While Galileo Preys

by Joshua Corin

  The door to the study opened. It was, of all people, Kathryn Hightower.

  “Governor, it’s time for the speech,” she said.

  Bob paused for a moment, still deep in thought, and then he turned to Kathryn and nodded. “Thank you, Kathryn. I’ll be right there.”

  The world was watching.

  Forty-seven cameras were fixed and focused on the podium. Forty-seven cameras, not counting the chic handhelds the guests wielded. By the end of the night, this speech would be available to anyone on the planet with a computer and an Internet connection.

  The fascination was understandable. Bob Kellerman was not only the presumptive nominee of his party, but also, based on the latest polls, the all-but-anointed next president of the United States, and although the popularity of America waxed and waned with each administration, the power remained constant and demanded—if not always earned—respect. And the worldwide prognosis of a Kellerman presidency was one of optimism. He was a populist, but he wasn’t an isolationist. He favored liberalism, true, but he also possessed a Red State inclination toward self-sufficiency. In June, he was scheduled to fly abroad, to Israel and Pakistan and Russia and Egypt, to England and to France, even to long-neglected Venezuela and Brazil. Already, the signs were being painted, in a hundred different languages: We Love Bob.

  Not everyone loved Bob. As the governor approached the podium, amidst the customary cheers and applause, he reflected on his enemies. He knew their signs too. “Pro-choice = pro-death.” “Free trade = no jobs.” He read the editorials criticizing his folksy approach to politics. He lacked the Washington experience necessary to deal with a bipartisan Congress. He lacked the international experience necessary to deal with a war. That was why his choice of a vice president was so vital. That was why forty-seven plus cameras were focused and fixed on his face on this night in this place.

  They all expected an announcement.

  “My friends,” he said, “it gives me great pleasure to see you all here tonight on this beautiful evening by the sea.”

  His speech was prepared. It scrolled in large white letters down teleprompters, paired to either side of the crowd. His staff had worked all week on this speech. They knew how important it was. Consecutive drafts were e-mailed every night to his hotel room in Anaheim, and every night he’d given his notes and made his changes. It was the only communication he’d allowed that week. His cell phone was off. He’d wanted it to be a true vacation. He knew it was the last true vacation his family would be able to enjoy in a long, long time. And he knew that was his fault.

  “We come here tonight on the eve of great change. We are on the verge of fulfilling our potential as American citizens and you can see it in the faces of the elderly. You can see it in the faces of the children. They say pride is a sin, but I am here to tell you tonight that I am proud of what the future holds for our country. I am proud of what we can do for our fellow man. I am proud that for the first time in history, freedom has become as vast and limitless as the ocean just beyond that shore.”

  It was the empty rhetoric expected of an introduction. If he didn’t offer the platitudes, his critics assailed him. “Well, he only mentioned the word ‘America’ fifty-nine times, so he must be losing his patriotism.” All part of the process.

  His kids were back home in Ohio. About now, they would be sitting down for dinner. Maybe they’d have the TV on, but probably not. Daddy was just giving another speech.

  “I come to you tonight as a…”

  Kathryn Hightower stood off to his left. He could see her out of his peripheral vision. She had been with him since his first mayoral race so many lifetimes ago.

  “I come to you tonight as a…”

  This was the paragraph where he would segue into his bit about partnership. It was the build-up to the body of the speech. It was the beginning of his announcement of General Archie Phillips to be his running mate. General Phillips was waiting inside the house, just on the other side of the curtained French doors. He was in full dress uniform. He was a good man. He’d been a benevolent, erudite debater during the primaries. But the people hadn’t wanted erudition. They’d wanted homespun. They’d wanted Bob.

  The kind of man they could take to church on Sundays.

  “I…”

  He felt a sideward glance from Kathryn. Loyal, hardworking Kathryn. He wanted to hold her close and kiss her on the forehead and apologize. But that would have to wait. Somewhere in this country, in his country, a man was committing horrific acts of violence in his name. It had to stop.

