29

“Kenna! Kenna Wilkes!” Jane could almost reach out and touch her. She could see the ringlets in her cloud of shining hair, the sparkle of her just-too-big chandelier earrings as they caught the lights. Lassiter had chosen this moment to do his man-of-the-people, down-into-the-crowd move. Which, Jane now knew, was not so spontaneous as it had appeared when she first saw him try it back in Boston. Lassiter’s sudden proximity made the rallyers explode into another wave of adulation. Kenna couldn’t possibly hear Jane’s voice, not even yelling as loud as she did. One more time. “Kenna!”

But the woman was moving, weaving steadily forward through the audience of boater hats and signs on sticks. No matter how Jane almost-pushed into the churning crowd, she couldn’t manage to get any closer than three people away. When she reaches the stage, she’ll be trapped. I’ll catch up, and I’ll nail her. Game over.

Odd, though, Jane thought, heading toward her quarry. Almost too easy. Moira drops the bombshell. I get sent to Springfield. Gina tells me about Kenna. And there she is. The old “too good to be true” thing they warned you about in J-school. No valuable story came easy. And this one—well, almost had.

I cannot be wrong again.

Damn it. Not wrong again. Just wrong.

The music blared; the crowd sang along, some locking arms, gleeful, almost marching in place. If I hear “Yankee Doodle Dandy” one more time … And there she was. Kenna. Almost close enough to—

“Kenna!” Jane yelled, and felt her voice get swallowed by the din.

The woman kept heading for the stage. Not so fast, sister.

Jane took two quick steps forward, found an open space, powered ahead. She reached out and touched Kenna on the shoulder. “Hey!”

Kenna whirled, turned to face her. She was, as Gina said, totally gorgeous. Luminous eyes, high cheekbones, all lip gloss and big lashes. A pear-shaped diamond nestled at her throat. She looked at Jane, skeptical, a flash of annoyance darkening her porcelain features. Then it disappeared, replaced by a blazing smile.

“Jane? Jane Ryland?” she said. She moved toward Jane as if coming in for a close-up. “From TV? I can’t believe you’re actually here. How perfect!”

Well, well, Jane thought. She recognizes me. And if she thinks I’m still on TV, fine.

“Yes.” Big smile. “I’m Jane Ryland. How lovely of you to recognize me. Are you Kenna Wil—?”

The woman leaned closer, her mouth almost touching Jane’s ear.

Jane’s nose wrinkled at her dense perfume, Opium, maybe, or Angel.

“Isn’t Owen Lassiter wonderful? I mean, wonderful? I’ve seen him a million times. Look at him, oh, now he’s way over there! I can’t wait to vote for him. I wish I could vote for him a million times.”

I wish I had my notebook out, Jane thought. And my camera. But there’s time. This girl’s all mine now.

“Well, that’s so interesting, because—” Jane took a step back from her, assessing. She’d expected some level of pursuit, not to have the elusive Kenna latch on to her like some local news groupie. But that could be useful.

“Are you covering the rally? Where’s your photographer? Do you need a sound bite?” Kenna actually fluffed her hair, and though her glistening lipstick was flawless, she swirled her tongue over her upper teeth. Suddenly she paused, mid-preen. She blinked a few times. “Um, Jane? Wait. Were you looking for me?” She tapped her own chest with a pink fingernail. “Why?”

“Why was I looking for you?” Okay, then. Jane was going to have to face this sooner rather than later. “Well, I— Ow!”

“Here he comes, here he comes!” Some guy with a sweat mustache jabbed Jane in the back, gesturing and pointing as he yelled. She turned. So did Kenna. So did everyone else.

All eyes focused on Owen Lassiter. His elegant face was flushed with heat but radiating confidence, one hand raised, the other manhandled by voters needing one more handshake or one more autograph. The swirl of people ebbed and flowed around him as the pod of security, candidate in the middle, crabbed across the floor. The crowd seemed to change shape and density, swelling and pushing, cheering and noise and outstretched arms, heat rising from the pack. Bodies jockeyed for position, for access. Jane stood her ground, ignoring the shoves and the shoulders and the jostling.

The candidate was heading right for them. What would he do when he got to Kenna? How would he greet her? This was about to be a real moment.

No way could they keep some look from their eyes, no matter how they tried to fake it. Monica Lewinsky. You could tell from that photo, the one with the beret and the rope line, she had a secret. They had a secret. You could tell how excited she was, touching her fantasy man in front of a crowd with the whole world watching. Only the two of them knowing what was really going on.

