Vengeance: Mystery Writers of America Presents

THE FINAL BALLOT

BY BRENDAN DuBOIS

Eventually the room emptied of the two state police detectives, the detective from the Manchester Police Department, the Secret Service agent, the emergency room physician, and the patient representative from the hospital, until only one man remained with her, standing in one corner of the small hospital room used to brief family members about what was going on with their loved ones. Beth Mooney sat in one of the light orange vinyl-covered easy chairs, hands clasped tight in her lap, as the man looked her over.

“Well,” he said. “We do have a situation here, don’t we?”

It took her two attempts to find her voice. “Who are you?”

He was a lean, strong-looking man, with a tanned face that seemed out of place here in New Hampshire in December, and his black hair was carefully close trimmed and flecked with white. If he looked one way, he could be in his thirties; if he looked another way, he could be in his fifties. It depended on how the light hit the fine networks of wrinkles about his eyes and mouth. Beth didn’t know much about men’s clothes, but she knew the dark suit he was wearing hadn’t come off some discount-store rack or from Walmart. He strolled over and sat down across from her, in a couch whose light orange color matched the shade of her chair.

“I’m Henry Wolfe,” he said, “and I’m on the senator’s staff.”

“What do you do for him?”

“I solve problems,” he said. “Day after day, week after week, I solve problems.”

“My daughter . . .” And then her voice broke. “Please don’t call her a problem.”

He quickly nodded. “Bad choice of words, Mrs. Mooney. My apologies. Let me rephrase. The senator is an extraordinarily busy man, with an extraordinarily busy schedule. From the moment he gets up to the moment he goes to bed, his life is scheduled in fifteen-minute intervals. My job is to make sure that schedule goes smoothly. Especially now, with the Iowa caucuses coming up and less than two months to go before the New Hampshire primary. In other words, I’m the senator’s bitch.”

Beth said, “His boy . . .”

“Currently in custody by the state police, pending an investigation by your state’s attorney general’s office.”

“I want to see my daughter,” Beth said. “Now.”

Henry raised a hand. “Absolutely. But Mrs. Mooney, if I may, before we go see your daughter, we need to discuss certain facts and options. It’s going to be hard and it’s going to be unpleasant, but believe me, I know from experience that it’s in the interest of both parties for us to have this discussion now.”

Anger flared inside her, like a big ember popping out of her woodstove at home. “What’s there to discuss? The senator’s son . . . he . . . he . . . hurt my little girl.”

She couldn’t help it, the tears flowed, and she fumbled in her purse and took out a wad of tissue, which she dabbed at her eyes and nose. While doing this, she watched the man across from her. He was just sitting there, impassive, his face blank, like some lizard’s or frog’s, and Beth knew in a flash that she was out-gunned. This man before her had traveled the world, knew how to order wine from a menu, wore the best clothes and had gone to the best schools, and was prominent in a campaign to elect a senator from Georgia as the next president of the United States.

She put the tissue back in her purse. And her? She was under no illusions. A dumpy woman from a small town outside Manchester who had barely graduated from high school and was now leasing a small beauty shop in a strip mall. Her idea of big living was going to the Mohegan Sun casino in Connecticut a few times a year and spending a week every February in Panama City, Florida.

And Henry was smooth, she saw. When she had stopped sobbing and dabbing at her eyes, he cleared his throat. “If I may, Mrs. Mooney . . . as I said, we have a situation. I’m here to help you make the decisions that are in the best interests of your daughter. Please, may I go on?”

She just nodded, knowing if she were to speak again, she would start bawling. Henry said, “The senator’s son Clay . . . he’s a troubled young man. He’s been expelled twice before from other colleges. Dartmouth was his third school, and I know that’s where he met your daughter. She’s a very bright young girl, am I correct?”

