The Election (23 page)

As she studied Jed, she didn't see a grown man lying there. All she could see was the little boy she used to hold in her lap and sing songs to. She remembered how she cried the first day Jed went to school and how she cried again when he didn't want to go back the next day. She remembered his first Pop Warner football game and when he started high school. Naomi also remembered Jed's high-school graduation and how proud she was of him. Jed was the first McClellan to get his high-school diploma…

Although Naomi knew her son couldn't hear her now, she talked to him. “How'd we get here, Jed? What happened to you, to us, along the way that you wound up in this hospital bed? If I could, I'd trade places with you. It ain't right you lyin' here dyin'. You're still so young and got so much life left. Ruth and the kids miss you. You've gotta fight for them.”

Naomi rested her chin on the top of the bed rail and stroked the side of Jed's face with her right hand. “Please wake up, Jed,” she begged. “Please.”

Naomi recalled the doctor's telling Ruth and her that he wasn't sure Jed would ever wake up again. If he did, the doctor wasn't sure what condition his mind would be in. Jed had gone a long time with little, if any, oxygen to his brain, the doctor had told them.

Naomi knew there was only one way that Jed would wake up and be all right—and that was through God. She closed her eyes and offered a simple prayer. “Lord, take care of Jed.”

A single tear escaped from Naomi's eye and gently fell on Jed's big hand.

George Bush Intercontinental Airport, north of Houston, Texas

Shep wanted to keep his involvement in Dalton's investigation a secret until after the election, if not forever. If the PI's efforts proved fruitless, then Shep wouldn't have the embarrassment of having to explain to the campaign staff how he had failed. If Dalton's efforts were fruitful, then victory would be theirs, and Mac wouldn't really care how it happened. But Jack prodded him often after their conversation at the church in New Orleans. Each time Shep refused to say anything, but with each prod his resistance diminished.

Shep didn't like the idea of telling Jack. The more people who knew, the more chances there were for Mac to find out. Even at this late date Shep knew that Mac would demand that all covert activities cease. Shep couldn't let that happen. Dalton was their only hope.

The campaign was back in Texas. The latest polls Shep received indicated a slight increase for Mac in the Lone Star State, with the margin there narrowed to 8 points. Shep knew that, mathematically, Mac had no chance of winning the presidency, even if he carried Texas. The electoral college and the popular vote were both completely in Edward Burke's column. But Texas was a large state, and if Mac could carry it, the final tally on Election Day wouldn't be nearly as embarrassing.

The Foster for President Boeing 747 was parked on the tarmac at George Bush Intercontinental Airport on Highway 59, north of Houston. In the final two-week marathon the campaign would hit five cities a day, trying to rally the Republican voter base for a final push to Election Day. Shep watched Mac from the airplane as Mac stood on a platform below, giving his best fire-and-brimstone speech. His voice was tired and hoarse, but his energy was endless.

“The race isn't over!” His voice boomed into the microphone over the crowd noise. It was one of the larger crowds the Foster campaign had seen in the last few days.

“We're not giving up, and neither should you!” he shouted again. The crowd roared its approval.

Soon Jack joined Shep in the passenger cabin of the airplane, and both watched Mac through the small oval windows.

“He really is something,” Jack stated in admiration. “He doesn't have a prayer of winning, and still he's out there, giving 110 percent.”

It was time, Shep realized. Time to let Jack in on his secret. “He still has a chance,” Shep said, keeping his gaze fixed on Mac.

Jack turned to scrutinize Shep. “You keep saying that, but you never tell me how that's possible. And, in fact, it can't be possible with only two weeks remaining until Election Day. We're too far behind.”

“Do you remember the night we were in Miami, watching Burke's acceptance speech?” Shep asked, still keeping his eyes on Mac.

“Yes,” Jack said slowly.

Shep could feel Jack's stare. “We talked about Burke's campaign fund-raising.”

