Had he done everything possible? The answer had better be yes, with only two days to go until the second contest of the campaign season. He stared into the freezer, forgetting for the moment what he was looking for before dropping two ice cubes into his glass. What if Wellhead made such a fool of himself in New Hampshire that no one would believe when he won?
Back in his study, he stared out the window into the failing light of the fenced in courtyard behind his house in Georgetown. Before his wife had moved out, everything had been impeccably neat; shrubbery trimmed regularly, outdoor furniture arranged in perfect order. A blade of grass wouldn’t have dared to show its head between the flagstones back then; now he could see withered crabgrass spidering forth everywhere.
Maybe the people who used to take care of things outside had stopped coming? What with being on the road so much over the past year he might easily have missed something from them in the mail. He swirled the scotch in his glass and took a meditative sip.
The words “New Hampshire” caught his attention. He turned to see a newscaster bundled up in a scarf and overcoat, the Greek temple portico and gold dome of the state capitol barely visible behind him as he leaned into the wind, one hand holding a microphone and the other pressing his headphone more tightly into his ear. Large flakes of snow turned from gray to bright white and then back to gray again as they blew through the brilliant circle of the camera lights. Fetters picked up the remote and turned the sound up as he sat down.
Good evening, Troy. As you can see, the weather’s pretty awful up here. And the primary race is looking pretty chaotic, too, with candidates gaining and losing ground in the polls on a daily basis.
Thanks, Jeremy. Of course, that’s not unusual this early in the season. With this many candidates still in the running, I wouldn’t be surprised if the ‘don’t knows’ still hold the biggest percentage.
That’s exactly right, Troy. I don’t think anyone’s going to try and pick a winner on this one until the last votes are counted. The big surprise so far is that Henry Yazzie, the Independent candidate, is making a respectable showing up here in this Yankee stronghold. He’s hardly in the lead, but he’s not in the back of the pack, either.
That is something. Do you suppose that new video game everyone’s been talking about has anything to do with it?
Who knows, Troy? It seems like suddenly a lot of people are using it as a proxy for their political position.
Let’s take a quick look at that game, shall we? I’m sure all of our viewers haven’t had a chance to check it out yet.
The camera cut to a shot of a split computer screen, with what looked like the same game displayed on each half.
We’ve got Donna Pinecliff, our digital media correspondent, here in the studio with us. Donna, tell us what we’re looking at here.
Sure, Troy. This is the hottest new mobile game app these days, and it’s still trending up.
Why two game shots, Donna? They look just the same to me.
I expect they do from where you’re sitting, so let’s pull the camera in for a close up of the left side of the screen.
As the image on the left enlarged, it became clear that a group of Native Americans was huddled around something. Sticking out above them was what looked like the head of a very startled cow. Suddenly, the animal was flying in an arc heading up and to the right, its limbs flailing wildly. The camera panned back just in time to see the hapless beast crash into the lookout tower of a log stockade with an American flag flying above it.
So what you see here is the “Angry Indians” game mode. Let’s zoom in on the other side of the screen now.
The cameraman did as requested, and now viewers saw a group of blue-uniformed men, above which rose the head of an extremely unhappy bison. This time, when the catapult was sprung, it was the largest tent in a circle of tepees that was flattened.
And that, of course, is the Angry Cavalry game mode.
Looks like fun, Donna. Have you tried it yet?
I have – and I can tell you, it’s really addictive. I guess it’s not surprising that it’s become sort of a sign of political allegiance to buy and play the game in one mode or another. Henry Yazzie couldn’t hope for anything better than this to come along, and the Tea partyers seem just as happy to embrace the Cavalry version.
The news anchor chuckled.
Well, I guess you never know what’s going to happen out on the campaign trail, do you? Thanks for the update, both of you, and hey, Jeremy! Stay warm up there!
Fetters clicked off the TV, grudgingly satisfied. So far, so good.
* * *
Frank was standing in a Metro car, one hand gripping the bar overhead, the other clutching a tablet computer displaying the first chapters he’d received from Grover. At the top of the page, it read “Working Title: ‘The Alexandria Project,’” and below it began as follows:
LATE IN THE afternoon of a gray day in December, a panel truck pulled up to the gate of a warehouse complex in a run-down section of Richmond, Virginia. Rolling down his window, Jack Davis punched a code into the control box, and the gate clanked slowly out of the way. Once inside, he wheeled the truck around and backed it up against a loading dock as the gate closed behind him.
Apparently this guy Davis was supposed to be going on duty at an underground, ultra-secure government data center. What the heck was that all about? He jumped ahead to see how the chapter ended:
If Davis had been able to electronically monitor what was happening on server A-VI/147 on Level Three, though, his confidence might have taken a hit. True, concrete and steel walls, surveillance cameras and Halon gas were more than adequate to protect the physical well-being of his facility against anything short of a direct hit by a “bunker busting” nuclear weapon. But the data on the facility’s servers had to rely on virtual defenses – firewalls, security routines and intrusion scanners.
