The Castle: A Ripped-From-The-Headlines Thriller

by Jason Pinter

  “Senator Shaw doesn’t know I’m here. This is about Paul Bracewell.”

  “What about him?”

  Remy was in no mood to speak to Rimbaud. But the way he said that name—Paul Bracewell—made Remy think Rimbaud knew something he needed to hear.

  “You’re on the clock.” Remy pressed the button to unlock the front door. When the doorbell rang, Remy opened it. Doug Rimbaud was standing there, looking like he hadn’t slept in a year. His eyes were bloodshot, hair askew, and Remy could smell alcohol on his breath.

  “Thanks for letting me in,” Rimbaud said. He seemed edgy. And the way he kept rubbing his hands together and looking around meant Rimbaud was on coke, or he was very, very nervous.

  “Get to it,” Remy said. He went to the fridge and took out a beer.

  “Can I get one of those?”

  Remy looked at Rimbaud. He couldn’t believe this asshole’s moxie. He grabbed another Dogfish Head, popped the tops on both, and handed one to Rimbaud.

  “Thanks,” Rimbaud said, taking a long pull. He was sweating. Remy took a seat at his desk. Rimbaud looked around the apartment. “I like the place. Uncluttered.”

  “What are you, an HGTV publicist?” Remy said.

  “I’m serious. At least you live alone. I had roommates until I was thirty. Politics pays a lot less than you’d think. Everyone just dreams of riding it out until you can get one of those cushy job as a talking head on cable news.”

  “I let you into my home. I gave you a drink. Now tell me why you’re here.”

  Rimbaud took another sip and took a seat on the couch. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. Almost penitent.

  “Paul Bracewell was working for me,” he said. “Well, us. The Shaw campaign.”

  “Bullshit,” Remy said.

  “It’s true. He’d been feeding us information for about six, maybe nine months. How do you think I knew about your meeting with Grace Rivas? He’d been sending me everything he could. Scheduling information, polling data, FEC violations, internal reports transcribed firsthand from Rawson’s War Room.”

  “That’s absurd. He’s Alena’s husband.”

  “He might have been Alena’s husband, but he was never a Griggs. You know that as well as I do.” Rimbaud paused for a moment. “And I can see it in your eyes that you know I’m telling the truth.”

  “Well, Doug, as much as I’d love to argue about family dynamics, I’m not a psychiatrist and you’re not paying me for my time. So you can leave now.”

  “Alena wasn’t the target that night,” Rimbaud said.

  Remy’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The night you were shot. They weren’t looking to kill or kidnap Alena. That’s the theory, right? Nogoyev and Usenov were lone wolf radicals looking to send a message by harming the beloved daughter of an American icon. But it’s not the truth. Paul Bracewell had been working for us for several months. He knew Rawson was going to run, and he wanted to stop him. Rawson found out. Nogoyev and Usenov were targeting Paul. Not Alena. And I believe they did it on orders from Rawson Griggs.”

  “So now you’re telling me my boss is a murderer,” Remy said. “I’m guessing he planned the bombing at the Castle too, right?”

  “No. I think that was retribution. Rawson had Nogoyev killed in prison so he wouldn’t talk. And then, I think, Usenov went after Rawson at the Castle for killing his friend, which was never part of the deal.”

  “These are some pretty wild theories. Let me ask you a question: do you get an erection while writing your Jason Bourne fan fiction?”

  “Wake up!” Rimbaud shouted. “Think about it. How well do you know Rawson? I mean really know what a cold-hearted son of a bitch he is.”

  “Paul may not have been the darling son Rawson always wanted, but he was no idiot. Rawson spends millions of dollars a year on top of the line cyber security systems. Griggs Tower is a fortress. I can count on two hands the people who have access to our servers. If Paul was emailing you from a Griggs account, they would know.”

  “He emailed us from a private, secure server that we set up for him and burner phones paid for in cash. He never contacted us using Griggs-installed software or from Griggs-purchased hardware.”

  “So Paul was killed by Rawson because he was a mole for Annabelle Shaw. That’s what you’re telling me?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I’m guessing Rawson was also responsible for Watergate? Benghazi? Steve Bartman?”

  “I’m serious, Jeremy.”

