Power Play (23 page)

O’Brien said, “Impressive.”

“It’s the wave of the future,” Tomlinson said. “And you can put the National Association on the bandwagon.”

O’Brien glanced at his two aides, then asked, “What bandwagon?”

“The MHD bandwagon,” Tomlinson said, with some surprise in his expression. “The National Association of Electric Utilities can position itself as being in favor of a new, more efficient way of generating electrical power. You can show the American consumer that—”

“Why should we be in favor of a more efficient way of generating electrical power?” O’Brien asked, almost crossly.

Tomlinson blinked. “You can show your customers that the association is working to lower their electricity bills.”

“Why would we want to lower their electricity bills?” O’Brien’s reedy voice was beginning to irritate Jake.

Amy Wexler said, “Your association members could score a public relations coup by showing that you’re working to help your customers.”

“And you could still make more profits,” Tomlinson said, “even while you’re lowering your rates.”

O’Brien shook his head. “You don’t understand, fella. We’re a regulated industry. A board of politicians and other noble citizens set the prices we can charge for electricity in each and every state of the union. Why should we go for a new generating system that’s more efficient? Those goddamn regulators will just force us to cut our rates.”

Tomlinson looked shocked; Amy fell silent. Jake glanced at Bob Rogers; he seemed positively angry.

For long moments no one spoke. O’Brien took another slug of his drink. Tomlinson seemed at a loss for words. The limo rolled along the interstate under a thin gray cover of clouds.

At last Jake spoke up. “Your association should support MHD because it will show the people who pay their electric bills that you’re trying to help them.”

Before O’Brien could respond, Tomlinson jumped in. “That’s right. You’ll be on the side of the angels. You’ll be showing your customers that you
want
to lower their electricity bills.”

“And the regulatory boards—”

“The regulatory boards will go easier on you because they’ll get pressure from the voters.”

O’Brien shook his head. “The only time the voters put pressure on the boards is to stop us from raising our rates.”

“But this time,” Tomlinson said, reaching across Amy to jab a finger into O’Brien’s shoulder, “you’ll be going to the boards to ask them to
lower
your rates! Think of how that’ll go over with your customers. And their political leaders.”

O’Brien’s eyes shifted to his two aides, who nodded in unison. Jake thought of bobble-head dolls.

Tomlinson added, “Lowering your rates will make your customers
and
the regulators happy with you. Of course, you won’t lower them so much that you won’t make an indecent profit out of the new system.”

Everyone chuckled, except O’Brien.

Very reluctantly, he admitted, “Maybe you’re right.”

“You’re damned right I’m right,” Tomlinson snapped.

They drove on in silence for several miles. At last Amy asked, “Then can we count on your support for MHD, Mr. O’Brien?”

He looked her up and down, smiled, and replied, “Yeah, why the hell not? It’s all so far in the future that it doesn’t really matter one way or the other, does it?”

“The future becomes the present sooner than you think,” Rogers said.

Make the victim a party to the crime,
Jake told himself.

“Mr. O’Brien,” he said, “maybe the National Association ought to do something specific to show that it’s backing MHD.”

“Do something?”

“Something that clearly shows you’re in favor of MHD.”

“Something?” O’Brien repeated, his voice like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Like what?”

Jake said, “Like building a transmission line that connects the big rig to the state’s power grid.”

Rogers’s eyes lit up. “Wow! Instead of just dumping the power we generate we could put it into the grid—like the Russians did in Moscow.”

O’Brien’s eye narrowed. “You want us to pay for connecting your doohickey to the grid.”

“We could add fifty megawatts to the local power availability,” Tomlinson said, warming to the idea.

Amy jumped in, “That would be enough to light up the whole county of Lignite!”

“And then some!” Rogers said.

Jake explained more calmly, “It would be concrete evidence of your support for MHD. A gesture of goodwill. It would help the electricity consumers of the state. And it wouldn’t cost much: just a few miles of a high-capacity transmission line.”

O’Brien muttered, “A gesture of goodwill, eh?”

“That’s right,” said Jake.

O’Brien glanced at his aides. Their bobble-heads nodded in unison once again.

PRIMARY ELECTION NIGHT

April brought cold rain and winds that gusted down out of the mountains. The accumulated snow of winter melted away at last while Tomlinson raced across the highways in a final whirlwind tour of the state.

