Ameristocracy

by Paul Moxham

  He makes his way into one of the ballrooms where a ball is in full swing. He scrambles through one of the side doors and comes to a stop, breathless. His mind races.

  At the head table on a stage, President-Elect Lombard stands at the microphone. “With exceptional valor, Captain Phelps single-handedly held the position, preventing an enemy advance from retaking a crucial outpost for humanitarian aid.”

  Captain Frederick Phelps, son of Chief of Staff Phelps, stands at attention next to the President-Elect. His crisp dress uniform makes him look like a living toy soldier.

  Lombard continues speaking. “After taking the Oath of Office, it will be my privilege to present Captain Phelps with the Congressional Medal of Honor. If we’re to overcome the immense social and economic challenges we face, we’ll need heroes like Captain Phelps working in every area of our society.”

  Applause fills the room, but Captain Phelps’s piercing blue eyes never falter in their intense gaze. Lombard continues. “Finally, I’d like to thank President Stevenson for being incredibly gracious throughout this transition period.”

  Outgoing President Whitley Stevenson raises a glass politely from the table.

  Lombard glances across at the various faces watching his every move. “And with that, everyone, please enjoy your evening.”

  More applause. Agent Mendez whispers to Lombard, and with a nod, they make their way off the stage. As they pass, Jack blurts out: “President Lombard, there’s something you should know!”

  Lombard stops, turns. Agent Mendez hurries over to Jack, but Lombard puts up a hand to stop him. He approaches Jack. “I’m not the president yet, you know.”

  He pumps Jack’s hand and Jack leans forward, trying not to say it too loud. “Sir, there is something going on here. Something important.”

  But Lombard just grins, a practiced look coming from years in the public spotlight. “There sure is, son. We’re bringing change to Washington and it’s about time.” Lombard gives a politician’s smile and casts an eye to the side, signaling.

  Jack shakes his head. “No, sir, you don’t understand. I’m a cop. Jack Mitchell, D.C.P.D…”

  Chief of Staff Phelps moves up next to Lombard, cutting Jack off with a smug smile. “The President-Elect thanks you for your support. You understand he’s very busy.”

  Lombard slips away, leaving Phelps to deal with Jack.

  “Wait!” calls out Jack. “I have to tell him about…” He pauses as he notices Phelps shake out his dinner jacket, strategically covering his cuff links. He hesitates, then resumes. “How hard his supporters worked during the campaign. We really believe in his message.”

  Phelps gives a phony smile. “He’ll certainly make history.”

  Jack nods in agreement. He reads Phelps’s expression, searching, wondering who he can trust in this building. Finally, he takes his cue to turn and leave.

  Phelps watches him go, eyes lingering and smile fading.

  At home, Jack huddles in front of his computer. He’s on the same site as before and, as he receives another instant message from the site owner, several words stand out. They are: Too many questions, They’re already after you, Find D.W.

  Jack reads them out loud. He then picks up the phone and dials the station.

  Maggie answers a moment later. “Hello.”

  “Maggie, I need an address.”

  “Is this a case you are working on?” asks Maggie.

  Jack pauses, and then nods. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Donald William,” replies Jack.

  “The CIA Director?”

  “Yes. I need you to get into the system and find his home address for me.”

  “What’s this all about? I’m busting my hump in here filling out paperwork that we should both be doing.”

  “Sorry, couldn’t make it in. Look, this is important. I need his home address.”

  Maggie types the name into a computer and waits for the results. “43 Palm Drive. In Georgetown.”

  Wilcox appears in the doorway, having heard that address. “Shouldn’t you be on patrol, Officer?”

  Maggie looks up. She quickly speaks into the phone. “Gotta go.” She hangs up, turns to Wilcox. “Paperwork, sir.”

  “Where’s Mitchell?” asks Wilcox.

  “Just called in sick. Flu bug.”

  Wilcox nods as he takes one last glance at the name and address on the screen in front of Maggie.

