over.
Staring at the photographs for at least the twentieth time, Petrenko concentrated on the candidate’s eyes, attempting to probe his soul. Then he closed his eyes and focused his mind.
Yes , he told himself with certainty. This is the one .
Yuri lifted his laptop from the coffee table, leaned back and tapped on the keyboard. In his mind, the game had kicked off and he had called his team’s first offensive play of the game.
It’s game time, boys! Let’s put the ball in the end zone.
CHAPTER 20
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
GOVERNOR’S MANSION
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 10:00 P.M.
Arriving home from a fundraiser, Vincent stripped out of his tuxedo and tried to get comfortable. He slipped a green Thundering Herd tee-shirt over his head and pulled a pair of matching cotton pajama bottoms over his black silk boxers. Throwing a pair of slippers on his feet, he headed into the bathroom while his wife completed her own clothing transformation.
The Vincents had been married for 25 years, and his wife rarely deviated from her Saturday night routine. In the absence of some calamity, he knew Donna would crawl in bed at 10:00 p.m., flip on the bedside lamp and watch a re-run of The Golden Girls. When the show was over, she would read the Bible for 20 minutes, turn off the light and go to sleep. In his mind, neither solar eclipses nor the phases of the moon were as predictable as his wife’s behavior, and he derived a certain degree of comfort from that predictability.
By the same token, in a self-analytical moment that arrived while he was taking a leak, he wondered whether his own boredom with that predictability had led him to pursue his tryst with Tabatha McCallen. If you wanted more excitement in your life, you should have taken up skydiving instead of playing ‘hide the sausage’ with another woman.
Such self-indictments were not amenable to a good night’s sleep. Vincent flushed the toilet, washed and dried his hands, then let out a deep sigh. Opening the door, he saw Donna propped up in bed facing the television with a smile. Sure enough, the four Golden Girls were sitting around the kitchen table, and when Sophia let loose with one of her biting one-liners, the First Lady let out a chuckle that was perfectly on cue with the show’s laugh track.
Vincent strolled over to his wife, bent down and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “I’m going to check out the scores online.”
Donna looked up, still smiling. “Okay, honey. But don’t sit too close to the computer screen or you’ll hurt your eyes.”
“I won’t. Be back in a jiffy.”
The First Lady nodded and patted his hand. “Don’t keep me waiting,” she said with a wink. “You looked awfully handsome in that tuxedo tonight, Mr. Governor.”
Vincent grinned back. “You looked quite smashing yourself. Don’t fall asleep on me.”
“Not a chance,” Donna replied. “I’ll be waiting.”
The governor raised her hand to his lips, gave it a little peck and then walked across the hallway to the extra bedroom that served as his office in the Mansion’s living quarters. He crossed the room, sat down at the red oak desk and brought the computer to life with a tap of the mouse. Just as he opened ESPN’s website, his cell phone began playing Marshall’s fight song. Peering at the viewscreen, he saw Dick Bowen’s face and phone number.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, Luke. How was the fundraiser?”
“Just like all the others,” Vincent deadpanned. “Dressed-up rich people hobnobbing, writing checks, nibbling on hors d’oeuvres and drinking booze like the plane is going down. What’s up?”
“We’ve made our pitch to Ruth Thompson on the memory cards. She didn’t give us a firm commitment, but we’ve given her some food for thought. I’ll touch base again tomorrow.”
Vincent heard the phone click before he had a chance to respond. If nothing else, Dick Bowen was astonishingly focused. Give him a task, and he would demolish a brick wall
Staring at the photographs for at least the twentieth time, Petrenko concentrated on the candidate’s eyes, attempting to probe his soul. Then he closed his eyes and focused his mind.
Yes , he told himself with certainty. This is the one .
Yuri lifted his laptop from the coffee table, leaned back and tapped on the keyboard. In his mind, the game had kicked off and he had called his team’s first offensive play of the game.
It’s game time, boys! Let’s put the ball in the end zone.
CHAPTER 20
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
GOVERNOR’S MANSION
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 10:00 P.M.
Arriving home from a fundraiser, Vincent stripped out of his tuxedo and tried to get comfortable. He slipped a green Thundering Herd tee-shirt over his head and pulled a pair of matching cotton pajama bottoms over his black silk boxers. Throwing a pair of slippers on his feet, he headed into the bathroom while his wife completed her own clothing transformation.
The Vincents had been married for 25 years, and his wife rarely deviated from her Saturday night routine. In the absence of some calamity, he knew Donna would crawl in bed at 10:00 p.m., flip on the bedside lamp and watch a re-run of The Golden Girls. When the show was over, she would read the Bible for 20 minutes, turn off the light and go to sleep. In his mind, neither solar eclipses nor the phases of the moon were as predictable as his wife’s behavior, and he derived a certain degree of comfort from that predictability.
By the same token, in a self-analytical moment that arrived while he was taking a leak, he wondered whether his own boredom with that predictability had led him to pursue his tryst with Tabatha McCallen. If you wanted more excitement in your life, you should have taken up skydiving instead of playing ‘hide the sausage’ with another woman.
Such self-indictments were not amenable to a good night’s sleep. Vincent flushed the toilet, washed and dried his hands, then let out a deep sigh. Opening the door, he saw Donna propped up in bed facing the television with a smile. Sure enough, the four Golden Girls were sitting around the kitchen table, and when Sophia let loose with one of her biting one-liners, the First Lady let out a chuckle that was perfectly on cue with the show’s laugh track.
Vincent strolled over to his wife, bent down and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “I’m going to check out the scores online.”
Donna looked up, still smiling. “Okay, honey. But don’t sit too close to the computer screen or you’ll hurt your eyes.”
“I won’t. Be back in a jiffy.”
The First Lady nodded and patted his hand. “Don’t keep me waiting,” she said with a wink. “You looked awfully handsome in that tuxedo tonight, Mr. Governor.”
Vincent grinned back. “You looked quite smashing yourself. Don’t fall asleep on me.”
“Not a chance,” Donna replied. “I’ll be waiting.”
The governor raised her hand to his lips, gave it a little peck and then walked across the hallway to the extra bedroom that served as his office in the Mansion’s living quarters. He crossed the room, sat down at the red oak desk and brought the computer to life with a tap of the mouse. Just as he opened ESPN’s website, his cell phone began playing Marshall’s fight song. Peering at the viewscreen, he saw Dick Bowen’s face and phone number.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, Luke. How was the fundraiser?”
“Just like all the others,” Vincent deadpanned. “Dressed-up rich people hobnobbing, writing checks, nibbling on hors d’oeuvres and drinking booze like the plane is going down. What’s up?”
“We’ve made our pitch to Ruth Thompson on the memory cards. She didn’t give us a firm commitment, but we’ve given her some food for thought. I’ll touch base again tomorrow.”
Vincent heard the phone click before he had a chance to respond. If nothing else, Dick Bowen was astonishingly focused. Give him a task, and he would demolish a brick wall
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