“I remember,” Jack replied. “But nothing ever came of it.”

“That's not exactly true.”

“What do you mean?”

Shep turned away from the window and faced Jack, who was looking at him like an eager puppy wanting a morsel. “I mean something has come of it.” He paused to make sure Jack would hear his next statement clearly. “I hired a private investigator.”

“What?” Jack yelled. Then, looking around, he lowered his voice. “You hired a
private investigator
? Are you crazy?”

Shep raised his hands, palm side toward Jack, defending himself. “You've been begging to hear this. Just listen to me. I hired an investigator. You remember the murder of Burke's friend in Tennessee in August?”

“Vaguely,” Jack responded.

“It turns out it was an assassination.”

“Assassination? What are you talking about?”

Shep told Jack everything he knew about the Jesse Thompson murder and the connection to F-PAC. He promised to show him the F-PAC documents later.

“What does all that mean?” Jack asked.

“It means we're close,” Shep insisted. “If we can tie F-PAC to Burke, then we've got him. Without that connection, we have nothing.”

“We've got to tell Mac,” Jack stated.

“No!” replied Shep. “Mac cannot know now…and maybe never.”

“Why?”

“Because he'll tell us to end the investigation, and the investigation is the only thing we have that might save us.” Shep glared at Jack. “You cannot tell Mac anything about this. If anybody tells him,
I'll
tell him. But only when the time is right.”

When Shep heard the music from the local high-school marching band that was brought in for the rally, he knew Mac's speech was over. He and Jack separated into different areas of the plane.

In just a few moments Mac and Shannon boarded the plane, and Mac found Shep in the galley.

“Anything new?” Mac inquired.

“Not really, sir,” Shep replied.

“It was a great rally. I wish all the crowds could be that big.”

“It was a great rally.” Shep grinned. He could tell Mac was still experiencing an adrenaline rush from the rally's energy. “You're going to make a great president.”

“Thanks for the encouragement. Where is our next stop?”

“San Antonio. We'll finish up Texas today, and then go back to Albany for the night. We have a lot of stops to make between now and Election Day.”

“It will be good to go home,” Mac commented. “If only for one night.”

 

Hilton Head Island, South Carolina

It had now been a little over two weeks since Hudson's last visit, and Claudia still hadn't heard from him. Not a word. To say she was worried would be an understatement. She constantly recalled their conversation on the beach one morning several weeks ago. She was terrified, and rightfully so, that something terrible had happened to him. It was so unlike him to not even call between visits.

Claudia sat by the glass-top kitchen table, half-heartedly picking at her lunch: a bowl of she-crab soup. She hadn't had much of an appetite in several days. It was impossible to worry and be hungry at the same time. She took only a few spoonfuls of the soup before pushing it away and standing up.

She paced to the large triple-wide window in the great room that overlooked the vast Atlantic Ocean. The ocean and sky seemed endless.

Her worries crescendoed after all the days with no word from the man she loved.
Where can Hudson be? Why hasn't he called? Has something happened to him?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the front door.

Perhaps that's him, and he's forgotten his key!

She hurried to the front door, anticipating seeing Hudson on the other side.

But when she opened the front door, a young man in a blue uniform stood there. The name tag over the pocket of his shirt indicated that he was with an island courier service.

“Are you Claudia Duval?” he asked.

“I am,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”

“I have a package for you.” The young man handed Claudia a small, padded manila envelope. “Please sign here.” He thrust a clipboard at her.

Claudia took the envelope, signed the clipboard, gave the courier a tip, and closed the door. She looked at the return address. It was from Hudson. She tried to rip open the envelope with her hands, but the flap was sealed by a metal clasp and three layers of Scotch tape. She finally located a metal letter opener in the top drawer of the desk in the study adjacent to the great room. She slit the top crease of the envelope and poured its contents onto the kitchen table. A tiny key and a single, tri-folded sheet of paper fell out. She unfolded the paper and began to read.

