The Election (24 page)

“Send him up,” Randolph ordered.

Randolph was certain that Pierce had by now heard of Milton's death. Randolph hadn't sought Pierce's approval before deciding to kill Milton, and now was not the time to discuss it. He returned to his pacing, but this time his steps were slower and more deliberate. He was thinking.

It took only a few minutes before Pierce burst into Randolph's office. “What is going on?” Pierce demanded.

His usually meticulously pressed clothing was wrinkled and untucked. His silk tie dangled from around his neck, untied. It looked like the man had been sleeping in his clothes.

“What are you talking about?” Randolph stopped pacing again.

“Don't patronize me, Randolph,” Pierce warned. “You know what I'm talking about. Milton is dead.”

“I know he's dead, but there's nothing we can do about that now. The plan will still succeed.”

“How can you be so calm about this? Didn't you hear me? Milton is
dead
.”

“Pierce, I know he's dead,” Randolph replied, his emotions completely under control. “I received confirmation of it a few minutes ago.”

“Confirmation? What do you mean
confirmation
? You would only need confirmation if—” Pierce halted midthought.

Randolph raised his eyebrows slightly. He saw the look on Pierce's face when the revelation struck him.

“If you had something to do with his death,” Pierce concluded. His eyes narrowed. “Did you kill him?”

It was no use lying to Pierce, Randolph decided. And he didn't really care whether Pierce agreed with the decision or not. In fact, Randolph had already decided that if Pierce wasn't careful, he would be next.

“Yes, I killed him,” Randolph said proudly. “He was a weak link, and we could not afford for it to break.”

Pierce tugged at his tie. “How could you do this?” He exhaled loudly. “Milton was our partner, our friend. He was one of us.”

“It was easy,” Randolph responded with an evil grin. “Friend or no friend. Nothing is going to stand between me and world supremacy.” He glared at Pierce, preparing for his partner's next verbal assault, but his glare was distracted by the ringing of his phone. It was his private line, and he assumed it was Saul Sanders.

He pushed the button to activate the speakerphone. “This is Randolph Winston.”

“Randolph, this is Saul Sanders. I think we have something here that you need to know about.”

“Go on,” Randolph insisted. He talked to the telephone but stared at Pierce as if he thought Pierce might physically attack him.

Saul reported to Randolph everything Osborne and Moyers had seen—from the package Claudia had received to the hysterical screaming.

“Did you say something about a key?” Randolph asked.

“She received a small key. The agents on the ground said it looked like a bank lockbox key or an airport locker key, but they were looking at it through binoculars.”

Milton!
Randolph screamed in his mind. He was enraged. Even dead, Milton was still causing problems. He had hidden something important somewhere.

Whatever it was, Randolph had to have it.

“Saul, tell your guys to find out whatever that key leads to. Milton probably hid something that can haunt us, and I need to find it. Once they get it, bring it to me, and then eliminate her too.”

“I understand,” Saul replied.

“Good. This is important, Saul. Keep me posted twenty-four hours a day,” he instructed, then pushed the button on the telephone to terminate the call.

Pierce was still standing in the doorway of the office. His expression was one of contempt. “What was he talking about?” demanded Pierce.

“Shut up, Pierce.” Randolph returned to his pacing. “I need to think, and this does not involve you.”

“Doesn't involve me! Have you completely lost your mind?” Pierce's voice was angry and nearly frantic. “I am part of the Federalists, and Sanders was talking about Milton. I demand to know what he was talking about.”

“Pierce, if you don't shut up, you'll wind up like Milton!” Randolph shouted. “I told you I have to think!”

“You're crazy, Randolph,” Pierce said solemnly. “We're finished. I don't want to have anything more to do with you.”

Randolph watched as Pierce strode toward the door and exited.

Then Randolph returned to his pacing.

Foster residence, Upstate New York

It was just after midnight on Thursday. Mac and Shannon were returning to their home in upstate New York for a rare few hours of sleep in their own bed. Their neat, white two-story Victorian was not far from the banks of the Hudson River, near the state capital of Albany. As they approached, Mac spotted their house in the distance through the automobile's window. He continued staring at it as the image grew, until finally the car came to rest immediately outside the front door. Mac and Shannon waited until the Secret Service detail took their positions around the perimeter of the house. Even though he had no chance of winning the election, he was still entitled to Secret Service protection until the election was over.

Mac and Shannon exited the armor-plated black Suburban that had become their family automobile over the last several months. The autumn night sky was clear, and the brisk air hit Mac's face, momentarily chasing away his drowsiness. As he gazed at the millions of stars above him, he realized anew his own insignificance. Mac clasped his right arm around his wife's shoulders, pulling her close to him. They walked somberly up the gray wooden steps that led to their front door.

Mac was finally coming to terms with the fact that the presidency was probably out of his reach. But he still had no plans of quitting—even though the final days of the campaign would probably be meaningless.

