by C. J. Box
And nurtured your gifts.
Freedom, fairness, fostering . . .
Together, you and I will invoke those three principles to make our nation shine even brighter.
To make our strong nation stronger.
To make our great nation greater!
God bless you all, God bless our future, and God bless the United States of America.
Governor Paul Ebbett looked over his notes and rose from the couch. He practiced this passage a few more times, then revised other parts of the speech. Little by little he was closing in on the final version. He still had a couple of hours until showtime.
He smiled to himself.
Little by little.
Which was exactly the way he was creeping up on the presidential nomination. So many people had said he couldn’t do it. That he was too brash, too blunt. Too honest—as if there was such a thing.
A knock on the door. “Sir?” It was Artie Tomson.
“Yes?”
“Your dinner’s here.”
He entered, along with the woman who had saved him from tomato target practice. He liked her and was sorry she was only a security guard and not on his full-time staff. They were accompanied by a white-jacketed server, a slim Latino, who was wheeling in the dinner cart. Under the silver cover would be his favorite meal: hamburger on brioche bread, lettuce, tomato, and, since the first-lady-to-be was not present, red onion—the sandwich accessorized with Thousand Island dressing and a side of fries.
And his beloved sweet tea.
The man opened the wings of the table and set out the food.
“Enjoy your meal, sir.” He turned to leave.
“Wait,” the candidate commanded.
The convention center employee turned. “Sir?” His eyes grew wide as Ebbett pulled his wallet from his hip pocket, extracted a twenty, and handed it to him.
“I . . . oh, thank you, sir!”
Ebbett thought about asking, as a joke, if the man was going to vote for him. But he didn’t seem the sort who would get humor and he worried the server might actually think it was a bribe.
The slight man scurried off, clutching the money, which Ebbett bet he was going to frame rather than spend.
Artie Tomson was giving him an update about the potential assassin, which really was no update at all. They hadn’t learned anything from the state police about local threats, or from the NRO, NSA, or CIA about foreign operatives. There was a full complement of tactical officers—some undercover in construction worker outfits—in and around the job site. But there was no sign of the bald, mustachioed suspect or the red Toyota.
As they spoke, Ebbett glanced across the living room and noted Kim Morton on her phone, head down, lost in a serious conversation.
Tomson received a call and excused himself to take it.
Ebbett strolled casually to the table and plucked a fry from the basket. Nice and hot. He dunked it in ketchup and, salivating already, lifted the morsel to his lips as he turned to the TV to check the weather and see if the predicted storm would possibly keep people away. No, it looked like—
Then a crash of china and glass, and with a sharp pain in his back, Ebbett tumbled forward onto the carpet. He realized just before he hit the floor that he’d been facing away from the curtained window, and he wondered, with eerie calm, how the assassin, who was apparently across the street, nowhere near the job site, had known exactly where he would be standing.
* * *
Art Tomson was in the hall, surrounded by a half-dozen other Secret Service agents and local police, all facing him as he gave them calm, clear instructions on how to proceed.
One by one, or two by two, the agents and cops turned toward the elevator and headed off for their respective tasks.
Ivers walked up to him and Kim Morton, who stood silently beside the senior agent. Ivers’s face was even paler than normal as he displayed his phone. “Here’s the answer.”
Tomson was staring at the words on the screen. Then he nodded to the door of Suite A. “Let’s go.”
They walked into the hotel room, Kim Morton behind them.
Searcher, Governor Ebbett, was sitting on the couch, a heating pad on his back.
That was the only medical attention he’d needed after being tackled while about to take a bite of French fry, dipped in what they suspected might be poisoned ketchup.
Tomson said, “Sir, we’re awaiting the analysis of the food. But the substance in question is zinc phosphide.”
“The hell’s that?”
“Highly toxic rodenticide, used to kill rats mostly. Ingest some and it mixes with stomach acid and a poisonous gas is released.”
“What’s going on, Artie?”
