Election

by Brandt Legg

  “I know,” Hudson said, frustrated.

  “This is just the beginning. She wants to cook you, and every day she’ll turn up the heat a little more. I’ve seen her do it a million times.”

  Melissa put her hand on his and mouthed, Don’t worry.

  Hudson nodded at her and tried to smile. “How do we change Fonda’s mind?” he asked Fitz.

  “You don’t. All you can do is convince everyone else. If you’re perfect, she can’t hurt you too much.”

  “Oh, good. Then I’ll just be perfect from now on,” Hudson said sarcastically.

  “That’s the plan, and the way you get there is by doing everything I tell you to do,” Fitz said. “I’m the best there is, Hudson. We can win this.”

  Melissa rolled her eyes. Hudson smiled.

  “All right, I’ll see you at debate prep.”

  “Stay safe,” Fitz said. “You’ve got bigger things to worry about than hostile journalists.”

  As the call ended, Hudson thought again about Uncer and Brickman.

  “He’s right,” Melissa said. “This won’t be the last, and press attacks are a lot easier to recover from than the kind with bombs and bullets.”

  “Sticks and stones,” Hudson agreed solemnly.

  By the time they arrived at Sun Wave, Vonner’s Carmel estate, Hudson and Melissa were exhausted. The billionaire was attending a late meeting and did not greet them; they only cared about sleep.

  The following morning, the newlyweds ate breakfast on a cliffside patio overlooking the ocean. They then joined Vonner in his “command room,” a very large office which accommodated a staff of four. Giant monitor-wrapped walls brought in live news and data from around the globe. It felt like being inside electronic superstores. The media churned with details of NorthBridge and Brickman. However, the big story belonged to Fonda Raton—the Raton Report had broken another one.

  It seemed that a company with strong ties to Booker Lipton’s organization—and possibly indirectly owned by Booker—had manufactured the top-secret military grade explosive used on the Kansas City Federal Reserve building.

  “This stuff, known as ‘Gruell-75,’ is extremely expensive, and only made by one company,” the commentator declared. “That company, SkyNok, a stealthy defense contractor based in Nevada, has a murky ownership trail which appears ultimately to end with Lipton.”

  Images showed the Nevada plant and photos of Booker, including the recent shot of him with Hudson at the fundraiser.

  “Now I guess we know why Fonda happened to be in Nevada,” Melissa said.

  The commentator continued: “This is not the first time that the often-radical billionaire has been linked with terrorism. Several years ago, Booker Lipton faced allegations that he’d funded Inner Force, an extremist offshoot of the allegedly peaceful Inner Movement, a controversial organization attempting to bring about change by raising consciousness and embracing one’s soul.”

  A photo of the woman Hudson had met with Booker at the fundraiser flashed on the screen. Hudson let out a quick gasp.

  She’s the leader of the Inner Movement . . . whatever that is.

  The commentator wrapped up coverage by citing yesterday’s Raton Report tying Hudson to Lipton. “The Pound campaign declined to comment for this story.”

  On another screen, a roundtable of political talking heads discussed the implications of NorthBridge on the presidential campaign and what repercussions the Booker Lipton revelations would have on Pound’s chances.

  “You need to distance yourself from Booker immediately,” Vonner said.

  “Distance? I’m not even remotely close to him. What I told Fonda is true.”

  “Guilt by association,” Vonner said. “You need to condemn him, call for congressional investigation into his secretive businesses. And we need to release a plan for how you would stop NorthBridge.”

  “The election is more than a year away. Don’t you think any plan would be premature?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It sure looks like NorthBridge isn’t going anywhere, and imagine if the accusations that they’re backed by the world’s richest man are true. We really could be in for a second American revolution.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Within a few days of the Brickman assassination, NorthBridge released documents showing that both Senator Uncer and Governor Brickman had been in the pockets of the big banks, Wall Street, and large multinational corporations. The terror organization not only had emails and recorded phone conversations proving their allegations, but they had developed a sophisticated algorithm which, after analyzing voting records, proposals, and speeches of the dead men, clearly showed their bias and corruption. Like most of the other materials NorthBridge had linked, this material was signed by AKA Franklin.

