Elimination

One

They’re still out there.

‘You bitch. I hope somebody gives you a mastectomy the hard way.’

‘I’m watching you. Every single day I watch you. I own about a hundred of those guns you’re trying to take from patriots across this country.’

‘God is planning to make an example of you for how you’ve forced homos on our families. He has promised me that you’ll be dealt with within forty-eight hours.’

When Timothy McVeigh detonated a truck bomb, killing 168 people and injuring more than 600, I remember thinking maybe this country will come to its senses again. Move back to the center. Get together again without all the acrimony.

I was wrong. The militia movement McVeigh had championed had grown stronger than ever. The rhetoric had become bizarre, then clinically insane. Not that I disagreed with everything the far right said. I consider the massacre at Waco and the murders at Ruby Ridge reprehensible. Waco is a crime of historical proportions. Many government people should have gone to prison. Needless to say, though I work for the liberal party I don’t always agree with its conventional wisdom.

But what brought all this to mind were the emails I was reading on this rainy autumn afternoon in Danton, Illinois, population eighty thousand and home of Congresswoman Jessica Bradshaw, whose reelection campaign I was running. Her friends called her ‘Jess,’ and we’d begun to use that in some of our radio ads.

My name is Dev Conrad. I own Dev Conrad and Associates in Chicago, a political consulting firm. Previous to that I was in the army, serving as an investigator for several years. This election cycle my firm of fourteen people was running eight campaigns. We hired freelancers as we needed them.

I was in Danton because in the past three weeks we’d dropped three points in general polling and four in our own internals. We were now only one point ahead at best. The easy excuse was that our far-right opponent Trent Dorsey was reaping the rewards of having a fanatical billionaire uncle spending five times as much on TV attack ads as we were. I’d flown in early that morning from Chicago at the request of the congresswoman’s chief staffer, Abby Malone.

‘Uncle Ken,’ as Dorsey always referred to him, had also hired a team of hit men who were experts at using automated phone calls — called robocalling — to smear opponents. You could reach thousands and thousands of voters this way in a single day. Robocalling became widely used after George W. Bush’s people started the rumor that John McCain, their opponent, just might be the father of an illegitimate black child. The phone calls were particularly effective in the South.

This district was being bombarded by robocalling, suggesting everything from Jess as Commie, Jess as lesbian, Jess as drug addict, and that Jess’s rich father had been mobbed up. Jess had won before because the man who’d held the seat ended up going to prison for taking bribes that unfortunately (for him) were videotaped by the state boys and girls. This time her run was different. We’d never faced a machine like Dorsey’s and anti-incumbency was a formidable platform this time.

Danton itself was a river town that was heavily leveraged by a gambling casino. It had been known for decades as the place where Al Capone had sent his soldiers when the feds were getting ready to move on them. Not much had changed. The law, police and judges alike almost always ruled in favor of the gambling establishment. Jess Bradshaw’s family had made their money in the stock market. They had not only survived the Depression, they had prospered from it. Everything was cheap, and if you had the money you could become unthinkably wealthy. Jess was an example of how wealthy. And she was typical of a Congress where sixty percent of its members were at least millionaires, if not much wealthier than that.

They’re still out there.

‘You have a lovely daughter. I wonder what her face will look like after I cut it up. One cut for every abortion you’ve made possible.’

‘Fun, huh?’

Abby Malone had once worked directly for my shop in Chicago. At that time she’d been married to a young attorney everybody liked. She spent part of her time in Danton keeping Jess’s constituency office running well and always preparing for the next election. Then one day she came into my office and announced she was getting divorced and would like to work for Jess directly. It would help her get over the end of her marriage. How could I say no? And having her there was probably a good idea anyway, even if it meant losing one of the finest employees I’d ever had, not to mention a world-class smart ass.

‘I read them every day,’ she said. ‘I never tell Jess about them. If they’re really bad I tell Ted. Some of them are so terrifying they’re funny in a strange way.’ In a simple red blouse and straight black skirt she was, to understate, compelling to see.

‘Yeah, like those two morons in Florida who sent ricin to the White House a few months ago. One of them was an unemployed Elvis impersonator and the other a taekwondo dude who was running for president.’

Her smile parted the heavens. She was one of those slight, efficient blondes whose comeliness almost distracts from her skills as a planner and organizer.

‘How’s the prep going?’

Abby had spent the past four days in a rented dance studio firing questions at Jessica in preparation for tonight’s televised debate. Given the polling numbers we were looking at, tonight’s debate had become damned consequential. Jessica had to respond to and overcome all the lies Uncle Ken’s money had been spreading for the last five months.

‘She’s good. So smart. I wish Ted was.’ She allowed a wry smile for Jess’s vainglorious husband. ‘God, he’s as narcissistic as a gigolo.’

‘I guess I hadn’t noticed that.’

‘Yeah, right. You hadn’t noticed. The old Dev Conrad deadpan. Cory told me he can’t tell when you’re joking sometimes.’

‘The intern?’

‘Yeah. He’s good. I like having him drive me places. Makes me feel like a movie star.’

Cory Tucker was a political science major at Danton University. He was an amiable twenty-year-old who considered politics to be a cool and desirable calling. He also admitted that with so many young female volunteers it offered the possibilities of frequent hook-ups.

Then she said, ‘Are you nervous about tonight?’

‘Very.’

‘Dorsey’s an idiot but he does well onstage.’ She checked the delicate silver watch on her delicate wrist. ‘Hey, lunchtime. You really scared me when you said you were scared.’

‘I didn’t say I was scared. I said I was nervous. Big difference.’

‘Well, whatever. So come on and have lunch with us.’

‘“Us” being?’

‘“Us” being me and Joel.’

‘Well, it’s tempting. I’m just so damned busy.’

‘There’s a very nice little restaurant about two blocks from here. And it’s “Take an Old Dude to Lunch Week.” I can find you a walker if you need one.’

‘The arrogance of youth. I’m forty-three.’

‘C’mon,’ she said, that slash of a smile always preceding a cynical remark. ‘You remember Joel. He’s always got really interesting bad news for us.’

And so he did.

Two

I’d seen family photos of them when they were young. Ted and Joel Bradshaw. There was no doubt they were brothers — they were virtual twins. And poor ones at that, growing up in a tiny white-frame house in New Hampshire, their mother working in a laundry and their father a philandering husband who stopped in occasionally between his benders and his shack jobs. But even then Ted stood tall and straight while Joel slouched. As a teenager Joel had been put in a psychiatric hospital for depression. The county had had to pick up the tab, he’d once told me, making his situation all the more humiliating.

I thought of the photographs as I saw him walk toward our booth. He was an impeccable dresser, a man who preferred good suits and shirts and ties to any other kind of attire. And though he’d gotten even better looking as he’d gotten older, he walked with his head down and still had the slouch. I always feel sorry for the very obese ones, the crippled ones and the deformed ones who have to cross streets in full view of cars waiting for the light to change. Many of them keep their heads down. They know they’re being judged and all too often found to be creatures of amusement or contempt.

‘Here’s a nice surprise. Great to see you, Dev. Sorry I’m late.’

‘Hey, Joel, it’s great to see you, too.’ Abby overdid it but that temptation was always there with Joel. You just wanted him to feel better about himself. All the millions of assholes in the world and here was a decent if troubled man who couldn’t seem to muster the least respect for himself.

He sat next to Abby and nodded to me. ‘I’m sure glad you’re in town, Dev. We really need help. I’ve been crunching all the numbers three times a day.’

He really did enjoy bad news. There was so little good news in his life, apparently, that his only succor was drawing energy from the bad.

I said, ‘It’s not over yet, Joel.’ He always made me sound like a cheerleader.

To the waitress, he said, ‘Steak sandwich and Diet Pepsi, please.’

‘Dorsey’s not a very good debater,’ I said. ‘I think Jess can turn everything around.’

‘I’ve never seen her this scared before a debate and she’s been in a lot of them. She knows what’s on the line. It’s never been this close before.’

And that was true. While Jess had never won with runaway numbers she’d always ended up with a two- or three-point win.

‘Isn’t Ted giving her his usual pep talk?’

Joel touched Abby’s hand. Sometimes when I saw them together I wondered if Joel had a crush on her.

‘He’s trying. But it doesn’t seem to be working. And I’m not sure he’s giving her the right advice. He’s back on the “maternal” kick again.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘Him and his “maternal” bit. He finally got us to try it in one debate last election cycle — she got pilloried by the press and we went down two points.’

‘I love my brother but you know how he is when he gets an idea in his head. You really need to talk to Jess. Katherine flew in from college to be with her for good luck.’ A wan expression came over his face as he said, ‘Poor Katherine. I wish she’d meet somebody. She’s always gotten these painful crushes on older men. I think she has a bit of a one on you now, Dev. Jess was always trying to get her interested in boys her own age. But instead she’d fall in love with the UPS guy or somebody who was working around the house.’

‘That’s sad,’ Abby said, ‘but maybe she’s just compensating for neither of her folks being around very much. We thought of putting her on the campaign trail about five years ago but we could never be sure what she was going to say. That’s when I got to be her sounding board. She was a really lonely kid.’

‘I still think she could be an asset on the campaign trail.’ The only time Joel sounded as if he had the right to speak was when he talked about working on his sister-in-law’s campaign. In the D.C. office he was numero uno traffic manager. He had this ability to keep things moving. If somebody was a half hour late with a report Joel was standing at his desk. He had this enormous chart on his wall that he, along with most of the people in the office, called the Bible. He knew where everybody was for most of their twelve-hour days. What they were — or should be — doing. And if they needed him to stand at their desk or track them down by phone, so they could get their work done.

He’d had a failed marriage, two trips to rehab for alcoholism and several serious investments that had gone wrong. Ted’s offer to work in the Washington office was seen by most people as an act of pity. But they were wrong. Few Congressional offices worked as smoothly and efficiently as Jess’s office.

While Joel ate, the three of us gossiped about the latest D.C. rumors. Half of them were outright lies started by bitter enemies, but some of them were at least funny, especially a high-ranking congressman so fed up with the bathroom wait at a fancy party (apparently he was too drunk to realize there were two other bathrooms on the first floor of the mansion) that he pissed in a goldfish bowl.

It was always fun to hear Joel laugh. Even his eyes gleamed. The high drama and high silliness of Washington had given him his own world to play in. And find acceptance in. Even a few of the people on the other side — the ones who showered at least once a month and visited their dentists at least once a decade — admired and liked Joel. He’d also made a good number of friends through the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings that many Hill staffers attended. Joel went four times a week.

Abby said, ‘You know they’ll hit us with something at the debate. Have one of their questioners try to put Jess on the spot with something reprehensible.’

Joel said, ‘Dorsey’s people love hanging abortions on other candidates. In this district you’ve got almost a majority who are right-to-life.’

Abby said, ‘They also like that three-way thing.’

‘Wrong district. Won’t work here. Very conservative voters. That’s unthinkable to them. They wouldn’t believe it.’ He slipped out of the booth. ‘Well, if I don’t see you two before, I’ll see you at the debate. Thanks again for coming out here for a couple of days, Dev.’

‘My pleasure, Joel.’

After he’d gone, Abby said, ‘I’ve always wanted to date a boy like him. Just, you know, out of curiosity.’

‘What stopped you?’

‘Are you kidding? I couldn’t find any. I was in the wrong crowd.’

‘The curse of being a cheerleader.’

‘You’ll never let me live that down, will you, Conrad?’ But she’d started giggling.

‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I never will.’

Three

We’d heard rumors that men (and maybe women) with guns would show up that night to protest against the appearance of our congresswoman, who had apparently just returned from ‘Islamia’ where she’d learned how to implement Sharia law and had helped to plan the ultimate invasion of Islamists on the red, white and blue soil of the USA.

This was happening in all sections of the country; the gunslingers wanted to show off their hardware and their strange, perplexing views of our Constitution.

It was fully dark by six o’clock so the temperature was in the high thirties by the time the debate attendees showed up.

With my head still full of all the threatening emails I’d read, I stood outside the entrance of the university auditorium watching people come inside. The crowd was about what I expected.

In the old days the supporters of the other side would generally have been better dressed and more reserved. But such issues as abortion, gun rights, gay rights and education had changed the (if you’ll forgive the jargon) psychographics.

Driven mostly by women, the shift to our side had been in process since the first Bush administration. This left the male vote heavily in favor of people like Dorsey, and you could see that in his supporters. Blue-collar and white-collar merged and their behavior was boisterous as they filed into the building and then into the auditorium.