Again, just the nod. How to explain to this man the gift and burden that was her only daughter, Janice? Born from a short-lived marriage to a long-haul truck driver named Tom — who eventually divorced her for a Las Vegas waitress and who got himself killed crossing the Continental Divide in a snowstorm, hauling frozen chickens — Janice had always done well in school. No detentions or notes from the principal about her Janice, no. She had studied hard and had gone far, and when Janice came home from Dartmouth to the double-wide, Beth sometimes found it hard to understand just what exactly her girl was talking about with the computers and the internet and twitting or whatever they called it.

Henry said, “From what I gather, her injuries, while severe . . . are not permanent. And she will recover. Eventually. What I want to offer you is a way to ease that recovery along.”

Beth said sharply, “Seeing that punk in prison — that’ll help her recovery, I goddamn guarantee it.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Are you sure, Mrs. Mooney?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Really? Honestly? Or will having Clay in prison help your recovery, not your daughter’s?”

“You’re talking foolish now.”

A slight shake of the head. “Perhaps. That’s what happens when you spend so much time with the press, consultants, and campaign workers. You do tend to talk foolish. So let’s get back to basics. From my experience, Mrs. Mooney, there are two avenues open to you. To us. The first is the one I’m sure has the most appeal for you. The attorney general’s office, working with the state police, pursue a criminal indictment against Clay Thomson for a variety of offenses, from assault and battery to . . . any other charges that they can come up with.”

Beth crossed her legs. “Sounds good to me.”

“I understand. So what will happen afterward?”

Beth tried to smile. “The little bastard goes to trial. Gets convicted. Goes to jail. Also sounds good to me.”

Something chirped in the room. Henry pulled a slim black object from his coat, looked at it, pressed a button, and returned it to his pocket. “That may occur. But plenty of other things will happen, Mrs. Mooney, and I can guarantee that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a media frenzy you’ve never, ever experienced before. I have, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemies, personal or political. Your phone rings constantly, from all the major networks, the cable channels, the newspapers, and the wire services. Reporters and camera crews stake out your home and your hair salon. Your entire life is probed, dissected, and published. Your daughter’s life is also probed, dissected, and published. All in the name of the public’s right to know. If your daughter is active sexually, that will be known. Her school grades, her medical history, information about old boyfriends will all be publicized. If you’ve ever had a criminal complaint — drunk driving, shoplifting, even a speeding ticket — that will also be known around the world.”

Beth bit her lower lip. “It might just be worth it, to see that little bastard in an orange jumpsuit.”

“No doubt you feel that way now, Mrs. Mooney,” the man said. “But that will be just the start of it. You see, in a close-fought campaign like this one . . . the opponents of the senator will see you and your daughter as their new best friends, and they’ll try anything and everything to keep this story alive, day after day, week after week, so the senator will stumble in the Iowa caucuses and lose the New Hampshire primary and then the White House.”

Her hand found another tissue. Henry went on, talking slow and polite, like he was telling her the specials from the deli counter at the local Stop & Shop. “And that’s the senator’s enemies making your life miserable. The senator’s supporters . . . they would be much, much worse.”

Beth said with surprise, “His supporters? Why would they be worse?”

Henry spoke again, sounding like a bored schoolteacher talking to an equally bored student. “For more than a year, many of them have been volunteering and donating time and money to the senator. They truly believe — as do I — that he is the best man to be our next president, the man who can bring justice back to this country and to our dealings with the world. But if you and your daughter were to pursue a criminal case concerning the senator’s son . . . there will be threats and accusations against the two of you. Some will say that it was a setup. That you are allied with political groups that are against the senator. That you resent the senator, or your daughter has a grudge against the senator and his family. You’ll be harassed at home, at work, and places in between. People on the internet will publish your home address and telephone number, as well as pictures of you, your house, and your hair salon. And it would go on for months . . . perhaps years.”

“But that’s not fair!”

Henry said, “That’s the state of politics today, I’m afraid.”

