The Crash of Hennington (41 page)

TB:
As he is now a private citizen, it’s really not my place. You’ll have to ask him, I’m afraid.

CJF:
Mr Latham. Follow-up?

ML:
Mr Banyon’s answers are disingenuous in the extreme. Mr Noth had to be forcibly removed from a party hosted by Mayor Larsson—

TB:
A misunderstanding, I assure you, and a typical over-reaction from the Mayor.

CJF:
Mr Banyon—

ML:
Mr Noth has openly declared to the Mayor that he’s obsessed with seeing her lose, and suddenly he pops up as your closest advisor. What are we to make of this, Mr Banyon? Your answers are not sufficing.

CJF:
Mr Latham, I’ll not have—

TB:
You’re grasping at straws, Max. You’re angry because my father has endorsed my campaign and not yours. Jon Noth has only ever expressed support for me winning this election, not for Cora Larsson losing. She’s not even running, for Pete’s sake, so why is this even an issue?

ML:
You’re dodging the question.

CJF:
Gentlemen, please! You will both stick to the groundrules—

TB:
And you’re sniping because you and Mayor Larsson can’t stand to see me win. Why is that, Max? Why this overwhelming hatred for me? Don’t you think the people of Hennington deserve an explanation? Are you so bankrupt of your own ideas that your only platform is ‘Don’t Vote for Thomas Banyon'? That’s hardly what I would call leadership—

ML:
Your so-called vision for Hennington is based on personal vanity and power-grabbing. You’re widely known as a corrupt strongman—

TB:
I’d watch what I was saying, Max, if I didn’t want to end up in court. I’ve never once been successfully accused of corruption. You’ve got no evidence whatsoever—

ML:
Claiming I’ve got no evidence is different than saying you’re not corrupt, Thomas. Is it so hard a question to answer?

TB:
How dare you talk to me that way? I ought to—

ML:
You ought to what? Is there a threat coming? Let the people hear it, Thomas.

CJF:
That really is enough! Unbelievably, we’ve now come to the end of this mockery of a debate. There isn’t even time for closing statements, which may actually be a blessing to those at home who are still tuned in after this disgraceful display.
[Strong applause]

[Thomas Banyon is seen to smile. Max Latham is frowning. The two do not shake hands. Copies of full transcript available from YYX3, send SAE to ‘28 August Debate Transcript’, 34 St George Square, Hennington, North 17–LR2.]

87. Old Love.

The older couple walks down the path in their gray jogging suits, deep in discussion but keeping a brisk pace. They are handsome, and not ‘for their age’ either, but truly handsome, attractive not simply physically but because of a certain alertness to their features, a certain concentration to the glance, a
certain awareness of the world around them. It’s obvious, look, there, him automatically steadying her back as they walk around the rock, that they are deeply in love, a gentle touch to the elbow, a leaning stance of the upper body. Habits long understood and taken for granted, yet somehow never managing to lose their electricity. See the way she takes his hand, not a grasp for balance or reassurance, but merely because she wants to. A laugh even though her brow is creased. A bow of his head to catch her gaze. A problem being dealt with inside the confines of an unquestioned love. How staggering when love finds its perfect match, how heart-achingly tender, and how much a sense of exposure is felt for something so beautiful. Turn around, look behind you, scan the horizon, watch for the danger that must be on its way. Can something so miraculous remain invulnerable for very long?

—The thing that upsets me is that I’ve always been a woman of action, of forward motion, and somehow in this whole goddamn thing I’m just ending up reacting and defending. I
hate
that.

—My dearest darling love, you coached Max as well as you could. The strategy to let Thomas Banyon hang himself with his own obvious shortcomings was a good one.

—But who knew he would embrace his shortcomings with such glee?

—Precisely, and who knew that laconic Max Latham would lose his temper? He’s got to shoulder most of the blame, Cora. It was his debate.

—How did we end up here? How did Thomas Banyon turn being a megalomaniac into a campaign plus? I’ve never heard of
anyone
who actively sought to squash voter turnout as a formal strategy.

—If it works, you’re going to see it a lot more often, unfortunately.

—I just feel so helpless, Albert.

—Look, petal, Max threw you a curveball by withdrawing, then Jon showed up and inexplicably got Thomas Banyon to run for Mayor. I’d still like to know how that happened. The reason all you’re doing is reacting is because even you can’t be expected to foresee the future, particularly one that has made as little sense as this one.

—What if he wins?

—We’ll deal with that when and if it happens. Until then, we keep working to make it
not
happen. Finally, in the long run, we’ll just live our lives like we always have. I’ve been wondering how much of this is because you’re worried about Thomas Banyon becoming Mayor and how much is difficulty in handing over the reins to anyone.

—Now don’t you turn on me too.

—'Turn on you'? Like milk?

—Hush. Of course part of it is the retirement thing, but less than you might expect. I did – could you help me over this mud, thank you – I did a lot of thinking before I retired. You know I was ready.

—True.

—But then all this other brouhaha erupted and suddenly I had to think about Max dropping out, then about Jon going off the deep end, then I had to throw all my retirement preparation away because for a day or two there I was running again, until Max again surprised me by dropping back in. It’s been exhausting. I don’t know which end is up. Can we rest here?

—There’s a nicer view about sixty feet further along.

—Still.

—All right. Water?

—Thanks. Look at those surfers. They’re going to get killed.

—It’s No Margin. All the rage with the under-twenty set.

—Youth is a form of mental illness. A weird thing happened today. You remember Lisa?

—The front desk receptionist?

