The Silver Bear by Derek Haas

sewing machine that looked like it hadn’t been used in decades. It must have weighed over fifty pounds, but it seemed light as a feather as I hoisted it onto my shoulder and marched back toward the whimpering heap on the floor.
    He looked up as I stood over him, gore splashed all over his lips, his gums, his teeth. “Wha-what are you doing this for?” he sobbed.
    “For Pooley,” I said, and smashed the sewing machine down on top of his skull.
     
     
    I sit in my hotel room in Philadelphia watching Abe Mann outline his vision for America on television. This is how he will sit, I imagine, a few weeks from now, watching himself say the same things by rote, over and over. How he’s for working families, and lower taxes, and cutting tax breaks for the rich. How he’s for a woman’s right to choose and a stronger military and jobs staying home instead of going overseas. The same fast-food dish served up stale by politicians every few years.
    His voice is throaty; it arrives from deep down in his lungs. It is one of the reasons he has been so successful in politics: he is well-practiced in how he speaks, even if he doesn’t believe what he is saying. And he has a new hand gesture: an open palm, the fingers splayed, shaking at an angle as he punctuates the key words in his speech. It is a variation on the thumb-point, or the crooked index finger. It gives him a certain authority, like an old Southern preacher at the pulpit. I find myself making the same gesture with my hand, watching him without listening, the way he does while he speaks.
    The phone rings, and it is Pooley on the other end when I answer.
    “What did you find?”
    “Very little, so far. Archibald Grant has disappeared; no one has seen him in days.”
    “Then whoever hired me has tossed his middleman.”
    “Looks that way.”
    My mind is racing. “What next, then?”
    Pooley blew out a long breath. “I’m going to dig some more, see if I can’t find a trail from Grant to someone else.”
    “You sure you want to do that?”
    “Hey . . . why should you be the only one who gets to climb out from behind a desk?”
    I smile. “You be careful.”
    “You got it.”
     
     
    I am on the road again, back in my element, the present. I am heading to Ohio, what they call a battleground state, where Abe Mann will spend an unprecedented three days on his tour . . . Cleveland, then Dayton, then Cincinnati. Electoral votes in this state have swung an election in the past, and glad-handing is necessary and expected. I try to imagine what Abe Mann will be feeling at this point in the campaign. Fatigue? Irritation? Or will he feel renewed, as I do now? Back in the present. Yesterday behind me.
    In Cleveland, I eat lunch at a restaurant called Augustine’s. It is upscale but strives to be better than it is, like a scarred woman who puts on too much rouge to cover her blemishes. The food is bland and tasteless. A young couple at a table next to me is talking about the upcoming election, and without turning my head I can hear every word they say. Or rather I can hear every word she says, since she is dominating the conversation.
    “I consider myself socially liberal but economically conservative. Winston Churchill once said, ‘If you’re young and a conservative, you have no heart. But if you’re old and a democrat, you have no money.’ ” The man across from her chuckles. “But I’m being serious here. I feel like we pay way too much in taxes, and for what? More Washington waste?”
    “So you’re voting Republican?” the man asks.
    “No, I’m still undecided. I want to hear what the candidates have to say at their conventions and then . . .”
    Her voice continues on and on, like a comfortable hum, and it strikes me that this woman is the same age Jake would be. Now, I know I shouldn’t turn my head, I know I definitely should not make eye contact, but there is something in her voice that washes over me like warm water. I stick out my index finger and