Jim McGill 04 The Last Ballot Cast, Part 1

by Joseph Flynn

  The sleeping pill trial would not last so long as to form a state of dependency. As such drugs were contraindicated for young children, there was a debate whether they should be given to Todd at all, and if they were whether the usual strength should be mitigated. The conclusion was that Todd, whatever his real identity, was a physically mature adult and for the purposes of the drug trial he would be given full doses for four consecutive nights.

  That idea was cut short by half when on the third morning Todd woke up still presenting as Danny Templeton and showing repetitive twitches and tics. The medical staff was at a loss to understand that as the drugs they’d used had never produced tardive dyskenisia before. Even so, Danny now moaned through the day as his body jerked uncontrollably at irregular intervals.

  Twitch was born.

  In frustration, the team assigned to break Damon Todd called in Daryl Cheveyo, the shrink who had been the agency’s initial contact with Todd and who had been in on his capture after Todd had attempted to kill James J. McGill.

  Cheveyo read the reports detailing Todd’s time at The Funny Farm and watched hours of surreptitiously shot video of the subject.

  His conclusion was, “You’ve been up in his face the whole time he’s been here. Give him some room. Feed him a normal diet. Let him wake up and go to sleep when he wants. Allow him to interact with other patients and, without crowding him, see if he strikes up any conversations.”

  “See if we can find a jailhouse snitch?” the chief interrogator asked.

  Cheveyo said, “Or maybe after the years of constant pressure letting him relax will feel so good he’ll even start talking with you. But whatever you do, do not let the SOB get away.”

  The warning received a chorus of laughter.

  “I’m telling you,” Cheveyo said. “He’s not the kid he’s pretending to be. He’s smart and dangerous.”

  Everybody conceded that point, but Cheveyo was assured nobody ever got away from The Funny Farm. Famous last words.

  GWU Hospital

  McGill sat alone in the lounge down the hall from the room where Kenny had stayed while waiting for his transplant. He didn’t know whether Kenny would be returned to the same room or even if … Dear God, he thought, please don’t let my son die. Don’t let Patti die.

  He tried desperately to find some handhold of faith to grasp, but —

  “Boss.”

  McGill looked up. He saw Deke Ky, his personal Secret Service bodyguard, and Leo Levy, his driver, standing at the entrance to the lounge. Both men had been given the day off; the plan had been for McGill to use the president’s protection detail at the wedding of Welborn Yates and Kira Fahey. Deke and Leo must have heard that Congressman Zachary Garner and Speaker Derek Geiger had died at Vice President Wyman’s home and had sought him out.

  Were there for him now. Ready to do anything they could.

  “Company coming,” Deke said.

  “Family and friends,” Leo elaborated.

  The two men stepped aside as McGill’s daughters, Abbie and Caitie, ran to embrace him as he got to his feet. They were both crying, but McGill hadn’t been able to discern the emotion that lay behind the tears in their eyes. He saw his ex-wife Carolyn and her husband Lars approach.

  He didn’t have to ask. Carolyn wore a brave smile.

  “Kenny’s infusion was successful,” she said.

  “And Patti?” McGill asked.

  Artemus Nicolaides stepped forward. “The president continues to be monitored closely, but her heartbeat has returned to a normal rhythm and she has suffered no adverse consequences.”

  McGill might have collapsed if his daughters hadn’t been holding him up.

  That was when he noticed that SAC Crogher was present and he remembered that another life had hung in the balance. In his preoccupation with his wife and son, he had forgotten that. He felt ashamed.

  Special Agent August Latz had taken a bullet that Speaker Geiger had intended for McGill.

  “Celsus?” he asked. “Special Agent Latz?”

  The SAC showed the president’s henchman the first genuine smile he’d ever seen from the man. He gave McGill a thumbs-up. “He’s going to make it. Probably won’t look too pretty, but he’ll live.”

  Dr. Divya Sahir Jones, Kenny’s chief oncologist, moved to the head of the line with two other doctors. She looked at McGill and all the others present. Her expression was guarded.

  She said, “So far, so good. But for Kenny — and the president and Special Agent Latz — this is still Day Zero. They will all face many challenges. My colleagues and I will tell —”

  Crogher interrupted Dr. Jones.

  He said, “Kenny McGill’s condition is a matter for his family to discuss. The president’s prognosis is for Mr. McGill’s ears only. Special Agent Latz is my concern.”

  Caitie McGill wasn’t about to have Crogher tell her who could hear what.

  “Patti is my stepmother,” she said. “My concern. Just like Kenny.”

  McGill kissed the top of his daughter’s head.

  “SAC Crogher is right, sweetheart. We have to do things a certain way.” He looked Caitie in the eye. “We’re not the only ones interested in Patti. People all over the country and around the world want to know how the president is doing and will make decisions based on what they learn. Not all of those people have our country’s best interests at heart.”

  Crogher nodded. He was glad Holmes understood the situation.

  McGill looked at the White House physician.

  “We’ll say the president is resting comfortably and will resume her office …”

  He gestured to Nick to complete the sentence.

