We believe the first message was probably delivered late last year. Well before Atlanta. Henry was so disenchanted by religion and suddenly here you were, a nonbeliever like him, and you were popular, and you were on your way to the
presidency. His first messages were probably friendly. But when you didn’t respond, when you went ahead and let religious organizations like the Unity for a Better Tomorrow support your campaign, that’s probably when he sent you the quid pro quo. Come out, publicly, proudly, as an atheist…or else.”
“But I never received any…”
All eyes turned to Paul, whose brandy glass was empty.
“I was protecting you!” he explained. “Half of what we get are crazies with their pipe dreams. How was I to know?”
“You knew after Atlanta,” Tom replied. “Because I’m sure Henry was very specific, wasn’t he? As soon as you’d heard what had happened in Atlanta, you knew it was him.”
“And you did nothing,” added Esme.
“If it was in my power to bring those people back to life, I would, but—”
“Paul,” Bob said, suddenly, “I believe you’re talking again. I thought I asked you not to do that.”
The campaign director sank in his armchair and looked very much like a wounded child.
Bob took a deep breath. The weight suddenly on his shoulders seemed to anchor the whole room. “All this time, all those people, and I could have stopped it with a word.”
“You didn’t know,” said Tom.
Bob shrugged. Tom’s words were irrelevant. Because of him, people were dead. Children were dead.
“What can I do?” His voice had diminished to a hoarse whisper. “How can I fix this?”
“At this point, sir, I don’t know if you can.”
Bob nodded thoughtfully. He’d expected that answer.
Once more, it was Rafe who broke the silence:
“For whatever it’s worth, Governor, Mr. Ridgely is right. The people want their president to be a God-fearing, churchgoing man. In our country, in many countries, patriotism is synonymous with piety. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. That’s why you’ve kept this secret all this time. You come out now, and they’ll hate you. You’ll throw away everything you’ve worked toward and someone else will get elected. Mediocrity will inhabit the White House. Do you want to be responsible for that?”