The Run (20 page)
Zeke checked out of his room at La Fonda around four in the afternoon. He allowed a bellman to carry his luggage to his car, then tipped the man, who went back into the hotel. Zeke waited a minute, then walked out of the parking lot and down the street toward the Plaza.
Signs posted in shop windows gave the time of the rally as six o’clock, giving him plenty of time to size up the job. Near the center of the park in the Plaza, workmen were completing a wooden platform, which rose about four feet from the ground. Zeke walked around behind the platform and looked back toward La Fonda. Good; a perfect line of sight to the northwest corner of the hotel’s roof. He walked back to the hotel.
In the garage, he removed the briefcase from the trunk of the car, then dug out the silencer from under the spare tire and placed it in the briefcase with the rifle. He walked back into the hotel and turned left toward the elevator that went to the roof. He pressed the
button for the top floor and rode up alone. He stepped out into the rooftop bar, which was deserted, since it didn’t open until six, then went directly to the trellis. He looped the briefcase’s strap over his shoulder and began climbing. Shortly, he was on the roof. He walked around the perimeter of the building, examining each side for escape routes. The way he had come would be best, of course, but after six, he might be seen by someone in the rooftop restaurant. On the south side, however, was a cast-iron drainpipe running straight to the ground, ending behind an adobe wall. He remembered that the garage had a window on that side of the building.
Satisfied, he walked to the northwest corner of the building and, staying low, peered over the parapet. Perfect. He had a full view of the wooden platform in the center of the Plaza park. Zeke glanced at his watch, then sat down, leaned against the parapet, took a paperback novel from his pocket, and began to read.
Will was awakened at five o’clock by Kitty Conroy, in his suite at the Eldorado Hotel. They had landed in Santa Fe earlier in the afternoon, and after half a dozen brief meetings with local Democratic supporters and a couple of media interviews, he had had time for a nap. He was groggy, though, and he attributed the way he felt to altitude sickness. After all, Santa Fe was seven thousand feet above sea level, and that took some getting used to.
Will showered, freshened his shave, and got into a freshly pressed pair of jeans and some borrowed cowboy boots. He agreed to a suede jacket, but declined the offer of the wide-brimmed hat. Photographs in odd hats came back to haunt you.
“We’re going to walk up to the Plaza,” Kitty said.
“It’s only a couple of blocks from the hotel, and you can shake a lot of hands on the way.”
Will’s right hand had toughened up a lot over the past few months; you had to get in shape for campaigning. Together with Kitty, he started for the elevator, accompanied by two Secret Service agents.
A mariachi band was playing in the Plaza, and Zeke put away his book and peered over the parapet. There was a thickening of the crowd at the northwest corner of the Plaza park; Will Lee was walking toward the platform, shaking hands.
Zeke quickly assembled the rifle, screwing the silencer onto the end of the barrel. Then he took the fat telescopic sight from the case and, peering through it, looked down at the Plaza. He could see Lee clearly and up close. Except for some glare from the setting sun to the west, it was an excellent setup. He’d wait until Lee mounted the platform and faced the crowd to speak; then he’d go for a head shot. Then he saw something he hadn’t expected.
There was a box of security around Will Lee, and at each corner was a man in a suit. What Zeke had not expected was that each of the four men wore an identical metal button in the lapel of his suit. What the hell was the Secret Service doing here? Lee hadn’t even been nominated yet. As he thought about this, he concentrated his gaze on the lead agent, and he saw the man suddenly squint, as some sort of light swept across his face. Then the man looked up and directly at Zeke, alarm on his face. He pointed at the northwest corner of La Fonda.
Zeke realized that the setting sun had been reflected into the man’s eyes by his telescopic sight. The man continued to look at Zeke, and he raised a fist to his
lips, and said something into a microphone hidden in his cupped hand.
Christ! Zeke started breaking down the rifle and packing it into the briefcase. He’d never have climbed onto this rooftop if he’d known the Secret Service was in town. He was lucky there wasn’t an agent in his lap right now. They would have checked the rooftops earlier that day.