  Chapter 5

  As the moon rises in the sky, a taxi pulls to a stop on the street in front of a D.C. row house and Jack climbs out, the vehicle speeding away. A pedestrian strides down the sidewalk. As he nears, Jack has to shield his eyes from the glare of passing headlights.

  Jack turns up a walkway toward the front door. He balls a fist to knock, but as soon as his knuckles make contact, the door creaks open. He pauses. Reaches for his gun and pulls it out.

  He slowly pushes the door the rest of the way open and walks inside. He makes his way down the hallway, but pauses in the office doorway as he spots a silhouette seated in the dark behind the desk.

  “Mr. William?” calls out Jack.

  Nothing. Conflicted, Jack flips the light switch. His jaw drops as he sees that the office is in shambles. Donald William is slumped in his chair, laboring for each breath, blood seeping from his nose and mouth.

  “Jesus,” cries out Jack. He puts the weapon away and hurries over, finding William’s shirt soaked in blood. “Can you talk? Who did this?”

  William tries to speak, but produces only gurgles and more blood. He opens his hands, dropping a bloody object right into Jack’s hands. A .38-caliber handgun.

  Jack lets it fall to the floor. He reaches for William’s wound and applies pressure, but William is fading fast. He wheezes a final breath and his frightened eyes grow still.

  Silence. Jack checks his pulse. He slumps to the ground as the gravity of the situation becomes very real.

  The gun sits on a pile of papers messily strewn over the floor. He spots some handwritten notes with the words Thomas Miller and Spencer Mitchell connected with a line. Jack mutters. “Dad?”

  As Jack searches for some bearing, he looks at William’s still, lifeless eyes. His gaze darts around the room around him. Distinct handprints. Footprints. Blood all over his hands and clothes.

  Police sirens wail faintly in the distance, and a look of realization comes over his face. He knows a framing when he sees one. “Holy crap.” His eyes fall to the floor, where his fingerprints cover the murder weapon.

  Jack scrambles out of the row house, stuffing the handgun into his jacket pocket and scurrying down the street.

  Red and blue lights flash down the street as the cruisers get closer. Jack races around the corner and finds himself in front of a row of parked cars outside a fancy restaurant where a political fundraiser is underway. A banner announcing the NOW-PAC hangs outside, while several dignitaries, political consultants and contributors wait to go inside.

  Jack scurries past the valet and pauses, trying to look nonchalant as a couple climbs out of a black limousine, the door being held by a stocky driver.

  The couple walks up the steps and Jack slides into the back of their limo as the driver closes the door, having never even noticed Jack’s sly maneuver.

  The driver climbs in, quite literally whistling ‘Dixie’, but stops somewhere in the ‘land of cotton’ when he glances into the rearview mirror and notices Jack. “Who the hell are you?”

  “It’s okay,” says Jack. “I’m a cop.”

  The driver looks him over. He sees a guy dressed in street clothes who has a wet substance that looks an awful lot like blood on his pants. “You don’t say,” says the driver, sarcastically.

  Jack flashes the .38. “Go... Now!”

  The driver throws the car in gear and screeches away. Well-dressed dignitaries and valets dive for cover as the limo lurches past them.

  Jack climbs over the divider into the front seat. The drive
r shoots daggers with his eyes as Jack asks him a question. “What’s your name?”

  “Mick,” answers the driver.

  “Listen to me, Mick. I’m going to need you to get out.”

  “Come on, this vehicle’s my livelihood. Don’t do this, man.”

  Jack looks sympathetic for half a second. Nonetheless, he needs the vehicle and he can’t take no for an answer. “You have business insurance?”

  “Sure. As a certified livery…”

  “Good. Then you’ll be covered. Now get out.”

  Mick doesn’t want to do it, but he has no other choice. He stops the car and climbs out.

  As he leaves, Jack places the .38 on the passenger seat and sits behind the wheel. He burns rubber as the car heads back onto the road.

  As he drives, he has a tortured look in his eye. Contemplating, calculating. His foot comes off the gas. The speedometer dips.