Exactly what was about to happen now. A charade.

Jane felt for her camera—where was it?—keeping close watch on Kenna. This was a shot she could not miss.

Kenna whirled, raising her hand in the air, waving. “Governor!” she called out. She looked at Jane, eyes shining, color high on her cheekbones. “He’s coming this way, Jane! Isn’t it perfect?”

With a quick motion, the woman unzipped a black patent leather shoulder bag. And pulled out a silver camera. She clicked a button on the top, checked a reading, then held the camera out to Jane. “Will you take our picture?”

“Take your—?”

“Now!” Kenna said. She pushed the camera at Jane, then grabbed Lassiter’s arm, tucking her hand through the crook of his elbow. Looked up at him, all eyelashes and adoration. The security guards didn’t seem to mind. Probably knew all about her.

“It’s so hot, isn’t it?” Kenna’s voice turned innocent-sounding, as if she were merely commenting on the stifling room. “Do you have time for just one picture, Governor? This is Jane Ryland taking it!”

Wow. They’re good at this. Hot? Puh-leeze.

“Hello again, Governor,” Jane said. “This is quite a—”

A security guard, pushed too hard by Lassiter’s sea of admirers, lurched forward, pushing Kenna into the candidate’s arms. They both laughed, tipping into each other, clambering for balance.

Jane clicked the shutter.

And clicked it again. Got it.

Then she swore. Damn. This was Kenna’s camera. She jabbed it into her blazer pocket, yanked open her bag, grabbed her own camera. Hurry.

Kenna regained her equilibrium, still clinging to the governor’s arm. Looking up at him. Lassiter was smiling, indulgent, patting her arm. Jane aimed and clicked. And one more time. It would be something, at least. And maybe she could get Kenna to e-mail her a copy of the laughing picture. Kenna seemed to like the spotlight well enough.

Jane watched, fascinated, as Kenna uncurled herself from the candidate. Did she whisper something, too low for Jane to hear? Did she slip something into his pocket? Is this how they communicated, maybe? How they arranged their next rendezvous?

The entourage moved on, leaving Kenna, face flushed and lifting the mass of curls off her neck, watching after Lassiter and crew as they paraded through the rest of the room.

“Jane!” she said. She let her hair down, held out a hand, moving closer. Urgent. “Did you get a good picture of us? You did, right? You have my camera, right? I need to get one more shot.”

“Sure, Kenna,” Jane said, holding it toward her. Yeesh. This girl was kind of—out there. Jane struggled to keep the amusement from her face, though Kenna, riveted on the entourage, would never have noticed. “But could you—?”

Kenna grabbed the camera, locked on Lassiter, and began to move across the floor toward him. Jane zigzagged after her, determined. She needed to talk to this gal, and she was not going to let her get away again.

And then, she couldn’t see her at all. Or anything. Someone screamed, back of the room, and so did everyone, everyone, as the sweltering room went pitch black. A Klaxon, something, wailed, some alarm, shrieking, earsplitting. Insistent. Jane blinked, blinked again, terror rising in her throat. The crowd, spooked, stampeding, pushing her forward in the dark. She stumbled ahead, trying to keep her balance. Why weren’t the lights—? The music was still blaring, how could that be? The entrance doors must be closed, because there was no light. Shouldn’t they be open? Should she try to get out? Or stand her ground? What were you supposed to do? What if it were worse outside than inside?

The screams, high-pitched, terrified, sounded louder than the music, louder than the alarms. “Call nine-one-one!” someone yelled. “Doesn’t work!” someone else shouted. “We gotta get out of here!”

She couldn’t see anything. Not anything.

Was there another way out? Maitland had said something about the back entrance—Jane, whirled, squinted in the darkness, tried to get her bearings. Nothing.

“Governor, Governor, this way, this way…” A new voice called out, insistent, commanding, “Everyone, stay calm! It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s just the lights.…”

This is a story. Possibly a big story. Jane held up her camera, clicked and clicked the flash. For a split second each time, she could see terrified faces, people shoving and pushing. She clicked again, caught a woman crying, people with cell phones out, their greenish glows giving a weird phosphorescent light. And why wasn’t anyone—? Didn’t the TV cameras have battery lights? Why were they still off? She looked both ways, as if there were both ways, but nothing existed except a chaos of arms and hands and bodies, and heat and screaming and darkness.