House Rivals Page 2

  “It was a mouse,” DeMarco said.

  Ralph focused next on the insulation. The floor joists for the first floor of DeMarco’s house sat on the foundation and batts of fiberglass insulation were crammed between the joists to minimize heat loss. About a minute after Ralph found the mouse turds, he said, “Yep,” and tugged on an insulation batt and hundreds of mouse turds came tumbling out.

  “Aw, Jesus,” DeMarco said.

  “There’s your nest,” Ralph said, “or at least one of them.”

  “Aw, Jesus,” DeMarco repeated.

  “I’m going to have to rip out most of this insulation.”

  “But how did they get into the house?” DeMarco asked.

  Ralph ran his flashlight along the top of the basement walls and near the electrical panel he stopped and said, “See that?”

  “What?”

  “That hole where that one cable is coming through. Looks like it might be an Internet cable. You see how much space there is around the cable? Whoever ran it should have filled the hole with caulk. I’m not saying that’s the only entry point, but that’s one of them.”

  DeMarco’s cell phone rang. He was going to ignore it but then looked at the caller ID. It was Mahoney.

  “Yeah, hello,” he said.

  “I need to see you,” Mahoney said.

  “Can it wait? I’ve got a big problem here at the house.”

  But Mahoney had already hung up.

  “Look, that was my boss and I have to go,” he said to Ralph, “but do whatever you gotta do. Wipe ’em out. Give me whatever I have to sign and I’ll call you later and you can tell me what the plan is—but wipe ’em out.”

  DeMarco passed through security, entered the Capitol, fought his way through a cluster of camera-wielding tourists to reach the stairs, and walked up to the office of the House Minority Leader: John Fitzpatrick Mahoney.

  Mavis, Mahoney’s secretary, was on the phone, chewing somebody out. From what DeMarco could hear it sounded like some kind of conflict in Mahoney’s schedule and Mavis was blaming the conflict on whomever she was talking to. She finally slammed down the phone and said, “Idiot.”

  Looking up at DeMarco, she said, “What are you doing here? He’s already an hour behind schedule and it’s not even ten, and right now he’s supposed to be in two places at once.”

  DeMarco shrugged. “He told me to come see him. I don’t know why.”

  “Well, he shouldn’t have done that,” Mavis snapped.

  “What can I tell you? He called. Hey, have you ever had mice in your house?”

  “What? Of course not. Now you just wait right here,” she said and marched over to Mahoney’s office, rapped on the door, and let herself in. She came out two minutes later and said, “You can walk with him over to the DNC.” She took a breath and said, “I don’t know why in the hell he wants to walk. That’s going to put him even farther behind.”

  The Democratic National Committee’s office was on South Capitol Street SE, about half a mile from the Capitol. If Mahoney had a car take him, he would get there in two minutes; if he walked it would take him at least twenty minutes because Mahoney walked slowly and stopped and bullshitted with everyone he met on the way. DeMarco felt sorry for Mavis. It was impossible to keep Mahoney on schedule and the main reason why was because Mahoney didn’t care about his schedule. At his rank, people would usually wait for him if he was late—and he didn’t care how long they had to wait.

  Mahoney lumbered out of his office a couple of minutes later. He was dressed in a gray suit, a blue shirt, and a red-and-blue striped tie. On his feet were white Nike running shoes. He did this periodically: Made a half-assed effort to lose weight and get some exercise, the effort usually not lasting more than a week.

  Mahoney was a handsome man with bright blue eyes and snow white hair. He was five foot eleven, the same height as DeMarco, but twice as broad across the back and butt. He drank too much, he ate too much, and he smoked cigars. A half-mile walk wasn’t going to come anywhere close to offsetting all his vices.

  He didn’t say hello when he saw DeMarco; he just walked toward the door and DeMarco trailed along behind him. Nor did DeMarco try to speak to him as they were leaving the Capitol because about every two feet somebody would say: “Good morning, Mr. Speaker.” If Mahoney didn’t know the person, he’d say, “Hey, howze it going? How you doin’ today?” If he knew the person, he’d stop, shake his or her hand, then chat about whatever popped into his head.

