Jim McGill 04 The Last Ballot Cast, Part 1

by Joseph Flynn

“Too true,” Elspeth said. “So what did you tell them?”

  “I suggested they ease off. See if the release of pressure might open him up.”

  “They went along with that?”

  Cheveyo nodded. “Then I did one more thing. Todd is a mature man posing as a young boy. I thought maybe I should slip him something that might provoke a reaction in both his root and assumed personae.”

  “What did you give him?” Elspeth asked.

  “Japanese porn.”

  She smiled sardonically. “A strategy based on advanced academic study.”

  “That and the guy is a jerk-off.” Cheveyo smiled, too. “I thought popping his weasel for the first time in years might cause other things to break loose. With that in mind, I warned my former colleagues that Todd is still quite dangerous. I didn’t like the way they seemed to dismiss my assessment. So I called the Secret Service.”

  “Dr. Todd is still in custody, right?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Do you think it’s possible he might escape?”

  “That’s beyond my area of expertise. But I will say the man is resourceful.”

  Elspeth paused to consider the situation.

  “I should contact the CIA. Soon.”

  Cheveyo said, “Very soon. You know how long it takes to get bureaucracies to talk to each other.”

  “I do,” Elspeth said.

  GWU Hospital

  Between Kenny’s taking naps, getting his vital signs checked hourly and having Abbie and Caitie edge him out for one-on-one visits, McGill didn’t get to see his son until that night. When McGill saw Kenny beam at him as he entered his hospital room, he knew the wait had been well worth it. From the look on Kenny’s face, his joie de vivre was making a comeback.

  As if to confirm that point, Kenny asked, “You bring me a cheeseburger, Dad?”

  “Deke’s getting it,” McGill said, not missing a beat. “I told him to hold the fries.”

  He had Kenny going for a moment. Then his son laughed.

  McGill had never heard a more pleasing sound.

  He leaned over the bed and put his masked lips to Kenny’s forehead.

  The younger McGill asked, “How’s Patti doing?”

  His father chose to be honest. “There was a scary moment or two, but she’s coming back strong.”

  “What happened?” Kenny asked, his face clouding.

  “An unexpected reaction to the anesthesia, but she’ll be fine. In fact, the two of you are going to spend some time together at Camp David. Get your A-games back.”

  “I’m getting out of the hospital?” Kenny’s mood brightened at the idea.

  “Not just yet. But as soon as Dr. Jones says it’s okay, Camp David is the next stop.”

  Kenny considered the implications of what he’d been told.

  “Will Mom be there, too?” he asked.

  “She’ll be a regular visitor. You’ll have to put up with your sisters, too, on some weekends. I’ll be in and out regularly. Mostly, though, for company, you’ll have to make do with the president of the United States.”

  “Patti’s great,” he said with a smile. “I can feel her inside me.”

  McGill’s eyes moistened. “I’ll be sure to tell her. She’ll love hearing that.”

  “What about school?” Kenny asked. “I don’t want to fall behind.”

  That from a formerly indifferent student, McGill thought. His son really was a new … not a man yet. But he was getting there.

  He told Kenny, “Mom and I talked about that. Your first job is to get better, rebuild your strength. Once Dr. Jones says it’s okay, you can crack the books. We thought what we might do is get your curriculum from school back home and have a tutor take you through the material at Camp David.”

  “That sounds good. Maybe I could Skype with my teachers at school, too. Make sure I’m on the right page.”

  McGill nodded. “I think we could work out something like that.”

  “Maybe I could even Skype with a few classmates. You know, after my hair grows back.”

  Liesl Eberhardt, McGill thought. Kenny was still a sly dog, and he was glad to see it.

  “Yeah, why not?” he told his son.

  Smiling, Kenny said, “Hey, Dad. Did you and Sweetie get that case of yours worked out?”

  “We did,” McGill said, glad now his face was masked. “Got the bad guy.”

