The Killing Vote

by Bette Golden Lamb

Rudge replaced the receiver and again started pacing, this time the length of the office, his memory flipping through the earlier committee meeting. But that only silenced his restlessness for a brief time. He waited for Wilson to return his coded call and when the phone finally rang, he jumped and grabbed at it.

  * * *

  “Hey,” Wilson said, “what’s the emergency? I was going to call you after lunch.”

  “Are you on a safe line?”

  “Gawl darn, this constant paranoia doesn’t suit you, son. And it’s starting to get under my skin.”

  Rudge ignored the exasperation in Wilson’s voice. “I’m worried”

  “Oh? Anything that would delay our plans?”

  “No, not that. In fact, I may have some good news.”

  “So, let’s have the good news first,” Wilson said.

  “We have two candidates. The preliminaries indicate one in particular has the potential to match the optimum profile.”

  “When will you know for certain?”

  “Possibly late today—”

  “Halleluiah! That’s great news. And I just got the word that Desisto is a definite go. We are officially on count-down.”

  Rudge dropped into his chair, dizzy from a rush of adrenaline. His hands began to shake; he couldn’t speak.

  “Did you hear me, Garr?”

  “Yes, of course. Sorry. I was just looking for an update on the candidate.” He reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead.

  “Anything?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I want up-to-the-minute reports, Garr. If it works out, we’ll hit the target date right on the nail.”

  “I’ll keep an hourly tab on the patient’s progress.”

  “There you go. So what’s the bad news?”

  “Ted Yost.”

  “We already discussed that snoopy bastard.”

  “Well, talking about him and having to deal with him in person are two different matters.”

  “Garrett, don’t cry on my shoulder about piddling nothings.”

  “Yeah, well, if Yost and CORPS have joined forces, you won’t be able to toss them off as a piddling.”

  “Monkeywrenchers! Just like that damn environmental bunch of losers. And of course the ACLU will find a way to step in, too. And God knows who else.” A harsh blast of laughter made Rudge’s ear tingle. “Who the hell is going to listen to any of them—until it’s too late?”

  “Maybe, but it feels dicey to me.”

  Wilson laughed. “Yost’s just a retired, old fart.”

  “I’ve been checking into the old fart’s background.”

  “So have I, Garr. So have I.”

  “Then you know he’s always been a troublemaker. And since he’s started blogging, he goes right for the balls on any subject that attracts his left-leaning attention. He may be old, but that doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous.”

  “Let me worry about that tiny pimple on your ass.”

  There was a long uncomfortable silence before Rudge responded. “My butt isn’t the only one that’s hanging out in the breeze.”

  “Whoa, man. Before you get your bowels in an uproar, let’s think the situation through.”

  “You think it through! I’m the one dangling at the end of this trial balloon. If anything goes wrong, you and your Washington friends are going to crash with me.”

  “Calm down, boy. There are other ways to deal with this troublemaker.”

  “Such as?”

  Long pause. “Let’s find out more about the man. For instance, does Yost have marital problems?”

  “What kind of sleezy crap is that, Wade? Bringing his family into—”

  “I said this was a secure line, but it’s still not the best place to discuss this kind of thing. Get me?”

  A sharp pain stabbed Rudge’s eye, the flashing lights of a migraine washed out his vision. “It’s just that Yost seems pretty damn chancy to me.”

  “Geez, you send me up a tree. For Christ’s sake, relax.” Wilson’s ease with words belied a will laced with steel. “We have the full backing and support of the Executive Branch of the U. S. of A. What more do you want?”

  “I don’t want to feel like the fall guy in this project,” Rudge said. “Politicians’ alliances change on a whim.”

  “For a bright man you’re pretty stupid at times.”

  “Asking questions doesn’t make me stupid.”

  “Get with it, Garr. The Administration has a critical national problem on its hands. No, make that a national disaster.” Wilson’s voice turned soothing. “Believe me, they need this Desisto balloon to fly.”

  Rudge fought with the pain that tore at his head. “And if it flies away, I’m still the one dangling.”

  “Hell, no one said it was going to be easy. But you bring this off, and there’ll be no stopping you. Probably be running Health and Human Services before the year is out.” Wilson chuckled. “We know how to take care of our own.”

  “Listen to me, Wade! Yost is trouble. He’s made a career out of hacking his way through red tape and bullshit. And right now, he’s sitting outside my office, not yours.”

  The pause was so long this time that he almost asked whether Wilson was still there. But then he spoke again. “Two calls in one day about the same guy. Maybe you aren’t the right man for this project after all.”

  He wiped at the beads of sweat that bubbled up on his forehead. “I need reassurance and I’m not getting from you.”

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh. So tell me about the committee,” Wilson said, ignoring the jibe. “What’s the current status? Will we get the votes we need?”

  “I think so, but it’s not in the bag yet.”

  “I thought you told me they...understood?”

  “They understand all right.”

  “So, will they bite the bullet?”

