Trial, page 29
He was driving deeper into the countryside, bereft of light, where Malcolm had encountered George Bullock. A pair of headlights coming the other way became, as it passed, a truck, before darkness enveloped him again. Then a sudden spatter of rain struck the windshield. This was followed, abruptly, by swirling sheets of windborne water making an arhythmic drumbeat that, fully reawakening his apprehensions, evoked a ragged fusillade of gunshots. The wipers cleared the moisture with a futile rubbery squeak.
The glass began smearing in front of him. Turning on the defroster, Chase perceived—or imagined—a single headlight in the distance, a shimmering Cyclops that disappeared, then reappeared, brighter, a little closer.
A second light flickered, a solitary speck in his rearview mirror, vanishing in the sweep of the wipers clearing the back windshield. Then it, too, became brighter.
Involuntarily, Chase flinched.
Motorcycles. One coming toward him, the other closing behind him.
Ahead, the single headlight grew larger, and he heard the first low thrum of an engine. Reflexively, he checked the gravel apron on the road. As he turned on the brights, their beams captured what might have been the stubby shadows of new pine trees planted in symmetrical rows.
He had little time to decide. Then a motorcycle and driver shot toward him from the darkness, and he slammed on the brakes.
His car spun sideways on the slick asphalt, tires squealing and spitting gravel. The motorcycle veered, then righted itself. As it passed him, his windshield shattered.
Shards of glass struck his face. In a reflex born of panic, Chase stomped the accelerator, heading for the field. As the second motorcycle passed him, he felt the car shimmy, then heard and felt the pounding thud of a flat tire.
The car lurched forward, suddenly stopping as it struck the first row of trees, jolting Chase backward as its spinning tires dug into the damp earth. Without looking behind him, he reeled from the car. Briefly, he stumbled, breaking his fall with the palms of his hand, feeling the downpour dampening his hair and clothing. Then he ran blindly into the shelter of the pines, their branches striking his face and arms as thunder broke from the skies.
Turning, he knelt, peering out above the trees. The motorcycles had stopped by the road. One cyclist, then another, doused their lights.
Head down, arms covering his eyes, he stumbled deeper into the pines. Then he stopped, listening for the heavy thud of motorcycle boots.
Nothing.
On his hands and knees, he skittered backward into the dense cover of miniature trees. Then he stopped, listening. The only sound was the swish of rain on the boughs of pines, their smell pungent in the dark.
Hurriedly, he jerked the cell phone from his pocket.
Hunching to protect it from the rain, he called 911, speaking in an urgent undertone. Then he heard the snarl of motorcycles from the road, loud at first, before they faded into the night.
Kneeling, Chase stayed in hiding, the rain through the branches soaking his back. Then he heard the siren of a squad car, its blue swirling light cutting through the boughs.
Two more cars arrived. Slowly, Chase stood and began edging through the pines.
Holding a flashlight, a large, distinctive form in a wide-brimmed hat was moving toward him. Then Sheriff Al Garrett appeared behind the light. For a moment, he inspected the man in front of him. “You look a mess, Congressman. Once we get out of this rain, maybe you can tell me what happened.”
Sitting in the car beside Garrett, Chase felt relief wash over him. Then, as best he could, he reconstructed his panic and fear for the sheriff and deputy sitting in the back seat.
“So you couldn’t make out anyone,” Garrett said.
Chase shook his head. “I only saw one of them for second, and he was wearing a helmet. But you know my default position—White Lightning. Nothing else makes sense to me.”
As often, Chase found the sheriff’s expression impenetrable. “I’ll go talk to Parnell. Maybe his motorcycle will still be wet, and we’ll find a weapon that fired at you with its barrel still hot. But even if it’s him, the man’s not stupid, just crazy with hate. Too bad he’s got so much company.”
“Yeah,” Chase responded. “And they’ve all got the right to bear arms.”
Garrett fished out the fob for his car. “I’ll drive you to the office, get your statement, then take you back to the hotel. We’ll get the GBI to go over that car for bullets.”
He started the engine, then turned back to look at Chase. “Next time you decide to go visit somewhere, let me know. Seems like there’s at least one person in this county who’d be sad if anything happened.”
48
Entering his hotel room, Chase bolted the door. Then he stripped off his damp, mud-streaked clothing, threw it in the corner, and went to the shower.
For a time he had no way of determining, he let the hot water run over him, easing the tension from his body, his thoughts muddled by a residue of fear and dissociation. He had managed to give a coherent statement to Sheriff Garrett, he judged, and to simulate calm for as long as required. But now, alone, he did not feel like a congressman, or a father, or any notion of himself in some formerly familiar reality. Being hunted by men with guns ran through his consciousness, separating a past that felt suddenly distant from a future too obscure and chaotic to grasp.
He stayed there amidst a cloud of steam, suspended in disbelief. Finally, he turned off the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and went back to the bedroom.
There was a knock on the door.