He nodded to Kim Morton and said, “I’ll let my partner here explain. She’s the one who thought of it.”
With her eyes on Ebbett’s, she said, “Well, sir. I was thinking that this guy . . . perp, you say perp?”
“We say perp,” Tomson said.
“I was thinking if this perp really was some brilliant assassin, well, he didn’t seem to be acting so smart. Conspicuous, you know. Parking suspiciously. Talking about the rally in public while he had a rifle in the back of his car, and he wasn’t too concerned if anybody heard him. Wearing camouflage. Buying the PVC pipes and toolbox so we’d think he’d be in a job site . . . I mean, it just seemed too obvious that he was planning to shoot you. And I looked at those windows in the hallway again. I mean, even if he was a pro, that’d be a hell of a shot.
“So what might other possibilities be? I thought I’d call the places we know he’d been: the gun shop and the hardware store. We know what he bought, but what if he’d shoplifted something that could be used as a weapon—a tool or a knife or a can of propane to make into a bomb? Nothing was missing at the gun shop, but at the hardware store—where there weren’t any video cameras—I asked the clerk if anything was missing. They did an inventory. Two cans of rat poison had been stolen.
“When I saw you go for that fry, sir, I just panicked,” Morton said. “I thought whatever I said, you might still take a bite, so I just reacted. I’m sorry.”
He chuckled. “No worries. It’s not every day a beautiful woman launches herself into me . . . and saves my life at the same time.”
Tomson said, “We’ve closed down the kitchen and concession stands and analyzed the HVAC system. No sign of poison yet. But all of your food and beverages will come in from outside, vetted sources.”
“Don’t have much of an appetite at this point.” He grimaced. “Had to be the fucking Russians. They love their poisons. Look at Litvinenko.” The Russian expat murdered in London by Moscow agents, who slipped polonium into his tea. “And the Skripal poisoning in Salisbury—that Novichok toxin . . . Jesus.”
“There was no chatter about it in the intel community,” Ivers pointed out. “Washington’s been monitoring.”
“Of course there’s no chatter,” Ebbett muttered. “They’re not talking about it overseas—the communications would be picked up. No, they hired some locals to handle the operation—where the CIA can’t legally monitor phones and computers without a FISA warrant. Tell the attorney general I want the bureau and the CIA to check out the known Russian cells and anyone with a connection to them. I want them to use a proctoscope.”
“Yes, sir. They’ve been alerted.”
“And the car? That Toyota?”
Ivers said, “Never got close to the job site. Like Officer Morton was saying, it was a diversion, we think. A CCTV in Bronson, about thirty miles east, spotted it, headed out of the state. We’re still looking, but after that sighting, it’s disappeared. I’ve got one team going through the hardware store, looking for trace evidence and prints. Other teams are going over the convention center service entrance, kitchen, the suppliers, and onsite staff. We’re looking at the tea in particular.”
“Bastard messing with my sweet tea?” Ebbett grumbled in mock rage. Then his eyes slid to Kim Morton.
“A local security guard took on a pro assassin . . . and kicked his ass.”
“I just had some thoughts. It was Agent Tomson and Agent Ivers who did everything.”
“Don’t play down your role.” He looked her over for a moment. “Artie was telling me a few things about you. How you always wanted to be a police officer.”
“Oh,” she said, looking down. “I guess. That didn’t work out. But I’m happy with my life now.”
“That’s good. Sure . . . But you know my campaign slogan.”
She said, “Making a great country greater.”
“So what if I could make your happy life happier? ”
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
“What I mean is, you did something for me; now I’d like to do something for you. Artie, leave us alone for a few minutes. There’s something I’d like to discuss with Ms. . . . I mean, with Officer Morton.”
“I’ll be outside, sir.”
* * *
At exactly 10:20 that night Governor Paul Ebbett’s speech concluded with “And God bless the United States of America.” The last word vanished in the tide of screams, whistles, and thunderous applause. Thirty thousand people were on their feet, waving banners and tossing aloft fake straw hats.