And those defenses hadn’t been enough. Someone had gotten inside.
He grunted. Okay, Grover had obviously made this guy Davis up, but all the details otherwise were certainly realistic. And the dramatization did a good job of making the point Frank had been insisting on – that our existing cybersecurity defenses aren’t adequate to protect us. Maybe this guy Grover would work out okay after all.
He clicked forward to the next chapter and continued reading:
THE NEXT MORNING, a morbidly obese Corgi named Lily was sniffing a tree on 16th Street, in the Columbia Heights neighborhood of Washington, D.C. A cold, insistent drizzle fell on her, but Lily didn’t care, because Lily was sniffing at her favorite tree. Indeed, the meager processing power of Lily’s brain was wholly consumed by sampling the mysterious scents wafting up from the damp earth, for this was also the favorite tree of every other dog in the neighborhood.
Where did that come from? Had Grover accidentally mixed in some text from something else he was working on? He continued reading:
Something was nagging at the edge of her senses, though. “C’mon, Lily! Hurry up!”
Lily turned her head. The annoying distraction was coming from the person at the other end of her leash, someone with sockless feet jammed into worn, black loafers. Above bare ankles, a pair of pajama-clad legs disappeared into a rumpled raincoat. She saw there was an arm holding an umbrella, too, and under the umbrella, a stubbly, forty – something face topped by thinning black hair. Lily decided that the face did not look happy.
“Ah!” she thought. “That would be Frank.” Relieved that the distraction could be ignored, Lily returned to the important work at hand.
What the hell!?! He skipped ahead again:
A blue plastic bag inverted over his free hand, Frank scooped up Lily’s grudging gift. He handed over the treat, jerking back with his fingers barely intact.
“Isn’t that just the story of my life?” he thought ble
akly as Lily happily consumed her treat. “Every day I give her a cookie, and every day she gives me a bag of shit.”
Trudging home through the rain, Frank reflected that his day generally went downhill from there.
Okay, that last part was pretty accurate. But what in blazes was Grover up to here? None of this had anything to do with anything the book was supposed to be about.
Before he could read more, the doors of the Metro car opened and he realized he was at his stop.
Furious, he ran up the escalator, and not long after, he was charging up the stairs at Grover’s place. He was about to start beating on the writer’s apartment door when it opened, and he was face to face with Grover.
“Hey, Frank! Welcome back. How’d’ja like those first few chapters?”
Grover’s smiling, expectant face took the bluster out of Frank just as he was about to let loose.
“Uh, well, I thought the first chapter – the Prologue, I guess you called it – worked pretty well. I read that on the way here. But I’d only just started in on the next chapter and I don’t get what you’re up to there at all.”
“Oh, well, yeah, I guess maybe I should have laid that out in the email. C’mon in and have a seat. I’ll join you in a minute and tell you what I have in mind there.”
He entered Grover’s study, and this time the cat vacated the easy chair immediately, giving Frank a dirty look. It ran under Grover’s desk, where it could glower at Frank without its owner noticing.
“Deal with it, cat,” Frank said in its general direction, and began looking around the room more carefully than the last time. There was a bookcase against one wall, and he saw that most of the shelves were stuffed with thrillers. Many had slips of paper sticking up out of them, and some were lying face down on the others, pages splayed to both sides. Grover was obviously a fan of the genre.
His co-writer walked in a moment later.
“So, I guess you would be wondering why I introduced you that way. See, what I thought was this − you’ve been portrayed in the news as this mystery man, right? You haven’t given any interviews, and people don’t really know you, so it’s like you’re this cypher or something.”
“So? What’s wrong with that? Can’t we just keep it that way?”
“Well, I think that’s kind of risky, sales-wise. People still remember what happened – or least as much as they really care about – that it all came out okay − so it’s not like they think they really need to be told about that again.
“What makes for an interesting story is how you did it – what was going through your mind, what kind of sacrifices you had to make – you know, why it made a difference that it was you instead of some other geek − no offense − that happened to be in that place at that time.”
“I can get that, but what does that have to do with me walking the damn dog in the rain?”
Grover thought for a moment. How could he explain what was admittedly just a quirky, intuitive guess on his part about what would make for a good read?
“Well, let’s look at it like this. What do you think the popular impression is of people like you and me?”
“What exactly do you mean, ‘like you and me?’”
“You know – geeks – nerds – wonks − people that sit behind keyboards tapping out code or stories about technology? How would a bus driver or an investment banker describe us?”
“Well,” Frank paused. How would you describe a geek without using the word “geeky?”
“I guess they’d say we’re kind of narrowly focused on technical stuff – not very social….” He stopped again.
“Right. In other words, someone that anyone that isn’t a geek themselves would have a hard time relating to.”
“Okay, granted. But let’s get back to the dog and the bag of shit.”
“Right, right. Well, here’s the deal. Whether you like it or not, you’re the hero of this book – no, don’t stop me – if you don’t like ‘hero,’ then let’s go with ‘main character’ if that feels better.
