Up in Smoke (34 page)

Twenty-seven minus eight. Halderbreck had written in eighteen.

“Hot damn!” Todd and Leon did high fives. Todd grabbed Cass and smacked a huge kiss on the mouth. “I love you.”

Way to go, Cass! That got everybody animated and brought meaning to an otherwise wasted afternoon. Bernie thought maybe he'd marry the woman.

“Smart Vote—” Todd started.

“Uh-uh.” Leon pulled out another slice of congealed pizza. “Garrett's smart, everybody knows that. The problem is, he's too smart. An intellectual, an egghead. It intimidates people, makes them feel dumb. We got to come up with something else. Bernie?”

Bernie shrugged. “Blow it up, make it clear, show it. Big white letters. Red slash over the incorrect answer. Correct answer beside it. Underneath put,
DO YOU WANT THIS MAN IN CHARGE OF YOUR CHILD'S EDUCATION
?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Leon said, thinking. “Along those lines. We'll refine it, but that'll do.” He got out his cell phone and started punching numbers.

Hadley brought in a fresh pizza. Phone pressed to his ear with one hand, Leon grabbed a slice with the other, and chomped off the pointed end.

Bernie opened a Coke and asked Cass if she wanted one. When she nodded, he handed it to her and opened another for himself.

“The bad news is,” Leon chewed, “if we're gonna cut a new ad, we gotta do it now. The good news is I found a place that'll do it.”

“No,” Molly said. “Jack's got to be in Denver early tomorrow. He needs to rest sometime, you know? Tomorrow night he's got to be back here for that—that—thing. The man isn't a machine, even if you do treat him like one. You've had him going for three days with nothing but about two hours sleep.”

“Jack?” Todd looked at him.

“Oh, hell, why not? I can always sleep on the plane.”

“If we're going to do this, we have to be there in an hour.”

“Let's get going.”

On the way out, Jack grabbed a slice of pizza.

*   *   *

Em worked really hard on her list of calls and she was limp with tiredness when her shift was up. When she'd first started working, she'd stayed away from the other volunteers, didn't talk to them, didn't make eye contact, put in her hours and left without mingling, but as she worked side by side with these people, she got to know them and got to like them. Not all of them, of course, but most of them—the young man who'd hired her and the young woman who sat next to her and lots and lots of the others. And it occurred to her that it didn't matter if they remembered her. She wasn't expecting to live beyond tomorrow night. She could talk with them, smile at them, ask about their lives and their families and their plans, as long as she stayed away from what was in her mind.

On the way back to the motel, she stopped at Erle's market, picked up hamburger and everything needed to go with it, potato chips and baked beans and ice cream bars. For herself she got ingredients for salad. She didn't know for sure if Tyrell would drop by, but he'd been there last night and now she was counting on him. Why he came, she wasn't sure. He apparently had no parents, no one to take care of him. She suspected he didn't even have a place to stay. She enjoyed his company and enjoyed feeding him. She just wished she had a better equipped kitchen so she could do more than throw together something simple.

She wasn't sure either, why he hadn't harmed her that first night when she'd found him in the motel with the gun. Or the following night when he came back for the three hundred dollars. She'd gotten a membership in a gym just so she could hide the gun in the locker in case he tried to take it away. He had violence in him, she knew that. Just by being around him, she could sense it, but he hadn't hurt her, and if she was honest with herself, she'd have to admit she was lonely and her life wasn't so bleak when he was around.

She was disappointed he wasn't there when she got to the motel. She stashed the perishables in the tiny refrigerator and stacked the rest on a shelf. Before she got her shoes off, there was a knock on the door.

Even though Tyrell grumbled, she had him frying hamburgers and fixing salad. Never in the world would he admit it, but he enjoyed it. She wanted to tell him that after tomorrow, she wouldn't be here anymore, but she didn't know how. He'd want to know why and where she'd be. She couldn't tell him the only place she'd be was in hell.