Outwardly he remained energetic, hopeful. But in his quiet moments, he'd begun to doubt his belief that God's plan for him was to become president of the United States.

Perhaps I was wrong.

For Mac the desire to be president didn't evolve out of a need for power. In fact, he preferred to stay out of the limelight. But he had pursued the presidency because of the changes in American society he had witnessed over the past thirty years. He remembered the era when mothers and fathers reared their children with instruction and discipline, and the children obeyed and respected their parents. A time when taking the life of an unborn child was considered murder rather than a medical procedure, and
euthanasia
was a term used in conversations about animals, not people.

Once inside the house Shannon lightly kissed Mac and went upstairs to their bedroom while Mac retired to his study. His private study provided a haven for him when he was troubled. The rich pecan-wood walls and hardwood floors welcomed him like an old friend. A navy leather settee occupied one corner of the room, and a small reading light illuminated the top of Mac's antique desk. The bookcases behind the desk were filled with as many books as Mac could possibly squeeze into them. Books authored by Lewis, Eliot, Hemingway, Faulkner, and others.

There had been events in his life, both good and bad, that had caused Mac to retreat to the security of this room. The death of his father. The birth of his first child. The first time he lost an election, and the first time he won one. Each time this old friend helped him renew his inner peace. He knew he was faced with one of those events again tonight.

He sat down in the antique wooden swivel chair that matched the desk. Casters allowed the chair to roll between the desk and the credenza. The chair squeaked each time Mac changed sitting positions. On the desk in front of him was a brown leather-covered Bible that had been his father's. Mac opened it and silently read a familiar passage from the fourth chapter of the book of Philippians.

It was not the fear of losing the election that troubled Mac. It was much deeper than that. He had long since learned to be content, no matter what circumstances he faced. What troubled him tonight was the thought that four more years and a whole generation of youthful innocence would be lost. Could America survive if she lost the hearts and souls of this generation? How many more single-parent homes would be created? How many more unborn children would be lost? The answers to those questions troubled Mac deeply, even though he knew that God would ultimately be victorious.

Mac rubbed his eyes, stretched his arms out, and yawned. It was getting late. He checked his watch.
Two o'clock.
He would only get a few hours sleep before it was time to leave again, but the quiet time in his study had been just what he needed.

The door to his study opened, and Shannon tiptoed in. Mac was glad for the company—glad she was still awake.

“Why don't you come to bed?” she suggested.

“That sounds like a good idea.” Mac closed his Bible and patted its front cover before standing up. He was convinced that God would remain in control, even if he lost the election, and that everything was going to be all right.

 

FBI headquarters, Washington DC

“May I come in?” Assistant Deputy Director George McCullough asked as he knocked on the metal frame to Deputy Director Armacost's office door.

It was early Thursday morning, and George knew Charlie would already be sitting at his desk.

“Sure,” Charlie responded. “Have you found something?”

George entered Charlie's office, closed the door, and sat in a chair across the desk from Charlie before beginning his report. “It took me a couple of days, but I believe so. It turns out that the
Winston
Raoul referred to is William Randolph Winston IV.”

It was a name George had run across when he'd investigated Apollyon Associates, Inc. weeks ago at the suggestion of Dalton Miller, but he wasn't about to tell Charlie about Dalton.

“I've heard that name before,” Charlie stated.

“You should have. He's one of the richest men in the world. He's the majority stockholder in Apollyon Associates, Inc. That company holds all the rights to Internet-access user-identification numbers.”

“An Internet company? Why would he hire an assassin to kill a small-town banker?”

“I asked myself the same question. So I kept digging. I found some very interesting information about Mr. Winston and Vice President Burke.”

“Like what?”

“Vice President Burke assisted Mr. Winston by railroading through the Justice Department a questionable merger. Winston now has his software in 80 percent of the world's computers.”

Charlie bristled. “Those railroad jobs happen all the time. I hope you've got more than that.”

“I do. It seems that Vice President Burke has also shown some interest in two other companies: World Federal Bancshares and TransWorld Communications, Inc. TransWorld is controlled by Pierce Anthony Montgomery, and World Federal Bancshares is controlled by Milton Hawthorne McAdams.”

“McAdams?” Charlie frowned. “Did I see something about him on the news?”

“I'd say so. He was killed in a freak accident in Times Square last night. Only I'm not so sure it was an accident. The only person who was watching McAdams when he allegedly stumbled out into oncoming traffic was his limousine driver. He told NYPD that it looked to him like McAdams was pushed. NYPD has cameras all over Times Square, and they're reviewing the tapes as we speak.”

“OK,” Charlie began thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair.

George had seen that pose from Charlie before and knew it meant that the gears in Charlie's mind were turning.

