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.’