Free Fall (35 page)

Beamon made sure that his expression returned to something a little more passive as he tried to get his mind around what he was being offered. A highly prestigious job paying nearly three-quarters of a million a year in a time when unemployment was at record levels and he had just been fired. He hadn't known exactly what he was going to hear tonight, but this hadn't been one of his top guesses.

"I don't know what to say, Roland. I'm not sure I'm in the market for a job right now. I've got some legal problems that could "

"I don't know the details of your troubles, Mark, but the senator does.

Obviously, it would be rather inconvenient if you were ... incarcerated, while you were working for us. The senator intends to use his influence and our legal people to make sure that doesn't happen."

"And if it does?"

"In the unlikely event that it does, your deputy will take over until you are well or until you return."

Beamon crossed his legs and laced his hands across his knees.

"And if Senator Hallorin becomes president? Would I be out of a job?"

It was a stupid question, but would at least give him a minute to think about just what the hell was going on here.

"On the contrary," Peck said.

"On the contrary. If that were to happen, we would increase your salary to six hundred thousand dollars and significantly increase your personnel budget. We would expect that you would want to bring in some fairly expensive talent from the CIA and FBI to assist you at that point."

Beamon didn't respond, silently considering his position instead. This could be it, the end to all his troubles. The FBI's case against him was based almost completely on his financial inability to defend himself they would likely run far and fast if Hallorin became involved. So in one fell swoop, his legal and financial problems were solved. He could go out tomorrow, buy a mansion and a smoking jacket, get Carrie back, and golf only the really good courses. All in all, it sounded pretty good.

The only drawback? Darby Moore. This job offer was far too perfect and far too timely to be accidental. Peck had made a mistake by tipping his hand and had counted too much on Beamon's desperation and hopelessly underdeveloped survival instinct. He was now seventy percent sure that he was already working for Hallorin and that the senator had started getting nervous when he'd begun digging into Tristan Newberry's life. It seemed likely now that this was nothing more than an attempt to side track his investigation. A really, really good attempt.

"That's quite an offer, Roland."

"As I said, the senator was very taken with you."

"And as I said, the feeling is mutual. I'll tell you, though, I'm pretty partial to Flagstaff," Beamon said, deciding to have a little fun. He suspected that there was only one request Peck wouldn't give in to.

"We have companies all over. You can set up your office anywhere you want. Preferably in the mainland U. S." though."

"And I would have a written guarantee of unlimited legal support?"

"That's our intention."

"And that guarantee would be in effect indefinitely, no matter what happens?"

Peck had to think about that one for a moment.

"Fine."

"Oh, one more thing. I'm working a little side job right now. If I do sign on with you, I'd like to finish it before I start."

As he'd expected, Peck suddenly looked uncertain.

"We've already waited too long on this, Mark, and frankly, it's my fault. We want to be as flexible as possible here, but the one critical point is time. If you've already taken payment for the job and would have to return it to extricate yourself, I'm sure we could work something out."

"We're only talking a week or two," Beamon said, already knowing what Peck's reaction would be.

"I just don't know if we can wait that long, Mark. You're our first choice ..." He let the unspoken "but we have other candidates" hang in the air between them.

IRRELEVANT the crowd roared. A hundred arms and half as many red, white, and blue signs pumped the air, causing eddies and waves in the human sea below him.

David Hallorin held his hands up, his watch flashing in the powerful lights trained on him. He felt himself starting to look at it, but immediately turned his eyes back to his audience. For a moment, the image of the watch was superimposed over them, the second hand moving in slow jerks that cinched down the muscles around his stomach a little more with each movement.

The energy of the crowd ebbed as he leaned in close to the microphones set into the lectern before him.

"How many times we can blow up the earth and how many tanks and planes we have rusting away on our military bases doesn't matter anymore. The strength of a country today is based almost totally on economic power.

Ask the Russians about that."

Cheers and bobbing signs again.

"Despite a hopelessly bogged down government, American business-you people--kept this country afloat. And you managed to do it a lot longer than I thought possible. Now, though, it's time for a change. It's time to create a government that's a partner to the private sector and not just an insatiable monster that sucks out money and throws up roadblocks."

The cheers were louder this time and echoed eerily though the cavernous manufacturing plant. He stepped back and looked around him at the gleaming cranes and state-of-the-art equipment efficiently integrated into the walls of the building. The facility had been completed three years ago and was still one of the most technologically advanced in the world the crown jewel of Hallorin Manufacturing.

"I'm proud of what we've accomplished here," he said, scanning the back of the building and making eye contact with each of the television cameras covering the event.

"Not a single person has been laid off from this company during the recession."

The shouts were deafening this time.

The audience was made up almost completely of employees of this facility his employees. It was Sunday, but nearly every one of them had shown up, and most, as had been encouraged, brought their children.

Mixed randomly into the crowd at the feet of their parents, they would significantly increase the emotional impact of this event.

Hallorin nodded toward a fifty-foot-tall open door to his left and the picnic tables set up in the parking lot outside them. The sun had come out warm and bright and glinted off the balloons and flags tied to every available pole, car, and bench.

"Don't worry," he said into the micro phone with a sly grin.

"I love to make speeches, but I won't talk so long the chicken gets cold."

The blue-collar crowd tittered self-consciously. The subject had obviously been on their collective mind. Typical American stock, all of them.