Beth pushed the tissue against her lips, keening softly. This night wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was Tuesday night. Grilled hamburger and rice for dinner. Followed by Jeopardy!, the Real Housewives, and to bed. This wasn’t supposed to be a night with an apologetic phone call from the Manchester police followed by a frantic drive to the hospital, and facing all of this . . .

She took the tissue away. “All right. You said there’s two streets —”

“Avenues,” he corrected.

“Avenues,” she repeated, face warm, “available to us. What’s the second one?”

He said, “One that I, if I were in your place, would find much more attractive. The senator’s son is a very troubled young man. I admit it; the senator admits it. And the senator is devastated at what happened to your daughter. You’re looking for justice, and the senator understands that. What we propose is this: If you and your daughter ask the proper authorities not to file formal and public charges against the senator’s son, we will immediately place Clay in a secure mental-health facility, where he will no longer pose a danger to anyone.”

“He gets away, then,” Beth said sharply. “And your senator boss doesn’t have to answer embarrassing questions.”

“The senator isn’t afraid of questions, Mrs. Mooney. And his son, no, he doesn’t get away with anything. He gets the treatment he needs, in a secure place that is quite similar to a prison facility, with locked rooms, few privileges, and lots of discipline and treatment. And while the senator’s son is treated, your daughter will be treated as well. Whatever insurance you have won’t be billed. The senator will take care of it all, for as long as your daughter needs it. The very best in care . . . for life, if necessary, though I believe she’ll make a full recovery in time. All future educational expenses as well. And since you, Mrs. Mooney, would no doubt have to take time off to be with your daughter, the senator is prepared to offer a generous monthly stipend to assist you.”

“To keep my goddamn mouth shut, you mean.”

Henry’s face was impassive. “The senator wants to do right by you and your daughter. But by doing this, the senator would expect some . . . consideration from both of you. I’m sure you recognize, Mrs. Mooney, the delicacy of the situation.”

“All I want is justice for my girl,” she said.

“And I’m here to make sure justice is done. Among other things.”

She sat and thought, and then pushed the wad of soaked tissue back into her purse.

“I want to see my girl, Janice,” Beth said. “It’s going to be up to her.”

HER DAUGHTER WAS now in a two-patient room, with the curtain drawn to separate her from a young blond girl, who apparently had a broken foot and who was watching the wall-mounted television while chewing gum and texting on her cell phone at the same time. Beth sat down and looked at her Janice, feeling flashes of cold and heat race through her. Tubes ran out of both of Janice’s slim wrists, and there was an oxygen tube beneath her nose. Her face was bruised; her left eye was nearly swollen shut; and her lower lip was split. She looked better than she had when Beth first saw her in the ER; now she was in a hospital gown and her face had been washed.

Henry walked in and said, “I’ll leave you be for a while,” and then he strolled out.

She clutched Janice’s hand, and Janice squeezed back. Beth said, keeping her voice soft and low, “Honey, can I talk to you for a minute?”

And Beth told her what the man from the senator’s staff had said and offered, and when she was done, Beth thought her little girl had fallen asleep. But no, she was thinking, with that mind that was so sharp and bright. She whispered back, “Mom . . . take the deal . . . okay? I’m so tired . . .”

“Janice, are you sure?”

Her voice, barely a whisper. “Mom, I’m really tired . . .”

HENRY CAME IN after a half an hour and Beth said, “We’ll do it. The second . . . whatever it was. Choice. Option.”

“Avenue,” he said. “Mrs. Mooney, trust me, you won’t regret it. Give me a few minutes and I’ll have the necessary agreements prepared. All right?”

Beth turned to her girl, who was sleeping. “You know . . . what I’m really thinking . . . I wish I could spend the night here with my little girl. But I know the hospital won’t allow it.”

“Is that what you want, Mrs. Mooney? To spend the night here, in this room?”

Beth said, “Yes . . . of course. But there’s no space.”

Henry said, “Give me a few moments.”

He slipped out.