“Anyway, people need to connect with you or they’re not going to get grabbed by the book and stick with it. Think about it – if you pick up a book in a bookstore or ‘look inside’ online, how many pages do you skim before you decide whether to buy it or move on? One? Maybe two, max?”
“Okay, so I get that you have to flesh out the main character – okay – me – so that I’m something more than a pure stereotype. But isn’t there a better way to introduce me than through the eyes of an over-fed, spoiled corgi?”
Grover sighed. How to say gently that an author has to work with what’s been given to him?
“There are some rules that every author needs to follow – one of them is ‘show, don’t tell.’ So if I start the book by saying that ‘Frank Adversego is a middle-aged IT professional who lives alone and works for the Library of Congress,’ would you like that any better? And would anyone read any farther than that?”
Frank frowned. That didn’t sound so good, either.
“Alright, alright. But still, there’s got to be another way to go about it.”
Grover pressed his advantage. “Okay, sure. So help me out with some suggestions here. How would you go about doing it? Got some close friends you play poker or drink with? I could set up a scene with them to introduce you. Or a hobby – do you have any hobbies? I could use one of them to humanize you. Maybe there’s a club you belong to − I could use that to frame your personality?”
Frank was silent. The answer to all those questions, of course, was no.
Grover had guessed that would be the case, and didn’t want to rub the point in. “Look, I haven’t had enough coffee yet. You want a cup? Yes? Okay. I’ll go make a pot, and while I do, why don’t you take your time, start at the beginning and read all of that chapter.”
He held out a handful of paper, stapled together in the upper corner. Frank hesitated, and then took it.
Grover walked into the kitchen. He sure hoped this worked, as he didn’t really have a Plan B. Sure, he could figure out a different opening, but if Frank dug in his heels on avoiding anything personal, it would be good-bye to the best seller list.
A few minutes later, Grover all but tiptoed up to his office door. What he saw encouraged him: Frank was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, both hands holding the sheaf of paper. He hadn’t even noticed that Molly was now sitting on the back of his chair, twitching her tail just lightly enough against the back of his neck to annoy him without making him realize what was going on. Every few seconds he unconsciously scratched the back of his neck as he continued to read.
Grover walked in, mouthing “Bad Molly!” as he plucked her off the back of Frank’s chair and sat in his own, holding the animal in his lap while he waited anxiously for Frank to finish.
Finally, Frank looked up. He was a bit startled to see Grover sitting there with the cat in his lap.
“Well?”
Frank gave himself a few moments to think before he gave his verdict. “Okay. You nailed it. I guess you nailed me, too.”
This time Grover’s sigh of relief was audible. “I’m glad you can see it that way, Frank – not everyone would. And I really think we’re going to have a winner here.”
Grover set Molly on the floor and picked up his laptop. “So shall we get down to work? I’ve put together an outline for the rest of the book I need to go over with you. And I’ve got a long list of questions I need to ask you in order to fill it out.”
It was almost dinner time when Frank left Grover’s place. The writer had been merciless in his interrogation, and Frank’s head felt like it had been wrung out like a towel. Riding home on the Metro he mostly stared blankly at the advertisements and the people stepping on and off of his car.
Back at his own apartment, he opened his refrigerator, the cont
ents of which were unchanged except for the addition of a twelve pack of beer. He decremented that count by one and carried the bottle into his living room, where he collapsed into his easy chair. After ordering a pizza delivery, he picked up his laptop and selected the most mindless movie he could think of.
Except to answer the door to hand a twenty to the delivery guy, he didn’t stir for the rest of the evening, except to continue to reduce the rapidly waning number of brown bottles in his refrigerator.
* * *
29
One of Those Days When Morning Can’t Come Late Enough
Arcoss town, Josette was riveted to her laptop, waiting for the first of the networks and cable channels to predict the final percentages in the third primary of the season. At last C&N felt confident enough to make the call: Randall Wellhead had won again, and Yazzie had increased his share of the overall vote as well, just as the pollsters – again – had predicted he would.
With three primaries to rely on now, she was convinced that someone was manipulating the polling, and the voting as well. If so, the candidates that were benefiting most from that manipulation were Yazzie and Wellhead.
She set up a graph and plugged in the polling numbers and voting results for the top half dozen candidates for each of the primaries to date, and then looked for anything that might be suspicious. The one obvious pattern was that Wellhead always came out at the high end, and Yazzie at the low end, of the pollsters’ predictions.
It was Yazzie’s performance that had her most perplexed. Would anyone really believe it if this unknown Native American, running as an independent, started to look like he might actually win? Or could the person hacking the polls and voting have something else in mind? And what about this Centrist Coalition of America that had appeared out of nowhere? Were they really making a difference in recruiting voters for the Yazzie campaign, or was it just a cover to make his success more plausible? If so, then it might lead her to the hackers.
The Lafayette Campaign: a Tale of Deception and Elections (Frank Adversego Thrillers Book 2) Page 18
