There was an awkward moment, Flicker knew. One of his fellow sign staplers snickered. "Kriidelfisk is fucked."
Yeah. Fucked, indeed, thought Flicker with amusement. Ed Kriidelfisk didn't seem to know it, though, cool and comfortable, as if unaware he had pushed Jomarca too far. She was threatening to charge him with slander if he kept tossing out unproved charges. If he backed off, he'd look weak. It didn't take a political analyst to read the writing on the wall for the Kriidelfisk campaign, barring a miracle.
"I have proof," said a voice in the crowd at the high- school auditorium where the debate was being held.
"And you are...?" Ms. Jomarca.
"Just a citizen who is concerned with making sure the people know the truth about the people who want to represent them."
"Sure, you are," Ms. Jomarca said. "All right, let's see this proof."
"I don't have it with me," said the man in the audience. "It's a videotape."
"And I'll bet I know where it is," Jomarca said sarcastically. "With Mr. Kriidelfisk's evidence?"
"No," said the man in the audience, "I gave it to Channel 3. They are airing it now."
There was a murmur in the crowd at the debate, and in the campaign headquarters of Senator Julius Serval somebody shouted, "Quick! Channel 3!"
The TV in the parlor switched to Channel 3, and through the miracle of two-hundred-dollar electronics they still had the feed from the live debate going on in a smaller window in a bottom corner of the TV screen. The candidates were looking offstage, obviously also watching a television set toned to Channel 3.
It was a camcorder videotape from inside an opulent but virtually empty casino. The legend in the corner
was "11/06/89 05:06 a.m." A woman was being muscled out by two security guards, both muscle-bound bruisers, but it was all they could do to hang on to the bobcat in their custody. She thrashed, she shouted obscenities that would probably be edited out of later broadcasts of the footage—and Flicker knew it would be broadcast many, many more times.
It had cost him twenty grand for that piece of videotape, and worth every penny.
The camera moved in for a very tight close-up, which was nothing more than a blur of motion until the thrashing woman grew still, her breath heaving.
"I gotta get that money back! I gotta!"
Flicker smiled. The campaign headquarters filled with the sounds of jubilant disbelief. The face and the voice belonged to none other than Martina Jomarca.
It got better.
"Please," the woman said to the big security guards. "Let me stay. I'm on a roll. If I stop now, I'll lose it."
"You already lost it all, lady," one of the bruisers pointed out. "You're broke."
"Maybe...maybe you gentleman would be willing to spare a few dollars?" She gave each a look that was supposed to be provocative, but it was pitiful.
"How about we give you five bucks for cab fare?"
She became a bobcat again, but only until the bruisers dropped her on the sidewalk outside and held the doors shut so she couldn't get back in. She banged onthe glass anyway, then stopped, stood unsteadily for a moment and vomited onto the glass.
The tape stopped and the announcer from Channel 3 came on, but he was muted and the sound came back on at the debate, where everybody looked as if they were in freeze-frame. Nobody moved a muscle. Martina Jomarca was openmouthed but said and did nothing.
Finally, Ed Kriidelfisk leaned into his microphone and said, "See?"
In the campaign headquarters of Julius Serval a cheer erupted. Martina Jomarca was finished. Since Ed Kriidelfisk and the other guy, whatever his name was, didn't have a prayer, there was no other viable candidate to run against Senator Serval. He had already won the election.
A moment later, an ebullient Senator Serval himself came down from his private suite on the second floor, basking in applause from his campaign staff.
"He's as good as won, now, hasn't he?" Flicker asked one of the campaign workers.
"You better believe it! What's to stop him? It sure isn't going to be her!"
At the debate, Martina Jomarca looked lobotomized. Jomarca's trusted aide took her by the shoulders and steered her offstage.
Act One curtain, Flicker thought. Now for the intermission. Then came Act Two of Topeka Takeover. And Act Two was where this drama really got exciting.
19
"This is Sister Francine's. Sister Camille speaking. May I help you?"
"Sister Francine's what?" Remo asked.
"Sister Francine's Home on the Water. Were you trying to reach someone else?"
"What water are you on?" Remo asked.
"Why, Lake Superior. We're up in the U.P. It is a lovely place, especially during warm weather. We have tours all summer long."
"The U.P. as in Upper Peninsula Michigan? So your summer is like a week long, right?"
Sister Camille tittered. "Well, a month, anyway. The rest of the time it's colder than hell!"
"Tsk, Sister Camille, your language," Remo remonstrated.
"And the cold! You freeze your..."
Sister Camille was gone and Howard Smith came on the line. "Remo, where are you?"
"Hey, Smitty, put the nun back on. I wanted to hear what she froze off in the winter."
"What? It was just a computer, Remo," Smith said. "We've got a real situation developing here. Now, where are you?"
"Truck stop. Somewhere near Fountain, Colorado. Is that a real town? Named Fountain?"
"What are you doing there?" Smith demanded. "Wait. You're heading to Pueblo, going after Police Chief Gord Roescher."
"How did you know that?" Remo demanded. "And how come you didn't tell me about Gord Roescher? Because if you only knew what I had to go through to get a line on this guy."
"Gord Roescher is small potatoes," Smith said. "There are other, bigger targets. Mark's come up with a way of identifying possible targets across the country. This situation could be more dangerous than we thought, Remo."
"Possible targets are not the same thing as confirmed targets, Smitty. I talked to the paramedic who worked on the mercenary from the courtroom before he died. He was spilling his guts. Thought it would earn him a shot of painkiller."
"The paramedics withheld painkillers?"
"Guess they misplaced them. Anyway, he only knew about the next planned hit, and it was supposed to be today, and it was supposed to be on Police Chief Gord Roescher. If I can get there first, I can nab the guy I missed yesterday and make him answer questions."
"Yes. Good."
"What's this Chief Roescher done wrong anyway that they want to turn his toes up?"
Smith quickly rattled off the chief's offenses.
"Now," Remo said, "I notice you didn't say 'allegedly.'"
"Chief Roescher's guilty of most or all of the crimes. He's been under investigation by various federal agencies. They've simply been unable to come up with enough evidence for an indictment."
"But he's dirty?"
"Yes, but I want you to focus on whoever attacks the chief, not Roescher himself," Smith said. "Phone as soon as you've got results." There was a click.
"You know, Smitty," Remo said, "I liked Sister Camille way better than you." Then he hung up, too.
Remo walked into his third Pueblo police station of the day before he finally got the correct place.
"Yeah, Chief Roescher's here," the desk sergeant allowed. "You got an appointment?"
"No. He doesn't take walk-ins?"
"Uh-uh."
"Think he can squeeze me in?"
"Uh-uh."
"Could you ask him?'
The desk sergeant decided to humor the thin man. One thing he could tell easily enough was that the guy wasn't packing. Guy walks in off the street in nothing more than a T-shirt and Chinos there's not much place to hide a piece. Just some goof with enough money for a new pair of expensive shoes and a new T-shirt.