The sturdy, corn-fed inhabitants of America's Heartland. His own parents had had the same dull eyes and blank expressions. They, too, had been people who couldn't see any further than the end of their street and seemed proud of the inability. People who counted on men like him to create jobs for them so they had a reason to wake up in the morning.

People who liked nothing more than to deride the "fat cats" in Washington, but who never hesitated to put their hands out when the subsidy checks came in.

In the end, though, his own parents' lack of ambition and intelligence had turned out to be a windfall. With Roland Peck's tutelage, he had learned to use their memory to extract tears from all but the most hardened political crowd.

Hallorin braced his hands against the lectern again and focused on the camera from CNN they'd give him the most replays.

"The world is looking for us to lead it out of this " The explosion was louder than he had ever imagined it was impossible to tell where the sound stopped and the vibration in his chest started.

The lectern took the brunt of the blast of hot air that slammed into him, but he was still staggered by its heat and pressure.

He glanced behind him when he regained his balance and saw the four Secret Service men who had been assigned to the podium lying on the wooden platform, dazed but apparently unhurt. The building's sprinkler system kicked in and Hallorin turned his face upward, feeling the cool water fade the sting in his cheeks and forehead.

The scene below him was chaos. Flame had engulfed the back wall of the plant and a white, mechanical-smelling smoke was starting to flow through the building. The crowd's cohesiveness was gone now. Some people were running full speed toward the open bay at the end of the building, seeming to follow the flow of the smoke as it was sucked out into the open air. Others moved more slowly with no direction, their minds still trying to shake off the impact of the explosion and process what had happened. Some, closer to what had been the source of the blast, didn't move at all.

All but one of the cameras seemed to be intact, protected by their raised positions along the back wall. He could see movement behind them as the smoke ebbed and flowed they were still rolling.

Hallorin felt someone grab him from behind and begin dragging him back toward the door behind the podium. He allowed the Secret Service man to pull him a couple of feet, and then used his superior strength and bulk to break free. His other three protectors were on their feet now, too, and moving quickly in his direction as he grabbed the agent in front of him by the shoulders.

"NO!" Hallorin shouted over the sound of the sprinklers and the screams of the people behind him. He released the man and pointed down into the crowd.

"Help them!" The other agents stopped a few feet from him, momentarily confused.

"Help them!" Hallorin yelled again as he jumped off the podium and ran to a woman who was trying to lift her husband to his feet. The Secret Service men still looked like they were unsure of what to do, but after a few seconds of indecision, all four jumped to the floor and ran to him.

"You! Get him out of here!" Hallorin said, pulling the man lying on the concrete to his feet and passing him to the nearest Secret Service agent.

"You three help the others get out!"

They did as they were told, weaving their way into what had been Hallorin's audience, lifting people off the ground and shouting orders at anyone who looked able to move under their own power.

Hallorin started toward the now diminishing wall of flame at the back, knowing that there would be no second explosion. The smoke became thicker as he continued, but the heat had diminished enough that it couldn't penetrate his soaked-through suit and the stream of water still falling from the ceiling. He pulled out a wet handkerchief and held it over his mouth and nose as he moved through the billowing clouds and nearly tripped over a man lying facedown on the floor. He continued on, knowing that he was completely obscured from the cameras now, finally coming upon what looked like a family lying motionless on the floor in a quickly deepening puddle. He ignored the adults and went for the two young girls lying next to them. One appeared to still be alive and one already dead.

Both were black. He hesitated for a moment, calculating the media impact, then scooped up the dead girl and began stumbling blindly toward the exit.

The girl was small, no more than sixty pounds, and he was able to cradle her in one arm as he ran. When he had cleared the densest area of smoke and came into camera view again, he used his free hand to grab hold of a confused-looking woman and pull her through the open bay into the bright sun and clean air.

Once clear of the building, he dropped to his knees near a balloon covered picnic table and laid the girl's body gently on the warm asphalt.

He bent over her and looked down at her burned skin and blistered lips, finally opening her mouth and trying to resuscitate her, though he knew it was hopeless.

The chaos around him grew as he continued to make a show of per forming CPR on the girl. Finally, when there would have been no doubt in anyone's mind that she was beyond saving, he fell back into an exhausted sitting position and pulled her body to his.

She would have never done anything significant. Had her parents managed to save enough to send her to college, she would have toiled in a mid-level position, retired, and died. If not, she would have worked for six dollars an hour and had five children the government would have had to support. But now she would influence the future of the entire world.

She would live forever.

Hallorin dropped a hand behind him for support, finally looking up as though he was just becoming aware of the flashing cameras going off around him.

He was going to be the president of the United States.

Mark Beamon squinted as the early morning light reflecting off the small lake in front of him slipped in around his sunglasses. Most of the leaves on the trees had turned to intense reds and golds, creating an enormous quilt that covered the mountains around him.

The old A-frame cottage at the end of the dirt driveway looked like an overgrown birdhouse--a simple structure constructed of weathered cedar and broken wood shingles. Beamon paused in the middle of the driveway and took one more look at the lake and the small dock jutting out into it.

It fit the vague description he'd been given, but he suspected that just about every house out here would. Street signs and house numbers seemed to be more a luxury than a necessity in this remote section of Maine.