The Governor's Wife (45 page)

"Love me?"

"Yes. Even if I love you."

And that was the question: Did she love him? It had been a long time since a man had found her desirable. Perhaps even sexy. A little. She enjoyed Jesse's attention. It felt good to be wanted, as a woman, not just as a photo op. But was she leading him on to fill a void inside her, an empty space her husband had once filled? And even if she loved Jesse, would she ever leave Bode? Of course, he was in Austin; she was in Laredo. Perhaps she already had. Dancing there in Jesse's arms, she felt a desire she had long forgotten. To lay with a man she loved.

"Put it over the plate, Miguel.
Muy rápido.
"

Five of the last seven U.S. presidents had been left-handed. Bode Bonner would make it six out of eight.

Miguel's pitch was low.

Bode batted left-handed. Or he had when he played baseball in high school. He was a four-letter varsity man: football, basketball, baseball, and track. Football had been his ticket to UT, but baseball had been his first love. He hadn't picked up a bat in thirty years.

Miguel's pitch was wide.

The boys wanted to play
béisbol
, so Miguel was pitching and Alejandro was manning the outfield back by the tall wrought-iron fence and hedgerow surrounding the grounds of the Governor's Mansion. Bode was batting. Mandy and Josefina in her yellow dress sat on the bench. Bode glanced up and saw Becca watching from her second-floor window. She didn't want to come out, even though Ranger Carl, his replacement bodyguard, insured their safety within the confines of the Mansion grounds.

Miguel's pitch was high.

Bode had been a power hitting first baseman/center fielder for the Comfort High Bobcats. He had never hit for a high batting average, but he could put a fastball over the fence. And he had, often. Of course the fence around this lawn was considerably shorter than at his high school baseball field. So he was careful not to swing too hard.

Miguel's pitch was inside.

Bode had sent Ranger Carl to the sporting goods store to buy gloves, bats, balls, and bases. Bode was dressed in jeans and cowboy boots—he wasn't figuring on running the bases—and the boys were dressed in shorts and tee shirts. The scene reminded him of playing sandlot ball in Comfort, except this field wasn't right in the middle of town surrounded by houses. On more than one occasion, young Bode Bonner had put a baseball through a neighbor's window. The sound of glass shattering had sent the boys running to avoid paying for a replacement.

Miguel's pitch was right down the middle of the plate.

Without considering the consequences, Bode Bonner was that young boy in Comfort again. He stepped into the pitch and swung the bat hard at the white ball that seemed to hang in the air, begging to be belted, and felt the bat make solid contact.

Too solid.

As soon as he hit the ball, he knew it was gone. He watched the white ball sail far and high into the blue sky, still rising as it cleared the fence, and he felt that wonderful sensation wash over his body—
home run!
The boys whistled, Mandy and Josefina clapped, and Bode thought,
I've still got it
—until they heard the sound of glass shattering and a car alarm going off.

"Shit." As soon as the word was out of his mouth, he knew it was wrong; a religious man shouldn't cuss. "I mean, darn."

The boys turned back to Bode with their eyes wide and expressions frozen, waiting for Bode's lead. Bode dropped the bat and ran for the Mansion. The boys tossed their gloves and followed. Mandy and Josefina brought up the rear.

"You didn't see that, Carl!" Bode yelled to his Texas Ranger.

Jim Bob watched the scene on the lawn below. He shook his head. The governor's playing baseball with Mexican kids while Rome's burning. He sat behind his desk, again covered with newspaper and magazine articles and videos; but not of Bode Bonner. The last week, Jim Bob had read every article that mentioned Jesse Rincón and watched every video of every interview with Jesse Rincón. He now knew more about the doctor than the doctor knew about himself.

And none of it was good for Bode Bonner.

The guy was straight out of a Hollywood story: born in Texas of a Mexican mother who died in childbirth; raised by an uncle in Nuevo Laredo, attended Jesuit in Houston, and college at Harvard; graduated top of his class, which earned him a seat in the medical school; prestigious internship and residency; specialty in cardiac surgery; lucrative offers from hospitals across the nation; but he returned home to care for residents of the
colonias
.

It made Jim Bob sick.

His was exactly the kind of life story the liberal media loved, the kind of life story they would praise and promote—a Latino who made good and now did good. God, it was disgusting. And dangerous to Bode Bonner's presidential dreams. He could not lose the Governor's Mansion and win the White House. He had to win reelection in Texas. But liberals from New York to California would send wads of money to Texas to defeat him. The national Democratic Party would get behind Jesse Rincón and flood the state with campaign funds. Bode Bonner's reelection campaign had $75 million in the bank; the Democrats would soon have $100 million. Or $200 million. Or $300 million. Whatever it took to defeat Bode Bonner in Texas. To keep another Republican from Texas out of the White House.

But Jim Bob Burnet wasn't about to go down without a fight.

He would not let his chance slip away. He would do whatever was necessary to win. He had to prove to his ex-wife—and to himself—that he was not a loser.

So he had to win.

But he would not discuss any of this with the governor. Instead, he would wait for Eddie Jones to return from the border with dirt. Something he could use to eliminate this unpleasant threat named Jesse Rincón.

The Border Patrol agent named Rusty came over to the truck and handed Jesse a note through his open window. Lindsay ducked her head.