  Kenny bobbed his head, as if he had expected nothing less.

  McGill didn’t tell him Zack Garner had died. He didn’t need to hear that anytime soon.

  He gave his son another cloth-covered kiss and told him to sleep well.

  Returning to Patti’s room, he learned that Mather Wyman was about to launch an attack on Reverend Burke Godfrey’s redoubt. More good news.

  Dumbarton Oaks

  Galia Mindel said goodbye to Stephen Norwood at her front door.

  “Go home,” she said. “Give your wife a little time to be with you. Sleep in.”

  “Tomorrow is Monday, Galia, a working day. The start of the week.”

  Galia replied, “I won’t arrive at the White House until noon tomorrow. If I see or even hear that you got in earlier, you’re fired.”

  “Don’t want to lose my job,” Norwood said.

  “Don’t lose your wife either.”

  Her deputy saluted and departed in his Escalade.

  Galia watched her automatic gates close and lock behind him.

  Then she went inside.

  The air conditioning was on to keep the heat and humidity of the late August night at bay. The chill was almost too much … but just right when she thought of having a cup of hot cocoa before going to bed. Consuming all those calories right before going to sleep was something she wouldn’t ordinarily allow herself. She had her weight down to within two pounds of her goal. Most of her clothes were now oversized. Things had almost gotten to the point where …

  She stopped in front of her check-your-look-before-you-go-out-the-door mirror.

  Turned to her right and left, looked over one shoulder and then the other.

  Aside from the fatigue on her face, she liked everything she saw. She wasn’t almost to the point; she was there. For the first time since college, she was vain about her physical appearance. She had worked so hard to get there. McGill taunting her with a box of donuts not long after the president’s inauguration had only spurred her on, as had her one night out with Sir Robert Reed.

  Give her a good night’s sleep — which she intended to get — and she’d look damn good.

  Too good to worry about one cup of hot cocoa setting her back. She went to the kitchen, whipped it up, sipped it to the last drop and washed out the cup and pan.

  She showered, brushed her teeth and slipped into bed.

  Galia felt the rare satisfaction of someone who had made a positive difference for her country. Gene Rinaldo, Ed Mulcahy and Lara Chavez had all gotten back to Stephen Norwood that evening. They’d been in touch with the party leaders of their respective legislatures in New York, Illinois and California. Not only had the leaders approved of the idea Galia had brought to the governors, they were sure they had the votes to pass the legislation — on a bipartisan basis.

  In short order, three out of the five most populous states in the nation would have laws pegging the timing of their presidential primaries to “one minute after whatsoever time New Hampshire shall begin its presidential primary voting.”

  That wording would provide New Hampshire with a symbolic bow to its first-in-the-nation status. Not that it would quell the outrage sure to erupt in the Granite State, but that was too damn bad. The current nominating system had produced a preponderance of mediocrities and failures. The country needed to do better, and Patricia Darden Grant had said she wanted to change things even at the cost of her own presidency.

  Only this was Galia’s idea not the president’s.

  So what? If Galia got fired, she’d write a book.

  Give speeches for money.
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br />   Greet shoppers at Bergdorf Goodman.

  Oh, the two major parties would cry foul right along with New Hampshire, and threaten to penalize New York, Illinois and California. The counter to that threat was child’s play. The legislation would effectively say, “Fine, you take away our convention delegates, your candidates don’t get lines on the ballots in our states. See if you can sell a forty-seven-state president as legitimate.”

  The party bosses would run in circles like their heinies were on fire.

  They’d threaten to sue, take the matter to the Supreme Court.

  Thing was, no political party’s candidates had a constitutional right to be placed on a ballot.

  If the high court did choose to review the matter, Galia had thought of that, too. Five of the justices were from: New York, Illinois and California. There were seventy-million-plus people in those three states, most of whom would think getting first crack at deciding who should be president was a great idea. No doubt they’d make homecoming miserable for any justice who chose to vote against them.

