At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1)

At Risk of Winning

A Novel by Mark E. Becker

At Risk of Winning By Mark E. Becker
Copyright © 2012 Mark E. Becker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyrightowner, except for the inclusion of brief puotations in an article or review.

Originally published ---Press/Publisher???
Second Edition published 2012 New Genre Publishing LLC
First Printing ????
ISBN: 978-0-9853500-0-0
Library of Congress Number: TXU001700370 Interior Design by GKS Creative

Dedication/Acknowledgment

I want to thank my many friends and family who first encouraged me to write, and who read the manuscript. The brutally honest critics made me a better writer, and the rest gave me the support I needed to take the story that was rattling around inside of my head and give it release.

I have no investment in the words. I do have an investment in the story.
Now, let me tell you about a guy who is not a politician who just happens to be running for president...

PART ONE:

A FAThER FINDS A SON

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ChAPTER ONE

Across the river and behind the towering oaks that lined its banks, the nation’s capitol stood proud. The white limestone monuments maintained their grandeur by law, for no structure could exceed the height of the Capitol dome. There were no skyscrapers and no towering condos to dwarf the Washington Monument. The Jefferson Memorial could be seen from a distance across the tidal basin once a visitor ventured inside the Beltway, but from the senator’s vantage point, the political world was as far away as he could make it.

Along the top of the bluffs that line the Potomac River was the Beltway, representing the border between the political center of the nation and the rest of the world. There are no gates or signs designating this border. To all but the cynical veterans of national politics, it is invisible, but it holds a strange effect on people. In the course of the transition from the rolling hills of the Virginia countryside into the gut of our country, Washington D.C., the mind changes in unique and subtle ways.

The senator had lived that surreal life for as long as he could stand it, and although he had been out of the Washington scene for ten years, the draw of the famous and important people of the world brought him back inside the Beltway. he would visit for a flash in time—a public appearance or party here or there—and then return to the insular world he had created for the remainder of his years.

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There are only forty minutes each day when the light is right to take photographs outdoors; twenty minutes in the morning when the sun comes up and twenty minutes each late afternoon when the gold glow of light exaggerates the shadows. Each moment during that fleeting passage from dawn to day, and from day to dusk, is special in time and transforms everyday objects into visual art.

During those windows of opportunity, the senator chose to set his medium format camera on the bluff overlooking the Potomac and wait for the time when the shadows transformed the river into a strip of gold passing between the ochre bluffs. It was a tedious process; first, the tripod had to be erected and leveled. Then came the process of removing the heavy camera from the leather case that had housed it for one hundred and fifty years, and the focusing of the lens. Finally, the film was carefully placed in the back, exposed inside a dark box that would be opened for less than a second. When it was done right, the image exposed on the film showed all the detail of the panorama that his eyes could see.

he tried to capture the perfect photograph but perfection is flighty, and his failures far exceeded his successes. In the rare moments when the light was golden, his choice of subject was right, and the time of year brought out the colors of the wildflowers, he was satisfied for the moment. Then, his mind began formulating ways to improve his fleeting perfection. he launched himself into making it better, and the process started from the beginning.

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It seemed that his whole life was filled with big efforts, striving for perfection, coming close but never quite getting there, contemplating, scheming, and tackling it again. It didn’t matter much whether he was politicking or taking the perfect shot. he had to get it right.

Following his retirement from the United States Senate after four terms of meritorious service, John Masterson was rich, bored, and less than satisfied with his life. he was alone and felt like he had been put out to pasture. It was his own fault, he realized. his solitude was self-imposed, and his retirement was the result of a career-long frustration with the American way of running the country.

he had never bothered to marry. he came close a few times, but there was always that nagging thought that he was too busy to settle down. Despite the attention and adoration he had received over the years from more than a few glamorous women, he chose career over family. But when he watched his colleagues pose for pictures in front of the Capitol with family in tow, all smiling and clean and happy, he wondered whether he had made a huge error of judgment in his life’s plans. he had no family. he was an only child, the son of hardworking middle class parents. Both his mother and his father had encouraged him to settle down and make a family life for himself, but he was driven.

he had chosen a path that many strive to follow but few attain, and his years of public service were spent as the curmudgeon of the Washington establishment. he delighted in following the long, grand, glorious speeches of his fellow senators with a short and to the point analysis that reduced their words to an understandable essence. Most times, the analysis provoked laughter. Once the smoke screen of words that surrounded the message was lifted, he left the message bare for the public to hear, and it was seen with all of its logical flaws. Images of the senator throughout his career revealed his trademark distant expression. This aloof persona was interpreted as the face of a man who was thinking lofty and powerful thoughts that mere mortals could not attain.

While his face portrayed a deep thinker, his mind was primarily occupied with regret. Since his retirement, the regrets had transformed into a profound sadness. he had forsaken family for politics, and now there was nothing to show for his life except some old photographs, a plaque or certificate that nobody saw or remembered, and his memories of days spent in public service. Posterity, they called it.

My life is almost gone, and all I have to show for it is a pile of money and a gap in my heart, he lamented, an ache spreading through his chest. The time for being a family man had passed him by. In his retirement, he could afford to go anywhere in the world and do whatever he pleased, but he had no heir, no children to pass his legacy to.

