The Bleeding Edge

by William W. Johnstone

  Nobody could ever say that the voters didn’t have a clear choice to make in this election, Stark thought.

  When the forum was over, a lot of people came up to Stark to shake his hand and tell him that they appreciated what he’d said and the stance he had taken. Gradually the room cleared out, leaving Stark and his group of friends and supporters.

  “Can Larson and his bunch do that, Hallie?” Stark asked. “Can they have one vote and do away with the town?”

  She shook her head and said, “I don’t think so. I believe there would have to be another election, this one to vote on whether or not to disincorporate. But for all practical purposes, they could accomplish their purpose just by doing nothing. If they refused to hire a police force or set a tax rate or conduct any other city business, it would be like Shady Hills isn’t a town at all.”

  “We can’t let that happen,” Jack Kasek said.

  “We can campaign, but in the end it’s not up to us,” Stark said. “The voters are the ones who’ll have to decide what they want.”

  “You’re right, John Howard, but heaven help us if they don’t make the right decision. Heaven will have to, because Larson and his bunch sure won’t.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Over the next few days, fliers went up on telephone posts and campaign signs sprouted in yards in Shady Hills, Dry Wash, and the housing developments around the high school. Stark was glad to see that most of the signs in the retirement park supported him, although there were a few bearing Mitchell Larson’s name. The same was true in Dry Wash, although Larson had a little more support there. In Amber Trails, where Larson lived, the situation was reversed and he had most of the support, but in the other areas the voters seemed to be about evenly split between the two mayoral candidates.

  The city council races seemed almost like an afterthought. It was a foregone conclusion that everybody, or nearly everybody, who voted for Stark would also vote for the other candidates from the retirement park.

  The protesters showed up again several days before the election, and with them, naturally, came the news media. The whole traveling circus had returned. Stark did his best to ignore it, but it was hard to shut out the racket coming from the front of the park.

  He had a number of requests from the media for interviews. Most of them he turned down, but he accepted a few of them, although he knew that the reporters would probably try to ambush him and would distort the answers he gave to their questions. He surprised his friends by accepting the requests from some of the most notoriously liberal TV networks and newspapers.

  “I’m not ashamed of anything I have to say,” he explained, “and you never win anybody over if you only talk to people who agree with you to start with.”

  “They’ll use this against you, John Howard,” Hallie warned.

  “They’ll try, I suppose.”

  “And they’re experts at it.” She smiled. “But John Howard Stark doesn’t run from fights, does he?”

  “Never have,” he said, “and I’m a little too old to start now.”

  The interviews went like he expected them to: cleverly worded questions designed to make him give inflammatory answers that could be used for sound bites, all of which he deflected by speaking the simple truth. It was sort of amusing, he thought, to watch the reporters growing more frustrated but trying not to show it.

  Then one of them surprised him by asking, “What about the allegations that your opponent, Mitchell Larson, is just a puppet of the drug cartel that hates you so much?”

  The interview was taking place in the community center. Stark leaned back a little in the folding chair where he sat and frowned.

  “I hadn’t heard anything about that,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure I believe it. I disagree with Mr. Larson’s views, of course, but they seem genuine enough to me.”

  “Mr. Larson is a small businessman, though,” the reporter insisted. “When was the last time you heard a small businessman support the government?”

  “Well, I’d say it was the last time we had an administration in Washington that didn’t seem bound and determined to make it impossible for small businesses to turn a profit,” Stark said. “But that doesn’t have anything to do with this little local election.”

  “Doesn’t it? You’ve been a thorn in the side of the federal government for years now, Mr. Stark, just by being yourself: a homegrown American hero who won’t take being wronged by anybody.”

  Stark shook his head and said, “I’m no more a hero than any average American is. You think it’s not heroic just to get up in the morning and go about your business, do your job, and take care of your family, when all the while you’re being belittled by the elitists and crushed by a tax burden that you’ll never get out from under? Shoot, I’m retired. The real heroes are the folks who are doing their best just to get by from one day to the next and hoping that someday their kids will have it better. As for the federal government, if the people running things in Washington really are worried about who wins an election for mayor in a little ol’ town in Texas . . . then the whole country’s got something to worry about.”

  “Stark’s right,” the chief of staff said as he sat across the desk from the president in the Oval Office. They had just watched the interview, which had aired uncut and in its entirety.

  The president frowned and complained, “Can’t the FCC do something about that? They were only supposed to show selected clips from it.”

  “I guess the network decided the whole thing would play better and get bigger ratings,” the chief of staff said. “They’ve been plugging the hell out of it.”

  “Even though they’re supposed to be on our side!”

  The chief of staff sighed.

  “We’ve talked about that before, sir. There’s only so much we can control what the media does.”

  “Yes, I know, and I’m getting damned sick of it.” The president shook his head. “So you think we should leave Stark alone?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. His fifteen minutes of fame will be up sooner or later.”

