The Voter File

by David Pepper

  But it had never been about the money—and playing a game for a living had always struck Lute as strange. So coming home and working the farm had been the natural thing to do. His wife passing away at a young age had forced him to raise two kids himself, and the dairy business had grown next to impossible for family farms like his. But he’d never regretted coming home.

  “This little operation ain’t what it once was, and your offer is generous. But what’s an ol’ man like me gonna do to pass the days?”

  “Besides squeezing those cows’ nipples?” Sal asked. “Geez, maybe basketball?”

  “That’s all in the past,” Lute said, although given his run as a Badger—his Wisconsin rebounding record still stood—maybe he could be a commentator of some sort. Other than that, he was just a sixty-eight-year-old giant with shredded knees and an aching back.

  If he sold, his main worry was what to tell Tori. She knew about the offers, but he’d downplayed them, insisting he’d never sell. Ironically, a major reason he was considering the deal was to help her. Watching her work two shifts while piling up student debt made him feel that he’d failed her. The cash from selling would let him help her like a good dad should. But this was the part she’d hate the most.

  They walked past Lute’s blue Ford tractor before reaching Sal’s silver Mercedes. Sal opened the door and sat down.

  “You’re a good man, Mr. Justice,” he said, his perfect white teeth gleaming up at him through the open window. “I’ll overnight you the paperwork. You’ll be able to replace that old tractor as soon as we process the payment.”

  Lute smiled wryly. After four visits, Sal still didn’t get it. That tractor was perfect the way it was, old and reliable. He wouldn’t exchange it for anything. Still, the man’s client was offering a boatload of money.

  “Send it along and I’ll check it out.”

  As Sal drove away, Lute texted Tori from his cell.

  Hey honey. We need to talk.

  CHAPTER 31

  ASPEN, COLORADO

  Covering presidential escapes to Aspen turned out to be more grime than glamour.

  After enduring a stomach-churning landing at the Aspen airport and too little sleep at a nearby Days Inn, Cassie and five others boarded a bus at dawn and rode for thirty minutes to a parking lot at the edge of Wingspread, the president’s sprawling ranch. From the parking lot, holed up in a small news van, Cassie sat bored the rest of the morning.

  The high point came when three identical caravans of dark SUVs entered the large double-gated entrance and disappeared down the long gravel driveway, kicking up dust behind them. The problem was, there was no way to know who was riding inside them.

  The interior secretary and EPA administrator were on the official schedule, as were four governors of Western states, so Cassie did her best to make out their faces through the SUV’s tinted windows as she ducked the spraying dirt. At one point four people on horseback trotted through the fields behind the ranch house, the president atop her gray mare, Eleanor. And for an hour a small group of antigovernment protesters lined up in front of the ranch’s gates demanding the president leave their guns and land alone. Thankfully, the mustached bruisers with colorful homemade signs also made for good background footage, as the conservative nonprofits bankrolling the protest knew.

  “Here at her ranch near Aspen, in the house far behind me, the president is finalizing her long-awaited public lands expansion plan,” Cassie reported in her live shot, the ranch and mountains in the background.

  “It sounds like some who don’t like those plans showed up to leave her a message,” a youthful voice said in her ear. Cassie had already forgotten the name of the new weekend anchor.

  “They sure did. A small group protested for about an hour, although I’m not sure the president even knew they were there.”

  “Right,” the young whippersnapper said back through her earpiece. “She was off riding horses in the other direction.”

  Even this newbie was already reciting Republic spin on the president. Cassie recalled the three contract clauses but couldn’t help herself.

  “Actually, she was meeting with four Western state governors about the plan when the protests were taking place. She’s trying to build some consensus, at least among those who will meet with her.”

  “Well, how do we know who she’s meeting with when she refuses to make the Aspen guest logs public?”

  “Those governors were on her official schedule today. But you’re right, we’re not sure who else might be there. Unfortunately, that’s a practice going back through a number of presidencies. The difference is that this president skis and rides horses, while the others golfed.”

  It was an unseemly tradition. Every White House presidential visitor was listed, but vacation visitors were shrouded in secrecy. Cassie had been equally troubled by the prior president’s regular, secret getaways to Maryland’s eastern shore. But D.C., including the press corps, accepted it.

  “Still, it makes you wonder,” the anchor said, pressing further.

  “Always has. We’ll check back in tomorrow with any other news from Aspen.”

  The red light of the camera shut off, and she handed the microphone back to her cameraman. As she took out her earpiece, the gates opened slowly. Seconds later another caravan—this one with two SUVs and a sedan—sped by.

  Turning away from another dust cloud, she didn’t even bother to look in those tinted windows. There was no way to know who was inside.

  CHAPTER 32

  LONDON

  Katrina sat at the head of the table, Drac to her right, Natalie to her left. But the most important place at the conference room table was a small circular speaker at its center.

  “How are your treatments proceeding, Dyadya?” Katrina asked.

  Even as an adult, she’d never called him anything but Dyadya. Uncle. But he’d played a role far larger than that in her life. Indeed, he’d made the life she now led possible.

