We are not out of the woods yet, thats true. As we all know, politics is an unpredictable business. He smiled his silkiest smile, though he knew it was wasted on a phone call.
Except thats what were all here for, isnt it? said Germany, his tone edgy once more. To make politics as predictable as possible. Am I right?
50
Coeur dAlene, Idaho, Sunday March 26, 20.55 PST
In normal circumstances, Coeur dAlene, Idaho would have been a perfectly lovely place to visit. Not that Maggie could remember what normal circumstances were. But a weekend here, in this snow-covered ski resort of a town, with its alpine chalets and cosy, crackling fires, would have been a treat. With the right person.
It had taken two tiny planes to get here, first the short hop from Aberdeen to Seattle then a connection for the longer flight to Coeur dAlene Maggie willingly dipping into the Sanchez slush fund to pay cash for a whisky miniature on each leg, the better to suppress the fact that her battered, aching body was now folded into a glorified baked beans can bobbing through icy skies powered by no more than a propeller.
She thought about the upcoming encounter with the Everetts. Should she stick with the story Mr Schilling had imagined for her? That she was an insurance agent needing to check out a claim that might lead to a windfall? Too cruel. So she came up with something else. Not brilliant, but it would have to do.
The cab now turned off the main thoroughfare through the town, with its cafés and charming bookshop, past several residential roads, and finally onto a lane that wound its way up a mountainside. So far up the mountain that she felt compelled to ask the driver to check his satnav was working properly. He gave her a look that told her she was not in New York any more.
She checked her watch. Nearly 9pm. It was crazy to do this in the evening who wanted to open the door of their remote home to a stranger emerging out of the darkness? but urgency drove her on.
The headlights were set on full-beam now; the street lighting had long gone and the last car they had seen had passed nearly ten minutes ago. Maggie looked over her shoulder: some distant lights still twinkled.
You a journalist? the driver said suddenly, breaking the silence.
That took her by surprise. What makes you say that?
Only, we dont get much call to come up round here. Cept to see the compound. And thats usually media.
The compound?
Thats right. The Aryan Nations compound. Theyre not far from here.
Maggie dimly recalled reading about the sect of white supremacists who had tried to set up a racially pure colony in the Idaho snow. Id forgotten that. How near?
The driver pointed towards the top right of his windscreen. Couple of hills that way.
But round here, its not
Oh no. Im not saying anything negative about the folks who live up here. Theyre not all like that, no way.
Maggie could hear a but in his voice.
Except?
He twisted his head over his shoulder. All Im saying is, people who come all the way up here it aint for the nightlife. Theyre trying to get away from something. Or someone.
Maggie nodded.
With the Aryan Nations, its black people. With some of the others, in these little shacks- they had passed one or two barely-discernible outlines of buildings a long way off the road, surrounded by acres of nothing, -its the Feds. You know, the guys who think the federal government is coming to take their guns away? And some folks just need to run away.
Like Anne and Randall Everett, thought Maggie.
They drove for another ten minutes, climbing ever steeper, until the satnav told them their destination was approaching on the right.
Maggie asked the driver to pull up twenty yards away and to stay: she would pay him once they were back among what now seemed like the bright urban lights of Coeur dAlene.
How long you gonna be?
Thats the trouble. It might be thirty seconds, it might be an hour or more. But keep the meter running.
He grumbled, but finally agreed and she stepped out into the bracing air. It was not just cold but fresh enough to make the skin tingle, the way it does after a plunge into iced water. Standing there listening, she became aware of a sound she had probably not heard in years: complete, impeccable silence.
The darkness was total, too. There was no fraying at the edges, no dull, electric orange of city lights hovering above the horizon. The only light to break this darkness came from the stars and the lamp above the entrance of what she dearly hoped was the Everett residence.
This house was much closer to the road than the others. There was a modest fence, but no hint of the quasi-military compounds she had seen on the way up. Indeed, as she got nearer, she could see that the house itself would not have looked out of place in most American suburbs. It was timber-fronted, with a two-step walk-up, a porch with two neatly arranged outdoor chairs covered in tarps, waiting for the winter to end, and a wind-chime, jangling in the chill air.
The porch light was encouraging, but it was hard to tell if there was any light within. Heavy curtains were drawn across both the upstairs windows. It was late, no doubt about it. Folks out here in Idaho, for heavens sake were bound to be early to bed. And the Everetts would be in their sixties by now
Maggie did what she always did when faced by a moment of fear: closed her eyes for a moment, then took a step forward. She knocked on the door.