  Then, Jack makes his choice. Turns the wheel to the right and hits the gas. The limo merges onto an adjacent highway, passing a sign reading: Welcome to the Commonwealth of Virginia

  Meanwhile, in the police garage, Maggie’s body sticks half-in, half-out of her squad car. She’s cleaning her car, stopping every now and then to check her watch.

  She mutters to herself. “C’mon, Jack, where are you?” She looks down and sees the notepad Jack dropped in the floorboard. It’s open to the page Jack had scribbled upon, still bearing that symbol of the Ameristocracy.

  She stares at it a second before hearing frantic footsteps behind her. She turns and sees several officers scrambling to their vehicles. “What’s going on?”

  The newly inaugurated President Lombard welcomes Chief of Staff Phelps into his office. “I want to thank you for sticking around, Peter. I know it isn’t easy working for the opposition party, but you’re doing a good service to our country, and I won’t forget that.”

  Phelps nods. “Thank you, sir. And thank you for your speech last night about Frederick.”

  Lombard waves his hand dismissively. “No problem. You and your wife must be very proud.”

  “Absolutely.”

  They sit on opposite sides of the presidential desk. Lombard looks at Phelps. “Obviously, we’ve had disagreements in the past, but I have to know that you’re on board with the Renewed Society plan. It’ll make or break my administration in the first stages, so I need to know where you stand.”

  “Where I stand, sir?” questions Phelps.

  “The nation’s on the cusp of calamity, Peter, and there’s only two sides to the fight. You can side with the corporate interests, extorting from the public, driving up interest rates and oil prices, and shirking all responsibility. On the other hand, you can fight on behalf of the middle class in desperate need of a voice they’ve lacked for too long. So, where do you stand?”

  Phelps seems almost amused to have his loyalty questioned. “To Hell with parties, sir. I’m with the people.”

  A squad car sits parked outside Jack’s house. Maggie stands on the stoop, talking to Nancy. “Mrs. Mitchell…”

  “It’s Ms.,” breaks in Nancy.

  “Okay, Ms. Mitchell, in about two minutes, several police officers are going to come to your door looking for Jack. And they’re not going to take no for an answer. If you hear from him, I need you to have him call my cell right away. Okay?”

  Nancy looks worried. “Did Jack do something? What’s going on?”

  Maggie frowns. “I’m not sure yet, but I need to see him so we can figure it out.”

  Nancy looks away, steeped in thought. Maggie notices. “What?”

  “Do you care for him?” asks Nancy, as she glances back.

  Maggie doesn’t answer.

  “Well, do you?” questions Nancy.

  Maggie hesitates. Then, she replies. “Yes.”

  “Then come on.” Nancy marches into the house, waving for Maggie to follow. She leads her up the stairs and into Jack’s bedroom.

  Nancy turns on the light and looks at Maggie. “Whatever Jack’s into, it’s related to all this stuff.”

  Maggie scans the conspiracy theory swag with a look of recognition, and then looks to the computer sitting on the desk.

  Chapter 6

  Baltimore, Maryland, Present Day.

  Another meeting is taking place in the private library. It’s the same study, same stately appearance, but this time it is present day, and with a new set of dignified men.

  Which means that there is a present day leader, whose face we cannot see. He paces in front of the group, his back to the men. “Gentlemen, we may need to reassess our situation. Our secrecy has been breached.”

  A hushed whisper fills the room as the leader continues. “If we’re exposed, I cannot guarantee that the new administration under any leadership would not continue on with this Renewed Society program. If we truly mean to safeguard the institutions that keep our people healthy, produce their goods, and protect their borders, an escalation of tactic is essential.”

  The present day leader finally turns around, revealing himself to be Peter Phelps. “I move that we take action.”

  In one of the chairs sits Andrew Baxter, Speaker of the House. He taps his ring on his knee, starting a trend that sweeps throughout the room. The decision is a unanimous yes.

  The limousine weaves in and out of traffic on an interstate in Virginia. It’s followed closely behind by two SUVs, one black, one red. The red SUV pulls up beside the limo.