  Mahoney was no longer the Speaker of the House; he’d lost the job when the Republicans took control a few years ago, but he’d held the job for so long that people still used the title. It was driving him crazy that the Democrats couldn’t take back the House and he spent half his working hours scheming to make that happen—which was probably what he was going to do at the DNC this morning: more scheming.

  When they finally got outside, DeMarco caught up to Mahoney and walked next to him. “There’s a guy out in Montana named Doug Thorpe,” Mahoney said. “If it wasn’t for him, my name would be on that black wall down there on the Mall. He saved my life twice. He also saved the lives of a dozen other people, too. They gave him a Silver Star. He should have gotten the Medal of Honor.”

  Mahoney never talked about Vietnam. DeMarco had no idea what he did over there or how bad it had been. All DeMarco knew was that Mahoney had just been a kid, barely out of high school when he enlisted in the Marines. He ended up with shrapnel from a grenade in his right knee and he limped when it was cold. But that’s about all DeMarco knew.

  Mahoney was as corrupt as any congressman on Capitol Hill. He took money under the table; he did quasi-legal favors for people who helped him stay in office; he used campaign contributions to maintain his lifestyle. He would stab his enemies in the back—and sometimes he’d stab his friends in the back if it were politically expedient to do so. He loved politics more than he loved breathing. He loved the power, the intrigue, and being in the thick of things. But there was one area where Mahoney was above reproach: the proper treatment of veterans. It was the only area where he was above reproach.

  “Anyway, I want you to go see him,” Mahoney said.

  “In Montana?” DeMarco said.

  Mahoney ignored the whine in DeMarco’s voice. “It’s about his granddaughter. According to Doug, she’s uncovered some conspiracy out there and somebody’s threatening to kill her.”

  “What kind of conspiracy?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Something political. I’d had a couple of drinks before he called last night.”

  Had a couple? Knowing Mahoney, he’d probably had a lot more than two drinks. Mahoney was an alcoholic.

  “All I know is that Doug’s never asked for a damn thing from me in all the years I’ve known him. He’s a fly-fishing guide and when I was younger I’d go see him and we’d go fishing and drink and tell lies about the war, but I haven’t seen him in years. Anyway, he said he needed help and he didn’t know who else to go to and his granddaughter won’t listen to reason. So I told him you were going to help him.”

  Before DeMarco could say anything, Mahoney said, “Hang on a minute.” He walked over to a street vendor and bought a Danish in a cellophane wrapper; the Danish was loaded with preservatives and had probably been baked a month ago. There was no point in DeMarco asking why he was walking if he was going to eat pastry as he walked.

  “You don’t need to go with me the rest of the way,” Mahoney said as he ripped the wrapper off the Danish. “Get Doug’s address from Mavis, and head on out there today. I told him you’d see him tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow! But I got . . .”

  “When you find out what’s going on, let me know.”

  DeMarco walked back to the Capitol, cursing John Mahoney every step of the way. He didn’t want to leave today, not with his house infested with rodents. He could just see co
ming home from Montana and finding fifty mice in his kitchen, having a feast, dancing like cartoon characters in a Disney movie. He called Ralph. “Where are you?” he asked.

  “I’m still here at your house, ripping out the insulation. I found another nest.”

  “Aw, Jesus. Don’t leave. I’ll be back in less than an hour and you can tell me what the game plan is.”

  DeMarco had worked for Mahoney for years. He had an office in the bowels of the Capitol, down in the subbasement. On the frosted glass door of his office, in flaking gold paint, were the words Counsel Pro Tem For Liaison Affairs. The words were absolutely meaningless; Mahoney had invented them. But DeMarco had an office, he had a title, and the U.S. government paid his salary. He was a GS-13, and had been a GS-13 for almost as long as he’d worked for Mahoney. His chances of getting a raise were between slim and none.

