Linwood Barclay - Too Close to Home

His cell phone rang. I moved back enough to allow him room to reach into his jacket.

“Hello?” he said. “Yeah. . Right. . I know. . We’re on our way. . Right. . See you soon.” He put the phone away. “They’re having shit fits that we’re not there yet.”

“They’re going to be in for quite the surprise,” I said, backing away, opening the door, grabbing Randy by the arm and throwing him into the backseat.

Once I was behind the wheel, he said, “You know what this is, don’t you? This is kidnapping!”

“Randy,” I said, “I’m taking you to your own goddamn press conference. But I am issuing a death threat. If you don’t do what this guy wants, and my family ends up dead, I swear to God, I will kill you.”

I threw the car into drive and tromped on the gas. Randy, who was leaning forward to tell me something, was thrown back into his seat so hard I caught a glimpse of his shoes in the rearview mirror.

As Drew had instructed, I called the house.

Ellen answered. “Hello,” she said.

“It’s me. How you holding up?”

“We’ve been better. He’s right here, he wants to talk to you.”

Then Drew’s voice. “What did he say?”

“We’re heading to the press conference now. I’ve explained to the mayor what he has to do.”

“That’s great, Jim. I really appreciate it.”

Like I’d just offered to let him borrow my car.

“Jim, I’d like to talk to the mayor,” Drew said.

“Sure thing.” I held the phone away from my head, looked at Randy in the mirror, and said, “He wants to talk to you.”

“Christ, no, I don’t want to talk to him,” Randy said.

“Take the phone, Randy,” I said.

He reached over the seat and took it from my hand. “Hello?” he said. “Yes, it is. . Uh-huh. . Of course, I can understand how you might feel that way. . I’m afraid I was unaware of that. . Well, let me put this to you, sir. What sort of father lets his daughter get into that line of work?”

I couldn’t make out the words, but I could hear Drew shouting at that point.

Randy, backpedaling, said, “Okay, okay, okay. I’m sorry. You’re right, perhaps that was a bit out of line. . Yes, well. . Okay.” And he handed the phone back to me.

I put it to my ear. “Yeah?”

“He’s an asshole,” Drew said.

“You see, Drew?” I said. “There are things we can agree on. I’d like to talk to my wife again.”

“I don’t know, Jim. I think it’s better you just get done what you have to get done.”

“Drew,” I said, “if the mayor does what you want him to do, does that settle things? You going to do to him what you’ve done to the others?”

There was a long pause at the other end of the line.

“Drew?”

“I want to talk to him after. I want you to bring him here. I want him to explain himself to me face-to-face.”

Then Drew ended the call, without promising he wouldn’t kill Randy, and without promising he wouldn’t kill me. The only ones he’d promised to spare, if he got what he wanted, were Ellen and Derek.

“What did he say to that?” Randy asked.

“Your performance better be a good one,” I said. “What’d he say to you?”

Randy was quiet, then, “He said a bunch of stuff. Told me I should be ashamed of myself. Seems to me there’s plenty of shame to go around. He’s the one got sent to jail, didn’t look out for his daughter.”

I wondered if Randy would ever get it.

When we pulled up out front of the Walcott, Maxine Woodrow, Randy Finley’s campaign strategist, was standing there, waiting. She looked liked she was about to have a heart attack.

If she hadn’t had one yet, she surely had one coming.

The moment the Grand Marquis stopped, she had the mayor’s door open and said, “We were all getting so worried about you! We’re all ready to start!”

She took the mayor by the elbow and started leading him into the hotel. I left the car sitting there and followed them inside. As we rounded a corner and headed to where the convention hall was located, we could hear upbeat music-“Don’t Stop (Thinking About Tomorrow)” by Fleetwood Mac, it sounded like-and people talking. As Randy entered the room, the eyes of about fifty supporters were on him and cheers went up.

“Randy! Randy!” they chanted.

There were a couple of local news crews there as well. The lights on their cameras came on, and suddenly Randy was bathed in white light. He held his hand up, shielding his eyes, but waved at the same time. The son of a bitch was actually smiling. Adoration, even when it’s coming only moments before total humiliation, was impossible for him not to enjoy.

“Everyone’s so excited!” I heard Maxine shout above the chanting.

“Yeah, well, me too!” Randy said.

“Randy! Randy!”

I stayed close to him. Normally, I’d hang back, grab something to eat. I was, after all, just the driver. But this time I wasn’t letting him out of my sight. I was barely going to let him out of arm’s reach. I didn’t trust him to do the right thing once he got to that podium.

The supporters were waving signs in the air. There was Finley for Congress and Finally, a Man Like Finley and Finley First! Music was pulsing through the speakers, the kind of stuff you hear at sporting events to get the crowd going. It wasn’t all that big an event, and wisely, Maxine had not booked that big a room. Rule number one in politics: Always book a room that’s too small.

Maxine was approaching the microphone, holding up her hands to get everyone to settle down. She blew into the mike and a raspy blast shook the room. “Is this on? Can you hear me?”

A number of people shouted yes. “Well,” she said, “it is my extreme pleasure to be able to introduce to you this evening a man who has served you so proudly for many years now as your mayor, a man who’s always put the constituent first, a man who knows what the people need and is willing to fight for them to get it, our man of the hour, Randall Finley!”

The crowd applauded. The mayor mounted the three steps to the raised platform on which the podium stood, gave Maxine a hug, and positioned himself by the mike. He looked down at the first row, saw his wife, Jane, sitting there, and gave her a wave. He must have decided that wasn’t enough, because he walked back off the stage, down to where his wife was seated, leaned over and embraced her. He put his arms around her, pressed his cheek to hers and kissed her. He also took a moment to whisper something in her ear. Maybe something along the lines of “Get ready.”

Then he was back on the stage, something close to a spring in his step, and looking at him, you’d never have had an inkling.

I stood off to the side of the small stage, no more than ten feet away, my phone out. I’d bought this gadget to take video of customers’ yards when they wanted landscaping done, but never got much more out of it than two-minute snatches. I’d have to make that work.

“Good evening, good evening!” Randy said. “Thank you for that wonderful welcome. It’s really terrific to be here. It’s truly an honor. We are on the threshold of exciting times!”

“Exciting” wasn’t the word I would have chosen.

“As you know,” he continued, “I’ve always tried to do my best for you as mayor of Promise Falls, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and the skills I’ve brought to bear on a local level, I would like to apply on a national level.”

There was some murmuring in the crowd, some applause, then people whispering “shh” so Randy could continue.

“This nation is in a terrible mess,” he said. “It’s in an economic tailspin, it’s being eaten away by a pervasive moral decay.”