Tim Younger growled and groused when Jake told him that the National Association was going to hook the big rig to the state’s power grid. But Glynis helped to calm him down and, once the rig had completed its hundred-hour run, Younger grudgingly allowed a construction team to connect the transmission line.

“You’ll be adding fifty megawatts to the state’s generating capacity,” Glynis told him.

“When the rig’s running,” Younger pointed out. “Which it isn’t while they’re hooking up their line.”

“Don’t be a grouch,” Glynis commanded. Younger grinned sheepishly at her.

Amy worried about the weather. “If it’s raining on election day the turnout will be small. That could help Dant.”

But election day dawned bright and sunny, unusually warm and springlike. Money talks, Jake reminded himself. Tomlinson’s even buying the weather.

Election night the campaign staff and key volunteers gathered at the double-sized suite that Tomlinson’s aides had taken at the Sheridan Hotel. Downstairs people were beginning to fill up the ballroom, but up in the suite Tomlinson stood unmoving in front of the wall-screen TV, watching the returns with single-minded intensity. He wore a charcoal gray pinstripe suit, no vest, with one of his own red-white-and-blue campaign buttons pinned to his jacket’s lapel.

Amy was at his side, in a lilac cocktail dress and plenty of diamonds. Tomlinson’s father, in a pompous old-fashioned tuxedo and black tie, prowled restlessly among the growing crowd, looking as if he wanted to kill somebody. Jake recognized many of the campaign workers and volunteers in the suite. News reporters and camera crews were filtering in, too—they clustered near the bar, Jake noticed.

Tim Younger came in, with Glynis. He looked out of place in cowboy boots, jeans, and a bolo tie among the city slickers in their three-piece suits. But if that bothered Tim he didn’t show it. Glynis wore an off-white ball gown. She intends to go dancing, Jake thought. Jake was in his best and only blue suit, feeling stiffly uncomfortable with his maroon tie knotted at his throat.

Happy to see her, Jake made his way through the growing crowd toward Glynis and Younger.

“I’m glad you could make it,” he said to them.

Before they could reply, the crowd whooped. Turning toward the TV screen, Jake saw that Tomlinson had built up a commanding lead.

“That’s just the returns from the city,” Tomlinson Senior barked, gesturing for the onlookers to calm down. “Dant’s main strength is out in the rural areas. Don’t go breaking out the champagne just yet.”

Amy Wexler looked more than pleased, though, as she hung on Tomlinson’s arm. “Dant won’t be able to overcome that big a lead,” she said to Tomlinson’s father. The old man gave her a cold glare and walked away.

“How’re you doing?” Jake asked Glynis. He hadn’t seen much of her for the past few weeks.

“I’m all right,” she said.

Younger excused himself and headed for the bar. Jake pulled Glynis toward one of the heavily draped windows and asked, more quietly, “Have you located Dr. McGruder?”

Nodding, she replied, “He’s retired to a town called Cape Coral, in Florida. No e-mail address, so I’ve written him a letter. He hasn’t responded to it.”

“Can you phone him?”

“I have, several times. I get an answering machine, but he hasn’t returned my calls.”

Jake thought a moment, then said, “Looks like he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Then I’ll have to go out there and face him in person.”

Jake saw that Glynis was deadly serious. “Glyn, if your suspicions are anywhere near being right, going to see McGruder could be … well, dangerous.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I do!” Jake blurted.

Her eyes went wide, but before she could say anything Younger came back with a pair of plastic champagne flutes.

As he handed one to Glynis, he said, “Sorry, Jake. Only got two hands.”

Jake was staring at Glynis. She accepted the champagne from Younger, but as she raised the glass to her lips the crowd roared.

Turning back to the TV, Jake saw that the news station’s election team had placed a red check mark next to Tomlinson’s name on their election scoreboard, with the words:
PREDICTED WINNER
.

Amy stood on tiptoes to give Tomlinson a congratulatory kiss on the cheek. Cameras whirred. Tomlinson pulled loose, grinning, then raised both arms in a victory wave for the crowd. Tomlinson’s father almost smiled. Everyone was cheering; somebody even threw a handful of confetti into the air.

