by Kyle Mills
The man shook it, looking increasingly confused. “Sure, I recognize you. But what are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to the senator—it’s kind of an emergency. He doesn’t know I’m coming.”
The cop looked more than a little uncertain and glanced back at the surrounding press. “Jesus, Mr. Beamon. It’s Election Day. I don’t know….”
“He’ll agree to the meeting—I can guarantee it. It just wasn’t anything I could go into over the phone. You understand.”
Now, that wasn’t entirely true. He had initially tried to call Taylor’s campaign headquarters in D.C., but found that it had been dismantled with uncharacteristic efficiency. In fact, it almost seemed as if it had never existed—which was probably the point. After that, he had made repeated calls to Taylor’s home and had been told each time that the senator’s calendar was completely filled for the foreseeable future and warned not to call again. He’d never even gotten high up enough to talk to someone he could effectively threaten.
So, here he was at the man’s front door, prepared to start flashing unfortunate photographs if it became necessary. He hoped it wouldn’t.
“Look, Mr. Beamon,” the cop said nervously. “All I can do is let you through here.” He pointed to the next set of barricades about seventy-five feet in front of them. “Then you’ll have to talk to the senator’s people.”
“I’d thought our business was finished, Mr. Beamon,” Robert Taylor said, moving through the clutter that dominated the small office at the back of his home.
His mode of dress had changed radically now that his bid for the presidency was over. The jeans and peach polo shirt had undoubtedly been carefully calculated to give him a healthy, relaxed look as he scrambled to maintain his power base. The effect was less than successful, though. For some reason, the absence of the gray suit and red tie that had been his uniform for the last thirty years made him look artificial. Like a naked doll.
“I thought this would interest you.” Beamon walked forward and put one of the more impressive Prodigy photographs on his desk. The old man glanced down at it for a moment and then swept it into a drawer.
“I suppose that you think I should be grateful to you for wrestling the file away from David Hallorin,” he said, keeping an impressive poker face as his mind undoubtedly raced to calculate his options. “But you’re too late. It’s done.”
Beamon thought he seemed kind of aloof for a man with such a small penis, but decided to keep the observation to himself. “You’re right, Senator. David Hallorin is going to be elected—there’s no stopping it. But he doesn’t ever have to take office.”
“I see. You think you’re going to take his place as my blackmailer.” Taylor stood and leaned across his desk, using his bony fists for support. “You aren’t as clever as your reputation leads one to believe. Blackmail isn’t very effective when you’re demanding that your victim expose himself, is it?” Taylor’s voice was confident and heavy with contempt. “I can guarantee you one thing, Mr. Beamon. If the information in that file is ever released, I will deny that David Hallorin had anything to do with it and will do everything I can to make sure this comes to rest on your narrow shoulders. The prison time you are already facing will seem like nothing when I’m through. And I believe that. I will still have enough power to see you moved from minimum security to a place where former FBI agents are less appreciated.”
Of course, Beamon had assumed Taylor would take this tack, try to intimidate him. But it was a little late for that—he’d pretty much had it with this whole situation.
“Senator, if I was facing a man who had a collection of eight-by-tens depicting me with a rubber glove up some Girl Scout like she was a Thanksgiving turkey, I think I’d keep the threats to a minimum,” Beamon said, falling into a chair and stretching his legs out in front of him.
Taylor’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. If this weren’t a more or less life-or-death situation for him and Darby, Beamon might have actually had a good time. The political elite were surprisingly easy to shut up when you refused to kiss their proffered asses.
“Get the hell out of here!” Taylor finally shouted. Apparently, it was the most clever retort he could muster without the aid of a speechwriter.
Beamon heard the door behind him open almost immediately and knew that it was a Secret Service man peeking in to see if everything was all right. Beamon ignored him. “I don’t think I was clear in explaining the situation, Senator. That picture isn’t from Hallorin’s file—he still has that. You know how the government is—everything in duplicate.”
The anger on Taylor’s face melted into one of guarded suspicion. He waved the Secret Service agent away.
“It doesn’t matter,” Taylor mumbled as the door creaked shut behind him. “It doesn’t change anything.”
“David Hallorin knows I have this,” Beamon lied. “How much do you think my life is worth right now? Enough that I’d care if you branded me a blackmailer?”
Taylor started to tremble visibly. His eyes darted back and forth, and his jaw moved in a strange chewing motion.
Beamon maintained a façade of complete calm and confidence. He tried to picture the Tom Sherman of five years ago and how he would have handled this situation.
“You’re a great man, Senator,” he said finally. “You’ve done more for this country—given more to this country—than almost anyone in history. Bring in your best people right now and start your spin machine. Get on television and tell the American people the truth. That David Hallorin used information in his possession against you. That in deference to your family and colleagues, you didn’t want this to go public. But now you know you were wrong not to have come forward. Show them what you’re willing to sacrifice for this country. You don’t need to go into any specifics—I give you my word that the file I have will never be released. And after you’ve accused him, Hallorin will have to be very cautious about releasing anything that could prove him a blackmailer. Then you just fade into the background. The press won’t expend much energy digging for thirty-five-year-old dirt on a retired senator. They’ll be much more interested in crucifying Hallorin.”