Beth heard voices raised, phones ringing, more voices. Less than ten minutes later, two young, burly hospital attendants came in, and the girl with the broken foot yelped about why she was being moved, what the hell was going on, where was her boyfriend as her personal items were placed in a white plastic bag, and then she and her bed were wheeled out. An empty bed was wheeled in; a grim-faced nurse made it up; and the curtain was pulled back, making the room bigger and wider.

And Henry had returned and watched it all while typing on his electronic device. When the room was settled, he said, “Is that satisfactory, Mrs. Mooney?”

“How . . . how in hell did you do that?”

Henry said, “Problems. I’m paid quite well to solve them.”

LATER IN THE evening, in a private conference room down the hall from Janice’s hospital room, Beth signed a bunch of papers that she had a hard time puzzling through, but Henry said signing them was just a formality. When she was done, he nodded and smiled for the first time that evening.

“Very good, Mrs. Mooney. You won’t regret it. I promise. Here —”

He slid over a business card, which she picked up. On the back was a handwritten phone number. “My private, direct line. You have any questions, any problems, anything at all, give me a call. All right?”

“Thank you, thank you very much,” she said.

“And here,” he said, putting a white envelope on the conference table. “An initial . . . stipend for your worries.”

Beth looked inside the envelope and saw a number of bills, all with Ben Franklin’s face on them. She quickly closed the envelope and shoved it into her purse. She said, “I’d like to ask you a question, if that’s all right.”

“Mrs. Mooney, the senator and I are in your debt. Go ahead.”

“Why do you do this? I mean, I’m sure you get paid a lot. But what’s in it for you?”

The question seemed to catch him by surprise. “I guess you deserve an answer . . . for the troubles you’ve been through. I’ll tell you something, though I’ll deny ever having said this. What I want, and what I’ve worked for my entire life, is to put a man in the White House, to know that I did it, and, in return for my work, to be chief of staff for him. But that’s always up in the air until the final ballot. That’s something I’ve learned the hard way over the years.”

“Chief of staff . . . is that an important job?”

He abruptly stopped talking, as if afraid he had said too much. He put on his coat. “Mrs. Mooney, if you don’t mind, I need to catch a flight to Atlanta tonight . . . is there anything else I can do for you?”

Beth was suddenly exhausted, like she had spent twelve hours on her feet at the hair salon. “No, I’m going to be with my girl. Thanks for making it so I can spend the night next to her.”

The second smile of the evening. “My pleasure.”

THE NEXT FEW days went by in a daze of working at the salon, being at the hospital, and then being at the rehabilitation facility when Janice was transferred. There, Beth was pleased to see her little girl — all right, young woman! — recovering well. The bruises faded some, and she could walk up and down the hallway without leaning on someone or having to stop to catch her breath.

Beth should have been encouraged, but so many things were bothering her. Janice was always one to talk her mother’s ears off about the latest political scandal, the latest celebrity wedding, and the latest news on whatever online or off-line technology she was involved with at that moment, but now, she just stayed in her bed and watched television or read paperback books. Beth had once offered to bring Janice’s laptop in, but with some curt words, Janice said she was no longer interested.

Beth was confused and scared, but still, it was good to see her daughter get better, week after week. And as promised, a weekly check made out to her arrived, and she caught up on all her bills and even managed to start a savings account, a first. But truth be told, she always felt a bit self-conscious depositing the checks, like she was doing something bad. Yet Janice was slowly improving, and Janice didn’t say anything more about the senator’s son, so Beth let everything be and kept hoping for the future.

And so it would have remained, if it weren’t for the night of the Iowa caucuses.

IT HAD BEEN a long day, first at the rehab center in the morning and then at the hair salon in the afternoon. Beth had accidentally double-booked two of her clients, so she had to work later than expected. Dinner was a quick takeout from McDonald’s and after she got home, she went through the mail — another stipend check and an electricity bill from PSNH — then washed up and went straight into her bedroom.