  “It’s gone on a lot longer than fifteen minutes,” the president said caustically.

  “Yes, sir. But it will run out. You can count on that.”

  The president sighed.

  “All right. It’ll be hands off, at least for now. Spread the word.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This fellow Stark, though . . . he’s damned annoying. If something were to happen to him . . .” The president stopped and held up his hands in surrender. “I know, I know. I’m not supposed to even talk about such things.”

  “You’re not supposed to even think about such things, sir. You’re the president of the United States, and you represent a party that would never, ever resort to anything resembling such . . . such . . .”

  “That’s enough,” the president snapped. “Don’t presume to lecture me.”

  The chief of staff took a deep breath and nodded.

  “Of course not, sir. Sorry.”

  Anyway, it didn’t really matter, he thought. He suspected that the attorney general had put a plan in motion weeks ago to deal with John Howard Stark. To tell the truth, the chief of staff was more than a little surprised that Stark was still alive . . . although such things were never to be discussed, of course.

  “Besides,” the president went on, “those drug smugglers have to be getting pretty annoyed. It won’t take much more for them to declare open warfare against Stark and his cronies, will it?”

  “Probably not, sir.”

  The president leaned back in his big chair and smiled in satisfaction.

  “Let Stark win the damned election,” he said. “We’ll just see what it gets him.”

  “I wonder if there’s a chance Larson is working for the cartel,” Hallie mused as she and Stark sat in lawn chairs on Stark’s front deck the night before the election, enjoying a beautiful fall evening.

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Stark said. “He might not
be actually working for them, though. I think there’s a better chance he’s scared of them.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He said he’s got a boy in high school,” Stark pointed out. “We both know the cartel has kids working for it. If somebody threatened Larson’s son and passed the word that it would be a good thing for Larson to run against me and win . . . well, I can see something like that happening.”

  “So can I,” Hallie agreed. “It’s terrible, though.”

  Stark shrugged and said, “Or it could be that he’s just like a lot of other folks. He’s listened to the media go on and on about how anybody who’s a conservative is bad and all their ideas are evil until he actually believes it. It must be hard not to get brainwashed like that, the way things are today.”

  “The way things have been for a long time, you mean. The media has never told the complete truth in my lifetime, John Howard. I can look back on it now and realize that. Back in the sixties and seventies, they crowed about how the anti-war protesters ended the Vietnam War, when the North Vietnamese officials themselves admitted that the war went on longer because of the protests. They said over and over again that George W. Bush lied, when what Bush really did was act on faulty information from an intelligence apparatus gutted and hamstrung by Bill Clinton. And you know what they said about the president who wanted to use nerve gas on American citizens—”

  Stark held up a hand to stop her. Hallie laughed and said, “I know, I’m preaching to the choir, aren’t I? I just get so frustrated sometimes when people just refuse to open their eyes and really see the truth, beyond the little bits that they’re spoon-fed by the newspapers and the TV networks.”

  “I understand,” Stark said, “but fixing that is a bigger job than any of us can take on by ourselves. What we can do for starters is to win this election tomorrow.”

  “We’re going to, John Howard. I can feel it in my gut. Then you can hire a chief of police.”

  Stark nodded slowly and said, “I’ve been doing some thinking about that.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Election Day was cool and cloudy, but any rain was supposed to hold off until that evening, after the polls were closed. Stark arrived at the community center early to cast his vote. The protesters were already on hand, chanting and singing and waving signs. The Black Panthers, though, appeared to be sitting this one out. Stark supposed they were somewhere else protesting some other perceived injustice that probably had no basis in fact.

  Mitchell Larson walked up while Stark was standing in front of the building with some of his friends. Stark gave him a polite nod and said, “Morning, Mitchell. How are you today?”

  Larson didn’t answer the question. Instead he said, “Can I talk to you for a minute, in private?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Stark said.

  The two of them walked over to a small area at the side of the building, where several picnic tables were located. Some of the reporters tried to follow them, but Stark motioned them back. Somewhat to his surprise, they stopped. The cameramen still had their cameras trained on him and Larson, though. No doubt they were hoping that the two mayoral candidates would start throwing punches at each other. That would be great footage to lead a newscast with.

  When they were out of earshot of the others, Stark said, “What can I do for you, Mitchell?”

  “Why are you being nice to me?” Larson asked, sounding a little annoyed. “I’ve said some pretty raw things about you during the campaign.”

  Stark shrugged.

  “Things get said in a political campaign,” he replied. “Maybe they’re sincere, maybe they’re not, but I’m not going to hate a man just because of his politics. It takes more than that.”

  “Well, then, you’re a very rare creature. I don’t know anybody on my side of the argument who doesn’t hate all of you. Some of them even think that the world would be better off if all of you were to die.”

  “I feel sorry for anybody who thinks like that,” Stark said. “On either side.”

