by Brandt Legg
That evening, alone in the residence, Hudson repeated what the White House spokesperson had already said. “I don’t know these women. None of it is true, and I have no doubt that this is a REMie hatchet job.”
“It seems a bit weak for a REMie MADE event,” Melissa said, showing absolutely no signs of doubting Hudson. “I would think the REMies would’ve been able to produce photographs, physical evidence, video recordings . . . you know their game. They can create anything.”
“Then who?” Hudson asked, sitting on an antique, blue upholstered chair while taking off his shoes. “I’ve got the Wizard on it. He’s already put all the names and data into Gypsy. Hopefully something will turn up.”
“Is it even worth wasting the computer program’s capacity on this?” she asked.
“It’s dominating the media, and I don’t think it’s going away anytime soon. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if more accusations hit tomorrow. It could be a good old-fashioned political enemies’ crucifixion. You know there are plenty of people in the Senate and Congress in both parties who despise me. Or any of the REMies could’ve taken it upon themselves. I don’t know. But I think it would be helpful to know where this is coming from.”
“It’s certainly a distraction.”
“Fonda Raton always warned me not to become the distraction,” Hudson said. “Now I am, and anything that makes me less effective is a real threat, especially as we get closer to launching Cherry Tree.”
“The timing is troubling,” Melissa said. “People may disagree with you, but if they know they can believe in you, than we have a better chance of succeeding. This is an attack on your credibility and nothing else.”
“Yeah, ‘which office do I go to, to get my reputation back?’”
Sitting in his penthouse office in Las Vegas, Lester Devonshire watched a bank of five televisions. The media was on fire with speculation and accusations about his distant cousin, Hudson Pound. Not since Bill Clinton’s Monica Lewinsky days had a president been subject to so many lurid news stories. As a candidate, Donald Trump had somehow survived the Access Hollywood tape, and other incidents that would have sunk any other person running for even a low-level political office. It still astonished Lester that Clinton and Trump had weathered those storms, and he intended that President Pound would not make it through this scandal. Lester was running the “side-show” like a business. He tossed a pillow at one of the screens when the White House spokesperson denied the accusations.
“Just wait!” Lester shouted at the television.
There would be more women coming forward tomorrow, and more the next day. Even if it wasn’t true, he planned on burying Hudson in so much sleaze and filth and innuendo that people would begin to think it was true. He’d learned the trick from his uncle, Arlin Vonner—repeat a lie long enough and the people will eventually believe it. And in this case, he was counting on the public’s cynicism: “If so many people are saying the same thing, it must be true. Why would all those women lie?”
Yes, he thought, I could have been a great REMie, if only the Pounds hadn’t stolen my inheritance.
Chapter Thirty
“Melissa goes everywhere with the president until this scandal is cleared up!” Fitz barked the order like a man frustrated by never-ending problems, just before the roof caves in.
Hudson wasn’t about to argue; he missed his wife. Since their marriage at the start of the campaign, they’d spent more time apart than together. She had been an effective and popular campaigner, and her connections from her days with the National Governor’s Association gave her contacts in all the state capitals. Once she became first lady, she travelled tirelessly, pushing the president’s agenda, and had managed to attend most meetings structuring the president’s planned “radical reforms.” Her schedule became nearly impossible after Schueller inherited Vonner’s fortune because he’d begged her to head FFF, his Free Food Foundation.
Despite Hudson’s denials and lack of proof, the media was in full feeding-frenzy mode, and the public, who had become somewhat jaded by sex scandals, couldn’t seem to get enough of this one. Although Hudson wanted to ignore it and proceed with Cherry Tree preparations, his top advisors insisted on a family trip. Melissa, Hudson, Schueller, and Florence boarded Air Force One and flew to Ohio.
During the flight, the Wizard updated Hudson on the pre-war-efforts against the REMies.
“We unearthed communications between Covington and Titus Coyne,” the Wizard said. “It turns out that Coyne had been Covington’s superior—in the shadows, I mean.”
“And I guessed Bastendorff was his REMie controller,” the president said.
“Actually, you originally thought it was Vonner controlling Covington,” Melissa reminded him.
“Right,” Hudson said, feeling a little guilty. “Then once I figured out that wasn’t the case, I set my suspicions on Bastendorff.”
“He’s easy to blame for everything,” the Wizard said.
“True, but Coyne is a more formidable foe.”
“Dawg, we push into the ancient energy of the lost, like fallen empires,” the Wizard said. “Do you know what I mean? If the cold is what it was, then we have to see the warm sun, a star rising across the dark abyss. That’s how we’ll know. If we feel its apparent imprint already occurring—”
“Okay, Wizard, you lost me,” the president said.
“Where?” he asked.
“Way back there, a long time ago . . . “
“Don’t worry, Dawg, you’re still here, you just don’t realize it. I promise you’ll eventually catch up to yourself.”
“Take another bong hit, Wizard,” Melissa said, laughing.
“Oh, I don’t need outside stuff to get me into the dream realm of reality.”
“I know,” Melissa said, laughing harder.
“The Wizard doesn’t do drugs,” Hudson said, “but I might need to start so I can understand him.”