  DeMarco was Mahoney’s fixer—and sometimes his bagman, meaning Mahoney occasionally sent him to collect cash from people who wanted to contribute to Mahoney but didn’t want to be known as contributors. More often, if Mahoney had some sticky issue with a constituent or another lawmaker or an old girlfriend—Mahoney had many of those: old girlfriends—DeMarco would be sent to deal with the issue. And usually, if DeMarco was sent to resolve a problem, it meant the problem couldn’t be handled by Mahoney’s legitimate staff in some legitimate fashion. The other thing Mahoney had done many times in the past was loan DeMarco to his friends when his friends had problems—as he was now doing with his buddy Doug Thorpe.

  DeMarco got Thorpe’s address and phone number from Mavis. When he asked if she’d mind booking him a flight and renting him a car, she basically told him to go fuck himself. She did this by simply sniffing. She worked for Mahoney and only Mahoney.

  DeMarco descended to his hole-in-the wall office and used Google to learn that Doug Thorpe lived on the Yellowstone River about halfway between the towns of Forsyth and Miles City, Montana. He’d never heard of either town, and would have to fly into Billings. The best flight he could get left National at five thirty p.m. and arrived in Billings seven hours later, stopping along the way in Salt Lake City. Then it would be a two-hour drive to Thorpe’s place. If DeMarco had had a little voodoo doll of John Mahoney it would have looked like a pincushion.

  DeMarco made reservations—flight, hotel, and car—then went home to pack and talk to Ralph. He wanted to know Ralph’s agenda for genocide.

  “You got two or three choices here,” Ralph said. “You got your traps. The good news with traps is the body stays in the trap and you just chuck out the body with the trap. The bad news is the traps aren’t all that effective. Rats must have some sort of genetic memory transfer thing where they know the traps will kill ’em.”

  Genetic memory transfer? It sounded like the creatures had been created by a mad scientist in a laboratory, some superbreed capable of taking over the world.

  “Then you got your sonic devices,” Ralph said. “They send out this ultrasonic noise that’s supposed to drive ’em out of the house, but most of the time it just drives them insane and they run back and forth inside the walls bumping into things but they don’t leave. You just end up with deaf, insane rats.”

  “Great,” DeMarco said.

  “I recommend this stuff,” Ralph said and showed DeMarco a small, flat box containing little blue-green pellets.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s called d-CON. It’s basically a super blood thinner and it makes them hemorrhage internally and turns their guts to mush. For some reason they love this shit more than I like clam linguini.”

  “Yeah, but where do they die? Inside the walls?”

  “Well, sometimes. But what’s supposed to happen—and what usually happens—is after they eat the stuff it makes ’em really thirsty, and they go outside to find water and they die outside. That’s why I’m not going to plug up any entry holes for a week or so.”

  Now DeMarco had an unwanted image of a mouse, bleeding from every orifice, tongue hanging out, as it crawled, gasping, toward a pool of water.

  “But what if they don’t die outside? What if they rot inside the walls?”

  “Well, that’s a possibility—but I’d still recommend the d-CON.”

  DeMarco signed a form—like a death warrant for mice—giving Ralph permission to poison the little suckers and absolving Ralph’s company of any liability for anything. He also gave Ralph a key and the security code to the house so he could do the work and remove the corpses. For some reason he trusted Ralph. Then he went to his bedroom and packed for the trip.

  He normally wore suits when he was working but this didn’t seem like a wear-a-suit trip, visiting some guy who was a fly-fishing guide. He packed one suit, one dress shirt, one tie, and a bunch of casual Montana-like clothes: jeans, sweaters, tennis shoes. Not sure how long he’d be out there, he packed enough underwear for a week. If he was stuck there longer than a week, he’d have to decide if he should wash the underwear or turn his boxers inside out.

  3

  The only good thing about flying to Billings as far as DeMarco was concerned, was that it was the first of May. This meant his chances of spending two days sleeping in an airport terminal due to weather-related delays were slightly less than normal.

