by Kyle Mills
“Prayer in school,”King said, keeping him to his promise to be concise.
“Irrelevant!.”
Beamon frowned deeply. That indignant utterance was becoming the catchphrase of Hallorin’s campaign. It was showing up on bumper stickers with nearly the frequency of the“I Found It”slogan of the seventies, or the eighties’“Where’s the Beef?”
Hallorin placed his large hands flat on the desk in front of him.“Children can get up early and pray at home, they can pray at lunch, they can pray after school.” He shrugged.“If they want to, they can pray during class. The entire issue is ridiculous—invented by politicians to distract Americans from the problems the government has caused and is afraid to address.”
Beamon watched Hallorin’s eyes flash behind his—probably clear glass—spectacles. His handlers had obviously been trying to soften him, but the man still had an edge when he got riled.
“Family values.”
Hallorin gave a little laugh through his nose.“I’m for them.”
There was a silence too long for TV that it didn’t look like Hallorin was going to fill, so King piped up.“Would you care to expand on that, Senator?”
Hallorin sighed.“As I’ve said before, I like and respect Robert Taylor, and I share his sense of nostalgia….”
Beamon went for another French fry during Hallorin’s dramatic pause. He had to grudgingly admit that he respected the fact that Hallorin simply would not go negative on the Republican candidate who was kicking his ass in the polls. In fact, he seemed to be trying to make himself out to be a fan of Taylor’s, only with a different spin on the world.
“… I don’t, however, share his fervor for this particular subject,”Hallorin continued.“It’s an issue that is simply beyond the government’s control. What could I possibly do to reverse the trends of the last thirty-five years? Outlaw divorce? Legislate how much time you spend with your kids? I want a return to family values as much as anyone, but there’s nothing I can do to bring it about. And no one else can either.”
There was a knock at Beamon’s door just as Larry King brought up the subject of capital punishment. Beamon hit the mute button but didn’t get up. Other than Carrie, who was clearly giving him a wide berth, hardly anyone ever knocked on his door. Besides, he just wasn’t in the mood for visitors at this particular moment.
After a few seconds it came again, with the forcefulness of a person who knew someone was home and had business more important than handing out a free copy of The Watchtower.
Beamon sighed quietly as he kicked his feet off the table and walked over to the door, yanking it open in one quick motion.“You’re not here to serve me a subpoena are you?”he said to the man standing on his stoop.“Because if you are, I’m going to shoot you.”
It wasn’t that he really thought a man with a manicure and a two-thousand-dollar suit was working for that end of the court system, it was just that sometimes you felt like threatening somebody.“That’s not a figure of speech, I have a gun.”
The man’s eyes widened and he stepped back, reaching into his silky wool jacket with comic slowness.“Are you Mark Beamon?”
Beamon didn’t answer.
“I’m Christian Humbolt,”he said, his hand reappearing from inside his jacket holding a business card. It identified him as a partner at Reynolds, Trent, and Layman—a law firm with New York, L. A., and D.C. addresses.“I was hoping I could have a moment of your time. I have a business proposal I’d like you to consider.”
Beamon didn’t move out of the doorway. He looked like he was telling the truth, but then, you could never tell with lawyers. More often than not, they themselves weren’t sure.“Okay,”he said finally.“You can come in. But not for long.”
It occurred to Beamon that his tiny condo looked like it had been inhabited by a family of orangutans for the last month. And to add to the air of quiet dignity, he was wearing a pair of old slacks that he’d purchased when he was fifty pounds heavier and a stained Chicago Bulls T-shirt, perfectly complemented by his five o’clock shadow.
Beamon decided that he might as well complete the near perfect illusion of a paranoid schizophrenic ex-cop.“Have a seat. You can have the rest of that burger if you want it,”he said as he continued into the kitchen.
At least he hoped it was only an illusion. He suddenly realized that he hadn’t been outside since he’d returned from D.C.
“Uh, thanks,”Humbolt said, examining the chair across from the sofa before he committed to sitting on it“I just ate.”
“How about a beer then?”Beamon opened the fridge and reached into the back as the immaculately groomed attorney considered the offer with a worried expression.
“Sure,”he said, more to himself than to Beamon.“Yeah. A beer would probably be okay.”
“So what is it I can do for you, Mr. Humbolt?”Beamon said, handing him an open can of Miller Lite and dropping back onto the sofa.
“I’m working for a gentleman who’s interested in finding someone. I can’t count how many resumes I’ve sent his way…“ Humbolt shrugged, suggesting that his client wasn’t impressed with the options provided him thus far.“But when he heard that you might be available, he seemed very interested.”
News of The Fall of Mark Beamon seemed to travel fast.
“Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Humbolt—.”
“Christian.”
“Christian. I don’t have a resume….”
“Your reputation speaks for itself.”
Beamon wondered idly what it said and if he could sue it for slander.
“The job’s yours, Mr. Beamon.”
“Uh huh. Well, tell your employer that I appreciate his confidence, but I’m not really looking for side jobs.”
