by RJ Blain
I checked the tablet, and my brows hiked up at the $350.75 required to go to a public park to attend a rally. “I had no idea you could charge for events held at a public park.”
“Apparently, you can attend without paying, but you can’t purchase any of the goods from the artisan tables, take advantage of the food stalls, or speak with Senator Maybelle unless you have a wristband. She wanted to sell alcohol, but it’s barred in public here. That made quite the stir in the news, which she tried to use as part of her campaign.”
“Is it just me, or is selling alcohol at a controversial political rally a bad idea in general?”
“That’s what I thought.”
Bradley’s mother snorted. “It would turn into a violent mess within an hour. There’s already going to be protests, as they didn’t get authorization to block the general public from making use of the park during the rally. She wanted to take over the park for a week, with only her staff and paying guests having access to the park, but Brooklyn refused their request, gave them a warning, and threatened to revoke their approval to use the park at all. It might be worth sending someone to attend the rally.”
Everyone stared at me.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Bradley’s smile unnerved me. “You’re perfect for the job, that’s why we’re staring at you. She has a reputation of showcasing people who can build her reputation positively. You’ll be using your wheelchair. You’re her perfect target for some political gain, as she is one of those.”
“One of those?”
“Politicians who can’t figure out how to treat someone with an apparent disability like a human being.”
Ah. Right. One of those. “Where it’s pretty obvious I’m rocking a cast, which implies there’s nothing else wrong with me.”
“You otherwise look healthy,” he confirmed. “Everything we’ve read about her implies she’s very bad about only looking skin deep.”
I muttered curses and did a search for the park I’d be roped into visiting despite my misgivings, blinking at the New York City Parks logo. “See, even the city agrees with me. I’d have to be high to want to go to this rally.”
“It’s not a marijuana leaf,” Bradley’s mother scolded.
“Are you sure? It looks like one.” Unable to help it, I giggled and showed off the logo. “Doesn’t it?”
“It really does,” Meridian agreed. “I’d rather go get high than deal with a political rally, too. I’m out. I might become the next murderer if I have to go to one of those. My weapon of choice would be a toothpick.”
I could see my friend putting in good effort to murder someone with a toothpick. “Please don’t kill any immoral politicians with a toothpick.”
“That implies I can kill them with something else.”
“We’re trying to prevent murders, not cause them.” I slumped my shoulders and sighed. “Is it bad I can understand why the cops might want to pin this on anyone they can? It bothers me how well I understand their possible motivation for throwing the investigation.”
Bradley’s mother stood, came around the table, and patted my back. “And that’s precisely why we have to do the right thing, even though we might understand why others would look the other way. While I understand the argument for the better good, there are other ways to get rid of problematic people with questionable morals—in an ethical fashion. For politicians like this, we expose the skeletons in their closet in as irrefutable a way possible, making sure even their most rabid supporters are forced to stop and think about it. Of course, the most rabid of them simply won’t stop or think, but as long as the majority do and vote for someone else, the damage they can cause is limited. The problem is finding the proof. That’s where we’re different. Everyone else will look the other way. We won’t. And make no mistake. None of these men or women are knights in shining armor, and they aren’t undermining our society for any desire to do good. The way it’s rigged, they will become richer, get rid of threats to them, and rebuild society in their vision—and their vision isn’t necessarily what’s good for everyone else. It will be good for them. That’s the golden rule of politics. There is always some benefit for them, even in the kindest of acts.”
“Like garnering a better reputation,” Meridian stated, and she tossed her pen onto the table. “Donors and sponsors also are more inclined to give more money if a politician at least pretends they’re on the right side of the ethical line. The ethical people rarely make it far into politics because they’re unwilling to get their hands dirty, so they lose early in local elections. Most of them never make it beyond securing county seats of some sort—if they win county seats at all. Usually, the highest they go is town or city, and more likely town than city.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I admitted. “I’m allergic to politics.”
Meridian shrugged. “You’re just going to have to deal with it, Janette. This entire case reeks of politics, and the only way we can win the game is if we understand how it’s played.”
“This game sucks,” I muttered, leaning so I could glare at my foot, which barred me from doing anything I wanted, including run away to regroup, think, and enjoy some privacy. “What will be my job at this rally?”
Bradley’s mother returned to her seat. “Mingle, get as close as you can to the senator, and watch the crowd. Make note of anyone who is behaving oddly. There’ll be a weapons checkpoint, so you’ll be without a firearm. I will look the other way if you happen to forget to wear your disruptor for the duration of the rally, and I’ll make sure the hospital is aware you’ll be helping yourself breathe better while you’re doing an outdoor activity to help strengthen the rest of your body.”
I had to give Bradley’s mother credit; she could play just about anyone like an instrument. The doctors would approve the disruptor being removed for a short period of time for the sake of exercise and time spent outdoors, both of which were believed to be conventional treatment plans even more potent than magic and medicine. Most of the time, I wanted to snap at those who held the belief exercise could fix anything.
