Page 212 of The Wild Charge

Now Dennis and Paula.

He’d thought the first wave was it, that horror show at the Beaumont; he’d breathed a huge sigh of relief that he wasn’t there at the time; had actually feltlucky.

But now, weeks later, with the Kellys dead…no one was safe.

His hand trembled as he reached for his water glass, and so he pressed it flat to the podium instead, rather than risk a spill. Raised veins and liver spots stood out in stark relief under the glare of hot lights. When had he gotten so damned old? So frail? He’d come out tonight to announce his run for reelection, and here, clutching tight to the podium, were the hands of a trembling skeleton.

He scanned the audience, overcome by a moment of dizziness. His wife had badgered him about taking his blood pressure meds that morning, but he couldn’t remember if he’d actually taken them. “I’ll take a few questions now,” he croaked out, and if it wasn’t for the mic, he knew his broken voice wouldn’t have carried.

“Senator–”

“Senator–”

“Senator–!”

Because fate wasn’t smiling on him today, the volunteer with the mic in the audience gave voice to a familiar, young, fresh-faced thing who’d been hassling him for weeks at these fucking pressers, always needling his agenda points and harping on his voting record in the senate. She shot to her feet, expression businesslike as she leaned into the mic.

“Senator Windmere, it was revealed last week that the single largest donor to your last campaign was Jack Waverly, who’s been accused of kidnapping, trafficking, and raping more than three dozen young women. Were you aware of any such activity when your campaign accepted the funds?”

Cold dread washed through him.Bitch, he thought.Fucking little bitch. Shoulda put you on that auction block.

He gripped the podium tight and leaned forward, levering a scowl at her. “Jack Waverly was viciously murdered two months ago, and none of those accusations can be proven. He was a good man, and a good friend, so why don’t you get your sensationalist headlines somewhere else, missy?” He turned and stormed from the stage to a flurry of shouts and shutter clicks.

His aides hurried to fall in beside him, once he was out in the hallway.

“I want that bitch taken off the presser list,” he huffed.

“Yes, sir. Are you–”

“I’m leaving. Make sure my car’s outside.”

“Yes, sir, right away.”

Another aide offered over a white envelope. “This came while you were onstage.”

Whitmere paused and turned to the boy, incredulous. “From who? You just took it? Jesus, what if it’s anthrax?”

The boy frowned, and stared down at the envelope. “The flap’s not sealed, and nothing fell out. I think it’s just a card.”

Terry snatched it up and pressed on, out through a set of double doors, through a row of security, and, finally, into the back seat of his Town Car.

His driver knew not to speak to him, and simply put the car in gear and pulled away from the school.

Terry sagged back against the leather with a long, deep exhale. His blood was still up, pulse thumping hard, temples throbbing. His vision swam a moment, in and out of focus.

“Shit,” he muttered, and retrieved the bottle of Scotch stuffed down into the door pocket, taking a few swallows straight from the mouth of it.

Streetlamps flashed past the window as the driver steered them out of downtown and toward his mansion, tucked away behind an old stone wall and plenty of evergreen trees. He sipped more Scotch, and felt his heartrate slow as they slipped out of the more residential fringes of Providence and took a familiar series of turns onto the quieter, two-lane roads bordered by tall shade trees.

They were about a mile from home, in the deep black of an old logging road without any streetlights, when he remembered the envelope. He’d dropped it on the seat and picked it up now; clicked on the overhead light so he could read whatever was inside.

Itwasa card, as his aide had said.Thinking of Youit said on the front, above a tranquil park landscape, complete with benches and picnickers.

Inside, one word:HELLO.

Below, it was signedThe Six Hundred.

“What the hell?” he murmured, turning it over, searching for any sort of context.

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