Keeping low, Zeke jogged toward the rear of the building. The trellis was too risky; there’d be cops coming up that elevator to the roof restaurant, looking for him. As he reached the rear parapet, he heard a commotion from the direction of the restaurant. Quickly, he slung the carrying strap of the briefcase over his shoulder, swung a leg over the parapet, grabbed the drainpipe with both hands, and, clamping the instep of each foot to the pipe, slid rapidly down the side of the building, four stories to the ground.
He ran to the window that let light into the garage, which was hinged at the top. He swung it open and looked inside. Nobody in sight. He wriggled through the window, dropped to the garage floor, and ran to his car, slinging the briefcase into the trunk. He got the Lexus started, then drove slowly out of the garage. The attendant was out of his cubicle, standing in the street, looking toward the Plaza. The sound of sirens came from that direction. The man didn’t even see Zeke turn right toward the cathedral, then right again. Consulting a map, he came to Alameda, then turned onto Old Santa Fe Trail. As he did so, a police car passed him, going in the opposite direction toward the Plaza and the hotel, its lights flashing, its siren wailing.
Zeke drove slowly west, leaving the downtown area. He passed apartment complexes and a golf
course, then began following signs to the interstate. Another two minutes and he’d be out of town.
He’d been stupid. He should have noticed that, with the sun setting, his scope would reflect. And he hadn’t known the Secret Service was on the job. That was going to make his work more difficult.
But, he thought, not impossible. He drove down the interstate to Albuquerque and took I-40 west, toward Los Angeles.
Ed Rawls was released from solitary confinement one week to the minute from the day he had been put in. For seven days he had not shaved, bathed, slept in a bed, or eaten anything but unsalted dried beans and stale bread. He stank; his scalp itched uncontrollably, as did his armpits and his crotch; judging by the looseness of his trousers, he estimated he had lost ten pounds. He was incensed.
He was allowed to shower, shave, change clothes, and eat, then he was taken to the captain of the guard.
“Morning, Rawls,” the captain said.
“Good morning, Captain.”
“You enjoy your little vacation?”
“No, sir, I did not. Perhaps you can tell me why I received such treatment.”
“You angered a powerful man,” the captain said. “I don’t know exactly how, but the letter you read must have explained it.”
“It was something about Jonah and the whale,”
Rawls said, looking baffled. “It didn’t make the slightest bit of sense to me.”
“Come on, Rawls; he isn’t the kind of man to act unless he knew what he was doing.”
“Who are we talking about, Captain?” Rawls asked.
“You know as well as I do.”
“I’m afraid I don’t. I can only think that this fellow has gotten me mixed up with somebody else. Have I ever given you or anybody else in this pen the slightest trouble?”
“No, you haven’t, and you’re not going to start now.”
“I have no intention of making waves, Captain, but neither do I want to be punished for something I haven’t done. Can you tell me what it was I was supposed to have done?”
“You didn’t do it to me, Rawls, so I don’t know.”
“Come on, Captain, who is this whale guy?”
“That’ll be all, Rawls; keep your nose clean, and you won’t have to go back in there.”
Dismissed, Rawls left the captain’s office and was returned by a guard to his job at the library.
A coworker named Ames saw him coming. “Hey, Ed, where you been? Rumor is you did some time in the hole.”
“The rumor is right,” Rawls said, “but did it say anything about why?”
“Pissed somebody off, I guess,” Ames said. “By the way, my parole came through.”
“Good for you, Charlie; when do you get out?”
“Tomorrow morning, thank Christ.”
Rawls beckoned Ames behind a bookcase. “Charlie, what are you going to do when you get out?”
“Jesus, I don’t know,” Ames said. “My daughter says I can come live with her, until I find a job.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifty-five.”
Rawls nodded. “Where does your daughter live?”
“Chattanooga, Tennessee.”
“You got any friends anywhere else in the country?”
I been writing to a guy I went to college with; he lives in New York.”
“Charlie, you want to make some easy money on the outside?”
“How would I do that, Ed? I don’t want to bust my parole.”
“You know what a third-party mail drop is, Ames?”