Humbolt took a thoughtful sip of his beer and nodded.“I certainly understand. I think I might be able to change your mind, though.”
“I really don’t think you can.”
“For a man with your background, this is a simple matter. I would think no more than a week or two.”
That sounded dangerously like another deadline. Just what he didn’t need.
“And it pays one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Beamon couldn’t help but look up from his beer at that. He made some quick mental calculations. Assuming a good attorney charged three hundred dollars an hour, that bought… a hell of a lot of hours.
He believed it when the FBI said they’d do everything they could to see him disgraced for the greater good of the political establishment. If he decided not to take the deal they had offered him, would a hundred and fifty grand be enough to stand against that kind of a storm?
Beamon wagged a finger in the direction of the attorney.“See, there, Christian, you’re making me think about things I promised myself I wouldn’t think about till tomorrow. Besides, there’s no such thing as an easy two-week job that pays that kind of money.”
“Normally I’d agree with you, but this may be the exception.” He paused for a moment. ’Tell me, have you ever heard of Darby Moore?”
Beamon shook his head, still trying to calculate the cost of beating the U.S. government in its own courts.
Humbolt reached into his pocket, a little more confidently this time, and handed Beamon a photograph of a dark-haired, athletic-looking young woman somewhere in her mid-twenties. She was standing on an exotic-looking beach wearing a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top.
Beamon ran a finger along the neatly cut edge of the photograph. It seemed that there had been somebody standing next to the girl who didn’t want to be identified.“I take it this is her?”
Humbolt nodded.“It hasn’t gotten a great deal of press this far out, but her former boyfriend, a Tristan Newberry, was found brutally murdered in her van in West Virginia last week. They’d been on a trip together. Now, she’s disappeared.”
“Well, West Virginia can be a strange place. The locals—.”
“No evidence of that,”Humbolt cut in.“It’s more likely that she
killed Newberry in some kind of lover’s spat and took off.”
Beamon turned the photo over in his fingers. He had to admit it did sound easy. A twenty-something girl on the run. Go to her house, cut off her credit cards, then subcontract a few reasonably competent people to watch her friends and relatives.
“I’m not sure why you need me, Christian. The local cops might not be rocket scientists, but I’m betting they can turn this girl up.”
“A normal girl, yes. Ms. Moore, though, is apparently a professional climber.”
“A what?”
“Mountain climber.”
“There’s such a thing as a professional mountain climber?”
“So it would seem—though it doesn’t pay very well. Ms. Moore’s permanent address is a 1978 VW van. There’s a fairly reliable story about her once living an entire year on less than three thousand dollars. At the time, she was residing in a tent in Yosemite National Park. Her income was generated primarily from collecting cans for their deposit value and occasionally helping the rangers rescue trapped and injured climbers. She speaks four languages fluently and she can get by in at least another four.”
“I’m starting to see your problem.”
“I thought you might.”
Beamon was having a hard time keeping his disinterest level in the safety zone. God knew it wasn’t an interesting case, but it was a case. Maybe the last one he’d ever look at.“Who’s the kid she killed?”
Humbolt smiled and dug out a large envelope that he’d somehow been carrying around beneath his tailored jacket. He pulled another picture from it and handed it across the coffee table. Beamon’s eyes lingered on Tristan Newberry for a moment—he was about the same age as the girl and spectacularly good-looking, with features and a body that were almost too perfect to be natural. In this photo, Darby Moore was standing next to him, looking a little younger than in the other picture. The slight bend to her nose that had been visible in the first photograph wasn’t evident in this one. Her hands were covered with heavy leather work gloves, one of which was wrapped around a brightly colored rope, the other resting on top of her head. Her face was lit up with a laugh. Beamon could almost feel the force of it through the tiny picture.
“We don’t know a great deal about Newberry: He worked a low-level government job in Washington, he and Darby had a relationship that ended a few years back—.”
“If I were to take this job, who would be my employer?”
“He prefers to remain anonymous.”
Beamon nodded silently. People didn’t part with a hundred and fifty grand easily and when they did, they generally wanted other people to know about it. Was his anonymous benefactor the one who had been cut from the first picture? A lover perhaps …
Beamon grimaced and forced his mind away from the problem and toward a mental image of himself eating frozen seal with a bunch of Eskimos while he chased this girl across an endless white glacier.“Mr. Humbolt. What do you think your firm would charge to defend a mid-level government employee who was being railroaded by a bunch of politicians and high-ranking bureaucrats?”
Humbolt took the shift in the conversation in stride. In fact, he looked like he expected it.“I don’t really know.”
Beamon just stared at him.
“I don’t mean to compound the reputation of people in my line of work by not giving you a straight answer,”he protested,“but I really can’t. In some instances, you start rattling sabers and producing paper by the truckload and the government decides that it’s just too much trouble.” He snapped his fingers.“Dismissal. On the other hand, if they’re motivated, they can be completely irrational in the amount of time and money they’re willing to spend.”
“Let’s assume for a minute that they’re extremely motivated.”