  It was possible the whole plan could blow up, but once the idea had been exposed to the light and heat of public debate, things would never be allowed to remain the same crappy way they were now.

  Galia fell asleep with a smile on her face … and just the slightest fear in her heart that any job she found outside the White House wouldn’t be half as much fun.

  The Funny Farm

  Dr. Damon Todd and the other three men in the new room where he’d been quartered made their breakout attempt shortly before midnight. They didn’t wait until the wee hours of the morning because at The Funny Farm that was when the security people were on their toes. The idea was to leave early and catch the guards looking the other way.

  Todd hadn’t conceived the plan or even offered a suggestion. He was simply a last-minute beneficiary of an effort that had been a year in the making. Todd was normally suspicious of anything resembling good luck, but this was an opportunity not to be overlooked. He’d joined the effort wholeheartedly.

  Which had saved his life — for the moment.

  That morning, shortly after emerging from the bathroom and lying down on his bed, Todd got the uneasy feeling he’d been had. The frigging CIA hadn’t been able to put a smudge on his Danny Templeton persona for … he wasn’t sure how long it had been. Subjectively, he’d been held captive and interrogated for a very long time; he felt sure his frustrated tormentors must have thought it an equally protracted period.

  After all their time and effort, they had suddenly decided to do what, take a breather? Give up? Bullshit. His enduring resistance would only make them more determined to find out his secrets. What he had to offer them was priceless.

  But not without a price tag. They should have offered him a billion.

  If only the bastards hadn’t been so shortsighted. If only they had —

  Seen reason from the first. Who had been his first contact with the Agency? Daryl Cheveyo.

  Who had been with McGill when the Agency threw a net over him? Cheveyo,

  That Indian bastard had to have a hand in his new circumstances. Todd needed less than a minute to figure out Cheveyo’s contribution. Someone had provided him with three graphic novels. Two bang-bang action stories … and one porn mag. Illustrated not photographed, a form known to appeal to both younger and older onanists.

  Jerk-offs, if you wanted to be frank about it.

  Was that what Cheveyo thought of him? Of course, it was.

  Damon Todd had been just an Agency wannabe. A crank who had maybe come up with something brilliant. But not someone you’d ever want to work with. Not long term.

  Bastard.

  Todd wanted to get his hands on Cheveyo right that moment. Choke him out. Do to him just what he did to that cretin who had tried to mug him on the Georgetown campus. He extended his hands in mimicked memory and began to squeeze.

  “Look at that, would you? They put the Boston Strangler in with us.”

  Todd’s mind turned outward and he saw the guy with the scar on his forehead.

  Ugly SOB.

  “Somebody stick your face under a paper-cutter?” he asked the shithead.

  Danny Templeton never would have said that. If the room was monitored with a camera, the interrogators would see the difference and come for him on the run. As it was, the creep he’d insulted made a move on him, but the other guy yanked him back.

  All it took was one tug. The insulted party didn’t fight it.

  The other guy was older, had white hair with a sharp widow’s peak. The skin on his face looked like an afterthought, a light coat of beige paint over a chiseled rock substrate. That was the way the rest of him looked, too, lean to the bone. Just enough flesh to cover long cords of muscle.

  Todd had been about to joke that the two guys had been in the bathroom together so they didn’t have to pull their own meat, but he reevaluated. He was nowhere near as strong now as when he’d been captured. Regular workouts hadn’t been part of his day. He’d almost shriveled up to the point of being the scarecrow he’d been as an academic.

  If he wanted to get strong again, he’d have to survive.

  He told the older guy, “I was working toward a build like yours.”

  “You get close?” the guy asked.

  The guy with the scar stayed silent and motionless like a well-trained dog.

  “Yeah.”

  “My name’s Arn Crosby,” the older guy said. Nodding at his friend, he added, “This is Olin Anderson. We’ve done terrible things for our country. This is our retirement villa.”