“And if I don’t?”
Beamon took a deep breath. “Senator, I doubt I’d survive a Hallorin presidency. I imagine I’d have to use the information in the file to try to make a case against him.”
Taylor sank back deeper in his chair and ran a hand through his still thick hair. He looked like he was having difficulty controlling his breathing, and Beamon leaned forward, thinking that he might be in the early stages of a heart attack. Before he could stand, though, Taylor looked up at him. His eyes were clearer than Beamon had ever seen them.
“Last time we met,” Taylor started, “you said that I had done what I’d done with my life solely in pursuit of personal power. You were wrong, Mr. Beamon. When I started in politics as a young man, I had a vision. But then the process takes hold. Pretty soon it’s hard to differentiate between furthering your own personal interests and furthering the interests of the country. And every year that goes by, blurs that line a little more. I’m guilty of letting that happen. I admit it. But I’ve done what I’ve done because I love this country.”
Beamon nodded as respectfully as he could and hoped Taylor would refrain from humming the National Anthem.
“David Hallorin played me, Mr. Beamon. Made me forget why I do what I do; made me into a man like he is. I should have never let any of this happen. I made mistakes as a young man. But I won’t let this country pay for them.”
* * *
“It’s all been torn down and now it’s up to us to rebuild it!”
David Hallorin couldn’t see to the very ends of the auditorium—the red-white-and-blue crowd faded to gray and then to black as he looked out into the distance. The sound, though … the sound: thousands of people cheering and shouting—but that was nothing. Insignificant. Silent were the millions of people all over the country—all over the world—watching his
speech on television. Waiting for him to speak. Waiting for him to tell them where he was going to lead.
“It’s been a difficult race. A surprising race. My opponents are both fine men with many good ideas. I look forward to working closely with them during my presidency as we take the world out of this recession and create a new, even more powerful nation.”
He let the crowd’s energy and admiration wash over him as they erupted and drowned him out. This acceptance speech had been too long in coming. Years of planning and positioning, waiting for the inevitable downturn of the world economy. The file, the manufacturing plant, the unexpected benefit of Mark Beamon’s Vericomm tapes had all come together at the right moment in history. He was finally where he had always deserved to be.
Hallorin called his running mate onto the stage and watched him and his wife walk out, waving wildly to the crowd. Hallorin shook the man’s hand and kissed his wife on the cheek, then stepped back and gave him the podium. He could feel the eyes of his audience follow as he moved back against the wall and shook hands with the men and women who had run the various details of his campaign—under the watchful and anonymous eye of Roland Peck, of
He turned his gaze, but not his attention, to his running mate as the man started into the speech Peck had written for him. As always, it was perfect, maximizing the man’s youth and energy, but respectful of both Hallorin and Robert Taylor.
Taylor.
It remained to be seen how much real power the GOP would let him keep, but so far they were moving cautiously. Taylor was enormously popular—perhaps more so than when he was the leading candidate. The speech Peck had prepared for Taylor’s announcement that he was dropping out of the race was one of the best he had ever written. It had magically transformed Taylor into a man who cared more for the good of the country than partisanship and his own personal power and glory.
The other Prodigy casualties hadn’t yet been contacted. Right now, most of them were locked in meetings with their own parties, planning how they could sabotage Hallorin’s presidency and ensure that there would be never again be a threat from an independent presidential candidate. But they would change their direction quickly when they found out that he had the instrument of their personal and political destruction.
Their and Robert Taylor’s unwavering support, combined with the desperation and weakness of the American people, would make him the most powerful president of the last hundred and fifty years.
fifty-two
The speed, floating glide, and leather smell of the rented Cadillac was a welcome change from Darby’s smoke- and oil-belching pickup. Beamon leaned back, taking his eyes from the empty road, and watched the unmoving stars through the skylight. He reached out without looking and turned off NPR’s endless speculation about the Hallorin White House and tried to let the night sky’s calming influence sink into him.
Beamon tried to remember from his history and poli-sci courses in college what would happen. Had a president-elect ever gone to prison? He didn’t think so. As far as he could remember, none had ever even stepped down before the inauguration.
Was there even a constitutional provision for this? Would there be a new election? Would Hallorin’s VP get the Oval Office? Would the Democrats take it by default? Speaker of the House? The guy that empties the Capitol’s dumpsters?
It didn’t really matter. What did matter was that Taylor had decided—been forced—to do the right thing. When this shit hit the papers, Hallorin was going to have much bigger problems to deal with than an itinerant mountain climber and an out-of-work FBI agent. Beamon was really going to enjoy seeing that son of a bitch go down.
The fact that, to get all of this done, Robert Taylor had to disgrace himself and his family was a shame, really. Beamon wondered if the American people didn’t ask the impossible of their elected officials. They demanded men and women who were willing to tell them what they wanted to hear instead of the truth, and they left anyone who dared broach a difficult or controversial subject in the center of the loser’s circle. They created an atmosphere in which only people willing to give up their dignity to scrape full-time for campaign funds would have enough advertising dollars to brand themselves in the minds of the electorate. And then they turned around and demanded unwavering honesty and morality.
