paneled, formed a partial ceiling over the flat of the stage.
Mammoth video screens gave a larger-than-life view to the people stuck far in the back. Sousa marches at mega-decibels blasted over the sound system.
Lassiter himself, his head and shoulders leaning precariously over the left edge of the stage, reveled in the spotlight, waving, using one hand to shake the outstretched palms of the increasingly demanding crowd.
Impossible to get any louder . “Crazy,” Jane whispered. She was only half joking. The event was verging on out of control. “Maybe we should—”
“Campaign staff!” Trevor Kiernan stepped in front of her, almost shouting to be heard, showing the scowling blue uniform a collection of plastic-laminated badges on the lanyard around his neck. “I’m good to go through. And she’s press. She’s with me.”
He turned quickly, drew her forward. “Jane! Got a pass? Show the man.”
“Lass-i- ter . Lass-i- ter .” The crowd’s chanting grew louder as a crush of bodies pressed toward the stage. A few toddlers rode high on their parents’ shoulders. One pinafored girl, her little Lassiter baseball cap askew, dissolved in tears as her dad pushed to get closer.
Jane held up the new bright blue plastic badge she wore on an aluminum-linked chain. It showed her photo and the insignia of the Massachusetts State Police. “Channel— I mean, Boston Register . Okay?”
“Yikes,” she said, trotting after Kiernan. “Is it always like this?”
He hurried her past a bank of temporary wooden risers, television cameras on tripods lined one end to the other, set up to hold the reporters covering the event. She tried to pick out Channel 11’s camera, see who they’d assigned, but couldn’t. Well, tough. Now I’m getting even closer than they can.
She followed Kiernan up three concrete steps at the side of the stage. He punched in a passcode on an electronic lock, then led her through a door hidden in the black-painted wall. The backstage entrance led to a shadowy concrete-walled corridor. Up a few more narrow stairs, around a corner, and—the daylight blasted her, so bright and surprising, she stumbled backwards. Hidden behind the curved proscenium wall, they had the candidate’s eye view of the crowd. And that view, Jane realized, must be intoxicating.
The colors. The signs. The cheering throng of voters. Adoring. Pulsing closer. Demanding attention. Calling his name. Some held their cameras high above their heads, capturing whatever memories they could.
“Watch,” Kiernan said. “I’ll stay right here. Off the record, right?”
“Ah, sure,” Jane replied. What the hell?
Above her head, lofty metal poles held banks of spotlights and draping loops of wires. Thick cables, wrapped in duct tape, snaked across the concrete floor. It was darker here, the explosive light outside turning backstage into background.
People stood in groups of twos and threes. Campaign workers, Jane figured, insider enough to have special passes. Most clutched files or clipboards, plastic water bottles. Some wore suits and heels, others jeans. All wore Lassiter buttons. All eyes fastened on the candidate.
Jane could see only Lassiter’s back, moving slowly to the other side of the stage. The police linked themselves in a wavering blue line.
“Hey, Trev, goin’ great, man. Almost time. Gotta love it.” A harried-looking man with a clipboard gave Kiernan a thumbs-up, then disappeared behind the flashing red and green lights of the elaborate sound system.
Kiernan pointed to Lassiter. “Okay, Jane. Any second now.”
* * *
“’Scuse me, ’scuse me, ’scuse me.” She was late, she was late. The subway ride had taken too long and the walk from Park Street station had taken too long, and her darling new kitten heels kept catching in the Esplanade’s thick grass. Would she be too late? How did this happen? She’d planned it so perfectly.
Holly elbowed her way closer to the Esplanade stage, hardly
Mammoth video screens gave a larger-than-life view to the people stuck far in the back. Sousa marches at mega-decibels blasted over the sound system.
Lassiter himself, his head and shoulders leaning precariously over the left edge of the stage, reveled in the spotlight, waving, using one hand to shake the outstretched palms of the increasingly demanding crowd.
Impossible to get any louder . “Crazy,” Jane whispered. She was only half joking. The event was verging on out of control. “Maybe we should—”
“Campaign staff!” Trevor Kiernan stepped in front of her, almost shouting to be heard, showing the scowling blue uniform a collection of plastic-laminated badges on the lanyard around his neck. “I’m good to go through. And she’s press. She’s with me.”
He turned quickly, drew her forward. “Jane! Got a pass? Show the man.”
“Lass-i- ter . Lass-i- ter .” The crowd’s chanting grew louder as a crush of bodies pressed toward the stage. A few toddlers rode high on their parents’ shoulders. One pinafored girl, her little Lassiter baseball cap askew, dissolved in tears as her dad pushed to get closer.
Jane held up the new bright blue plastic badge she wore on an aluminum-linked chain. It showed her photo and the insignia of the Massachusetts State Police. “Channel— I mean, Boston Register . Okay?”
“Yikes,” she said, trotting after Kiernan. “Is it always like this?”
He hurried her past a bank of temporary wooden risers, television cameras on tripods lined one end to the other, set up to hold the reporters covering the event. She tried to pick out Channel 11’s camera, see who they’d assigned, but couldn’t. Well, tough. Now I’m getting even closer than they can.
She followed Kiernan up three concrete steps at the side of the stage. He punched in a passcode on an electronic lock, then led her through a door hidden in the black-painted wall. The backstage entrance led to a shadowy concrete-walled corridor. Up a few more narrow stairs, around a corner, and—the daylight blasted her, so bright and surprising, she stumbled backwards. Hidden behind the curved proscenium wall, they had the candidate’s eye view of the crowd. And that view, Jane realized, must be intoxicating.
The colors. The signs. The cheering throng of voters. Adoring. Pulsing closer. Demanding attention. Calling his name. Some held their cameras high above their heads, capturing whatever memories they could.
“Watch,” Kiernan said. “I’ll stay right here. Off the record, right?”
“Ah, sure,” Jane replied. What the hell?
Above her head, lofty metal poles held banks of spotlights and draping loops of wires. Thick cables, wrapped in duct tape, snaked across the concrete floor. It was darker here, the explosive light outside turning backstage into background.
People stood in groups of twos and threes. Campaign workers, Jane figured, insider enough to have special passes. Most clutched files or clipboards, plastic water bottles. Some wore suits and heels, others jeans. All wore Lassiter buttons. All eyes fastened on the candidate.
Jane could see only Lassiter’s back, moving slowly to the other side of the stage. The police linked themselves in a wavering blue line.
“Hey, Trev, goin’ great, man. Almost time. Gotta love it.” A harried-looking man with a clipboard gave Kiernan a thumbs-up, then disappeared behind the flashing red and green lights of the elaborate sound system.
Kiernan pointed to Lassiter. “Okay, Jane. Any second now.”
* * *
“’Scuse me, ’scuse me, ’scuse me.” She was late, she was late. The subway ride had taken too long and the walk from Park Street station had taken too long, and her darling new kitten heels kept catching in the Esplanade’s thick grass. Would she be too late? How did this happen? She’d planned it so perfectly.
Holly elbowed her way closer to the Esplanade stage, hardly
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