"Fella came out this morning, asking for you, like I'm a secretary or something. Course, I guess it's the least I can do, you being the next governor and all. Anywho, I told him how to find your clinic in the
colonia
, but he got kind of pale in the face, asked if the cartels killed people in there." Rusty chuckled. "Said to give you that note, said he'd be in Laredo."

"Thanks, Rusty."

"Sure thing, Doc."

Jesse read the note then drove through the gates. He handed the note to Lindsay.

"This man wants to meet me at the La Posada. Who is he?"

Lindsay read the note. "Clint Marshall. He's the chairman of the state Democratic Party. He hates Bode. It's mutual."

Jesse drove into town at noon. Lindsay remained at the clinic. He parked on the plaza outside the La Posada Hotel and walked through the lobby and out to the courtyard pool where he found an Anglo sitting at a table under an umbrella with a cell phone to his ear and a big plate of enchiladas in front of him. He noticed Jesse and quickly ended his call. He stuck a hand out to Jesse.

"Dr. Rincón, I'm Clint Marshall."

He was an overweight, middle-aged Anglo on his way to heart disease if he did not lay off the enchiladas.

"Mr. Marshall."

"Clint. Please, have a seat."

Jesse sat and declined Clint's offer of lunch.

"Doctor, I know you're a busy man, so I'll get right to the point. We want you to run for governor. We want you to be the face of the Democratic Party in Texas. The future of the party. With the growth of the Latino population here, the opportunity for a Latino to win the Governor's Mansion has never been better. You can make history."

"Governor Bonner is unbeatable."

"Have you seen the latest polls?"

"What polls?"

"Texas polls. You're gaining fast on the governor."

"But I am not a candidate."

"Doesn't matter. Your name is out there. Mayor Gutiérrez, he's a one-man campaign machine—and a formidable one. His Mexican Mafia, all the press you've gotten lately, you're a hot ticket. How many followers do you have?"

Jesse glanced around.

"No one is following me."

"No. On Twitter."

"Twitter?"

"You don't have a Twitter account?"

"Uh, no, I do not have that."

"Well, you need one if you're going to be governor."

"I do?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"People want to know what you're doing."

"I am working. Treating patients."

"No, no. That's too boring. You've got to make it sound exciting, like a pickup truck commercial."

"A pickup truck commercial?"

"You want be governor, social media's the ticket."

"But I do not want that."

"A Twitter account?"

"To be governor."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I am a doctor."

"Who can be governor. The national Democratic Party has pledged as much money as it takes to beat Bode Bonner in Texas."

"Why? Why would they care what happens in Texas?"

"Because Texas is the future of the Democratic Party in America. Once Latinos become the majority here and take Texas back for the Democrats, the other red states will fall like dominoes. Latinos are moving north, turning red states brown."

"Why do the Democrats want so desperately to win this election in Texas?"

"Simple: If you keep Bode Bonner out of the Governor's Mansion, we keep him out of the White House."

The governor of Texas sat behind his desk and gazed across at the Professor.

"You ready to come out of exile?" Jim Bob said.

"Yep."

"You've been moping around the Mansion for a month."

Bode wasn't about to disclose his religious epiphany to Jim Bob.

"I'll schedule a press conference and get a 'Bode Bonner for President' organization set up in the early primary states, start hiring staff—"

"This early?"

"You mean, this late? Romney and the others, they've already got staff up and running in Iowa, New Hampshire … Time to shift this thing into gear, Bode. If you want to be president."

"I do."

"Good."

Jim Bob placed a stack of papers on the desk. Bode grabbed his signing pen.

"First item, pardon of DeSean Washington."

"I hate pardons. I let someone out of prison, I'm soft on crime."

"This guy served twenty years for a crime he didn't commit. Exonerated by DNA."

"Another Dallas case?"

"Yep."

"How many is this?"

"Fifty statewide, twenty-five from Dallas."

"What were they doing in Dallas back then, putting every black man in the city in prison?"

"Apparently."

Bode signed the pardon.

"Item two, you're appointing Hoot Pickens as Chairman of the Texas Commission on Environmental Quality."

"Hoot's an oil man."

"Refinery."

"Won't the press complain?"

"So? Now, item three …"

Jim Bob did not push paper across the desk. Bode had his signing pen at the ready, but he had nothing to sign.

"What's item three?"

"Mandy."

"What about her?"

"It's over."

"She's quitting?"

"You're quitting her."

"You want me to fire her?"

"No. Just stop screwing her."

"Why?"

"You want to be president?"

"Yeah."

"That's why."

"It's never been a problem before."

"You never wanted to be president before. Look, you can have an affair with a goat and I can still get you reelected governor of Texas. But you get caught having an affair with a girl who looks like Mandy, even I won't be able to get you elected president. It's a different set of voters. You've got to clean up your act."

"Quit sex?"

"At least until you're elected."

"That'll be, what, almost two years? Damn, Jim Bob … I mean, darn, I haven't gone that long without sex since I was fifteen."

"You had sex when you were fifteen?"

Bode nodded. "The varsity cheerleaders."

"But they were seniors."

"Yep."

"Which one?"

"All of them."

"All of them?"

Jim Bob pondered on that for a moment then looked back up at Bode.

"They're gonna come after you."

"They're all married by now."

"Not the cheerleaders—the liberal media. They're playing Indiana Jones, digging all over Texas trying to find some dirt on you. They find out you're screwing a twenty-seven-year-old gal, they'll crucify you. All this—"

He gestured at the stack of magazines and newspapers with Bode's image on the covers and front pages now piled high on the corner of his desk.