  “Well . . . what I wanted to say . . . I’m only doing what I felt like I had to do. You understand?”

  Something about the man’s voice, some tiny note of desperation, made Stark search Mitchell Larson’s face. He saw what might have been fear and was definitely worry in Larson’s eyes, and that made him wonder if the theory he had expressed to Hallie was right. The cartel might have pressured Larson through his family. Stark still thought that Larson was sincere in the beliefs he had expressed, but that would have just made it easier for the cartel to make use of him.

  “Look, Mitchell, when this is all over—”

  “Don’t say we’ll be friends,” Larson broke in. “I think you’re a dangerous man, Stark. Dangerous to yourself, dangerous to those around you, dangerous to this whole country if so many people actually look up to you. But . . . it’s just an election. I don’t wish you any ill. That’s all I wanted to say.”

  “Fine,” Stark told him. “We’ll leave it at that.”

  “Yeah.” Larson turned and walked away.

  “What was that about, John Howard?” Hallie asked when Stark rejoined his friends.

  “A man who’s realized that the world’s too big for him, and he doesn’t know what to do about it,” Stark said.

  There were no instances of would-be voter fraud in this election, no disturbances at all other than the continuing irritation of the protesters and a reporter who occasionally got too pushy when it came to interviewing the voters leaving the community center after casting their ballots. The polls closed on schedule at seven o’clock. A gentle rain began to fall about eight, and the protesters disappeared instead of waiting to find out the outcome.

  Stark thought that they probably weren’t being paid enough to stand out in the rain.

  A little before ten o’clock, one of the election judges came out of the meeting room where the votes were being counted and said, “Congratulations, Mayor Stark. You won by a three-to-one margin.”

  Stark felt no real elation at winning, only a sense of relief that the election was over. He asked, “What about the city council races?”

  “All that candidates from the retirement park won as well,” the election judge said. “The percentages were about the same as the mayor’s race.”

  The people who had gathered to wait along with Stark and his friends broke out in cheers and applause. Stark smiled, looked at his newly elected city councilmen, and said, “We’ll have our first meeting Monday evening, if that’s all right with you fellas.”

  “That’s fine, John Howard,” Nick Medford said. “What’s the first item on the agenda?”

  “Hiring a police chief,” Stark said. “It’s time we had some real law and order in Shady Hills.”

  According to the Good Book, Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest, but it was a busy one for Stark as he kept fielding interview requests. He figured his plain talk was at least partially responsible for his victory in the election, so he wasn’t going to stop speaking plainly now. He hadn’t been completely forthcoming about his plans, though, despite the fact that reporters kept badgering him to tell them exactly what he was going to do now that he was the mayor of Shady Hills.

  The first-ever city council meeting was held at the community center, which for now at least would serve as the unofficial city hall. Further down the road they would have to consider moving to a modular building that could be a permanent home for the city offices. Since the meeting was public, as required by law, the main room was packed again, although not quite as much as it had been for the candidates’ forum. Now that the election was over, some people had lost interest.

  The first item on the agenda was to certify the election results and have Stark and the rest of the council sworn in. Judge Oliveros took care of that, then turned the meeting over to Stark, who said, “Thank you, your honor. And thanks to all you folks for turning out tonight to see what we’re going to do. I hate to disappoint you, but we’re going to go in
to closed session now to discuss personnel matters.”

  That brought mutters of surprise and disappointment from the crowd. Stark raised a hand to quiet them and went on, “If you’ll be kind enough to wait a few minutes, we might have an announcement for you.”

  That mollified the audience a little. Stark and the other four councilmen, along with Hallie, who was now officially the attorney for the city of Shady Hills, withdrew into one of the small meeting rooms.

  “Is this about the police chief, John Howard?” Hallie asked when the door was closed.

  “That’s right. I’ve got a good man for the job, if the rest of you will go along with the idea. Reuben Torres.”

  Nick Medford frowned and said, “I like Reuben, John Howard, and I think he got a raw deal. But he’s a convicted felon. Can he even be a police officer?”

  “He can,” Hallie said with a nod. Obviously she had researched the matter. “His service with the Border Patrol meets some of the qualifications. If he’s hired as chief, he’ll have to complete some other courses within a certain amount of time, but he can do that. But here’s the thing: he can’t carry a gun. That would be illegal.”

  “No rule saying the chief of police has to carry a gun,” Stark said. He was well aware that Reuben had carried a rifle while he was volunteering for guard duty, so technically he had been breaking the law then. From here on out, though, if Reuben was hired he would adhere strictly to the letter of the law.

  Hallie smiled and said, “No, there’s no rule like that. Just be sure the other police officers you hire can carry guns legally.”

  “I’m hoping Reuben will have some ideas about that. He told me he knows quite a few former Border Patrol agents and other peace officers who’ve given it up and gone into private security work. With any luck, he can talk some of them into coming and working for us.”