The Mormon Candidate - a Novel (2 page)

By the time Ben
followed the others through
the turn, the
stars-and-stripes
Harley
was way ahead,
back in the left la
ne, blowing by a bunch of other
bikes
,
its
engine howl
ing angrily
.

Moments later, the road fl
attened out, passed
by
a modest church, and crossed a meadow whose green had
turned dull and
pale
with the season
.
A
few cows grazed behind a
fence
, and
a lone
farmhouse
sat next to a muddy pond.
The side of a
wooden
barn served as
a
makeshift billboard for a mural artist, who depict
ed
the incumbent
U
S
p
resident
smoking a cigarette, grinning c
rooked
ly
under
a
red
beret
marked
with the
Communist
hammer-and-sickle symbol.
A moment later,
Ben caught a quick glimpse of the other side of the barn, where Joe Morgan, the GOP challenger for the White House, appeared in a
checkered
red-and-blue shirt,
his smile
pearly and
his hair coifed,
holding
a book with a white cover
.

The
string
of motorcycles disappeared into the next range of hills, and
Ben downshifted in preparation
for the tight twists
ahead
.

A c
hallenging mountain road,
with
other
vehicles
to consider,
demanded full concentration.
The bike became part of him, or maybe it was the other way around
.
As they
emerg
ed
from
a tight
turn
, Ben
twisted the throttle,
and the GS leaped forward with th
e power
of
one hundred
horses
at the rear wheel
. The
rapid acceleration sent
a rush of adrenaline
through his
veins and
an involuntary grin to
his
face.

F
a
rther up the hill, he c
ame around a
nother
turn and
began to speed up when he
was
startled
by the sight of brake lights coming on one after the other
in front of him.

Ben p
ressed
hard on
the foot pedal, which operated the rear calipers only
. It was an old habit from the days
of his
small Yamaha, a
precaution against locking the front wheel
and entering an irreversible slide, which was unlikely on this ABS-equipped bike.
Sure enough, the telling grind of rapid brake clasps indicated that the electronic system was preventing a slippage while the bike decelerated harshly.

             
But
the
ability to stop on a dime came with no assurance that those who followed
close on his h
ee
ls
could do the same.
A second later
, he heard
from behind
the sound of
rubber
grating on the
asphalt.

The sharp decrease in speed matched the hard pushback of
the handlebar on
his
arms
.
Momentarily p
aralyzed by the
certainty
of impending disaster, Ben’s mind flashed visions of
last
winter’s
deadly
pileup on I-95
,
especially a photo he had snapped
of
a bloody hand
sticking out
from a wrecked Honda
. The photo had
won him a
three
-figure fee
from
NewZonLine
.com
and a
second-place Lifelike News Photography Award from the Maryland Association of Freelance Journalist
s
. All this went through his head as he forced his foot off the brake pedal and maneuvered
on
to the gravel shoulder
, passing
the
others on the right, his ears filled with
the sound
s
of rubber squealing
, followed by
bang
ing,
metal scrap
ing,
and cursing.

Meanwhile,
the
GS
went off the
paved asphalt
,
lurch
ed
sideways,
descended into the
drainage ditch, and
leaped over the opposite bank
t
oward a cluster of young trees
. Ben
rose to stand up
on the pegs
, which separated his own weight from the bike’s center of gravity,
and
def
ied
every
natural
instinct
by
twist
ing
the throttle
and
s
ending power to the
rear wheel
whi
le focusing his gaze back at the road, where he wanted to return
. The massive motorcycle
responded
by
straighten
ing
up
and obeying Ben’s leftward tilt
enough to avoid the woods
. The momentum helped the tires
ke
ep
traction
while plowing the dirt and weeds on the way back
to the gravel shoulder.

He didn’t stop, though, but kept going at low speed, standing on the pegs to maintain control as he passed by everyone else and reached all the way to the top of the hill
, where he finally stopped,
set
down the
kick
stand
, and killed the engine
.

Pulling his Canon
Rebel
from
the
backpack, Ben
snapped
a bunch of
photos of this rare t
raffic jam
,
hundreds of motorcy
c
les on a
mountainous road.

The cause, he found out, was a
tragic accident at the highest point,
where the road twisted
left
to
begin its descent on the other side of the
hill
. A
sign directed at a
dirt
parking area
on the right:
Camp David Scenic Overlook

A group of bikers stood at the edge
.
Ben joined them.

Panoramic views of Pennsylvania
,
West Virginia,
and Maryland surrounded the overlook. Closer in,
nestled among the trees five or six miles away,
a few red roofs
indicated
the location of the presidential retreat at Camp David.

But no one was looking at the views because, down below, a
t the bottom of
the
steep, rocky precipice
,
rested a
stars-and-stripes Harley
, smoke
rising
from
its
motor
. The rider
was sprawled on a boulder
near the bike
, his helmet askew yet still
strapped on
.

A couple of riders ran to a trailhead at the far end of the
overlook
while
someone
phon
ed
the police.

Ben
gazed
through the viewfinder, zooming
in o
n
the rider’s face.

The man’s eye
s were open and his lips moved.

Ben
took
a rapid series of photos
.

Suddenly t
he m
a
n’s mouth opened wide and his chest heaved as if trying to rise
. But the brief effort was cut short
,
his body slumped, as if deflated, and
his head fell sideways.

Stepping aside,
Ben
used a USB cable
and an adaptor
to save the photo
s
to his iPhone
.
With the last photo opened in an
edit
ing application, he
blurr
ed
the rider’s face, saved it again, and attached
it to a text message
to
Ray Burr
,
the
editor at
NewZonLine
.com
, who was paying him $1,000 per month for being first to
b
e offered anything Ben reported:

Ray
, d
o y
ou want this
for $25
0
? (You have
60 seconds.
)
Follow-
up up
dates at the usual $50 apiece.
Here’s the t
ext
for the news flash
:

Ben
Teller
reporting live
:
It’s
1:28 PM
at
the
Camp David
Scenic Overlook
near Thurmond, MD
.
A
participant in the
annual
Marine Corps Veterans
’ Annual
Ride
lost control of his Harl
ey
Davidson
and fell over a
steep
hillside
.
Other riders are climbing down to perform
CPR
.
This is breaking news.
Watch for
updates
.

Back at the edge of the
overlook
, Ben watched the men reac
h the body below. They pulled him
off the boulder to a flat clearing
and
removed
the riding
jacket
, revealing a
khaki
, military-style undershirt
. O
ne of them began pressing the chest while the other did mouth to mouth. Ben snapped more photos.

His iPhone pinged.

There was a reply text from
Ray
:
I accept. But w
here’s the face?

Ben typed quickly.
Where’s your heart?

The answer was typical
Ray
:
My heart is in
driving
online traffic
to NewZonLine
.com
.
This is hot stuff.
I’ll give you an extra $
250
for the face.

After a
brief hesitation
, Ben
replied:
The guy’s still warm. His family doesn’t know. How
about one
hour?

Ray
’s
retort was
:
How
about
one dollar
?

It was painful to let go of
the extra $250, but publicizing victims’ faces, while not illegal, was
beyond
his boundaries. Ben
groaned
and typed:
You’re a
vulture
. Watch for updates.