The Election (10 page)

All he had to do was get a conviction.

The Flying J Truck Stop, north of Washington DC

Late Friday evening Dalton Miller again visited the Flying J on I-95. He was still chasing the lead he received from the attorney known as Joe but wasn't finding much useful information on his own. It was time to cast his net wider.

The weather was terrible—a torrential downpour—as he ducked in the front door of the restaurant. Closing his umbrella, he stood it in the corner by the door. Betty, his regular waitress, motioned for him to sit in his usual booth in the back of the restaurant. Even though Dalton didn't know anything about Betty—other than she was tall and had bleached-blond hair—he liked her. She kept her mouth shut.

Sliding into his regular seat by the back wall, he wrung his hands to warm them as Betty set a cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He used it to chase away the chill from the rain.

The place hadn't changed much since his last visit, he thought. Probably hadn't changed in the last fifteen years. Dalton polished off his first cup of coffee in short order.

He was on his second cup and second Marlboro when George McCullough entered the truck stop. George, too, had been caught in the blowing rain. A puddle formed around his feet as he stood just inside the door. Removing his hooded raincoat, he hung it on the rack by Dalton's umbrella. Then he anxiously scanned the room until he saw Dalton waving at him from the booth in the back corner.

It had been a few months since Dalton had seen George. Contact too often was risky. As the agent approached, Dalton noticed that his limp was more pronounced, but little else had changed. His sandy-blond hair was closely cropped, his face was strong, and it was evident he still had a regular exercise regimen.

“Good afternoon,” Dalton said as George sat down across the table from him.

“Good afternoon,” George replied.

Betty appeared from the kitchen and walked over to their table. “What'll ya have, hon?”

“Coffee,” George replied, shivering. “Black.”

Betty retreated to the kitchen.

“How are things at the Bureau?” Dalton asked.

George McCullough had served as Dalton's contact within the FBI for the last three years, so Dalton knew the assistant deputy director well. Now that George was in his midforties, he rarely saw any real action with the Bureau anymore. It was unfortunate, Dalton thought. For a long time George had been one of the best field agents in the Bureau.

But that all changed when George had taken a bullet in the right thigh during a raid on a drug-smuggling operation in Miami. The wound had ended his field career. Dalton knew the injury still bothered George occasionally. Particularly on cold, rainy days like this one.

George had moved to Bureau headquarters in 1990 and had been there ever since. He was putting in his time behind a desk, analyzing reports from the front lines. Dalton knew George longed to return to the field, where the action was.

But Dalton knew the reality. Such a move was now impossible. George was too old. The only thing that gave the man the opportunity for some excitement again seemed to be his infrequent visits with Dalton. Or at least that's what George had told Dalton on one occasion.

“Things are busy,” George responded, without giving away any specifics. “Who are you working for today?”

Dalton rolled his eyes. “You know I can't tell you that. The names of my clients are confidential.”

George calmly dried the remaining moisture from his hands with a napkin Betty had left. “I'm not going to give you anything unless I know where it's going,” he insisted.

“Let's just say that it could have national implications.”

George glared at Dalton. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I can't give you any names, but what I'm looking for could have an impact on the presidential election.”

Betty delivered George's coffee and quickly disappeared again.

“What do you need?” George took a sip of coffee and peered at Dalton over the rim of the cup.

“Have you ever heard of a company called Apollyon Associates?”

“Not really.” George rolled the coffee mug between his hands. “Why?”

“I can't answer that yet. Do some snooping and see if anything looks interesting.”

“OK, I can do that.” George nodded slightly. “I'll let you know what I find.”

“What else is going on at the Bureau?”

Dalton could see the hesitation on George's face. It wasn't anything new for George to be reluctant. Dalton often fished for additional information from George. Sometimes George bit, and sometimes he didn't. Dalton hoped that today was one of those days where George would willingly take the bait.

And it was.

“Deputy Director Armacost thinks the murder of Jesse Thompson in Tennessee is suspicious,” George said.

Dalton had seen a clip from Burke's eulogy on the evening news, so was vaguely familiar with the event to which George referred. “How so?”

George leaned in to the middle of the table and motioned for Dalton to do the same. “The local authorities recovered a Tango 51 sniper's rifle from the scene. Our field agent doesn't think there's any way possible that the man arrested could have fired the shot.”

“A sniper's rifle? Who do you think did it?” prodded Dalton quietly.

“The MO is that of an assassin from Bogotá.”

“Do you have any idea who hired him?”

“Not at this point.” George's voice was barely above a whisper. “We're still investigating.”

“What does Director Sanders say about it?”

“You'll find this interesting,” George stated. “Armacost hasn't told him yet.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know,” George responded. “And I'm certainly not going to tell Sanders if Armacost isn't.”

“That is very interesting.” Dalton leaned back in his seat thoughtfully. “Keep me posted.”

Dalton glanced at his watch. More than fifteen minutes together at a time was risky for George, so Dalton motioned to Betty to bring him their check.

The rain slacked up slightly, and both men made a dash for their vehicles.

 

When Betty bused the table Dalton Miller and his friend had just left, she smiled.

Her usual one hundred dollar bill was pinned under Dalton's coffee cup.

It was no wonder he was her favorite customer.

