At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) (11 page)

he compiled most of his background information from news feeds and internet bios. Most of the third-party candidates stood and fell on a single issue. The United States was mired again in an unpopular war in a part of the world that Americans didn’t much care about. America could never master Middle-Eastern names, and it seemed that every member of al-Qaeda that died was reported to be the leader, only to be replaced the next day by another nameless terrorist.

The evening news was peppered with casualty statistics and bloody videos of suicide bombing victims. The voting electorate became numb to the gore on TV, and the numbness seemed to spread geometrically as the war droned on. Those who didn’t vote never cared anyway, and the malaise spread until politicians were more universally disliked than any other era in the nation’s history.

Surprisingly, in spite of growing antiwar sentiment directed at the present administration, a segment of the population was pro-war. This group grew under its charismatic leader, a young tattooed Texan named Foster Gates. Gates was not political, and he never pretended to be. his public life was marred by drunken brawls and a contempt for authority that had put him in jail on a regular basis. he needed his agenda to be fronted by the only person he could find who could stand in front of a group of people and lie convincingly. his handpicked candidate needed to be able to convince the public that the only way to preserve the American way of life is to kill anyone who is not an American.

Samuel hilton was the figurehead anti-gun-control candidate, or, at least that is what his web page said. his party, the Free America Party, was affiliated with the Ku Klux Klan in the distant past but in recent years had also aligned itself with opposing the new world order. hilton talked of returning the country to pre-1960s values, and his campaign was mainly restricted to white church appearances throughout the south.

Gates bankrolled the Free America Party with his inheritance, received from a trust funded by the income from his grandfather’s chain of appliance stores and gun manufacturing facilities. At the time of his death in 1978, his grandfather was a multimillionaire, and his fortune was wisely invested in a trust managed by a team of financial advisors who ran the family financial empire like a military operation.

Gates, however, never saw military service. If he had, his warmongering tough talk may have been tempered by the horrors of death caused by the weapons that created the family fortune. Contracts with the U.S. military to produce state-of-the-art lightweight field arms fed the family coffers for three generations, and each military conflict spurred another round of contract bidding that seemed always to be won by Gates Arms. But as is the tradition in military service, the rich seldom enlist to serve their country as foot soldiers. Gates had chosen hilton to be the candidate of the Free America Party. There were no caucuses or primaries for the third-party candidates. After all, they didn’t plan to win the election.

The Green Party placed Tonya Jenkins on the ballot. She attended rallies organized out of the main office in Stuttgart, Germany. The featured speaker, she was known to make long speeches calling upon Americans to strike out against “the tyranny of industrialized society.” The Greens attracted people who, for whatever reason, had not bothered to register to vote. Although her European counterparts had been elected to public office and held minority positions in legislatures in Germany and the Netherlands, the party was perpetually short of money and attracted no major contributions at fund-raisers in the United States.

The American Way Party was headed by the Reverend Billy Brooks. Reverend Brooks had a checkered past that often returned to haunt him. Three years prior to announcing his candidacy for president, Billy was accused of spending church funds on two high-class prostitutes, both of whom thought they were the only one he was sleeping with. his wife, Janet, knew of his indiscretions but continued to appear with him in public “for the sake of the children.” With her political-wife hairdo and a handful of prescription mood enhancers, she attracted the gaze of Billy’s supporters, who secretly bet that she would fall asleep before the end of each speech.

When Billy attempted to end his relationship with Bobbi, a stripper he had met in a Wednesday prayer group, she sold her story to the Globe for $100,000. When Trixie, a purported widow he had “counseled” after the death of her husband, discovered the existence of Bobbi, she sold her story to the Enquirer for $200,000, and Billy went on his weekly gospel hour to beg his widespread congregation for forgiveness.

With his wife at his side, he cried and ranted about the influence of the Devil, how the Devil made him do those awful things, how he had asked God to forgive him, and he had, and how it would be a very Christian act to forgive him just the way God had done. The response of his viewers was to write thousands of checks to his help the Children foundation and to pray for his redemption.