But they were no less boisterous than the women and men on our side, who were hoping for an outright knockout.

There were six uniformed police officers bundled up in winter jackets and caps. Security was always heavy for these events. Some directed traffic as parking spaces began to disappear, while others walked the perimeter military style.

I didn’t pay any particular attention to the old, tan-colored van. I saw it swing into the large parking lot and then be directed to a spot far down the line.

I went back to assessing the people walking inside the building. There was a lot of laughter, a lot of camaraderie, a lot of anticipation. A good old political debate, and it was encouraging to see that both sides had turned out so many people.

I heard the shouting before I was able to see, far down the wide central lane, what was going on. A pair of men toting AK-47s were walking fast toward the building. They were being pursued by another pair of men, these two happening to be police officers.

Let the drama begin.

The odds were greatly against the show-offs shooting anybody. What they wanted was to prove they had the right to bring guns of any kind anywhere they chose. This was the Second Amendment argument the gun nuts were always yapping about. They wanted attention and they would certainly get it. Within a few minutes some of the TV newspeople inside would hear about the confrontation outside and they would be out here with cameras and microphones making history. At least on the ten o’clock local news.

More officers joined in. Three of them stepped in front of the pair with the weapons and blocked their passage.

People were still parking and walking toward the door. But now they stopped and began to form a crowd. Not many of them looked happy about the weapons. They’d likely seen incidents like this on TV so pretty much knew the script — men and women with AK-47s were walking into chain restaurants. This had happened several times in our country lately. But seeing men with AK-47s on TV was different from seeing them only yards away. The TV people, maybe half a dozen of them, forced me to stand back as they bolted from the door as if the building was being engulfed in flames.

A gift from the gods.

An angry TV debate.

And guns!

The police had maneuvered the duo off to the side and even further down the wide lane. Three police officers dealt with them while the other three split up the crowd and waved it on to the building.

The conversation of those filing in had changed. It was no longer about their candidate or the debate. It was instead about the pair with the weapons. With one exception — a rather staid older man in a pinstriped suit and rimless eyeglasses — I didn’t hear anybody defend the show-offs. He was talking about the Founding Fathers and how they would have approved making stands like this one. Apparently he’d been beamed down from the mother ship just in time for the debate.

I wish I had an explosive ending for this little tale. Fortunately, I don’t. The cops, who handled it very well, quietly convinced the boys to save themselves and the taxpayers a lot of time and money by heading back to their van and going anywhere they chose — sans their weapons, which, even with the insane right-to-carry law in effect, were still illegal when displayed this way.

The duo complied. I was too far away to hear what was said but I knew there had been a few sharp words (‘Constitution’ could be heard several times). Then the tone started to sound downright civil.

The TV folks returning to the building moved much more slowly and looked much less alert than they had rushing out of the building. A few minutes of guys with big, frightening guns was all right but, hell, nobody had even pushed or shoved anyone. Damn. Maybe the anticlimactic ending made for bad TV, but as the night played out I would remember it as a portent.

Four

The modern TV debate requires the kind of schooling few candidates are prepared for. If it’s done properly, the staff spends all available time pounding facts into their employer’s head. Every possible issue, every useful piece of the opponent’s backstory and several useful attack lines — hopefully ones that at least sting if not wound. All of these are put on cards so they can be studied over and over. There is also time spent on anecdotes that will indicate how concerned the candidate is about the common welfare. Other anecdotes are used to demonstrate how unconcerned your opponent is about the plight of average people.

Finally the campaign manager and the staff settle on two or three points that the candidate will make again and again in the course of the debate. Catchwords and catchphrases. If the voters remember nothing else they will hopefully remember these words and points.

Then, usually for the campaign manager comes the showbiz side of the debate. What kind of clothing, what kind of makeup, what kind of lighting. You have your makeup person, your speech coach and your personal TV dude. You can spend as long as a full day working on the stage where the debate will be held. You use a stand-in to make sure that you get every aspect of appearance and angle the way you need it. Earlier arguments would have resolved which reporters would be asking the questions.

The real wild card that night would be the audience questions. Fifteen minutes had been reserved for that. I had planted three voters — hopefully at least one of them would get through — ready and eager to humiliate Dorsey. Of course, he’d have his own plants ready and eager to ask Jess humiliating questions. For us this would be the wildest of wild-card moments. What had their oppo research rattlesnakes turned up on us?

I walked backstage. Rain dripped from my Burberry, so I tore it off and parked it on a chair next to a security guard, reasoning he’d watch over it for me. I asked him where I’d find Congresswoman Bradshaw and he said room four.

Backstage was crowded. As I worked my way toward Jess’s room I saw two of Dorsey’s people talking to a collection of reporters. They’d be telling the same kind of lies I usually did. Just earning their paychecks.

When I got to the dressing room I knocked and heard the unmistakable sound of Ted in full lecture mode.

‘Honey, they want to see you warm. They want to see you maternal. That’s where Dev and Abby are wrong—’

My knock interrupted him. Dev and Abby dumb; Ted brilliant.

A Washington columnist favorable to us once noted that ‘lovely Congresswoman Bradshaw and her handsome husband Ted eschew the party scene, staying home to study issues their constituents are avid about.’

I would stand the columnist up against the wall and open fire for his use of ‘eschew’ and ‘avid’ and for telling the kind of lie Washington insiders would gloat over while they sipped their martinis.

In fact, the Bradshaws had to be dragged from the various balls and parties and ‘dos’ they attended four or five nights a week. She’d spent her summers in the Hamptons and studied for two years in Paris, where she’d done some modeling. He’d spent his teens and early twenties trying to fashion a professional tennis career for himself, but having failed that, he married Jess and took up the task of trying to fashion a political career for his wife. In addition to looks and money, they had what all politicians need: a neurotic — not to say psychotic — ambition to not only stay in office but to advance in office.

One more term in the House and Jess would announce for Senate.

I admired Jess more than liked her. She had that slight air of condescension all wealthy liberals have when they address the woes of average people, but her relentless battles fought for the poor and the helpless overcame it. She also had the same condescension for people she employed, including me and my staff.

Ted was a pain in the ass. They’d had two campaign managers previous to me and they both had the same problem — having Ted override their decisions. Jess had almost lost one election cycle because Ted insisted that they do things his way.

Ted loved being on TV. Some in the press (even the so-called ‘liberal’ press; if only they really were all that liberal) felt that the two had a Bill and Hillary Clinton problem. He was bright and shallow, known to stray from the marriage vows most folks attempt to honor. He’d always wondered why Bill Clinton had gotten in trouble over a simple blow job. ‘What the hell? Who hasn’t gotten a blow job here or there?’ I assumed he never asked Jess this question.

In taking the job I’d made Jess honor a blood pact. Jess and I were the final authorities. If she sided too often with Ted, I would quit; if Ted went around me on an issue, I would quit; and if Ted had any contact with the press without prior agreement with me, I would quit.

I took care of his TV lust by having a media buyer in Chicago help me set up a half-hour TV show for Ted on Saturday afternoons. She got many sponsors because Ted would interview people on both sides of the aisle and talk about what the guests had done to improve the lives of people across the state. Sponsors loved it because it made them look patriotic and civic-minded, and Ted loved it because it was enough of a success to get him invited to Rotary Clubs and schools to speak.

As I was saying, my knock interrupted Ted telling Jess that my (and Abby’s) idea was dumb and his, of course, was brilliant.

The room was small, holding only a makeup table complete with a mirror encircled with some electric bulbs and a counter packed with mysterious items for beauty, three wooden chairs and a movable metal rack holding empty hangers.

‘I’d say she looks pretty damned good,’ Ted said.

‘How’re you feeling, Jess?’

‘Oh, not bad, Dev. I just hope I don’t fuck up. I’m really nervous about this.’

‘Oh, honey, you’re not going to fuck up. Tell her, Dev; tell her she’s not going to fuck up.’

I said, without smiling, ‘Did you hear that, Jess? Ted said you’re not going to fuck up. That’s good enough for me.’

They loved their jousting.

‘Dev, would you please tell Ted for me he’s an idiot?’

‘Just remember, honey, maternal. That way you’ll get the “lady” vote.’

Ah, yes, the much sought-after ‘lady’ vote. I had tried, Abby had tried and Jess herself had tried to convince Ted that in this era voters wanted strong female candidates. They didn’t care if the candidate was good in bed or even good in the kitchen. Women were the equal of men in this arena (personally, I would have been happier if the Congress was sixty percent women) and voters wanted women who exemplified strength.

‘I’m doing this for your sake, honey.’

What happened next was one of those moments you never forget. Years later it would come back to me and still have impact.

Their daughter, Katherine, was sitting on a folding chair in a corner. She was the image of her mother, that indelible a match right down to the freckles across the perfect nose.

She was wearing a brown dress that made her all the more slender. Low heels and carefully brushed blonde hair completed her conservative look. She knew how to dress for her mother’s public. She’d been very sick for a time and was still pale.

She said, ‘Just be strong, Mom. Stand up to him every time he lies.’

And that was when Ted turned on her. ‘Since when did you start giving your mother advice? Everything you tell her is wrong. You should be out there with the rest of the crowd. In fact, get the hell out of here right now!’

I suppose her ‘be strong’ suggestion went against his ‘be maternal’ idea, but there was a hysteria in his voice that was chilling. Ted had once slapped a male staffer. He did not like to be told he was wrong.

But Katherine was his daughter. And she sure hadn’t deserved his rage.

‘Oh, honey, don’t get so worked up. It’s not good for you,’ Jess said.

‘I know. I’m just worried about the polls, Jess. That’s all.’

This startled me. Shouldn’t she have been soothing Katherine? And shouldn’t he be apologizing to Katherine?

But all Jess said was, ‘Don’t be upset with your dad, Katherine. You know how overwrought he can get.’

Katherine wasn’t as hurt as I thought she should be, either. ‘Oh, I’m used to it. If I got upset every time he yelled at me, I wouldn’t have time for anything else. I just wish he’d take Xanax the way you and I do.’

‘Well, I need to get going.’

Ted strode to Jess and kissed her on the cheek. Then he went to the door and was gone.

It was a full minute before anybody spoke once he was gone.

‘Poor Dad. I feel so sorry for him.’

‘Yes, honey, so do I.’ Jess kissed Katherine’s forehead.

Apparently it was me, not them. This was the way you treated your daughters these days.

Five

What we were about to see was the civilized equivalent of a prize fight. There wouldn’t be any blood but there would no doubt be injuries. And while neither fighter would end up in the hospital, one of them might end up doomed to looking back on this night forever. Going over and over it, reliving with exquisite pain all the ways they’d humiliated themselves and lost the election.

The stage was filled with hurrying, scurrying TV techs checking sound and lighting. I turned around to get a look at the imposing auditorium. Lots of laughter and hellos and good lucks as the crowds chose their preferred side of the aisle. About half of them were in stylish attire for men and women alike. Again, like a prize fight.

Abby, Ted, Joel, Katherine and I sat next to each other in the front row on our side of the auditorium.

There was applause as the two candidates walked onstage. Jess waved and smiled. She took up her position behind the podium.

Trent Dorsey wore a dark suit with a white shirt and a red power tie. The grin that was always close to a sneer was firmly in place as he situated himself behind his own podium.

A middle-aged woman from the Voters’ League walked to center stage and, much like a referee, gave us a quick lesson in proper behavior for TV debates.

Then the three reporters filed onstage and took their seats behind a desk. I was familiar with all of them. A conservative, a liberal and a young woman who seemed to be an actual independent thinker.

The fun started.

Judged by boxing standards, I had to give the first twenty minutes of the sixty-minute debate to Dorsey. He was his usual bellicose — read asshole — self.

He played all his greatest hits.

‘It’s time all the real patriots in this country take our country back.’... ‘Have you ever wondered how many people in Congress actually go to church on Sunday?’... ‘Are you comfortable knowing that homosexuals are teaching in our public schools?’... ‘Now the government is running our healthcare system, more teenage girls than ever are getting pregnant. But it doesn’t matter because they can just get a free government abortion.’... ‘Wouldn’t you like to wipe that superior smirk off the face of liberals when they’re talking about people who own a lot of guns?’

He was skillful enough to twist any question he was asked into a mini-rant about his idea of taking the government back.