—Yes. I came in this morning and she was reading the Bondulay Sacraments at her desk.

—She doesn’t strike me as the religious type.

—To put it mildly. She sort of hid it away when I spotted it. I didn’t ask her about it. Her business. And now Archie’s gone all weird, too. I’m actually worried that he might be suicidal.

—That bad?

—That bad. I can understand his situation, I suppose; anyone would feel forlorn and just unhinged with mourning, but there’s a resignation there that’s frightening.

—And the unspoken, unrequited love for you, although that really didn’t come as much of a shock.

—Yeah, I know, but it was the
way
he said it, as if it didn’t matter anymore.

—Well. He’ll either pull through it or he won’t, darling. You do what you can, but this one’s up to him.

—Oh, I know that intellectually, but the poor man.

—Absolutely, the poor man. And there’s been no word at all about Luther?

—None. The whole police force is out looking, and Archie apparently has Thomas’ army of private detectives out looking as well. I can’t believe that nothing would turn up.
Something
has to happen.

—So you think that’s why Archie’s backing Thomas in the Mayor’s race?

—That, and that he just doesn’t seem to care anymore.

—You sound so down, my love.

—I just wish I knew how things had ended up so messy.

—Not everything’s messy. Or are you still a little up in the air on Kevin, too?

—No. Actually, no.

—So what do you say to the idea of him moving in, then?

—We’re on untrodden ground, Albert.

—I know. It will be very strange, very new. I have my own reservations.

—Like what?

—The expected. Jealousies. For him and you, for him and whomever. He’ll have to have his freedom.

—I know.

—I’m also afraid of being hurt. I’m afraid of
you
being hurt.

—But every relationship has that fear.

—True, but it sounds as if you’re willing to go ahead?

—We don’t even know what he’ll say.

—We won’t know until we try. Should we try, my love, my darling? Untrodden ground, indeed. I get nervous and excited just thinking about it.

—Like we were teenagers again. I think we should ask.

—And I agree.

They smile at one another, seated on a rock sixty feet below the main ledge, sharing an intimacy, sharing a secret. He takes her hand, and they gaze out over the bay below them. She leans into him, and they kiss. They’re still safe, for now.

88. The Immobile Journey.

The abandoned backyard was where the house’s long vacancy showed most. Weeds, both banal and colorful, made a dwarf jungle from the cracked concrete patio back to the cracked wooden fence. On his third day here, Peter had seen an obviously
pregnant fox find her way back through the brush and disappear into a den hidden among the taller weeds in the corner. Even now, there was probably a little fox family there, keeping itself cool from the sun.

Peter sighed, his breath hanging only for a moment against the windowpane. Doing nothing as a plan of action left much to be desired. He had searched the abandoned house from top to bottom, finding little of any use, save for an enormous stash of canned foods, including more soup than he thought one family could have eaten. Probably katzutakis addicts. An especially stupid drug originally designed as a horse tranquilizer, it numbed all feeling but also rotted your gums at an alarming rate. Homeless katz-heads were easy to spot: they were the blissed-out toothless ones. If the previous owners were indeed katz addicts, that would explain the soup, the abandonment of the property – either through arrest or through losing the way home and not caring – as well as the surprising number of empty pill bottles. Yes, probably katzutakis. One mystery solved, and who knew how many days ahead.

He wandered back to the front of the house, checking the street through the windowblinds, an action in danger of becoming compulsive. There was nothing to see there anyway; never was. Other yards, much better kempt than the living fire of brown grass that had taken over this front lawn; sometimes children playing, today only a gray sedan parallel parking. He let the blinds slide back into place.

Money was beginning to be a problem. He had cleaned out his bank account the day after moving Luther to his own house, but even though his savings were impressive, they weren’t going to last forever. Right now he only needed food and replacement dressings for Luther, but he was also going to need a substantial amount to be able to take care of Luther
whenever he returned. There was no telling what state he was going to be in, whether they would even be able to stay in Hennington, or whether Luther would be able to reclaim any of his own money. Peter thought it would be best to just disappear when the time came, and that would require all the money he could keep around.

He walked down into the basement bedroom where Luther lay wrapped in the waxcloth.

Peter sat down on the bed next to him. He refrained from touching Luther except when absolutely necessary. Best to leave him be, he thought. Peter sat in the silence of the house, closed his eyes, said a prayer, opened his eyes, looked at Luther again. From nowhere, from the quiet maybe or the lack of company or possibly just the never-ending heat, doubt appeared like the first inklings of a cold stinging the inside of his nose. For the first time since it all began, Peter was caught unaware by questions that now multiplied like an angry virus.

What if this was all for naught? What then? All this trouble, let’s be clear, all this criminal trouble would amount to nothing, except a jail sentence or worse at the hands of Thomas Banyon. Even the Hennington Police and whatever fate they might bring would be better. And forgetting all that, what if Luther was actually dead? What if this was just the fantasy that it seemed to every observer except me? What if I’m wrong? What if I’m wrong? What if I’m wrong? It couldn’t be this easy to lose faith, could it? At once, just gone? No. I believe. I do. I’ve come this far. I’ve believed successfully up to this point, and I’ll continue to do so. Luther’s body’s warm, and that strange hum –

He couldn’t hear the hum. He leaned down close to Luther, but there was nothing. It had been there this morning, hadn’t it? It had been there only a few minutes ago, right? The sound was so familiar that he had stopped noticing it. Now, when
it was most definitely gone, he struggled to remember when he had last heard it. A wave of panicky fright took him. What did it mean that the hum was gone? Was Luther coming back? Or was it –