Chapter 58
Grantville
Wes came back from his meeting over at the legislative chambers. There were police all over the place around the administration building. As soon as he saw the expression on the security guard's face, he knew that something was wrong. Specifically wrong, for him. Not generally wrong, politically.
"Ah, Sir. I am sorry. Truly I am. I had no way of knowing that I should not admit him. I hadn't been notified. He wasn't on my list. And he is a member of your family."
"Who is 'he'? And what has 'he,' whoever he is, done?"
"Mr. Bryant Holloway, Sir. He came into the building. Quiet enough, when he came in. He went up to your office. To Consular Affairs. Where he tried to knife your wife."
At the expression on Mr. Jenkins face, the guard turned pale. "Ah, she's perfectly fine, Sir. Ms. Bachmeierin, that is. She's upstairs, talking to the police. She yelled, so other people came."
The guard had heard any number of people say, from time to time, that Mr. Jenkins had a temper. He'd never seen any sign of it before.
The policeman talking to Clara was Preston Richards, who had sent Ron and Missy into another room to be interviewed. He also carried out the unpleasant task of letting Wes know that Bryant had gotten to Lenore and beaten her very seriously.
The guard looked up. The way Mr. Jenkins' face had looked on the way up did not even start to compare with Mr. Jenkins' face on the way out.
Ms. Bachmeierin came running after him. Running down those steep old-fashioned stairs, as close to her time as she was. Running, her short legs trying to catch up with her tall husband.
"Look, Ed," Preston Richards said. "If Wes lays hands on Bryant Holloway, the man's life expectancy is going to be very short. And while I don't give a damn about Holloway, we'd still have to arrest Wes for murder. Second degree, anyway."
"Then," Arnold Bellamy answered, "we must find the best way to save Wes from himself."
Ed Piazza didn't answer right away. He was thinking.
Arnold was right, of course.
Arnold could be an uptight pain in the ass a lot of the time, but he was frequently right.
Michael Dukakis had probably been right too, back up-time, when he answered that question about his wife Kitty. Right in an abstract sort of way.
Natalie Bellamy hadn't been among the women standing on the steps of the synagogue the day of the assassination. No one had shot at her. Ed wondered vaguely how Arnold would have reacted if she had been there. Or if someone had tried to knife her this morning. Or if someone beat up his daughter Amy. Amy would be how old now? Nineteen already? She'd been a freshman in high school the year of the Ring of Fire.
This coming spring, a class would graduate that had never attended the high school while Ed had been principal. A whole new school generation, he thought, formed during their freshman year by Len Trout but mostly under Victor Saluzzo's leadership.
"I'm sure you're right, Arnold," Ed said. "Do you have any suggestions?"
"Not really. I was hoping that Preston might."
Ed's thoughts kept wandering. Lots of people sort of wondered about Arnold and Natalie. It was lucky that Amy hadn't been involved in this at all. She worked right here in the building. Who could tell how Arnold would have reacted?
"Ah," Arnold was saying. "Preston, while I have your attention, I think I'd better let you know that several other people were involved in pulling Bryant Holloway out of Consular Affairs than your men found when they arrived on the scene. Amy says . . ."
"That must have been a sight," was Preston Richards' comment when Arnold had finished his summary. "I guess I had better talk to Minnie and Denise. Minnie has a really amazing memory for things she observes."
Arnold rearranged the papers in front of him into three neat piles. "Amy thought you ought to know. No matter what Christin George's opinion was."
Ed blinked. Amy had been involved in the fight. And Arnold's reaction was—somewhere between perfectly calm and mildly concerned?
Arnold was continuing. "At least she phoned me once she got rid of Christin. She's a lot like Natalie, you know. Amy, that is. Came equipped with a mind of her own from the day she was born. All the paternal guidance I have been able to muster over the past two decades has not sufficed to persuade her that 'Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead!' is not necessarily the most appropriate response in every single circumstance that may arise."
He rearranged the three piles of paper. "I really do wish that she were a little more cautious. I thought that working in Internal Affairs would offer comparatively little risk, since she has no desire to teach. Compared, say, to working in Economic Resources or going to Franconia." He frowned. "Minimal risk is difficult to achieve these days, though. Natalie was teaching the day of the Croat raid, and Amy was at school. I had just transferred to the Department of International Affairs, so I was downtown. I was very concerned about their safety. With all the other things that had to be done, and all the confusion, it was almost three hours before I was able to confirm that they had come to no harm."