having last erupted two hundred years ago.” Jennings pointed at the image. “The specific area of the crash is called Avalanche Gulch at about 8,000 feet-we’re now receiving a feed from a KORE television helicopter above the crash scene. Let’s listen in.”
Gage returned to stand next to Tansy as an urgent female voice emerged from the stuttering roar of the helicopter.
“There’s no way anyone could’ve survived.”
The camera scanned the mountainside.
“Debris is scattered for a half a mile.”
The camera drew back. Antlike figures dressed in yellow and orange parkas picked their way across the snowfield toward the broken fuselage.
“A search and rescue team has just been lowered to the crash site.”
Jennings spoke again.
“On the telephone from Klamath Falls, Oregon, is Republican Congressman Doyle Ludlow. Thank you for speaking to us at this difficult time.”
Jennings didn’t wait for a response.
“Do you know what Senator Lightfoot was doing in Northern California?”
“I can only tell you that during congressional recesses he would return to Oregon and fly major financial supporters around. One of his favorite trips was to follow the Hells Corner Gorge down into California and circle Mount Shasta. It’s a spectacular sight. Sometimes-”
“Sorry to cut you off, Congressman. If you’ll stand by a moment.”
Jennings pressed his fingers to his earbud.
“We’ve just learned from the FAA that Senator Lightfoot filed a flight plan in Klamath Falls for exactly that.”
Jennings looked into the camera as a photograph of the congressman appeared on the screen behind him.
“You were saying, Congressman?”
“Even though Senator Lightfoot’s parents moved from the Klamath Indian Reservation before he was born, he’d often fly into local airports and pick up Native American kids and follow the same route.”
“Do you know whether any children were on this flight?”
“I have no way of knowing. But I do know Senator Lightfoot was a hero to them.”
“For our audience who don’t know Senator Lightfoot’s background, could you give us a thumbnail?”
“He played football at the University of Washington, got an MBA, and then went into real estate. He was elected to the Klamath Falls City Council, then the state assembly and later to the congressional seat I now occupy. He was the first and last Democrat to hold the seat since 1940. He actually encouraged me to run to take his place when he decided to try for the Senate.”
“But you’re a Republican.”
“Edward Lightfoot didn’t believe public service should only be performed by Democrats. After the election, and even though he fought tooth and nail for my opponent, he let me stay with him in his D.C. townhouse until I found a place of my own.”
Ludlow paused, then chuckled.
“Not many people outside of Oregon know this, but the senator’s nickname in the late 1960s was El Camino.”
“El Camino? Like the car?”
“For two years he traveled the country living in the back of his Chevy trying to unite the various Indian tribes into what later developed into the American Indian Movement. He started in the Northwest with the Klamath and Modoc and worked his way south to the Apache and Yaqui, then headed east. When I was a little kid, everybody, even the Indians, wanted to be cowboys when we played cowboys and Indians. By the time he was done, all the kids wanted to be the Indians.” Ludlow chuckled again. “It became damn hard to find a willing cowboy… People… people who-”
Ludlow’s voice cracked. He caught his breath.
“Sorry…”
Ludlow cleared this throat.
“People who didn’t know him will never understand what a gem he was.”
His voice cracked again, now on the verge of tears.
“Man, I’m going to miss that guy… I… I need to hang up.”
G age wondered how long it would take before Jennings felt that Lightfoot was dead long enough to talk about the impact on the Supreme Court nominations. Gage’s guess wasn’t off by much. Eleven minutes later, the screen-in-screen showed CNN’s chief Washington correspondent.
“What effect will this have on the nominations, Jane?”
“Absolutely none. You have a Democratic governor who’ll simply replace Senator Lightfoot with another Democrat, maybe even the senator’s wife. She’s very popular in Oregon.”
A tally sheet of expected votes for the nomination appeared on the screen.
Gage’s cell phone rang. It was Alex Z. “Are you watching the news?”
“Tansy just came in.”
“They’ve got it all wrong.”
“Who are they?”
“Jennings and his crew. I know. I checked the Oregon state Web site. The governor of Oregon can’t appoint anyone to fill Lightfoot’s seat.”
“You mean it has to be done by election?”
“Exactly. And there isn’t time between now and the confirmation votes.”
“So the president doesn’t need the vice president’s vote any more to break a tie.”
“And that pulls the nuclear option off the table,” Alex Z said. “The Democrats’ filibuster pitch was wholly based on a kind of separation of powers argument, that the vice president as part of the executive branch shouldn’t be playing a due role in a matter like this. Now they don’t have to-sounds to me like the Democrats should’ve made a different argument.”
“I guess they didn’t know Lightfoot’s plane was going to crash,” Gage said, then felt his hand tighten around his phone, fearing that there were those who did.
C ongratulations, Landon,” President Duncan’s voice was cheerful, gloating.
Landon Meyer turned off the sound from the FOX News broadcast in his Manchester, New Hampshire, hotel room and pushed himself to his feet.
“But Mr. President, Ed Lightfoot was-”
“Serves him right. You know what he called me last week?”
“No. I’ve been campaigning.”
“A buffoon. He called me a buffoon.”
Landon felt anger surge. You are a buffoon. “He once called me a fascist on the Senate floor. It’s no reason to celebrate his death.”
Maybe what the public thinks about politicians like me is right, Landon thought.
He felt himself cringe.
Silliness.
Why did I use the word “silliness” in talking to Gage in Iowa? Four dead refinery workers and I called it silliness.
Damn, what Gage must think of me now.
“He sure as hell would’ve celebrated mine,” Duncan said.
“I don’t think so Mr. President.” You son of a bitch. “In fact, I’m sure he wouldn’t have.”
“Doesn’t make a difference. The nomination fight is over. It’s just a matter of counting down the last forty- eight hours.”
L andon sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the now silent cell phone. A wrenching, nightmarish image of Ed Lightfoot’s mangled body invaded his mind: hands that no longer reached out, a face that no longer smiled, a heart now motionless in his chest. Landon tried to fight off the image, but felt himself well up, then his