  Nick had a moment of quiet consultation with one of the doctors who had accompanied Dr. Jones. What he heard was, “There’s no telling.” What he said was, “The moment she gives the word.”

  Tough to argue with that, McGill thought.

  Nick was playing along with Crogher; specifics were for him alone.

  But Caitie seemed to be satisfied, and no one else pressed for details.

  “We’ll work it out so everybody’s happy,” McGill told his family.

  Dr. Jones asked to have the room for Kenny’s immediate family. They needed to understand he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Him or the president. Both of them were going to need a lot of help.

  The White House

  Chief of Staff Galia Mindel sat alone in her office a few steps down the hall from the Oval Office. She had spent the past two hours ignoring her work to dust off memories of prayers she had learned as a girl. Her parents had been members of Reform Judaism, the branch of the faith that believed Jewish traditions should be modernized and made compatible with participation in contemporary culture. That wasn’t to say that prayer was something to be practiced only on the high holidays or occasions of personal note. The most important part of daily prayer was the opportunity to look within yourself, to understand your place in the world and your relationship with God.

  Galia hadn’t prayed since she lost her dear husband, Nathan.

  Oh, how she’d prayed when Nate fell ill. Before that, she hadn’t had time. After Nate had died, she saw no point, and she’d filled her life with raising her sons and doing her work. She’d gotten busy again. Too busy even to think of taking the time to pray.

  Now, with the president in unexpected jeopardy, she strained to find the sincere faith that prayer would be anything more than a temporary distraction from fear. Still, she remembered the words she had learned as a child, and if there was any chance they might mean something more than whispering into the wind she would be a fool not to seize the opportunity.

  Galia bowed her head and closed her eyes.

  Please God, she thought, bring healing to Patricia Darden Grant.

  And to Kenny McGill.

  May the One who was the source of blessing for our ancestors …

  The verses of the prayer unfolded in Galia’s mind and she stepped out of the moment and into a sense of peac
e. Unlike the vision Erna Godfrey had spoken of, she didn’t see the face of God nor did she see Nate, as Erna had spoken of seeing Andy Grant. But she felt the presence of a grand design. The awareness that life had meaning beyond the moment brought a feeling of warmth and security to Galia. Doing the right things for the right reasons mattered.

  Further insight disappeared into the sound of her desk phone ringing.

  She lifted the receiver and with a clear mind said, “Yes.”

  Her deputy chief of staff, Stephen Norwood, was calling from the hospital.

  “The president’s condition has stabilized and she should be regaining consciousness soon.”

  Galia sighed in relief — and then a question occurred to her.

  “You had no trouble getting information from the medical staff?”

  When Stephen had called Galia to tell her of the episode of mitral valve prolapse the president had suffered and of James J. McGill’s decision to continue with the bone marrow transplant, she had assumed the information had been passed along as a matter of national interest. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

  Stephen said, “Mr. McGill gave written permission for you to be notified of any significant medical development.”

  Galia smiled. She’d done a favor for McGill, had given him a bucket of political dirt on late Speaker Derek Geiger, and here he was starting to repay her already. If the two of them weren’t careful they might wind up becoming friends.

  “It took only a bit of persuasion,” her deputy added, “for the hospital staff to accept me as your surrogate.”

  “Good work, Stephen. Were the doctors able to forecast how soon the president will be able to resume her office?”

  “They were vague on that. I couldn’t pin them down and didn’t think it was the right time to push the matter.”

  “You were right about that. So what’s your gut feeling?” Galia asked.

  “My gut? Acting President Wyman is going to have more than fifteen minutes of fame.”

  The White House Situation Room

  Acting President Mather Wyman sat at the head of the table, only now realizing the gravity of the situation before him. His time as chief executive was going to be far more than ceremonial. Looking at the faces around him, he saw the national security adviser, the director of national intelligence, the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff and the attorney general. Each of the grandees had brought support staff, of course. There were, however, no representatives from the Congressional leadership; whatever course was to be taken would be for him alone to decide.

  He’d be the decider, as Patricia Grant’s predecessor had styled himself.

  Wyman had long thought that label had been a clumsy attempt to say decision maker, the product of a man whose facility with language had been anything but facile. Now, confronting the matter of what to do about the paramilitary resistance to the arrest of Reverend Burke Godfrey, he felt that the decider was apt shorthand for the mantle that had fallen upon his shoulders.

  Wyman turned to the attorney general and asked, “Michael, as I understand the law, I am permitted to use the armed forces in the situation we face in Virginia only if the resources of the state under the direction of the governor are incapable of maintaining public order. Is that right?”

  The attorney general said, “Yes, sir. If domestic violence occurs to the extent the state authorities can’t maintain public order, the use of federal resources, including the military, becomes your prerogative. Congress is to be informed immediately, if you choose to do so, and it must be kept current every fourteenth day thereafter.”

  The acting president nodded. “Does someone have the governor of the Commonwealth of Virginia on the phone for me?”

  An aide handed a phone receiver to Wyman.

  No one mentioned the fact, but the call was being recorded, for far more than reasons of quality assurance. The governor of Virginia was about to lose deniability for anything he said.