Instantly, Chase experienced how the last three hours had altered his responses. His first thought was that some white man with a gun had walked through the lobby, taken the elevator, and come to the door intending to kill him. Then he remembered that Garrett had stationed a deputy to assure that only employees and guests could come upstairs.
Unbolting the door, he left the chain in place, peering through the crack.
It was Allie.
Surprised, he let her in, locking the door behind them. When he turned back to her, he saw that her face was suffused with worry. “How did you get up here?” he asked.
“Al Garrett called me. He seems to think I care about what happens to you. So he had a deputy follow me here.”
Chase managed to smile. “Guess we’re running out of secrets.”
Instead of responding, she came to him, hugging him so fiercely that it filled him with surprise. After a moment, his arms circled her, and she laid her face against his chest. “I’m OK,” he told her. “Just scared. “
“So am I.”
They stayed there for long minutes, silently holding each other, as if creating warmth against the cold. Then she looked up into his face, gently running the tip of one finger down the length of his chest. “Just let me lie against you,” she said.
Together, they walked to the bed.
He lay there, looking up at her. Then, to his surprise, she began to undress, eyes still meeting his.
In the light of his bedside lamp, she was slender and beautiful, the woman he had loved before. What felt different was the catch in his throat.
She slipped down beside him. Turning on his side, he drew her close, feeling the warmth of her skin, the softness of her breasts against his chest.
For a long time they did nothing, said nothing.
“We still fit,” she murmured.
The words brought everything back to him, how much he had wanted her, how it had felt to love her. Dimly, he felt the reunion of past and present dissipate the terror living inside him, until that, too, felt less real.
“Do we?” he asked.
Holding him, Allie remembered yet again those terrible moments on the sailboat foundering in chill, roiling waters, desperate to transfer the warmth of her body to his to keep him from dying, knowing then that she loved him. It would be only two weeks until she disappeared from his life.
And now, because of the reason she had done so—their child—he was here.
Her lips met his, gently at first, then longer. “As far as I know,” she answered.
As he looked into her face, she unwrapped the towel around his waist. Then, gently, Allie touched what she had uncovered, an offer of herself that required nothing more.
Feeling him respond, she recalled their first time, the beautiful, fateful night of wine and pizza and Black Juliet. He was no longer that boy; she was no longer that girl. But both still lived within them, she understood, and they were meeting again, deepened by all that had happened to them since, the realization of all they had missed.
When he slipped inside her, their eyes met again. Then her hips rose to meet him with the desire of years.
She wrapped her legs around him, as if to pull him deeper, her movements divorced from any thought but wanting him. Then the world went black.
They were moving together, slowly at first, then almost savagely, as to take from each other what they had lost. She felt the inside of her tightening, the muffled cry rising to her throat, before the shuddering spasms running through her made her cry out.
Quiet, they lay together.
After a time, Chase felt astonishment and disbelief become acceptance. At least for tonight, this was their reality. “You look the same to me,” he told her.
She kissed him, a smile on her lips. “They say when you’re older and you meet someone you loved years before, you look at them and see the person they were. Fine with me if you look past the crow’s feet.”
“They’re fine with me, too,” he answered. “Both of them.”
Suddenly she grinned, summoning her dimples. He touched the side of her mouth. “Haven’t seen those in years.”
“Haven’t fucked me in years, Congressman.”
The irreverent remark was so at odds with their shared sense of the moment that he laughed aloud. “Just whose fault is that, Alexandria Hill?”
He said this without rancor, and he could see that she knew this. But it reminded them both, he felt certain, of the person they had made together. Though soft, her expression became serious again.
“Why did you come here?” he asked.
Her gaze turned inward. “When Al called me, the first thing I thought of was you nearly dying on that boat, how it felt to almost lose you. I felt that again. But when I put down the phone, I realized it was so much more than that.” She touched his face. “Ever find yourself wishing you could live an alternate life?”
He considered his answer. “More often, lately. Even considering the life I’ve lived until now. There are people missing from it, I’m beginning to think.”
“Like who?”
“Like a family, Allie. Like you.”
Holding her, Chase began thinking again of how afraid he had been and would be tomorrow. But tomorrow would bring more than fear. “It’s gotten lost in all the excitement,” he told her, “but I had an interesting visit with your mother.”
She turned over to look at him. “What was that like?”
“Eventful. Even before she asked if I was Malcolm’s father. Turns out she’s a student of smiles and orthodonture.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised. What did you say?”
“You know what she’s like—back in college, you told me often enough. What do you suppose I told her?”
Allie absorbed this, quiet. For a few hours in this room, however shadowed by worry and foreboding, they had found a cocoon of renewal. But for Malcolm, alone in a cell, nothing had changed, and the devastating sadness of that overcame her again. “I know we need to tell him,” she said. “I just have to think about how.”
“We both do,” Chase answered. “Soon, so we can tell him on our own terms.” He thought again of why she had come to his room, the fear she had banished, but only for a time. “We also need personal security. These people know who I am, and you’re out in public for Blue Georgia. Even if I were cavalier about getting shot, which I’m certainly not, this is the wrong time for Malcolm to be missing a parent.”
