He glanced back at John, who seemed to be staring at him curiously. Probably wondering whether Ron could take the stress, he thought, immediately grinning and throwing his shoulders back.
"We're going to destroy Wilson Carter," John said. "Don't worry."
Ron shook his head, still grinning. "Of course I'm not worried, old friend."
John continued, seemingly not believing him. "Even some of the Diplomatist followers are wavering. You're so ahead in the polls, some analysts have been joking about whether an election is even necessary."
Ron forced a chuckle. What was John getting at? He wasn't worried–right?
John continued. "The party's beliefs make their agenda inherently weak, something we're going to exploit easily. The heavy focus on religion, with too strong a hope in God for salvation, seems to be putting some of the less religiously devout ill at ease."
Ron wanted to scream that it wasn't the debate he was worried about–it was John–it was those who were willing to kill to further the advancement of their party, but held it back. He hoped John wasn't that kind of killer.
"Are you a God fearing man, John?" Ron asked.
John didn't respond at first. His brow furrowed and he broke eye-contact.
"If there is a God," John said after a moment. "He gave us the tools we need to survive, and it's up to us alone to use them. I don't believe he interferes or judges us by how we use those tools."
"You don't believe in divine intervention–in miracles?"
"No. Divine intervention may have guided the development of intelligent life, but that's the extent of it."
"Then how do you explain our gift?"
John locked eyes with Ron again and raised an eyebrow. After a moment he shrugged. "You're right, of course. I guess I've just taken it for granted."
He said that without a hint of conviction, and Ron grew increasingly uncomfortable in his presence. John seemed to take note of that, and with a pat on Ron's back, he left the room.
No, Ron thought, he definitely had to worry about his campaign manager.
◊ ◊ ◊
Sam sat in the main room of their campaign office, typing frantically on his computer, dropping anonymous hints that Ron's campaign manager might be an alien. After he killed Pat publicly, he hoped these anonymous rumors would spread and he'd be regarded as a hero, the savior of the Purgist party and the world.
Ron's office door opened, and Sam stopped typing and closed the lid as Pat walked out. He glanced up as Pat eyed him curiously.
"A-according to ticket sale polls it looks like more than fifty percent of the audience are decidedly Purgist," Sam said quickly. "Which, I don't have to tell you, is amazing considering how new our party is."
He'd just made that up. As far as he knew, there was no ticket sale poll–but Pat wouldn't know that–the poll statistics were his job.
"I'd be happier if none of them were Purgist," Pat replied. "We are going to cream Carter in this debate. I'd love to do so in front of solely Diplomatists and Radicalists."
Sam didn't respond. The office was empty, as most of their team were setting up at Chibiney Hall. Pat took a seat and began looking over paperwork, and Sam found the following silence awkward.
He couldn't take it, fearing that at any moment Pat would realize his betrayal.
He stood. "I'm going to head over to Chibiney. I'll see you later."
Pat nodded and watched Sam as he packed away his laptop and left, hoping that Pat wouldn't notice the slight frenzy to his pace.
Once out of the office, he sighed. Every time he and Pat locked eyes he feared that Pat would immediately catch on to his plan, not to mention the idea of betraying Pat as he intended to felt wrong, despite his pure motives. He had to keep reminding himself that Pat was a killer and deserved to die–that he was crazy and had to atone for his sins.
He walked from the office, heading to a nearby gun store. Called Frank's Firearms, Sam intending to purchase a gun. He wished he had more of a plan, but considering the circumstances, he was lucky to even have one.
Sam had grown to hate Pat since resolving to kill him those weeks ago, and every time he saw him his mind flashed back to his house, remembering how Claire had walked out of his bedroom and Pat following after her, and a few moments before, walking in on them. It was humiliating–a thought that made him cringe and shiver and shake his head, as if that would dislodge the thought.
But the more he opted to forget, the clearer it remained in his mind. But that wasn't why he had to kill Pat, he kept reminding himself. It was because Pat was crazy, and would kill a lot of people. And after everything Sam had been through, he deserved to be the hero, not Pat. Pat was the villain.
He arrived at the Frank's Firearms, a small shop connected to a corner store, seated on top of a small hill with a slanted parking lot that had enough room for only four cars. He walked inside with a ring of the door bell. Sam avoided eye-contact with the clerk at first, noticing the dirty navy blue carpet and countless random objects on the walls and display cases. Jewelry and knives, guitars, picture frames, clothing, and behind the counter and the clerk, guns. Finally, he made eye-contact as he approached, attempting to look confident.
"I've got six-hundred for a pistol," he said. "What do you have?"
The clerk, tall, bald, wearing a sleeveless black leather vest, looked at Sam curiously and then, after a moment, chuckled. Sam stared back, his already thin confidence wavering, and finally the clerk sighed and bent down, retrieved a box, and stood back up.
"Need ammo?"
"Yes," Sam said, eyes glued to the box.
The clerk turned wordlessly, grabbed a box, and placed it on the counter next to the gun.
"Six-hundred exactly," he said.
