Election

by Brandt Legg

  Hudson’s face tensed.

  “Careful, Schueller,” Florence said. She knew what was coming.

  “I suppose my buddies and I wasted our time in Desert Storm?” Hudson said, speaking of the first Persian Gulf War where he had served. “I saw friends die.”

  “I’m sorry about that, truly,” Schueller said in a gentle voice. “But what did they die for?”

  “We stopped an incredible act of aggression by a country that threatened an entire region. If we’d done the same with Nazi Germany in 1939—”

  “The corporations got their war.”

  “Over forty nations joined the coalition against Iraq!” Hudson said defensively.

  “The multinational corporations have unlimited influence. They’re running things now, not representatives elected by the people.”

  Hudson shook his head.

  “Dad, I’ve been researching this stuff, and it’s worse than ever. And Vonner is as dirty as the rest of them.”

  “The rest of who?” Florence asked.

  “Schueller, I love you, but you’re a twenty-two-year-old college dropout. Your research isn’t valid. It’s the internet. Nothing is real.” Hudson looked at his son, wondering how he’d drifted so far. “Half the stories online are lies, and the other half are incomplete, taken out of context, or selectively biased. Fake news, fake history—”

  “Just read this stuff, Dad,” Schueller said, pulling a worn file folder stuffed with fifty or sixty pages. “I printed it for you, so you could read it without leaving a trail online.”

  “That was considerate of you,” Hudson said sarcastically, taking the folder.

  “Promise you’ll look at it?” Schueller asked. Suddenly, Hudson saw his little boy, trying to prove he was a big boy. As usual, he softened.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll take it on the campaign bus. I’m sure it’ll be more interesting than the policy papers they’re always giving me.”

  Melissa was about to say something when an image on the television stopped her. “Oh, no!” she screamed.

  Everyone turned to see live footage of Hudson’s house in flames.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Just as he was forcing his brain to accept the fiery images on the screen, Hudson’s phone played “Bang on the Drum.”

  “Did you see!?” Hudson shouted to Fitz as he answered.

  “That’s why I’m calling,” his campaign manager said. “You’re not in that inferno, are you?”

  “No, we’re still in California.”

  “I know, but I mean you finished moving out of that house and into Melissa’s, right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Apparently, someone didn’t like the fact that you won the debate.”

  Hudson looked at the sad and stunned faces of his children. It was the home they’d shared with their late mother. They’d pleaded with him not to put it on the market, but he couldn’t afford to keep it. Now, seeing it destroyed, the pain rekindled the loss of her, twelve years earlier; devastation amplified by a longing for their mother.

  “Do we know?” Hudson asked bitterly. “Was this NorthBridge?”

  “No claims yet,” Fitz said. “But it’s gotta be.”

  “Why are they doing this? What do they gain by . . . this is my family. It’s the memories in that place.” He looked at his kids again. Florence had tears welling in her eyes. Schueller glared like he wanted to hit somebody.

  “They want to rattle you, to terrorize you. I’m sorry, Hudson, but we’re gonna find these monsters, and with any luck, you’ll be president when they get the death penalty.”

  Another channel played a clip from Thorne’s morning talk show. The shock-jock continued where he left off during the debate, calling the firebombing of Hudson’s home justified because, “The candidate is just another lying politician, except worse since Pound has no experience.”

  “Screw him!” Hudson said.

  “Who?” Fitz asked, alarmed.

  “Let’s go after Thorne with everything!”

  “What? Did he say something? What network are you watching?” Once Fitz caught up, he tried to calm Hudson. “You whipped him last night. He’s just baiting you. Don’t fall for it. This guy is going nowhere. Do not talk to the media.”

  As the day went on, Fitz appeared to be right. The initial CompuPolls showed Hudson had pulled ahead of even Texas Governor Cash by four points, and Thorne had collapsed into tenth place, a full thirty-two points behind Hudson.

  However, some pundits speculated that Hudson’s bounce was more than a great debate performance, saying there’s no denying the candidate was also benefiting from sympathy and publicity generated by the firebombing of his house and the threats from NorthBridge. By the next day, polls showed him even beating the top three Democrats in a head-to-head matchup.

  NorthBridge, through AKA Adams, claimed responsibility for the fire, but released no other statement. The FBI added it to their NorthBridge investigation, and the Brickman Effort had agents at the scene within hours. But NorthBridge proved as elusive as ever.

  Hudson rode the wave of attention into a heavy schedule of campaigning at one highly secured rally after another. His average crowd had grown to over ten thousand, and several stops drew three times that. In order to take advantage of the momentum and swelling support, he took Florence with him while Melissa and Schueller covered other states.

  A reporter asked if he thought it was risky bringing his children on the trail in light of the NorthBridge threat. “I want them where I can best protect them,” Hudson shot back, but in truth, he didn’t know where they’d be safest.

  Hudson had learned on that awful night, twenty-nine years earlier, that no one is safe. And again, in the army, while fighting in Iraq, the lesson was amplified—we are not safe. Finally, when his wife died, it became ingrained. Life can turn on us anytime. The helplessness of that feeling had tortured him for decades. Could being President of the United States finally give him the control he so desperately wanted? Could it really make him feel safe? Keep his children safe?