“Nope.”
“That’s when somebody mails something to you, and you forward it to somebody else. The person who mails it is the first party, you’re the second party, and the guy you mail it to is the third party.”
“You want me to mail you stuff, Ed?”
“No, Charlie, just the reverse. I’ve got some money on the outside; I’ll make it worth your while.” Rawls was fully prepared to go back into solitary, but he didn’t think he’d have to.
A week later, Freddie Wallace let himself into his hideaway office, picked up a couple of pieces of mail from the floor, and answered the phone. “Yes?”
“You know who this is?” Hogan Parks said.
“I believe I do,” Wallace replied. “You have my thanks for restraining yourself on that other matter.”
“Always glad to be of help,” Parks said. “Funny thing is, something nearly as juicy arrived on my desk this morning.”
“And what’s that, my friend?”
“Seems a prominent member of the United States
Senate was once a card-carrying member of the Ku Klux Klan.”
Wallace kept control of himself. “Is that a fact?” he managed to say.
Apparently so,” Parks replied. “Somebody sent me a copy of a list of members of a South Carolina chapter, and his name is right there. Looks authentic, and a letter accompanying it says that the FBI can confirm it, because they had an undercover agent in the same group.”
“Well, I’d be mighty careful about spreading that kind of dirt,” Freddie said, forcing himself to sound confident.
“I thought I’d ask you right out if you can confirm this report,” Parks said.
“Well, now,” Freddie breathed into the phone, “seems like we’ve got something of a standoff here. Because if you print that, then a paper or two might learn about a certain journalist who got himself arrested for propositioning a vice cop in a Georgetown gay bar a few years back.”
“I guess we have got a standoff,” Parks admitted. “But what makes you think I’m the only one who’s received this report? What if it went to a wire service or, worse, a tabloid?”
Right now, I’m dealing with you, and not anybody else,” Freddie said.
“Okay, I’m quiet; if you read about it in the papers, it didn’t come from me. Will you accept my word on that?”
“Of course I would, my friend,” Freddie said. “I’ve never had any reason to doubt your word.”
“Somebody’s out to get you, pal,” Parks said, then hung up.
Freddie hung up, too, and he was sweating. Then he
looked at the mail in his lap. There was a plain brown envelope addressed simply to the room he sat in. He ripped it open.
Dear Freddie,
I thought you’d like to know in advance that a copy of the enclosed Klan membership roll has gone to three political columnists. I’m going to let you guess who they are. Suffice it to say they all have a national readership.
I’ve done this because I heard about what you did to that poor Rawls fellow, apparently thinking he was me. It’s no skin off my nose, of course, but it did give me a hint of how vindictive you can be, so I thought a little shot across your bow was in order. If the columnists call you for a comment, or if you can figure out who they are, then you have a chance of stopping the story.
I’m aware of some other things about you that would make good reading, in addition to the one mentioned in my earlier letter. If you make any other attempt to locate me, or if the information about the previously mentioned person’s health leaks, or even if you mess with Rawls again, I’m going to become the Johnny Appleseed of yellow journalism.
Don’t mess with me, Freddie. You’re out of your league.
Love and kisses,
Jonah
Quickly, Freddie examined the envelope. It was postmarked New York City. The letter seemed to have been set in type, so it had probably come from a com
puter printer, impossible to trace. Freddie held the paper up to the light and found a watermark; it read: State of New York, and the seal was there, too.
“Jesus God,” Freddie said aloud to himself. “Who
is
this son of a bitch?”
Will stood and looked at his campaign airplane. It was an elderly Boeing 737, leased from a creditor of a failed regional airline, and adapted, slightly, for his purposes. It contained a desk and a sofa where he could sometimes catch an hour’s sleep, plus a lot of first-class-sized seats for staff and press. It was seedy, smelly, and, at the moment, broken. “How long?” he asked the pilot.
“At least four hours,” the pilot said. “They’re driving a part up from Albuquerque. Could be six hours.”
Will turned to Kitty. “Make the necessary adjustments in the schedule, but before you do, rent me a car.”