Reverend Brooks learned from his brush with moral bankruptcy by focusing his audience on the issue of abortion and hitting the talk show circuit to promote his book, The Moral Decline of America. In his metamorphosis, the good reverend made himself rich. In his campaign for the presidency, he funded the race with the checks of his listeners.

The fourth candidate was a perpetual politician named Forrest Carruthers. After twenty-four years in the United States Senate, Carruthers retired in the face of the Republican sweep of 1994. When Clinton was reelected, Carruthers was rewarded for his many years as a party-line Democrat and took the position of ambassador to Vietnam. This time, however, Carruthers ran not as a Democrat but as the head of the Reform Party. Disenchanted with the decline of Democratic power under a lame-duck president and depressed to the point of suicide, Carruthers was, in effect, put out to pasture. After years on antidepressants, Carruthers was revived to the point of caring and returned to the United States as a senior statesman, where he earned a decent living working as a political commentator on any news network that would hire him.

When the executive committee of the Reform Party approached him about running for president, Carruthers did not immediately accept. he took the news to his wife, Glenda, and they discussed the strain the campaign would place, not on their marriage, but on their health. Both had weathered cancer scares over the past few years, but with new methods of treatment and pharmaceutical advances that were successful in shrinking most tumors, Forrest and Glenda received the reluctant approval of their primary-care physician.

Forrest had days when it was hard to get out of bed, but Glenda was a fighter and had stood by her husband throughout their thirtyfour-year marriage. She had no tolerance for whining, especially from Forrest. She had even begun dragging him out for occasional evenings of ballroom dancing, an activity that she would soon have little time to enjoy. Campaigns are detours in the course of life, and she knew how grueling a presidential race could be. But if not now, when, and if not now, they may never have the chance again. his decision became hers, too.

The last candidate on Andrew’s list had no information beneath his name. The research on Max Masterson was sparse. Independent. No fax number. Age thirty-six. Never married. Unlimited campaign funding. Does not make speeches or attend fund-raisers. A 1-888 number where the party could be reached. But Andrew knew more about Max Masterson than the official bio had revealed. he was a bit of a folk hero to the single men in Andrew’s college fraternity.

Since his early twenties, Max had been on the annual list of most eligible bachelors. he looked good in a tux, and it seemed that whenever he wore one, he ended up on the society pages with a beautiful woman on his arm. For the mostly insecure and socially inept young men of Phi Gamma Delta, the image of a poised and confident Max Masterson in the company of the women of their dreams earned their admiration.

Yet, Max was more than that. he possessed seemingly unlimited wealth and had access to the most influential business leaders of the twenty-first century. his intelligence level had never been tested, or if it had, that information had never been disclosed, but he displayed depth of thought and the ability to resolve complex problems. his ideas seemed to originate in his mind alone. he used his sense of humor to entertain, and it appeared that those around him enjoyed his company almost to the point of idol worship.

Max Masterson had no equal in Washington. As the sole heir of a popular former United States senator from Florida, he had access to officials at the highest levels of government. his childhood was spent in tow with his father at social events, and his journey into adulthood morphed seamlessly into Washington society. News of his adventures around the world was the buzz that captivated men and women alike, and when the press needed a sound bite from a prominent person on an issue of the day, Max could be counted on for an eloquent quote of thirty seconds or less.

It just seemed that whenever Max spoke to the press, his eloquence clearly conveyed his message. he had the ability to simplify the issues to the point where there was only one position on that issue, and he had just come up with it. his dissenters were all being unreasonable— how could a person in their right mind even think that way?

Fox wondered what it would be like to be around Max Masterson the candidate, and he pondered why a guy who had everything would want that lousy job. It’s not for the money or the women or the attention that comes with high office, he thought. Must be some kind of power trip. For that reason alone, his fascination with the person, Max was the first candidate Andrew Fox arranged his schedule to interview. By reading and viewing the Max bulletins from “E” and People Magazine, he managed to construct a timeline of where Max would be during the next two days: Both magazines reported that he was going home to relax before an important public announcement, and the only place Max would ever call home was Fairlane.