There she switched on the TV, and instead of her usual Law & Order, there was a special report about the Iowa caucuses being held that night. In the dark bedroom, covers pulled up around her neck, she watched the panel for the news discuss the Iowa results, and something chilled her feet when she learned that the senator from Georgia had squeaked out a victory. He was now the front-runner, but as some of the commentators stated, he was still on shaky ground. A win in three weeks in New Hampshire could make him unstoppable.

The view of the camera switched to the senator making his victory speech at an auditorium in Iowa. His face was happy and lit up as he stood in front of a large blue curtain and waved to the cheering crowd, the supporters holding signs high. And there was the senator’s man Henry Wolfe standing to one side, applauding hard, smiling as well, sometimes ducking his head to say something to somebody on the stage.

She picked up the remote to change the channel, and her hand froze. Just like that. A young man was there as well, cheering and laughing and looking very, very happy indeed.

The senator’s son.

In Iowa. In public. On the stage!

He didn’t seem to have a care or worry in the world, looked fine indeed as he applauded and cheered his winning father —

Beth stumbled out of bed, raced to the bathroom, and made it to the toilet before vomiting up her small fries and Quarter Pounder with Cheese. She washed her face with cold water, wiped it down with a towel, refused to look at herself in the mirror, and went back out to the bedroom.

The senator was speaking, but Beth muted the television, stared at the screen. His son Clay . . . out. Free. Not punished at all.

While her daughter, Janice, was still in rehab, still trying to form words and sentences, still refusing to use her computer.

Beth went to her bureau, roughly pulled out the top drawer, went through a few things, and came back out with Henry Wolfe’s business card with the handwritten phone number on the reverse. Hands shaking, she sat cross-legged on her bed and dialed the number.

It started ringing. And kept ringing. With the phone up to her ear, she watched the television, and it was like being trapped in one of those horror movies where you saw something bad happening and couldn’t do anything to save yourself, for what she saw was . . .

Henry Wolfe onstage, listening to his boss speak, and then pausing. Reaching inside his coat pocket. Pulling out his phone or minicomputer or whatever they called it.

From little New Hampshire to busy Iowa, she was calling him, was calling him to find out what in hell the senator’s son was doing up there onstage. What about the promise, the pledge, that justice would be served?

She stared at the television, willing herself not to blink, for she didn’t want to miss a thing.

Henry Wolfe stared down at his handheld device. Frowned. Pressed a button, returned it to his coat.

And her call went to voice mail.

Later on during the night, she called the number six more times, and six times, it went straight to voice mail.

AFTER A RESTLESS night, she woke with her blankets and sheets wrapped around her, moist from her night sweats, her phone ringing and ringing and ringing. She reached across to the nightstand, almost knocked the phone off the stand, and then got it and murmured a sleepy hello.

The voice belonged to Henry Wolfe, who started out sharply: “Mrs. Mooney, I don’t have much time, so don’t waste it, all right?”

“What?” she asked.

He said brusquely, “I know you called me seven times last night, and I have a good idea what you’re calling about. And I’m telling you don’t waste your time. You have a signed nondisclosure agreement with a very attractive compensation package and a very unattractive clause that will open you up to financial and legal ruin if you say one word about the senator and his son.”

She sat up in bed. “But he’s free! That bastard Clay, I saw him last night! The one who hurt my daughter! You promised me that he’d be sent away!”

Henry said, “And he was sent away.”

“For three weeks? Is that all?”

“His doctors judged that he had recovered well, and —”

“Doctors you paid for, I’m sure!”

Henry said, “This conversation isn’t productive, Mrs. Mooney, so I think I’ll —”

“Is that what you people call justice? Throwing some money around, making promises, and walking away? You promised me justice for my girl!”

By then, she was talking to herself.

