“Listen,” Hanrahan was saying in a choke to the gathering uniforms. “Don’t you guys read
Fletch walked fast down the aisle under the balcony. He pressed his weight against the metal bar-release of the door marked EXIT and found himself in a bright, empty corridor.
To his left was a door that obviously led to the stage area.
To his right the corridor had to run back to the lobby of the auditorium.
Down a short corridor straight ahead was a sign: EXHIBITION HALL, TUESDAY-SATURDAY, 10-4.
In the auditorium, the speaker roared at the audience, “The man who will be the next President of the United States,” and the audience was roaring its approval.
Fletch went down the short corridor and turned right into the entrance to the Exhibition Hall. Massive, double, polished wooden doors. Locked, of course.
He turned around.
Across the corridor, in the reciprocal alcove, was a small service door. The sign on it said: STAFF ONLY. Over it a sign said: NOT A FIRE EXIT.
He crossed to the door and tried the ordinary doorknob. Not locked. He pushed the door open.
Overamplified, the voice of Doris Wheeler was bursting from the auditorium. “My husband, son, and I are glad to be in Melville. Years ago, when we were first married …”
On the other side of the door were stairs falling to a basement. The small landing was lit by an overhead light. The stairs themselves were lit by occasional, dim, baseboard safety lights. The basement itself was dark.
“… and the friends we made around here then …”
From the basement came a woman’s shout: “No!”
The sound sent a pain searing from Fletch’s left ankle through his back to his neck.
As he started down the stairs he heard what sounded like a slap of skin against skin, a hard slap. A scuffling of feet on cement.
Near the bottom of the stairs, he stopped to detect were the sounds where coming from.
There was the sound of a light piece of wood falling on the cement floor.
There was then the sound of a woman’s outraged, frightened scream. “Stop!”
“Betsy!” Fletch shouted toward his right.
A few safety lights were on here and there throughout the vast space of the basement. Everywhere in the basement were large, bulky objects, crates and counters and stands from the Exhibition Hall, he guessed, and scenery flats from amateur productions in Public Auditorium. Facing him was the tranquil scene of an English garden.
“… my husband and I listen to you, have known your problems …”
Fletch moved forward toward the center of the basement, around the English garden scene.
“Betsy …?”
Doris Wheeler’s amplified voice was coming through the ceiling like so many nails. “We know what you have paid into your schools, your farms, your stores, your families, your lives.” Each phrase came through the ceiling hard, bright, penetrating, scratchy.
In the basement there was a flubbery cry.
“Betsy!” Fletch bellowed.
Again there was the sound of feet scuffling on cement.
Fletch’s eyes finally were adjusting to the dim light.
And then there was what sounded like a hard punch.
There was an explosion of air from lungs, a gasp, a shrill, hysterical scream.
“Walsh!” Fletch yelled.
He threw his weight against a huge packing crate, which must have been empty. Lightly it skidded across the floor.
Fletch fell. He rolled over on the floor and looked up.
His back to Fletch, a man had a woman pinned into a corner of the basement.
Sitting on the floor, quietly Fletch said, “Walsh.”
Walsh twisted his neck around to look at Fletch. Walsh’s face was wild.
He had one hand behind Betsy’s head. The other was over her mouth.
Her fingers were against his biceps. She was trying to push him away. Her eyes were bulging.
“Hey, Walsh,” Fletch said. “You’re out of your mind. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“… you will have a friend in the White House, a man who …”
Walsh looked up at the ceiling of the basement. The low safety lights lit the whites of his eyes.
Fletch stood up. “I’m here, Walsh. There’s nothing more you can do.”
After a moment of applause, Doris Wheeler’s voice again penetrated the ceiling. “Someone in the White House …”
Walsh’s left hand pushed Betsy’s head forward from the wall. He looked her in the face. He raised his left hand from behind her head.
Walsh’s right fist slammed into Betsy’s face.
Her head banged into the corner of the walls and bounced out. Her eyes became entirely white.
“Walsh! Let go!”
Standing behind Walsh, Fletch raised his own arms as high as they would go, and brought the sides of his hands down full strength onto the muscles between Walsh’s neck and shoulders.
Walsh dropped his arms.
Betsy’s knees jerked forward. Bleeding from her nose, chin on her chest, Betsy slumped forward.
Fletch tried to catch her.
Walsh staggered into him.
Betsy fell into the corner on the floor.
Walsh backed along the wall. His head was lowered. He was trying to raise his hands.
“Take it easy, Walsh. Just stay still.”
Walsh turned. He stumbled along the wall.
Fletch grabbed him by a shoulder. Spun him around. Hit him hard, once, in the face. Once in the stomach.
Walsh fell. He could not raise his arms to protect himself as he fell. He landed flat.
He gasped for air. He brought one hand, slowly, to his bleeding face.
“Stay there, Walsh,” Fletch said.
Betsy was unconscious. Her nose was broken and pouring blood. Her left cheekbone was bruised blue. There was a bleeding gash at the back of her head.
Gently, Fletch pulled her out of the corner. He put her on her side on the floor, against the wall. He put his suit jacket under her head. Some blood ran out of her mouth.
Walsh had rolled over and was lying on his back.
Fletch stood over him. “It’s over now, Walsh.”
Walsh was breathing hard. His face was bloody, too.
“… Caxton Wheeler, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue …”
“Can you walk, Walsh? Betsy’s hurt. We’ve got to get an ambulance for her.”
Walsh’s glazed eyes were staring at the ceiling.
Through the ceiling Doris Wheeler’s voice came, insistent, demanding: “… the White House … the White House … the White House …”
Walsh said: “God, damn Mother.”
35
“It’s open,” said Governor Caxton Wheeler. “Come in.”
Fletch had knocked softly on the ajar door to the governor’s suite. He had not known if the governor might be asleep. He doubted it. On the other hand he did not know the full magic in Dr. Thom’s little black bag. He had not
