The Election (35 page)

Dalton Miller didn't hear the rest of the report. He didn't need to. The mention of Jake Reed's name was enough, and the news was not good. He reached for his cell phone and dialed the number for Shep Taylor.

“Shep, this is Dalton. We have a problem.”

 

Windy City Road, outside Jackson, Tennessee

After Rachel's parents arrived, Sheriff West and Barrett traveled to the accident scene. Huge floodlights were erected to assist with the search, and the accident scene—authorities were still calling it that—was completely illuminated. Rescue workers, sheriff's deputies, and curious onlookers littered both sides of the river. Sheriff West knew that everyone there hoped the car on the bottom of the river was not that of Jake Reed, or, if it was, that it somehow, miraculously, contained his living, breathing body.

Sheriff West and Barrett now stood on the bridge over the Forked Deer River, watching as the wench on the front of the wrecker strained and rattled and cracked and shook as it tried to pull Jake's car from beneath the water. The wench's motor revved at such a high pitch that Sheriff West thought it might burn the motor up. He knew that the divers were unable to see inside the automobile and couldn't confirm whether Jake's body was inside. Everyone waited anxiously.

It seemed like hours to Sheriff West, but after several minutes the tail end of Jake's car broke through the water's surface. After several more minutes the car was completely on the riverbank, and rescue personnel ran to open the doors. The front of the car was crumpled and mangled, and the driver's-side air bag hung limp over the steering wheel. Water and debris washed out when the doors were opened, but there was no sign of Jake's body. The leader of the rescue team turned toward Sheriff West on his lofty perch and signaled to him that no one was inside.

“Nothing,” Sheriff West said so Barrett would understand the signal from below. “We'll begin dragging the bottom and searching the banks in the morning for his body. There's no way he could have survived. If the impact didn't kill him, the temperature of the water did.”

 

Jackson-Madison County General Hospital, Jackson, Tennessee

From the green vinyl chair in Jed's hospital room, Naomi McClellan saw the same news broadcast as Dalton Miller had seen. Her reaction to the news was completely different. Her concern was of eternal consequences.

“Don't let him be dead, Lord,” she whispered prayerfully. “He ain't been sanctified yet.”

Forked Deer River, Jackson, Tennessee

Sheriff West set up a command center at sunup Tuesday morning near where Jake Reed's car was pulled from the Forked Deer River. He sent boats and divers into the water, while reserve deputies, with bloodhounds in tow, trudged through the underbrush along the riverbank in overcoats and rubber boots. All were looking for the body of Jake Reed, attorney-at-law.

Sheriff West saw Barrett when he arrived and motioned to the deputy at the edge of the crime-scene tape that it was all right to allow Barrett to enter. The sheriff was receiving a report from the leader of one of the search teams as Barrett approached.

“…and we've searched both sides of the river a half-mile down stream. The dogs haven't had the first hit on a scent. Do you want us to go over the same area again, or expand farther downstream?”

“Double-check the area you've covered,” Sheriff West replied. “The divers don't think the current is strong enough to have carried the body very far. We'll have plenty of daylight this afternoon to expand the search if we need to.”

“I take it you've not had any luck yet,” Barrett commented after the search-team leader retreated to carry out the instructions.

“Nothing,” the sheriff said, shaking his head. “We haven't found a shred of clothing, a shoe, or anything. He's probably still in the water somewhere, hung on a stump or an old log. We'll find him.”

“Any leads or clues as to what happened?”

“Deputy Laymon is still taking measurements and photographs, but it definitely appears that another vehicle was involved. I've got four deputies interviewing every resident and business owner from here back to your office. Several motorists reported a high-speed chase last night, and the detectives are interviewing the last of those witnesses this morning. The first ones we talked to reported seeing Jake's car being chased by a dark-colored Silverado truck.”

“What about the deputy who was killed?”

“I met with his family this morning,” Sheriff West responded. “It was tough. There's only been one other time in my career that I had a deputy killed in the line of duty. Deputy Johnson had been with the department for twelve years. He had a wife and two kids. It'll be tough on them for a while. How's Jake's family?”

“They're pretty distraught, as you can imagine. Her parents are at their house. They're still holding out hope for a miracle that he's alive somewhere.”

“If Jake Reed's alive, it'll be a miracle.”