But at the twenty-four-minute mark — I was keeping close time — he made his first mistake. Asked about how he could support yet another tax cut if he wanted to balance the budget, he said, ‘Right now there are men and women out there who are planning to make this country ours again.’

‘Are you advocating armed insurrection?’

‘I’m advocating driving the criminals and treasonists out of D.C.’

‘You’ve spoken to several militia groups who seem to believe in armed revolution.’

‘That’s your interpretation, not mine. I’ll speak to any group that loves this country as much as I do.’

He was shrewd but it was too late for that. In an off-year election such as this one the opposition generally took many more seats than the president’s side. Dorsey had muted himself in the past three weeks and, coupled with the millions being poured into TV by his uncle, had caught up with us. But that night his vague response to the question about the militia groups capping his entire greatest-hit routine suddenly sounded threatening. He brought the old doubts about his wisdom back into focus.

The second twenty minutes were all Jess. She sounded sane, judicious and full of the kind of quick detail that impresses the electorate.

Dorsey stumbled. He started using words like ‘responsible’ and ‘cooperative’ and phrases such as ‘the common good.’

The third twenty minutes was a fifteen-minute triumph for Jess, but right in the middle of it Dorsey had a good five-minute stretch attacking her for some of her more controversial votes — controversial in this age of plutocrats. Money for science, education and cancer research could be made to sound wasteful and Dorsey did a fine job of making them all sound like that. Jess was able to wrest back the lead by saying that she had an aunt at the Mayo Clinic right now suffering from breast cancer and she was glad she’d cast the Obamacare vote. She asked if there was a single person in the audience who had not been touched by the cancer of a loved one, and not just once but at least two or three times. I think a few of the people on his side of the aisle wanted to join the standing ovation our side gave her. She’d slashed his throat and he spent the last few minutes writhing in death.

Then came the questions from the audience. Predictably, the plants for both sides did their sleazy best. Boiled down, the questions were either ‘Are you still having sex with the family dog/cat?’ or ‘If you had a chance to renounce your Russian citizenship, would you do it?’

They were too predictable, in fact. A fair share of the audience was starting to leave. I saw it as a pretty easy slog for both Jess and Dorsey. He managed to turn aside our bombshell question with an armada of anti-media and patriotic rants that won hearty applause from his side and some actual boos from ours. The son of a bitch never managed to answer a question straight on; in boxing that was called slipping a punch. In politics that was called making your case.

Dorsey’s four previous questioners, despite the fact that they weren’t naked and hadn’t once mentioned Sasquatch, still had about them the faint stench of fanaticism. Two of them had glassy-eyed grins on their faces when they asked their questions, as if their queries would leave Jess gibbering and resigning. One of the other two wore a red, white and blue lapel pin large enough to serve a pizza on. And the fourth turned and gave two thumbs up to the stage before he stepped to the microphone.

But the good one, the one Dorsey had saved for the real shiv in the belly, was as upper-middle-class presentable as the woman from the Voters’ League itself. Maybe mid-fifties, gray-blonde chignon, gray Armani suit and impeccably patrician face and poise. There was even a touch of Jackie O in her voice.

‘Congresswoman Bradshaw, since you are so actively pro-choice I feel it’s fair to ask if you, personally, have ever had an abortion?’

Jess handled the question with simple and believable grace. ‘I’m not an advocate for abortion as some people claim. I’m merely saying that girls and women should have the choice of how to deal with their bodies. And no, I have not personally ever had an abortion.’

A cool, convincing answer. A quick survey of the panel’s faces told me that they agreed with my assessment.

‘You’ve really never—?’ the woman jabbed again.

But halfway through her question they cut her mike.

This part of the evening had finished.

Six

I headed immediately for the bullshit room, as it is so fondly called by operatives and press alike.

Adjacent to the auditorium was a small room filled with fine arts of various kinds. This would be used for more personal events. Right now maybe as many as thirty reporters and twenty camera people packed the place. The one absolute law governing the aftermath of a debate is that your man or woman, no matter how much evidence there is to the contrary, won the debate. Pounded the opponent into dust. Clearly entranced the audience and confiscated the vote of every man and woman in the auditorium.

But we really had won, so all I had to do was brag. Well, I had to tell at least a few lies to earn my keep.

Reporters, especially the TV type, love tabloid journalism. Slash, disembowel. But tonight they had to know that we’d won without much trouble.

‘How’re you feeling, Conrad?’

‘As if I could go ten rounds with the world champion.’

‘The world champion of what?’

‘You name it.’

Polite smiles.

‘What did you think of Dorsey’s performance?’

‘Which part? Canceling cancer research? Loyalty oaths? Or advocating violent overthrow?’

‘You’re accusing him of advocating armed revolution?’

‘I don’t have to accuse him of anything. It was implied in everything he said.’

‘Think tonight’ll help you in the polls?’

‘Absolutely. The congresswoman was at her best and Dorsey was at his worst. I’m surprised his campaign manager hasn’t attempted suicide by now.’ Realizing I sounded too arrogant, I said, ‘It’s simple. Jess is the serious candidate here. She has a vital interest in making government better and that means saving the parts that work and getting rid of the parts that don’t. But you have to do this carefully, intelligently. The well-being of millions of people is at stake every time a major policy change is made. That’s why you want a person who has respect for her job. Serious respect.’

On the other side of the room there were cheers as Trent Dorsey held his clenched hands up in the air the way a winning boxer does. He was following the number-one law of the bullshit room — despite all evidence to the contrary. He was proclaiming himself the winner.

Over the next fifteen minutes the questions changed as a few of the right-wing bloggers drifted over here. They’d undoubtedly been using their questions to promote Dorsey’s agenda. They’d saved their venom for us.

‘There’ve been rumors in the past that Congresswoman Bradshaw has had a long-standing drinking problem. Is that what we were seeing tonight?’

‘There’ve also been rumors that she’s had a prescription pill problem. Was that her problem tonight?’

‘Do you think we’ll hear more about Congresswoman Bradshaw’s abortion?’

I almost grabbed the little prick. All three of them were little pricks — three slight, dishwater-blond college-age boys in white shirts, blue blazers and gray slacks; the uniform of the salvation teams that come to your door to save your soul and annoy the shit out of you. Each blazer bore the crest of the local right-wing Christian college, Holy Shit University as I called all of them. They wanted our country turned into a theocracy. I devoutly did not.

These three were here to aggravate me into handing them a news story. BRADSHAW MANAGER ASSAULTS HOLY SHIT REPORTER.

Abby, who had been a little late getting here, grabbed my arm with surprising force and stepped forward to face the clone who’d asked the last question. It was a much prettier face than mine to put in his face and, because of that, more intimidating. All I could do was maybe throw him around a little.

‘You came over here to make trouble. Go back to Dorsey’s side,’ Abby said.

‘We have a right to ask questions.’

‘Really? Do you work on the school paper? Or ever taken a journalism course?’

The clone actually blushed. But he managed to say, ‘We serve the Lord in other ways.’

His fellow clones nodded.

‘Then you’re not reporters. You’re troublemakers.’

The first clone took a step forward. ‘We’re here to expose the congresswoman for the demonic forces she represents in Washington.’

The second clone said, ‘She’s one herself.’

I was waiting for their eyes to start glowing the way the Devil-inclined do in horror movie posters.

I’d calmed down sufficiently to do to Abby what she’d done to me: take her by the arm. We’d been in the room forty minutes and the important reporters were starting to make their way to the nearest bars. There was no point in staying here.

We walked out.

Abby said, ‘This is one of the happiest nights of my life. We did so damned well.’

‘I don’t know about you,’ I said, ‘but I need several hundred drinks.’

‘Me, too,’ Abby said. ‘There’s a place called Drink Up about two miles north of here. It’s a decent place to get hammered.’

‘How about if I meet you there in twenty minutes or so? I’m going to the dressing room to check on Jess.’

‘Great,’ Abby said. ‘See you soon.’

She pirouetted, then skipped for maybe five yards and then shouted over her shoulder, ‘We’re going to kick ass, Dev!’

Laughter and the pop of a champagne cork.

I knocked and peeked in.

Jess sprang from her seat in front of the mirror and came over to me with her arms extended for a hug. Over her shoulder I could see Ted with a champagne bottle and a grin. Katherine was standing beside him.

‘I was so worried I thought I was going to faint at times.’

‘May I have some, Dad?’

He hesitated. Then, to Jess, ‘You think it’s all right, honey?’

‘She’ll be fine, Ted,’ Jess said.

They were a family again — supposedly, anyway.

But obviously one of Dorsey’s questioners had gotten to Jess. With a frown — she had been embarrassed by the attack and was not in a forgiving mood — she said, ‘I did not have an abortion.’

‘Oh, Mom,’ Katherine said. ‘We know you didn’t. And even if you had, so what?’

‘Hey, Jess, we’re supposed to be celebrating tonight, remember?’ Ted was master of ceremonies again.

Jess toasted him with what remained of the champagne in her glass.

‘That’s right, we’re celebrating,’ Katherine said. But the brightness in her eyes and voice had gone.

I listened for five more minutes but didn’t really hear; I talked for a few minutes but probably didn’t make much sense. I just wanted to leave and join Abby.

Then I was outside in the cold autumn night, the shadows hiding the assassin who waited, not for me, but for Jess.

Seven

The bar was a small neighborhood place with country songs and one of those female pub owners Graham Greene had once described as having ‘a great public heart.’ When she said, ‘Nice to meet you,’ you had the feeling she actually meant it. Her name was Mae Tomlin. She wore a Chicago Cubs T-shirt and a welcoming smile. I told her I was with the Bradshaw campaign. She said she was on Jess’s side.

I joined Abby in a booth.

‘Whew and double whew.’ She drew a small hand across her brow and said, ‘And whew again.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I’d say Dorsey is one unhappy guy about now.’

‘Most likely.’

‘Does that make you happy?’

‘Of course.’

‘Me, too. I know he’s got a terrible temper. He’s probably taking it out on his whole staff.’ She sipped her wine. ‘I don’t know what Jess would’ve done if she’d lost tonight. I have to say she’s not holding up very well this time around.’

‘This is the tightest race she’s ever had.’

‘I know. I guess I never realized how much being in Congress means to her.’

‘The big thing is she got through it.’

‘Did you see Joel writhing in his chair?’

‘He always writhes. It’s like he’s a little kid in a theater with a horror movie on the screen. He does everything except slap his hands over his face.’

‘Every time she paused or seemed even a little bit rattled I thought he might get up and run out of the theater.’

Over the next few drinks I got her up to speed on most of the gossip in our Chicago shop. She loved the breaking news about two affairs and was sad when she heard that one of her favorite older operatives was retiring because his diabetes was taking his vision.

I was about to order another round when I happened to glance at the bar and noticed Mae holding her cell phone to one ear and sticking a finger in the other so she could hear above the jukebox. Then she jerked the finger from her ear and waved me over.

She slapped her cell phone down and shouted to a man standing next to the jukebox. ‘Unplug it, Al.’

‘Are you serious?’ he shouted back.

‘Damn straight I’m serious. Now unplug it.’

Not exactly a big job. The man pushed the jukebox away from the wall, leaned down and pulled the plug from the socket.

The abrupt end to the music startled enough people that Mae didn’t have to shout for attention anymore.

Her eyes addressed mine before the other customers. ‘My brother just called. He’s still at the university. He said that somebody tried to assassinate Congresswoman Bradshaw when she was leaving the debate tonight. That’s all he knows for sure at this point.’

Abby and I were out of the booth and half running for the door. I was saying the dirtiest words I could think of under my breath. Some of those emails I’d read this morning flashed into my mind as I got the car started.

One of those haters or somebody very much like them had delivered the ultimate message tonight. They really did want to take over the country by any means necessary.

Flashing red emergency lights wounded the chilly, cloudy night sky — two patrol cars and three unmarked police cars, a boxy ambulance and a fire chief’s red sedan, though why it was here I didn’t know.

The press was being kept a hundred yards or so from the rear doors of the building by a sizable cop in his uniform blue winter jacket. By morning the national press would add to the melee. After the attempted assassination of Congresswoman Gabby Giffords — though she had survived, six had died and thirteen others had been wounded — this would be more evidence that we were truly a gun-crazed country. The foreign press would love it especially. Unfortunately, good and sane people really could make the argument that we had become one of the most violence-crazed countries in the world.

On the way here the radio had informed us that Jess had not been hurt, nor had anyone else. The shooter had escaped.