  Drunk most of the time, her father had been unable to hold on to a job for more than six months at a time, while her mother had earned minimum wage sweating away in a local textile mill. So she and her little brother, Mikhail, had grown up dirt-poor in Brooklyn. Katrina still recalled the constant squeeze in her lower abdomen—a mix of a bad cramp and an upset stomach—after days in a row of only bread and beans at dinner. Pictures from those days, of her drawn face, spindly arms, and thin legs, still grieved her. Her hair had even looked thin and patchy.

  It was around her seventh birthday that Mother’s younger brother had first visited. When he’d walked through their front door, his sharp, angular features startled her; he looked like a ghoul from one of her storybooks. But she quickly discovered that, apart from her mother, he was the kindest person she’d ever met, a sharp contrast to the hardscrabble community around her. For two weeks Dyadya had chaperoned Katrina and Mikhail far beyond the rough streets of Brighton Beach—to Coney Island, to the top of the World Trade Center, to FAO Schwarz, to Central Park, to Broadway—places she’d never seen and trips she’d never forget. But the highlight of each day were the feasts she’d gorged on for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Croissants, cheeses, fresh fruits, and vegetables, succulent meats. Foods she had stared at through windows but never smelled or tasted.

  According to Mother, Katrina almost never cried as a kid, and even then only from the sharpest physical pain. But the day Dyadya left, she bawled for hours.

  Yet his impact on her life was only beginning. Within weeks of the visit, Father left and Mother stopped working at the mill, a combination that instantly buoyed the spirit of their small home. Even without Mother working, more food appeared on their table as new clothes replaced tattered Goodwill donations, and a shiny new station wagon allowed Mother to drive them places.

  The most important of those destinations were the homes of two tutors—one to perfect their English, the ot
her their math—and new schools where Katrina and Mikhail found themselves surrounded by the sons and daughters of financiers, lawyers, and bankers. Mother never explained how she provided these new bounties, but Katrina sensed even then that Dyadya was watching out for her.

  “Never mind my treatments,” a raspy voice said back through the speaker. “Please fill me in on everything.”

  She winced on hearing his frail voice. This was a man who had started out with as little as her mother, in a country roiled by danger, but had conquered as much as any one person could. She’d spent her teenage years and twenties convinced he was invincible. Yet here he was, exhausted and weak, cancer ravaging his insides.

  “Dyadya, you need to get well. We have things in good order, awaiting your return.”

  “It does not sound in good order, Katrina,” he said in a cold tone. “Please fill me in.”

  He was a man who did not ask for things more than once, so she straightened her back and provided a detailed update.

  “And you have dispatched security to Wisconsin?” he asked when she was done, instantly focused on the greatest risk to their operation.

  “Yes, and we will control it quickly.”

  “And how can you ensure others will not discover our work as they did?”

  “I don’t believe they know what they’ve found—”

  “Katrina, they know something is not right. How will we avoid this in the future?”

  She shot a fierce glare at Drac, still blaming him for the Wisconsin problem.

  “With each test case, we have fine-tuned our tactics,” she said. “Our three interventions since Wisconsin were far more precise and therefore better masked. And there are no more test cases needed. We are ready.”

  “And no more defectors?” Dyadya asked.

  “None. The Orvieto accident made clear that there is no walking away. And no one has expressed anything but enthusiasm to stay involved. They are acquiring American assets at a rapid pace across the country.”

  The silence that followed gave her the chance to ask her question.

  “Have you been able to advance your conversation?”

  A round of staccato coughs burst through the speaker. Five in a row, then a pause, then five more. Quick and high-pitched, wheezing as each ended, the raw coughs of a deeply sick man.

  “I have. Very productive. It helps that I am here for treatment.”

  Dyadya was in America undergoing the experimental regimen that gave him the best chance of beating the long odds.

  “What a blessing that you are sick.”

  Both Drac and Natalie gawked at their boss, but she knew her uncle’s dark sense of humor.

  Faint snorts of laughter sounded through the phone, interrupted quickly by another round of coughs.

  “Katrina, laughing is the most painful of all.”

  He coughed a dozen or so more times, then returned to her question.

  “We are close to alignment on what must happen. If you eliminate the obstacles and accomplish your tasks, the rest will follow.”

  CHAPTER 33

  MADISON, WISCONSIN

  Who are you, James Bond or something?”

  Tori asked the question as the white granite dome of Wisconsin’s statehouse came into view.

  I’d insisted on joining her for the rendezvous that Ned had suggested after his phone mishap. Renting a car, we’d left at seven for her ten o’clock meet-up, leaving an hour to spare. And at a gas station along the way, I’d picked up a baseball cap and cheap sunglasses, which I’d just put on.

  “Tori, we need to approach this carefully.”

  “Why’s that? Between the two of us, we can handle little Ned.”

  She chuckled as she said it, but I glared back. She needed a wake-up call.