Exercise couldn’t fix a bum foot or critically damaged lungs. I’d been there and done that, but I’d play along with the misconception.
The last thing any of us needed was discovering if my limited magic did play any part with my current ability to breathe.
“And what will I be doing?” Bradley asked.
“You’ll be going where Janette can’t. You’ll be able to call and text each other to check in, but otherwise, you should pretend you’re not with her. Mingle with the crowds she can’t mesh into all that well, especially not right now. If you feel absolutely compelled to annoy her, do so in such a fashion where casual observers will think you’re just being kind.”
“I’m with Janette. This game sucks.”
“You’re just going to have to deal with it, Bradley. The rally starts at eight in the morning, and people will start getting in line at six or earlier. You should arrive before Janette, although depending on how they’re handling the event, she may beat you inside, especially if they’re trying to garner favor among the disabled.”
“How, precisely, am I supposed to get to the rally without him?” I asked. “The wheelchair isn’t precisely easy to move around, especially not in that area.”
“You’ll take a cab from your apartment,” Bradley’s mother replied. “That’ll give you a chance to rest at your own home tonight.”
“What about my cat? She’s at your place in the Hamptons.”
“I’ll enjoy brushing her more than I should,” the woman replied with a smug smile.
Evil woman. “Don’t steal my cat. I like my cat.”
“You’ll see her right after the rally. Don’t worry about Ajani. She’ll be happy shedding all over my house, and she’ll survive a night without you.”
“But are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
While I wanted to kick and scream over the situation, I settled with a grun
t, crossed my arms, and leaned back in my chair. “How are we going to be collecting data?”
Meridian grinned. “We were talking about this before you arrived this morning. Kitting you for this adventure will be Mickey’s job. Tonight, he’ll wire your wheelchair with a recording system, which he’ll hide with a combination of magic and careful disguising. There will be a few cameras and several sound recorders, which will be hidden in the wheelchair itself. Since your wheelchair is metal, they’ll use visual checks to make sure you’re not armed. Bring a few books with you, along with your medications in your purse. They’re allowing electronics, so Mickey will set up your bag to help disguise things. If you’re okay with it, he’d like to add a micro camera to your glasses.”
I pulled off my glasses and squinted at the frame. “How can he do that?”
“They’re really small, and he’ll disguise the camera and microphone with rhinestones. The camera will link to your phone, which will allow you to control when you start and stop recording. The recordings will automatically upload to an external server. It will record in five minute segments, which will be temporarily stored on your phone until it’s uploaded. As soon as dinner is over, he’ll go buy all the supplies he needs.”
While I hated being out of the loop, I appreciated how much work everyone had done without me. “Okay. And Bradley?”
“He’ll be too hard to wire, unfortunately. He’ll undergo a lot more scrutiny than you will.”
Of course he would. While Bradley’s mother didn’t count him as conventionally handsome, he fit comfortably in the hot category—at least to me. And possibly Meridian. And any woman with a single functioning brain cell in her head. I regarded him through narrowed eyes, wondering if his usual choice of suit added to his appeal factor.
“I don’t know why you’re looking at me like that, but I’m worried,” Bradley admitted.
“She’s trying to decide if she likes you better in or out of your clothes,” his mother replied.
Great. His mother had gone into matchmaking mode, and she meant to embarrass me to death long before I could sign any betrothal documents. “Does any man actually look good completely out of their clothes? I’ve always found shirtless while wearing good slacks or jeans to be better than only in underwear,” I countered. “Men’s legs aren’t all that pretty.”
Meridian snickered. “I’m with Janette on this one. A good man with his shirt unbuttoned but his suit jacket on is a lot hotter than no clothes at all. Especially if he has a little bit of chest hair. Delicious.”
“I never saw the appeal of chest hair,” Bradley’s mother admitted. “There’s nothing worse than getting a stray hair between your teeth.”
Silence.
Meridian got to her feet. “And I’m going to go help with dinner and do my best to exorcise that mental image forever from my brain. Good luck, Janette, and I wish you the best with the chest hair problem. I’m now going to look into waxing kits for men and require any man of mine use one should he want my teeth anywhere near his person.”
She left, and I snickered.
One of the benefits of having been Bradley’s bodyguard involved the view at the pool, and either he’d been blessed with relative hairlessness on his chest, or he waxed daily, sparing me from the problem of chest hair stuck in my teeth.
“That is more than any of us ever needed to know, Mom.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Maybe,” Bradley muttered.
“Don’t be such a baby. You should be grateful she didn’t run away at the conversation. There might be some hope for you after all.”
Jezabelle, who’d kept quiet with her lawyer and future husband beside her, shook her head. “Don’t worry about it, Janette. Mom just gets excited sometimes. She’ll come to her senses eventually.”