  “They’re wearing down. It’s turning into just another problem to solve so they can get the hell out of that conference room. Euthanasia? What’s for dinner? Selective euthanasia? Who’s fixing the damn toilet? Drone on, drone on. “

  “So you’re going to give them the easy solution, so they can go home and get on with their lives?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “You’re a wily varmint, Garr. Probably why we like you.”

  “I still don’t like this head-to-head with Yost. The man’s a doer.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’m up to my neck with this bellyaching. You have a committee of five reputable people, unlimited resources—social workers, federal and state studies, legislative study committees, academic studies, etcetera, etcetera. By the time Yost’s able to wade through that moat of shit, we’ll have skedaddled into green pastures.”

  “I don’t know, Wade—”

  “Now wait a minute.” There was a long pause before Wilson spoke again. “I’d hate to think you’re having doubts about our project.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” he said, his voice taking a condescending bent. “I’m fully committed to the concept. But it would be stupid to ignore someone like Yost rallying the troops; it could be one hell of a battle.”

  “There’s no time for a battle. I just put you on the fast track.”

  “Yeah, and I’m running as fast as I can. But I don’t want this guy to trip me or slow me down before I get to the finish line.” He started the chrome balls on his desk ricocheting into each other. Click. Click.

  “So when’s your next committee meeting?”

  “Monday morning at ten.” Click. Click.

  “And we do have a candidate?”

  “Like I said, it’s looking good.” Click. Click. Click. “Hell, if we’re lucky, maybe by then we’ll have a couple of people to choose from.”

  Silence

  “Listen carefully. Giving that committee a choice could blow the whole thing.”

  “I don’t understand—” Wade Wilson always had an ace up his sleeve. Rudge had been smart to record all their conversations, stash them in a safety
deposit box.

  “Give them one person, one human being they can relate to,” Wilson said. “They’ll need to feel they’ve done something positive, something worthwhile. We don’t want them thinking Holocaust.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

  There was another stretch of silence.

  “Wade, are you there?”

  “I’ll tell you, Garr, sometimes when I hear myself talking like this, when I bully, step on, push people around, I know I’ve become a cold bastard. But that’s neither here nor there. We have to think of the greater good.”

  “I know.”

  “Man, the country’s drowning in old, poor, sick people. Medicare is dying. We’ve got to start changing the numbers.”

  “I believe that,” Rudge said, his headache starting to ebb.

  “You handle the grass roots situation, I’ll handle the politics and anything else that needs fixin’. And I assure you, I don’t envy your end one little bit. But when you bring this off, you’re going to have a lot of high-placed people in your pocket.”

  Silence.

  Wilson finally spoke again. “Remember, by next week it will be all be over.”

  Rudge swiveled in his chair to look out the window. He restarted the metal balls, ricocheting one against the other.

  Chapter 9

  Wade Wilson hopped a little two-step around his desk, then pulled out a disposable cell and used the same protocol Rudge had used to reach him.

  While he waited for Maurice Seldon to return his call, he did a mental playback of his conversation with Hygea’s top man in California.

  Rudge had shown real alpha aggression during their conversation—a nasty warning to Wilson. The Hygea CEO was a key player, the linchpin in the whole equation. If he couldn’t bring all of Hygea’s regional committees on board, the entire project was lost before they were in the ball park. W.W. had depended on Rudge’s raw ambition to keep him in line, but maybe he’d underestimated the man.

  And the journalist?

  No matter what he’d said to Rudge, Yost was a real fly in the ointment. A snooping newsman in cahoots with CORPS was the last thing he needed at this point.

  He would have to handle it.

  When the Secretary of Health and Human Services called back, Wilson jumped in without preliminaries, “Desisto is on schedule and should be up and running next week.”

  “Great news!” Seldon said. “I knew Hygea would come through for us.”

  “Rudge is carrying the ball like a real pro.”

  “I assume then that I can relay this to the Chief of Staff and the President?”

  “Of course.”

  “Excellent! Excellent!” Seldon sounded more relieved than elated.

  When Wilson hung up, he frowned, then congratulated himself for not mentioning the budding partnership between CORPS and Ted Yost.

  * * *

  Maurice Seldon enjoyed all the perks that being Secretary of HHS brought his way. For instance he couldn’t recall the last time he’d found it necessary to buy a disposable cell phone, leave his office, and hide out in the open to make a private call.

  He didn’t like it.

  He observed the walkway’s foot traffic; no one seemed interested in him nor was anyone close enough to hear what he had to say. Satisfied, his gaze rose, rested on the towering Washington Monument as he made his call.

  “He’ll run with it?” The voice was demanding, harsh in his ear.

  “Damn well better if he wants to get re-elected.” Seldon had not wanted to make this call, but he’d had no choice: this was the man who’d convinced him to accept when Tyler held the cabinet post out to him; this was the man who controlled the contributions that could send him back to Congress. A tough old bird, he was not afraid to step on toes, to alienate friend and foe alike; far right of any Blue Dog Democrat, but still the man who controlled the Democratic purse strings in Seldon’s home state.

  Seldon was suddenly distracted by walker coming toward him, a man almost too perfect in appearance—thirties, buzz cut, a Washington News-Sentinel clamped under one arm, a large Starbucks cup clutched in the other hand.