Claudia picked up the brass key and brought it close to her face. The round head of the key was covered with red plastic, and on it was inscribed
T-25.

Her life had just been thrown into utter confusion. The last six months with Hudson had been a complete lie.

Once again, Claudia was all alone. She had no friends or family to talk to, and now no Hudson.

Nothing made sense.

 

“Can you tell what's going on?” Agent Moyers asked.

He and Agent Osborne had watched the courier come and go. They also watched Claudia read the letter and saw her reaction.

“I have no idea what's happening,” Bill replied. “There was obviously something in that letter.”

“Stay alert,” Al stated. “Anything could happen.”

Manhattan

Despite his Irish name, Milton McAdams loved Italian food. The best Italian restaurant in Manhattan was Carmine's on 44
^th
Street between Broadway and Eighth Avenue. The food was delicious, and the waiters were typically New York rude. The restaurant was always packed and noisy. Carmine's didn't provide its patrons with menus. The offerings of the day were written on a chalkboard by the front door, and the customer was expected to be prepared to order when he sat down at his table.

Milton arrived at the restaurant just after eight o'clock on Wednesday evening. He was a regular customer, and the proprietor always had a table for him. He followed the hostess into the main dining area. She led him to the booth in the back-right corner of the restaurant. A Ben Franklin always garnered him his favorite table. The deeper Milton walked into Carmine's, the more it took on the appearance of a quaint eatery in the old section of Rome. A single candle illuminated the red-and-white-checkered cloth on his table. Italian paraphernalia covered the interior walls, and photographs of the proprietor's ancestors hung alongside red, white, and green flags.

Another chalkboard bearing the evening's menu hung on a wall near Milton's table, and he glanced at it as the waiter approached. Milton selected the
bola pasta
, accompanied by a glass of red wine. He wished Claudia were there with him. By now she would have received his package, but he couldn't call to check on her. It would be taking too much of a risk.

Milton noticed a man and a woman sitting three tables away. They appeared to be from out of town and were enjoying some of the world-famous Manhattan cuisine. They laughed, talked, and laughed again. Occasionally one of them glanced in his direction, and he politely smiled.

The waiter delivered his pasta, and Milton savored his meal as long as he could. But when the evening grew to be nearly nine o'clock, he realized, reluctantly, that it was time to leave. He finished his pasta, paid the waiter, put on his cashmere topcoat, and left the restaurant. He had previously instructed his chauffeur to pick him up precisely at nine o'clock at the corner of Broadway and 44
^th
. Milton walked the half block along the dirty sidewalk and through the blowing exhaust, created by the underground subway system, to the scheduled destination. He saw his limousine two blocks away and waved, signaling the driver to pull the car forward to where he was standing.

The huge Jumbotron at the south end of Times Square captured his attention. While it broadcast an MTV music video, a stock-market ticker ran around the bottom of the screen, displaying closing stock quotes from the NYSE and NASDAQ markets in red letters. Milton watched for the World Federal symbol, although he knew the day's closing price. Cacophony filled the brisk night air. Cars honked, people shouted, and neon lights flashed. To an outsider Times Square looked like chaos, but not to Milton.

He turned from watching the stock-market ticker and glanced up and down Broadway as he waited on his limousine. Milton loved Manhattan almost as much as he loved Eden. Each place was special to him. Manhattan was exciting, fast-paced, and unpredictable. Eden was relaxing, comfortable, and serene. But Eden had one advantage over Manhattan. It had Claudia. And that was where Milton wanted to be.

Two more weeks
, he encouraged himself.
Two more weeks and this whole ordeal will be over. Then you can go home to Claudia.

The idea of world dominance he'd agreed to had been altered, and there was no way of reversing courses. He knew the problem was Randolph. Milton didn't think that Pierce had noticed it yet, but Randolph had changed. He was different than he'd been when the concept of the Federalists originated. Randolph was now obsessed with the Federalists, but his obsession appeared to have nothing to do anymore with saving the world. The last time the Federalists were together, Milton had seen something in Randolph…in his eyes. It was something Milton had never seen before. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it was definitely evil. It made him shiver even now, thinking about it.