Sam had a feeling that he might be getting ripped off, but didn't really care–he just wanted to get in and get out of there as quickly as possible. He took the money out of his wallet, counted six $100 dollar bills, and placed them on the counter. The clerk picked up the money and counted it, then held it up to the light as Sam took his gun and ammo, pulse racing.
The clerk nodded, Sam let out a quiet "thanks," and left, thinking as he walked out that the clerk probably would've given him a bag for his gun had he been more patient. But he got what he came for, and left the shop with a second ring of the door.
◊ ◊ ◊
Claire was certain that the overweight balding man she watched lurk from the gun shop was none other than Sam Higgins, but after their last encounter the last thing she wanted was to confront him face to face, so she hung back until he'd cleared the area. She was there for a gun, and as she entered she couldn't help but be surprised at herself for actually doing it, and although she was scared, she'd never felt more empowered.
The door opened with a ring and she walked straight towards the clerk. "I need a small, concealable gun."
The clerk paused. "A lot of people buying today," he said bluntly.
Claire understood that Sam must've bought a gun, others as well, which was nerve-racking. She made a mental note of it for later, but for now, she had her own problems.
"Can I ask why you need a concealable gun?" he continued.
"What's it to you why I need a gun?" she replied.
The clerk glared at her. "I'd rather not deal with the police if I can help it. You planning on murdering someone?"
Claire sighed, and changed her posture to look worried. "A crazy ex has been stalking me. I just want to be protected in case he tries anything. Something I can conceal in my purse, or maybe something that isn't even too obvious in my hand, so that if he gets close I can be prepared."
The clerk nodded. "It won't be cheap."
He bent down and pulled out a small box. The gun contained seemed to be no bigger than the palm of her hand.
"It's two-thousand including ammunition, but I'll give it to you for eighteen-hundred."
Claire smiled, and allowed the relief she felt wash over her.
She handed the clerk a w
ad of cash and as he took it she removed two $100 dollar bills from the roll. "That should be all of it. Do you have a bag?"
The clerk counted the money quickly, confirmed it was all there, then placed her items in a bag.
"Thank you," she said, smiling. He allowed himself a grin.
"Your welcome," he replied.
She left the store and returned to her car. In the back were her bags, as she'd decided earlier to spend the next night at the Quarter Moon Inn. It was nearby the venue at Chibiney Hall and the recent murder there might give her some insight into the current state of affairs at Savannah, to see if there was any way she could plan Pat's murder better.
It seemed during her drive that she drove past at least one hundred signs that said in bold white font "Ron Howard for Congress," and couldn't help but be impressed at how aptly and deeply Pat had dug his fingers into that pie.
She parked her car, hopped out, and walked into the lobby as the sun began disappearing behind the horizon. She took in her surroundings and entered the lobby, then stopped dead in her tracks. For there, standing at the front desk, was none other than the FBE agent Chris Summers.
◊ ◊ ◊
Summers turned from the front desk at the sound of the door and found himself speechless at the sight of Claire Waltz waltzing in. He grinned to himself at that–he'd have to relay it to Penelope later. He watched as her features turned from a frown to a curious smile.
"Agent Summers! What are you doing here?" she said, approaching and kissing him on the cheek. He paused, stunned. What the hell was she doing here was the better question.
"Can't divulge that information, Ms Waltz, but–"
"–Didn't I ask you to call me Claire?"
He sighed. "Of course. Claire, what are you doing here?"
Penelope, standing nearby, chuckled. Summers could tell his friend was forcing himself not to burst out laughing. Claire grinned sweetly. "Supporting my friend Patches, of course!"
Summers nodded, unconvinced. "Are you going to the debate tomorrow?"
"I'm not sure yet. How about yourself?"
Penelope coughed, and Summers looked over. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" Penelope said.
"No," Summers said. "To both of you."
Penelope stepped forward and held out a hand. "Please excuse my friend, miss. I'm Penelope Plum."
"Claire Waltz," she said, taking his hand lightly. Penelope lifted and kissed it.
"What a gentleman," she said, grinning.
Summers sighed. This was going to turn awkward, and Claire being here didn't bode well. He didn't trust her, and wondered the true reason for her appearance. Was it possible she wanted to apologize to Shane for her behavior at GenDec, or possibly use his political sway as means to push her own agenda? Or was it possible that she actually supported his cause? They both grew up at GenDec, and Shane was crazy–it was likely she was as well–and simply hid it better. Either way, he didn't trust her and wanted her as far away as possible tomorrow. He also wanted Penelope as far away as possible as well.
An idea began to form in his mind. If he could get them to go on some sort of date it was possible that he could kill two birds with one stone. He hated the fact that when it came down to politics, a deep mistrust of his friend had grown as of late.
"Hey I just had an idea," he said. "Penelope, I know you're disappointed I can't go to that restaurant you wanted to try, but maybe Claire would go in my stead?"
There was never any restaurant, and he knew Penelope understood that immediately, and as Penelope relayed the question to Claire, Summers knew she'd agree before she even did because–even if she hated Penelope, which he doubted, she'd still go out with him just to find out why the two of them were in Savannah. She agreed, and Summers smiled. "Good stuff, now everyone's happy."
Penelope clearly was–he was beaming. Claire was smiling too, but it didn't seem genuine.