 

Marriott Marquis Hotel, Manhattan

Late Friday night Mac Foster, Shep Taylor, and Jack Bennett huddled in Mac's suite at the Marriott Marquis Hotel at Times Square in Manhattan. Senator Ted Mulvaney, Mac's counterpart from New York State, was an outspoken critic of Mac. Mulvaney's attacks caused Mac to spend more time and money in his home state than he needed to. It was unfortunate, but he couldn't afford to lose his home state.

“I thought the press release was effective,” Jack stated. Mac knew that Jack was referring to the statement they had released following Jesse Thompson's death.

“That won't be enough,” Shep commented confidently. “I know none of you wants to hear this, but Burke is killing us. If we don't catch a break soon, we can hang it up. Our own polls show that his lead has increased from 10 points to 12 points in the last two days. We have got to do something.”

Mac was as frustrated as Shep and Jack were. After all, he was running a positive campaign, with everything aboveboard. Straightforward and honest. He espoused conservative positions on issues such as income-tax cuts, increased military spending, and welfare reform. He was staunchly pro-life, the only position he could take on the issue because of his personal beliefs. Yet despite all this, he was only polling at 70 percent among likely Republican voters. What was going on?

Mac was also exhausted. The campaign trail had been grueling, and it was beginning to show. He had lost weight. The gray was taking over the black in his hair even more. His lower back ached constantly. But all the exhaustion, pains, and aches would be worth it if he and his staff could just figure out some way to win. Mac loathed the thought of Ed Burke, with his skewed principles, sitting in the Oval Office.

“What do you suggest we do?” Mac asked Shep.

“I've given a lot of thought to that over the last few days. I think we need to do two things. First, we need to lure Burke into a nationally televised debate. If we can, we might be able to expose his fund-raising prowess. It may be difficult to get his campaign to agree to a debate since he's leading, but we need to try.”

“I like that idea,” Mac replied. “Let's get some people working on that first thing in the morning. What's the second idea?”

Shep hesitated. “I know you may not like it, but I think we need to get Shannon out in the public.”

Shannon was Mac's wife. They had met when Mac was chief of staff for John Abrahms, governor of New York. Shannon was an administrative assistant in the attorney general's office. They had fallen madly in love, married in 1978, and soon had two children, Joseph and David. Shannon worked hard behind the scenes in Mac's campaign, but he had always tried to protect her from the media.

“No,” Mac replied forcefully. “Absolutely not. There's no way I will allow Shannon to be placed under that microscope. I'd rather lose the election than do that.”

“If you don't do it, you will certainly lose,” Shep stated confidently. “By putting Shannon out there, I believe we can stop the bleeding. We may even pick up some points. She's attractive and well spoken. The public has only seen her on a limited basis. She is one of our best assets, and I think it's been a mistake not to have utilized her talents more before now.”

“I agree with Shep,” Jack said. “We need to play all our cards, and she's one of them.”

“I don't like it,” Mac stated.

“I think you need to consider it,” Jack urged. “This election is too important. If we don't give it our best shot, we may all regret it in ten years. Worse, the entire country may regret it.”

Mac stood up and strode over to the window. He could see the bustle on Broadway below, and the thousands of people who littered the sidewalks on both sides. They appeared to be walking aimlessly in many different directions…the wrong directions.

They need leadership
.
Leadership to take them in the right direction.

Mac wanted to provide that leadership. He'd been called to provide that leadership. He couldn't turn back now.

“Will you at least talk with Shannon about it?” Shep inquired.

Mac could tell that Shep was trying to close the sale.

“I think she's stronger than you give her credit for being,” Shep added.

“OK,” Mac relented. He exhaled deeply, still staring down at the mass of lost souls below. “I'll talk with Shannon.”

 

Jackson, Tennessee

Attending church on Sunday morning was part of life for most of the people in Jackson, particularly Naomi McClellan. She thought it was a crime not to go. For as long as she could remember, she had been attending worship services at Mount Hebron CME Church every Sunday. Naomi had convinced Ruth to come with her today—and to bring the children.

The services were already under way when Naomi, Ruth, and the children—Derrick, nine, and Tosha, six—arrived. Naomi parked her blue 1989 Buick Century in a vacant spot not far from the church. They could hear the congregation singing as they exited the car and headed along the sidewalk to the front door of the church.

Ruth had dressed Derrick and Tosha in the best clothes they had. Naomi took each child by the hand, and Ruth followed closely behind. Derrick was big for his age, thought Naomi, and he reminded her of Jed at the same age. The top of Derrick's head was nearly to Naomi's shoulder.

It won't be long before he's a grown man
, Naomi thought.
And this mess is makin' him grow up sooner.

Tosha was petite like Ruth and had her soft skin. Naomi noticed how pretty Tosha was in her red knee-length dress, ruffled socks, and white shoes.

I'm gonna do everythin' I can to make sure your life is better than mine has been.

The quaint, yellow-brick church had been constructed in 1935, eleven years before Naomi was born, and it was the center of so many memories for her. As a child she had attended Sunday school in one of the classrooms in the rear of the building. More importantly, when she was twelve, she had knelt at the altar in the front of the sanctuary and accepted Jesus Christ as her Lord and Savior. As an adult she had spent many glorious days of worship at the church.

Tosha pointed, eyes wide, to the stained-glass window above the front door. Jesus Christ was pictured in a white robe with a golden halo above his head. His arms were extended in love as blood dripped from the palms of his hands.