We had to park even further back than the press. Yellow crime-scene tape had cordoned off a large portion of the parking area. By now well-wishers and zombie hunters had arrived; the first to reassure themselves that she was fine and to pay tribute, and the second to wish that she’d really been killed — for political reasons or just because they liked the idea of somebody getting murdered. A near miss was better than nothing.

The night now smelled of cigarette smoke, gasoline from idling engines and a strong hint of winter. Near the doors I saw Ted talking to a group of reporters. For once his drama queen style was probably appropriate.

I hadn’t had time to emotionally confront what had happened here. The only thought I had now was about the hunt — finding the bastard who’d tried to kill Jess.

The first cop I saw, I asked, ‘Any idea where Congresswoman Bradshaw is?’

Suspicion, of course. ‘And you’d be who?’

‘Her campaign manager.’

‘You have proof of that?’

I took out my wallet and showed him.

‘He’s really the campaign manager,’ Abby said.

‘All this proves is that he’s really this Dev Michael Conrad.’

‘I just want to know if she’s been taken off the premises here.’

‘No, she hasn’t.’

He walked away and we walked on.

‘What an asshole,’ Abby said. Her rage was matched by her sorrow — her voice was trembling. She was much closer to Jess than I was. All I could think of was killing whoever had taken a shot at her.

‘Just doing his job.’

‘Oh, right, I forgot you were a cop once. At least, sort of. And you guys stick together. The thin black line.’

‘Blue.’

‘Oh. Right. “Blue.”’

Abby stopped to talk to a reporter she knew; I walked toward Ted.

Five uniformed men and women were working a wide area with flashlights and evidence bags. Two others were on the roof of a large black storage shed. The shooter might have fired from there.

For the next fifteen minutes I walked around. I overheard policemen, average people, reporters. Every once in a while you hear useful things this way. In my army days I’d worked briefly out of Honolulu, where a man who’d been an informant for us had been stabbed to death on the beach at night. I’d been following him but was waylaid by a major traffic accident. By the time I got there, he was dead. But there’d been a party on that section of beach that night so I’d walked around, listening to people talk. A young woman had complained to her friend that a man had practically knocked her down as she was leaving the restroom and her shoulder hurt badly. I’d got his description and we were able to find the killer two days later.

No such luck tonight.

I was thinking of checking out the front of the building — I was told that donuts and coffee were being offered there, which sounded good on a night when you could see your breath — when I saw Ted begin to hold up his arms, signaling that he was done. I was close enough that he was able to see me. He marched triple time in my direction, trailing reporters the way poor children trail rich American tourists in Latin American countries.

‘Where can we go?’ He was moving fast enough that, despite the temperature, there was a sheen of sweat on his face.

‘Front of the building.’

Then we were walking triple time together. We could have moved even faster if we weren’t wearing topcoats. The reporters following us aimed their microphones at us as if they could actually pick up our words — we weren’t even speaking.

Then, as we rushed along the side of the building, Ted said, ‘Katherine’s back in the dressing room with Jess. I told her to give Jess two Xanax. I need to talk to the press.’

He didn’t ‘need’ to. He wanted to. The spotlight beckoned.

As many as fifty people huddled in the lobby. The aroma of hot fresh coffee welcomed us.

The ghosts of modern assassinations roamed the halls of the building tonight. Jack and Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King.

I grabbed a donut and a paper cup of coffee. Ted did the same and followed me into the auditorium where the debate had been held. Though the stage was dark I could see the outlines of the rostrums. The TV people had cleared all their equipment away.

We sat in theater chairs near the back.

‘We won twice tonight,’ Ted said.

I must have been thinking about those political ghosts. Something had distracted me, anyway. ‘What?’

‘I said we won twice tonight. First the debate and now the shooting. You think we aren’t going to get a big sympathy vote?’ The mannequin face gleamed with real pleasure.

‘Yeah, we really “won” all right. Your wife could’ve been killed. I guess we have a different idea of “winning.”’

‘But she wasn’t killed, was she? Don’t get sanctimonious with me, Dev. Thank God she wasn’t killed. But since she wasn’t, let’s try to find a bright side to this. We should get a bounce out of both the debate and some right-wing bastard trying to murder her. So, any guesses what that bounce’ll be?’

He was hopeless. ‘The two combined — maybe three or four points.’

‘Are you serious? I’m thinking more like six or seven.’

‘Probably not.’

‘You know some people are going to think that Dorsey was behind this.’

‘Some people think they’ve been abducted by aliens.’

‘Don’t kid yourself. The way he talked about all his “patriots” tonight. It’s not a big leap to think that one of them might have been the shooter.’

‘But there was nothing in it for Dorsey. He’d caught up with us. He might even have been ahead until tonight. We’re the ones who’ll now get the sympathy vote.’

‘Maybe, but that still doesn’t rule out somebody in Dorsey’s camp—’

Abby said, ‘Mind if I join you?’

She sat in the row in front of us.

‘What happens now, Dev?’ Ted said.

‘We start planning for the news deluge. Ted, you can be our spokesman.’

‘Are you kidding?’

‘No. Jess needs to rest and you’re her husband. You’ll talk about the gun culture, how lucky Jess was and how we now have to pass serious legislation. And, of course, hit all the points we make every day. You’re good on television.’

‘I appreciate your faith in me, Dev. I really do. This is an important venue.’ Then, ‘I can’t wait to see that first poll.’

‘I’m more interested in the major poll three days from now. Once things have had a chance to shake loose for a little while.’

‘Me, too,’ Abby said. ‘These things evaporate pretty quickly.’

‘Somebody trying to kill a congresswoman?’

‘Well, I guess you’ve got a point, Ted,’ she said. ‘This probably isn’t going to go away anytime soon.’

‘By God, Abby finally agrees with me about something.’

‘Ted, I agree with you all the time. You always forget that because once in a while I disagree with you.’

‘Am I really that vain, Abby?’

Fortunately, Abby didn’t have to answer because a man I didn’t recognize came to the left door of the auditorium and said, ‘The policeman out front said he’s just been told that they think they have the shooter in custody!’

Eight

There are places lonelier than hotel rooms, but few of them are above ground.

At midnight I sat at a table in my nicely furnished small room in the Royale Hotel with my Mac open and CNN on the TV. All the cable channels except the right-wing ones were orgasming over the attempted assassination of Congresswoman Jessica Bradshaw.

As with most serious events, the first news had proved to be wrong. The police hadn’t taken anybody into custody; they had questioned three ‘persons of interest’ which translated into three local men who had made notably ugly and violent remarks about Jess. Two had been turned in by acquaintances, and one by a family member, which was an interesting story by itself. For all the noise hate radio made, the majority of people did not want to see their elected officials threatened, let alone killed.

I’d called Chicago two hours ago and given one of my staffers there the job of answering the phones and redirecting any serious media calls we got to my cell phone here. So far I’d talked to two networks, including the news director of one of them. He’d made the best offer: seven minutes on the news. He was also planning a special called ‘The Hate Merchants’ and would give Jess seven more minutes on that. That would be on Friday night, a lame night for TV, but given the blanket coverage the shooting was getting it might pick up a much bigger audience than the night usually got. In the meantime, we had Ted on the most highly rated morning show.

So far I’d seen Trent Dorsey’s hilarious response four times on CNN. He was sitting at a desk somewhere with shelves of fake books behind him and the edges of a giant green plastic plant showing on screen right. Local TV.

‘I don’t even care about winning anymore. I just want to know that Jessica Bradshaw is all right and I want to know that the person responsible is behind bars. The congresswoman and I have our disagreements but not about how our democratic election process should proceed. That’s why I’ve been promoting the idea that our president should start using his office to promote fellowship, not the kind of ideas that divide this country. He knows where to find the answers to all our ills.’

Here he held up a small Bible, as if he was going to hawk it along with a bunch of other goodies ‘if you ordered right now.’

‘This is where the answers are, Mr President. Right here. And Jessica, my friend, if you’re watching I hope you find a little time for the Good Book tonight. Nothing will give you more comfort, as my wife and our three kids learn every day of our lives. God bless America, folks. God bless America.’

The closest vomitorium was four cold blocks away. I was too tired to walk to it.

My daughter called a few minutes later, upset about the shooting and worried about me. She then told me about the granddaughter of mine she was carrying in her sixth month. Sarah’s voice always redeemed me. Even though I was talking to a woman, I was also talking to a girl whose mere name inspired all the sentimental moments of her early life. How her face glowed in the candlelight from her fourth birthday cake; how she’d had a two-line part in the second-grade play; how beautiful she’d looked in that new dress the night of her ninth-grade dance. And then, the remorse for never being there enough for her. How she said she’d forgiven me for that once she’d grown up. But I couldn’t forgive myself. That would be too easy.

Her ‘I sure love you, Daddy’ was the security blanket I needed tonight.

Then I felt the fatigue. I sat there watching the TV screen, slumped in the chair. Later I dragged myself to the john and then to bed.

I dreamed of the Zapruder tape. Jack and Jackie in the convertible. Jack lurching forward suddenly. Jackie leaning into him. The convertible speeding off. And then unreasonably, insanely, Jess was in a similar convertible, her head splintering in three pieces as it would in a horror movie. Ted was her Jackie. Leaning into her—

The phone woke me.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Conrad. I’m calling from the desk downstairs. There’s a woman here who’d like to see you. I’m actually calling from the office instead of the desk so I can tell you about her.’

I struggled to wake up, to focus.

‘She’s very... disturbed. Scared, I’d say.’

‘And she wants to talk to me?’

‘She says it’s urgent.’

The shooting. A woman with information.

‘Is the bar still open?’

‘For the next twenty minutes.’

‘Ask her if she’ll wait for me there. I’ll be down right away.’

‘All right.’

I moved in a daze. Cold water on my face. A hairbrush. Stepped quickly into my trousers and almost fell over. Loafers. Screw the socks. My very wrinkled shirt.

The elevator. Way too slow.

Crossed the empty lobby to the desk.

The tall young man in the hotel’s red blazer was watching me from behind the counter. ‘I hate to say this, Mr Conrad, but she left.’

‘She didn’t go into the bar?’

‘No.’ The long, thin face was way too somber for someone in his early twenties. ‘I got another call here — a very angry guest — and while I was on it she got a call on her cell. I could hear her arguing with somebody and then she sounded kind of... pleading, I guess you’d say. I don’t know what the other person said but it obviously got to her. She just turned around, started walking very quickly to the front doors and disappeared.’

‘She ever give you her name?’

‘No. I’m sorry.’

‘What’d she look like?’

‘Young — around thirty, I’d say. Pretty. Dark raincoat.’

I walked outside. There was a cab stand half a block west. A lone cab sat there. I went up to the driver’s door and knocked on the window. The wind was making a metal racket with anything loose. Scents of cold and impending rain made the now moonless night bleaker. The blinking red light at the intersection signaled a disturbing urgency.

When the cab driver’s window came down a heavy cloud of smoke escaped, along with the sounds of an excited radio minister. A fake gold cross hung from his rearview mirror.

‘Yeah?’ He was an older white guy in a heavy blue sweater.

‘Did a cab just leave here?’

His whole wary life was in his green eyes. He had survived by being careful about what he said, and by judging people quickly. I was not likely to find favor with him.

‘Why would you want to know?’

‘I lost my woman.’ I smiled. ‘Had a little argument and she ran off.’

‘She your wife?’ The minister was in full rant now. The driver would want me to be a good, faithful husband.

‘Of course.’ I shrugged. ‘She wants a new kitchen and I said we can’t afford it. We really got into it. I overdid it. She ran out.’

His turn to shrug. ‘Seen a lady get into Betty’s cab a few minutes ago. Pretty good guess she was takin’ your old lady home, don’t you think?’

‘Betty be back here tonight?’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’

And with that his window went up.

Upstairs in my room, I called the cab company and identified myself as Jess’s campaign manager. With the shooting my position gave me real gravitas.

‘You have a driver named Betty.’

‘Betty Cairns, yeah.’

‘She picked up a woman at the Royale Hotel maybe ten minutes ago. Fifteen at the most. I’d really like to know where she took her.’

‘Is this some kind of official business?’

‘It could be. I really can’t say anymore.’

‘Official, huh?’ He sounded amused. ‘Gimme your phone number and I’ll have her call you.’

