These rituals, despite the lack of any real success, kept Jess sane, enabling her to believe that she was doing her best to find Peter. She never skipped “Peter time,” but tonight would have to be an exception. It couldn't be helped, but she felt guilty anyway.
Tomorrow morning she could make up for it, complete tonight's tasks. A few hours' delay wouldn't make any difference after all these years. The plan eased her anxiety for the moment.
She hummed an old show tune that reminded her most of Peter, another of the tools she used to remember, to keep Peter alive. If she had been alone in the car, she'd have talked to Peter, too.
Finally, as she sped down the road, she composed a list of questions for Vivian Wardâand prayed that she'd arrive in time.
Chapter Three
Tallahassee, Florida
Thursday 7:45 p.m.
HELEN GLANCED AROUND THE tastefully appointed hotel suite while she waited for party chairman Ralph Hayes, a man she'd met several times before and didn't particularly like. She smoothed her gown over her crossed legs and folded her hands in her lap. The dress draped from a modest jewel neckline to the floor and covered her arms in slim long sleeves of metallic turquoise.
At her throat hung the double strand of her mother's pearls that she wore with everything. They had become her symbol of pragmatic consistency, of continuity. Her dress, her entire appearance, declared “traditional, disciplined, experienced leader,” which was exactly what she was, and precisely what she conveyed. And the prime reason that her party wanted her to run for the U.S. Senate.
The aroma of Ralph's expensive cigar preceded his entry. “Helen, please forgive me for making you wait. He leaned forward to shake her hand and then settled across from her in another overstuffed chair. “What have you found out about the explosion? Anything?”
After the abrupt ending to her interview with Jess Kimball, the Capitol Police assumed control of the situation. Firefighters extinguished the blaze and crews had begun what would be a long-term repair and reconstruction of the extensive damage to the park across from the mansion and the surrounding area.
“FDLE thinks the driver was Arnold Ward.”
“Did you know him?” Ralph asked, between puffs. He seemed only mildly interested in the motives of a madman. She sensed he had more important matters to discuss about their planned announcement of her candidacy tonight.
“Apparently not as well as I thought, based on what he did today. I'd met him several times over the past twenty years. He was a long-haul trucker for one of the phosphate companies operating in the middle of the state.” Helen didn't mention that Arnold Ward was survived by a wife and only two children now. Two adult daughters.
The sleeves of Ralph's blue dress shirt were rolled to reveal thick forearms, his pricey tie loosened at the neck. He sported a full head of Ronald Reagan hair that was probably colored to keep its deep brown luster. He looked every inch the Washington power-broker, poised to thrust her career skyward.
He gestured toward her with a decanter half-full of brown liquid. “Scotch?” When she declined, he poured himself a glass and sipped. “Did he not like you or something? Anything we need to worry about?”
“He liked me, although we were never able to prosecute Tommy Taylor for killing his two sons. Why he'd snap now, and like this? I honestly don't know.” Grief caused by murder did not follow a predictable pattern.
“A vigilante. Desperate people.” Ralph shook his head as if he might actually be concerned. The more Ralph Hayes spoke, the less Helen trusted him.
“Not exactly a vigilante, but it's true we wouldn't have been able to catch or convict Tommy Taylor for the murder of Mattie Crawford without Ward.”
God knew, Helen understood the depth of Arnold Ward's grief. What she didn't understand was how it had driven him to go so berserk, what he'd tried to accomplish with his crazy bomb, and why now, just hours from Taylor's execution, when the justice Ward had fought years to achieve was about to be applied? Why couldn't he wait one more day?
Ralph puffed the cigar and then pulled at his lower lip with his barrel thumb and forefinger, as if considering how to spin the situation. “So he's always been a little wacko?”
“Like I said, I didn't think so. But I intend to find out.”
“Whatever it takes to move on from this. We don't frankly have time for the distraction.” He glanced down at the thin, flat watch face resting on his arm. “You're due to make your announcement in about an hour, and we've been working for weeks to get the publicity machine ready to roll from tonight onward.”
Helen decided to say what she'd come to say. Knowing he wasn't going to like hearing it, she couched her plan in language to which he'd be most receptive. “Actually, Ralph, I think we need to wait to announce. Just a few more days. Until we learn Ward's motives and decide how to handle them. With his death this afternoon and the execution coming tomorrow night, announcing my senate run now won't play well.”
Ralph looked personally affronted. “You're kidding. We're here, we're prepared, and we've got everything ready to make the most of tonight's timing. We won't have this kind of chance again.”
Clearly, she realized with only mild annoyance, he had expected her simply to acquiesce. She explained her reasoning politely because she was sure he'd never apprehend it on his own.
“You're a stranger here, Ralph, but I'm not. Florida voters have elected me repeatedly because I support and practice traditional southern values like respect, courtesy, kindness, and decency. They expect Governor Helen Sullivan to be true to her word and they trust me, count on me to do what their parents taught them to expect of our leaders and ourselves. No excuses. No whining.”
What she didn't add was that Florida voters knew Helen Sullivan would not be intimidated. Not by a grief-stricken father turned suicide bomber; not by a faux crusader like David Manson and his abolition devotees; and not by a long-in-the-tooth political operative like Ralph Hayes.
He narrowed his eyes and finished his drink. Helen heard a television playing somewhere else in the suite. He puffed the cigar and held it between stubby fingers as he used the fingers to point for emphasis. “You're right, of course.”
The affirmation surprised her, but she'd reacted too soon.