  “It’s not Ned I’m worried about,” I said. “I’ve dealt with this stuff before. Maybe Ned misplaced his phone like he said. But on the off chance that’s not the case, this will get dangerous quickly.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “Think about it. When people are willing to rig the outcome of an election, then wipe out entire data files, they are playing for keeps. They’ll fight to protect what they’re after.”

  I parked the blue, Youngstown-made Chevy Cruze five blocks from campus, leaving Tori in the passenger seat while I walked to the McDonald’s where they’d agreed to rendezvous. I ran through the list of possibilities.

  The most likely scenario was that Ned had told the truth—he’d misplaced his phone and it had died—which meant he would saunter into this meeting and grab a seat. And that would be that.

  The less likely scenario, but the one to prepare for, was that Ned had gone dark because someone had nabbed him. His phone going missing had been an excuse he’d been forced to text, or that someone else had texted. Either way, this meant that the McDonald’s meeting would be an ambush.

  But even an ambush could play out in several ways: Ned could be the bait, dangled to draw Tori in, or he might not show up at all. If Ned was the bait, he’d arrive early to get a booth they would’ve preselected, and he’d appear nervous as hell. And whether or not Ned was coming, if this was an ambush, someone else would case the place. Two people, probably, and they would arrive early.

  Hence my insistence on arriving even earlier.

  There was no good place to watch from outside, so I walked into the McDonald’s, ordered an Egg McMuffin, a hash brown, and a Diet Coke, and grabbed a back corner booth that offered a view of both the dining room and the parking lot.

  For forty minutes all shapes and sizes strolled through the glass doors. Four families showed up to eat breakfast, the parents and older kids wolfing down oatmeal, McMuffins, and hash browns while the toddlers climbed all over the booth, playing with Happy Meal toys. A crew of workers stormed the place a few minutes after I sat down, jamming up the line and tracking mud along the floor while chattering loudly. The din they created was matched by three separate groups of college kids who stumbled in, dousing their morning hangovers with greasy fast food while burying their heads in their phones. And a number of customers walked in alone, waited in line quietly, and left with carry-out bags.

  But amid this revolving door, it was the twosomes that most drew my attention.

  Two couples wore wedding rings and looked happily married, so I dismissed them along with the two pint-sized women who ordered only drinks. One pair of men ate their oatmeal quickly, downed their coffee like shots, and left only minutes after sitting down.

  At ten minutes before ten, only two booths concerned me. In one, an attractive olive-skinned woman with long black hair sat across from a heavy-set, broad-shouldered man. His thick mop of straight brown hair looked stapled to the top of his oversized head, and his bulbous nose and large pores rounded out the Hollywood caricature of a henchman. They were an odd pair: he wasn’t old enough to be her dad, but the mismatch in appearance and age ruled them out as a couple. They barely talked to each other and only nibbled their food, lacking the fervor of the other customers. On the plus side, they weren’t looking around the place with any curiosity.

  The second duo worried me because of their size. Two guys who could’ve played linebacker at Wisconsin. Even from twenty feet away, their muscles bulged from forearm to calf. And they kept peering out the window at arriving cars, neither taking a bite from his meal.

  As Ned’s arrival time grew close, I ate steadily to blend into the scene. At five minutes to ten I finished the McMuffin. At three minutes to ten I swallowed the last bite of the now-cold hash brown. At ten o’clock I sipped the Diet Coke down to its ice.

  Still no Ned.

  At three minutes after ten he first appeared across the street—alone. In jeans and a fleece jacket, he was even smaller than I remembered. He looked both ways before jaywalking, then sauntered across the parking lot and into the restaurant. Relieved,
I slurped at the Diet Coke residue. The fact that he was late was a good sign.

  Once inside, he scanned the restaurant for Tori. Not seeing her, he stepped to the back of the food line. If he was concerned about what booth to sit in, he was hiding it masterfully.

  Suddenly the two muscleheads stood up, even more menacing at full height. But then two attractive women, similar in age to the guys, entered the restaurant and walked toward them. The four greeted one another and sat back down in the booth. The Mickey D’s double date left only one couple to watch.

  Ned reached the front of the line and ordered. A minute later he picked up his tray, walked to a table in the middle of the dining room, and sat down. The odd couple in the booth didn’t look at him once.

  I texted Tori.

  He’s here. All looks fine. C’mon down.

  Leaving now, she wrote back.

  Ned waited politely, not touching his food. At twelve after, he took out his phone and typed for a few seconds.

  He just asked me where I was, Tori wrote in a new text.

  And where is that?

  Three blocks away.

  So tell him that.

  Okay.

  And that’s when I noticed it. A tiny movement, but at the critical moment.

  The dark-haired woman glimpsed down to the left of her tray, then back up again at the big guy. It was a quick peek, but she hadn’t done it once since sitting down. I couldn’t see what she’d looked at, but it wasn’t her food.

  Text him again.

  What?

  Text Ned again.

  What should I say?

  Anything. But make it harmless. Like you’re looking forward to meeting.

  Okay.

  The woman again glanced down to the left of her tray.