by Tom Grace
Ross pulled a round-bowled glass from the rack and poured in several fingers of the merlot. His mother appeared from the kitchen with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
“You didn’t have to go to the trouble—”
She cut him off with a look. “It was no trouble at all, dear, but don’t spoil your appetite. I have a venison stew for dinner and an apple pie for dessert.”
Rhetta curled up on the couch beside her husband and studied their son with an expression that barely concealed her pained concern. Ross took a sip of wine and stared into the fire as he collected his thoughts.
Since his abrupt departure from the fourth debate, Egan had been holed up with his running mate and senior campaign staff in Traverse City, struggling to counter the damage caused by Egan’s nonresponse to the President’s shocking allegation. The press had likened his abrupt disappearance under the onslaught of the President’s damaging offensive to Hitler’s retreat into the bunker.
“I wanted you to hear it from me,” Ross said flatly. “It’s over. My campaign is finished.”
“How can it be over?” Leon asked. “This ludicrous story can’t be true, can it? Tell me it’s not true.”
“I won’t lie to you, and I won’t discuss it. The bottom line is that I cannot offer an honest defense to the President’s charges, and I will not try to lie and weasel my way out of it. Even if I could somehow win the election, I would be damaged from my first day in office—four years of a hated, lame-duck president. The country deserves better.”
“The President is not a better man, nor is he a better leader,” Rhetta countered.
“Thanks, Mom. And while I agree with you, it doesn’t change the facts. As president, any legislation I backed would die in Congress, probably without a sponsor. I would actually be worse than a lame duck; I’d be a leper president. The only thing that I could do that the country would agree with is resign during my inauguration speech. Loyal Lila would be guilty by association and her presidency would be only slightly more effective. It’s over.”
“What will you do?” Leon asked.
“Not much I can do. On Friday, I’ll issue a statement that I’ve suspended my campaign. Then we’ll close up shop.”
“You were so close,” Leon said bitterly. “After four years of this looter regime, we had a chance to set things right. You were the country’s best hope.”
“We waged a campaign of ideas and the people responded. Hopefully they won’t toss the message with the messenger.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Leon offered, raising his wineglass up in a toast before taking another drink.
“Have you heard anything from Niki?” Rhetta asked.
Ross shook his head. “I don’t expect to, either. This is too much. I’ve lost her.”
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
WASHINGTON D.C.
“Mr. President, the Director of the FBI is here to see you,” the President’s secretary announced over the intercom.
The President initialed a few documents and closed the folder.
“Please show him in.”
The President greeted the FBI Director at the door and handed the folder to his secretary. He returned to his seat behind the Resolute desk and motioned for the Director to take a seat in a guest chair.
“Sir,” the Director began, “there’s been a significant development in the investigation of the assassination.”
“Oh, I thought the case against Unden was open-and-shut.”
“So did we. But on further review we now believe Michael Unden was another victim of the attack, a fall guy. At eight this morning, local time, a joint US-Mexican assault team raided a compound and arrested the two men we believe executed the attack. They are currently being questioned.”
“They committed a capital crime—will the Mexicans allow them to be extradited?” the President asked in astonishment.
“In this case, yes,” the FBI Director replied. “The political repercussions would be too great. We are also dangling the possibility of a lesser sentence for these men in exchange for their help in exposing the full extent of the conspiracy.”
“And are these men cooperating?”
“They are. Mr. President, you were not the target of the assassination attempt. The Vice President was.”
“But I was shot.”
“You were superficially wounded, which was the intent.”
“But why?”
“The election. Your poll numbers were down and the Vice President’s gold scandal apparently made him an even greater drag on the ticket. The assassination was staged to elicit voter sympathy and eliminate what was seen as an obstacle to your reelection.”
“But I was shot! Who the hell thought shooting me was a good campaign strategy?”
“According to the men in custody, Peter Sturla thought exactly that. And his strategy worked—you pulled even in the polls afterward and your selection of Governor Delgado as Vice President has proven quite popular.”
“The son of a bitch had me shot.”
Simmering, the President buzzed his secretary on the intercom.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Get Peter Sturla on the phone, now.”
The FBI Director interjected, “Mr. President, I’m not sure that’s a good—”
The President held up a finger to cut him off. A moment later, the call to Sturla was patched through. The President put the call on the speaker. They heard the drone of jet engines in the background.
“Good morning, Mr. President. I have been meaning to call you regarding this nonsense over campaign contributions. In light of the pending indictment—”
“You thought perhaps a pardon might be the quickest way to resolve the matter.”
“Yes.”
“And would you like that pardon to cover murder as well?”
“I-I don’t know what you are talking about,” Sturla stammered.
“What are the names of the men you have in custody?” the President asked the FBI Director.
“Vance and Young. Both ex-military, part-time mercenaries, and on Sturla’s payroll.”
“The FBI has Vance and Young and they are cooperating, so the pending indictment is the least of your worries.”