 

Jenkins's residence, Georgetown DC

It was early Tuesday morning, a week before the presidential election, and Bryan Jenkins was already working his telephone, trying to find a lead story for his next issue of
The Jenkins Report
. A 1985 graduate of Georgetown University, Bryan had developed quite a following for his weekly politically conservative Internet newsletter that he published out of his second-story flat in the Georgetown area of DC.

“Bryan Jenkins,” he announced as he answered the telephone on the desk in his bedroom.

“Is this the Bryan Jenkins that publishes
The Jenkins Report
on the Web?” asked an unfamiliar male voice. Most of Bryan's informants were anonymous, but he recognized the voices of his regular callers. This was not one of them.

“That's me. How can I help you?” Bryan asked with pen and notepad in hand. By and far, the majority of calls he received were useless, but occasionally one delivered interesting information.

“You've got that backward, friend. It's me that's going to help you,” came the confident reply.

“I'm listening.”

“You remember the friend of Vice President Burke's who was killed back in the summer?”

“Vaguely, but go on.”

“It turns out that it was a planned hit by a group of Burke's supporters.”

Bryan feverishly scribbled out the words of his anonymous informant in his self-styled shorthand and at the same time tried to keep the caller from hanging up too soon. He regularly traced his calls so he could try to locate the source of anonymous calls and determine the credibility of the information. One tactic he often used to prolong a conversation was to fain disbelief.

“Come on. You expect me to believe that someone associated with Vice President Burke was involved with a murder? What do you have to substantiate your claim?”

“The dead guy was involved with some of Burke's fund-raising. He saw something he shouldn't have seen, and they took him out. That's the only explanation.”

“The authorities have someone in custody for the murder, don't they?”

“He's just a fall guy. He didn't do it, and the evidence will come out soon enough to prove it.”

“What else do you have to back up your story?”

“I'll tell you what. If you don't believe me, then fine. I'll take my story to someone else. But you need to find out why the FBI had two undercover agents in Jackson, Tennessee, for several weeks after the murder. That'll answer some of your questions. And I'll tell you something else: did you know that the lawyer who was representing the fall guy was killed in a freak car accident last night?”

Bryan stopped writing and stared across the room. Everything the unidentified caller had said to that point couldn't be verified. But now the caller had finally said something Bryan could at least try to corroborate through other sources.

“How can I get back in touch with you if I need any further information?” Bryan asked, hoping to get the name and a telephone number of his informant.

“You can't. If I think you need anything else, I'll call.”

With that, the line went dead just seconds before the trace was complete. Bryan double-checked the tracer to see if it had recorded a location for the incoming call and then immediately began checking wire reports to find the story about the dead lawyer. He would work through the day, trying to confirm his informant's information in time for the publication of his newsletter Wednesday morning.

 

Jackson, Tennessee

Dalton Miller checked his watch after hanging up the pay phone outside a convenience store on the north side of Jackson; he was sure he had disconnected before any tracing machine had time to locate him. He drove back to his hotel room to await further instructions from Shep. They were playing a dangerous game, but it was the only hope they had this close to the election, now that Jake Reed was dead. The mainstream media wouldn't run the story Shep and Dalton wanted them to run, but perhaps they could get some mileage through
The Jenkins Report
.

 

Jackson-Madison County General Hospital, Jackson, Tennessee

Naomi McClellan knelt down beside Jed's bed as she had every morning since Jed was admitted to the hospital. As always she prayed for Jed and his doctors, but today she added something extra to her prayer that had become necessary after last night.

“…And Lord, please be with Jake's family. I know how difficult it is when family is hurtin'. Lord, do I know. But I know you got a purpose for everythin', and there's a purpose for what's happened to Jake. But if there's any way, Lord, any way at all for him to be alive, please let him be. He ain't done nothin' wrong. He ain't asked for any of this. I know you can do it if you want to, Lord, and I'm asking you to. Not for me, but for Jake and his family. He's got those three precious little children, and they need their daddy…just like Jed's need him. Take care of both of them. In Jesus's name, amen.”