“Those are all the reasons we offered you the opportunity in the first place. You told me both you and Oliver believe your destiny is to serve the people of the State of Florida. From the time you began working as a prosecutor right out of law school, through your stints in the state legislature, and up to this moment, your gift has been evident. You were born for public service, Helen. U.S. Senator is the logical next step for you.” He stopped a moment and she could feel his manipulation coming as if he'd signaled it in Morse code. “Unless you've changed your mind.”
So that was his ploy: Ralph Hayes sought to demonstrate his power was greater than hers.
Helen simply smiled. “There aren't that many women governors in the country. The number who can win a senate election is even smaller.” She paused. “And there is only one who can win in Florida.” Helen wielded power too, especially here.
Ralph made a show of standing up and straightening himself. He tightened his tie, rolled down his left sleeve, buttoned the cuff, and lied. “This is a decision that needs to be made above my pay grade, Helen. I'll need to kick the question upstairs. It may take me a few minutes to reach the president and then I'll have to explain things. Can you wait?”
“Take your time.” She settled into the chair and made herself comfortable because she recognized the new maneuver for what it was, the commencement of a high-stakes game of chicken. She'd be waiting a while.
Her mind returned to the day's dramatic events. Ironically, the chaos poor Arnold Ward had caused had already produced several beneficial effects: silencing Manson's protesters, ending Jess Kimball's interrogation, and reminding people of Tommy Taylor's many innocent victims. Helen appreciated the brief respite from the unrelenting weight of Taylor's execution. She felt less stress tonight than she'd felt in weeks.
Except for her continuing concern about Oliver.
When Ralph Hayes returned, Helen glanced at the clock on the mantel. He'd been on the phone for twenty minutes, which was apparently enough to make his point that he was in control. Now he had his jacket back on and spoke in a falsely conciliatory tone.
“The President sends his regards. Asked me to offer condolences to the Ward family, too,” Ralph announced, acting as if he'd just concluded a personal communion with God. “But he agrees with me on this one.”
“Well, I'm afraid you're both mistaken, then, and I'd be happy to explain things to the President if you'd like. A few days' delay can't make that much difference to you.”
The self-styled king-maker set down his cigar, his ruddy complexion darkening to cranberry. “You understand as well as anyone, Helen. We've got to hit the ground running and keep running until we win. We can't lose this seat. It's like the President just told me: Florida is too important on the
national
level. We don't have a moment to lose.”
Still, she didn't give in. “I knew Arnold Ward, Ralph. I know his wife. I know his daughters. I've seen crime scene pictures of his murdered children. It's ruthless to simply go on with our plans as if Arnold Ward didn't die today in my front yard. Don't you see that?”
This was why she objected to Ralph's plan so strongly. Not only her personal feelings but also her deepest professional instincts told her that announcing her candidacy tonight was wrong. Taylor's execution during the holiday season was already pushing the envelope of decency. Florida might not be as southern as it once was, but people here had certain expectations of their governor's decorum. She'd run the state well for two full terms. There was no reason to finish her service leaving a bad taste in everyone's mouth.
Ralph Hayes didn't meet her eyes. He pushed a pile of ash around the ashtray with his cigar tip.
“Four or five days,” she said. “That's all I'm saying. It's the holiday season, Ralph. People will be busy with their families. No one will notice a campaign kick-off before the New Year anyway.” She hated the cajoling tone in her voice; despised the compromise that politics often required.
Finally, Hayes looked straight at her. “I've been getting senators elected a long time and I know what I'm talking about. If the voters believe you're strong enough to handle the pressure, you'll win. Period.” Ralph leaned forward. “But they won't elect you if they feel sorry for you. Or if they think you're weak. Or distracted by sentiment.”
He sat back in his chair to let the warning sink in.
Helen didn't miss his meaning. Distracted by mourning the death of her child; worried about her invalid husband; still recuperating herself; too soft to put a child serial killer to death. She hadn't stood for election since Eric's murder. Maybe she didn't have the public's confidence any more. Maybe she should be a bit more pragmatic. But for the life of her, she couldn't see how waiting a few days would show weakness or be too late.
“You've got to announce tonight,” Ralph finished with force. “Otherwise, we move on. Now or never, Helen. What's it going to be?”
She hated to be pressured, too. Any attempt at coercion infuriated her. She felt her nostrils flare and her heart beat a little faster. She didn't imagine she was irreplaceable. No one was. Maybe she'd misjudged the competition. Perhaps Ralph had someone else in the wings, someone more controllable.
But she knew the party wanted her to run and win as much as she wanted it. She was the logical choice. She was leaving the governor's job at the height of her popularity. How far would they push her? This might be the time to find out.
She narrowed her eyes and considered the political operative for a few moments more before standing up, smoothing the long gown over her hips, and looking at the clock. “I'm late. I'll see you downstairs.”
Helen left without answering his question. Maybe she was throwing away the party's support. But she thought not. She closed the door softly behind her.
Frank Temple waited in the hallway. They walked to the elevator without speaking. He punched the down button. When the car arrived, he pressed the ballroom level button, but she reached up afterward and pressed the button for the lobby.
In response to his inquiring glance, she said, “I need some fresh air.”
He retrieved his cell phone and spoke to their driver. He snapped it closed. “A short drive is a better idea.”
“That will give me a chance to check in with Oliver,” she said, holding out her hand for the phone. The only problem with the dress was that it had no pockets.
Once in the back of the car, the privacy screen up between them, she dialed her husband, the one man she could count on to counsel her without a hidden agenda. Oliver always wanted what was best for her.
“Hi, Helen.” His slurred speech, a residual effect of the stroke he suffered after he was shot, was difficult for most people to understand. But his voice sounded weary to her keen ear, attuned to his every nuance.