“But, Mr. President, we have a long history.”
“Yes, and we have both profited from our relationship, but two men are dead and I could have been killed. Of all the bone-headed ideas.”
“Mr. President, I swear I had no knowledge—” Sturla lied.
“Save it for someone who cares, Peter. I swear that I will not rest until you pay for this.”
The President pressed a button on the speaker, ending the call, and turned to the FBI Director.
“Coordinate with the CIA and NSA to locate Sturla and arrange for his return to the Unites States.”
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
ON AIR
NOVEMBER 1
“Just six days remain until Election Day,” Denby announced to open his radio show. “And what a difference a week has made. Just one week ago, Ross Egan had such a clear and commanding lead over the President that a complete sweep of the Electoral College map was a distinct possibility. The tectonic, visceral shift in the country that was within sight just seven days ago promised to be unlike anything that any living person had ever witnessed, and I daresay the only event comparable in our nation’s history was our transition from colony to country.
“The renewed sense of optimism surrounding the all but assured outcome of this election was already being felt in the stock markets. It was as if a long and particularly harsh winter was finally releasing us from its icy grip, and the first green shoots had burst up into the sunlight. Our hope was tangible, but it apparently was not to be.
“To the left, evidence is secondary to the seriousness of the charge. You don’t have to prove your opponent did X, you just have to get them to deny it, and deny it often enough that they are subconsciously linked with the charge.
“We do not know the f
acts of this matter. We do not know if this woman was a slave or a servant or something else entirely. We do not know what Ross Egan’s intentions were in entering into this transaction. All we do know is that the President delivered the charge with devastating effect and Egan has responded with silence. At this point, I would much prefer if Ross Egan had denied the charge because whatever this is, it’s worse.
“So where does that leave us? With less than a week until a majority of voters cast their ballots we have the two badly damaged front-runners and a slew of third-party eccentrics looking to avoid the wreck in the final lap and pull off an upset victory. Next Tuesday night is going to be a long one.
“And lost in the media frenzy over the slavery allegation is an actual scandal concerning millions of dollars in illegal contributions flowing into the President’s reelection campaign. His staunchest backer, former-billionaire speculator Peter Sturla, was indicted this morning by a federal grand jury. A representative of the Justice Department, which has taken over the case, issued a statement clearing the Egan campaign of any wrongdoing with regard to the theft of Sturla’s illegal campaign contributions. The statement further commended the Egan campaign for their cooperation with the investigation. I suspect this story will not see the light of day among the mainstream media until after the election.
“Sturla has apparently fled the country ahead of the indictment and there is some concern that the President may issue a pardon to his longtime mentor and confidant. I find this doubtful now that the FBI is reporting that the disposable credit card used by the persons responsible for assassinating the Vice President and murdering Michael Unden is part of the same sequence of numbers used by Sturla to illegally fund the President’s campaign. Two persons of interest in the murders were detained abroad and questioned and both are currently en route to the United States.”
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
MORAN TOWNSHIP, MICHIGAN
“That was the boys guarding the front drive,” Rhetta Egan called out to her husband as she cradled the phone. “Maya and Burton are here, and they’ve brought Niki with them.”
“Here?” Leon asked, surprised.
“Coming up the drive.”
The Egans stood at their front door waiting as a dark gray SUV with tinted glass pulled up the gravel drive. Niki emerged from the vehicle, accompanied by the Randells.
“We apologize for dropping in unannounced,” Maya said as they stepped onto the porch. “There was really no choice.”
“Oh shush!” Rhetta demanded. “You are as good as family and always welcome.”
“As are you, child,” Leon said as he engulfed Niki in a tender embrace. “As are you.”
Niki buried her face in Leon’s shoulder as a flood of emotions welled up. She sobbed briefly before regaining her composure.
“I was not sure how I would be received,” Niki admitted hesitantly as she dabbed a tear from the corner of her eye.
Rhetta threw her arms around Niki protectively, the action erasing all doubt about their affection toward her.
“Dear,” Rhetta said, her voice a tear-choked whisper, “you are the best thing to happen to our son since we lost Maggie and baby Quinn. You made him whole again, and for that I will always be grateful.”
“Whatever Ross did or didn’t do has nothing whatever to do with you,” Leon added. “If it’s possible, I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive him.”
“Has he spoken with you about this situation?” Maya asked.
“No,” Leon replied. “All we know is that he won’t defend himself or offer any kind of explanation. He’s gonna scuttle his campaign.”
“Ross believes he’s lost you,” Rhetta said to Niki.
“Where is he?” Niki asked as she withdrew from Rhetta’s embrace.
“Holed up in his house,” Leon answered. “Please, talk to him.”
Niki nodded, stepped off the porch and began walking down the path toward the lake. The two couples watched her disappear around the side of their house.
