“Great!” the Tycoon said, rising to his feet and smoothing down the front of his jacket. “I’ll only need one or two. And if I misremember the words a little, it’ll just seem more authentic that way. More real.”
“Of course it does,” McNelis agreed.
The Tycoon looked at his wristwatch. (It was from his own brand’s signature collection. It was flimsy and made in China, but few of his customers knew or cared.)
“I was out for a while,” the Tycoon said. “Everything is going to plan downstairs at the convention today?”
McNelis nodded.
“Yes. I’ve been watching the coverage, too. Your interview did the trick. No surprises. No hiccups. People loved the stethoscope.”
“Tremendous,” said the Tycoon. “Then I suppose we should get this over with.”
They prepared to depart. The Tycoon snatched the dossier from McNelis’s hand as he walked past. Moments later, they were in the elevator, heading down one floor to where the Governor and his staff were encamped. The Tycoon hastily read the words of Washington, Jefferson, and Madison assembled for him. Then he closed the folder and pushed it back at McNelis.
“I can’t make sense of this,” he said.
“Their language is archaic, of course,” McNelis told him. “It’s two hundred years old.”
“How important can it be if I can’t understand it?” the Tycoon said.
McNelis nodded to say that there must be some deep truth to this observation.
“I’ll just wing it,” the Tycoon told him. “A thousand dollars says he’ll never know the difference.”
Moments later the elevator arrived and the Tycoon and McNelis stepped off. A few feet away was the Governor’s suite. A member of the Secret Service stood outside the door and nodded at the Tycoon. McNelis knocked and one of the Governor’s staffers answered.
“Right this way,” the staffer said, and conducted the two men into the spacious rooms beyond.
Immediately, the Tycoon saw that it was crowded. Too crowded. An extra ten or twelve people. That was the first thing that raised the Tycoon’s hackles. The second thing was that the assemblage looked far too devout for its own good. Some of the men in the room wore traditional garb of some sort, and long orthodox beards. Others looked like the Governor. In addition to the gold crosses on their chests, they had cheery dispositions, meticulous shaves, and short haircuts that bespoke early bedtimes and a profound disinclination to question authority. There was a nun, too. An honest-to-God nun in a habit!
In the center of them all was the Governor. He had a look on his face like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He smiled sheepishly as the Tycoon approached.
“Before you get mad, I just want you to know one thing,” the Governor said, raising a finger. “I want you to know that this is exactly what it looks like! We’re living in moments of great spiritual awakening. And after what you showed me in Florida—and no, these good people don’t know all the … particular details—I realized that your soul was in need of saving, friend! To that end, I’ve flown up my special team. This is the group that helped me organize that religious freedom bill we passed down in Indiana. These are the best of the best, and they’re passionate about making this country the best that it can be. They’re also passionate about helping you to see the light!”
The Tycoon found it difficult to hide his slowly-building sneer.
“I know you’re not the most regular churchgoer,” said the Governor. “That doesn’t matter. Everybody needs a good come-to-Jesus every now and again. Or come to Yahweh. Or even Allah. Or whatever you like. The point is that you get there.”
The Governor extended his hand.
“I’d like to offer you our fellowship,” he said. “I believe that you can have a transformation here today. That you can mend your ways. Not only that you can, but you must before you assume our nation’s highest office. The good book shows us that no man is beyond redemption. Tell me, will you pray with us?”
The assembled clergy looked on expectantly. The Tycoon realized that the Governor was serious.
Stark-raving serious.
The Tycoon let out an unnecessary sigh.
“Okay,” the Tycoon said. “Fine. Let’s pray.”
The Governor grinned his televangelist grin.
“You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that,” he told the Tycoon. “No idea at all.”
They prayed. In tongues and traditions that were wholly unfamiliar to the Tycoon. In shouts and in mumbles. In spoken words and in song. Now and then, something in the prayers might seem vaguely familiar to the Tycoon. He had heard it in a poem, or seen it on a television show. Other times, the utterances seemed utterly alien and strange. But whenever the religious officials around him clasped their hands together, the Tycoon clasped his own with all his might. When they bowed their heads, he bowed as low as he could. When they affected expressions of great contrition, the Tycoon tried to feel as sorry as he possibly could for all the things that he had done.