There’d be no sleep for me until I heard from Betty. I read all the national coverage I could find on the shooting. Even the conservative papers were charitable to Jess’s liberal voting record. The right-wing blogs were another matter. A few of them came close to suggesting that maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad way to get rid of a Commie. My side had said similar nasty things when a right-wing senator had been seriously wounded in a hunting accident.

The local police chief’s name was Aaron Showalter. He’d given Channel 6 a three-minute interview that I’d missed. I was watching the rerun now. He stood in front of the police department. Next to him was a very attractive, small and dark-haired woman he introduced as Detective Karen Foster. She was apparently a prop. She was not asked a single question.

Showalter looked and sounded ex-military in the interview. He had a thickset body and deliberate way of speaking and moving. He seemed smart and cautious. He didn’t say much in the three minutes but managed to impress me as being harsh and wily.

The white Stetson almost ruined the hard-ass effect he wanted. If you live in Texas, Wyoming or South Dakota, the Stetson is fine, legit. If you live in a crooked river city in Illinois, you’re just playing cowpoke. That he wore it while he was inside was even more of a joke. But even with the Stetson, I knew he would be dangerous.

If I remembered my law correctly, Showalter would now be part of an inter-agency task force (local agencies, state agencies and the regional FBI office) that would be assembled quickly to investigate the shooting. Most likely the state would assign security to travel with Jessica and protect her twenty-four-seven, which would be divided into three teams.

Betty called twenty minutes after I talked to the cab company. She had a soft, intelligent voice. ‘I got a message to call you.’

‘Thanks very much for getting back to me so soon.’

‘They tell me you work for Congresswoman Bradshaw.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Back when she was on the city council here — that was quite a while ago — she really fought to get us cabbies better wages. I’ve always appreciated that. I’m just glad she’s all right. You wanted to know about my fare from the hotel, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘I took her over to the Skylight tavern. You know where that is?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘Over by the old baseball stadium. It was a decent place till they built the new stadium but now it’s kind of a pit. That’s where I took her.’

‘Did she say anything while she was in your cab?’

‘She cried a little on and off. Not much. She kept punching in numbers on her cell phone but it must’ve been busy or something because she’d cuss every time she tried.’

‘Did you see anybody outside the place waiting for her?’

‘No. And she couldn’t have stayed too long. Earl, the guy who owns the place, was already cutting the lights. I wish there was more I could tell you.’

‘This is very helpful, Betty. Very helpful.’

She yawned. ‘Sorry. It’s time for me to pack it in. I’ve got a husband at home who always makes breakfast for me no matter what time I roll in. That and bed sound pretty darned good right now.’

‘Thanks, Betty. I really appreciate the call.’

Finding sleep again was difficult. It teased me. I almost dozed off several times, but not quite. It was the thought of how easy it would be if the woman who’d wanted to talk to me at the Royale could lead us directly to the shooter. But was anything ever that easy? So preposterously easy?

Nine

Jess and Ted lived in a Tudor-style house that could easily be classified as a mansion. At six-fifteen in the morning two massive TV trucks and at least half-a-dozen cars were parked in front of the wide steps leading up to the house itself. Dew made the vast slope of grass sparkle. A beautiful golden retriever — Churchill, as Jess had named him — roamed the front of the place.

Ted had called me at five-thirty. I’d asked him why he wanted me there. ‘You know how these cocksuckers are.’

‘Which cocksuckers are we talking about?’

‘The network news cocksuckers. They know everything and you’re just some dumb hick. But you know how to handle them. I’d like you to keep them from pushing me around.’

‘I’m not sure I can do that. They don’t have any more respect for me than for you.’

‘I have this black turtleneck sweater. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’ve developed this tiny gut. The sweater hides it. But the segment producer says that black is wrong. I had to show him four sweaters. He thinks the light blue one is best. First of all, it’s fucking fall, all right? Who wears light blue anything in the fall? And second, it emphasizes my little gut. You see what I’m talking about?’

‘Yeah, I see.’ I wished I could roll my eyes the way Abby could. Man, when she rolled her eyes you were not only judged guilty, you were sentenced to death.

Five-thirty in the morning and he was laying fashion quibbles on me.

‘No offense, Dev, but maybe you should’ve gone with another network.’

‘Uh-huh. Well, listen, I need to shower and grab some breakfast, then I’ll be at your place.’

‘I really appreciate this, Dev. We’ve had our differences but that’s going to change. From now on I’ll listen to you. You’re the expert.’

A magnanimous man is mighty Caesar.

I was about to ask how Jess was when he said, ‘Get out here as fast as you can,’ and hung up.

Despite the rush from His Majesty, I took three minutes to call Showalter’s office. He wasn’t there. I told the officer who answered about the young woman who’d called me, and how I wondered if this was worth pursuing.

Now, seated at the top of the stairs, Katherine gave me one of her wan little waves and followed it with one of her pale little smiles. She wore a simple white T-shirt, jeans, white socks and running shoes. She was colt spindly and all the more endearing for it.

‘It’s real stressful in there. I don’t think I could work in TV. I had to come out here.’ Her rich blonde hair gleamed in the early sunlight.

‘That’s because they’ve got to do a live cut-in. You don’t get any chance to do it again. There’s a lot of pressure.’

‘My dad always says he’s good under pressure. Mom always disagrees and I think she’s right. This guy is kind of pushy. But my dad lost his temper right away.’ She was watching Churchill bounce elegantly around the yard. ‘It’s probably nice being a dog. I know that sounds stupid but I think about it sometimes.’

‘Doesn’t sound stupid to me. I’ve thought of that all my life. Being a dog. A cat. A horse. Different kinds of animals.’

‘I love cats. I bet being a cat would be nice sometimes.’

‘In the first office I had we found a stray kitten. She’d lie next to my computer when I was working. And at night, when nobody else was around, I’d talk to her.’

‘You were afraid what people would think if you talked to her during the day, huh?’

‘Yeah, you know: “There goes the boss again, talking to his cat all day long.”’

Hers was the fetching smile of her mom’s.

‘I wish I’d had you around when I was so sick, Dev. Thank God I had Uncle Joel and Nan. They always came to see me. I even started going to Mass and I’m not even Catholic.’

‘The Vatican will be glad to hear that.’

She poked my arm with a tiny finger and laughed. It was time to stand up and go inside.

‘I just feel so sorry for my dad. All the pressure he’s under and he’s not holding up very well.’

‘I’d better get in there, honey. I’ll see you in a little while.’

‘Maybe you’ll want to get out of there as quickly as I did.’

‘I guess we’re about to find out.’

A state trooper stood next to the massive medieval-style front door. He nodded his campaign hat at me. ‘Need to see some ID, sir. You know the Bradshaw girl so I’m sure you’re all right, but I’d still better check your ID.’

As far back as I could remember there were front and back doors, and sliding doors in the living room that opened onto an enormous patio for parties. There would be a trooper twenty-four-seven at each of these.

My ID checked, I walked inside.

Some people with mansions hang framed reproductions of the masters in their hallways. Not the Bradshaws. They went for posters from their campaigns. Here was Jess in the center of a flower burst of tiny black children — she might have been a missionary in Africa; here was Jess looking lovely and stern as she visited a bandaged soldier in a hospital; here were Jess and Ted addressing a grade-school class. There were numerous others. The sole non-campaign photo was of Jess and Ted standing in front of a rear extension to their mansion, taken a year or so ago. In the background was Joel with a heavyset and heavily bearded worker. And next to Joel, almost clinging to him was an anxious Katherine.

There was so much noise coming from one of the rooms down the hall, I imagined that the normally staid house must have felt violated. It was rough, almost angry language, the sound of a substantial crew racing to get everything in place before the unforgiving deadline.

Jess’s assistant’s name was Nan Winters. A slender, efficient, fiftyish woman dressed in a tan blouse and brown slacks, she came abruptly out of the den where the interview was being held. She waved. We were on friendly terms.

‘Ted isn’t used to being pushed around like this. I almost feel sorry for him.’ The playful tone revealed the secret we shared. She loved Jess but thought Ted was a bit of a, to use her word, ‘pill.’ Technically she was Jess’s assistant, but she never protested when her legendary cooking skills were put to use.

‘I can’t stand being in there. Everybody’s so uptight.’

‘That’s what Katherine was telling me.’

‘She is such a sweetie. I really got to know her in the hospital. Jess and Ted were so busy they didn’t get much of a chance to visit her, so they asked me to sort of substitute. I got so I couldn’t wait to get to the hospital. It was so nice to see her get better. I raised two boys but now I have the daughter I always wanted.’

I pointed to the den. ‘I’d better go.’

‘Good luck.’

The director was one of those guys who wore a sweater flung over his shoulders and tied at the front. He was also one of those guys who talked with his hands on his hips. He was small and masculine in an adversarial way. The den was a jungle of cables, lights, techs and miniature boxlike pieces of equipment planted everywhere like land mines.

‘Greg, did you notice how sweaty his face is?’ he said, irritated. ‘Please pay some fricking attention, will you?’ He was a man in bad need of a drink or a Xanax or some sex. Any one of them would do the trick.

Greg, a heavy man dressed in a khaki shirt and chinos, sighed and shook his head.

He stepped across all the cables and around all the equipment to reach Ted, who sat in a wing chair in front of the massive stone fireplace. I would not have put him there. This advertised the wealth of the Bradshaws, something we tried to keep secret as much as possible.

Greg was already tamping the sweat with a cloth. Seeing me, Ted shoved Greg’s hand away and said, ‘Thank God you’re here, Dev. Will you please tell Roger that I look better in a sweater than in this piece-of-shit blue shirt? He invited himself into my closet to find it.’

‘Roger Hallahan.’ He jabbed his hand at me then proceeded to play bone-crusher. ‘So you’re Conrad. The way Mr Bradshaw talked about you I expected you to punch me out the second you saw me.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘The problem,’ Ted said, ‘is that “Roger” here won’t let me wear my black sweater, remember? And he’s practically written out a script.’ He gave ‘Roger’ the kind of emphasis normally reserved for something brown the dog left on the floor.

Now it was Roger’s turn to sigh. He had miniature Irish features that were somehow handsome all together on a large head. ‘You’re a pro, or that’s what they tell me. Mr Bradshaw is worried about his alleged belly showing. Black is wrong in a dark room like this, and the shirt he’s wearing sort of blouses at the belly so there’s not even a hint of it — not that I can see it in the first place. We never see below his sternum.’

‘See how he makes me sound, Dev? My wife was almost assassinated last night and he makes me sound like some vain pussy who doesn’t give a shit about it. I want to look good for her sake. I’m representing her. He has me looking like some guy who sits around in a shirt all day.’

‘Maybe you haven’t noticed, Mr Bradshaw, but shirts are “in” now. A lot of very powerful men wear shirts to the office and shirts to parties.’

Finally, it was my turn to sigh. ‘Roger, how long before the network picks us up?’

He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. He clicked the stopwatch. I could tell because the ticking was loud in the momentary silence. ‘Seven minutes and thirty-one seconds.’

‘How about you give me one minute and thirty seconds in the hall?’

He was as eager to get out of the den as he would have been to get off the Titanic.

‘Fine.’

I didn’t much like him but I felt professionally sorry for him. All he wanted to do was make Ted look and sound as good as possible. But, as usual, Ted was determined to get his own way.

In the hall, Roger said, ‘You going to give me shit, too?’

Ten

‘No. I agree with you. But you’ll get a better interview if you let him wear the black turtleneck.’

‘A turtleneck’s wrong for this and so is black.’

‘You know that and I know that, but he’s used to getting his way.’

‘How the hell do you put up with it?’

‘I go along till I have to tell him I’ll quit if he gets his way.’

‘There’s no time for that with this little gig.’

‘No.’

‘Does he give a shit about his wife? I really get the impression he couldn’t care less.’

‘I actually think he does.’

‘Well, he’s got a strange way of showing it.’ For the first time the small, beleaguered man smiled. ‘Let’s go get the fucking sweater.’

Back in the den, I went over to Ted and said, ‘Is the sweater still upstairs?’

‘You did it, didn’t you? I knew you could do it.’ Then, ‘Hey, Greg, how about bringing that sweater over here?’ It was as if a six-year-old had just been handed a three-scoop ice-cream cone on a hot summer day.