“No sense standing here in the cold,” Leon declared. “Can’t have you southerners catching frostbite or something just because the temperature is below fifty.”
The Egans welcomed their guests inside and, after a brief flurry of activity in the kitchen; all were soon seated by the fireplace with a mug of tea or coffee. It was early afternoon and sunlight streamed through the barren birch trees, casting a warm glow on the polished woodwork of the log home.
“How has he been?” Maya asked.
“Closed,” Rhetta replied. “Distant. Not himself at all.”
“As hard as it is for me to believe something like that of my own son,” Leon offered, “there must be a kernel of truth for it to have hit him so hard. My son has always owned up to his failings—this retreat is completely out of character.”
“Maya and I have known Ross for a long time,” Burton mused, “and we got to know Maggie and him as a couple quite well. Had Ross been with her when she was attacked, do you think he would have given his life to save her and their child?”
“What a question to ask,” Leon replied. “Without a doubt he would have done all he could to protect his family, or died trying.”
“We believe that same instinct is driving his actions now,” Maya said. “There is more than a kernel of truth to the President’s allegations, but it’s a past that is best left in the past. As you can already see, no good has come from this revelation.”
“You think Ross is taking this terrible beating from the President and his ilk to spare us some embarrassment?” Leon asked with a snort. “A bit late for that. Most of the press thinks we’re illiterate Eskimo hillbillies with our snowmobiles and hunting rifles. Our son knows that no matter what foolish thing he might do, the worst we’ll feel is disappointment. Our love for him is unconditional.”
“He’s not doing this for us,” Rhetta realized.
“Niki?” Leon offered, and then he shook his head at the obvious. “My God, he must really love her.”
“He does,” Maya said, “and she loves him. But their relationship is—complicated. Niki is a very private person. Had their relationship come to light with the media circus of the campaign—it would have been very difficult for her. Add this to the mix, and it would have been more than she or their relationship could bear.”
They heard the sound of footsteps outside, and then Niki and Ross walked across the back porch and entered through the French doors. All eyes were on them.
“Niki and I have talked,” Ross announced. “I want to thank you all for your love and support. Tomorrow, I will issue a statement suspending my campaign, and hopefully this will all be over.”
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
ON AIR
NOVEMBER 2
Denby opened the final segment of his program’s first hour with an instrumental bumper cut from The Doors classic song “The End.”
“‘This is the end, beautiful friend,’” Denby recited the song’s familiar lyrics somberly as the music faded. “ ‘This is the end.’ ”
“Shortly after the top of the hour news break, Ross Egan will make an announcement at the Jefferson Memorial in Washington, D.C., likely ending what, until last week, was the best hope for driving a stake through the undead heart of vampire liberal progressivism and returning this country to the founding principles that made it great in the first place.
“Now the best we can hope for is Egan still managing to pull out a win, followed by four years of bureaucratic gridlock that leaves in place all of the current regime’s destructive, rotgut legislative victories. The alternative is worse—four more years of the worst presidency in our nation’s history and the bankrupting of the republic.
“I’m not saying it’s time to call it quits, head to a tropical island with strong banking privacy laws and live out the rest of my life as an expatriate, but that day may be closer than I ever thought possible.
“We will carry Ross Egan’s announcement live, and then see where we go from
there. Back after the break.”
CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Busloads of demonstrators filled the plaza, from the tidal basin seawall to the steps of the Jefferson Memorial. The day was cool and overcast. Left-wing groups from around the country came to protest the first public appearance of Ross Egan since the final presidential debate. Only a few of the signs they carried were of the homemade variety—the rest were the glossy product of professional graphic designers produced just for the occasion. The crowd bore all the markings of a rent-a-mob.
Uniformed D.C. Metro police officers manned security checkpoints and lined temporary barricades, maintaining access and order in and around the memorial. Police helicopters orbited overhead, complementing sniper teams deployed on the ground. The steps leading up to the memorial portico were kept clear save for an outdoor projection screen that organizers of the demonstration had brought so the crowd could witness the historic collapse of Ross Egan’s bid for the presidency.
Members of the press awaited Ross Egan’s arrival inside the memorial. A simple lectern with microphones stood near the base of the towering bronze statue of Thomas Jefferson. Egan would face due north as he spoke, with a view through the portico of the Washington Monument, and beyond, the White House. Three manned video cameras were strategically placed in the rotunda, their raw feeds to be shared by the televised media.
A rope line kept the journalists and photographers several feet back from the lectern. Niki Adashi stood at the rope carefully adjusting the settings on her camera.
“I guess it’s only fitting that we’re both here at the end,” a man’s voice said.
Niki turned and saw Edward Turcott walking toward her. He was clad against the weather in a leather jacket, his press credentials dangling from a lanyard around his neck.
“What do you mean?” Niki asked.
“You and I were there when Ross Egan became Ross Egan. But like a meteor, he streaked brightly across the sky before eventually crashing down to earth.”