THE NEXT DAY she met with Floyd Tucker, an overweight and fussy lawyer who had helped her sort through the paperwork when she had divorced Joe. He sighed a lot as they sat in his tiny, book-lined office. He flipped through the pages of the agreement she had signed for the senator, sighed some more, and finally looked up. “Beth, you shouldn’t have signed this without running it by me first.”

“I didn’t have the time,” she said.

“This agreement” — he held up the papers —“there’s a good compensation package, no doubt about it, but the restrictions . . . Hell, Beth, if you even hint at breathing what’s gone on with the senator’s son and your daughter, you open yourself up to lawsuits, financial seizures, and penalties totaling tens of millions of dollars. Do you understand that?”

“I do now,” she said, staring at the polished desk. “But I didn’t have the time.”

“Beth, you should have called me,” he said.

She reached over, plucked the documents from his hand.

“I didn’t have the time,” she whispered.

A DAY LATER, she was at her town’s small library. Past the rows of books and the magazine racks, there were three computers, set up in a row. She sat down and stared at the screen, which showed a picture of the library and said that this picture and the words on it were something called a home page. She put her hands over the keyboard and then pulled them away, as if she were afraid she would make something blow up if she pushed the wrong key.

Beth leaned back in the wooden chair. What to do? She felt queasy, empty, nervous, like the first time she had approached a paying customer with a pair of sharp scissors in her hands.

“Mrs. Mooney?” a young girl’s voice said. She turned in her seat, saw Holly Temple, a sweet girl whose hair Beth cut and styled. She said, “Do you need any help?”

Beth said, “I’m afraid I don’t know how to use this, Holly. I’m looking for some information, and I don’t know how to begin.”

Holly pulled over a chair and sat down next to her. “Well, it’s pretty easy. I’m surprised that Janice couldn’t help you.”

Her voice caught. “Me too.”

SHE WAS DRIVING to the rehab center to visit Janice, who had had what the doctors and nurses delicately called a setback. Physically she was improving day by day; emotionally, she was withdrawing, becoming more silent, less responsive. Beth found that she had to drive with only one hand, as she had to use the other to keep wiping her eyes with a wad of tissue.

At a stoplight, scores of supporters for the senator were gathered at the intersection, holding blue-and-white campaign signs on wooden sticks that they raised as they chanted. They waved at cars going by, gave thumbs-up to passing cars that honked in support. Two young men were staring right at her as they chanted. The light changed to green and she drove by, and she couldn’t help herself — she gave them the middle finger.

THAT NIGHT, FOR hour after hour, she dialed and redialed Henry Wolfe’s number. Eventually, at two a.m., he answered, and she got right to the point.

“Mr. Wolfe, next Tuesday is the New Hampshire primary. The day after tomorrow, I plan to drive to Concord and visit the offices of the Associated Press. There, I’m going to show them the documents that I signed and tell them what the senator’s son did to my little girl.”

Voice sharp, he said, “Do that, you silly bitch, and you’ll be destroyed. Ruined. Wiped out.”

“And come next Tuesday, so will your candidate. I may be silly, but I’m not stupid. I know if he wins the primary with a good margin, he’ll be your party’s nominee. And after that, he’ll be the favorite to be president. So destroying him in exchange for losing my shop and my double-wide and the one thousand two hundred dollars I have in my savings account . . . that sounds like a pretty fair deal to me.”

She could hear him breathing over the phone line. “What do you want?”

Beth said, “The first time we met, you said the senator’s life was scheduled in fifteen-minute chunks of time, and that your job was to make sure that time went smoothly. So here’s the deal. Sometime over the next two days, I want five minutes with him. And with you. Alone.”

Henry said, “Impossible.”

“Then make it possible,” she said curtly. “After all, you’re paid to solve problems.”

This time, she hung up on him.

TWO HOURS LATER, her phone rang. She picked it up and a tired voice said, “A deal. The Center of New Hampshire hotel. Two this afternoon. Room six ten.”

“Sounds good to me,” she said.

