At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) (25 page)

The girl spoke excitedly. “Grampa, it’s him!”
The old man was quickly becoming overwhelmed. “Who, girl?” “That man who’s running for president,” she replied. The woman, who had stood in stoic silence, spoke softly through

the gap in her teeth. “Daddy, Maizey’s right. Put that gun down and invite these folks in fer some catfish an greens.”

Rachel stepped through the hole in the fuselage onto the dock and turned to Max. “See? I told you that you’re famous. Just don’t start shaking hands and kissing babies, or I’ll conclude you’re a politician.”

Max ignored the bait. “Mr. Petrie, how’s the fishing?” “Fishin’s fine. Catchin’ ain’t so good,” he replied, smiling.

u
ChAPTER SEVENTY-ThREE

After a filling lunch of fresh catfish and collard greens washed down with a large amount of sweet tea, Elias Petrie rowed the pair to shore and drove them the twenty-seven miles to town. Max and Rachel sat in the front seat of the ancient Ford pickup. The noise of the engine made it impossible to talk, and the truck lacked air conditioning that would have allowed them to roll up the windows. The dust from the clay dirt road covered the windshield like a thin layer of red paint It billowed through the open windows, coating their skin. At every rare opportunity where the thick woods gave way to a clearing, Mr. Petrie pulled off the road to clean the windshield, and they briefly disembarked.

Standing in the beer can‒strewn opening in the thick cypress forest, Max pulled out the satellite phone he had removed from the plane. Although he suspected that their movements could be tracked from its signal, he had no other way of communicating with Andrew. The plan for them to meet in Florida had been aborted, and Andrew waited in D.C. with the rest of the staff, awaiting further instructions from Max.

“Max, why are you in the middle of nowhere, when you’re supposed to be on your way to Colorado?” Andrew’s voice betrayed his annoyance. “And what the hell has gotten into you? Your naked butt is all over the tabloids . . .”

“I know, Andrew, but I’m giving everything to this campaign,” he quipped.
“Very funny. Just get back here so old Staffman doesn’t take credit for this stunt. Your naked romp has you up twenty points in the polls.”
Rachel couldn’t restrain her delight. “I told you so,” she giggled.
“And I’m not in the middle of nowhere, I’m in the middle of somewhere,” replied Max in the most insolent tone he could muster.
“Max, I’ve known you long enough to know that I never know what you’ll do next, but could you tell me where you are headed?”
“Chattahoochee. In a Ford truck with my friend, Elias. Say hello, Elias.” Max held the phone in front of Elias’s face.
“hello,” said Elias.
Andrew knew that he had better wait for an explanation instead of trying to extract one from his candidate. Max finally became serious. “Andrew, there has been a little accident. Something tore through our seaplane and almost ripped it in half. Rachel put us down on the river, and now we’re making our way to Chattahoochee. It’s a small town at the headwaters of the Apalachicola River at a dam. It’s the only civilization between here and there. They have a nice mental hospital there, and I’m sure we’ll be able to find a way to get back from Chattahoochee without too much trouble.”
“While you’re there, why don’t you check yourself in for a little R & R,” said Andrew sarcastically. “I’m getting worried. Planes don’t just fall apart, and your movements are being monitored. We need to get you to safety.”
Max sighed as Rachel cleaned the dust from her sunglasses and swatted at the cloud of mosquitoes that were intent on sucking the blood from her neck, her ankles, and the back of her knees. “Andrew, we need to get back on the road, but why don’t you guys head out to Aspen and we’ll meet you there in a few days. I’m going to chuck the phone and be out of contact for awhile.” Before Andrew could protest, he cut off the signal and tossed the phone into the black water of the cypress stand, where it landed with a plunk.
“Great, now we have no way of calling my mom,” exclaimed Rachel.
“Don’t worry, I’ll let you call from a pay phone when we get to Chattahoochee,” Max replied.
“Now I’m getting worried whether we’ll ever get back to civilization,” she said with a smile. “Come on, they’re eating me alive.”

u
ChAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

After the first debate and the New hampshire vote, it was down to Max and Scarlett Conroy, both Independents, and the incumbent. After Cunningham’s death, his party had attempted to revive the campaign, but Conroy had stolen the votes of the party regulars, and Masterson had depleted their campaign fund. In a desperate move to recover from his misogynous attack on Scarlett, Miniver recanted and apologized, but she was determined to proceed without the support of the party. Miniver was promptly discharged from his position in the campaign. For the first time in modern history, a major political party had no candidate in the general election. The party politics that had been so essential to success at the national level appeared to be gasping its last breath.