  “What the hell?” Vonner ranted as he paced in front of the windows of the Pacific room. “Do these maggots have an NSA key? Where are they getting all this?”

  Fitz, who had flown out for the debate prep, looked up from his laptop. “I’d like to get my hands on the algorithm they’re using. It might help us in the campaign.”

  “I thought you said I didn’t need any help,” Hudson said, sitting across from his campaign manager.

  “He killed it,” Melissa said, entering the room.

  “Please, honey, don’t use the word ‘killed’ in this campaign,” Hudson said, only half joking. “It could get us all indicted as co-conspirators with NorthBridge.”

  “I just wanted to remind Fitz that everyone agreed you had the best performance in a mock-debate anyone could remember. You’re a natural.”

  “Plus, I’m super smart,” Hudson said, smiling.

  “And he looks like a damned movie star,” Fitz added, laughing.

  “Yes, he does,” Melissa said, dropping on the sofa next to her husband, swinging her legs over his lap, and giving him a long kiss.

  The whole campaign staff had been giddy with Hudson’s debate abilities and command of topics. His knowledge of world events, rooted in his love of history, coupled with his comfort and confidence on stage made for a can’t-lose combination. The excitement had been tempered by the need to completely realign the campaign, create strict security protocols, and change schedules. The threat from NorthBridge meant that everyone running for office from now on would have to campaign differently. There’d be no more walking around the Iowa State Fair or dropping by a New Hampshire diner. The new reality in American politics meant bulletproof stage shields, TSA-style searches for attendees, and substantially less personal interaction between candidate and voter.

  Not a single NorthBridge operative had been caught. It was as if the government was chasing ghosts. The members used aliases based on historic figures to sign the statements regularly sent to media outlets. Their “also known as” names offended Hudson and his reverence for the Founding Fathers. So far, they’d used AKA Jefferson, Adams, Washington, Hancock, Franklin, Paine, and there was even an AKA Ross, presumably a woman taking her moniker from Betsy Ross. The organization’s imagery evoked the spirit of ’76 and historically patriotic themes from the days of the American War of Independence such as the Liberty Bell, the Declaration of Independence, the Yankee Doodle drum and fife painting, and Patrick Henry’s “Give me liberty or give me death.” Hudson also was appalled by NorthBridge’s use of the “Don’t Tread On Me” flag, the very same one adopted by the Wizard, Gouge, and Hudson for their teenage tire shop gang.

  Making matters worse was the fact that a not insignificant portion of the population seemed to be sympathetic, and even agreed with NorthBridge on the drastic need for change. For the first time since the American Civil War, the country faced the real threat of being ripped apart by a violent revolution. Thorne fanned that sentiment on his daily radio show. Without actually condoning the violence, he highlighted the crimes and corruption of lawmakers in recent decades and made salacious allegations against many currently in power. The government denied the validity of NorthBridge’s claims against Uncer an
d Brickman, instead calling the charges terrorist propaganda. But unlike many of Thorne’s unprovable accusations, NorthBridge provided proof.

  Proof that the media mostly ignored.

  Hudson issued several statements denouncing Thorne, called for an immediate special investigation of Booker Lipton, and demanded increased funding for the Brickman Effort and law enforcement in general, but he was still just a candidate. Most of his opponents from both parties had positions in government and were actually able to introduce bills, or, at the very least, produce symbolic results.

  “We’ve got to get him back out there,” Fitz said to Vonner as if Hudson wasn’t in the room.

  “No question about it. Your face needs to be all over the news,” Vonner said, turning to Hudson.

  “Like Uncer and Brickman’s faces?” Melissa asked, never missing a beat, especially someone else’s beat.

  “He’s right, honey. Everyone else is laying low. I need to show them I’m not scared.”