There was a creak and then the sound of an interior door opening, followed by a brief cone of light, visible in the pane of glass above the door, pushing forward into the hallway. And now another light came on. Maggie waited for a voice to call out asking her to identify herself. But it did not come. Instead, without fear or hesitation, the door opened.
That the woman was the mother of Pamela Everett, Maggie could tell instantly. All Principal Schilling had told her was that Pamela was strikingly pretty, nicknamed Miss America. This woman had the fine features, the clean lines, of a long-ago beauty queen.
Hello, Maggie smiled, hating herself for what she was about to do. My name is Ashley Muir and Im so sorry to disturb you so late at night. But Ive come a long way to fulfil the wish of a dying man. A dead man, now. My late husband. This is something I promised him I would do. I know its crazy, but can I ask if you are Mrs Anne Everett?
The woman looked aghast, as if even the uttering of her name out loud violated a sacred taboo. But, Maggie noticed, she did not slam the door. Nor did she call for her husband.
Maggie pressed on. My husband died a few months ago. In one of our last conversations he told me about his first love. Your daughter, Pamela.
Now the womans face turned white, and it was as if she had aged by twenty years. How did you find me?
My husband did that. Worked that computer for months, I dont know how he did it. But he was determined, Mrs Everett.
The woman remained frozen to the spot, still holding the door, unable to speak.
Do you think, Mrs Everett, we could speak inside? I promise this wont take long.
Still unspeaking, staring at her as if at an apparition, Anne Everett widened the door to let her in. Maggie stepped inside hesitantly, wanting her body to convey what she felt: that she was treading carefully here, not wanting to bring more pain to this house of loss.
There were reminders everywhere: a large photograph of Pamela Everett in the costume of high school graduation, several smaller photos of a girl at the seaside, on a rocking horse, blowing out birthday candles on the hallway table. For the second time in a week, Maggie looked at a woman she had never met and thought of her mother.
Could we sit down?
Still in silence, Mrs Everett ushered Maggie into a sitting room organized around a single chair facing a TV set; next to it, a side table bearing a tray with a half-eaten supper of cold meat and boiled potatoes.
Maggie sat on a couch whose smooth lines suggested it was rarely used. Anne Everett perched on the edge of her chair.
My late husband was in the class below your daughter. He told me shed have never even noticed him. But he had a crush on her. His first. Maggie smiled, the rueful smile of a widow. He said he had hardly thought about her for years, until he got his own diagnosis. And then he remembered what he heard about Pamela Everett. The beautiful Pamela, he called her. And how she had died from a sudden illness. And it hurt him, Mrs Everett. It hurt him to think that maybe people would think your daughter had been forgotten. Because she hadnt been forgotten. He had remembered her. And it was so important to him that you knew that. Because, and this is what he said, if people remember us, then it means a little part of us lives on.
Maggie had told herself it was a white lie, but that did not reduce the shame she felt for what she had done. When she saw the tear falling slowly down the cheek of Anne Everett it made her loathe herself all the more. She had crossed the line, she realized. Nothing not Stuart, not Bakers presidency, not Forbes, not her own safety could justify this. She began to stand up, mumbling the beginnings of an apology.
Please dont go! The woman spoke with such urgency that her voice pushed Maggie back onto the cold, stiff couch.
Anne Everett wiped the tear from her eye and, to Maggies great surprise, revealed the beginnings of a smile. Young lady, I have waited twenty-six years for this day.
Involuntarily, Maggies face turned into a mask of surprise.
Oh yes. Twenty-six years and nine days, I have waited for someone to come and say what you just said. That my daughter lived. That her life meant something.
Why did you doubt it?
Doubt it? I was never allowed to believe it.
I dont follow.
Of course you dont. How could you? How could anyone? No one ever knew. Except me. And Randall. She was animated now, leaping up from the chair. Are you a whisky drinker, Mrs Muir? I am, she said, without waiting for Maggies answer. From under the side table, she produced a bottle, now down to its last third, and a used glass. She poured herself a healthy measure and downed half of it.
My daughters only illness was to have a beautiful face. That was her illness. She wasnt sick. Pamela never had a days sickness in her life. She was healthy as an ox, like her mother. Same bones, same genes.