As soon as the network morning show began, three different monitors telecast the proceedings. There was three minutes of news leading with Jess’s story, then back to the chirpy personas of the hosts, and then the chief host wiped both the silly grin and lusty gaze away (the substitute hostess was a true babe) and said, ‘In addition to mass murders and terrorism, our country now has to turn a serious eye to the possibility of political assassination. Last night in Danton, Illinois, an unknown shooter attempted to assassinate Congresswoman Jessica Bradshaw as she left the building where she’d just debated her opponent on television. Fortunately the three shots did not find their target, but they certainly left the congresswoman and her staff, including her husband, concerned for her safety. As they did, I might say, the entire country.

‘Here now from the Bradshaw home is Ted Bradshaw, a man well known in Washington for his political skills, where he works closely with his wife in fighting for the legislation they believe in. He is considered a role model for the modern Congressional spouse. Good morning, Mr Bradshaw.’

‘Ted is fine.’

In the vast universe all eyes were focused on him and the black turtleneck that — surprise! — only seemed to enhance the bulk of his little tummy. Even through the screen you could feel the emanations of ecstasy that must be putting him in heart-attack range.

I’m on network TV!

Fortunately, he wasn’t bad at fake solemnity. And mixed in with the fake solemnity there was no doubt some honest solemnity. He loved Jess; he feared for her. And always pressing on the edges of his consciousness were thoughts of her someday Senate run. Imagine the kind of respect he’d get at the D.C. parties when he was the hubby-wubby of a senator.

The interview was pretty good. Host and guest were both practiced at said fake solemnity. They discussed how the local police had joined the state police and an FBI agent to search for the shooter, and said that the congresswoman was resting and was under twenty-four-seven state trooper protection.

Then the questions: what is this country coming to? Wasn’t it wonderful that House members from both sides were overwhelming her with praise? Was the murder attempt the inevitable result of our gun culture? When will the congresswoman be back on the campaign trail? What is this country coming to?

Then it was over.

Roger Hallahan stepped in and said, ‘You did a good job, Mr Bradshaw. Thank you. And give my best to your wife.’

‘Change your mind about the turtleneck yet?’

I felt sorry for Hallahan. Ted not only had to be right, he had to punish you for not having agreed with him.

‘Yeah,’ Hallahan said, a familiar weariness in his voice, the weariness that all operatives feel working with the Ted Bradshaws of politics. ‘Yeah, you looked great.’

I left the den abruptly. It was too early in the day for the ass-kissing Ted would require. I have a rule about that. No ass-kissing before ten-thirty. Before then it causes acute acid reflux.

In the hall, I found Nan. ‘You happen to know where Jess is?’

‘I just fixed her two eggs, toast and coffee, and she’s sitting alone on the patio. I’m sure she’d love some company.’

She was wearing sandals, jeans and a crisp, white short-sleeved blouse. The breakfast Nan had prepared for her was down to a single half-slice of toast. A delicately sculpted silver coffeepot was next to her on the table. The beautiful blue of cigarette smoke coiled up from a tiny faux Mandarin-style ashtray. There was a symphony of morning birds and the cool, thin shadows of early morning. It was so idyllic, it was easy to forget that the woman sitting here had almost been shot to death less than twelve hours ago.

‘Don’t ask me how I’m feeling.’

‘All right.’

‘But please sit down.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Please.’

‘You’ve noticed the cigarette?’

‘I’ve noticed the cigarette. Hard to miss.’

‘First one in eighteen years. Since I was in college.’

‘I’d say it’s well deserved.’

‘How do you like the coffee? Nan made it.’

‘It’s very good.’

There was an atonal quality to her voice. Almost as if she’d been drugged. And maybe she had.

‘How did Ted do?’

‘You didn’t watch?’

‘I was too afraid for him. It’s not easy for him, living in my shadow.’

‘He did very well.’

‘You don’t like him, do you?’

What the hell. ‘I don’t hate him.’

The laugh was the first sign of her usual self. ‘Was that supposed to be diplomatic?’

‘Sort of.’

She took a deep drag of her cigarette. The pack had been depleted by several smokes. ‘I wish Ted had a little of you in him and I wish you had a little of Ted in you. He can be a child a lot of the time, but there’s a sweetness to him.’

‘Tell me where they sell it and I’ll buy some.’

She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. ‘But you’re a lot more reassuring than he is. Tell me not to be afraid. I’m feeling a little bit paralyzed right now.’

‘When I get the chance to speak to the chief of police—’

‘You’ll get that chance in a few minutes. He’s on his way out here to talk to me.’

‘Good.’

‘So what about me being so afraid?’ She watched me again.

‘I’m glad you’re afraid. That means you’re taking this seriously. And that means you’ll do everything the police and the state troopers tell you to do. I was afraid you’d insist on going right back to walking rope lines again. Shaking hands. Meet and greets.’

‘They tell me I’m pretty good at it.’

‘You’re excellent at it. But we’re going to change your schedule so you’re in situations where security can really protect you. Every appearance will be indoors until further notice. I can guarantee you they’ll insist on that.’

I saw the chief of police through the glass doors. He was even more military in person than he had been on the screen. He moved in quick, certain steps.

‘Sorry I’m late, Congresswoman. I’m sorry I have to put you through this.’

‘Chief Showalter, this is my friend and campaign manager, Dev Conrad.’

He had a hard, calloused hand. This morning he wore a white button-down shirt under a black leather jacket of the fashionable kind. Gray slacks and black loafers completed the attire. And being a cowpoke, he still wore that damned white Stetson. He at least took it off now in deference to the lady. Cowpokes are nothing if not polite.

He then introduced the appealing Detective Karen Foster, who’d stood silently by him in his TV interview. Today the suit was an autumn brownish-red. She shook hands with Jess and then with me. I liked to think that she held my hand a little longer than necessary because she thought I was downright irresistible.

Showalter did the talking for the next five minutes. He advanced a few theories which didn’t sound plausible, said that he had even more officers going over the area where the shooter had stood now that it was daylight, and assured Jess that the shooter would be identified and apprehended. He wisely didn’t put forth a time when this miracle of detection was going to take place.

Meanwhile, Detective Foster kept watching me. Not just looking at me, watching me, as if she thought I was going to do something suspicious. At least I wasn’t foolish enough to interpret the scrutiny of those dark eyes as reflecting any romantic or sexual interest in me. But then she smiled at me. She hadn’t spoken a single word since talking briefly with Jess. Then the watching. And now the smile. Neither Jess nor Showalter seemed to notice it. I luxuriated in it.

Showalter was still the man in charge. He’d started lifting his Stetson up and then setting it back down. Maybe he was lonely without it.

‘When I talked to the congresswoman earlier, Mr Conrad, I told her about the information you left with my office this morning. We’re following it up right now.’

‘I hope I’m not wasting your time.’

‘I Googled you. Since you were an army investigator you should know how these things go. This could be nothing but I need to follow it down. I had an officer at the Skylight at seven o’clock this morning. The day man wasn’t much help. He gave my man the home phone number of the night bartender but says the night man shacks up with different female customers, so he wasn’t sure he could contact him until he showed up for work.’

‘That’s almost funny,’ Jess said.

‘You should see the kind of women who hang out down there. My people have to go there six, seven times a week.’

‘Just think if she actually knew something,’ Jess said.

Nan walked on the patio bearing a second coffeepot that appeared to be identical to the one on the table.

‘If you’ll excuse me, Jess, Abby and I need to get working on your schedule for the next couple days,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you as soon as we have something ready. And if you don’t like it, obviously we’ll change it.’

‘You really need to leave?’

‘I do. And the chief here will have plenty of questions to keep you busy.’

Then Ted was there. In his mind he was accepting a Daytime Emmy Award for Best Performance before Eight A.M.

Ted went immediately to Jess, kissed her on the cheek and sat down.

‘Dev tells me you did very well with the interview, honey.’

‘You didn’t watch?’

The little boy again: his mom had missed the game where he’d hit his home run.

Showalter said, ‘Well, we’ve got a few more things besides TV to talk about here. I’d like you to stay, Mr Bradshaw. I’ll have several questions for you, too.’

‘Really? Now?’

This actually sounded like the kind of work that just might get in the way of calling a few thousand friends. He’d want to know if they’d seen the interview and, if they had, just how fabulously fabulous they thought he’d done.

‘Well, I need to go and get to work,’ I said.

Showalter did not look amused.

But Detective Foster did. This time her smile made me want to propose living together or maybe even tying the knot. Something was going on here. Despite the superficial flattery of her seeming interest, she struck me as far too intelligent for teases. Those eyes were as shrewd and knowing as they were lovely. She wanted something from me.

I was heading for the door when I heard, from the living room, the music of Katherine’s laughter. After all she survived and all she might still face, her laugh, as melodramatic as this might sound, was an affirmation of life from someone who appreciated it, unlike a lot of us who bitch and kvetch about it with oblivious disdain.

I should have guessed she was with Joel. They sat on the loveseat near the grand piano and, as always, she seemed even more radiant in his presence, a radiance I never saw when she was with her parents. Joel paid attention to her — something I suspected she didn’t get much of from either Jess or Ted. They sat in the shimmering autumn sunlight, and fine figures they were.

‘Both my boyfriends at the same time. Come and sit down with us, Dev.’ Katherine smiled.

Joel had told me that Katherine always developed crushes on the older men who spent time with her.

‘One of us’ll get jealous in a minute,’ I said to her as I sat in an armchair across from them.

‘I wish I had a jealous boyfriend. I was going with this boy from Northwestern before I got sick. He still calls me sometimes but I think it’s out of duty, which makes me feel sorry for him. He’s a good guy. We weren’t ever in love or anything serious. We’d just started dating before I got sick. But he still doesn’t want me to feel deserted or anything.’

As she spoke I shifted my attention from Katherine to Joel. His blue eyes showed pain. She wasn’t trying to be noble, she was just stating facts. She didn’t even sound all that hurt about the guilty boy moving on. But Joel’s gaze reflected the hurt he felt for her. No wonder she liked her Uncle Joel so much.

He changed the subject abruptly. ‘I wish I’d seen you before you started talking to Showalter,’ he said to me.

‘I take it you don’t like him.’

‘Like doesn’t matter. But trust does.’

‘Why don’t you trust him?’

‘He’s hunting buddies with Dorsey. And bowling buddies. And Friday night football buddies. They both were jocks in high school.’

‘None of that sounds good.’

Nobody knew as much bad news as Joel Bradshaw. It wasn’t that he enjoyed it, but he knew he needed to share it because that was the best way to address it.

‘Dorsey’s got this big anti-crime photo op coming up. The usual thing. Candidate in front and a wall of cops behind him.’

‘Standard stuff.’

‘It’s scheduled for next Wednesday. A working day for some of the cops who’ll be standing behind him. There’s a town statute that forbids on-duty policemen to appear in any kind of promotional activity. It also forbids law enforcement officers to make any kind of political endorsements.’

‘Thanks for letting me know. I’ll talk to the mayor about it.’

‘Won’t do any good. Showalter has already convinced the mayor to waive the law in this case.’

‘And the mayor agreed?’

‘The mayor hates my mom, Dev. He’s a good friend of Dorsey’s, too.’

‘Bowling does it every time,’ I said. ‘You get two guys to start bowling together and they’ll be inseparable.’

Katherine’s laugh was my reward.

Joel said, ‘I’m just worried about how Showalter’s going to handle it. He’s really working as an agent for Dorsey. A dangerous one.’ Then, ‘But even he has limits to what he can do, I suppose.’

‘Now you’ve really got me worried. You know the town a lot better than I do. I hope we don’t have to get any kind of injunction for anything he tries because that might put us past the election before we could stop him.’

‘I keep waiting to hear about those two guys who showed up with guns at the debate,’ Katherine said. ‘Aren’t they likely suspects?’

‘I’m assuming that Showalter is checking them out. If they are involved they’re pretty dumb — showing up with guns and then trying to kill Jess a couple of hours later.’

‘They’re not exactly intellectuals, Dev.’

‘I know. But still—’

‘Maybe they left there and poured down some liquor and talked themselves into giving it a try.’

‘That’s possible. But they didn’t really hassle the security people or the police. They got turned away and just got in their car and left.’

Nan strode into the room. ‘Is anybody ready for a snack?’

‘I wish I could, Nan. But I need to get going.’

‘You always need to get going, Dev. One of these times you’ll actually sit down and let me make you a good lunch.’

‘I’ve had several dinners here before.’

‘Catered. For special events I’m just the greeter. A chef comes in. He won’t let me in the kitchen.’