  “If so, why haven’t you gone to the police?”

  Rimbaud sighed. “I don’t have proof. And, well, if the FBI knew Paul was working for us, it doesn’t exactly cast our candidate in the most positive light either.”

  “You’re like a moral and ethical black hole.”

  “Listen,” Rimbaud said. “Politics is a game. Not everyone plays clean. But nobody wants to see people die.”

  “So you’re saying that politics can be dirty, but you’re also saying I should believe you, no questions asked? You already tried to fuck with me once. Sorry if you don’t get the benefit of the doubt. What you’re saying, all this dirt, that’s not how real campaigns try to win elections. Real campaigns don’t go low.”

  “Jesus, man, you can’t be this naïve,” Rimbaud said. “You’ve been in the game for a few months and you’re talking like you were on Lincoln’s team of rivals or something. You don’t know shit. I’m forty-two. By thirty-three, I’d run successful congressional campaigns for two congressmen, and by forty for two senators. I’ve been offered jobs by some of the biggest lobbying firms in the country, and I have a standing offer from CNN to be a paid contributor as soon as the election is over if I’m not appointed to Annabelle Shaw’s cabinet. I have my pick of any job from K Street to Madison Avenue. If you didn’t happen to get in the way of a bullet, you’d be just another suit.”

  “And if you’re telling the truth, you led a man to his death.”

  “Paul was a big boy. He knew what he was doing and he knew the kind of man Rawson Griggs is. He knew the risks. He was scared, and I didn’t believe him. But I never imagined it could end up like this. We both know Paul was a mess the last few months. He knew what was coming. And he kept talking to me. That’s how important it was to him to stop Rawson.”

  Remy stayed silent. He had noticed Paul disintegrating.

  “I think you believe me,” Rimbaud said. “I’m telling you because you haven’t drunk the Griggs Kool-Aid yet. You have clearer eyes than Murphy and Blum, or that stooge Costanzo. Alena is smarter than all of them, but she’d never turn on her old man. Rawson’s little girl would never believe the truth about dear old psychotic dad.”

  “Don’t talk about her like you know her,” Remy seethed.

  “You and Paul Bracewell have something in common,” Rimbaud said. “You’re both outsiders. But Rawson likes you. Hell, he might love you, in whatever way a monster can love someone. But you’re not his blood. The poison hasn’t sunk in yet. It’s not too late. That’s why I came here. Because you can be reached. Deep down, you know Rawson places loyalty above everything, including honesty and decency. Paul was disloyal. What do you think Rawson would do?”

  “So if Rawson is the devil incarnate, why did you need Paul Bracewell?”

  “Because the devil is smart. If you can’t find something on him, it’s because he doesn’t want it to be found.”

  “So what exactly did Paul dredge up that Rawson would want him dead?”

  “He hated Costanzo. Paul sent us flight manifests from Rawson’s private jet that confirmed Mr. Mayor had taken at least half a dozen trips to Kyrgyzstan. These trips started at least a year before Costanzo officially joined the Griggs campaign. Paul hadn’t quite figured out why—Kyrgyzstan isn’t exactly a superpower—but when we learned that Nogoyev and Usenov were from Kyrgyzstan, and had return flights back to Bishkek, it scared us both shitless. He found revenue discrepancies at Griggs
properties. Millions and millions of dollars, and Paul couldn’t figure out where it was from. A dozen threads that he hadn’t woven together yet. But they were there. I know this sounds crazy, but Paul was convinced a Rawson Griggs presidency would lead the country to catastrophe.”

  Remy sighed. “So we’ve gone from ‘Rawson Griggs had something to do with the death of his son-in-law’ to straight up ‘End of Days’? Nice chatting with you, Doug. You can leave now.”

  “Fine.”

  Rimbaud stood up. He teetered for a second. Remy regretted giving him the beer, in the event Annabelle Shaw’s campaign manager yarfed all over his couch. Chalk up one more on the list of things Remy never thought he’d have to worry about.

  As he walked to the door, Rimbaud turned back to Remy. There was remorse in his eyes. Rimbaud was taking Paul Bracewell’s death hard. Which meant either Rimbaud was a fantastic actor—or he really did have a relationship with Paul.