Two more weeks
, he told himself again. He was prepared to allow Randolph and Pierce to have the Federalists, and he would never tell a soul about them. All he wanted to do was wake up every morning next to Claudia.

 

FBI agents Sam Chambers and Teresa Markham left Carmine's immediately after Milton McAdams. Their assignment from Saul Sanders was clear. Milton McAdams had to be eliminated tonight.

“I don't think he knew we were watching him in the restaurant, but it's got to be done before he gets in his car,” Teresa advised. Her vision was fixed firmly on the back of their target, now twenty feet in front of them. “We may not get another opportunity.”

“I know,” Sam replied. “You keep a look out for NYPD. I'll make the hit before he gets in the car.”

Teresa and Sam stayed a safe distance behind, following their mark to the corner of 44
^th
and Broadway. Pedestrians streamed through the crosswalk, hurrying to cross Broadway before the signal changed. Milton stood immediately to the right of the entrance to the crosswalk. Pedestrians passed behind him on the sidewalk, one or two bumping into him. Sam methodically made his way through the crowd until finally he was standing directly behind Milton. He knew Teresa stood twenty feet away, constantly scanning the crowd for the blue uniforms of NYPD street cops. She would give a signal if one appeared.

 

Milton saw his limousine had stopped at the red light at 45
^th
and Broadway, behind a yellow cab. When the traffic light changed to green, several straggling pedestrians increased their pace to complete the trek across Broadway before being struck by the oncoming traffic. The cab accelerated slowly. Milton's limousine was immediately behind it, casually making its way to the pickup point.

 

“Can't you go any faster!” the male passenger screamed at the Ukrainian immigrant driver of Cab 57 from the Yellow Cab Company. The driver hardly understood any English, but the passenger hoped his tone would convey his message. He leaned forward again, shouting through the small holes in the bulletproof window separating the front seat from the backseat. He wanted to make sure the driver could hear him. “I've got to be at the corner of 34
^th
in five minutes!” The acceleration from the driver's response caused the passenger to fall back into the tattered rear seat of the cab.

 

Chambers inched closer to Milton. He placed his right hand in his coat pocket and gripped the cold metal from the .38 caliber Smith & Wesson pistol, equipped with a silencer. He placed his index finger along the trigger and angled the barrel of the gun at Milton's back. As he began to pull the trigger, he saw Cab 57 barreling down Broadway in the lane closest to the sidewalk and relaxed his trigger finger. He wouldn't need to fire his gun after all. As the cab sped through the intersection at 44
^th
, Sam nudged Milton in the back with his right shoulder. Milton lost his balance on the curb and stumbled into the street, right into the path of the oncoming vehicle.

As the cab careened violently toward Milton, he screamed, and the pedestrians who remained on the corner screamed. The sounds were engulfed by the swirl of noise that blew through Times Square.

Sam watched calmly as the front bumper of the cab struck Milton immediately below the waist and his body flipped into the air, landing on the hood and front windshield of the car. The impact shattered the windshield. The driver of the cab slammed on the car's brakes, and Milton's body rolled wildly off the front of the cab. His cashmere topcoat was still wrapped around him as his lifeless body landed on Broadway and slid to a halt against the curb. Blood began to stream from every orifice of Milton's head, running into the metal street gutter that led to the underground storm drain system.

The whole event had lasted less than five seconds.

Sam congratulated himself. Nobody would see anything in it but a horrible accident. He and Teresa had accomplished their mission.

 

The Ukrainian driver of the cab leaped from the driver's-side door and rushed to Milton's body. He frantically called for help in his native tongue, but no one responded.

“Where are you going?” the cab's passenger yelled out the window as the driver exited the car. “I'm already late!”