‘He’s really a snob,’ Katherine said. ‘I don’t like him. I don’t even think his name is André Babineaux.’

‘What do you think his name really is?’ I asked as I started to leave.

‘I don’t know about the last name, but his first name is Bubba.’

‘I like that,’ Nan said. ‘Bubba Babineaux.’

Eleven

Abby and I spent five straight hours working on a new schedule for Jess.

She knew all the local people and all the local venues so she’d make suggestions, and if we both agreed she’d place the calls. We wanted sites an assassin couldn’t penetrate, knowing that no such site existed. Just because he’d used a powerful rifle last night didn’t mean that he couldn’t sneak in a handgun today. I called our final choices into Showalter’s office and his administrative assistant said he’d call us back after he’d looked them over.

In the meantime, I had to check on the other races my office was running. We had new internals on all of them. The majority of them looked good; two were disasters. Pair two less-than-stellar candidates against several million in dark money and victory is going to be elusive.

The phone rang at the receptionist’s desk and half a minute later Donna Watson buzzed and said it was for me. Abby waved goodbye and left.

As soon as I said hello, a woman’s voice said, ‘Thanks to you I have to hide out. You have the police looking for me.’ The day bartender had called her. My mystery friend from last night.

‘You need to talk to the police.’

‘Well, I don’t want to talk to them.’

‘You may have information about the person who tried to kill Congresswoman Bradshaw last night.’

‘He needs help. I want to help him. If the police get involved they like to shoot people.’

‘Apparently so does he. Are we talking about your husband?’

But she said only what she wanted to say. ‘His third tour in Afghanistan really changed him.’

‘I’m sorry. If he needs help then I’ll let the police chief know that and he can arrange to handle this without any threat of violence.’

‘I’m not sure I believe that.’

‘So what are you proposing to do?’

‘I’d like you to talk to him.’

‘Does he know about this call?’

‘No. Before I tell him about it I want your word that you’ll talk to him before you call the police.’

‘I don’t know if I can do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I could be accused of harboring a felon.’

‘He’s my husband. And I know he’s in some kind of trouble. I found six thousand dollars in cash in his underwear drawer. He was trying to hide it. He hires out as a landscaper to work on crews at not much more than minimum wage. I don’t know where he’d get that kind of money.’

‘So how do we resolve this?’

‘I need you to be at a certain place tonight at ten o’clock and I need your solemn word you won’t tell the police. I’ll explain when I see you.’

If that was the only way I could move this along, fine. Showalter wouldn’t like it, but if we could identify our man and then apprehend him, Showalter couldn’t complain for too long.

‘Where?’

‘Do you know where the houseboats are tied up in Tomlin Park?’

‘No.’

‘Just ask somebody.’

‘All right.’

‘At the east end of the area there’s a pavilion. At that time of night on a weeknight nobody’ll be using it. My husband and I will be inside. Waiting for you.’

‘I hate to say this, but your husband may have tried to kill the congresswoman last night. To me that makes him a dangerous man. I won’t have any protection at all if he decides to shoot me.’

‘I can’t believe you think he could kill somebody. You don’t even know him. For your information, he’ll be unarmed. I’ll make sure of it. I promise.’

He might be unarmed. But I wouldn’t be.

‘What if I tell him that I want to call the police on my cell phone and have them take him in for questioning?’

‘He’s pretty scared right now. I’ll tell him that you’ll bring that up.’

‘So he’s thought about what he did last night and he’s scared?’

‘We’ll talk about it tonight. I’m at work right now and I need to go.’

I scribbled quick notes about the conversation. I wanted to remember everything. Her remark about her husband being scared had seemed odd to me at first. But as I sat there going back over everything she’d said I realized how natural it would be for him to be afraid now. The excitement would overcome fear — planning it, practicing it, doing it. But not only had he failed to even hurt her, now he had to face a couple of hard facts. The cops would be everywhere searching for him. Relentlessly. And when they found him he would be going to prison for life. I’d be scared, too — damned scared.

‘So you’ll be there.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘And you won’t bring the police.’

‘I won’t bring the police. I won’t contact them beforehand.’

‘How about afterward?’

‘You’re not a defense lawyer, are you?’

For the first time, she laughed. ‘I sound like one, don’t I? But really — will you contact them afterward?’

‘Depends on how things work out.’

A pause. ‘I guess that’s fair.’

‘As fair as it’s going to get.’

‘We’ll see you tonight, then.’ And she hung up.

Suddenly even the two elections we were likely to lose didn’t seem as depressing as they had earlier. I went to work redrafting Jess’s last two commercials.

Twelve

I was standing at the window watching dusk turn the sky and the world below into a dolefully beautiful evening. In Chicago I might be in a bar having drinks with a woman who interested me, hoping that I interested her as well. The old Mick maudlin side always wrenched me in its self-pitying grip at this time.

‘Hello!’

Young voice, male. Cory Tucker, the volunteer driver.

‘In here, Cory.’

‘I’m sorry if I interrupted anything.’

‘You didn’t. I was just thinking a little about the commercials we do next. What’s up?’

‘Just thought I’d stop in and see what was going on. I finished up my school work and thought I’d stop by and see if anybody needed me.’

He was modest, capable and nice-looking in an upwardly mobile way. In his V-neck blue sweater with the button-down white shirt and the tan-colored slacks, not to mention the blonde crew cut, he could have been a college boy in one of those old MGM musicals my mom always watched on TV. That was his appearance, anyway. But his enthusiasm bothered me. He seemed too bright to think that being an ass-kisser would get him anywhere. He was a volunteer. Even if he got a raise he’d go from zero dollars an hour to zero dollars an hour. Dorsey’s wet dream — slave labor. Sometimes I wondered if he was overcompensating. But then the question was overcompensating for what?

‘I’m going to have to rent a car.’ I needed one for the drive to the houseboats.

‘Hey, I’m your driver, remember?’

‘If you really want something to do, I’m sure they can find you plenty of work at the campaign headquarters.’

‘I was there earlier. Boy, the mood has really changed. Nobody’s uptight about the election anymore.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. They figure that we’ll win for sure after... after what happened last night.’

‘That’s not very smart. We have two weeks to go before the election. Anything could happen.’

‘That’s what they’re worried about now. Not getting out the vote and stuff like that. They’re worried about whether the congresswoman is going to be alive. A couple of the girls were crying when I was talking to them about it. They’re really scared.’

‘Tell them she’s under full twenty-four-seven protection.’

‘They’re wondering why she’s going right back out tomorrow.’

I wondered if he’d come here as a kind of unofficial spokesperson for the volunteers at headquarters. Of course they’d be worried. Of course they’d be afraid that there might be a second attempt and that maybe the second attempt would be successful. And of course I should haul my ass down there and talk to them — something I should have done several hours ago.

‘You know what, Cory?’

‘What?’

‘I could use a ride to headquarters.’

‘They’ll really appreciate it, Dev. They trust Abby and all but they see her every day. You’re from out of town and you’ve been doing this most of your life. And you were an army investigator. I mentioned that several times to them. I’ll mention it again when I tell them that you want to talk to them.’

I hadn’t spent much time at campaign headquarters. This was a good excuse.

There were maybe twenty people at campaign headquarters. Most of them were working the phone banks.

I wasn’t about to interrupt them with some lame pep talk.

The cliché is that elections are won or lost based on the battle your supporters put on. That’s somewhat overstated but not by too much. The phone calls, the door-to-door, the rallies, the outreach to various groups... all are critical elements in any victory. Only since the Supreme Court claimed that corporations are people, too — just neighbors as nice as can be — did the value of the supporters diminish somewhat. When millions are poured into a Congressional battle like Jessica Bradshaw’s, cash dominates everything else.

A woman named Jean Fellows had been a reporter before retiring. She was second in command here. She should have been first. All I’d heard about the number one, someone named Mary Schmidt, was that Jean had to follow her around and fix her mistakes. Schmidt’s husband had contributed something like seventy thousand dollars to the coffers so his wife had her choice of positions.

Jean had a tiny office in the back of the place. As I walked back there I heard the eager, friendly voices of the phone workers. Once in a while they got attacked. They called somebody who believed that Jess had been born in Moscow and had won her Congressional seat by using arcane black magic on the voters. The good phone workers know to just excuse themselves and hang up when all this starts. The bad ones stay on the line and fight. It’s useless to try and persuade the tinfoil hat brigade, but I have to admit — having been a bad phone worker myself way back when I was in college — it makes you feel one hell of a lot better than just hanging up.

Jean was just wrapping up a phone conversation reminding somebody in a terse, vaguely threatening voice that the two billboards that had been promised had yet to appear over on Sixteenth and Twenty-first avenues respectively and that certain people — namely one Jean Fellows — would be mightily displeased if they did not appear within the next six hours. She hung up, shaking her head.

Jean was given to jumpers and Navajo jewelry. She had a strong handshake and a somewhat accusatory brown gaze, as if you were going to sell her a car that would fall apart one week after she signed the papers. She also had fluffy and elegant pure white hair.

‘Slumming, huh, Dev?’

She’d visited our Chicago offices with Ted one time and we’d taken to each other immediately.

‘Yeah. I figured this’d be a good place to score some meth and some hookers.’

‘You joke, but we’ve had a few volunteers here over the three campaigns that really worried me. There was a college senior who was sleeping with a fifteen-year-old girl. He dumped her, of course, and, of course, she went right to her parents — which she should’ve done. Which I would’ve wanted my daughter to do — obviously I would’ve preferred that she not start sleeping with the jerk in the first place — but the parents decided against bringing charges because of how it would affect their daughter. You think that wasn’t terrifying? It could’ve cost us the election. That year we won by less than two points.’

That was one campaign horror story I hadn’t heard. Jean wasn’t exaggerating. The other side spread so many false rumors. Was Jess gay? Was she into threesomes? Was she transgendered? The press would do the bidding for the other side with unmatched zeal; it was always s-e-x, wasn’t it?

‘So how’s Jess doing?’

‘As far as I know, pretty good.’

‘Between us, I’d be afraid to be in public again.’

‘She’s got a lot of protection but I’m nervous for her sake, too.’

‘I saw Ted on TV this morning. He did a good job. But he loves the spotlight a little too much for my taste.’

‘Well, let’s say he did a good job and leave it at that.’

‘Someday we’ll have a real discussion about Ted Bradshaw and I’m going to force you to tell me what you think of him.’

Her phone rang. She went into field commander mode again. Apparently there was a sector of the city that had not been visited by our volunteers. She was relaying her feelings about this in a voice that would have done George S. Patton proud. Whoever was on the other end of the phone was no doubt cowering and getting ready to beg for mercy.

After she hung up, she said, ‘By the way, you hear what a caller said on Phil Michaels’s show?’

Michaels was our local hate-radio guy.

‘The caller said he hoped that next time there’d be a better shooter and Michaels said he’d be willing to pay for target practice at a firing range.’

‘You’re actually surprised? I’m not.’

‘In my day if you said something like that two of J. Edgar Hoover’s boys would pay you a visit.’

‘That dates you right there.’

‘What does?’

‘J. Edgar Hoover. He was a long time ago.’

‘Yes, he was, sonny boy.’ Her harsh laugh was a salute to the institutions of tobacco and alcohol. ‘But the stench lingers on.’ Then, ‘I suppose you want to bore our gang with a pep talk?’

I slid my arm around her and hugged her. ‘I’m thinking you and I would make a perfect couple.’

Thirteen

The dark waters reflected the moonlight. The yellow security lights swayed in the wind. Only one of the houseboats showed any light in its windows. The expensive craft were at the west end of the dock. The ones nearest the asphalt I stood on were not only modest, a few of them were in shambles. Paint faded, windows patched with tape, not much bigger than a prison cell. I doubted that these ever left the dock. They’d work for beer parties just fine as people, drinks and drugs sprawled over the land, keeping the shabby houseboats nothing more than storage bins. The elites at the far end of the dock probably roared up here just to stand on the bow and piss. It was strange then that the pavilion would be at my end. It was behind me in the wooded area. I’d checked it out. It was empty.

A politician is shot at. A minimum-wage landscaper has six thousand dollars cash in his underwear drawer. A woman who claims to be his wife woos me out here...

My rental was the only car in sight. There was no traffic on the river road, either. The surrounding timbered hills made me uneasy. After last night I’d become aware of all the places a sniper could hide.

The temperature had to be below forty now. I wore the collar of my Burberry turned up. My Glock was in my right pocket.