Great, gold-embossed books were brought out. Some were ancient and dusty, while others looked newer than the ministers’ haircuts. Whatever their states, they were cracked open and read aloud from. Sometimes they were passed to the Tycoon. As much as he disliked the written word, the Tycoon cleared his throat and read in a clear voice whenever prompted. He read as though he loved what he was reading. As though his life depended on it.
It went on for the better part of an hour. The enthusiasm of the religious assembled around the Tycoon showed no sign of waning. This was probably the highlight of their year, he thought to himself. They were imbued with limitless energy. In mounting horror, the Tycoon realized that—after nearly an hour—they were just getting started.
But he could not stand much more of it. He certainly could not bear to keep it up until the future Vice President left to give his speech. (And in a larger sense, the Tycoon became concerned about what precedent this might set. This ambush by the Governor was not appropriate. In the subsequent years, would the Vice President feel himself free to convene a prayer gathering whenever he deemed the Tycoon’s actions or demeanor insufficiently pious? The hubris! The very idea! No. It would not do.)
The more the Tycoon thought about it, it seemed that drastic action must be taken.
“Hallelujah!” the Tycoon cried, interrupting a reading from the Kabbalah. “I am bigly saved! Bigly, bigly saved, I assure you. I don’t think anybody has ever been so saved!”
“Hallelujah!” several members of the assemblage cried.
“Yes, hallelujah!” the Tycoon continued. “And I want to thank all of you for taking the time out of your busy schedules—and all the important work you do—to facilitate this incredible, spectacular thing that has happened here today. You’ve changed me so deeply. I renounce my former ways! But listen … We all know the Governor is really the one I should be thanking the most.”
The Governor gave an “aw shucks” grin.
“No, I’m serious,” said the Tycoon. “In fact, I wonder if you could leave us for a moment. Yes, I’d like to be alone with the Governor. I think that he and I should pray together, just us. This is a very special moment for a future president and vice president … God willing, of course. I’d like to impart some special words that I believe George Washington once said to John Adams …”
The Tycoon looked up earnestly at the assembled religious officials, to the Governor’s staffers, and to McNelis.
Then he gave McNelis a quick wink. The man nodded as though he understood perfectly.
The Governor, for his part, was beaming, delighted to have saved a soul.
“Yes, let’s give the next president and vice president some private time together,” McNelis said. He helped to usher everyone else out of the room. The doors were closed from without, leaving the Tycoon and the Governor alone in the drawing room of the suite.
Surprising the Governor, the Tycoon fell to his knees and clasped his hands.
“Please
, pray with me,” the Tycoon said.
The Governor enthusiastically knelt beside him on the carpet.
Both men closed their eyes. The only sound was the Governor’s breathing. The Tycoon put a hand on the back of the Governor’s neck and pulled him close.
“I want you to know how much all of this means to me,” the Tycoon said. “Your taking this step shows me that you’re a man of conviction. You wouldn’t do all this if you didn’t care. So I want to show you that I care too. I really do.”
The Tycoon held the Governor tightly now. Too tightly. So tightly that his hand vibrated. For a moment, the Governor seemed to accept that this enthusiasm was the result of a religious conversion. But then the Tycoon’s manicured fingernails began to dig deep into the Governor’s neck. The Governor’s eyes opened and he blinked uncomfortably.
“Watch the scratches, friend,” he said through a nervous smile. “I’ve got to give a big speech in a few hours.”
“I am aware of our timeline,” said the Tycoon. “I am also aware that a scratch tends to get the job done … but a bite is always a sure thing.”
Before the Governor could react, the Tycoon pulled him close, pulled down on his white dress shirt, and bit him—hard—on the nape of the neck.