 

Forked Deer River, Jackson, Tennessee

L. C. McClure's family had owned the bottom land near the Forked Deer River east of Windy City Road for the last one hundred years. And if it were up to L. C., it would be in his family for the next one hundred years as well. It had always been good farmland. The ground was fertile, and being near the river meant that the crops were rarely in need of water. Year after year, cotton or soybeans or corn had taken root in the fertile ground and produced a plentiful harvest. The land had provided food for his family's table and also generated revenue to purchase other necessities. Even when times were desperate and all the surrounding land was barren and dry, life always seemed to spring from this plot of land.

This year's winter-wheat crop looked good, L. C. thought to himself as he circled the field in his brown-over-tan Chevy pickup. The green plants were almost ankle high, creating a stark contrast with the dormant surroundings.

Every once in a while someone still asked L. C. what his initials stood for, and he would just look at them and shrug. His birth certificate simply read L. C. McClure, and his parents never told him anything different. He guessed they had used all the names they could think of on the seven children who had preceded him and simply couldn't think of another when he was born.

He stopped at the south end of the field to check the fence row for holes or weak sections in the barbed-wire fence that separated his crop from the neighbor's pasture. If the neighbor's cattle managed to get into his wheat field, they could destroy the entire crop overnight. His trusted friend, Hunter, a five-year-old redbone coonhound, leaped from the bed of the truck when it came to a stop and began to sniff for territorial markings left behind by other dogs.

L. C. checked the entire south fence line and, after fifteen minutes of pulling and tugging on each section, was satisfied that everything was secure. Returning to his truck, he heard the short, choppy, repetitive yelps from Hunter in the distance, somewhere on the other side of the field. It sounded as though the dog was near the river's edge.

He probably has a squirrel or raccoon treed,
L. C. surmised. “Come on, Hunter. Let's go, boy.”

Hunter was typically obedient, and usually returned upon being summoned by L. C. But this time he didn't return as instructed. L. C. whistled loudly in an attempt to get Hunter's attention and followed that with a louder, sterner call for the dog's obedience.

“Hunter, you'd better come here!”

Again the dog ignored its owner's call, and the constant barking continued. L. C. growled under his breath and stomped toward the disobedient dog.

“I'm gonna hafta teach that dog a lesson,” he mumbled.

As he reached the tree line that stood along the river, L. C. could see Hunter near a pile of brush at the river's edge.

“Hunter!” he screamed. “Come here!”

Hunter never stopped barking and never turned to acknowledge his master. L. C. continued stomping toward Hunter. Along the way he picked up a medium-size limb that had fallen from one of the trees. A couple of whacks should get the dog's attention. His vision was so focused on the dog and the punishment soon to be delivered that he didn't look at anything else until he was within five feet of Hunter.

And then he saw something unusual on the ground. At first he wasn't certain what to make of it, but then he realized what was protruding from under the brush pile.

A shoeless leg. A man's leg.

Now that his master was there, Hunter stopped barking and looked intently at L. C.

L. C. knelt down and removed a few pieces of driftwood from the brush pile, exposing the body of a young man.

“That's gotta be the man they're looking for,” he whispered to himself.

Stumbling to his feet, he ran toward his truck. Once he slipped on the steep embankment and almost tumbled backward into the river. Righting himself, he reached his truck and made the call that all of Jackson had been waiting to receive.

 

Reed residence, Jackson, Tennessee

“He's alive!” Barrett exclaimed when Rachel answered the phone. “He's alive! A farmer found him along the riverbank. He's unconscious, but he's alive.”

Rachel didn't hear the balance of Barrett's statement beyond the first pronouncement of life. She screamed in relief, and the rest of the family rushed into the room. She smiled, happy tears streaming down her cheeks at the good news.

“He's alive!” she told them excitedly.

In unison, her parents, Courtney, Brett, and Jeremy all cheered, and then quickly quieted down so Rachel could finish her conversation with Barrett.

“Where is he?” Rachel asked.

“He's on his way to Jackson-Madison County General Hospital by ambulance. He should be there in a couple of minutes.”

“I'm on my way.”

 

Jackson-Madison County General Hospital, Jackson, Tennessee

The emergency room buzzed with activity after the call came in that Attorney Jake Reed had been found alive. The paramedics relayed by radio Jake's vital signs and injuries to the waiting ER staff. Everyone's biggest concern was hypothermia, and the battle to save Jake Reed's life soon moved from the ambulance to the emergency room.