  “Two hundred years ago, when Thomas Jefferson ran for president, there was a great deal of opposition to his campaign. It was the first true bipartisan election, and his opponents realized that since they couldn’t attack his thoughtful policies or his impeccable reputation, they had to resort to different tactics.”

  The large white words on the teleprompters scrolled up, then down, then back up again, as the operator tried to locate this part of the speech.

  “This was one of the architects of our democracy. This was the man who wrote the Declaration of Independence. How do you defeat a man like that? You go after his character. And they did. Thomas Jefferson, you see, was a skeptic. He was a scientist, and the scientific pursuit of truth demands evidence, and he looked at the universe and he didn’t believe we had it all figured out. So the muckrakers called him an atheist. The label dogged him all through the campaign, but when the time came to vote for the president of the United States, the American people in their wisdom overwhelmingly chose Jefferson. They put into office a man whose ambitious curiosity helped shape our beloved country.”

  Bob could see it now, past the lights, in the faces of the crowd. He had gone off script and they knew it. He could feel the awkward tension vibrating in the air. This wasn’t what they’d expected, and so they weren’t prepared with an appropriate response.

  So he rolled the boulder farther down the hill.

  “You would think, after that tumultuous election, political operatives would have learned their lesson. A man did not have to be pious to be a patriot. Patriotism is itself a religion, isn’t it? Our country is one grand cathedral and our Constitution is our hymnal. Our sacred commandments come numbered one through ten, only we call them the Bill of Rights. You would think after that tumultuous election, political operatives would have learned their lesson, but they didn’t. Several decades later, they saw another man rise up, a man of ferocious intellect and boundless compassion, and they had no way to stop him so they attacked his personal beliefs. Once again the labels were bandied about. ‘Agnostic.’ One muckraker even called him ‘godless.’ But once again, the wisdom of the American people had been underestimated, and in 1860, they voted this ‘godless agnostic’ to the highest office in the land. Can you imagine what our country would have been like had those small-minded muckrakers won? Can you imagine what our country would have been like had Abraham Lincoln not been elected?”

  The awkwardness passed into murmuring. Bob was always amazed how little people knew of their own history. But he wasn’t here for a history lesson, not really. This was about the future.

  “What makes our country unique is its plurality. We are the United States of America. Not one state, but many. Not one race, not one religion, not one lifestyle but many. It is our greatest strength and those that try to undermine our diversity insult the very fabric of our identity. I am not the same as you, nor should I be. Do you want a president who agrees with everything you say and do and think? What about when you’re wrong? What about when he’s wrong? Like Mr. Jefferson, I am a skeptic. Like Mr. Lincoln, I place my faith not in an infinite God, but in the infinite potential of mankind.”

  Bob took a breath. Now it was time for the closer.

  “There are those who will look upon my words as an insult toward their personal beliefs. That is emphatically false. Our churches and synagogues are priceless, and I have nothing but the utmost respect for our great religions. As you know, my wife is
Catholic. Do we disagree sometimes? Yes, we do. But disagreement is healthy. In a democracy, it is often our solemn duty to disagree. There will be debate and I encourage it. Just be careful of those muckrakers and their tactic of shrinking a candidate to a label. As if any person could be minimized to a word. As if any country could be. I am a man of ambitious curiosity. Stay with me on this journey. There are no limits on what we can do together.”

  He let out a breath. His hands were shaking. No one could see them but him. He waited.

  Silence.

  Silence.

  Then the noise, erupting all at once. A cymbal-crash of applause. Those seated, stood. Those standing, raised their clapping hands as if reaching for the stars.

  Bob smiled out at the crowd, waved, and made his way down the porch steps to greet his people.

  Not everyone was outside, though. Many remained inside, enjoying the comfort of soft furniture and watching the speech on closed-circuit TVs. Rafe, Esme and Tom watched it from the study. Paul Ridgely had left for parts unknown, but their encounter with the governor had left them rooted to the carpet, and that was how they remained during the speech, eyes glued to the screen. When the applause erupted, they felt the thunderous noise shake through the room, and that seemed to break their spell.

