Death's Last Run (14 page)

MARTHA

The plane's wheels hit the Queens runway. The pilot braked hard and the airplane skidded in the rain that was gushing down upon the city. But again, Martha wasn't gripping the armrest in fear. She felt like she was floating, almost dreaming — and if the plane blew up, so be it.

As she walked out to the pick-up line where her car was waiting, a microphone plonked itself in front of Martha's face. A camera appeared seconds later, followed by an oversized umbrella that sheltered Martha and the rest of the setup.

“Good evening, Senator Westlake.” A ponytailed reporter in a beige raincoat with Burberry trim stood between the camera and the microphone. She looked like she was twelve, but she was probably in her twenties or early thirties. “You've had a busy day in Michigan. Lunch with Reverend Hillier. A talk at the state university. Can you tell me how lunch went?”

Martha was pleased that she still remembered how to smile on cue. “Reverend Hillier took me to a favorite place of his constituents'. Elroy's Fried Chicken. It was lovely.”

“Does Reverend Hillier plan to endorse your campaign?”

“To my knowledge, he hasn't made his position public yet.”

“So no sneak previews?” The reporter grinned winningly.

“No.” Martha returned the grin.

“Governor Kearnes announced earlier that he's confident Hillier's endorsement will go his way.”

“Perhaps that's because Kearnes offered Hillier a cabinet post.” Martha could imagine Ted cringing in front of his
TV
at home. She shouldn't have said it, but it felt strangely liberating to speak the plain truth, like she was swimming naked or riding a horse without a helmet.

“Really?” The peppy young newswoman's eyes shot wide open. “And you're not willing to match the offer?”

“Of course not. I'd like to win this election, but I won't buy endorsements with the public purse.”

“So will Hillier go with Kearnes? Is that your guess?”

“I'm not sure.” Martha put a finger to her chin. She hoped Hillier was watching. “I believe that Reverend Hillier is a man of deep principle. He'll make the choice that will benefit his congregation.”

“Can you win the nomination without Hillier?”

“I have no idea. The numbers say no, but numbers are more about pollsters jerking themselves off intellectually than accurate predictions of the future.” Martha shouldn't have said that, either.

The woman's eyes danced delightedly. Martha's language had likely given her a viral media clip. “Will you withdraw from the race if Hillier backs Kearnes?”

“Let's see what tomorrow brings, shall we?”

The reporter pursed her lips, most likely searching for a segue into something fresh. “Have you thought of bringing Jules the Bear on your campaign trail? That was an interesting blog interview you gave this morning.”

“Thank you.” Martha had trouble believing that interview had been only that morning. “And in case that was a serious question: no, Jules will not be joining me.”

“I like the new you,” the reporter said, as if they were chums. “You seem to have a new voice since your return to the public spotlight. A more honest voice.”

Martha wasn't sure what to say, so she borrowed the line Ted wanted her to take. “My priorities have changed since losing my daughter.”

“Has your official platform changed?”

“Yes,” Martha said and immediately wondered how on earth she was going to back up her affirmative answer. It was one thing to spout off in private, at lunch, and another thing entirely in a nationwide television interview.

“On which policies, specifically?” The reporter relaxed into a comfortable standing pose. She knew she'd landed the scoop of the week.

Martha wasn't used to scrambling for words. “We're planning a press conference within the next couple of days, when the new platform is ready. It's still the same ethic — conservative spending, separation of church and state — but we're tweaking some of the other issues. Would you like an invitation?”

“I'd rather have a hint tonight. Just a teaser. The nation is dying to know.”

The girl had such natural charm — not phony like most of her media colleagues. Martha said, “There's something new in the War on Drugs.”

“Is it . . . less hard line than your previous views?”

Martha nodded. The warm car was waiting. She should get the hell inside, let her driver take her home. But it was like she was dreaming — her mouth was moving faster than her brain could control. “I think it's time to decriminalize possession.”

The reporter's lips pushed out from her face and curled into a perfect O.

“Details to follow.” But Martha knew she'd said too much. Her heart was already thudding down into her stomach.

The reporter regained her poise. “Possession of . . . all drugs? Or just marijuana for the states that independently sanction it?”

“I'll outline specifics in the press conference. And let me be clear: I'm as adamant as ever about removing drugs from our society. But, well, old methods clearly aren't working.”

“Who do you think would vote for such a radical new policy? Surely not existing Republicans?”

Martha sighed. “I know it's unrealistic. But I want Republicans to start thinking outside the box.”

“So you're hoping to pull votes from the left?”

“From the center,” said Martha. “Which is where I believe most Americans draw their beliefs.”

As she slipped into the car — smiling and waving at her stunned-looking constituents — the answer became clear to Martha.

She texted Ted:

Need to talk ASAP. You awake?

Of course Ted was awake. He phoned in under a minute.

“I'm pulling out,” Martha said.

Ted was quiet.

“Of the leadership race. Can you take care of that for me? Get me the papers I need to sign? Whatever else there is to do.”

“No,” Ted said.

“You work for me, Ted. No isn't one of your options.”

“Did you not make headway with Hillier?” Ted's voice was shaking.

“This isn't about Hillier. It's about me speaking without thinking on three separate occasions today — to that blogger, to Hillier, and just now to a reporter. I need to pull out, to regain control of who I am and what I say. I'm sorry. I thought I'd be ready but I'm not.”

