Will sat in his dressing room, surrounded by staff and Secret Service agents. Kitty was holding a cloth to his forehead while an agent rummaged in a first-aid kit. “What happened?” he asked.
“Somebody took a shot at you,” an agent said. “I already had hold of you and was pulling you toward the wings. Apparently, the bullet hit the microphone on the lectern, and the thing exploded. You caught some shrapnel, but it’s not serious. You may need a stitch or two, though, and as soon as the area is secure, we’re going to get you to a hospital to get looked at.”
“You think it’s the same guy from L.A.?” Kitty asked.
“It’s gotta be,” the agent replied. “Either him, or another member of his group, if there is a group.”
“Have you caught him?” Kitty asked.
The agent held a finger to his ear, pressing on the earpiece. “He’s out of the building,” he said. “They’re searching the streets for him now. Apparently, a member of the audience can ID him.”
“My wife is in the audience,” Will said.
“We’ve already got her in a car,” the agent replied. “She’ll meet you at the hospital.”
Zeke got into the car, started it, and pulled into traffic. He made the first turn possible, and he could see police halting traffic ahead of him. He drove around the block and headed for the Beltway; he had already memorized the route.
Will lay on a table in the ER while a surgeon who had been on call for the Secret Service stitched the wound in his forehead. Kate sat next to him, watching closely.
“Maybe I’d better learn to do this,” she said, “if people are going to keep trying to kill you.”
“Maybe the guy was trying to kill Eft,” Will said. “If he did, I’d probably win California.”
“You should wish he had hit you,” she said. “Being shot is a sure vote-getter. Look at Reagan.”
The following morning, Zeke drove west along the interstate at the speed limit. He was a happy man, considering that he’d failed. He hadn’t really expected to be alive at this moment, and he found the condition pleasing. Home lay a thousand miles ahead of him. They still didn’t know who he was. They’d never find him. He’d go home and wait for another opportunity.
64
Will looked out the window of the Boeing as it lifted off from Oakland airport and turned east, toward Georgia. The lights of the city passed under him, then vanished as the airplane climbed toward the Sierras. It was just after 1 A.M., Tuesday morning, election day. It was over.
He had made more than seventy campaign stops around California during the past three days. His campaign and the party had poured every possible cent into television advertising all over the country, but especially in California. Efton had done the same thing, he reflected.
“What do you think?” he asked Kitty Conroy, who was sitting next to him.
“I think we’re going to win, of course.”
“Does Moss still think it’s too close to call?”
“Yes, but he plans to do exit polling tomorrow — I mean, today.”
“Tell him not to waste the money. What’s the point of polling when we’ll have the answer by midnight, anyway.”
“I’ll tell him,” she said. She got up and walked forward.
Will got out of his chair and followed her. He might as well have a last word with the press. He passed Moss and Kitty, deep in conversation, and opened the door to the forward compartment, summoning up a last bit of energy. To his surprise, the cabin was dark; bodies lay under blankets on the reclining seats; snoring could be heard. He’d thought there’d at least be a late poker game, or people writing their last campaign stories.
He closed the door and walked aft to his private cabin and the flying bed that awaited him. He had one more stop, a morning appearance to thank the campaign workers in Atlanta, then to Delano, to vote, then back to Washington. For a while, he replayed the campaign in his mind. There was nothing more he could do. He fell asleep.
When he finally reached the Georgetown house, Kate was already home from work, watching CNN.
“You look exhausted,” she said, kissing him and drawing him onto the sofa next to her.
“I think that’s a fair assessment of my condition,” he said. “The strange thing is, I’m not sleepy. I got a few hours on the airplane last night, and a good nap on the way from Georgia to D.C. What does the news say?”
“A good turnout, but not a huge one,” she replied.
“Oh.” They had been hoping for a large turnout, usually better for Democrats. “Did you vote?”
“You bet.”
“Dare I ask for whom?”
“Don’t push your luck, kiddo.”
Will held up his hands in a defensive posture. “I guess it’s too late now.”
“What time are we due this evening?” she asked.
“Ten o’clock,” he replied. His campaign had taken a hotel ballroom and a suite and had rented a lot of TV sets for election night. “We can have a nice quiet dinner here.”
“Who’s cooking?” she asked. “I had a tough day, too.”
“Let’s order a pizza.”
Kate laughed. “The next president of the United States orders a pizza on election day.”
Their attention was suddenly drawn to the TV set by the mention of Will’s name, and they turned to watch.
“The Secret Service and the FBI have identified a suspect in the assassination attempt last Friday night at Ford’s Theatre in Washington,” the anchorwoman was saying. A photograph of a bearded man flashed onto the screen. “He was identified from a fingerprint on the outside doorknob of the projection room at the theater. He is William Ezekiel Tennant, formerly of an address near Atlanta. Tennant disappeared from his home some ten years ago, after he failed to make a federal court appearance in Atlanta, and a warrant for his arrest dates from that time. Tennant was a member of a right-wing militia group headquartered in the Atlanta area, a member of which made an attempt on the life of Will Lee, who was at that time a candidate for the Senate. Tennant is rumored to be somewhere in the northwestern United States, and authorities are already searching for him there.
“In another breaking story, CNN has learned that a South Carolina newspaper is running a front-page story tomorrow, alleging that Senator Frederick Wallace of that state has for many years kept an African-American mistress, and that he has two grown sons by her. We’re attempting to locate Senator Wallace now for comment, and we’ll keep you up to date on this story.”
Kate and Will burst out laughing. “I don’t know which story I like better,” she said.
“Neither do I,” Will agreed.
65
Will, Kate, Peter, and Will’s parents walked into the hotel ballroom and stood for a moment, taking in the scene. A big band was playing swing tunes, and many of the campaign workers were dancing to the music. A movie-theater-sized television screen had been erected, and other TV sets were scattered around the ballroom.
Will and Kate made their way to the stage, were introduced, and Will stepped to a microphone as the band stopped playing.
“I just wanted to speak to you for a moment,” he said. “Although we don’t know the outcome yet, I’m optimistic. I want to take this opportunity to thank you all for the hard work you’ve put into this campaign. If we don’t win tonight, it won’t be your fault. I don’t think any candidate has ever had such an enthusiastic group of people working for his election, and I’m very grateful to each and every one of you. Kate and I are going to go upstairs, now, and wait for the final returns. I’ll speak to you again, after we know the result of the election. In the meantime, have a great evening. You’ve earned it!”