He didn't trust her, and he hoped that when she and Penelope returned from the restaurant, Penelope could uncover at least a portion of the truth about the true reason why she was in Savannah.
◊ ◊ ◊
A few hours later, Claire allowed Penelope's hand on her lower back as he led her into Mille Basium, an expensive four-star restaurant in east Savannah, close to the water. He'd combed his hair back and put on pants, but Claire was still humiliated to be seen with a man who's shoes couldn't contain his feet.
Penelope apparently knew his way around expensive restaurants, and after a few subtle slips of cash here and there the couple were seated, past apparently even those whom made reservations.
Penelope pulled out Claire's chair before sitting, and ordered a bottle of wine before she'd even glanced at the menu.
"So," Penelope said, lowering his menu. "How do you and Chris know each other?"
"We don't," Claire said shortly. "What are you two doing in Savanna?"
"You first."
Claire laughed. "Don't be coy, Mr Plum. I'll spill if you do first–we can make a gentleman out of you yet."
"What makes you think I'm no gentleman?"
Claire leaned her head over the side of the table and grinned at his shoes. "I have my sources," she said.
"Okay. You got me." Penelope shrugged. "The agent is following Shane, harmless research, to figure out if his genes are viable for the FBE." He raised his glass. "Now it's your turn."
Claire took a sip of water. "Here to support my old friend."
Penelope gave her a skeptical look. She continued. "But, in reality, I'm just curious to see how crazy he really is, not to mention I have to push some of my company's goals. You could say I'm here lobbying, in a sense."
"To lobby period, Claire."
"Whatever floats your boat, Mr Plum."
"Call me Penelope."
"No thanks."
He looked annoyed. Claire excused herself to use the restroom.
She stood, and as she did so she glimpsed out of the corner of her eye a figure standing by the window, seemingly watching her.
She stopped and turned her head slightly. The torso suggested a male, but the face was concealed by a hoodie. It gave her inexplicable chills.
She turned to look fully, but the figure had already vanished.
Slightly fazed, she walked to the ladies’ room and reapplied her makeup. She looked at her reflection. For the first time in a long time, her eyes looked sunken and she could tell the stress of what she'd come to Savannah to do was weighing on her. Could she do it? Could she kill Patches Shane?
The door flew open and a heavyset woman practically sprinted past Claire to a stall. Claire grabbed the open door and left the restroom before things got ugly.
As she passed the same window as before, she checked to see if the hooded figure from before was still watching her. He apparently wasn't. Just her being paranoid, she reassured herself.
Shrugging, she made to return to her table and saw the back of Penelope's head. She had half a mind to just leave–wouldn't be the first time, but something compelled her to stay. She'd lied when asked why she was in Savannah. Was that why she suspected Penelope had as well?
Suddenly she heard a voice that wasn't Penelope's speak.
"Claire Waltz."
The voice was instantly recognizable, and her stomach flipped. She turned and saw none other than Patches Shane standing with Ron Howard. Pat approached and kissed her hello. As he did so he whispered in her ear. "Call me John Higgins if you know what's good for you."
He pulled away and narrowed his brow. She nodded that she understood, and immediately broke into a wide grin.
"Mr Higgins! After all this time!"
Patches grinned back. "What's it been? Five years or so?"
Claire laughed. "Seems longer, dear friend."
Patches laughed, and led her to Ron.
"Ron, this is my dear friend Claire Waltz. Claire, as I'm sure you know, this is the future Congressman of the First District of Georgia, Ron Howard."
Ron smiled
and Claire shook his hand. "Charmed," she said.
"So what brings you to Savannah, Claire?"
She shrugged, still smiling. "Wish I could say this was a social visit–but when word got out at my company that you and I are friends, they sent me here to, well, you know. Push their agenda."
Patches slapped Ron on the back. "Hear that old friend? We're already being courted by the corrupt corporate elite. Sorry to disappoint, Claire, but Ron Howard is above all that. We're here only to save the world."
Claire mocked disappointment, her smile unwavering. "Oh well, I did what I could."
"It was a lovely effort," Ron said.
At that moment, Penelope approached and wrapped an arm around Claire. "Well well well, babe. You didn't tell me you were friends with Ron Howard and, if I'm not mistaken–"
Claire's stomach twisted. Pat's brow narrowed. Ron, not paying attention, closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Penelope continued grinning.
"–John Higgins himself. I've heard a lot about you. I have to admit: I'm a fan. Think what you both are doing is superb."
Penelope looked at Claire, then back at Ron and Patches.
"Why don't you two join us for a spell?" Penelope continued. "We have a nice wine coming, or I hope. Not entirely sure what I ordered to be honest. Read it in a book once."
Claire rolled her eyes. Well that's a first, she thought.
Pat looked at her with a smug grin. She could practically read his mind: "So this is what you've succumbed to."
She felt herself regretting more and more by the second agreeing to dinner. This was absolutely humiliating.
"We'd be glad to join you two for a bit," Pat said.
She wanted to claw that grin from his face, but he, Ron, and Penelope had already begun their way to the table.
The Harbinger Break Page 25