Suddenly, Allie felt relief coursing through her. “It won’t be easy to tell him,” she finally answered. “But I’m glad there are two of us now.”
49
So as not to be seen, Allie left before dawn, pausing to kiss Chase at the door. “If you’re wondering,” she told him, “I have a lot of regrets, for both of us. But last night isn’t one.”
“Nor for me.”
Alone again, Chase struggled to absorb the events of the last 24 hours—Harris’ demand for the death penalty, his own quietly wrenching visit with Malcolm, his appearance in court with Allie, the revelatory conversation with her mother, the two men on motorcycles trying to kill him, and the renewed enmeshment with Allie that augured pain, promise, and uncertainty with no end in view. At the heart of this was the son in need of a father and in fear for his life.
Making coffee, Chase decided to visit him again. He would do better this time, he resolved, though he was not quite sure how.
His cell phone rang.
“Hi, Chase,” the cheery voice said. “It’s Tom Temple.”
Surprised, Chase felt instantly on edge. Though Tom had been one of his housemates during senior year, over time the relationship had become amiable but distant. He could not remember when they had last talked on the phone.
Swiftly, Chase resurrected a politician’s bonhomie and, with it, the name of Tom’s second wife. “Great to hear from you, Tom. How’s Kathleen?”
“She’d say she’s good. I’d say she’s pregnant again. My wife seems to think that kids are a profit center.”
“You’ll just have to work harder, pal. That way you can send all ten of them to Harvard.”
Tom chuckled. “You’re scaring me. But that’s what I deserve for marrying someone twelve years younger without getting a vasectomy.” Abruptly, his tone became less jovial. “I wanted to alert you to something.”
Though Chase knew at once what had happened, he said lightly, “They’ve asked you to chair a new capital campaign?”
“That you can afford. This is about a call I got just before leaving the office yesterday.”
There was no point in dissembling, Chase realized. “Print or cable?”
“Fox. They wanted to know what I remembered about you and Allie Hill. Once Kathleen told me you’d appeared with her in court, it wasn’t hard for me to draw a straight line from Harvard to Georgia.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing. I developed instant amnesia and a double-digit IQ, and said I was drawing a blank. It struck me as unseemly to mention Allie staying over that spring.”
“Thanks, Tom. I appreciate this. Some of these people can go pretty low.”
“No worries, Congressman Brevard. You always cleaned up your own dishes, and I thought she was nice. But it won’t be too long until they find some Republican whose memory is sharper. You guys were never touchy-feely in public, but still.”
“But still,” Chase answered, “is all they’ll need.”
As he hung up, his first reflex was to call Allie. But, too quickly for his own liking, he subordinated this to the cold calculus of politics. That their most painful moments could be picked over in public by gleeful and malicious predators—the men and women who made their money catering to the basest instincts of millions coarsened by racism and rage—created its own harsh imperatives. The first was for Chase to stop deceiving the man he paid to help him deal with such things.
“Malcolm Hill is your son,” Jack Raskin repeated in a voice so stunned that Chase had never heard it before. “All along, you’ve been playing with matches and lying to me.”
“Not lying,” Chase answered evenly. “Just omitting a material fact too personal to share. It seems pointless for you to personalize that.”
He felt Raskin straining to call on his reserves of professionalism and patience. “There’s little in politics that stays personal,” he retorted, “and damn few secrets. Now that you and Ms. Hill are about to burn at the stake, you’re asking me to put out the fire.”
“No. Just to put aside your hurt feelings. I care deeply about this woman, and our son. This will be devastating for both of them, and there are vultures in the media who’ll think that degrading all three of us is a spectator sport. I need your dispassionate advice about making that no worse than it will be.”
There was a brief silence. “OK,” Raskin said in a clipped tone. “Two basics. The first is obvious. This won’t keep, and your congressional seat is on the line—not to mention your fleeting hopes of becoming a senator. Your only decision is how to tell the story before somebody else does, and to whom.”
“And the second?”
“You can’t do this alone.”
“I know that, too,” Chase responded. “But that’s not up to me, is it?”
They met by the pond again, sitting beside each other in the sunlight of early afternoon. But this time they feared more than discovery, and two bodyguards from Blue Georgia watched them from just out of earshot.
As he told her about the call from Tom Temple, Allie listened without visible reaction, save for a small, mirthless smile.
“It was bound to happen,” she said. “Remember when I wondered why you expected things to turn out better than they were bound to? Seems like it’s contagious. I knew better than to want you to come with me to the courthouse, but I did.”
Strange, Chase thought, how distant their night together suddenly felt. “I wanted him to see me,” Chase answered.
“So did I.” Pausing, she studied the grass at her feet. “Maybe I shouldn’t have put off telling him, but I was afraid of how he’d take it. Now it’s mixed up with telling the world.”
