I wanted to look away. I really did. This was not mine to see. This was not anyone’s to see. Not even Bunny, who was her live-in lover. Lydia was in a private moment and my being there — however and in whatever way I was there — was an intrusive and violative act.
I said, “No!”
But I did not say it in my own voice. I said it in Bunny’s voice.
The me over there gaped at the me here. I blinked.
And then it was me — inside my own flesh — staring at a bug-eyed Bunny who knelt nearby, one hand extended toward me, confusion and terror in his eyes. He collapsed flat on his chest and his eyes glazed. I fell over onto my side. Now that memory of Bunny’s had somehow followed me….
Followed me where exactly? Home? Back?
I mean… what the Christ just happened?
The memory of seeing Lydia in that private moment made me feel grubby, like a peeping Tom. That was not for me to see. It did not belong to my experience. And yet the memory was there. Fading… but there.
I closed my eyes. This was a dream. I was probably concussed. Or something. It wasn’t real. Could not be, no matter how real it felt in the moment.
I lay there, uncertain of how to even think.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The candidates stood behind a curved row of podiums. Seven in all, each from different states but all from the same party. All vying for the same party endorsement and the same office. Each of them holding forth on why they — and definitely not their colleagues, and in some cases friends — should become the most powerful man on Earth.
The moderator, Wilson Fryers, was the dean of the university’s law college, and was both a son and nephew of multiterm congressmen. His textbooks crossed the line to become bestsellers, and his latest, Thinking It Through: Smart Politics for the 21st Century, had jumped back to the New York Times and USA Today lists as soon as this debate had been announced. Because of his firm hand with the candidates and his challenging questions, he was currently trending higher on social media than any of the six men and one woman who were trying to sell themselves to the voting public.
The auditorium was packed, with handpicked political science undergrads in the front rows and a lottery selection of students, press, and celebrities filling out the rest of the seats. Secret Service agents were stationed around the room and, Fryers knew, dressed in plainclothes and seeded through the audience. The debate was the last before the national convention, and the millions watching knew, as Fryers did, that this was going to come down to two key players. So far there was an even odds split on which of them was likely to get the full party endorsement. The trajectory of this debate would almost certainly settle that.
“Next question,” said Fryers. “Remember, please, that each of you will have two minutes for your statement and then we will open it up to the audience for follow-up questions.”
The candidates nodded, though some of them were obviously wary. The questions from the audience had been vicious. Polite, but uncompromising. Fryers loved poli-sci majors. No one asks a harder question, and most of them were better schooled in politics than the gameplayers on the stage. The disparity between what these kids wanted to know and the politicians were willing or able to say was obvious. And embarrassing. Fryers felt like Caligula at the games. There was blood on the sand and the lions were still hungry.
“This question is on immigration,” said Fryers, and he saw the flinches. He could imagine seven sphincters suddenly tightening. Nobody in politics wants to field open questions on immigration. It was an enduring hot-button issue and when things were this deep into the primary process, there was no more room for verbal gaffes. Just as there was absolutely no sage answer. No matter what a candidate said it would polarize a portion of the national audience. Fryers was sure that if he asked if the sky was blue, the politicians would have a similar hesitancy, because somewhere out there was a lobby group, religious group, environmental group, or special interest group who fundamentally disagreed. It was maddening, unless you were the moderator and any kind of controversy jumped your social media and book sale numbers.
“A recent study published by The New Yorker indicates that small businesses, including crop farms, would be adversely affected by tightening immigration standards. Should you be elected president, would you sign or veto a bill that—”
And the lights went out.
All of them. Lights, speakers, cameras, everything.
Bang.
The library was plunged into total darkness. No emergency lights. No alarm bells. Nothing. There was a shocked collective gasp from the audience. Fryers fumbled for the battery-operated backup microphone that had been placed there for situations like this. For accidents or power failures. He found the button, tapped it, bent to speak into the mike.
“Please,” he said, “remain calm.”
The only one who heard his voice was him. The microphone was as dead as the lights.
Fryers froze in place, immediately trying to remember the protocols drilled into him by the Secret Service. Wait. Listen. The emergency system will kick in.
There was a scream. Of course there was. Someone always had to scream. Someone always had to panic. Always.
“Idiot,” he muttered, because he knew what happened. What inevitably happened.
One scream became two. Became five.
He shot to his feet. “Everyone, please calm down!” he yelled.
The volume of panic was already rising. Fryers dug into his pocket to remove his cell phone, punched the button to get the screen. A flashlight app would be helpful. He was surprised everyone else wasn’t doing the same thing.
Except the screen did not come on. His phone was dead, too.
That was…
His mind stalled. How could a power outage take out his cell phone? And the emergency lights were battery operated, too. The Secret Service had wire mikes and flashlights.
But there were no lights on in the hall.
None.
That’s when he heard the screams turn into cries of pain and dull, angry thumps as blind people began fighting their way toward the doors. In total darkness.
Fryers tried to yell.
Tried to keep this from becoming what he knew it would become. Blind, destructive panic.
He tried.
And failed.
At the end of sixty seconds, when all the lights finally flared back on, and cell phones began automatically rebooting, and the speakers squawked with alarm bells, the crowd had already become a tidal surge of blood and broken bones.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Not sure how long it took us to recover.
Not sure we actually did.
Three, four minutes dragged by before I could even summon the willpower to rise, let alone the sheer muscular commitment. My head rang with the after-effects of the light. My brain felt bruised. The horrendous smell and taste still polluted my senses.
It was my flashlight that jolted me out of the daze. The light came on again. Pop, just like that. It wasn’t a matter of the switch moving. The light had already been on but when that big machine did whatever the hell it did, the power in the flashlight simply died. Ditto for all of our other gear. Pop. Out. And now it was all back on. I turned my head and stared at the light as if seeing it could reveal some answers. It surely did not.