  Todd heard Crosby’s every word, but part of his mind was listening for the footfalls of men racing to grab him while his root identity was still available. If anyone had been assigned to watch him, he must have been asleep at the switch. Todd didn’t hear any commotion.

  Didn’t hear anything alarming at all.

  Until Anderson laughed. That was fairly creepy.

  He said, “Must be Judgment Day. The dead are rising.”

  Todd looked at the fourth bed. The man who’d been lying there as if comatose was sitting up with his feet on the floor. He was staring at Todd.

  Gesturing at Crosby and Anderson, he said, “Those guys are the patriots. My name is Stanwick. I’m the traitor. And you are … not the same person who entered this room.”

  Todd told them, “I’m the guy who’s going to get out of here soon or die trying.”

  The other three looked at one another.

  As if they couldn’t have asked for anything more.

  They signed him up for the team.

  Easier than killing him and having to hide the body.

  Salvation Path Administration Building

  Reverend Burke Godfrey drew his right index finger across his throat, a sign to videocam operator Art Dunston that he should stop recording. The camera’s light went out and the interview was over, before Ellie Booker could ask her last question: “Are you fucking nuts?”

  Godfrey had gone on for hours. Fidel Castro would have been impressed by the length of the rant. Any perceived flaw in the federal government, generally, or Patricia Darden Grant, specifically, was addressed, excoriated and judged to be grounds for damnation. Neither life in prison nor capital punishment was sufficient for those who stood against Godfrey’s vision of the way things ought to be. His enemies had to become rotisserie roasts in hell with the oven timer set on forever.

  He’d spoken well of the Catholic Church, despite its theological errors, for having the foresight to establish its own sovereign state, Vatican City. He advocated that every state in the union have “an equivalent evangelical moral center free from the heavy hand of government” where the righteous might come to live, worship and educate their children as scripture demanded. Big states like Texas should have more than one such free and virtuous city. As soon as the forty-eight contiguous states were linked by these cities, the princes of faith who led their congregations would meet, say right there at Sal
vation’s Path, and elect a leader.

  Good God, Ellie thought, the man wanted to be the Protestant pope of America.

  She asked him as much.

  And he had the brass to admit it. “If it comes to that, so be it.”

  “Should the president and Congress bow to you or whoever was chosen to lead this new league of holy cities?”

  Godfrey smiled. “The League of Holy Cities, what a fine name that is. Thank you.”

  Meaning, Ellie was sure, that he was going to swipe it.

  The reverend continued, “The president and the Congress, of course, would do what they consider to be politically advantageous, but in time I’m sure they’d come to see the wisdom of following the guidance of those closest to God.”

  “How do you measure that?” Ellie asked.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “How do you measure how close you are to God, and how do you compare your distance with anyone else’s?”

  Godfrey frowned, and that was when he drew his finger across his throat.

  Before Ellie could ask him if he was nuts.

  Godfrey slumped back in his chair, Ellie’s inconvenient questions already forgotten. He looked at Dunston and said, “You’ll get that video right down to the editing bay, Art?”

  “Yes, sir, Reverend. You want me to do the first cut?”

  “Just the obvious stuff. Any place I might have scratched my nose or paused too long searching for a word. Make sure you’ve got a nice balance for the lighting, keep my skin tones even throughout.”

  “Lay in a music bed?”

  Godfrey nodded. “You’ve got a good ear, Art. Give it a try.”

  Dunston smiled, said his goodbyes and left.

  Godfrey followed him to the office door and locked it. Ellie wondered how many times he’d done that with a woman in the room, and how many of them had felt threatened by it. She found it convenient, saved her the trouble.

  Still, she had a role to play.

  “If you don’t mind, I’m tired. I think I’ll go down to my car and get some sleep.”

  Godfrey ignored her. He sat behind his desk and said, “You think I’m mad as a hatter.”