Free Fall (23 page)

The one they'd just finished watching--the fourth--started with Congressman Stanley Brathe preaching on family values, then cut to Hallorin describing the rampant hedonism of men in power. It concluded with a brief clip of Congressman Brathe entering a minimum-security prison in New Jersey, where he was scheduled to spend the next three to five years.

"Let me get this straight," Templeton started, aiming his comments at Peck. He'd thought he would enjoy the sense of freedom his recent job offers had given him, but in the end, he just wanted to get the hell out.

"You want to run a series of ads that basically tell the American people "I told you so'? You realize that this is crazy, right? Every poll says that the point has been conceded and that our problem is image. Any ads you run now should have Senator Hallorin frolicking with puppies and children, preferably backed up by a soothing classical piece."

Hallorin and the Freak continued to stare blankly at him but he was on a roll, so he decided to keep going.

"I mean, if you have to do some thing this ... bizarre, at least make Taylor the whipping boy in one of them. I mean, everything we have says that the undecideds are between us and him. If you still want to try to squeeze a little life out of this campaign you might be able to get some mileage out of that." Templeton knew what their reaction would be.

Despite the raw passion with which Hallorin hated his Republican opponent, for some reason he insisted on publicly portraying a dogged respect for the geriatric son of a bitch.

Silence descended on the room as Templeton fell, uninvited, into a chair in front of Hallorin's desk and began mentally composing his resignation for the thousandth time. He'd been rehearsing it since about two weeks into this godforsaken campaign, using it as psychological Zantec when things got ugly. Now, finally, it was for real.

"Mohamed?" Hallorin said to him finally, completely ignoring every thing he'd said and moving on to the next subject. Dead man talking.

Templeton dug a crinkled piece of paper from his pocket and looked down at it. Phillippe Mohamed had recently replaced Louis Farrakhan as the leader of the Nation of Islam, and for obvious reasons, he was not a huge fan of the David Hallorin machine. Templeton knew that he should just hand over the name and phone number of Mohamed's aide and walk away, but this was just too absurd not to comment on.

"Sir," he said, then took a deep breath to calm himself. If he was ever going to succeed in getting through to Hallorin, it needed to be now.

The shit was getting deep enough that some of it could potentially stick to a certain outgoing campaign manager.

"Mohamed has agreed to a televised debate with you " A sound somewhere between a coo and a squeal erupted from Roland Peck, throwing off Templeton's concentration for a moment.

"Of the list of venues you sent him, the only one he'll agree to is Oprah. As you might expect, Oprah's producers are very excited at the prospect and told me that they'll do it on twenty-four hour's notice and in a prime-time slot."

The Freak was starting to bounce up and down in his seat and looked like he was about to start spewing, but Templeton held out a hand to silence him.

"I really feel like I have to say something here, Senator.

While I agree that Oprah's going to be a lot less sympathetic to Mohamed than he expects, this is still going to be his crowd and an utter disaster for you. Look, we've been lucky so far. Mohamed's concentrated on attacking the Republicans and supporting the Democrats.

He's pretty much stayed away from you." Templeton forced himself to clip off that sentence, deciding against telling Hallorin that Mohamed's indifference was the result of his, and everyone else's, belief that Hallorin didn't have a snow ball's chance in hell of actually winning.

"No matter what you do or say, he's going to label you a racist, and the media is going to take the most sensational sound bites from the show and run them out of context over and over and over. You can't win."

Another long silence.

"Honestly, Grant," Roland Peck said, speaking for the first time during the meeting.

"I have no idea how you've managed to rise to a position of responsibility in the world of politics. Was it just dumb luck? Yes.

It must have been."

Templeton didn't move his eyes from Hallorin but it seemed that the senator was, for now, content to let his lapdog speak for him.

"It's really very simple," Peck continued, in a tone that suggested he was speaking to a slow child.

"I think even you should be able to under stand. You see, the stupid whites specifically your rednecks and other Southern in-breds will see the senator's candor during this debate as an attack on the black community and will love him for it. Now, your more educated and intelligent whites will see it as the first honest discussion on race in years and will admire the senator for his courage and vision.

And finally, the niggers'll jump up and down till they're black in the face." He giggled at his attempt at a joke.

"But who cares? They were going to vote Democrat anyway. You say the senator can't win? I say he can't lose."

Templeton's anger was at the edge of his control.

"Look, you little son of a bitch I've been running campaigns since you were in grade school!

You have no idea what the hell you're talking about! You cannot just fly in the face of political correctness and " Peck started to laugh out loud, a piercing and infinitely grating sound that abruptly silenced Templeton. He'd never wanted to physically harm anyone in his life, but right now he wanted to grab that little sideshow attraction's neck and strangle the squeaky voice right out of him.

"Grant, Grant," Peck said, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye.

"After all these years, you must have at least a rudimentary understanding of human nature. You must have picked up something.

People need pain in their lives they don't know they do, but they do.

They spend more money than they make and get themselves in financial trouble, marry people they're incompatible with and get themselves in romantic trouble they worried about the Soviets and the economy ... But then what happened? The Soviet Union collapsed and one of the greatest economic booms in history started. The poor things couldn't generate enough strife in their personal lives to satisfy their habit and that forced them to dream up political correctness. Do you really think that in the world we live in today, anyone gives a shit whether the niggers are called black or African American? Or that short people are labeled vertically challenged? No.

People just want their cushy jobs, fancy cars, and spiffy furniture. And they'll stab their own mothers in the back to get it."

