Stalking Susan Read Online Free Page B

hood of a car and call himself a human tripod. But no cameraman’s shoulder could have withstood that blast.
    I easily pick Chuck’s voice out of the din, louder than the others, because he’s closest to the microphone. “You people, clear out.” Somehow he manages to keep the camera rolling.
    Boyer pushes the governor into the hall. “Move it.” His deep command echoes through the pandemonium. Barber Bill is carrying his young customer. The little boy’s face is bleeding, his haircut half finished. “Everyone, keep moving.” Boyer’s voice grows urgent. My heart starts to beat faster.
    They are about fifteen yards away from the door and their escape when a wall caves in. More dust. More screams. High-pitched and frantic. The camera swings wildly. Under a pile of debris I see Poppy Jones’s shapely ass, but not much else of the press secretary.
    “Back.” Boyer coughs. I can’t see him because of the heavy dust.
    The governor knocks the old veteran down as he tries to move farther from the rubble.
    “My hip!” the old man cries.
    The camera follows Governor Johnson around a corner. A young woman is surrounded by children—none looks older than five. She’s holding two kids in her arms and more are pressed against her legs.
    “The day care’s on fire!” Her face is streaked with dirt and tears. The children, wide-eyed, tremble.
    Boyer, still broad and strong from his days as a high school line-backer, heaves the old veteran over his shoulders. He motions for everyone to head in the other direction to the senior center. As they move down the hall, sunlight from a picture window shines through smoke.
    “Stop,” the day care woman cries. “Becky’s missing. There’s supposed to be nine kids. We’ve got to go back.”
    “Which way?” Boyer asks.
    The governor shoves him. “We can’t go back, we have to get out.”
    “You get them out. I’ll find the little girl.” I note the nonnegotiable tone in his voice. Gently, Boyer sets the old vet down and makes a promise. “I’ll come back for you.”
    “No! You have to stick with me.” The governor thrashes his arms. His speech turns shrill and desperate, almost on the verge of a tantrum. “It’s your job to get me out. So go do your job.”
    Boyer pushes him against the wall and a rifle from a Civil War display about the First Minnesota Volunteers falls down. “You want out. I’ll get you out.” He picks up the antique firearm and smashes the window, then knocks Governor Johnson backward through the broken glass. The ground is about twenty feet below.
    He instructs barber Bill and the day care lady to lower the kids out the window. My throat tightens as Boyer disappears back into the smoke.
    “Hurry.” The woman sobs. “She’s only two.”
    The tape continues to roll on chaos and confusion as the kids are dropped outside. “Run,” the grown-ups tell them. “Get away from the building.”
    “Him next.” Chuck puts his camera on the floor to help lower the old vet down. They don’t realize he’s already in cardiac arrest. For the next ten seconds, all I see are feet.
    Another explosion. Then all I see is black.
    A few seconds later the tape goes to snow. That’s what TV journalists call it when the pictures suddenly stop and all that shows on the monitor is white-and-gray static. I reach for my purse and pull out, no, not a tissue—I have no tears left.
    What I pull out is a wallet-sized wedding photo of Hugh Boyer and me.
             
    T HE NEXT DAY searchers found my husband’s body in the rubble, a dead toddler clutched in his arms.
    Perhaps now you understand why I have what amounts to a get-out-of-jail-free card from the Minnesota State Patrol.
    They also found the bodies of the day care lady, barber Bill, and Chuck Hudella. His crumpled camera lay nearby, the videotape inside.
    Now you understand why Governor Johnson got what amounts to a get-the-hell-out-of-office card from Minnesota voters.
    Minnesota has a national