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When the news turned away from the May primary, Ashley snapped off the set and fell back against the pillows while uttering a tremulous sigh. Why would Trevor be planning to drop out of the race? All of his life he had had political aspirations, and he was currently leading Bill Orson in the polls for the primary. Pulling out now just didn’t make a lot of sense.
Just then Claud’s words of a few days earlier rang in her ears. “We can’t let that son of a bitch win!” he had stated to an unknown caller. Could Claud be somehow responsible for the rumor? And was it even true? KPSC wasn’t a station to report sensational rumors just to gain viewer attention. Most of the stories reported by the Portland station were purely factual, very seldom conjecture. And yet, the rumor was unconfirmed.
Though it was nearly eleven, Ashley reached for the bedside phone and with quaking fingers punched out the number of Trevor’s home. There was still no answer in the grand house on the Willamette, and Ashley wondered if Trevor had moved. He’d never felt completely comfortable in his father’s stately home. The vestiges of wealth were too harsh a reminder of the price his father had paid to make Daniels Logging Company successful.
With a sigh, Ashley hung up the phone and settled into the pillows, hoping for sleep. If nothing else, she would be at Pioneer Square the next afternoon to see Trevor, if only from a distance. It seemed like years since she had set eyes on him.
Fortunately Claud was still out of town, so there would be no one looking over her shoulder. Tomorrow, she promised herself, come hell or high water, she would find Trevor. Maybe, just maybe, she would force a confrontation with him.
* * *
Pioneer Square was a mass of cold, disenchanted citizens. People from all walks of life milled around the red brick amphitheater with frowns. Elderly couples rubbed their hands together for warmth as they stood next to men and women dressed smartly for work in the business offices flanking the city block designated for the square. Gaudily costumed young people with punk hairdos and glittery clothes were joined by a disenchanted group of street people. Joggers paused on their daily run through the city streets on the way to Waterfront Park and young mothers pushing strollers braved the cold February air to hear Trevor Daniels speak.
Ashley stood on the edge of the crowd, her stomach tied in knots. Pieces of angry conversation filtered to her ears.
“You really don’t think he’ll show?” a jeans-clad student with a scruffy beard asked his friend.
“Nah—politicians, they’re all alike—say one thing and do another.”
“This guy—he’s supposed to be different.”
“Sure, he is. Then why isn’t he here?”
“Beats me.”
“They’re all alike, I tell you. They just want you to think that they’re something special.” The shorter of the two paused to cup his fingers around the end of a cigarette before lighting it. He blew out an angry stream of smoke as he shook his blond head. “I’ll tell ya one thing, I’m not votin’ for this clown, Daniels. Hell, he can’t even show up for his own goddamn rally.”
“Maybe his plane was delayed—”
“His plane? Gimme a break. He’s supposed to be in town.”
“Okay, okay, so the guy’s a jerk. Who’re you gonna vote for? Orson? That son of a bitch would sell his own mother’s soul if there was a dime in it.”
“God damn!” The short man ground out his cigarette and frowned. “I was hoping this guy would do something—”
“Meaningful?”
“Give me a break!” His gruff laughter drifted off as the two young men walked toward the podium.
Ashley’s anxious eyes skimmed the crowd. Nowhere was there any trace of Trevor. The rally was supposed to begin at twelve and it was nearly twelve-fifteen. Worried lines creased Ashley’s forehead as she blew on her cold hands. It was cold, but fortunately dry, and the wind blowing down the Columbia Gorge cut through her coat and chilled her bones.
“Come on, Trevor,” she whispered, and her breath misted in the clear air. “If you want to lose this election, you’re certainly going about it the right way.”
Finally there was a flurry of activity near the podium. Ashley’s anxious eyes were riveted to the small stage that had been prepared for the event. The crowd murmured gratefully as a small, round man stepped up to the microphone.
It had been many years since Ashley had seen Everett Woodward, but she recognized Trevor’s campaign manager, whose high-pitched voice was echoing in the square. He introduced himself to Trevor’s
restless public and then politely explained that Trevor had been detained in Salem and that the rally would be rescheduled for another, undisclosed date.
No one was pleased at the news. While some of the would-be Daniels supporters began to disband, a group of hecklers standing near Ashley began to taunt Everett.
“So where is he?” one demanded gruffly. “I don’t buy your story that he’s in Salem. He was supposed to be here today.”
“Yeah, right. And what’s all the rumors about him pulling out of the race? What happened? Did he get caught with his hand in the till or something?”
Everett, in his seemingly unflappable manner, ignored the jibes, but his brow was puckered with worry.
The hecklers continued their conversation in private. “If you ask me, Daniels was probably caught with his pants down—in bed with somebody’s wife.”
