Haze looked at Teagarden like he'd lost his mind. "Attack farm subsidies in a farm state? What're you smoking?"
"I've researched it. It's perfect. It makes you look courageous. Haze Richards talks the truth. You know this is political suicide, but fuck it, if you can't speak honestly, then this country is farther up shit creek than you thought."
"We come out against subsidies, we're dead."
"I don't think so. There's a big difference between the farm program, which you're going to support, and farm subsidies, which you're against. The farm program helps the little farmers, people like the Caulfields. They're all Democrats. It gives them low-cost loans and pays them to let their fields lie fallow. We support that. But subsidies only help the big corporation farms and those guys are all Republicans anyway and wouldn't vote for you if you were giving away flathead tractors. It's a perfect issue. You make the other guys look like pandering assholes, and the real Iowa farmers will know you aren't hurting them because, believe me, these guys know the difference between the farm program and farm subsidies. I'm telling you, it's a perfect issue. I'll give you all your lines. Just do it the way I say… okay?"
A. J. thought Haze looked tired. Not a good sign for the beginning of the campaign.
"Something else… Brenton Spencer is going to harass you during the debate. He's going to characterize your candidacy as unqualified and unsound. Mickey Alo says they've gotten to him. When the time is right, I want you to shoot him down. I'll talk to you about it tomorrow when I've got something written up."
A. J. left Haze alone in the Iowa farm room. Haze looked out the window at the desolate farm that Bud and Sarah Caulfield had put their lives into and were about to lose. Haze thought they would be well rid of it.
The Caulfields had given over their house to the Haze Richards for President Campaign and, after dinner, had driven off to spend the night with a neighbor. Haze had their bedroom; Malcolm and A. J. had borrowed their dea d s on's room. Susan Winter got a couch in the side room. Ryan had been given the couch in the den. Rell Sunn had elected to sleep in the back of the van, which was parked in the barn. Ryan had worried about her sleeping out there in thirty-degree weather but she shook him off and bundled up Bud's down sleeping bag, grabbed a pillow, and moved to the door.
"Ain't ya heard…? Wild rice won't freeze." She put a hand on his arm and smiled. "I like it cold. See ya in the morning." And she left, walking across the cold ground toward the wood barn.
Ryan spent a while wandering around Bud Caulfield's tiny den looking at the books. He pulled down one about crop rotation and flipped it open. Parts had been underlined and there were margin notes.
He was suddenly someplace else. In his mind, he saw another study with books all around. The red-haired boy was with him. "Come on, Ryan, come on," the boy said. "Race ya to the swing." Suddenly, he knew his name… It was Terrance Fisher. And then the memory ended. He sat on the sofa in Bud Caulfield's cluttered den.
On the coffee table, there was a photo album. He opened it and found pictures of the Caulfields in better days: There were shots of Bud junior growing up. The last one showed him at a bus station in his new army uniform going off to war.
Ryan knew the pain of their loss.
He closed the album and thought about Matt. Then he turned out the light and lay back in the darkness. He felt he was close to something important-close to the shadow. Soon he was asleep.
And then he had the dream…
He was standing by a swing in a backyard he didn't recognize. But he knew he was seven years old. He was watching while the red-haired boy named Terrance pumped back and forth on the swing. "Race you, Ryan," he yelled and jumped off the swing and ran toward the house. Ryan was after him, both boys running for all the y w ere worth. In the dream, Ryan was everywhere, as in a poorly edited movie… First he was behind Terry; then he was watching from the side: then he was back in his own body, chasing. His laughter came, tiny and hollow, as Terry rounded the pool. And then… Terry's feet slipped on the pavement and he screamed-splashing, floundering. Ryan saw it now in black and white-crude still frames blurred the memory. Ryan stopped and looked down, his feet frozen. He wanted to reach out to Terry but he was held by an invisible force-he couldn't move.
"Help!" Terry screamed, as he went down, gulping air and water, choking, fighting his way back up. The still-frame memories exploded in Ryan's head like emotional land mines… "Help," Terry yelled… and then he sank below the surface.
In the dream, Ryan was standing at the pool's edge. He watched in terror as the red-haired boy sank deeper and deeper. The last thing Ryan saw was Terry's green-andred paisley T-shirt as it flapped lazily against his dead playmate at the bottom of the pool.
Ryan woke up.
He was strangely calm and could remember the dream vividly. He was immediately certain it had really happened. And he knew he needed help. He moved to the phone, took out his AT amp;T card, and with hands trembling, punched in Lucinda's private line and then his charge number. The phone rang.
"Yes?" she answered, sleep in her voice.
"I've met the shadow," he said.
"That's great," she said, trying to grasp his mood.
"A boy named Terry. We were seven… playing in the backyard. He drowned. I let him drown, I didn't try to save him."
Lucinda sat up in her bed. She knew this might be one of the most important moments in Ryan's life and she didn't want to screw it up because her mind was blurred with sleep.
"Hold on a sec," she said and dashed into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. Toweling it off quickly, she moved back and sat down on the bed… Then she took a deep breath and picked up the phone.
"I'm sorry, I had to close the door. You still there?"
"I killed him," he said in a subdued voice. "Terrance Fisher lived next door, I think… or two doors away. I let him drown. I never told anybody." It was all flooding back into his head. He remembered running home, crying in his bedroom… afraid to tell anyone that his friend was at the bottom of the pool. His breath was now coming in gasps. He was starting to sweat.
"I just stood there and let him drown and I didn't tell anyone."
"Ryan… stop talking for a minute and listen to me… " Her voice was smooth and controlled. After a moment, he stopped babbling.
"Take a deep breath."
She could hear him inhale.
"I want you to tell me, did you know how to swim?" "I don't know. I guess so…"
"When did you learn to swim? Do you remember?" "At camp."
"How old were you then?"
"I went to camp in the summer after fourth grade." "Fourth grade. How old were you in fourth grade-nine, ten?"
There was a long moment while Ryan thought about that. "Yeah," he said forlornly, "ten."
"If you were seven when he drowned, you didn't know how to swim. If you couldn't swim, you couldn't have saved him."
Ryan let that thought play in his mind.
"Ryan… Listen to me, I'm coming out there to be withyou. I'll get on an early flight tomorrow and be there after the debate, but I want you to think about something. I want you to think hard about it."
"What?"
"You watched your friend die when you were seven.
You didn't save him because you couldn't, but you feel guilty… so guilty that you pushed it down in your subconscious… so far down you buried it completely. Then, thirty years later when Matt died, you tied the two events together." She stopped, wishing she didn't have to do this on the phone, hating the fact that she couldn't look in his eyes, see the reaction her words were having. But his mind was completely open to suggestion now. She had to get to him now. "Ryan, do you think that Matt was drowned as some kind of divine retribution for the fact that you didn't save your friend when you were seven?" she said. She could hear him breathing.