Mike sat on the edge of his seat in Iris Spencer's reception area, folding and unfolding his hands, tapping his foot restlessly.
"She's running a little behind today," said the girl behind the desk, between chews of gum.
"That's fine." He got up and paced around a bit, feeling out of place in the sleek surroundings: chairs and sofa clad tourniquet-tight in eggshell-colored leather, resting impossibly on thin metal legs; floor-to-ceiling shelves mostly barren, a few books in the corners and some pottery in between; walls bare save for a couple of framed mosaics, showcased by track lighting; and, off to one side, a picture window with no apparent blinds or drapes to shield the afternoon sun. There was something cold and almost sinister about it, despite the brightness, despite the splashes of terra cotta and white. This is the devil's place of business, he thought. I am consorting with the devil.
Then the devil opened her office door and, smiling, beckoned him.
She was beautiful, a cream-colored pantsuit accentuating her tanned features, a twin line of russet lipstick her only makeup, her dark hair flowing freely. She showed him to a plush chair with a view of the canyon and took her place opposite him.
"I am so sorry about what happened," she said.
So sorry, he repeated to himself. Her capacity to disarm was uncanny; he wanted to believe her, somehow, even feeling as he had a moment ago. It would be the easy thing to do, in the absence of proof, just as forming an alliance in the first place had been. But he was there for a reason.
"Sorry because it's a terrible thing? Or just because it didn't go the way you meant it to?"
Iris drew back from him, and her expression hardened a bit. "Mr. Turner," she said. "You're not suggesting that my husband and I orchestrated the attack on those kids, are you?"
"I'm not suggesting that you told anyone to go out and put anyone else in the hospital. But the word around town is that you, or rather your people, told someone to go out and be disruptive. And if that's true, then you are responsible for what happened."
"My husband and I do not stand for disruption, Mr. Turner. And as for the burden of responsibility, I do not mean to blame the victims, but it is a fact that extremism breeds extremism, and I regard the protesters as belonging to an extremist group. Now, as for the young man in the hospital -- "
"The young man in the hospital is my nephew, Ms. Spencer."
Iris's mouth hung open for a moment. "Oh," she said, off stride for once.
"But let's leave personal sentiment aside for a moment. Dave is going to be fine. And let's assume that you mean what you say about not standing for disruption. You must be aware that this has been an increasingly disruptive campaign." He took a deep breath; give her a chance, he told himself. "That's why I'm here to ask you: will you take a stand on this? Will you denounce what's happened, and assume responsibility for any actions taken on your behalf, solicited or not? You could force Ed Fontaine to do the same. You could be the force for unity in this election -- and beyond."
"Well," said Iris, regaining her composure, "you'd have to take that up with Steven. After all, he is the candidate."
"He is the Stepford candidate," growled Mike. Then, seeing her look of indignation, he said, "Come on. It's just the two of us here, you don't need to put on an act. You call the shots. How do you call this one?"
"I say, no thank you, Mr. Turner. We will be as open and ethical for the rest of this campaign as we have until now."
"What if I told you that it would cost you my group's support? That we might even urge ticket-splitting -- voting for the park and for Fontaine?"
Iris gave him a long, assessing look. "I question whether you could bring yourself to do that," she said. "As for the loss of your support, well, every little bit is nice to have, and it will be missed. But we're up in the polls, we've got the clear media and financial edge, and" -- she raised her eyebrows -- "Steven looks so dashing in his blue suit."
Mike couldn't help but laugh, part scorn and part genuine amusement. He sank back into the soft cushions and swiveled slightly to look out over the grounds. Unreal, he thought, watching artificial brook disappear into artificial culvert. Just unreal.
"You're welcome to stay the afternoon, of course," said Iris, appearing at the window's edge and grinning. "Most people find it irresistible."
They did it, thought Mike, all the way back; they engineered that attack, somehow, whether they knew the details or not. He was so angry he could hardly see the road, and made it back to the restaurant mostly out of habit. And when he got there, he found so many news vans and cars with "Press" parking stickers that it felt like walking into another campaign event: it was as if he'd never left Spencerland. "Most people find it irresistible," he said to himself, threading his way through the parking lot. Dammit, he raged. Could it be true? What was it that had made it so hard for him to resist Iris's call -- was it just the path of least resistance? a silly, adolescent urge to please an attractive woman? or the feeling that, in taking part in the campaign, he'd been implicated too?
He was pondering that one when he reached the doorway, upon which about a hundred flashes went off in his face, momentarily blinding him. He stood, shielding his eyes with his arms, blinking dumbly, until the afterimage dimmed and he confronted a ring of reporters. A few barked questions he couldn't understand; a few others were just waiting, notebooks at the ready; and beyond the ring, the booths were filled with colleagues guzzling coffee and chatting idly.
"What the hell is going on here?" he said, making his way to the counter and Madeleine.
"They're just setting up shop, Mike." It was Miller, trotting up from the back corner, trying to placate him. "You know how there's always an unofficial HQ that springs up around the site of a story."
"No, I don't. And what story?"
"Well, it's sort of come to light that . . . well, that you're Dave's uncle . . . and considering the big deal the other side's making of the assault . . ."
Mike sucked in a big breath of air and let it all out slowly, as if he needed to literally clear his head. "Okay," he said quietly. "You tell the boys that HQ is closed. I want them out of here in ten minutes."
"Mike," said Miller, "you can't just -- "
"I can. And I am." He pushed past Miller, made his way to where Madeleine was talking to a regular customer at the counter, and slipped his arm through hers.
"Let's talk for a minute," he said. "In the office."
He hadn't thought about what to tell Madeleine, or how to tell her. It was she who had given him the push to get involved in the first place, she who had urged him on as the movement gathered momentum, she who had kept him focused on what needed to be accomplished and not what had gone wrong in the past. But now he saw that in his desire not to be undone by Ed Fontaine, he'd gotten involved with something worse; and he felt as though he'd failed everyone who'd counted on him, Madeleine first and foremost. And so, he dreaded what he had to say.
"We have to shut down the campaign," he said, the words tumbling out.
"Oh, Mike. What did she tell you?"
"She told me . . . oh, it doesn't matter what she told me, Mad. What she tells people has nothing to do with anything. It's what I know."
"They did it, didn't they?"
"It's nothing I'll ever be able to prove, though. We just have to hope it's not too late to keep them from getting in." He let out a long, low sigh, and hung his head. "Oh, Mad. It's my fault. I should have done something."
"Done what? Do you think you could have stopped their campaign?"
"No. No, it's that I could have -- I don't know. I could have stood up for what's right."
"But you have. You've stood up for the park. And now you can let people know what's going on. That the park and the Spencers don't have to go together." She stroked the back of his neck where it was bent, trying to soothe him. "We can still have the park, Mike. Without them."
"I know. Or at least I hope so. But that's not even the most important thing anymore. I keep thinking about Dave, Mad. And not just because he's my nephew -- because of what it all means. It's like there are different towns within the town -- and the division pro-park and anti-park isn't nearly as important as the division between the people who are out for blood and the people who just want to be one town again. Well, I want to be one town again more than I want the park. Can you live with that?" He straightened in his seat, took her hand and looked at her face. It was beginning to show its age where the Arizona sun, and years of working beside him, and her laughter, had taken its toll; but it was still beautiful, beyond measure; and he fixed his gaze on her green eyes, as warm and inviting as ever; and knew why, in the end, he'd been able to resist.
"Can I live with that," she whispered, "oh, Mike, you don't ever need to ask me that." And as they embraced, in the office that was so cramped that two could barely stand, Mike knew the hardest days of this campaign, or any other, were over.