  At a rally in Georgia, the Secret Service had cleared a large crowd that had waited hours to see him. Hudson, knowing of all the precautions, was happy to spend time mingling with the voters. Like so many recently, they wished him well and hoped he could do something about NorthBridge. Cameras caught every second, as his frontrunner status meant a larger press pool traveling with him. He’d become accustomed to the cameras and microphones everywhere, so when a woman shook his hand and whispered, “The Wizard sends his regards,” he didn’t flinch when she unexpectedly palmed him a flash drive memory stick.

  “Thank you for your support,” he said, nodding, smiling, while carefully slipping the drive in his pocket. The woman was swept into the mass of supporters before she could say another word.

  That evening, alone for a rare moment in his hotel room while headlines announced that “Real Americans for Real Change,” the Super PAC supporting Pound for President, had raised another $124 million, he slid the drive into his laptop.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Hudson’s laptop screen burst to life with a seemingly random matrix of numbers and letters showering across so rapidly he feared he’d just installed a virus that would destroy not just his data, but the computer as well. Finally, a chat window opened.

  Hey, Dawg!

  Only two people called him “Dawg” but that meant nothing. Anyone could be typing the words on his screen.

  Who is this? Hudson, surprised and suspicious, asked.

  The Wizard.

  How do I know?

  What? Do you think it’s Gouge?

  I don’t like talking this way.

  Fully encrypted, my friend. NSA-proof and synch-evaporative.

  What does that mean?

  Look at our conversation.

  Hudson realized that as soon as he replied, the Wizard’s words disappeared, and when the Wizard responded, Hudson’s words were also erased. Still, he needed to be sure. He ty
ped: Where did you always sit?

  With the Pirellis, of course.

  Hudson smiled and let out a breath. No one else could have answered that question other than the Wizard, Gouge, or Hudson. Back in the day, when the three of them hung out in the storage loft of the old tire shop owned by Gouge’s father, the Wizard always sat next to the Pirelli Girls calendar. Hudson laughed, recalling all the jokes, the fun and . . . and then he caught himself. It was impossible to separate the good from the bad, the beauties from the ugly truth.

  Hudson typed: What do you want?

  You’re in danger, Dawg.

  Hudson shook his head. Like I don’t know that.

  Not just from NorthBridge.

  He squinted at the screen. Not this again. Who?

  A group of powerful people that you don’t know.

  He typed again. Who!?

  They don’t have a name, but I can tell you this – NorthBridge isn’t always NorthBridge.

  Meaning?

  Meaning, sometimes people with other interests may use NorthBridge’s m.o., but it’s not them.

  Who? Prove it.

  NorthBridge didn’t do your house.

  They said they did.

  They didn’t.

  So, someone claimed it for them? Then why didn’t NorthBridge deny it? They certainly know how to get to the media and anyone else.

  Maybe they saw no harm in taking the credit. No one was hurt. Maybe they want to play with who did take credit. Remember, it’s all about connectivity . . . consciousness.

  Last time – who?

  Ask Vonner.

  The screen went all digital again. After about three minutes of the matrix pattern, his screen returned, and a popup window told him to remove the drive and keep it in a safe place. For the first time, he questioned whether maybe Schueller might be right about something.

  How did the Wizard get a hold of this information? Who the hell does he work for? Can I believe it?

  A knock at his door startled him. He stuffed the flash drive into his pocket and went to the peephole, then quickly opened the door for Florence.

  “Did you get the text from Schueller?” she asked as she flopped on the bed.

  “Oh, yeah, right.” He checked his watch. “Is it now?”

  “In a few minutes.” Schueller had played a couple of songs at a rally in Florida earlier in the day, and it was supposed to be on the national news. He wanted them to watch. Hudson found the right channel and asked if Florence wanted to order some dinner.

  “Too late, I ate already, but are you hungry? I could get you something.”

  “No, I’m good.”

  The news came on with a special report banner, one of those news graphics which had become all too familiar.

  NORTHBRIDGE – Homegrown Terrorists – A REVOLUTION

  “Oh no, now what? Florence asked.

  The reporter told of a document release detailing improprieties and, in one case, several crimes which had taken place in the past of two presidential candidates—a Republican and a Democrat. Nothing too horrible, but enough that both had immediately withdrawn from the race. “Apparently, AKA Franklin from NorthBridge notified the campaigns hours ago in order to time the release with the candidate’s dropping out,” the announcer said.

  “Nice,” Florence said sarcastically. “It’s like they want to show how powerful they are, how they can just knock people off without even resorting to violence.”

  Hudson had remained silent. He stared at the screen, his stomach tightening. The report said the material had been hacked and assembled from numerous sources. A reporter in front of one of the fallen candidate’s campaign headquarters said, “NorthBridge seems to know where all the skeletons are hiding, and their influence over this election may be far from over.”

