He closed the hand into a fist, acknowledging none of those victories. What he believed instead was that someday he’d wear out his welcome with the very family he’d traveled so far and worked so hard to create.
As if activated by his thoughts, the front door of the house opened and Sammie stepped out with Emma in her arms. Smiling a little sadly, she crossed the lawn as Willy rolled down his window, and handed the little girl in to him, murmuring, “Here you go, sweetie. I think Daddy needs a hug.”
Willy looked into his partner’s eyes as he took the child to his chest and cradled her there, his earlier concerns struggling against the warmth and sincerity he saw in Sam’s face.
“How did you know?” he asked, kissing his daughter’s feather-fine hair.
“We watch each other’s back,” she answered simply, and opened his door. “Come on in.”
Willy swung out with surprising grace, given his handicap and his bundle, closed the car door with a foot, and fell in behind Sam on the way to the house.
“Hear from the boss yet?” he asked as the baby snuggled into his neck.
“Yup. He and Les spent hours making like moles and came up with a single footprint. They’re thinking Barber made it out alive, if minus one shoe.”
Willy took that at face value, knowing the rest would come later and in more detail. “What about her? Barber?” he asked next, referring to the assignment they’d been left by Joe. “You find out anything?”
Sam held open the front door to let him by, stroking his shoulder as he passed. “Not much yet. I wanted to clear off some other stuff on my desk first. I found out she worked for the state about forty years ago, and that she was the same Carolyn Barber Joe was talking about-the Governor-for-a-Day. He was also right about that being a one-shot wonder, never repeated. My gut tells me I’ll get more from talking with people than digging through files. Right now, she just looks like she was a clerk or a secretary or something almost invisible. How ’bout you?”
Willy had taken on what he was calling the “box of rocks” from the cemetery near Newfane. He turned into the living room and carefully slid into the rocking chair by the window, seeing that Emma had nodded off.
“Herb Rozanski,” he said in a soothing voice as Sam sat on the arm of the nearby sofa. “Only son of Bud and Dreama Rozanski. Brother of Eileen Rozanski Ranslow. Died twenty-seven years ago at the age of eighteen of an industrial accident at the family’s logging and lumber operation. The accident was witnessed by the father, the body checked out by the authorities, and all the paperwork signed, sealed, and delivered.”
Sammie smiled at the domestic scene and the tone of Willy’s voice. “They must’ve really loved those rocks,” she said.
Willy laughed gently. “Yeah. Well, you got that right. Guess I’ll be doing a little up-close-and-personal interviewing, too.”
CHAPTER SIX
Lester Spinney settled into the corner of one of the Waterbury fire department’s empty back offices and extracted his smartphone. Joe and he had ended up here to conclude the HazMat aspect of their day-returning the equipment and filing a report with the police chief about the state of the tunnels. The police department had been evacuated, forcing the chief to catch his meetings wherever he could for the time being, including in his cruiser.
None of which was Lester’s concern. He was more than content to leave that conversation to his boss, and to instead reach out quickly for home. Lester’s was the unit’s lightest heart-a family man, a Springfield resident, born and bred, married to the same woman he’d first met in community college. Stayovers like the one he’d just spent at Allard’s house were not his idea of a good time. He preferred going home every night.
“You out there, babe?” he texted.
“Hi,” came the near-instant response from his wife, Sue, a nurse at Springfield Hospital.
“What ya doin’?” he typed. His daughter, Wendy, had tried to educate him on the protocols and practices of proper text-speak, but he and Sue preferred their own version.
“Good timing,” she wrote back. “Babysitting a pt. in ICU. U?”
“Waterbury. Just went thru the tunnels here. Creepy.”
“Dangerous?” was the immediate reply.
“Nope. HazMat suits. Town a mess. Missed U last nite.”
“U2.”
“Dave do OK on test?”
“Thinks so.”
Spinney heard Joe calling out for him from somewhere in the building. “Gotta go, honey. Luv U.”
He was reading “Luv U2” when Joe poked his head through the open doorway and smiled. “Tell her I said hi.”
Les laughed and dutifully followed orders, reading aloud to Joe, “Tell him to give you back to me in one piece.”
“I promise,” Joe said, and crooked his finger. “I found a girl who knows a guy who knew our missing person-a nurse at the hospital. Maybe she’ll tell us Carolyn’s couch surfing in her living room.”
* * *
Gail Zigman stepped into the small back office on the top floor of the Pavilion building in Montpelier, located beside the statehouse, and closed the door behind her. Vermont governors were paid a little over $150,000 per year; were issued a security detail, complete with vehicle; and had a staff. They were also the chief executive, with all the attending perks. On the other hand, they still headed up one of the least populated states in the Union, which translated into Gail’s living in her own condo just outside Montpelier, although having access to an admittedly spacious combination office/apartment in this building, and another ceremonial office in the statehouse, equipped with a chandelier. There was no governor’s mansion, no stretch limo, no executive helicopter, and no palace guard to snap her a salute when she showed up for work every morning. Vermonters had other expectations of their leaders than their appearing like foreign potentates or overindulged chiefs of industry.
Not surprisingly, Gail had also quickly discovered, governors had virtually no privacy and little time to themselves. Which explained why she was standing here with her back to the door. After six months of agreeing to everyone’s requests of her to do what they wanted and to be where they directed, she’d finally demanded ninety minutes of complete solitude, every afternoon. It was impractical, and honored only about 30 percent of the time, but it beat what had preceded it. And she cherished every minute.
She wasn’t getting that now, however-not with the post-Irene mess demanding that she be in all places at all times. But when she’d announced five minutes ago that she was going to grab a little time for herself, her staff’s reaction hadn’t been stunned disbelief.
The downtime wasn’t so she could watch TV, do crosswords, or read a book. In general, it was to help her address the private daily duties that she set herself, for herself, outside the demands of her job, her constituents, and her omnipresent staffers.
This time, for example, it was to call Susan Raffner.
Politicians-even small state ones-are surrounded by a hierarchy of friends. Some are heartfelt associations, others practical, still others obligatory and occasionally onerous, as with party chairmen, committee heads, key lobbyists, and the like, with whom one is pretty much stuck whether one likes them or not.
For Gail, Susan Raffner was something else entirely-a fellow resident of Brattleboro, a friend and advisor for decades, a sounding board, an ally, a defender, and a fellow feminist of the old school, Raffner had early seen in her friend the potential that Gail had achieved in the last election. When Gail had first toyed with becoming a selectman, Raffner had been by her side, giving advice, fielding problems, and handling many of the logistical headaches, especially as the stakes had grown along with Gail’s successes. Beyond that, when Gail had been raped-and Joe almost killed-Susan had been beyond supportive, offering counsel and challenge during Gail’s struggle for balance.