Beamon shook his head and flipped the radio back on, searching for a station playing music. Why was he thinking about this crap? At this point, all that mattered was David Hallorin being too busy with indictments to come after them.
Beamon turned onto the dirt road that was actually Sherman’s driveway and sped along it, allowing the Cadillac to absorb the deep ruts and potholes. He looked to his left as he rounded the last curve, slowing to a crawl and trying unsuccessfully to see through the trees to where Darby was camped. He wished he could convince her to stay at the house, but understood her refusal.
It didn’t matter, really. He’d given her his cell phone in case there was trouble, but there wouldn’t be any—David Hallorin was still waiting for Beamon’s counteroffer to his proposition. There was no way that son of a bitch would ever believe that Beamon would sacrifice himself for Darby Moore. Besides, he was undoubtedly busy drinking in the euphoria of his election win.
fifty-three
It was a little big, but she could probably bum it in half.
Darby grabbed the log by one end and started dragging it through the fallen leaves and tightly packed trees. She’d pretty much depleted the deadfall in the area surrounding the tiny clearing she’d camped in, and tomorrow she would have to take the truck down the road a ways and fill it up. At least it would give her something to do. All this helpless waiting was starting to drain the life out of her.
She dropped the log next to the fire ring she’d built and hurried off to find a few more. The cold late-fall sun was only inches from colliding with the distant hills to the west. It wouldn’t be long before the streaks of light burning through the branches above her would fade, making firewood hunting an unproductive and treacherous job.
Besides, it was in that half-hour of perfect twilight that Tom Sherman wandered down the road to sit with her by the fire. They’d talk for an hour or so about nothing in particular. She’d reminisce about things she’d done, people she’d met, and he’d tell her about his daughter, speaking like she was still alive, or about his work.
It seemed, though, that no matter how happy a memory he conjured, it was never enough to lift the deep melancholy that surrounded him. It was as if he had suddenly realized that he’d wasted his life on things that didn’t matter and had dismissed as irrelevant the things that really did. Regret was one thing she hoped she never had to suffer through. The fear, guilt, and rage she was struggling with would someday fade. But regret fed off time and only grew stronger.
Darby picked up a few sticks small enough for kindling and jogged back to her campsite. It’d be enough—she’d turn in early tonight, try to force herself to sleep.
For the first time in her life, it seemed that everything was beyond her control. Resigning herself to the fact that her future was being determined by men whose lives and motivations were a complete mystery to her was proving to be more difficult than she could have imagined. She knew Mark was doing everything he could, and despite his manic personality and confused ego, she trusted him. He was the kind of guy you tied your rope into without giving it a second thought. The problem was that she was used to leading.
There was no point in agonizing now, she reminded herself. She’d made her decision not to run, and even though it was based on hate and thoughts of revenge, it had been the right one. No regrets.
Finished with her twig and dried grass construction, she pulled out her lighter and tried to clear her mind. It was easier not to face the things she had been feeling lately. Denial—a bad habit she must have picked up from Mark.
She was about to flick the lighter to life when the sound of an engine came floating up to her. She leaned forward and peered through the trees for a
moment as a Federal Express truck struggled up the poorly maintained dirt road leading to Tom Sherman’s house. She turned her attention back to her kindling, but glanced up again when she heard the engine slow.
The truck started picking up speed again almost immediately, and as it moved past, revealed a man standing at the far edge of the road. Darby leaned forward and squinted, thinking for a moment that it was just a trick of the deepening shadows and the trees partially blocking her view. But then the figure darted into the woods and disappeared.
fifty-four
Beamon leaned over the kitchen counter and looked out into the living room at Tom Sherman. He hadn’t moved in over an hour except to take a few mindless pulls from the drink in his hand. He just sat there in front of the fire, staring.
Six months ago, when Beamon had first noticed the changes in his friend, he’d thought it was a little bizarre. Then, after some time had passed, he’d thought it was kind of sad. Now, though, it was starting to piss him off. The man had let himself become completely paralyzed just when Beamon needed his help most
He wished he could bring himself to call Carrie. She’d be able to tell him how to snap Tom out of whatever it was that had ahold of him. Or better yet, send over a few magic pills that could wake him up for a few days. But he’d closed that door, and it was better to just leave it shut.
Beamon grabbed his beer off the counter and peered through the oven’s window at the frozen pizza starting to bubble inside. He and Darby were on their own in this thing now. All he could hope for was that Taylor would do what he said he would and the whole thing wouldn’t blow up in their faces.
The doorbell sounded just as Beamon was reaching for a pair of oven mitts. He looked behind him through the kitchen door as Tom Sherman slowly rose from his chair and started toward the front of the house. Had they locked Darby out? He didn’t think so. Beamon leaned further over the counter, but Sherman was already down the hall and out of sight He slid his hand over the back of his sweater and felt the hard outline of his pistol. Paranoid, he thought to himself as he started for the front of the house. He really was starting to get paranoid.