The confused Governor tried to surrender himself to it, like a kitten being carried by the scruff. But the pain became too much. The Governor tore himself away, and the Tycoon was left with a small piece of flesh stuck between his teeth.
“What?!” the Governor said in confusion. “What are you doing?”
He reached back, gingerly touched his neck, winced, and brought his hand up to his face. His fingers were covered in blood.
“What have you … ?” the Governor said in bewilderment.
“So sorry about that,” the Tycoon replied, spitting the flesh onto the carpet. “An old fraternity tradition, from business school. It’s a show of respect. You should be bigly flattered.”
“Wait …” said the Governor, a hard truth dawning on him. “Did you just … ? Am I … ?”
“Here, let’s pray some more,” the Tycoon said. He stayed on his knees and clasped his hands. (One eye was shut, but one was watching the Governor. The Governor looked around the room anxiously.)
“I think I should get this looked at,” he said, again and again dabbing the back of his neck and bringing his bloody fingers to his face.
“The only medicine we need is the healing power of prayer,” the Tycoon said.
Secretly, he realized something more was required. As drops of blood began to fleck the carpeting around them, the Tycoon reached into his pocket and depressed a button on his phone. The one that automatically summoned McNelis.
Moments later, the Tycoon heard McNelis assuring the religious officials he would only be a moment, creeping into the room, and shutting the door.
“Jay,” the Tycoon said, rising to his feet. “The Governor is undergoing a conversion of his own.”
McNelis nodded and smiled. A few steps away, the man from Indiana was turning white. He had become unsteady. His eyes looked big as dinner plates.
The Tycoon said: “Let’s wrap that bite with a bandage so … I was going to say ‘So it doesn’t get infected’ but by the pallor of your skin, I’d say it’s already too late.”
“I feel sick,” the Governor said. “I think I might throw up. What is going on?”
“Oh, I think you know,” the Tycoon replied.
McNelis went to the bathroom and returned with a set of towels. With surprising strength, he ripped them into thin strips and tied them around the Governor’s neck to staunch the flow of blood. Meanwhile, the Governor’s legs gave out and he collapsed onto a couch.
“My speech …” the Governor mumbled. “I need to call my chief of staff.”
The Governor managed to reach into his pocket and come out with his phone.
“I’ll take that,” McNelis said, snatching it from him.
“My …” the Governor protested, his disorientation and sickness increasing.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get your phone back,” the Tycoon said. “You’ll also be fine to deliver your speech tonight. More than fine. Something tells me it’s going to be one of the best speeches you’ve ever made.”
“What are you … ?”
But the Governor could not finish. He collapsed onto the couch and grew quiet and still. The color continued to drain from his face. McNelis placed a wad of towels under his head. Then he looked over at the Tycoon.
“Cutting this one a little close, boss.”
“It’ll be fine,” the Tycoon said confidently, glancing at his watch. “How long does it usually take? An hour? Ninety minutes? We’ll be fine.”
“Time-wise, sure,” said McNelis, rubbing his chin. “But I’m thinking more of the shock to the system. If he’s ‘off’ tonight, people are going to notice. Especially after what happened to you yesterday.”
“Jay, he forced my hand on this!” the Tycoon said. “He really did. I didn’t have a choice, did I? Prayer sessions? Conversions? Repentance? There isn’t room for that kind of thing in this organization. I tried to let him take the other route. I showed him what I was and invited him to make his peace with it. But no. That wasn’t enough. Now he has to take the consequences. Besides, I think it’s better this way. Now we know for sure that he’s on the team.”
McNelis shrugged to say there was no use in second-guessing it. The die had been cast.
“What do you want to do about … ?” McNelis asked, gesturing to the group waiting outside.
“We need to give it some time, obviously,” the Tycoon said. “Can you take them on a tour of the arena or something? Distract them?”
“I can,” McNelis said. “They’ll have questions, though. You two were a bit loud just now.”
“Tell them we were speaking in tongues,” the Tycoon said. “Tell them anything you like. Hell, I don’t care. Just make sure they stay occupied.”