  “Everyone wants to get re-elected,” the politico snapped. “The point is, does Tyler have the courage, the guts to do what needs to get done to keep the nation from being sucked into a fucking bottomless pit?”

  “Is he a true American patriot? If that’s what you’re asking, the answer is no,” Seldon said. “Bottom line, he’s running scared and wants to stay in the White House.”

  “Obviously! But Medicare is a financial albatross. If Tyler doesn’t take positive action to solve the problem, he won’t survive, you won’t survive, and the country won’t survive. You do understand that don’t you ... he will not survive … you will not survive … the country will not survive?”

  Seldon held back a response, waited for the person closing in to pass, move out of hearing range. Their eyes never met, the other man’s movements were stiff and unnatural.

  Probably some damn low-level Fibby tailing me. Wouldn’t be the first time my opponents tried to turn my ass into a dart board.

  “Are you there?” the phone voice demanded.

  Seldon waited.

  “Do you hear me? We’re talking about survival. Everyone’s survival. Do you understand that or not? Are you ready to sacrifice your career for the good of our country?” There was a brief pause. “Seldon?”

  The man with the newspaper was still on the perimeter. Seldon turned his back on him and stared up at the 500-foot obelisk again.

  The voice screamed in his ear. “For God’s sake, Seldon, tell me: do you think the President will do what needs to be done?”

  “It’ll be touch and go.”

  * * *.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Seldon said when Dick Abrams picked up at the other end.

  “No problem other than you almost missed me.”

  “Things are moving fast,” Seldon said. “We’re running with Desisto.”

  “Great news! Then everything’s in place? What about the senator? Still damn hard to put my trust in a liberal.”

  Seldon laughed so hard it took him a second or two to stop. “Not this one—this one will jump up and down like a puppet.”

  “You seem pretty sure about that.”

  “Listen, you may not like old W. W., but you’ve got to give the man his due. He plays those senators like a Stradivarius.” Seldon laughed again. “This particular liberal has been placed in the catbird seat, but it’s W. W.’s claws that’ll do the snaring.”

  “Must be a good sound bite in there somewhere, Maurice. But are you sure the Senator will do it?”

  “Oh, I’m sure Wade Wilson will take care of that end very nicely.”

  Chapter 10

  Ted Yost was into a slow boil. He shifted back and forth in his seat, even thought about having a cigarette. He stared hard at a plaque on the reception desk that screamed at him in bold black letters:

  THIS IS A NON-SMOKING FACILITY

  Twenty years since he’d had a cigarette and no corporate ghoul like Garrett Rudge was going to make him take on that filthy habit again.

  But bad habits die hard. He could almost feel the pleasure of the smoke curling in his lungs. He took a couple of deep breaths to wipe away the nicotine memory.

  Today’s reality: the receptionist was totally ignoring him and he’d been sitting in this uncomfortable seat for more than two hours.

  He uncrossed, re-crossed his legs again and again and thought about the beginning of his career. Fresh out of journalism school, it had been pure stubbornness, combined with the ambition to be top-notch, that got him one-on-one interviews with those who lived in the upper stratospheres.

  It was heady stuff. And he missed it.

  He rubbed at his neck, then leaned over to stare at the dark brown industrial grade carpet. Ugly.

  Blogging was a new and different experience—he was out there on his own without the official backing or protecti
on of a metropolitan daily newspaper, international wire service, or national weekly news magazine. It was liberating in a way—strange and scary. But it kept him in the game, kept semi-retirement from hampering his need to dig out the truth, no matter who got caught in the crosshairs.

  Truth, his elusive adversary. Always demanding, heavier than any albatross.

  Ted slumped down in the uncomfortable chair, wondering if working with CORPS would accomplish anything. He still wasn’t comfortable with the association—when did any of these organizations really get anything done?

  He rubbed his knee, looked at the exit and thought about his novel again. Instead of hanging around Garrett Rudge’s office, he should be home pounding out that great American novel—a cloaked autobiography, of course. What else was there left to tell?

  The beginning would be about as interesting as watching paint dry—nothing fascinating about the small Ohio town where he grew up. The fact that family hardships forced him to shoulder adult responsibilities at an early age was not only deadly dull, but pretty much a cliché for many families.

  He was the eldest of five and an only son, so his father, a cobbler, had no choice but to rely on him to help make and repair shoes even before Ted turned nine.

  He worked in his father’s shop, delivered newspapers, picked up odd jobs when and where he could while his younger sisters handled all of the household chores. It was hard work. Ted remembered going to bed most nights, not only exhausted, but hungry. The family barely survived.

  His mother spent her days doing little more than praying, whether at home or in the nearby church.

  When Ted got up in the morning, she was praying; while his sisters fixed breakfast and got everything ready, she was praying. When he came home from school, she was praying; when he left for the shop, or returned from his paper route, she was praying.

  At some point he accepted that praying what she did—her contribution to the family.

  But one day he overheard his mother and father arguing and he found out that the money he worked so hard for was not helping to buy food or pay the rent, but was given to the church by his mother. Almost over-night, he changed from a dutiful son to a loud-mouthed brat.