31

“Governor Lassiter, are you all right?” Kenna, wide-eyed and oh-so-concerned, called out to Owen as his entourage trooped down the stairs from the tenth floor. Two security types, both sweaty and worried looking, led the way, scouting as if some danger lurked on the stairs. Rory trudged two steps behind Lassiter. Both men’s jackets flapped open, Rory’s shirt coming untucked. Even Owen’s tie was askew. His silver hair mussed. Each looked beyond annoyed. Enraged, more like it. Kenna fluttered even harder. “I was so worried.…”

“Ah, Mrs. Wilkes. I see you made it out safely.” Lassiter gave a half smile as he took the last few steps down to the landing. The security guards had opened the door and were already in the hallway.

Probably looking for the evildoers, Kenna thought. Happily, Owen wasn’t focusing on her whereabouts. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Well, you’re having quite the introduction to the campaign, I must say. Yes, we all survived the—” He paused, then looked at Rory. “What are we calling it, Rory?”

“We’re calling it nothing at this point,” Rory said. “The hotel people are already all over this. They’re alleging we must have done something. Plugged in too much. Had too many people. They’re insisting nothing was wrong with the electrical system. No circuit breakers, no blown transformer. How they know all that so fast is beyond me. Although…” He frowned, then stopped as he reached the landing. Rory crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Although.”

“Although?” Owen turned.

Kenna waited. This was going to be good.

“Say it was the Gable campaign. You know? Sabotage,” Rory said. “All you’d have to do would be—I don’t know—find the main light switch. Turn off the lights. Pull an alarm. And blam. Chaos. Campaign dirty trick 101. And we’re semi-screwed.”

“Sabotage?” Owen’s lips pursed, as if he’d never tasted the word before. “But by who? That guest list was vetted, correct? We know everyone who was there. A-listers, you told me. Damn it. Excuse me, Kenna. We didn’t even get to make our final money pitch. Now we’re talking in a damn stairwell. And the damn press is going to want some answers.”

He called me Kenna. Finally. She waited. It’d be interesting to hear what would happen next. She’d take her cue from—she recomposed her face, remembering to look concerned.

“Do you need some privacy?” she said. “This sounds important.”

Rory waved her off. “We trust you, Mrs. Wilkes,” he said.

“And now you’re calling it sabotage?” Owen, ignoring their exchange, adjusted his paisley tie, then did it again. “You’re theorizing someone in the crowd—or someone with the hotel? What does Trevor Kiernan say? Where is he, anyway?”

“I don’t know, Governor,” Rory said. Then seemed to make a decision. “Look. This hotel has been snakebit from moment one. The whole room thing, the elevators, the GD lights. Let’s get you out of here. Before who knows what else goes wrong.”

“Ah, Rory, we need to make some kind of a statement to the press.” Owen, frowning, made the time-out sign with his hands. “I can’t just—”

“I’m afraid I insist, Governor.” Rory took out a cell phone. “We’ll get your stuff, get it downstairs, get on the road. We can make a statement tomorrow. From Boston. When we know the facts. I’ll call Sheila to put out the word that you’re fine. Then call for the car.”

“I’m not sure.…”

“Governor? I insist. This kind of thing only gets worse. Although I don’t see how it can be worse than this. Mrs. Wilkes? Can you be ready in twenty, thirty minutes?”

“Faster than that,” she said.

“Use the service elevators. I’ll tell security. Mrs. Wilkes, we’ll meet you at the car in—”

“I need some food,” Lassiter interrupted, frowning. “And a drink. And possibly a shower. I’m not leaving until after that.”

Maitland raked his hands through what would have been his hair. Looked at his watch. “It’s quarter till nine. We’ll leave at ten. No later,” he said. “Kenna, call room service if you want. Governor, come with me. Christ. I’ve had it with this place. We’re done here.”

Kenna followed them into the hallway, watched Rory use his key card to open the door of the presidential suite. She trotted down the corridor to her own room, passing a fully loaded maid’s cart—towels, soap, little shampoos, trash bags. She looked both ways, then swiped two plastic bottles of body lotion with curlicue labels saying PRESIDENTIAL SUITE, tucking them into her pocket. She looked at the campaign brochures she was still holding. Thought for a second. Then shoved them into the trash.