“Look, you need to know that —”

Taking more pleasure in it this time, she hung up on him again. And went back to sleep.

LATER THAT DAY, Beth drove to Manchester — the state’s largest city — and instead of going into the pricey parking garage, she found a free spot about four blocks away. She trudged along the snowy sidewalk and walked into the hotel, past guests and people streaming in and out. In one corner of the lobby, there were bright lights from a television news crew filming an interview with somebody who must be famous.

She took the elevator to the sixth floor, got off, and within a minute, she found room 610. A quick knock on the door and it opened up within seconds, a frowning and worn-looking Henry Wolfe on the other side. He was dressed as well as ever, but his eyes were sunken and red-rimmed. Beth had a brief flash of sympathy for him before remembering all that had gone before, and then she didn’t feel sympathetic at all.

He started to speak and she brushed by him and into the room. Wow, she thought. This wasn’t a room. It was a palace, bigger than the interior of her double-wide trailer. Couches, chairs, big-screen television, kitchen, bar, and doors that led into other rooms. Flowers and baskets of fruit and snack trays and piles of newspapers.

She turned to Henry. “Is this what they mean by a suite?”

“Yes,” he said. “Look, Mrs. Mooney, before the senator comes in, I really need to know that —”

“A suite,” Beth said, shaking her head in awe. “I’ve heard of hotel suites, but to think I’d ever actually be inside of one, well, I never figured.”

“I’m sure,” Henry snapped. “Mrs. Mooney, we don’t have much time before the meeting and I must insist —”

She made a point of looking around again. “All of those nice senior citizens, the retirees who send your senator a dollar bill or a five-dollar bill or whatever they can scrape together to help elect him president, do you think they know that their money is paying for this suite? And all those who donated time and money because they believed in the senator’s idea of justice, what do you think they’d say if they knew what his son did to my daughter?”

“Mrs. Mooney —” he began again, and then another door within the suite opened up, and the senator walked in, tall, smiling, wearing a fine gray suit and a cheerful look. The room he was emerging from, she saw, was filled with well-dressed men and women, most with cell phones against their ears or in their hands, and then the door was shut behind him.

The senator strode over, and Beth felt her heart flip for a moment. It was one thing to see him on the cover of a magazine or a newspaper, or on the nightly news, but here he was, right in front of her. My God, she thought. What am I doing? This man coming at her could very well be the next president of the United States, the most powerful and famous man on the planet. And she was a single mom and a hairdresser. For a moment she felt like turning around and running out the door.

Then she remembered Janice. And she calmed down.

“Mrs. Mooney,” the senator said, holding out a tanned hand with a large, fancy watch around his wrist. “So glad to meet you. I just wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Me too,” she said, giving his hand a quick shake. “And, Senator, I know you’re very, very busy. In fact, I can’t imagine how busy you are, so I will make this quick.”

The senator looked to Henry, who looked to her and said, “We appreciate that, Mrs. Mooney.”

Beth took a breath. “So here we go. I’m sure you know your son’s actions, what happened to my daughter, and the agreement that was reached between me and Mr. Wolfe.”

The senator said, “If there’s something that needs to be adjusted in the agreement, I’m sure that —”

“Senator,” Beth said forcefully, “I don’t want an adjustment. I don’t want an agreement. In fact, you can stop all the payments. What I want is justice for my little girl.”

The senator’s eyes narrowed and darkened. Now she could see the toughness that was inside this man who wanted to be president.

“Do go on,” he said flatly.

She said, “You can stop the payments. Stop everything. But I intend to go public with what your son did to my daughter today, this afternoon, unless my one demand is met.”

Both men waited, neither one saying a word. So she went on.

“By the end of the day today, I want you to announce the firing of Henry Wolfe,” she said. “And I want your pledge that he will never be in your employ ever again, either directly or indirectly.”