Art Tomson, who’d been onstage for the full event, now walked down the steps and joined Kim Morton, who was standing guard at the doorway that led to the underground passage through which Governor Ebbett would exit in a moment.
The evening had gone off without a hitch. In a few minutes Searcher would be in the SUV and speeding to the airport.
“Good speech,” she said.
Tomson, who’d heard it or variations of it scores of times, simply nodded noncommittally.
Then she lowered her voice and said, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Did the governor tell you what he’s going to do for me?”
“No.”
Morton explained what the candidate had said in their private meeting. “He’s going to get me into the state police academy here. He’s a friend of our governor, who owes him for something or another.” Her face broke into a smile. “And he arranged for a stipend—almost as much as I’m making here. He said one favor deserves another. He did that all because you told him I wanted to be a cop.”
“He was asking about you. He thought you were sharper than some of the people working for him.” Tomson added with gravity in his voice, “And the fact is, none of us came up with that idea about the poison.”
“Just a theory is all.”
“Still, in this line of work, better safe than sorry.”
Thomson tapped his earpiece and heard: “Searcher’s on the move.”
Into his sleeve mike he said, “Roger. Exit is clear.”
Tomson shook Morton’s hand. She gave him a fast embrace. Never in his years of being an agent had he hugged a fellow personal protection officer. He was startled. Then he hugged her back and peeled away to join the candidate and his escort hurrying to the waiting SUV.
III
May 24
The main room at Earl’s wasn’t smoky, hadn’t been for years. Even vaping was prohibited.
But the aroma of tobacco persisted, as the owners of the place had made no effort to clean the smell away. Because men, alcohol, and semiclad women somehow demanded the scent of cigarette smoke—if not the fumes themselves.
Bil Sheering was at the bar, nursing a Jack and Coke, looking at the scruffy audience sitting by the low stage and at unsteady round bistro tables. While he knew they all could figure out “Exotic Dance,” he was wondering how many had a clue what an “Emporium” was. He wondered too why Earl—if there was, or had been, an Earl—had decided to affix the name to his strip joint.
Then his attention turned back to Starlight, the woman on center stage at the moment. Some of the dancers who performed here were bored gyrators. Some offered crude poses and outsized flirtatious glances. And some were uneasy and modest. But Starlight was into dancing with both elegance and sensuality.
He was enjoying her performance when his attention slipped to the TV, where an announcement was interrupting the game. On the screen was a red graphic: BREAKING NEWS.
Somebody beside him chuckled drunkenly. “Don’tcha love it? ‘Breaking news’ used to be a world war or plane crash. Now it’s a thunderstorm, vandals at a 7-Eleven. Media’s full of shit.”
Bil said nothing but kept his attention on the grimy TV. A blond anchorwoman appeared. She seemed to have been caught unprepared by what was coming next. “We now bring you breaking news from Washington, D.C. We’re live at the campaign headquarters of Governor Paul Ebbett for what he has said is an important announcement.”
Bil watched the man stride to the front of the room. Cameras fired away, the thirty-shots-per-second mode, sounding like silenced machine guns in a movie.
At Ebbett’s side was his wife, a tall, handsome woman on whose severe face was propped a stony smile.
“My fellow Americans, I am here tonight to announce that I am withdrawing from the campaign for president of the United States.” Gasps from the crowd. “In my months on the campaign trail, I have come to realize that the most important work in governing this country is on the grassroots level rather than inside the Beltway. And it’s in those local offices that I feel I can be of most benefit to my party and to the American people. Accordingly, I will be ceasing my efforts to run for president and returning to my great home state, where I’ll be running”—he swallowed hard—“for supervisor of Calloway County.” A long pause. “I’m also urging all of my electoral delegates and other supporters to back a man I feel exhibits the best qualities of leadership for America, Senator Mark Todd.”
Another collective gasp, more buzzing of the cameras.