  “Bob? This is Acting President Mather Wyman. I’d like to know if you want to — and you’re able to — handle the situation at the Salvation’s Path compound.” Wyman listened to the response and his jaw tightened. “No, Bob. In my opinion, waiting them out is not an option. I’ve been informed that those people have enough food, water and, presumably, ammunition to last more than a year.”

  Maybe right through the presidential election, and wouldn’t that make for a lively campaign? Galia Mindel had passed along the information about how well supplied Reverend Godfrey’s forces were. She’d gleaned that knowledge from Erna Godfrey.

  Wyman continued, “The longer we wait, the more we embolden other … misguided individuals, allowing them to think they can raise their own armies and defy legitimate warrants for arrest. I won’t allow the seeds of anarchy to be sown in this country.”

  Wyman listened once more to his counterpart in Virginia.

  “No, not even a week … Yes, I remember what happened in Waco. Do you remember what happened in Richmond earlier today? The people inside the barricades at Salvation’s Path shot at an FBI helicopter. It was only by the grace of God that neither anyone on the aircraft nor any innocent bystanders in the neighborhood nearby were hit. Do you want to give these … misguided individuals the chance to discharge their firearms again? Will you take responsibility for any deaths or injuries that might ensue? I’m sorry, do I think what?”

  The acting president listened closely to the governor.

  “I’ll ask the people I have here with me. They’ll be better able to assess.” Wyman spoke to the people around the table. “The governor would like to know if its possible the trucks blocking the entrances to the Salvation’s Path grounds might have fertilizer bombs or other explosives in them.”

  The chairman of the joint chiefs, Admiral David Dexter, said, “That would be in keeping with the delusion they are an actual military unit.”

  “Did you hear that, Bob?” Wyman asked.

  The acting president started nodding. The governor had seen the light.

  “Yes, thank you, Bob. I’ll take it from here. I’d like you to put your consent in writing and … you’ve already done that? Good. Send it right along, will you? Yes, Bob, we’ll all pray for a swift and peaceful resolution. Goodbye.”

  The aide took the phone from Wyman.

  He told the others, “The governor of Virginia has ceded responsibility to the federal government. His written declaration is being transmitted to the White House as I speak.”

  Wyman turned to David Dexter.

  “Admiral, I want more than shock and awe. I want those people at Salvation’s Path to think the very wrath of God is crashing down upon them. I want it soon. If at all possible, I want it done with no one suffering more than blurred vision, ringing ears and pounding headaches. Can you manage that?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President.” Dexter thought about the mission he’d just accepted. “We might have to temporarily relocate some of the nearby civilian population and we’ll be breaking quite a bit of glass. Is that acceptable, sir?”

  “It is,” Wyman said. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  The chairman rose and saluted.

  “Oh, one more thing, Admiral. Before you draw up your plans, talk with Galia Mindel, see if she might have any more intelligence to share with you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mather Wyman knew that, by reputation, the White House chief of staff liked to keep a secret or two tucked up her sleeve. That wouldn’t do in this case. It was only after the acting president left the Situation Room that he wondered if Patricia Darden Grant would have chosen the same course of action. He quickly dismissed the question. He couldn’t be someone else.

  He could only do his best.

  Sunday, August 21, 2011

  Salvation’s Path Church — Richmond, Virginia

  Shortly after midnight, Ellie Booker made her move to get a gun. She had decided not to try to filch one from somebody else. She was going to either charm or con a firearm from the guy wea
ring fatigues in the basement of the administration building where Reverend Burke Godfrey kept his armory. There was no other word for it. Crate upon crate of assault rifles and other weapons lined the walls behind a chain-link enclosure.

  The guy behind the counter up front had sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves and was holding what looked to Ellie like a LAW, a light antitank weapon. Sarge moved his gaze from a manual on the counter in front of him to the weapon in his hands and back again.

  Nothing like on-the-job training, Ellie thought.

  She produced top-shelf programming for WorldWide News, the crown jewel of the global media empire owned by Sir Edbert Bickford. Ellie had gone to the Salvation’s Path campus to interview Reverend Godfrey about his plans to deal with the accusation made by his incarcerated wife, Erna, that he had been a coconspirator in the murder of Andrew Hudson Grant, President Patricia Darden Grant’s first husband.

  A victim of bad timing, Ellie had arrived at Salvation’s Path shortly before the FBI had come to take Reverend Godfrey into custody. The reverend had declined arrest by blocking access to the church grounds with old garbage-hauling trucks parked across roadways and with men carrying automatic weapons. When a government helicopter had flown over the grounds for a look-see, some moron had fired a burst at it. Soon after that, the government had trucked in prefab slabs of concrete and built a wall to enclose the property.

  Presto. Instant federal penitentiary.

  Ellie had tried to persuade her immediate boss, Hugh Collier, Sir Edbert’s nephew, to call the feds and get her the hell out of there. Both Hugh and Sir Edbert had resisted, pointing out that Ellie, the sole reporter inside the walls, had a unique opportunity to tell the story of what would happen at Salvation’s Path. Then the government had jammed all communications between the church and the outside world before Ellie could curse her bosses and tell them she was no damn war correspondent.