Humbolt leaned back in his chair, but not before subtly making sure he wouldn’t stick to anything.“I assume we’re talking about your situation.” His tone suggested that he knew more about Beamon’s situation than he should have.“We’d charge a lot. And this is going to be as much a publicity matter as a legal one. You’re going to need some top-notch people to spin the story right back at the government. The courageous, faithful public servant, stabbed in the back by the shadowy political brotherhood … that kind of thing.”
Beamon sighed quietly. Not only was he looking at the cost of a legal team, but now there was a PR firm involved. He’d heard somewhere that the prison they sent the Watergate guys to had a nine-hole golf course.“I don’t think I’m interested,”he said, handing the pictures back to Humbolt.“Thanks again for the offer, though.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Beamon? I realize you have a great deal to think about right now, but have you considered the benefit of a little diversion? Something to clear your head? Tell me, what can I do to change your mind?”
Beamon chewed on his thumbnail for a moment. As much as he hated to admit it, Humbolt was making sense. The walls of his condo were already starting to close in. It was going to be a long three weeks before he had to give the FBI his answer. And then there was the money….
“Three hundred thousand dollars. One hundred and fifty thousand up front. I keep that for my effort. The other one-fifty when I deliver. All expenses would be covered by you, of course.”
Humbolt opened his mouth, obviously about to start negotiating, but then closed it and cocked his head.“Fine. You’ll have a check tomorrow for the first one-fifty. One minor stipulation, though. Starting tomorrow, the one-fifty you get for delivery reduces by five thousand dollars per day.”
Humbolt stood, leaving the envelope full of information on the table next to the remnants of Beamon’s dinner.“Welcome to the private sector, Mr. Beamon, a place where results count and people don’t quibble about insignificant amounts of money.”
Beamon got to his feet and shook the man’s hand with a touch of uncertainty. He needed the money and the diversion, that was for certain. But suddenly he was even less sure he wanted this job than when Humbolt arrived.
“What do you want me to do with her when I find her?”he said as the attorney started for the door.
“Don’t contact her. Just let us know where she is. Our client wants to talk to her and convince her to turn herself in.” He paused with his hand on the knob and nodded toward the envelope on the table.“It’s all in there.”
sixteen
Grant Templeton paused outside the door to David Hallorin’s office and put a hand on his young colleague’s back. A deep silence had descended on the gothic cavern of a campaign headquarters, broken only occasionally by the rustling papers and echoing footsteps of the few remaining True Believers. It was Wednesday night, less than three weeks before the general election, and Hallorin was dead last—nine points behind Robert Taylor, the Republican front-runner, and an improved, but still pathetic, four points behind the devastatingly lackluster Democratic candidate. Templeton took a deep breath of the clean air in the hall, noting the complete lack of that seductive mix of sweat, cologne, and microwaveable food that he loved so much. Right now, this campaign smelled like it was preparing for the grave.
The young man next to him took a half step forward, but Templeton grabbed his shirt and held him back. His hand left a damp mark on the meticulously pressed back pleat.
This was the worst part of the most desperately painful job he’d ever had. The videotape in his hand contained selections from Hallorin’s appearance on the Larry King Show the night before, and Templeton’s job, as the official manager of this campaign, was to critique the senator’s performance. A no-win situation, really. David Hallorin was not a man who took criticism lightly.
“Okay,”Templeton said, mostly to himself. He pushed the door open and followed his eager young subordinate into the lion’s den. Hallorin was on the phone, so he stopped in the middle of the floor and tried not to exist. The young man next to him continued on toward one of the chairs in front of Hallorin’s desk, but Templeton stopped him, grabbing him by the back of the shirt agai
n and increasing the size of the sweat stain on it. You didn’t sit down in one of David Hallorin’s chairs until he told you to. Templeton had learned that lesson quickly and painfully.
Hallorin spoke quietly into the phone for about another minute and then hung up, pointing to a chair. Templeton was aware of his boss’ eyes on the young man with him as they sat. He knew that Hallorin was waiting for an explanation.
“Senator, this is Dave Jenkins. He’s going to be doing our polls from now on.”
Jenkins bobbed his head respectfully, but Hallorin didn’t acknowledge his existence.“Where’s Anthony?”
“He resigned, sir. Apparently got an offer he couldn’t refuse from a—.”
Hallorin wasn’t listening. His face tightened and he stared out past the two men at the wall.
In all his years in the business of politics, Templeton had never run into anyone quite like Senator David Hallorin. The man seemed to think of the people who worked for him as liabilities instead of assets—leeches who had no real ability or drive themselves, so they had to attach themselves to him. And despite the fact that he didn’t even bother to try to hide this attitude, he expected undying loyalty from anyone that he let bask in his glow.
Surprisingly, he often got it. The sheer force of his presence was enough to keep many of his people in line, mostly the young ones who believed in what they were doing and in the message that Hallorin had contrived. Unfortunately, though, you needed pros to run an effective presidential campaign, and most of those pros had developed a sense of cynicism to match the epic proportions of the egos they worked for.