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ChAPTER TWENTY-EIGhT

It has become a tradition in American politics for the incumbent president to draft a letter to his successor and leave it sealed inside the desk in the Oval Office. The contents of the letter are to be preserved in confidence by incoming presidents and are not to be disclosed to anyone, despite the concerted efforts of the press to discover their message. The letter, in actuality, is a diary that goes back to Washington’s time. Each outgoing president added his message to the one before it; a separate page crowned by the presidential seal. Most of the letters were handwritten, and none of them bore any ill will toward the next occupier of the White house. George Washington started the tradition. The purpose of the letter, also a well-kept secret, was to give practical advice to the next president to help avoid making the same mistakes he had. Politics were put aside in the interest of imparting wisdom that could only be acquired by holding the highest office in the land.

The best presidents throughout the nation’s history heeded the advice of their predecessors. The worst disasters were caused, at least in part, by those who ignored that advice or, worse yet, never broke the seal to read the handwritten messages inside. Thomas Jefferson was the most prolific writer in the succession of presidents. he added twenty-three pages to the letter and what began as a few paragraphs became a book. For the most part, though, each departing president used words economically. Bill Clinton wrote, “Don’t let your vices get the best of you.”

The gold-bound book looked historical with its red wax seal awaiting Blythe’s curiosity. Although Blythe used the book as a paperweight on the rare occasion that there was something on his desk that required covering during photo sessions, he never cracked the seal, so he never took the advice. If he had, he would have learned the lessons of his predecessors, all copied surreptitiously by The Society at the end of each president’s term and taught to the chosen few who would later seek the same office. Blythe’s arrogance prevented him from accepting advice from those whom he considered his subordinates. This became problematic when the only person he did not consider to be a subordinate was Warren hudson Blythe.

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ChAPTER TWENTY-NINE

As they walked along the Potomac, Max spoke without reservation. Talking candidly to a reporter is universally considered dangerous for a politician, but he had never been a politician before, and he actually trusted Fox.

“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but I’m not like those other guys. I don’t give a shit.” his pace picked up until Fox had to do a halftrot to keep up with him. “They look at being president of the United States as their life’s goal. The problem is that they have no idea what to do with the position once they get there. They care more about winning than they do about being the one person in the country who can change it for the good.” Max stopped, turned abruptly, and faced Andrew with his most serious gaze. “I’m not a politician.”

Andrew didn’t know what to say, so he just stared. I just met this guy who’s running for president, and he’s talking to me like I’m his longlost childhood friend, he thought frantically. How can I write an article on a political candidate who isn’t a politician? They’re paying me to report what the politicians are doing to get elected. This guy wants to talk about how he isn’t one of them! I have five hours before I hop a plane to some fund-raiser in Arkansas, and I’m supposed to post ten thousand words on this one before I move on to the next!

Max interrupted the young reporter’s panicky thought processes to explain. “I don’t care if I win. The job sucks. The pay is too low. Everyone is either for you or against you. Everyone knows your name, and I’m talking the whole flippin’ world!” he began walking faster, gesticulating to the night.