Postlewaite and Staffman saw no utility in putting Max back in a room with the other candidates riding on his coattails. Max was making better progress as the challenger and by addressing issues of his choosing in the format of his choice. he had learned that one bad debate can destroy an election, and the remaining debates, absent Max, Scarlett, and Blythe, were watched by the smallest audience since the networks began broadcasting them in the 1960s. The only debate of substance was the single debate that Blythe would agree to, and Max was able to focus on that event.

“You can’t win this election. We control the result.”

Luke Postlewaite sat with Presidential Advisor Ted Schoolcraft and White house Chief of Staff Roscoe Walsh in a conference room. As usual, Schoolcraft was controlling the conversation in his Yale accent.

“What do you mean?” Luke was immediately put on the defensive. I don’t like being ambushed by these pompous assholes one little bit.

“We control the mechanics of this debate. Your boy hit a home run with the third-party candidates, but he can’t play that silence game with the president. People want to hear, in detail, what he has to say about the issues, and we decide what issues they will talk about,” bellowed Schoolcraft. “I don’t think he has the balls to try that with an incumbent street fighter like Blythe. he’s going to look like a schoolboy fighting a gladiator with a Wiffle bat.”

Postlewaite knew Schoolcraft and Walsh from his early days on the hill when the senator was defending his efforts to preserve privacy for Americans. he didn’t like anything about them; their imperious attitude, their no-compromise scorched-earth approach to conflict, and most of all, their shifty little eyes. he couldn’t trust them to do anything that they said they would do, even though their Ivy-League tough-guy aristocratic approach would scare the bejesus out of lesser political advisors. he felt certain about Max’s chances of bumping off Blythe. The polls were amazingly supportive of this new figure on the political scene, and he was privately surprised by his confidence in an untested newcomer.

“You didn’t invite me here to try to intimidate me. You read the same polls as I do, and you’re running scared,” he replied.
“Don’t be naïve, ” intoned Walsh.
Postlewaite paused, feeling the flush of anger. Nobody, especially these prima donnas, called him naïve. he realized that his face must be crimson and that he didn’t need to speak to convey his feelings. he waited until he stopped sweating and internally composed himself as he had done countless times on the hill. They were taunting him to provoke a reaction, and he knew that whenever a person reacts in anger, their mind shuts off. he could wait until they began to question their words, and then he would counterattack from a position he could more easily defend.
Walsh was the first to budge.
“I have worked with you on several campaigns, Luke, and I thought you were smarter than this. Your boy has no experience. how does he expect to pull this one off? he has the pedigree, but no history . . .”
“Why am I here? For you to talk to me in rap lyrics? What are you going to tell me next, ‘If the office don’t fit, you must quit’?” he hunched his shoulders and moved from side to side to enhance the folly of their words. “I was in your seat thirty years ago. Don’t try to tell me how to run a campaign. I’ve never done it this way before, but Max is kicking your incumbent’s ass, and Blythe hasn’t taken his head out of it for so long that it must feel like he’s being kicked in the teeth.”
Their attempt at intimidation was not going to influence Postlewaite to do anything. This meeting was over. Besides, thought Schoolcraft, Old Luke is right. A gambler holding all the cards never bets against himself. With no more words to say, Luke Postlewaite picked up his iPad and stood facing the president’s men for the last time. With a quick sweep of his arm, he knocked his opponents’ coffees into their laps and ambled slowly out of the room.

u
ChAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

Blythe stood facing his opponent, foil in hand. A mask covered his face, and not much else covered the rest of him except burgundystriped boxer shorts and white ankle socks. his opponent was similarly attired; her blonde hair jutting out behind her mask like a lion’s mane flowing down to her shoulders, below which her abundant breasts were restrained by a pink Victoria’s Secret bra together with matching panties. She wore ankle socks, too, but no man she had ever encountered could recollect anything she wore below her curvy hips. On their chests was an electronic device that glowed and beeped loudly if the foil reached its mark. Clothes, both his and hers, were scattered around the perimeter of the room.

