were not sitting in front of him. “Perhaps it would help if you weren’t here,” Mike said, turning around to look at the guard. The man weighed his options, wondering whether to take offense.
“Suit yourself. You got 15 minutes again,” he said. Mike waited until the door clanged shut and then turned to the woman.
There was nothing for him to do but to fill the emptiness with his own speech. “Where did you meet Senator Hodges? If you wanted to kill him, you must have had a reason. Did he do something to you? Or was it something he did to someone else?”
The woman stopped looking around the room and hung her head. For a moment Mike thought she might have drifted off to sleep.
“Was it Iraq? Or Afghanistan? Did you dislike him fighting in those wars?”
Still nothing. A blank wall of silence. Or was it sadness? There seemed a deep melancholia behind those eyes. Or perhaps Mike was reading too much of his own emotions about Jaynie into the situation. Seeing the prisoner as another lost soul in the world. Yet that puzzled him. He should be angry at this woman. She tried to kill a man he believed in. The one politician he thought might actually change this country for the better. But for some reason, he could muster no fury towards her. So he just talked. He talked of the campaign and how well it was going. Of how Hodges was being greeted by crowds of well-wishers. Of how the candidate won the debate and was climbing in the polls. For just a moment, Mike sensed a change in the room. Was it a quiver at the corner of her mouth? Or was it her lank, black hair, hanging over her face, suddenly twitching as she breathed out more heavily?
Mike pressed on.
Hodges, he told her, was a great man who would make a great president. America was waking up to his message. America was finally getting it and it all started here. In a campaign transformed by an act of violence that seemed like madness but that could change the world.
Mike paused. He leaned forward, his voice a whisper. “That change was thanks to you,” he said. “He will owe it all to you.”
The woman’s face snapped up and Mike shot backwards, his chair scraping on the floor. She looked at him now. Her eyes flared up to the size of saucers. Her breath came in ragged heaves and her whole body tensed, like a cat about to pounce. Her arms were on the desk and seemed rigid, the muscles in her hands bulging.
Mike backed off, realizing with icy dread, something he had not truly understood until now. This was a woman who tried to kill a man. She waited patiently for hours upon hours with that sole purpose. The eyes looking at him now were those of a killer.
And then the moment passed.
Her head sagged back down and her body slumped. Mike, a cold sweat on his palms, sat there. It was his turn to be silent now. He remained so until the guard came back.
“She say anything?” the guard asked. He jerked his head in the direction of the woman.
“Not a thing,” Mike answered. But she didn’t need to. Mike learned something without words. This woman was not mad. She was not deranged and without reason. She was a killer with a purpose.
* * *
OUTSIDE IN the cold, fresh air, Mike walked across the prison parking lot to his car. It was a relief to be out of the jail. His heart was still beating fast and he felt sweat freeze on his forehead as an icy blast swirled across the tarmac. He walked intently with his head bowed, so it was not until the last moment that he noticed a female figure leaning casually against his car, waiting for his arrival.
“Gotcha,” Lauren said.
Mike opened his mouth but no words came out.
“I knew you guys were looking into the shooter. But I had to follow you to make sure it was true,” she said. The note of triumph in her voice was unmistakable. Then she winced theatrically and shrugged her shoulders by way of apology.
“I’m sorry, Mike. You’re not mad about this are you?”
Mike gathered his feelings, finally
“Suit yourself. You got 15 minutes again,” he said. Mike waited until the door clanged shut and then turned to the woman.
There was nothing for him to do but to fill the emptiness with his own speech. “Where did you meet Senator Hodges? If you wanted to kill him, you must have had a reason. Did he do something to you? Or was it something he did to someone else?”
The woman stopped looking around the room and hung her head. For a moment Mike thought she might have drifted off to sleep.
“Was it Iraq? Or Afghanistan? Did you dislike him fighting in those wars?”
Still nothing. A blank wall of silence. Or was it sadness? There seemed a deep melancholia behind those eyes. Or perhaps Mike was reading too much of his own emotions about Jaynie into the situation. Seeing the prisoner as another lost soul in the world. Yet that puzzled him. He should be angry at this woman. She tried to kill a man he believed in. The one politician he thought might actually change this country for the better. But for some reason, he could muster no fury towards her. So he just talked. He talked of the campaign and how well it was going. Of how Hodges was being greeted by crowds of well-wishers. Of how the candidate won the debate and was climbing in the polls. For just a moment, Mike sensed a change in the room. Was it a quiver at the corner of her mouth? Or was it her lank, black hair, hanging over her face, suddenly twitching as she breathed out more heavily?
Mike pressed on.
Hodges, he told her, was a great man who would make a great president. America was waking up to his message. America was finally getting it and it all started here. In a campaign transformed by an act of violence that seemed like madness but that could change the world.
Mike paused. He leaned forward, his voice a whisper. “That change was thanks to you,” he said. “He will owe it all to you.”
The woman’s face snapped up and Mike shot backwards, his chair scraping on the floor. She looked at him now. Her eyes flared up to the size of saucers. Her breath came in ragged heaves and her whole body tensed, like a cat about to pounce. Her arms were on the desk and seemed rigid, the muscles in her hands bulging.
Mike backed off, realizing with icy dread, something he had not truly understood until now. This was a woman who tried to kill a man. She waited patiently for hours upon hours with that sole purpose. The eyes looking at him now were those of a killer.
And then the moment passed.
Her head sagged back down and her body slumped. Mike, a cold sweat on his palms, sat there. It was his turn to be silent now. He remained so until the guard came back.
“She say anything?” the guard asked. He jerked his head in the direction of the woman.
“Not a thing,” Mike answered. But she didn’t need to. Mike learned something without words. This woman was not mad. She was not deranged and without reason. She was a killer with a purpose.
* * *
OUTSIDE IN the cold, fresh air, Mike walked across the prison parking lot to his car. It was a relief to be out of the jail. His heart was still beating fast and he felt sweat freeze on his forehead as an icy blast swirled across the tarmac. He walked intently with his head bowed, so it was not until the last moment that he noticed a female figure leaning casually against his car, waiting for his arrival.
“Gotcha,” Lauren said.
Mike opened his mouth but no words came out.
“I knew you guys were looking into the shooter. But I had to follow you to make sure it was true,” she said. The note of triumph in her voice was unmistakable. Then she winced theatrically and shrugged her shoulders by way of apology.
“I’m sorry, Mike. You’re not mad about this are you?”
Mike gathered his feelings, finally
Similar Books