Fox began a full trot, struggling to keep close enough to catch his words.
“I’ll become the most recognized face on the planet, and I don’t care. There’s a lot to be said for anonymity. You can go anywhere you want without somebody trying to poke you in the face.” he wasn’t even breathing heavily. Fit people can talk and exercise effortlessly, and the rest suffer in envy. he stopped short, and Fox almost ran into his back. In front them a large buck, its antlers covered with the soft velvet of spring, leaped from behind a tree and looked directly at them. If they were four feet closer, they could have touched it.
“I didn’t even see him,” Max whispered in an excited hiss. “he was so camouflaged that I didn’t even see him!” he was as excited at thirty-six as he was at age nine. “If my dad was here, he would have taken his picture and had it on the wall by tomorrow morning.” his whispers were soft.
Fox knew enough to remain still. The deer’s ears twitched once before it gracefully turned tail and loped over the river bank. The encounter had taken only seconds, but it had the effect of taking their minds off the campaign for awhile, moving their conversation from politics to life.
Fox thought about asking him more questions on the list he held in his right hand, but it was getting dark and they were off the clock. It seemed more important that he just keep up and hope that Max would give him something he could put into words for Sunday’s article on the race.
“When I get out of the crowds and into the woods, I become a kid again. I miss those days just sitting in my tree house down here and watching the otters play. When I told my dad that I had seen otters, instead of trying to be an adult and telling me that there weren’t any otters in the Potomac, he asked me to show him, and I did.”
he seemed contemplative, almost melancholy. Maybe it was fatigue from a day enduring the cameras, or maybe it was something more.
“Are there really otters in the Potomac river?”
“You betcha. The pictures my dad took are hanging on the wall of my bedroom. Wanta see?”
he was a kid again.
They ran up the riverbank toward the senator’s gated enclosure, swiped the security card at the river entrance concealed by a thick growth of vines, and stepped inside a place few had seen.
The Masterson estate was like a scene from E.M. Forster’s “The Other Side of the hedge,” an allegory that focuses on the rat race and utopia and what people aspire to in life. The most visual part of the story focuses on the description of paradise; a lake surrounded by rolling meadows where happiness is defined by bounty and contentment. In that world, there was no poverty, no sickness, no deprivation. It was a world where beauty represents all that is good. A world where everyone wants to go.
Fox was transfixed by the sight of a clear spring-fed lake with a waterfall fed by a babbling brook. Behind it were rolling hills that were pierced by a red brick road that led to the main house. To the north was a thick old-growth forest of maples and oaks, beech and poplar, and to the south was a flower and vegetable garden that seemed to stretch over a hill into infinity. Clearly, Minuteman Masterson had succeeded in creating his own paradise.
This explains why Max and the senator were seldom seen in public, Fox thought. I can report this, but who would believe me? If I don’t get a quote from this guy about the campaign, I could be looking for another line of work, he worried privately.
They walked toward a low stone building to the right of the road. Soon they were seated in a small yellow solar-powered electric car, which sped silently on its charged batteries past the security cameras, which turned as they moved past.
Securing utopia must be expensive, pondered Andrew.
Just as they were crossing the stone bridge over the small stream that led from the lake to the Potomac, Max turned to Fox and gazed at him with his piercing green eyes.
“how much do they pay you at that job at the paper?”
“Not nearly enough.”
“Because the work sucks or because you’re feeling unappreciated?”
“It’s mostly the fact that I don’t know what I’m doing, and they’re always pushing me for something from you that makes news. If the other papers pick it up or if the broadcast media gets hold of it, then I’m golden. If another day goes by and I don’t give them something they can use for a headline, then I’ll probably be fired.”
Max was silent as they moved up the road toward the grand house. Fox considered asking him another political question but decided that it was time to sit and wait.
“how would you like to work for me? I could use a press secretary, and even if I don’t become president, it will look real good on your resume.”
Fox was speechless.
“Well?”
“how much is the pay?”
“Not nearly enough.”
“Then why should I take it?”
“Did you ever read about a man named Napoleon hill?” “No. Who was he?”
“Back in the early 1900s, he was a reporter who went to visit Andrew Carnegie, who at that time was the richest man in the world. Carnegie told him that he wanted hill to work thirty years for no pay, to develop a philosophy of wealth, and he gave young Napoleon sixty seconds to make up his mind.”
“What did he do?”
“he took the job.”
Max turned off the ignition and stepped out of the car, and without another word, the front door of the house opened. he walked through the open door and was gone.
Fox sat in the leather bucket seat. he made no effort to get out, and even if he had, he seriously doubted whether he would have succeeded. his hands and feet were tingling. he felt like he was going to pass out. he had a deep sense that the decision he was about to make was going to be the momentous decision of his life. he stared at the dials on the dashboard. Behind him, the sun was beginning to set over the hill, and everything began to glow the yellow-orange of dusk. The shadows lengthened until the car was completely engulfed by the shadow cast from the house. Still, he had to think. he needed to make the right decision, or face failure.