He smacked his fist into the backseat cushion and exited the car through the driver's-side rear door.

After slamming the door, he hailed another cab. “I don't have time for this,” he muttered as the second cab pulled away from the scene.

 

Pedestrians gathered around Milton's corpse, gawking at the spectacle of a dead man lying in the middle of Times Square. Because the NYPD utilized officers on horses and bicycles to patrol Times Square, two NYPD officers on bicycles were at the scene within a minute. One officer radioed his precinct office, requesting medical assistance and additional officers, while the other officer began questioning the multitude of onlookers. Homicide detectives would also question spectators later, but every witness would tell the same story. It was a horrible accident.

Sam and Teresa disappeared into the crowd and walked north on Broadway, away from the scene. Within an hour they would be on an airplane out of LaGuardia to DC and would personally give Saul Sanders their report.

 

Hilton Head Island, South Carolina

After she read Milton's letter, Claudia ran through a multitude of emotions—from anger to confusion to sadness and back to anger again. She finally lay down on the sofa in the den and passed out from the exhaustion of the emotional roller coaster she had ridden over the last several hours.

 

Agents Osborne and Moyers stood on the balcony of the house next door. The full moon glistened off the calm waters of the Atlantic Ocean, and the blue light from the television in Claudia's house was visible through the clear night sky. It was the only illumination in the entire house, but it cast enough light into the great room that Al could see Claudia lying on the sofa through his binoculars.

“Do you think she's dead?” Bill asked Al. “It's 9:58, and she's been like that for a couple of hours now.”

“She's alive. I didn't see her take any pills or anything.” Al paused before giving his next report. “She's moving. Something must have awakened her.”

 

Startled from her sleep, Claudia abruptly sat up on the sofa and looked wildly around the room. Seeing nothing out of place, her pulse began to return to normal. She softly rubbed her swollen eyes. Her mouth felt like it was filled with cotton, so she stumbled toward the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

She had not been watching the television, but as she walked by, something caught her eye. It was a picture of Hudson! She frantically found the remote control and increased the volume. She sat back awkwardly on the arm of the sofa, her attention focused intently on the news broadcast.

As a female reporter from
FOX News
spoke into the camera, the phrase BREAKING NEWS flashed in red letters beneath her face. Over her left shoulder was the picture of Hudson.

“
FOX News
has learned that billionaire Milton McAdams was killed in a bizarre accident in Times Square,” the reporter said. “Mr. McAdams was the principal shareholder in World Federal Bancshares…”

 

“What was that?” Bill asked.

“She screamed,” Al said. He continued to watch Claudia through the binoculars, then realized, from her horrified stare, that something on television had her riveted. “Quick, turn on the television. What do you see?”

“They're talking about some guy getting killed in Times Square,” Bill replied. “Hey, wait a minute. That's our guy. Milton McAdams. The reporter just said that Milton McAdams was run over by a cab in Times Square.”

“We better call Sanders.”

 

Apollyon Associates, Inc., lower Manhattan

Randolph paced around his office. He had received confirmation five minutes ago that Milton was dead. It had been a difficult decision, but in Randolph's mind it was the correct decision. He and Pierce didn't need Milton. They could exert enough control over the world through their two companies that World Federal had become unnecessary. More importantly, Milton was weak, and there was no place for weakness in the Federalists. Now that he was out of the way, the only remaining variable was Jake Reed, and he would be neutralized soon.

Randolph's pacing was not from worry. He had nothing to worry about. He could smell victory, and that caused elation to consume him. He walked back and forth in front of his desk in quick, choppy steps. In two weeks the election would be over, and everything would be in place for Randolph to be dictator of the world. He could hardly control his excitement.

The first-floor security guard's voice over the intercom interrupted his pacing, and he stopped just in front of his desk.

“Mr. Winston, there's a Mr. Pierce Montgomery here to see you.”