I watched as every few minutes cars drove east on the narrow river road. There was a new housing development about two miles from here. I kept waiting for one of the cars to crank down a turn signal and pull in here. Then the woman and her husband would appear and explain everything. And after they explained, we could bring in the police and the matter would be resolved.

I walked around to keep warm. The long line of watercraft should have been the scene of women in bikinis, cookouts and little kids proving that they were in fact powered by batteries. And husbands and wives happy to be together again after the long hard week of scraping together a living in these brutal and unforgiving economic times.

The pep talk at campaign headquarters had gone well for the twelve minutes it took to deliver it. How confident I’d sounded; how downright paternal. When you mention that you’re working with the FBI, the state police and a security task force, most people buy in. For all the time they’re listening, anyway. But then you leave and they start thinking and talking — you know how these damned human beings are, thinking and talking all the time — and all of a sudden it’s as if that fatherly gent hadn’t spoken at all.

But now it was just the attack of the branch-rattling wintry wind...

The clattering old Ford pickup truck came along a few minutes later, spewing country-western music and angry shouts. Then an image: the young woman and her husband bitterly arguing over talking to me. Him growing more and more dangerous the closer they got to me.

But no.

In a furious clamor, human and mechanical, the red pickup passed on, disappearing around the curve about a block east of here.

A few minutes later, another car. A newer Ford. Slowing down. Turning in.

I felt the beams of the headlights as they detailed me. A perfect target for any enterprising shooter.

The Ford kept on coming toward me. Then stopped jerkily. A white-haired man’s head appeared through the open window. ‘Could you help me?’

The voice was old and urgent.

Fingers around the Glock — who knew what the hell this was all about? — I made my way to the car. Seen up close, he looked very old indeed.

‘The wife got me this GSP thing’ — he meant GPS — ‘but I forgot how to use it. I was just drivin’ to the convenience store’n I got lost. I guess I should turn around, huh?’

‘You want to go back to town?’

‘Yeah. Then I want to get home.’

‘Then you turn right around and head back on the river road. Town’s just a couple miles away.’

The brown eyes were as worn as the lined face and the trembling voice.

I checked my watch again. I had been here just short of thirty-five minutes. And for no discernible reason.

‘Tell you what. Let me get in my own car, then you can follow me into town.’

‘That’d be real nice of you. This GSP thing ain’t worth a damn.’

All the way back to the hotel I sulked and brooded. Maybe I was playing a game with a woman who didn’t know a damned thing about the shooting. Hell, maybe Dorsey’s people had put her on me just to run me around in circles.

Later, I ended up in the hotel bar talking to a woman who was at least as lonely as I was. She showed me a variety of grandkid photos — she looked to be a very young forty — and talked about all the night-school classes she’d been taking since her husband had left her for the younger woman he’d met at the gym. She was here visiting her sister and would be heading back to Grand Rapids tomorrow. Then she got a tad alcohol-sad and started dabbing her eyes, not only with her drink napkin but also with mine. And then, like quick cuts in a movie we were in the elevator, then in her room, and then in bed. It was comfort sex for both of us — nothing wrong with that at all.

Fourteen

The activities of the next day reminded me of my army days. Complicated maneuvers.

The task force responsible for Jess’s protection had approved of the schedule we’d emailed them and then had responded accordingly by Google mapping every place we planned to go. The appropriate number of local and state police would be dispatched. Extra officers would be needed to control the swollen number of reporters. The three most desirable hotels were completely sold out. Jess was a national celebrity; the best kind, the kind you felt sorry for. Feared for.

Jess worked her way through the approved schedule. All photo ops — a retirement home, a new mattress factory Jess had wrangled massive tax cuts for, a farm family that would have been too sweet even for a Norman Rockwell painting. Jess had had no choice but to vote for the farm bill, a payoff to corporate agriculture that would make any sane person sick to his or her stomach. In addition to being thieves, they were also poisoning the worldwide food supply with pesticides and genetically modified organisms. But we’d voted for it, hadn’t we? This was an election year and this was an agricultural state. We liked to think of ourselves as decent people; we also liked to think of ourselves as having a seat in the next Congress.

The press loved the drama. The TV people especially enjoyed asking average citizens about the shooting. One woman even teared up talking about how afraid she was for poor Congresswoman Bradshaw. Tears are the TV equivalent of orgasm.

Jess found the number of protectors excessive. Instead of comforting her they reminded her of her vulnerability. It was easy to imagine last night’s gunshots playing over and over in her head.

Despite her annoyance and fears she was just about perfect in the Q&As and was especially touching in a conversation with an elderly couple in assisted living. The press loved it.

By early afternoon the appearances were over. Cory drove us back to Jess’s house. Jess wasn’t the gloating sort, but I could tell by the occasional playful smile that she was pleased with herself. It didn’t hurt that Cory reminded her every few minutes how well she’d done.

A black Mercury sedan that could only be an unmarked police car sat in front of the house. I was not only curious but for some reason uneasy about this. I assumed that the Mercury was the property of Chief Showalter.

Once inside, Jess excused herself and said she was headed upstairs to lie down. She didn’t seem interested in the presence of the chief.

‘Anything for me to do?’ Cory asked.

‘Go in the kitchen and get yourself a snack if you’re hungry.’

‘I could use a Pepsi.’

‘There you go.’

‘Just help myself?’

‘Don’t worry about that pit bull guarding the refrigerator. He only attacks Dorsey supporters.’

He laughed and headed down the west hall.

Nan emerged from the living room. Worry crabbed her pleasant face. ‘Chief Showalter and Ted have been in the den for twenty minutes or so. I heard Ted shout about ten minutes ago. I get the feeling something’s going on.’

‘Maybe I’d better get in there.’

‘Just knock.’

Which I did.

Showalter’s voice invited me in. He was in charge. My anxiety about him being here was proving to be correct.

The den was of Hollywood design. Massive built-in bookcases, massive stone fireplace, massive Persian rugs over hardwood floors, a desk you could perform surgery on and genuinely mullioned windows. The dark leather furnishings would have made a British lord proud.

The ambience of the room was spoiled by the two men sitting in it.

‘I’m glad you’re here, Dev,’ Ted said. ‘I was about to say a couple of things to our esteemed chief of police.’

‘I’m doing my job, Mr Bradshaw. Nothing more. I’m not accusing anybody of anything.’ To me, Showalter said, ‘We had a meeting at the station this morning. The whole crew, including Forensics, and a few questions came up. Mr Bradshaw is jumping to conclusions.’

‘The hell I am. You’re the one who’s jumping to conclusions. You come in here with some bullshit about maybe the whole thing was faked—’

‘Wait a minute. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

‘See, Dev, you’re reacting the same way I did. It’s total bullshit.’

There were two chairs in front of the aircraft-carrier-sized desk. Ted, being the commander, sat behind the desk; Showalter and I sat in front of it.

I said to the chief, ‘I don’t like the sound of that at all.’

‘I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t like the sound of that, either. But that isn’t what I said.’

‘Go ahead and tell Dev what you told me. See how he reacts.’

Showalter’s large head pivoted toward me. He angled himself in the chair so he faced me. ‘I’ll be happy to tell you what I told Mr Bradshaw. Hopefully, you’ll appreciate the fact that I’m just doing my job of investigating. You were an investigator. You know you have to eliminate all the possibilities if you want to do an honest job.’

But Ted’s charge that Showalter had said or implied that somehow the assassination was ‘fake’ had startled me. What the hell could Showalter be talking about?

‘We looked at where the shooter was firing from. The trajectory. Then we studied where the bullets hit the building behind Congresswoman Bradshaw. They all hit well above her head.’

‘So he was a lousy shot. I don’t know why that’s so important.’ Ted’s anger had now been replaced by whining.

‘Do you see what I’m talking about, Mr Conrad?’

I shrugged. ‘Either he was a total amateur or he panicked.’

‘We’re not ruling either of those possibilities out.’ He tried to enlist my support again. ‘I think you’ll agree, Mr Conrad, that I’m just trying to do my job.’

‘I can see that, Chief Showalter.’

‘You’re siding with him, Dev? Great. You’re on my payroll, remember?’

‘This is all speculation, Ted. The shots went wild. My personal feeling is that the shooter panicked. He wanted to kill Jess but he got scared.’

Showalter kept his face cop-blank as I spoke. Not even his eyes revealed any opinion.

‘There. There’s your answer. What Dev said. The bastard got scared at the last minute and his shots went wild. We’re just lucky it happened that way or my poor wife would be dead.’

Showalter spoke quietly. ‘Mr Bradshaw, you called me last night just before midnight. My wife and I happened to be sleeping. Our oldest daughter has strep and Becca was worn out. But I took your call and we talked for what, nearly twenty minutes? You said you wanted to be in the loop. You must have used that expression ten times. So I thought that as a courtesy I’d drive out here and let you know what we were thinking. All the scenarios we’ve considered so far,’ he nodded to me, ‘including what Mr Conrad said — that our shooter got scared and his shots went wild. We’re obviously dealing with a disturbed personality here so who the hell knows what he was thinking. All we know is that he’s dangerous and that we need to find him ASAP because we can’t be sure he won’t try it again. Which is why we’ve got the congresswoman protected seven ways from sundown.’

A couple of things were going on here. Number one was that Ted was getting the kind of treatment police officers reserve for the wealthy. If Ted had been middle class or, God forbid, working class or poor, Showalter would have said what was really on his mind. And he would have said it bluntly. As an accusation.

Number two was that Ted, for all his paranoia, did not seem to understand the real implication of Showalter’s theorizing.

But as he stood and shot me a look, I saw — and I was not imagining it — the intent of Showalter’s appearance in his eyes.

‘Mr Bradshaw, I’ll be in touch later today.’ A good-neighbor smile. ‘Sorry I got you all excited. I didn’t mean to.’

A nod to me. ‘See you again, I’m sure, Mr Conrad.’

When he was gone, Ted said, ‘Can you believe that son of a bitch?’

I was in a hurry. ‘Damn. I forgot to ask him about the ballistics.’

‘Ballistics?’

‘The kind of rifle and if they found the bullets.’

‘Oh, yeah, right. The ballistics. I should’ve thought of that, too.’

‘Let me see if I can catch him. I’ll be right back.’

‘Maybe I should go with you.’

‘No, that’s all right. You just sit here and relax now.’

I reached the hall in time to hear the massive front door click shut. I double-timed it to the front of the house. Showalter was moving at least as fast as I was. He was already standing next to his black Mercury. From the front porch, I said, ‘Chief, I’d like to talk to you a minute.’

‘Oh?’

I wanted to drown in the day. The scent of autumn in the hills, the soft soothing breezes, the burning colors of orange and gold and cocoa on the leaves, Churchill barking at birds. I did not want to approach Showalter and hear what I knew he would say. Not because I would believe it; the dread was that he already believed it.

I started out by telling him about the second call from the woman claiming to know about the shooting, and how I’d waited for her and her husband last night at the boat dock.

The smile was in no way convincing. ‘You’re a grown-up, Mr Conrad. You realize that you could be being played. That this is just some kind of prank.’

‘I realize that.’

‘If you feel guilty about not letting me know about your trip to the dock beforehand, don’t. I appreciate that you didn’t waste my time or the time of my officers.’

‘Now let’s talk about the real thing.’

‘I’m not sure I’m following you, Mr Conrad.’

‘Oh, I think you are. You danced all around it, but I picked up on what you were really saying.’

‘And what was that?’

‘That you don’t think the attempted assassination was real.’

He paused; he was uncomfortable. ‘Well, I don’t think it was a serious attempt to kill the congresswoman.’

‘I don’t agree.’

‘You can’t afford to agree, Mr Conrad.’

So there we had it. He had just confirmed his real feelings.

‘What you’re really suggesting here is that we were behind the shooting.’

‘One of the men on the task force brought it up this morning. Congresswoman Bradshaw was starting to lose in the polls — a one-point lead isn’t much considering that she was several points ahead not long ago — and needed to turn things around.’

‘You really think the congresswoman would have anything to do with staging an assassination attempt?’

‘No, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean that somebody associated with her didn’t stage it without her knowing.’

‘So you’re formally accusing us of staging the shooting?’

‘No,’ he said, opening his door. ‘As I said inside, I’m just doing my job.’ He slid behind the wheel. Just before he closed the door, he said, ‘But it’s a possibility.’

Then he was pulling abruptly away. Brisk, brusque, military.

Bastard.