  “Obviously, there’s some risk,” Vonner cautioned.

  “I’m not afraid of risk,” Hudson said.

  “Geez, it’s not like he’ll be out there naked,” Fitz said. “We’ve got the Secret Service and the best private security force money can buy.”

  “Second only to Booker’s,” Vonner corrected, as if the fact bothered him greatly.

  “Whatever,” Fitz said. “He’ll look brave, but there’ll be a hundred people protecting his every move.” Fitz turned to Hudson. “Not to mention million-dollar advance work. You’ll be fine.”

  Fine? Hudson thought. My freedom and privacy are already restricted, but now they’ll be eliminated altogether. Part of the new plan included increasing the size of the press pool who traveled with him, which, combined with the extremely heightened security that would surround his every move, made Hudson feel as if cold, clammy hands were squeezing around his neck.

  He had to face more than just NorthBridge. Only a small envelope of time remained to try to bury his past for good, but it would require a far greater risk than going back out onto the trail. Hudson had to confront the terror and guilt of that night twenty-nine years earlier, and the consequences of what came after.

  Chapter Twenty

  Melissa flew back to the Midwest to continue efforts for winning endorsements from key political figures. Fitz had tapped Melissa because of her relationship with many of the region’s biggest business leaders. Along the way, she’d pick up Florence and Schueller and they’d all join Hudson on the trail.

  Hudson took advantage of his final free afternoon before resuming the campaign to work on keeping the past in the past. During the two-hour drive to San Francisco, he arranged to meet the Wizard in Golden Gate Park. His Secret Service detail was outraged at the idea, but he’d been insistent. Hudson agreed to wear a bulletproof vest and a disguise. It wouldn’t fool anyone up close, but a shaggy brown wig, shorts, and a t-shirt, along with a beat-up pair of running shoes, did not scream presidential candidate, or even anyone important. Only because Vonner and Fitz had also left for New York and Washington, respectively, was he able to, at least temporarily, keep his trip a secret.

  Four agents in casual attire canvassed the area. Hudson found his old friend waiting atop the antique Drum Bridge in the Japanese Tea Garden.

  “Nice wig, Dawg,” the Wizard said, amused. “None of us are really who we are, are we?”

  “Dangerous times to be running for president,” Hudson replied.

  “Yeah, the key word is ‘running.’ Man, I’d hug you, but I’m afraid one of your ear-piece-adorned attack dogs would shoot me.”

  Hudson extended his hand. “This is probably safer.”

  The Wizard’s long black hair, blue jeans, white linen shirt, and leather sandals added to Hudson’s camouflage. No respectable presidential candidate would meet an old hippie like this in Golden Gate Park.

  The Wizard shook his hand warmly. “So, Dawg, you’ve come a long way, risked your life.” He motioned to the nervous Secret Service agents. “What’s so important?”

  “You know what.”

  “Rochelle?”

  “Of course, Rochelle.”

  “So, are you going to help her? Finally correct our tragic mistake?”

  “That’s what Gouge asked,” Hudson said, looking down at the water’s reflection of them on the bridge. The high, arching design made a complete circle in the still water below. “I can’t help her.”

  “Not yet, maybe, but once you’re the president, you can fix it, Dawg. And you gotta fix it.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Nothing about that night is simple, but we screwed up.” He turned and stared into Hudson’s sunglasses. “We’re all at fault for what happened; each of us owns a piece of the endless chain of damage. You know a lot of lives got twisted up. It’s time to fix it.”

  Hudson took off his glasses, his eyes tearing. “Damn it, Wizard, I can’t undo all that! The past is over.”

  “Yeah? Is that why you came, to make sure I wasn’t going to talk, to make sure your secret’s safe? There’s a dark place in the president’s past—”

  “I’m not the president yet.”

  “That’s right, yet. But that’s only because the election hasn’t happened yet.” The Wizard slapped the smooth wooden railing of the bridge and the closest Secret Service agent flinched.