38

All of a sudden it seemed there wasn't enough oxygen in the room and Em nearly choked as she tried to draw a breath. Don't stare at him, she told herself, don't stare at him. Even while she was willing herself not to attract his attention, she couldn't help wondering if he was the officer who'd kill her. Would it cause him trouble? Psychological problems? She hated to think that she'd cause him pain.

His name was Phil Baker. He seemed a nice man, sandy hair, friendly smile, relaxed manner. Until you looked at his eyes. There was nothing relaxed about them. They were intense and alert, and moving, always moving, watching, watching. They brought fear into her heart. Would he stop her before she could accomplish her mission? Had he ever killed anyone before? She knew that didn't matter. He wouldn't hesitate.

He sat at the table of phone banks. Stewart, the enthusiastic young man who was in charge of the local campaign headquarters, two Hampstead police officers, two unkempt young men—advance sound men—and four volunteers including Em sat in folding chairs on both sides of the table. The corkboard attached to the wall held a diagram of the field where the rally was to take place and next to it was a schedule.

In big letters:
NOON. CANDIDATE ARRIVES FROM DENVER.

“Right here.” Stewart got up and tapped the diagram with a pencil. “This is where I want the volunteers with signs. The press will be here and with the signs here, they'll be visible for television.”

Yes, Em thought, perfect. From there she'd be close enough. She'd only have a few seconds and it had always worried her that, never having fired a gun before, she might miss. And it wasn't something she could practice. But if she got that close, she'd be okay.

“Names,” Baker said, looking at the diagram. “Addresses and social security numbers of every volunteer.”

Em wondered how deep they'd check. Would her name set off any flags?

“Right,” Stewart said. “Anything else you'll need?”

“Yeah. List of everyone who'll be near the governor, on the platform, backstage, carrying signs. All your people,” Baker's glance rested on each person at the table, “will be given color-coded badges that'll show where you're allowed to go, how close you can get. We'll be setting up detectors. Bleachers going to be ready?”

“Yes. They'll be all set by eight.”

“Sound?”

“Yes, ready by eight.”

“All right,” Baker said. “This is how this is going to go.” He went through every step of the procedure. Platform set up, sound system working, barriers for each perimeter erected. At ten o'clock sweep area for guns and explosives, at eleven o'clock check buses and cars with the media, at 11:15 start letting people in.

Em's hands felt icy. She hadn't realized they'd be so thorough. How could she have been so naïve?

Phil Baker got up and went to the diagram. “All along here we'll have highway-patrol and local cops. The only people allowed in here will be volunteers with signs, the press pool, and the governor and his people. Everybody but the governor and his staff gets checked off. All clear?”

Stewart went to the diagram. “At twelve fifteen, Governor Garrett arrives from the airport. Senator Roushe will be with him. They'll walk along here, the governor shaking hands as he goes. He'll be surrounded by prominent local supporters, among them several women. Good visuals and makes him appear liked by both sexes.” He looked around to see if everyone was with him. “They proceed to the platform, should be there at twelve fifty-five. If all goes well, at one, the senator will introduce Governor Garrett and the crowd goes wild with applause.”

Em was appalled at how tight the security would be. How was she going to conceal the gun, let alone pull it out and fire?

To make sure everybody got it, Baker went through the whole thing again. When he was done, he asked Stewart, “You know all your volunteers?”

“Sure. They're great. All of them.”

The officer nodded. “We'll check them through anyway.”

*   *   *

Demarco was worried about the kid. Look how easy that dipshit reporter cousin of Her Ladyship's got in her room. Any asshole with murder on his brain could wait until the guard blinked and just walk in. Little as she was, and weak as a kitten, it wouldn't take much. He'd told all this to Parkhurst. Until the guard was doubled, Demarco planned to spend as much free time at the hospital as possible.

He stopped at the computer place and for twenty minutes looked at computer games trying to figure out which one she might like. He'd spent more on computer games for her then he'd spent on anybody in a long time. When his Visa bill came in, he'd probably be surprised. He picked out one that looked complicated enough to keep her entertained. She had a sharp brain, that one.