“Burke helps Winston, Montgomery, and McAdams,” Charlie theorized. “Burke's friend in Tennessee is killed by Winston. Then McAdams is killed in an accident that may not be an accident.”

“That's not all. Winston, Montgomery, and McAdams were all fraternity brothers at Harvard. They've known each other for years.”

George watched as Charlie continued leaning back in his chair, chewing on the end of his ballpoint pen. “What are they up to?” Charlie wondered out loud.

“The only name Raoul told Juan was Winston,” Charlie began. “I bet he's calling the shots. The election is week after next, and Burke is comfortably ahead. For some reason Winston needs Burke in the White House, but why?”

“That's what I was hoping you could figure out,” George responded.

“Let's put some tails on Montgomery and Winston but keep your cards close to your vest. I don't need Sanders finding out. There's still something there with him that I can't quite put my finger on, but I'll figure that out too.”

“I'm on it,” George announced as he left Charlie's office to carry out his boss's instructions.

 

Marcia Naylor, Charlie's secretary, couldn't hear what had been discussed in Armacost's office, but the two men had been scurrying around like a couple of chipmunks the last few days. “Anything exciting happening?” she asked George as he exited Charlie's office.

“Nothing really,” he threw back as he headed down the hall. “It just involves the vice president.”

Marcia didn't know whether George was telling the truth or being patronizing. But the comment caught her attention nonetheless.

 

Hilton Head Island, South Carolina

Claudia awoke to an overcast, rainy morning. Without looking at her bedside clock, she'd never have known it was already nine o'clock. It was barely light outside. The low line of gray clouds that blanketed Hilton Head Island prevented the sun from announcing the arrival of the morning.

Even though it was later than she usually awoke, Claudia had little desire to get out of bed. Death does that to those who are left behind, and Claudia was no different. But even worse for Claudia, she was suffering in isolation. There was no one to console her. She had nothing to hold on to. Nothing in which she could find comfort. When she had finally gone to bed after the late news, she had tossed and turned until well past three before she finally fell asleep. And the sleep that came was restless.

This morning, after several minutes of lying awake in her bed, staring through the bedroom window at the depressing sky, she realized her sleep was gone. She decided to get up, not knowing exactly what she would do once she dressed. Her reason for living was gone. There had been other times in her life when she had fallen into a mire of self-pity, but none of them had been as deep as this one. She wondered if she could ever recover.

Claudia peered through the great-room window at the steady rain that pecked at the surface of the ocean. She noticed the beach was empty. No joggers. No fishermen. No signs of life. The emptiness added to her loneliness and depression.

Eden—her Eden—was no longer paradise. She turned from the window and slowly retreated to the kitchen, not knowing where to go next, what to do with her life.

 

“She's awake,” Moyers announced as Osborne entered the upstairs room that had become their center of operations. The two agents alternated shifts through the night to make sure one of them was awake every minute. Saul Sanders had phoned at midnight with new instructions, and their surveillance of Claudia Duval had intensified.

“I don't understand why we can't simply break in, take the key, and finish her.” Bill yawned and stretched his arms over his head. His shift had ended at 5:00 a.m., and the four hours of sleep had not been enough to completely chase away his fatigue.

“Because that's not what Sanders told us to do. Besides, we've got to find out what the key opens, and only she can lead us to it.”

“What is she doing?” Bill asked.

“Not much. Sitting at the kitchen table, slowly stirring a cup of coffee. It doesn't appear she's going anywhere anytime soon.”

 

Jackson-Madison County General Hospital, Jackson, Tennessee

Naomi McClellan was told by the hospital staff that a living will would have solved the problem. If Jed would have signed that kind of legal document when he was conscious and sane, then he could have decided himself whether he wanted life-sustaining measures to remain in place if he were ever in a coma. If Jed's doctor made the determination that Jed was only being kept alive by artificial means, and Jed had previously executed a living will saying he wanted no life-sustaining measures, then the artificial life-sustaining measures could be discontinued. In more crass terms, the process was referred to as “pulling the plug.”

But Jed didn't have a living will. And Naomi didn't like the thought of one anyway. It was like taking matters out of God's hands. Jed's doctor had just told Ruth and Naomi that he hadn't been able to detect any brain activity since Jed was admitted to the hospital two days ago. The doctor couldn't be sure, though, until he tested Jed by disconnecting the respiratory equipment to see if Jed could breathe on his own. And that could not be done without a living will.

So the hospital personnel had stabilized Jed to where he could be moved to a private room on the seventh floor. Naomi now stood with Ruth at the foot of Jed's bed. Reverend Douglass had been there a few minutes earlier and offered a prayer, seeking a miracle from God. Naomi was convinced that only a miracle would save Jed now. She knew that each day he went without awakening, the slimmer his chances became to awake at all, and particularly to awake without substantial damage to his brain.

 

FBI headquarters, Washington DC