Ebbett took his wife’s hand. Bil noted she didn’t squeeze it but let him grip the digits the way you might pick up a gutted fish in a tray of shaved ice to examine it for freshness.
“Senator Todd is just the man to lead our party to victory and”—Ebbett’s voice caught—“make a great nation greater. Thank you, my fellow citizens. God bless you. And God bless the United States of America.”
No applause. Just a torrent of questions from the floor. Ebbett ignored them and walked from the room, his wife beside him, their hands no longer entwined.
The scene switched back to the brightly lit newsroom and the anchorwoman saying, “That was Governor Paul Ebbett, who just yesterday seemed unstoppable on his route to his party’s candidacy. But there you heard it: his shocking news that he is dropping out of the race. And his equally stunning endorsement of Senator Mark Todd. Todd, considered a far more moderate and bipartisan politician than Ebbett, has been the governor’s main rival on the primary campaign trail. Although Todd avoided personal attacks, Ebbett rarely missed the chance to belittle and mock the senator.”
Reading from what had to be hastily scribbled notes on the teleprompter, the blond anchor said, “A lot of people were surprised by the success Ebbett enjoyed in the primary campaign, which played to the darker side of American society. His positions were controversial. Many in both parties thought his nationalist-charged rhetoric was divisive. He openly admitted that his campaign phrase, ‘Make a Great Country Greater,’ meant greater for people like him, white and Christian. He promised to slash social spending on education and the poor.
“He alarmed those both in this country and abroad by stating that one of his first acts in office would be to mass American troops along Russia’s borders. Some pundits have said that Ebbett might have targeted Russia not for any political or ideological reason, but because he believed a common enemy would solidify support around him.
“We now have in the studio and via Skype hookup our national presidential campaign panel for an analysis of this unexpected announcement—”
“Hey, Bil,” came the woman’s voice behind him.
Bil turned to see the dancer who’d just been up onstag
e sidling up to him, pulling a shawl over her ample breasts. Bil wasn’t completely happy she’d donned the garment.
He knew she went by Starlight at Earl’s, but he couldn’t help but think of her by her real name: Kim Morton.
She smiled to the bartender, who brought her a scotch on the rocks. The headline dancer began to pull bills out of her G-string. As tawdry as Earl’s was, it looked like she had been tipped close to two hundred dollars—for twenty minutes at the pole. She sipped her drink and nodded at the screen. “You did it.”
“Me?” Bil asked, smiling. “We did it.”
She cocked her head. “Guess I can’t really argue with that one.”
We did it . . .
They sure as hell had.
Six months ago the National Party Committee had become alarmed, then panicked, that Paul Ebbett was picking up a significant number of delegates in the primary contests, beating out their preferred candidate, Senator Mark Todd. They were astonished that Governor Ebbett’s bigoted and militant rhetoric was stirring up a groundswell of support.
The committee knew Ebbett was lose-lose. If elected, he would destroy not only the party but probably the economy and perhaps even the nation itself—if he managed to start World War III, which seemed more than a little possible.
Committee chairman Victor Brown wanted Ebbett out. But backroom attempts to negotiate with him to drop out were futile. In fact, the effort incensed him and fueled his resolve to win . . . and purge the ranks of those who had questioned his ability to lead the country.
So extreme measures were required.
Last March Victor had called in Bil Sheering, who ran a ruthless political consulting company in Washington, D.C. Bil had hurried back from his hunting lodge in West Virginia to his M Street office and got to work.
For the plan Bil came up with, he needed a pro—by which he meant a call girl based in the region of the midwestern state where Governor Ebbett would be holding a big rally in May. After some research he’d settled on Kim Morton, aka Starlight, a dancer at Earl’s with an escort business on the side. He’d found her to be smart, well-spoken, and without a criminal history. She also had a particular contempt for Ebbett, since her husband had been killed in Afghanistan, which she considered an unnecessary war, just like the one Ebbett seemed to be planning.