Schoolcraft burst into the room to report the results of his meeting with Postlewaite, but he wasn’t prepared for the sight that met his eyes. he’d made no effort to enter quietly, but the president was so absorbed in attempting to score with his young fencing opponent that he failed to notice. “Mercedes, if I score two more times, you’ll be naked, and I win. Three times, and I get anything I want, those are the rules,” he announced as he parried to the right.

“Mr. President, you always get whatever you want,” she replied. As she spoke, she thrust the foil to the center of his chest and scored again. She squealed with delight. “Now what do I get?”

Schoolcraft took this opportunity to clear his throat and announce his presence.
“Schoolcraft, what have you got for me?” he removed his fencing mask and walked toward his assistant, ignoring his compromising state of undress. Mercedes began to assemble her clothing and covered her breasts, to the disappointed scowl of the president.
“Sir, I have just left our meeting with your opponent’s people, and you told me to report immediately,” he said, uncertain if his political career would be over by the time he left the room. Droplets of sweat appeared on his forehead, not caused by the temperature of the room.
“Well, dammit, report, and then get the hell out of here!” The mighty Blythe had spoken.
“Sir, Postlewaite won’t budge. he has seen the polls, and he was bold enough to predict that Masterson will be the next president. I recommend that we implement Plan B.”
“Then do it, Son! I have to get back to my workout. I’ll expect a full report of the meeting on my desk by the time I’m done with my break.”
“Yes, sir.” he backed out of the room as Blythe returned his attention to his shapely fencing partner, who had unclasped her bra and was stepping into a sauna in the corner of the room.

u
ChAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

The dirt road opened onto County Road 270, and the ride became smoother. Elias had been taciturn during the bumpy ride from the river, but when he could speak without yelling, he opened up like the floodgates of the dam that appeared in the distance. “Ever since the guv’mint took mah pension from me, mah family been livin’ hand to mouth. That’s why ah fish. We sho’ could use some sto’ bought goods, an’ ah’ll need ta top mah tank,” he began. Without waiting for a response from his two passengers, he launched into the story of his life, how he was born downriver from Chattahoochee and spent his days working on the dredges and barges that kept the river channel open for the Army Corps of Engineers. he went on and on about how Atlanta, “the big city upriver” had sucked all of the water from the river, leaving his livelihood high and dry.

Rachel sat between the two men, and held her breath when he leaned close. his aroma of sweat and fish was overwhelming at times, and she was silently thankful that the open windows of the truck allowed the man’s smell to escape her confinement.

“We need to get to the Quincy Municipal Airport,” she finally said, interrupting his continuous monologue. “I’m a pilot,” she continued. “I need to file a report with the FAA. My plane crashed. I don’t want to lose my license. They need to do an investigation and find out what happened to us up there.” She turned to Max, who had spent most of the ride in deep thought.

“Elias,” Max responded, “Quincy it is. But when we get there, we’ll stop at the Winn-Dixie and get you some groceries, and I’ll leave you with some gas money. You have been good to us, and I take care of my friends.”

“Thank ya, Mistuh President,” responded Elias Petrie, smiling ear to ear. “Ah’ll be votin’ fer ya in the fall.”

u
ChAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

At Quincy Municipal Airport, Rachel met with local FAA official Buddy Godby, a local legend in rural north Florida for his ability to down more beer and shucked oysters at one sitting than any living person in the long and colorful history of the Panhandle Seafood Festival. Although Buddy was famous in his own right, he was positively overwhelmed by the sudden appearance of the popular presidential candidate and his girlfriend.

While Rachel filled out the crash report to fulfill her duty to the FAA, Buddy occupied his time by closing his office door and calling every news agency in a fifty-mile radius to announce the arrival of his even more famous guests.