  Inside the limousine, Jack glances through his side window at the red SUV pulling up next to him. He reaches for the .38. As he lifts it up, he can’t help but glance into the rearview mirror, at the black SUV getting closer, closer, closer until… Clank! It slams into the limo and Jack lurches forward from the impact.

  He loses his grip on the gun, and it goes tumbling into the floorboard. Jack stretches for the gun, but he can’t quite reach it.

  When he lifts back up, he glances out the window at the red SUV beside him. The window rolls down and a gun barrel pokes out.

  Jack punches the gas and the car surges forward, driving between two lanes, nearly sideswiping cars on both flanks as it barrels down the middle of the road.

  The two SUVs weave onto each shoulder to give chase. The speedometer needle rises: 85, 90... 100 mph. Jack white-knuckle’s the steering wheel, alternating glances between the rearview mirror and the side mirrors.

  Crash! The rear window shatters from a gunshot. Jack mutters to himself. “Mick is not going to like that...” He turns, hears another gunshot, and drops down just in time. A second later, the bullet rips through the headrest above him.

  Still clutching the steering wheel with his left hand, Jack reaches for his gun with his right. He stretches farther, farther, farther, until finally his fingertips make contact.

  Jack grabs the gun, lurches upward, takes half a second to steer the vehicle before whipping his arm around and firing one, two, three shots through what used to be the back window.

  Jack looks back up and sees traffic getting congested in front of him. Traffic comes to a full stop. The limo rushes forward, seconds away from slamming into the traffic jam.

  At the last second, it weaves across the median and into the other lane, going the wrong way against oncoming traffic.

  The black SUV whips into oncoming traffic behind the limo, but slams right into an 18-wheeler and explodes into a massive fireball.

  Jack steers through oncoming cars, never even looking at the massive explosion balling up behind him.

  Soon, police lights break through the smoke and debris behind him.

  Jack scans the area for other pursuers. “Where’d the other SUV go? The red one...” He swerves to avoid an oncoming car, then whips the wheel to the left, pulling off the interstate and onto a gravel service road.

  Unencumbered by traffic now, the limo surges forward, a massive cloud of dust growing behind it as it speeds up. Up ahead, a train whistle sounds. Lights flash. A gate closes.

  Jack presses the accele
rator to the floor. “Sorry, Mick...” Jack almost smiles, driven by adrenaline now. “Aaaagggghhhhh!!”

  The limo smashes through the gate, tearing across the train track a split second before the hulking train roars by, whistle blowing, blocking all view of the car on the other side.

  In the Chief of Staff office, Phelps stands behind his desk, scanning through several open files. A knock on the door makes him look up to see Charles, waiting nervously on the other side. “Agent Long. Please... Come in.”

  Charles steps inside. “Close the door,” says Phelps. Charles does. “You used to be Jack Mitchell’s partner, correct?”

  “Yes sir, with the D.C.P.D.”

  “Still in contact with him now?”

  Charles stops to think about it a second, then shakes his head. “We’ve lost touch.”

  “Really?” asks Phelps.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He attended an inaugural ball. Did you know that?”

  “Oh, that’s right. I ran into him.”

  “You ran into him?” questions Phelps.

  “That’s right.”

  “Thought you said you lost touch.”

  “Chance meeting. I really didn’t expect to…”

  “Never lie to a man who’s smarter than you, Long. I know you invited him.”

  Charles swallows hard, knows he’s busted. Phelps continues speaking. “Your old partner is the principal suspect in the murder of Donald William. I understand old loyalties dying hard, but we need to know the truth. So, where the hell is Jack Mitchell?”

  Charles puffs his chest and tries to look confident as he says: “I don’t know, sir. But I will do everything in my power to locate him.”

  “Good. Give the police whatever they want. Last thing we need the first week of this administration is a high profile manhunt mucking up our headlines.” Phelps looks Charles in the eye, sees some doubt. “What is it, Agent Long?”

  “Sir, I was wondering about...”

  “Spit it out.”