  “Why is everyone but me so sure I’m going to win?”

  “Because you’re a history teacher. You believe it happens like in the history books, but it doesn’t. It never did. Who do you think writes those history books you love so much?”

  “There is something that could prevent my victory.” His gaze held the Wizard’s eyes.

  The Wizard shook his head. “Damn, Dawg. And I thought you might have come to ask me to help you figure out how to do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Make it right.”

  “Come on, there’s no way to make it right,” Hudson hissed, then, through gritted teeth, added, “Two people are dead, and nothing we do can bring them back to life.”

  “Two people have died in the presidential race, too. Don’t you find that ironic? Do you believe in karma?”

  “There’s no connection.”

  “Everything is connected,” the Wizard said. “People forget that, but cause and effect plays us every moment. It’s all like this enormous, complex web inside a maze with moving corridors and reversing gravity . . . know what I mean?”

  Hudson’s phone chimed “Bang On the Drum All Day.”

  “Rundgren,” the Wizard said, recognizing the ringtone and nodding his head approvingly.

  Hudson ignored the call from his campaign manager.

  “Look, I can’t do anything to help her unless I get into office, and I’ll never get there if you or Gouge go public.”

  “Oh, man, when did you become such an idiot?” the Wizard asked. “I always thought it was Gouge who took the worst of what happened that night, and I know it seriously screwed me up, but I kinda believed you were okay, that you somehow shook it off.”

  “No,” Hudson replied mournfully. “No, I didn’t. How do you ever let something like that go?”

  “You don’t, but you swallowed it, dude. You let it eat you from the inside.” The Wizard looked at Hudson as if trying to see back through the decades to the person he knew. “I can’t speak for Gouge, but don’t you realize you’re still my best friend? Man, our bond, even before that night . . . that’s part of our DNA. We came from that, you know?”

  “I know,” Hudson said, suddenly more relieved that his old friend was still there than the realization that he wasn’t going to go public. Without thought, he turned and hugged the Wizard. “I’m sorry, man. I’m so damned sorry.”

  “That’s all we are,” the Wizard said, slowly pulling out of the embrace. “It’s time we’re more than that.”

  Hudson nodded. “It’s a lot.”

  “Yeah. And you need to talk to Gouge.”

&
nbsp; “I have.”

  “I mean in person.”

  “That might not be so easy. NorthBridge has made moving around difficult.” Just then, the Communicator buzzed. Hudson muted it and shoved it back in his pocket, glancing at the Secret Service agents. One of them was speaking into his wrist. “I’m going to need to head out.”

  “Listen, Dawg, you need to imagine . . . imagine reality isn’t what you think it is. Gouge and I are the least of your worries. Even NorthBridge isn’t your biggest problem,” the Wizard whispered. “It’s Vonner and his people that you need to fear.”

  “Vonner and ‘his people’ are the ones giving me the chance to get to the White House.”

  The Wizard stared at Hudson for a long moment. “That’s true, Dawg, but just remember who you’re playing with, and where you came from.”

  Fitz rang again, and Hudson ignored it. Even before “Bang on the Drum” ended, he felt the vibration of the communicator. “I really got to go.”

  “One last thing,” the Wizard began. “Why do you think I wanted to meet here?”

  “I don’t know. Because you live in a storage shed?”

  The Wizard smiled. “I thought you’d think that, but I don’t care about you seeing my pad. We go too far back for that. We needed to do it here because I don’t want them to see it, to know where I live. These spooks have no doubt already ID’d me with facial recognition software and are running down everything they can find on me, but they’re in for a surprise. There is nothing to find. I’ve erased myself from the grid. I mean all the way. The kid you grew up with is long dead. I don’t exist. I’m gone.”

  “You’re a freak, Wizard,” Hudson said with only a partial smile, slipping a hundred-dollar bill into his hand. “A paranoid freak.”

  “One day, when all else fails, my paranoia will save you.”