But as Jake looked down at Glynis he saw that she was serious, somber, not even smiling. She’s thinking about going to Florida to find Dr. McGruder, Jake knew.

Tomlinson made an impromptu thank-you speech to his campaign workers, finishing with, “Now on to November … and the United States Senate!”

Everyone yelled. Even the news reporters and camera crews joined in. Jake felt suddenly tired, as if he’d run a hard race and needed to cool down. Glynis smiled minimally and nodded, but her eyes were gazing past the crowd, past the celebration.

Tomlinson’s father raised his hands for quiet. “If you’ll all go down to the ballroom now, my son and I will join you there in a few minutes.”

They all filed out, all except Tomlinson and his father. And Amy, who stood between the two men. Jake left the suite with Glynis and Younger.

In the ballroom a dance band was in full swing, belting out an old rock tune while couples in dark suits and bright gowns gyrated across the polished floor. Champagne was flowing freely. Jake spotted Bob Rogers and his wife thumping along with more energy than style. Glynis and Younger headed for the bar, leaving Jake standing alone, the blare of the music hurting his ears, thinking that he might as well go on home.

Then the band began a country-and-western waltz and Jake saw Leverett Cardwell and Alice come out onto the dance floor, looking like two animated china dolls, he in a tux and she in an honest-to-god Alice blue gown. They glided gracefully among the other couples, smiling at each other as if there were no other people on the planet.

Once the music ended, Jake weaved through the crowd toward the Cardwells. Lev saw him approaching and gave him a fatherly smile. Jake went with them to one of the round tables that had been set up along the periphery of the ballroom.

“You’ve done a good job, my boy,” Cardwell said as they sat down. “You got the electric utility industry, the coal mining industry, and the environmental movement all to endorse MHD. That’s grand.”

Jake felt a flush of pleasure. “I’d rather hear that from you than get elected to the Senate myself, Lev.”

Cardwell’s round face grew more serious. “Now the job will be to keep your man from forgetting about MHD. You’ve got to keep the issue at the forefront of his campaign.”

“I know. I will.”

“What do you think Senator Leeds’s main campaigning issues will be?” Alice asked.

Jake turned toward her. “I really don’t have the faintest idea.”

“It’s too late for him to preempt the MHD issue from Tomlinson,” Cardwell mused. “He’ll probably stay away from anything dealing with energy.”

“Then we ought to hammer him about it,” said Jake.

Cardwell nodded. Looking past him, Jake saw Glynis dancing with Younger. On an impulse, he asked, “Lev, would you mind if I asked your wife to dance with me?”

Cardwell’s owl-gray eyes widened for an instant, then he turned to Alice and smiled at her. “Can I trust you with a younger man, dear?”

Alice giggled and got to her feet. Jake led her out onto the floor, wondering why he was doing this.

As they swung into the Latino beat of the music, Alice said, “You know, Lev was very upset about Arlan’s suicide.”

Tensing, Jake replied, “The police in Vernon claim that Mrs. Sinclair was suffering from terminal cancer.”

“Really?”

He shook his head. “She didn’t look like a cancer patient when I saw her.”

“Ah, you never know, Jake. Some people look healthy even though they’re dying inside.”

Suddenly the music cut off in mid-beat. Jake looked up at the bandstand, then at the giant TV screen hanging to one side of it.

Harmon Dant was standing before a battery of microphones, cameras clicking and whirring at him. Despite his attempts to smile, Dant looked bitterly unhappy, his plump cheeks sagging, his eyes baggy.

He cleared his throat noisily, then leaned toward the microphones slightly as he began, “We fought the good fight, and I want to thank every one of you who fought it with me. We haven’t really been defeated, only delayed.”

Applause and cheers rang from the TV speakers.

Dant continued, “I want to congratulate Frank Tomlinson on his winning this primary. He had a lot more resources on his side than we did, and that’s what counted.”

He paused, and for a moment Jake thought the man might break into tears. But then Dant continued, “Despite tonight’s disappointment, we will continue to battle for the things we believe in: less government interference in our lives, lower taxes, an end to murdering the unborn…”

“He’s not going to offer his support to Tomlinson,” said Leverett Cardwell. Jake hadn’t noticed Lev’s coming onto the dance floor to stand beside his wife.