Louderbush reddened and slumped in his chair. "I was trying to help him," he said.
Mrs. Louderbush looked away.
"What do you mean, help him?"
"I was there."
"Where?"
"It was an accident."
"Greg's fall from the roof at SUNY?"
"I had tried to end the relationship. I was so guilt-ridden. I helped Greg find a teaching job near Kurtzburg-he hadn't had any luck on his own-and then I was overcome with…guilt. It was so close to home, and to my family, who mean everything to me."
"Were you overcome with guilt, or were you overcome with fear that you'd get caught?"
"All right, yes, both."
Mrs. Louderbush looked as if she wanted to get down on her hands and knees and crawl out of the room, but she sat there three feet from her husband, her angry gaze fixed on the gladiola.
"What happened?" I said.
"I called Greg and told him I needed to talk to him. He was at the SUNY library, and he agreed to meet me in an empty econ classroom on the eighth floor of Livingston Quad Four."
"Okay."
"We met, and we talked, and he was very, very angry with me. He said I was teasing him, setting him up a few miles from where I lived and then refusing to continue the relationship. He said I was torturing him."
"Funny choice of words."
Louderbush bristled. "Do you want to hear the truth or not?"
"Go ahead."
"Greg began to cry. I couldn't console him. I tried to hold him, but he shoved me away and grabbed his backpack and ran out of the room. I followed him, and when the elevator didn't arrive immediately, he ran into a stairwell. I think he heard voices down below, so instead of running down the stairs, he ran up. I followed him and suddenly we were somehow on the roof. He walked around and around weeping, and just to get him down off there I said I would reconsider ending the relationship. I admit I didn't mean it, but Greg was 196
Red White and Black and Blue by Richard Stevenson just so desperate and out of control. We were near the edge of the roof. There was no railing of any kind. And when I moved toward Greg to lead him by the hand away from the edge, he dropped his backpack and was turning toward me when he lost his balance somehow-he was sobbing and completely dazed and distraught-and he fell backward over the edge. Suddenly he just wasn't there anymore."
I thought, He's seen Vertigo. Does an old nun appear behind him at this point and make the sign of the cross?
"Mixed with my horror," Louderbush went on, "was my fear that someone might have seen Greg and me on the roof and would think that we were fighting and that I had pushed him to his death."
"Mm."
"I couldn't see anyone who might have observed us, so I took the elevator down and left the building and headed toward my car as fast as I could without being conspicuous."
"Did it occur to you that Greg might be alive and he would need help?"
"After a fall from that height? That would have been impossible."
"Maybe."
"I knew it would look like suicide-why else would he have gone up to the roof? — and I drove to Greg's apartment to fake a suicide note. I had a letter he had once written to me at a time when he had decided to end the relationship. He had written in big letters at the end of the note I hurt too much. I had the letter with me-I wanted to show it to Greg and remind him that the relationship was as painful and difficult 197
Red White and Black and Blue by Richard Stevenson and unrealistic for him as it was for me-and I ripped off that line and left it on Greg's desk. His friends found it there, and even the police were convinced that Greg's death was a suicide."
"Yes, they were. And your office snooped around SUNY and the Albany cops trying to find out if anybody had any suspicions regarding the verdict."
"You know that already."
"I do."
"And were there suspicions?"
"Some. But an Albany cop who didn't want any political high mucky-mucks involved in something dubious or messy saw to it that the case was closed and the suicide verdict certified."
"I was incredibly lucky."
"You bet you were."
"I drove back to my office. I mean I assume I drove there.
I actually have no memory of it. I went into my office and cleared my schedule, and I sent my staff home. And then I got down on my knees and I prayed to God for forgiveness."
Here we go. "And were you forgiven?"
"That's a question I won't have an answer to until the day I meet my maker. But I went into therapy the next week, and now I have the kind of understanding of myself that makes it possible for me to control my impulses. And they are under control, as Deidre can attest to."
"How would she know?"
"I can read my husband," Mrs. Louderbush said. "I've lived with the man for twenty-six years."
"You didn't read him very successfully before last January."
"That's not true, not that it's any of your bleeping business. I sensed something was gnawing at him. I just assumed it had to do with his troubled childhood. Kenyon had always been moody because of that. If you'd ever met his father, you'd understand."
"And now he's a man at peace with himself?"
"More or less, yes, he is. Not of course taking into account the stress of the gubernatorial campaign and from having to put up with people of your ilk."
"Who's your therapist in Rochester?" I asked Louderbush.
"You know I can't tell you that. Or if I did tell you, my doctor would certainly not respond to any inquiries you might make."
"He or she might talk to me if I have some kind of waiver from you."
An incredulous shake of the head. "Forget it."
What was Louderbush doing? Was he being utterly honest and sincere, telling some reasonable facsimile of the truth even? And did he believe deep in his heart that I-and the McCloskey campaign-should accept his melodramatic tale on its face, and with a mixture of compassion for him and his family, as well as a belief in Christian redemption, simply drop the whole matter of questioning his fitness for office? Or was he, as I suspected, a pathological liar who had made up most or even all of the version of events he had just laid out for me so cogently, so tidily-too tidily, I was inclined to think.
I said, "Look, Mr. Louderbush, even if the McCloskey campaign agreed to overlook your past depredations, 199
Red White and Black and Blue by Richard Stevenson somebody else is bound to come along and get wind of this reeking stuff. I mean, I know about Greg Stiver and about Randy Spong, but how many other of these relationships were there?"
"A few."
"A few. Well, it looks to me as if you might be facing broken-nosed-college-boy eruptions throughout the general election campaign and, if you managed to beat Merle Ostwind and were somehow elected, well into a governorship you'd then be forced to resign from."
"No," he said firmly. "No one I was involved with would ever turn on me that way. They all respected me-even adored me."
His wife was looking a little queasy now, but she kept her mouth clamped shut. I thought of Frogman Ying, but I supposed Louderbush was referring to his resplendent conservative ideology and principles.
"You underestimate confidential anecdotal slippage. I first learned about you from two friends of Greg Stiver who he confided in."
Louderbush glanced at his wife and then looked at me evenly. "If any stories did begin to surface, it would help if the McCloskey campaign announced to the press that they had taken a close look at these ugly rumors, and Shy McCloskey has concluded that they are vicious slurs that have no basis in fact."
"I'm not following you. How could we possibly say that?"
He looked at his wife again, and this time she reached over and picked up her handbag. She reached into it. Was she going to bring out a pistol? No. It was a fat envelope.