“Nah,” the Wizard said. “You’ve been places.” He eyed Hudson closely. “You remember more than most of us, you know what I’m talking about?”
A silence hung for several moments until Melissa changed the subject. “Then without Covington, does Coyne still have access to NSA and FaST squad files?”
“I think so,” the Wizard replied. “Dranick should hunt that down for sure.”
A man brought them fresh beverages.
Hudson sent a secured message to the DNI. “Having such a trusted friend as the Director of National Intelligence is going to make all the difference,” the president said.
“The REMies have to be going crazy with Dranick running intelligence,” the Wizard agreed. “I hope he’s got extra security.”
“He does,” the president said. “Vonner Security covers him twenty-four-seven. But they know I’ll just put in another loyalist, so I think the bigger risk is the REMies working around him using underlings and the Deep State.”
A little later into the short flight, the Wizard asked to see the president alone and announced that he’d discovered who had killed all the men who had raped Rochelle and murdered her brother.
“Who?” the president asked, knowing the same person had burned down the tire shop with Gouge and his father inside. Whoever was responsible for the retribution killings had also caused the slow, painful death of Gouge—whose funeral they were on their way to attend.
“It was Torland Rogers,” the Wizard whispered.
Hudson’s face registered shock. “Rochelle’s younger brother?”
“Yeah,” the Wizard said quietly. “He’s forty-two now.”
“Damn,” Hudson breathed, sighing heavily. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. What do you want to do?”
Hudson sat silent for a few moments, looking out the window as they flew over the mountains and began their descent into Ohio. Finally, he turned and met the Wizard’s eyes. “Rochelle’s family has suffered enough.”
“But Torland killed Gouge,” the Wizard said.
&n
bsp; “No, Gouge’s father and his buddies killed Gouge thirty years ago. Killed us all . . . ”
“You, me, and Rochelle are the only ones who somehow survived,” the Wizard said.
“Did we?” Hudson asked, turning back to the window.
Florence had not visited her father since he’d recovered from the Near-Death Experience. She claimed to have been too busy with helping Schueller with MEDs, but the real reason had more to do with her being traumatized by the attacks. Florence felt that every time she traveled with her father, he almost died. It had taken Schueller, Melissa, and Fitz all together to convince her to join them on the trip to Ohio.
Even when Air Force One safely touched down in the Buckeye State, she didn’t relax. Not until The Beast pulled up to Melissa’s house and Secret Service agents escorted them all inside did Florence let her guard down.
It was a good reunion of all Hudson’s siblings. Florence and Schueller caught up with their cousins, aunts, and uncles. Even the Wizard tagged along, having not seen Hudson’s family since he’d left Ohio more than thirty years earlier. But the reason for the trip hadn’t originally been for the purposes of showing Hudson to be a family man. There was a funeral to attend.
Chapter Thirty-One
Bastendorff laughed raucously as he watched the reports of the charges against Hudson. “Good ol’ President Pound apparently gets his kicks being naughty. It seems he just loves to ‘pound’ the women.” More laughter.
“Do you think it’s true?” a top aide asked.
“Hell no, it’s not true,” Bastendorff replied while reaching for his third glazed doughnut. “The guy’s a damn Boy Scout. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a virgin before he married his first wife.” He gave another snorting laugh. “No, one of the REMies is doing this to him, and I’d like to know which one.” Bastendorff looked at the doughnut lovingly, as if the thrill of it being in his hand was as good as eating it. “Tricky business, this. We could help the scandal out, maybe throw some more dirt his way, but I’m guessing it’s one of our friends . . . one who’s also going for the CapStone. I don’t want to botch this CapWar by aiding the enemy, you know what I mean? So let’s get to the bottom of this and see who it is.” He stuffed half of the doughnut into his mouth.
“What if it’s the Democrats?”
“The Democrats?” he asked around the doughnut. “Are you kidding me? Pound may have started out as a Republican, but now he’s more of a Democrat than most of them.”
“Either way, wouldn’t they rather see an actual Democrat in office?”
“I think you’re forgetting that Democrats and Republicans are actually the Unity party. Hell, they almost all work for us anyway. Sure, sure, there are some political hacks, small time guys who’ve gotten through the cracks. A few honest smacks have made it into office, but nothing too big.” Bastendorff said the word “honest” as if it were something he was allergic to. “Then, of course, there’s the citizens. Some of them are more conservative while others are more liberal, but that doesn’t have anything to do with Democrats or Republicans.”
“I’ve often wondered why the Americans put up with a two-party system that’s never served them.”
“It serves us. The parties are a perfect funnel for corruption, allows the elites to control things. None of it can be left to the average knots.”
“All right, we’ll see if we can find out who’s behind these women.”
“They sure are fun to watch. I bet his wife is giving him some ‘second thoughts’ and ‘what’s what’ right about now.” Bastendorff laughed again until the disturbing thought that Coyne or one of the other REMies going after the CapStone might be gaining some advantage by the sex scandal. “Send Hendley in on your way out. I need an overview on how our mass distraction is going.”
Hendley, a tall, skinny, balding man who’d been appointed to oversee the coordinated campaigns of crime waves in America and misconduct by American military personnel at international bases, gave a report to the bloated billionaire.