Thoughts had been coming to mind about maybe trying for foster parent, when she was well enough to be released. What would Children's Services say? No, probably. He was single, worked long unpredictable hours, thirteen years in the marines didn't qualify him for foster parent. The poor kid needed somebody in her corner. Hell, he didn't even know if she'd want to live with him. They hadn't exactly gotten off to a good start.

He nodded at the guard as he went into her room and noted how fatigued she looked. The performance for news spots with the governor had taken a lot out of her. When she saw him she started a smile, then pulled it down to a sulky bored look. Protecting her image. Wouldn't want him thinking she was glad to see him. Moonbeam Melody didn't smile at cops, even if she was bored out of her mind and this particular cop was bringing another computer game.

“How you doing, kiddo?”

She typed,
How would you be doing if you were flat on your back with nothing to do, not even talk?

“That's my girl.”

She scowled at him.
I am not your girl!!

“Sorry, got carried away for a minute. You are your own girl.”

She typed furiously,
Woman!!!!

He raised an eyebrow.

Well, I am.

“Okay.” He tossed her the plastic bag he was carrying and slouched down in the chair beside the bed.

She ignored him as she studied the new game.
This looks good. Not like those mindless things you got at first.

“You're welcome.”

Her mouth curved up slightly.
Thanks.

“How you feeling?”

She shrugged.
I want to go home.

She no longer had a home to go to and maybe remembering that, a tear trickled down her cheek. Snapping open the newspaper he'd grabbed on the way up, he pretended to read. She wouldn't want him catching sight of tears, not his tough Moonbeam. If she did come and stay with him, they'd have to negotiate about the name. Take her to the firing range and introduce her as Moonbeam to his friends? Nah.

She sniffed, grabbed a tissue and gave a good hard blow, then typed. When he didn't immediately look at the computer screen, she yanked his sleeve. He glanced at the screen.
I been thinking.

“Yeah? About what?”

Sand.

“Sand? What? Sand in your shoe?” His cell phone rang, he unclipped it. “Demarco.”

“The chief wants you right away,” Hazel said. “Problems.”

“Wants me where?”

Hazel gave him an address.

He hung up. “Sorry, kid, I gotta go.”

Where?

“Work.”

When will you be back?

“No way to tell. The governor's doing some rally thing on campus. It's all hands on deck. I'll try to come back later, but it might be late. You going to be okay?”

She gave him one of her looks of scorn, a little anemic and a little brittle around the edges but a, by God, look of scorn.
Course.

He didn't want to leave. He wasn't one for premonitions and psychic flashes, but he had a cold feeling and he hated like hell to trust her to the guard.

39

The gun felt heavy enough in her bag that surely it must be obvious she had it. Em was so nervous she felt like she was poised on the edge of shaking apart, or like a tuning fork, she'd start vibrating with sound, if anything were to tap her. Stewart, the volunteer coordinator, was standing just outside the barriers at Wheaton's Field. Usually it was just an empty field used for some athletic event, she assumed baseball or soccer. Now more bleachers had been put up, the platform and sound system were ready. Buses with the press pool and more buses with volunteers were parking at the far end. Highway-patrol officers were covering the field with dogs and metal detectors. She'd thought of hiding the gun somewhere here last night and now was glad she hadn't. That would have been disaster, for sure. How was she ever going to get the gun past them?

Em prayed, asking a God she felt was going to condemn her to hell for His help one last time. Jackson Garrett's actions had caused a death. He deserved to be punished.

“Hi, Em.” Stewart was distracted, watching Phil Baker talking with another man. When Officer Baker started to walk away, Stewart called out and trotted after him. Was this it? Em wondered. Did Stewart realize what she had in her bag and was telling the officer about it?

Everybody's background was going to be checked. Maybe they'd looked way back into hers and found she had a connection to Jackson Garrett. Maybe they found out he defended her daughter's killer, defended him so well he won an acquittal. Maybe this was the end right here, maybe this was as far as she would get.