“You should sleep on this.”

“Turn on your television, Ted. You'll understand.”

“Whatever you said . . . we can fix it.”

“We'll talk in the morning. Maybe you will have come to terms with my decision.”

CLARE

It would be six a.m. in Manhattan. Clare imagined Noah tossing under his comforter, maybe with some other girl beside him. She wished she could kick the imaginary girl out of his bed — wished, too, that the image didn't bug her so much — but at the moment all Clare could do was her job. In Whistler, it was three, and her night was going strong.

She followed Chopper down the outside stairs from Avalanche, into the street. It had been raining when Clare arrived at work, but the temperature must have dropped off again, because now, soft flakes of snow were falling.

Chopper pulled out a joint from his ski jacket and sheltered it from the wind so he could light it. “So what's your deal, Lucy? Why'd you come to Whistler? Is it because your brother gave you that snowboard from Sport Chek?”

“My board is not from Sport Chek.” Clare knew that was the ultimate insult. “I came because I was miserable in Toronto.”

“You weren't the perfect yuppie your parents dreamed you'd be?”

“I didn't want to get stuck in a career that sucks me in and doesn't spit me out until I retire too old to do anything. But I also don't want to screw up and slack off forever. No offense.” Clare slipped a bit in her step — the stones were icy under the thin layer of new snow.

Chopper reached to steady Clare with one hand and passed her his joint with the other. “Don't knock the slacker life. It's all about who you choose to live for.”

Clare took a drag but was careful not to inhale. Snow trickling past the streetlights made the village look like it was in a work of surreal fiction. If it were a movie, it would be with puppets. Like the Jack Frost Christmas Special. In her head, Clare could hear Kubla Kraus, the evil Jack Frost villain, singing his evil villain song while stomping past the sloped-roofed two-story buildings. Maybe she'd inhaled without realizing it.

“You want to grab some sleep?” Chopper said.

Clare giggled — very out of character; must be the pot. “Good line,” she said. “But isn't there a coffee shop open where we could chill and talk?”

“At this time of night? Wouldn't you way rather crawl into a warm bed?”

Clare glanced at Chopper. He looked big and cuddly in his yellow ski jacket and baggy blue jeans. She did want to crawl into a warm bed with him. The question was, would Lucy? “I mean, I like you, but we just met. Shouldn't we, like, go on a date first?”

“This is a date.” Chopper spread his arms out to show Clare the town. “Some drinks in the bar followed by a beautiful moonlit walk . . .”

Clare missed this — fun, flirtation. Everything with Noah had become heavy. Clare suddenly wanted to have sex with Chopper then and there, outside in the snow where all of Whistler could watch, just to screw Noah out of her system.

But she wasn't Clare. “It's weird enough sleeping in Sacha's bed, living in her apartment. I don't know if I could sleep with her man on top of all that.”

Chopper laughed. “So leave Wade alone — that's who she was in love with. You wouldn't have much choice left if you avoided everyone in town Sacha slept with.”

“Was she a slut?” Clare suddenly liked Sacha more. Though the Wade thing confused her — she couldn't see the attraction to a middle-aged man with a mullet.

“No. She just loved to connect with people. She felt like sex was the ultimate conversation.”

“Why Wade?” Clare might as well come right out and ask.

“He was a project,” Chopper said. “Sacha thought she could fix him.”

“She told you that?” Clare wrinkled her nose. The picture she was forming of Sacha was both really sweet and incredibly manipulative.

Chopper nodded. “She thought if she helped him connect with his dream — with his music — Wade would stop drinking so much; he'd be excited to be alive.”

“Seems strange,” Clare said, “that a girl who was so into living would kill herself.”

Chopper's eyes darted down to meet Clare's. They were freezing cold. “You don't want to go there.”

“Um . . . okay.” It was easy for Clare to give this timid Lucy response — this side of Chopper scared her.

Luckily, his darkness disappeared as quickly as it had come. His eyes relaxed, and Chopper said, “Look, sorry to be harsh. But we're all sad, we're all confused. We've speculated high and low. It makes even less sense that she died by accident — or by foul play.”

Clare privately agreed. The sliced wrists, the note, all the drugs Sacha was using . . . the signs really did point to suicide.

“Personally, I think it must have been temporary depression,” Chopper said. “When you get high, you get low afterwards — like really low. You think you suck; you think the world's against you. Makes sense that Sacha would have been bummed on life, the day she . . . died.”

Clare felt something move inside her, like a strange shadow passing through. She wanted to reach back in time and pull Sacha back to life.

“She had also just got some news from home. I guess her dad wasn't really her dad, and her stepmom — who she was tight with, until this — wanted Sacha to back out of hanging with the family.”

“Shit,” Clare said. “That would blow.”

“Look, nothing's open until six a.m. for coffee, unless we want to stare at each other in the ugly lights of a Creekside convenience store.” Chopper wrinkled his nose and shook his head fiercely. “But you could come to my place. There's coffee in my kitchen.”

Clare decided she'd played hard to get for long enough. Chopper was, after all, a person of interest. And she wouldn't have to fake the attraction. “That sounds all right. Do you live in town?”

“Nearby. My truck's in the parking lot.”

The cop in Clare wanted to ask Chopper if he was fine to drive with all the booze and pot he'd been consuming. But the Lucy part decided to keep her mouth shut and go along for the ride.