“Good, I enjoy watching your work on the news,” Bastendorff said. “Let’s ratchet things up, shall we? The president is being buried in sexual harassment charges. Dumb sod thinks he’ll gain sympathy by escaping off to a family funeral. Pathetic. He hopes that’s gonna fix his image, but it won’t. I want a few more surprises waiting for him when he gets back.”
“You want more women to make some allegations?”
“Not yet,” Bastendorff said. “We’re trying to find out where all that’s coming from, and I’m not interested in helping unless I know it’s somebody I want to help—which I doubt.” He looked at the doughnuts and considered another, but decided against it. “Meanwhile, be ready to pin the sex scandal story on Titus Coyne.”
“We’re ready to go with the US-China exposé. It’s all set up, and will ensnare tourists and businessmen.”
“You’re tying it all into a bribery and corruption scandal? Making it an international incident with major US corporations, Chinese exporters, bankers, and communist government officials?”
“The works.”
“Excellent. Let’s keep tensions high between America and China. We may just get that war yet.”
“And what about Coyne?” the aide asked. “Won’t that help his inroads with the military?”
“He’ll have a lot more to worry about soon enough.”
Coyne had spent months locked in CapWar combat with REMie rivals. Conventional warfare—with weapons and soldiers—was an aspect of CapWars, but the real battles were fought in the boardrooms, media, manipulating the public through MADE events, and having REMie-owned politicians do their bidding. Coyne, known as “The Shark” and “Bankster,” earned his ruthless reputation by destroying the politicians of other CapStone-seeking REMies and pushing MADE events that did serious damage to their businesses.
“Why do you ignore Bastendorff?” the chairman of one of Coyne’s banks asked during a strategy session.
“Now that Vonner’s dead, Booker Lipton is the biggest threat,” Coyne said, while exchange rates, money supply, and commodities prices whizzed by on a giant screen inside his New York headquarters. “He’s taking a great deal of our resources right now.”
“What about these seven?” the Chairman asked, pointing to another massive monitor which tracked the assets and dealings of other REMies thought to be competing for the CapStone.
“I can handle them,” Coyne said coolly. “I need some help with Booker, which I’m counting on the president unknowingly to give.” He paused and stared at the constantly-changing REMie data on the screen. “Bastendorff is also very useful in knocking out the others. It may take both of us to finish off Booker.”
“And then?”
“Then,” Coyne said in a killer’s voice, “I’m going to rip that pig apart and bury him under the CapStone.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The president sat next to the Wizard, doing something he hadn’t done in years—sharing a beer with his old friend. The two surviving members of the Tire Shop Gang were alone on the back porch of Hudson’s brother, Ace’s, modest home. The stop had been kept from the media; nevertheless, security was as tight as always, with dozens of extra agents in the nearby trees.
“I’m sorry it took so long for him to die,” the Wizard said. It had only been a few hours since Gouge’s funeral. Both Hudson and the Wizard eulogized their life-long buddy, each doing their best to translate feelings into words. Hudson relived some humorous memories because he knew Gouge would want that. He also remembered Gouge’s TRUTH tattoo.
A few days earlier, when Ace called and told his brother that Gouge had finally succumbed to the burns inflicted during the tire shop fire, Hudson had smiled, relieved his friend was finally free and out of pain. Then he’d taken a walk in the tunnels beneath the White House and cried.
The Wizard and Hudson sat on old white wicker chairs, staring out into the rolling woodlands, and toasted Gouge with bottles of New Belgium Brewing Fat Tir
e Amber Ale. They reminisced about the good times, most of which had been lost in the dark shadow of the night Rochelle was raped. It was the first time they’d relived many of those happy days since.
“Gouge would want us to laugh,” the Wizard said. “Remember how he always made us laugh?”
“It’s hard to laugh when I think of how much suffering he experienced,” Hudson said. “Not just at the end, but his whole life.”
“But now he’s out there in the cosmos, learning all the secrets of the universe,” the Wizard said. Then he turned to Hudson and narrowed his eyes. “Isn’t he, Dawg?”
Hudson knew the Wizard was not probing about what had happened during the nine minutes, but was seeking reassurance that their friend was in a good place and still enduring.
“He’s flying free,” Hudson said with a faraway smile. “He’s already deep into the next great adventure. Gouge is part of timeless imagination now.”
The Wizard nodded, taking a sip of beer. “Yeah, he is,” he whispered.
They continued to talk and tell funny stories for quite a while before Hudson brought up Rochelle’s brother, Torland, and the wrath he had visited upon those who killed his older brother and raped his sister, Rochelle.
“I’ve been thinking about it, and I believe Gouge would agree,” Hudson said.
The Wizard looked at him, knowing what he was about to say, and nodded.
“We let Torland go . . . ” Hudson said.
“Brutal way for Gouge to go,” the Wizard said. “But Torland did something that . . . taking out each of the sick monsters who got away with murder and rape . . . in all those years . . . those bastards didn’t just rape her and kill her brother, they stole our innocence. Torland didn’t avenge just his older brother and sister, he avenged each of us.”