  “Your candidate is not who you think he is,” Rimbaud said to Remy, his voice even, sober. “This ‘beast’ stuff? He’s the real beast. You haven’t been corrupted yet. Neither was Paul. Don’t be blind.”

  “Says someone who benefits if Rawson Griggs goes down,” Remy said.

  “Says someone who knows that Paul Bracewell had more integrity in his little finger than you have in your entire body,” Rimbaud said. “Take care, Jeremy. Thanks for the time and the beer.”

  Doug Rimbaud opened the door, left, and eased it closed, leaving Remy sitting there, alone and angry. And just a little bit frightened.

  The Griggs motorcade headed to Fairmount Memorial Park, just outside of Spokane, Washington, where Paul Bracewell would be laid to rest. Only four had flown out for the funeral: Rawson and Alena Griggs, Remy, and Kenneth Murphy.

  They were in a bulletproof black van, with security detail vehicles flanking them in front and back. Remy felt guilty that such an entourage would bring unwanted attention during such a somber time, but they had no choice.

  Remy’s black suit hung off him loosely. He’d dropped ten pounds in the last few weeks. Next to him, Alena wore a black dress with a veil hanging over her head. She hadn’t said a word since the van departed from the Davenport Tower hotel in downtown Spokane. Rawson wanted Paul to be laid to rest in New York. Paul’s family has insisted he be buried back home.

  Alena was the tiebreaker. She wanted Paul’s final resting place to be near his home. His real home.

  Rawson was glued to his phone. The latest polling numbers had come in, and they were a cause for concern. CNN’s poll of polls showed Richard Bertrand gaining momentum. Rawson’s lead was narrowing. He was still ahead, but that lead was now within the margin of error. He led Annabelle Shaw thirty-five percent to thirty-two percent, with Bertrand jumping to twenty-seven percent. Rawson was clearly upset, and Remy could tell it was killing him to have to put work aside for Paul’s funeral.

  Paul’s death weighed on Remy heavily. The coroner’s toxicology report stated that Paul Bracewell had a BAC of 0.48 the night he died, high enough to slow his breathing and heart rate and likely render him unconscious. It explained why he fell. And why he drowned.

  As soon as they’d checked in to the Davenport Tower, Remy raided the minibar. It took two miniature Scotches and a beer to get him to sleep.

  He hadn’t mentioned Doug Rimbaud’s visit to anyone, including Rawson or Alena. It was possible Doug was simply trying to drive a wedge into the campaign. And Remy certainly didn’t trust the man. It may have been a dirty, deceitful ruse, but given everything Remy had seen in his short time in politics, it was eminently possible. Doug was a cheap shot artist. Showing up at his interview with Grace Rivas proved that. Yes, claiming Paul was a mole for the Shaw campaign was a step—or ten—beyond that, but once you sold your soul, there were no refunds.

  As the motorcade turned into Fairmount, Remy spotted a squadron of photographers gathered at the front gates, snapping pictures of the motorcade as it passed. The intrusion felt ghoulish.

  They passed through the Fairmount gates. Hundreds of gravestones were nestled among the rolling green hills and towering fir trees. In the rearview mirror, Remy could see photographers literally climbing the fences, holding their cameras out, hoping to get one last good shot of the mourners.

  Remy looked at Alena. She sat across from him, unmoving. Her eyes were closed. He reached out, put his hand on hers. She did not open her eyes, but a whisper of a smile curled at her upper lip, and she said, “Thank you.”

  He whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

  Alena nodded, said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me too.”

  When the cars stopped, the driver came around and opened the doors. Rawson, Alena, Remy, and Murphy filed out onto the cemetery grounds, heads bowed. There was a chill in the air. Remy buttoned his coat. Alena wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.

  Several dozen gathered around the plot where Paul Bracewell would be laid to rest. Remy recognized Paul’s mother, father, and sister from photos. The rest appeared to be extended family members and friends. Paul’s mother sat in front, weeping behind a black veil. Alena went over to Paul’s family and embraced his parents. Paul’s mother sobbed loudly, mournfully. His father did not cry, but his trembling lower lip told Remy that tears were not far from the surface. Remy watched them, a sick feeling in his stomach.