  Rafe sat down in a chair.

  “Well,” said Tom.

  “Yeah,” agreed Esme. Then: “Do you think he was watching?”

  Tom glanced at her. “I don’t know.”

  “He got what he wanted,” she said. “Until that end bit about religion not being the root of all evil.”

  “Yeah, that probably ticked him off. Can I borrow your cell phone? Mine’s, well, non-functional.”

  She reached into her purse and handed him her LG. He stepped out of the room for some privacy.

  Esme sat on the arm of Rafe’s chair.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you think it was because of what I said?” He looked at her, eyes wide. “Did that just happen because of what I said?”

  She grinned. He was like a little boy. “Just because you were completely and totally wrong doesn’t mean I don’t still love you.”

  “There’s a lot of double negatives in that sentence.”

  “I’ll give you a double negative.”

  She leaned in to kiss him. The door opened. It was Tom.

  “Galileo didn’t hear the speech,” he said.

  “How do you know?” asked Rafe.

  “Because,” Tom replied, “we’ve got him in custody. We caught him thirty minutes ago at a ballpark. We caught him.”

  25

  The ballpark was Kauffman Stadium, home of the Kansas City Royals. On April 12, the Royals were scheduled for a home game against their arch-rivals, the Oakland A’s. It would be blue vs. green (the Royals players in the blue and the A’s players in the green) at 7:30 p.m. CST.

  The stadium had recently undergone a major renovation—new HD scoreboard, beautified concourses, etc.—but the big fountain remained untouched. Located by right field, the fountain geysered thousands of gallons of water per game over 300 feet into air and provided a lovely, frothy backdrop. A small amusement park was set up behind it, and kids could almost always be found running to and fro (although seldom into) the tall white water. Expectedly, some of the priciest skyboxes were located at right field, with a perfect view of the manmade attraction. One of these skyboxes still remained closed, though, due to an architectural problem exposed during the renovation, and it was here that Galileo sat in wait.

  He’d gained access the way he always did. “Mark Kenney” was the newest member of the Royals’ janitorial staff. As the low man on the totem pole, he didn’t have keys to most of the park, but he made friends with some of the veteran custodians, took them out to drinks, excused himself to the men’s room, hustled across the street to a locksmith, made duplicates of their keys he’d just lifted, and had the originals replaced before anyone was the wiser.

  The windows of the closed skybox remained sheeted over with black plastic, but this made it that much easier for Galileo to hide. No one in the stands would be able to see him. And all he required was a tiny rip in the plastic, and he could see them.

  It was Sanitation Engineer Appreciation Night at Kauffman Stadium, and with the promise of discounted tickets, the city’s hardworking trash collectors had come out in droves to enjoy a crisp cool night watching the national pastime with their families. They were the most overlooked, least appreciated of Kansas City’s civil servants, but tonight the city’s superstars had deemed fit to reward them. How good life could sometimes be.

  “Mark Kenney” had finished his shift at five and was here now as a fan, wearing a yellow Polo shirt and dark tan khakis. The custodial staff received complimentary bleacher tickets, and as far as anyone knew, that’s where he would be. And so no one thought twice as he trotted through the corridor behind right field, passing the snack shops and Royals memorabilia. A few of his coworkers waved, and he waved back. And they were used to seeing him with his long black suitcase, which he usually stored in his work locker. It contained his prized trombone. No one else had seen the trombone, not yet, but “Mark Kenney” was shy about his hobbies. Soon, though, he promised them. Soon.

  The skybox was cluttered with tools and sawdust. Thick muslin tarp was draped over what Galileo assumed were tables and chairs. Earlier today, he’d placed his shoe box here, at the base of one of the amorphous covered shapes, waiting to be found later by the authorities. Now he propped up his suitcase and flipped open its latches. His M107 lay unassembled in the felt casing. He’d cleaned it last night.