“Aye aye,” McNelis said, and gave a little salute. The Tycoon frowned in a way that told him to knock off the hijinks. This was serious business.
McNelis let his expression take on a grimmer aspect, and sauntered back to where the religious officials waited. The Tycoon sat down on the couch beside the Governor. He looked down at his white haired running mate intently.
“My goodness,” the Tycoon said to the unconscious, unmoving body. “You have been a bit of trouble, haven’t you? Well that’s all behind us now. Your new life starts tonight. We’re going to be in perfect harmony—you and I—from this point forward. Isn’t that nice?”
The Tycoon leaned back on the couch. Even though he could not sleep—would never again sleep—he allowed himself, once more, to close his eyes.
THE REPORTER
“What is wrong with people?”
That, it seemed, was the only question to ask.
Jessica had posed the query at the hotel bar next to Tim. (The other members of the TruthTeller staff had not been able to pull themselves away from their work.) Both Jessica and Tim had been awake most of the night, following up on developments and churning out copy. Jessica had had only two swallows of her sixteen-ounce Guinness, but was already feeling lightheaded.
“I mean, people saw everything,” she continued, looking into the murky brown of her drink like a seer staring into a crystal ball. “They saw a heart monitor get planted on a major-party candidate, during that party’s convention. They saw that it showed he had no pulse. And … ? And everybody just thinks it was a joke. They think it was a way of calling his policies ‘heartless.’ I can’t believe it. Then there’s what was on the thumb drive. His goddam medical records … which show there is nothing to record. That his body doesn’t, shouldn’t function. And my bosses won’t even consider running those—nobody is running those—because they can’t be verified. What more do people want?!”
Tim sighed in solidarity and stared into his own drink.
“That stunt this morning with the stetho
scope was good,” he said. “Of course, it wasn’t a controlled environment, and the stethoscope wasn’t provided by the journalist—but still. Good television. Makes it look like he’s not afraid of anything.”
Tim took a sip and asked: “You’ve heard nothing else from the Knights?”
Jessica shook her head.
“Total radio silence,” she said. “I think this was their one, big push. All their efforts had to have gone into it. Think about it. Building those drones? Getting those passes to access the backstage area? Doing it all so fast?”
“Yeah, it was a lot,” Tim said. “A lot of money and favors got spent. No question.”
“I just feel like … I feel like I can’t just give up and go home,” Jessica said. “I met the Knights. They’re real people. One of their members died right in front of us. I can’t pretend like I don’t know what’s going on here. At the same time, if what happened yesterday didn’t do it? I mean, what am I going to do? I don’t even have any proof that I met the Knights. Except for you.”
Jessica took another swallow of Guinness.
“What did Deep Throat tell Woodward and Bernstein?” Tim said, struggling to recall. “Follow the money? Right?”
Jessica glanced askance at him and wrinkled her nose.
“That never really happened,” she said. “They just added it in the movie version of All the President’s Men. You might have known that if you’d actually finished J-school.”
Tim decided not to take this dig too personally. Jessica was in a foul mood and did not mean anything by it, he assured himself.
“Well, with most people, you could say ‘follow the money’ because money’s what people want,” Tim opined. “But what do you do with a zombie? Follow the brains?”
“If money can get you brains, then I’d still say follow the money,” Jessica said dourly.
“What does he still want at this point?” Tim asked. “He’s a billionaire tycoon who lives at the top of a golden tower. And he’s a member of the living dead, which means he gets to live forever. What is left for him? Why run for president and risk it all?”
“There is no explanation,” Jessica said between sips. “People who run for president have something wrong with them. Look at any field of presidential candidates and you’re going to find something from the DSM-5 for each one. Narcissists. The power-mad. People with delusions of grandeur. People who think they’re sent by God to carry out a holy mission. Xenophobes looking to keep unwashed hordes at bay. Psychopaths who’ll do or say anything to get something. There’s literally no understanding these people.”
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