  The flight, in fact, turned out to be uneventful, meaning his luggage arrived the same time he did and the planes departed and arrived almost on time. These days, airlines consider almost on time to be outstanding performance. He checked into a Holiday Inn Express about midnight and slept without dreaming of rodents. He awoke at eight, feeling good, gorged himself on pancakes, and took off for Thorpe’s place. He found it two hours later and thanked the Lord, as he always did, for the guy who’d invented the GPS. Whoever the guy was, he deserved the Nobel Prize and possibly sainthood.

  Thorpe’s home was an honest-to-God log cabin perched near the banks of the Yellowstone River and surrounded by ponderosa pines. In addition to the cabin there were two sheet-metal buildings the size of two-car garages. One of the buildings was open and DeMarco could see a snowmobile, a wood splitter, and a large rubber raft on a trailer. Next to the open garage was a shiny black Mercedes that looked out of place in the rural setting. A pile of firewood big enough to last through a cold Montana winter was stacked next to the house, and on the front porch were two rocking chairs. Some mixed-breed of black-and-white dog slept between the rocking chairs, and the dog barely raised its head when it saw DeMarco.

  DeMarco knocked on the front door and nobody answered. He pulled out his phone and called the number Mavis had given him for Thorpe and heard a phone ringing inside the cabin. Having no better idea, he sat down in one of the rocking chairs, ruffled the dog’s head, and looked out at the Yellowstone. Montana, he had to admit, was in a gorgeous part of these United States and he wouldn’t mind spending a week at Doug Thorpe’s cabin, sitting on the porch, reading mysteries, and enjoying the sound of the river going by.

  An hour later, a pickup truck with a crew cab, towing an aluminum boat, pulled into the driveway. Three men got out of the pickup. The driver saw DeMarco on the porch, gave him a wave, then shook hands with the two men who’d been his passengers. DeMarco heard one of the men say, “Thanks again, Doug. We’ll see you next year.”

  The two guys, both overweight and in their sixties, wore fancy fishing vests with multiple pockets and hats with fishing flies stuck into the crowns. They didn’t look like fishermen; they looked like bankers. They got into the Mercedes and took off.

  The dog got up and walked slowly down to greet the driver. The way it moved DeMarco figured the mutt was about a hundred in dog years. The man gave it a pat on the head and said, “Hey, Daisy.” To DeMarco he said, “Can I help you?”

  “My name’s Joe DeMarco, Mr. Thorpe. John Mahoney sent me.”

  Doug Thorpe was in his seventies, tall, lanky, and tanned. His hair was gunmetal gray and his eyes were nested in a mas
s of wrinkles from squinting into the sun. DeMarco was willing to bet the man had better than twenty-twenty vision. He was wearing a green-and-red Pendleton shirt, faded blue jeans, and old hiking boots. He looked like the kind of guy who always wore boots. When he shook Thorpe’s hand, DeMarco could feel nothing but calluses.

  “I appreciate John sending you out here,” Thorpe said. “I hope you can help. How’s John doing?”

  DeMarco wanted to say: He’s doing fine considering the fact that he’s a devious, self-centered, crooked, conniving, wife-cheating alcoholic—but he didn’t say that. Instead he said: “He’s doing fine, sir. He told me he owed you his life.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Thorpe said. “You want a beer? I figured we could sit on the porch and talk about Sarah.”

  “Sure,” DeMarco said.

  Thorpe opened the front door, which DeMarco noticed wasn’t locked, and Daisy followed him inside. He came back a moment later with two cans of Coors. He handed one to DeMarco, popped the top on his beer, and said, “About Sarah. She’s my granddaughter. In fact, she’s the only family I have left. My wife’s been dead for twenty years and my daughter died four years ago. Jenny married a handsome idiot named Johnson and he liked to fly small planes—you know, Cessnas, Piper Cubs, and such—and he killed them both. So Sarah’s the only one I have left and I love her to death. Anyway, she’s got it into her head that there’s some kind of big conspiracy going on.”

  “Conspiracy about what?”

  “You need to talk to her. The story’s too complicated for me to follow, but she claims state legislators and judges in Montana and the Dakotas are being bribed. Some of it has to do with natural gas, but to hear her talk it’s about more than gas. Anyway, she’s been working on this story—I guess you’d call it a story—for almost two years.”