“I will not,” Bradley’s mother swore. “For as long as my children’s happiness is at risk, I will absolutely not come to my senses.”
I regarded Mr. Hampton, who met my gaze and shrugged without saying a word.
On second thought, his silence made sense. There wasn’t much he could say when presented with insanity. As long as he kept quiet, he might remain a bystander rather than a participant.
The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.
All I needed to do was get through tomorrow intact. It was just one political rally. How bad could it really be?
“Oh, and Janette?” Bradley’s mother asked.
Uh oh. I glanced at her. “What is it?”
“Don’t forget you have paperwork to sign tonight. It’s an insurance policy for you as much as it is for him.”
Right. Engagement papers could be cancelled, but they couldn’t be signed in a pinch. As the last thing I needed was a one-way trip into the military, I nodded.
The last thing I needed in my life was a severe case of dead.
Twenty-One
I’d be opening Pandora’s box.
The next time, I would remember to never issue a challenge to the universe.
Everything went according to plan from my cab ride to Canarsie Park to getting through security. They did not have a handicap access lane, so I activated the recording app on my phone, plugged it into the battery pack Mickey promised would keep my phone running for at least six hours, and wheeled to join the line. I didn’t even manage to make it to my goal before a security guard intercepted me and asked if I would be buying a ticket. Upon my acknowledgement I intended to, he pushed me straight to the front of the ticket line and helped me handle the transaction, where I spent a filthy amount of cash for a wristband to enter the park, blitzing through security with minimal fuss.
I hated how much money Bradley’s mother had stuffed into my purse so I could play the part of a rich white woman supporting a presidential hopeful. Worse, she expected me to spend the money on things at the rally to maintain appearances, helping to give Mickey’s rig a chance to record the conversations around me for later investigation.
The entire security team deserved to be fired, as they gave my bag a token peek before pushing me through the gate, ignoring the beep alerting everyone I possessed metal. I drew a great deal of unwanted attention, and I regretted everything about my choice to own bright colored clothing and gaudy glasses. As my role involved pretending I wanted to be at the rally, I asked one of the volunteers near the ticketing stand where I should go first to best experience everything.
To my surprise, the older gentleman pointed in the direction of the artisan stands. “While the majority of the proceeds go to the campaign fundraiser, a part of all ticket sales go to the artisans Senator Maybelle selected for today’s rally. She picked artisans who will benefit from her platform to showcase the importance of their art in society. Starting there will give you a better feel for how Senator Maybelle plans on handling her presidency. Is this your first time attending a rally?”
“It is,” I confirmed, grateful it was the truth. “A friend recommended I should come, and since I’m not working for a while, I decided I would. It seemed like a nice idea.” I eyed the clouds, and while the forecast had promised partly cloudy, I expected it would begin raining within the hour. “I’d even checked the weather, but the weather has a mind of its own.”
“It always does,” he replied. “Should you make any purchases, you’ll be contributing to the campaign as well, as the artisans are giving ten percent of today’s earnings to support the cause. You can also opt to donate directly to the campaign if you wish; there are stalls all throughout the grounds for contributions.”
Of course there were. Money made the political world go round and round. “Thanks. I appreciate the help.”
My arms and lungs didn’t appreciate the distance to the artisan stalls, and I had to stop and rest several times before I reached my target. When I thought of a craft fair, I expected a mix of jewelry, handmade trinkets, and functional items, including bowls, plates, cutlery, and everything in between. The first stall featured handmade trinkets, the kind
that sat on a shelf, looked pretty, and accomplished nothing. The glassmaker liked pretty colors, swirling a rainbow of hues together in his various baubles, but I couldn’t figure out what they did beyond sit on a shelf and take up space.
It’d been a long time since I’d owned anything with the sole purpose of sitting on a shelf and taking up space.
I wheeled down the long line of stalls, discovering trinkets of all shapes and sizes, their purposes a mystery at best. At one stall, I found a wooden carved bible, with passages lovingly etched into the exposed pages, that belonged as a centerpiece in a church or a museum. Its price tag declared it was worth fifty thousand dollars.
I could do a lot with fifty thousand dollars, including buying everything needed to kidnap an adept and having my way with him. Then again, if I targeted Bradley, I wouldn’t have to do much to lure him off, I could keep my fifty thousand, and get away with my nefarious plans with little effort.
After careful consideration, I determined I couldn’t inform anyone I’d even thought about making a run with him anywhere. His family would encourage me, my co-workers would help, and I suspected Bradley would pin a bow to one of his pristine suits to support the effort. His mother would corner me and make me sign more documents, too. The first batch of documents would be the cause of my first gray hair, a legal agreement formally engaging me to Bradley Hampton. It had laid everything out, from the engagement party to announce our upcoming marriage to the wedding date itself. The date sent an odd message—or at least made certain I wouldn’t be forgetting my anniversary, as it would take place on my birthday.