  Alena stayed with Paul’s family. Rawson, Remy, and Murphy stood on the opposite side of the grave from Paul’s family and friends. A priest stepped to the front of the casket. He was bald, with a short white beard, heavyset underneath his white robe. He started the service. Remy lowered his head.

  “As we lay to rest our son and brother Paul Aaron Bracewell,” the priest began, “I would like to read a passage from Wisdom 4:7.”

  The mourners bowed their heads, and the priest spoke.

  “But the just man, though he die early, shall be at rest. For the age that is honorable comes not with the passing of time, nor can it be measured in terms of years. Rather, understanding is the hoary crown for men, and an unsullied life, the attainment of old age. He who pleased God was loved; he who lived among sinners was transported. Snatched away, lest wickedness pervert his mind or deceit beguile his soul; for the witchery of paltry things obscures what is right and the whirl of desire transforms the innocent mind. Having become perfect in a short while, he reached the fullness of a long career; for his soul was pleasing to the Lord, therefore he sped him out of the midst of wickedness. But the people saw and did not understand, nor did they take this into account. Because grace and mercy are with God’s holy ones, and God’s care is with the elect.”

  As the priest continued the service, Remy scanned the mourners. Paul was Remy’s age. He couldn’t imagine the unendurable pain Paul’s parents felt, to lose a child that young. He wanted to reach out to them, to say something, to apologize for not having been there for their son. Remy felt like he had let Paul down. He’d never made much of an effort to befriend the man, allowing him to remain adrift.

  Now, though, as Paul’s body was lowered into the ground, Remy regretted all the times they sat at the same table and never spoke. All the times they’d flown together, driven together, been literally steps from each other, yet had never exchanged a word. He could have reached out. He had failed Paul.

  Paul’s mother wailed as the casket was lowered into the ground. Paul’s father looked like a feather’s touch could crack him in half.

  There were a dozen mourners who looked to be about Paul’s age. Remy figured they were friends from home or school. They were all sullen, weeping, somber.

  Except for one man. His eyes burned with anger, his upper lip curled in a sneer. He looked like he wanted to tear something apart.

  He was tall and broad-shouldered, with receding black hair and full, red cheeks. A thick, pale scar bisected his right eyebrow. A woman, his wife presumably, stood next to him, crying, holding his hand.

  His eyes were not focused on the priest or casket like
the rest of the mourners. Rather, he was staring daggers straight at Rawson Griggs.

  Remy watched him. He looked like he wanted leap across the grave and strangle Rawson with his bare hands.

  Why did this man have such a burning hatred for Rawson? Remy had never seen him before.

  The priest blessed the deceased and the interned souls at the cemetery and concluded the service. Mourners filed slowly past Paul Bracewell’s family to offer their condolences.

  Remy followed the line of mourners to pay his respects to Paul’s family. When he reached Paul’s mother, she took his hand and said, “Thank you for what you did for my son. Paul admired you greatly. I’m glad there are still men of courage in this world.”

  Remy simply nodded. It felt like a rope was tightening around his heart, his throat. He began to choke up. He had no idea Paul felt that way. He kept his emotions at bay, but as he passed the immediate family, Remy turned back to look at Paul’s group of friends. He found the tall one, the one with the eyebrow scar. He was whispering something to his wife, never taking his eyes off Rawson. Then they turned and left.

  Remy needed to know who he was. And why he looked like he wanted to murder Rawson Griggs.

  When the Griggs convoy arrived back at the Davenport, they unloaded from the car, drained.

  “Did you know Paul’s parents?” Remy asked Murphy. Murphy lit a cigarette. Remy didn’t even know he smoked. He inhaled deeply, exhaled, and coughed.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve quit a dozen times. Rough morning, you know?”

  “No judgments.” Murphy offered Remy one. He declined.

  “I didn’t know them well,” Murphy said, taking another drag. “I met them at the wedding, maybe once or twice after that, but we really didn’t see them often. They didn’t live close by. And, well, Rawson isn’t exactly the kind of in-law you make Christmas plans with.”

  Remy said, “We were his family too. We should have acted like it. We should have protected him.”

  “Every man is responsible for his own life,” Murphy said. His lack of sympathy surprised Remy. “Hey, my heart breaks for Alena and the Bracewell family. But Paul was selfish. Bottom line.”