The senator didn’t make a sound, but Beth heard a grunt from Henry, like he had just been punched in the gut. She went on. “That is it. Nonnegotiable.”

“Why?” the senator asked. “Why should I fire Henry?”

“To keep me from going to the newspapers,” she said. “And because he promised justice for my girl. And she still doesn’t have it.”

She could sense the tension in the air, something disturbing, as she noted both men looking at each other, inquiring, appraising, gauging what was going on. The senator checked his watch. “Well, our time is up, Mrs. Mooney, and —”

Henry spoke desperately. “Tom, please —”

“Henry,” the senator said calmly, touching his upper arm. “We have a lot of things to talk about, don’t we?”

Henry continued, “For God’s sake, Tom, the primary is in just a few days and —”

The two of them went through another door, and Beth was left alone. She looked around the huge, empty suite, went to a fruit basket, picked up two oranges, and left.

THE NIGHT of the New Hampshire primary, she rented a DVD — Calendar Girls — and watched the movie until she fell asleep on the couch. She had no idea who had won and didn’t rightly care.

TWO MONTHS LATER, Beth was in her hair salon checking the morning receipts when the door opened and Henry Wolfe walked in. He wasn’t dressed fancy, and his face was pale and had stubble on it. When she looked in his eyes, she was glad there was a counter between them.

“Looking for a trim?” she asked cheerfully.

“You … I …”

“Or a shave?” she added.

He stopped in front of her and she caught his scent. It was of unwashed clothes and stale smoke and despair. “You … do you know what you’ve done?”

“I don’t know,” she said, flipping the page on her appointment book. “But I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“The senator … he barely won the New Hampshire primary. There was a shit storm of bad publicity when he announced my firing, talk of a campaign in crisis, a senator who couldn’t choose the right staff, of chaos in his inner circle. And then he lost the next primary, and since then, he’s been fighting for his political life. There’s even speculation about a brokered convention. What should have been a clear road to the White House has become a horror show. All thanks to you.”

“Gee,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

“But that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” he demanded. “To get back at the senator. To hurt his chances of becoming president. All because his son didn’t get punished the way you wanted. You knew that firing me, his most trusted fixer and adviser, days before the New Hampshire primary would cripple him.”

The phone rang, but she ignored it. The door opened and her newest employee walked in, nodded to Beth, and then got a broom and started sweeping near one of the chairs.

Beth said, “You just don’t get it, do you?”

He gave a sharp laugh, and in a mocking tone, he said, “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

She picked up a pen. “I didn’t know much about you when we first met. So after I saw the senator’s son up onstage in Iowa, and after you blew me off on the phone, I did some research. I goggled you.”

“You did what?”

“I goggled you.”

He shook his head. “Stupid woman, it’s Google. Not goggle.” Beth smiled. “Well, whatever the hell it is, I had a friend at the library do research for me. And I found out that you’ve tried four times to get a man elected president, and each time, you’ve lost. You have a reputation as a political loser. But this time, you were the closest you’ve ever been. Years and years of political failure, and you were now so very close to having your dream come true, to be chief of staff. The most powerful man in Washington, right after the president. Four, maybe eight years in the White House as chief of staff, and then millions of dollars doing consulting and lobbying work. It looked like your losing streak was finally about to break. And then the senator’s son started dating my daughter.”

She paused, looking at his drawn face. “I could give a shit about your senator. Or any other politician. But you promised me justice, and you didn’t deliver. So I gave you a taste of what it’s like to be betrayed after so many promises. And I was the one to cast the final goddamn ballot.”

Beth was surprised to see him wipe at his eyes. It looked like he was weeping.

“Was it worth it, then?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper. “To destroy me like this, to hurt the senator, maybe even prevent him from getting to the White House?”

She looked over at the corner of the store, where her daughter, Janice, was quietly and dutifully sweeping up the floor, her hands holding a broom, the same hands that still hadn’t gone back to her computer.

“Yes,” she said calmly. “It was worth it.”