  It took him twenty seconds to assemble. Each part made a reassuring click as it snapped into place. He hefted the rifle in his arms and ejected the ten-round magazine. One final check before—

  The magazine was empty.

  Galileo frowned, shook it to be sure, then lifted a hidden flap inside the suitcase, where he stored his spare ammo…but that compartment was empty too. What the hell…?

  The door to the skybox whipped open and six flak-jacketed FBI agents stomped into the room. Each wielded a pistol and each aimed directly at Galileo’s rapidly beating heart. Unlike the M107, their weapons were armed.

  Then a seventh FBI agent sauntered in. Galileo recognized the roly-poly man from the database he’d pilfered. This was Norm Petrosky, and he was chomping on about ten ounces of bubblegum.

  “See, we would have got you a couple hours ago,” he said, casually, “but we wanted to wait until you were in a secure location. You know, where you couldn’t run.”

  As Norm spoke, one of the other agents patted Galileo down, found his ankle Beretta, and removed both it and its holster. Galileo, for his part, didn’t raise his hand or flinch or even scowl. He just stared back at Norm, and watched the fat man take a few steps closer.

  “You know what trips you guys up every time, don’t you? You’re creatures of habit. Which is really fucking stupid, but it makes our jobs a whole lot easier. Because we know you like pretending to be janitors and we know where you’re going to be. We were here before you ever showed up.”

  Norm winked at him, then indicated to the other agents. The shackles came out, clanging not unlike the earlier sounds of the rifle being assembled. There was one pair of shackles for the wrists and one for the ankles, and they were yoked together with a third lock to allow for easy towing.

  They waited until the second inning to bring Galileo out. There were still people in the corridors, but by now most had found their seats and weren’t yet ready for a refill of beer. Still, it was impossible to avoid the gaping looks as the FBI escorted their catch down the ramps, past snack shops and memorabilia, to the exit.

  They already had a van in the parking lot. Anna and Hector Jackson (no relation) were waiting there, arms crossed, smiles stretching from ear to ear to ear to ear. Even Daryl Hewes was there. He didn�
��t look as giddy, though. He was just relieved.

  “Henry, you ever been to a supermax? You are in for a treat. In two hours, we will be transferring you to one of our nation’s finest homes for the criminally fucked. While awaiting your hearing, you’ll get a terrific view of, well, nothing, because your room won’t have a window. Oh, by the way, you have the right to remain silent.”

  Norm shoved Galileo into the rear of the van and rounded to the front seat with Anna Jackson. Hector and Daryl joined Galileo in the back. Galileo sat on one bench. The FBI agents sat across from him on the other. While Hector linked Galileo’s chains to a hook in the floor, Hector yanked shut the rear doors.

  An hour into the drive, Daryl finally asked the question:

  “Why didn’t you kill Esme Stuart?”

  Galileo looked up from his chains. Hector looked over from his magazine.

  “You murdered a friend of mine. Her name was Darcy Parr. You murdered dozens of innocent people. But you let Esme live. Why?”

  Although the radio was on in the front cab, at the moment no one was listening to the Royals game. Norm, who was riding shotgun, swiveled his head to get a better view of the response.

  Galileo responded, “I didn’t set out to kill anyone.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “All of this could have been prevented.”

  “Why did you let her live?”

  “Would you rather I’d let her die?”

  Without warning, Daryl jumped forward and clasped his left hand around Galileo’s throat.

  “Would you rather I let you die?” snarled Daryl. “Huh?! How would you like that?!”

  They were inches from each other. Although restrained, Galileo had easy access to the technician’s gun, exposed at his hip. He didn’t go for it.

  Hector, for his part, was ignoring the act of brutality until a glare from Norm changed his mind. He separated Daryl from his victim. Galileo gasped for breath. His throat had pale smears where Daryl had dug in his thumbs.