  Hudson pulled the flash drive from his pocket and thought about what the Wizard had said. Wondering if this was the real NorthBridge or the other one, he wanted to talk to the Wizard again. He wanted to call Vonner, but the reporter’s word about the skeletons had momentarily paralyzed him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Later, Hudson and Florence watched Schueller’s ninety-second segment, which the cable news channel intro’ed as: “The Republican front-runner’s son singing songs about peace and social justice.” The commentator called his music protest songs, but Florence reminded her father that Schueller had been tempering his lyrics while on the trail. Hudson sent a text to his son saying he enjoyed it. Afterwards, room service delivered the candidate’s favorite—bacon cheeseburger, extra bacon, extra cheese, fries, and a ginger ale. Florence headed off to her own room, but not before warning her father of the heart-attack food he was eating. Hudson, who’d heard her nutrition lectures many times, blew his daughter a kiss and picked up the communicator.

  “How’s the next president?” Vonner said cheerfully.

  “Wondering,” he replied. “The next president is wondering who firebombed his house.”

  “What? Again?”

  “No, not another one, just the original. Just the place where I lived with my late wife, where we raised our kids . . . my goddamned home!”

  “Oh, I thought they’d hit you again.”

  “Did they hit me the first time?”

  “Sorry, Hudson, I’m not following you.”

  “Was it NorthBridge who burned my home, or was it someone else?”

  “That’s a rather strange question seeing how NorthBridge admitted to doing it,” Vonner said. “What’s going on?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me, because my house burning down sure seems to have helped me in the polls.”

  “Oh, come on, don’t believe the garbage your detractors are peddling. You’re up in the polls for the same reasons I picked you. You’re smart, you’re a hell of a debater, and people want someone fresh. You’re it, Hudson. You’re doing it.”

  “It’s just this hasn’t been a typical race.”

  “That’s for damned sure, but there’s really no such thing as ‘typical’ anymore. I told you that on the first day.”

  “Then it was NorthBridge?”

  “How should I know who it was? NorthBridge claims they did it. Why would they lie? In order to protect their good name?” he asked sarcastically. “Who do you think did it? The Democrats? Or, wait, you think it might have been the Republican National Committee wanting to boost your visibility? Maybe the Watergate guys came out of retirement. Damn, Hudson, I don’t know where you’re getting this junk, or where your head’s at, but get a grip, and get some sleep.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “I think you know enough history to understand that when a terrorist group claims they blew something up, they’re generally the bastards that blew it up.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. It’s nerve-racking out here with all the security and news every other day of some new NorthBridge attack, digital or physical, or . . . I just . . . I think I should try to find a day off. Maybe two.”

  “Good idea. I’ll tell Fitz. We’ll have to come up with a line. Maybe Melissa gets a cold, or we could do a quick trip overseas to meet a world leader or two. You’re the front-runner now. It’s time to flex that muscle, put more distance between you and Governor Cash.”

  “Can’t we just tell the truth? That the ‘front-runner’ needs a few days off?”

  “The truth in politics? I love your sense of humor. Seriously, nobody wants a president that can’t take the pressure.”

  “I can take it. I’m just . . . ”

  “I know. It’s hell out there. This is the craziest election ever. Don’t worry, we’ll get you a couple of days.”

  “Thanks, Arlin.”

  “None necessary. Now, go to sleep, and Fitz will have a new plan by lunchtime tomorrow.”

  After the call, Vonner picked up another phone and waited until Rex came on the line. “We have a problem,” the billionaire said. “Pound knows.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Although it hardly seemed lik
e a break, Melissa, Florence, Schueller, and Hudson were whisked off to Europe to meet the British Prime Minister and the Chancellor of Germany. Still surrounded by press and security, at least they weren’t campaigning, and the change of pace did him good. Things seemed calmer when they returned to the States.

  Based on the pages Schueller had printed from the internet about Vonner, Hudson could see why his son disliked the billionaire. Half of it detailed how the Illuminati—of which Vonner supposedly was part—secretly controlled global events. The rest contained countless allegations over the years of price fixing, bribery, money laundering, and a long list of other apparent wrongdoing by Hudson’s backer. But Vonner always had an answer; price fixing only looked that way because he had built near-monopolies in several industries.

  “Can I help it if people love my products?” he’d say. “Bribery? Don’t be silly, that’s legal lobbying.”

  Money laundering was legitimate transfers among his many multinational corporations and their subsidiaries. Nothing ever seemed to stick. Hudson knew that could be taken two ways: either Vonner was innocent, or he’s so corrupt that he’s untouchable. For a practical man like Hudson, it came down to one thing. He thought he knew Vonner, he respected him, and most important, he liked him.

  Considering Fonda’s stories, the Wizard’s charges, and Schueller’s conspiracy clippings, Hudson did wonder deep within himself. But, in the end, he attributed the chorus of “Vonner is a bad man” to the fact that it takes a lot to make and manage a fortune that large, and even more to win the White House. So, in the absence of anything from the Wizard, Hudson accepted Vonner’s convincing denials and tried to concentrate on preparing for the next debate. Fitz had warned that the nine remaining Republicans would all be gunning for him.