He'd heard Peck spout this type of thing before. Apparently there was once a psychologist named Maslow who had created a list hierarchy of human needs. They included things such as food, shelter, companionship.

Peck had bastardized that list, arguing that these basic needs were automatically fulfilled in twenty-first century America and therefore irrelevant. His version consisted of things like the need to feel superior, to cause pain, to feel guilt. Templeton had heard it all before and didn't need to hear it again.

He stood and looked Hallorin directly, but still respectfully, in the eye.

"Senator, obviously you've decided to focus this campaign on a very different area than I proposed. I have a job offer that I've accepted.

It's been a pleasure working with you, sir, but I think it's time for me to move on."

He walked up to the desk and offered his hand. Hallorin looked at it for a moment, then returned his concrete stare to the wall.

"If you abandon this campaign now, Grant, I will do everything in my power to destroy you." His tone was matter of fact. The complete absence of emotion in his voice was somehow incredibly intimidating the voice of a man who would kill you for a dime and never think about it again.

Templeton's throat seemed to freeze up on him at the unexpected response. He hadn't rehearsed for this one and he found himself standing mute in front of Hallorin's desk.

Hallorin turned his head lazily in Templeton's direction.

"And if you continue to try to distance yourself from this campaign, I will make it my life's goal to fuck you and your family so badly that none of you will ever recover." He paused for a moment.

"On the other hand, if you stay where you are, there will be no place for you in my presidency, but I will say nothing negative about you--nothing at all about you--from the White House."

Templeton suddenly became aware that his hand was still hanging in the air and let it drop to his side. The White House? David Hallorin's grasp on reality had always seemed tenuous, but now Templeton was starting to question his sanity. The White House? He was a fucking distant dead last with the general election less than three weeks away.

Dead goddamn last.

Hallorin looked at his watch.

"I'll see you in my office tomorrow at eight a.m. to go over the new numbers."

Templeton knew he had been dismissed but didn't move. Hallorin was more than willing, and certainly capable, of carrying out his threat. He was trapped. He knew that all he could do now was turn on his heels and try to walk out of the office with as much dignity as he could.

By the time the door closed behind Templeton, Hallorin's mind had already moved on. Templeton was less than nothing. He would do what he was told to save what was left of his lackluster career.

Hallorin spun his chair to face Roland Peck, who was fidgeting violently against the wall. He watched in silence for a moment, examining Peck's nearly translucent skin, his thin, weak body, and the bizarre collage of nervous ticks that kept repeating over and over. For all his brilliance, young Roland Peck had been almost too easy. Hallorin had been able to tap into the loneliness and alienation that tormented his twisted mind and he'd quickly become dependent on Hallorin to keep the excruciating void inside him filled.

"Mark Beamon," Hallorin said finally.

Peck jumped as though he'd been jabbed with a needle, "We're all over him, David. All over him."

"It's dangerous having him involved in this. You know that."

Peck swallowed and nodded.

"But he may find the girl. I think he'll find her. I don't know why.

But it's what I think."

"Maybe. But he's hard to anticipate. There's no telling what route he'll take to her door."

"In this instance, I think I can assure you that he'll take the shortest route. We're all over him, David. All over him."

The heavy white flakes of early fall snow flowed into the open window on a rush of cold Wyoming air. The darkening landscape around her seemed endless: fading slowing into a monochromatic distance that never seemed quite real.

Darby Moore slowed her truck until the hum of the engine was nearly overpowered by the crunch of the tires over the snow. Not much farther, now. The familiar crooked outline of a barn appeared in front of her, a black hole in the shimmering stars breaking through the snow clouds on the horizon.

She was going to make it.

Darby eased the truck to a stop and stepped out, drinking in the silence and stillness around her, letting it take hold of her and push Tristan's persistent image from her mind. Keeping her feet firmly on the ground, she bent backward, lying across the warm hood of the truck and trying to believe that she was safe there. It was a lie, though--the file tucked behind the seat made sure of that.

Two minutes was all she allowed herself before she let her head roll to the side and concentrated on the dull flicker of firelight in the windows of a small house some three hundred meters away.

The barn first.

She approached it on foot as quietly as the dusting of icy snow would allow and opened the sliding door just enough to allow her to slip through sideways. She tried not to let her mind wander, but the smell of hay brought back memories of the countless hours she'd spent in this place, laughing with friends, drinking beer, waiting for the sun to shine.

It all seemed so far away now.

She stood motionless by the door for a long time, scanning the shadows and straining to hear any evidence of the men that she almost expected to be lying in wait for her. She didn't know how long she stayed like that five minutes, a half an hour. There was nothing. Only the wind.

It didn't matter if they were there, she was dead already.

She adjusted the backpack to a more comfortable position on her shoulder and started through the semidarkness. She paused at the ladder to the hayloft, finally starting to calm down. The barn was empty. She was almost sure of that now.

She darted up the ladder and moved through the deep hay to the back wall. A large window door to her right was wide open and the increasingly intense light generated by the moon and stars was working its way around the elaborate rope pulley system hanging in it, effectively illuminating the loft around her.

It was all where she'd left it. She lifted her mountain bike off a stack of boxes as quietly as she could and opened the untaped flaps of the one on top. First, she pulled out a down jacket and slipped it on over her sweat shirt. Then, digging down further, she found a cache of T-shirts, fleece pullovers, and sweatpants, all provided by her various sponsors and all still wrapped in the original packaging.