Masterson moved the camera to eliminate Tuscarora Road from the bottom of the frame. he sought to create an illusion of timelessness from the real panorama that spread before him, without telephone poles, buildings, or roads. he wanted nothing in the scene that would allow the viewer to date the image by time or era.

As he looked through the viewfinder, he heard the faint sound of an engine, with squealing tires at intervals indicating that the driver’s speed was much faster than the car was meant to handle. he knew it well. Many of his Sunday afternoons were spent trying to navigate the winding turns of Tuscarora Road at the maximum possible speed without losing control. his Jaguar could do that turn at nearly fifty-two miles per hour, but the car that produced the sounds below was an antique Pontiac Firebird, and its oversized engine and worn tires were better suited for a drag race than a winding road rally. Through the viewfinder, he saw the car skid across the turn, overcorrect, and crash sideways into a large live oak that somehow had survived for hundreds of years. The tree never even shuddered. It wasn’t going anywhere.

The car began to smoke, and Masterson launched his geriatric legs down the hill toward the tragic scene. As he reached the last hill before the roadway, he could smell it. The smoke was now pouring out from under the hood, and the horrid smell of burning gasoline, rubber, and plastic rolled in his direction. I hope I can make it in time, he thought, wondering what he would do when he got there. Flames began to lap at the edges of the hood, and the windshield blackened from the smoke billowing from the broken windows.

As he came within the last hundred yards, lungs burning and legs failing, he thought he heard a baby cry. The driver’s side of the car was crunched against the bark of the huge tree. he had better access to the passenger’s side. he skidded to a stop at the bottom of the hill and crossed the road in a semi-crouch, trying to hold his head below the black poisonous plumes. There were no sounds, just a slight hissing as the flames grew taller. Again, the sound of a baby, its voice barely a peep, but he was sure of it now.

he reached the passenger door. As he yanked it open, a woman fell to the ground, her neck twisted at a strange angle. The white/ gray color of her skin revealed that she was already dead. he looked across at the dark-haired man in the driver’s seat. his bloody head was slumped over the steering wheel. he had to find that baby . . .

The smoke billowed in his face, blocking his sight, but when it thinned for a moment, he saw a white car seat in the back. A small child was gasping for breath, his little hands and legs thrashing frantically. he flipped the passenger seat forward and, closing his eyes to the smoke, groped for the buckle that held the baby seat. his fingers finally found the familiar shape and he pressed the center, relieved at the click and release that he sought. Reaching into the black plume, he pulled the plastic shell from the seatbelt and yanked the car seat toward him. It popped forward, and he fell onto his back on the pavement, clutching his prize to his chest.

Seconds later, the car erupted into flame, and he crab-walked backwards, balancing the car seat on his chest. The heat was intense as the flames roared twenty feet above his head. There was nothing more he could do.

When he had crawled far enough that the heat no longer scorched his face, he rolled to his knees and opened the car seat. A small boy, no more than six months old, lay on his back. he was wide-eyed and panicky, trying to escape the car seat, but the straps bound him tightly. The senator unfastened the restraints and held the child at arm’s length. He doesn’t seem hurt, and his hair isn’t even singed, he surmised. A close call for this little guy, but a tragedy for those poor souls. he turned briefly to face the burning car, but the heat was too intense.

he struggled to catch his breath as sirens wailed on the parkway. Within a minute, the lights appeared, and a police cruiser and ambulance followed by a fire truck surrounded the accident scene. By the time the heat from the fire had been doused enough to approach the car, the old Firebird was a charred black husk. Masterson kept his back to the heat until it no longer warmed the back of his neck, and then he turned, clutching the small boy to his chest. A young police officer walked up, clipboard in hand.

“Excuse me sir, but is this baby yours?”
he couldn’t respond. The question, as insipid as it was, pushed his mind deeper. he looked down on the little face. The baby smiled and
grasped his index finger in his tiny hands, squeezing tightly. “Sir?” The police officer looked directly at the child and then blushed as he turned his attention to Masterson’s smoke-smudged face and recognized the famous senator. “Senator Masterson? Is this
little boy yours?”
The baby looked directly into his eyes and captured an old man’s
heart. “Yes, I suppose he is,” he finally replied.
 

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ChAPTER TWO

When word reached the office of hamilton Bennett that his highest retainer client wanted to adopt a toddler orphaned in a car wreck, the ambitious lawyer thought the old man was nuts. But when his oldest and best friend outlined each step to complete the appropriate paperwork, file the lawsuit, and call his friend Judge hopkins to finalize the transaction, Bennett realized that what he had initially perceived as eccentricity was more a scene of true genius in action. he admired John Masterson for his accomplishments in the political and business world. Who wouldn’t admire one of the richest self-made men in the last part of the twentieth century? There are those who are blessed, and then there are the rest of us, he thought, looking across at Masterson, who sat in the red leather chair, a seat he had occupied many times before, but only to discuss matters he seemed to believe now were far less important than the issue at hand. “I’m a damn power lawyer, John! I don’t know squat about adopting babies. I have spent the past two decades doing everything you wanted me to do, but this . . .” he finally said, feeling the flush threaten to rise from his neck to his cheeks.