The Election (20 page)

“Do you want them to grow up in an America that's free, or in one that's controlled by an elite few? Because if Edward Burke wins the presidency, that's exactly what will happen.”

Jake waved his hands in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about the presidency of the United States of America,” Mr. Miller insisted. “And you”—he gestured toward Jake with animation—“you have the ability to affect the outcome of the election. If my employer is right, and this murder has something to do with Vice President Burke, then don't you think the American people should know that?”

“I guess so,” responded Jake.

“You guess so?”

Dalton's hand gestures became even more animated. “If Burke will have someone murdered whom he thinks stands in his way of getting the presidency, what do you think he'll do once he becomes president? And Jesse Thompson was supposedly a friend of his.”

Dalton Miller made a good point, Jake realized. Thompson and Burke were friends, but how did Jake know that Burke had him killed? Perhaps Mr. Miller's boss, whoever he was, had killed Thompson. Jake still wasn't sure he believed any of this. It all seemed unreal.

“I don't want to help you,” Jake finally said. “I don't want to help anybody. The FBI has bugged my office, or so you say. You could have done it for all I know. You're obviously following me. I just want to be left alone.”

“Where is your sense of patriotism?” Mr. Miller inquired. “You have the ability to influence the future of America for the better. All you have to do is make a couple of phone calls, leak some information to the press, and the course of history is changed.”

“I don't want to change history. I've done my job. I've recovered some money for my client, and I have obtained enough information to clear him of murder charges. If you want to change history, then do it without me. You obviously know as much as I do.”

“That's true.” Mr. Miller's voice was calmer than before. “But the news would have a lot more credibility if it came from a source other than my employer.”

“Look, I'm not helping you, and that's final,” Jake said angrily. He stood and started to leave. “You tell your employer, whoever he is, to leave me alone.”

Mr. Miller backed off. “I can understand your position, Mr. Reed. Here is my number.” He handed Jake a card with his cell-phone number printed on it. “Call me anytime.”

Even though Jake knew he'd never use the number, he took the card and placed it in his wallet. Then he strode back to his car, leaving Mr. Miller under the pavilion.

As Jake drove back to his office, his emotions ranged from anger to fear. A million thoughts raced through his mind, and none of them were pleasant. How much did the FBI know about him? Was it really the FBI? Who else was watching him? Why did he care who won the election?

Jake usually drove like a maniac everywhere he went. This time, however, he was obeying the traffic laws, and then some. He had to think. And the only quiet place he had was the inside of his car.

How did he know that this character was even telling the truth about the FBI? Perhaps Dalton Miller was not who he said he was and was just trying to scare Jake. But scare him from what? It didn't make sense. Jake already knew about Jesse Thompson's crime against Naomi McClellan. That had been settled. He had the photographs from the crime scene, but obviously Mr. Miller knew about them as well. What was he missing?

Jake decided to check out the new interior-design business across from his office. He had to find out whether the FBI was there or not. That would answer a lot of questions. He drove past the front of his own office and turned onto an alley across the street from the dry cleaners. The alley led to a parking lot in the back of the building that housed the old jewelry store.

A small porch with a shingle-covered roof protruded from the back of the building. It provided a dry area for deliveries through the back door of the business. The door was a metal fireproof door with a peephole. Jake scaled the four concrete steps leading to the back door and pressed the buzzer used by delivery personnel. The man Jake met at the Downtown Grill opened the door.

“Hello,” Jake said, “I have an office across the street.” He indicated the direction with his hand. “We met a few nights ago at the Downtown Grill. Mr. Jones, I believe?”

“Oh, yes,” the man replied. “What can I do for you?”

“I thought maybe I could come in for a few minutes and see what you're doing in here.”

“We're not open yet,” the man said politely.

“I know,” Jake replied. “But I thought you might let me come in and have a look around. The landlady is a client of mine, and she asked me to make sure everything was going OK.”

“Everything is fine,” the man assured him. “We plan on opening in a few days.”

Jake tried to look over the man's shoulder. It really didn't appear that very much activity was going on in the building. Cobwebs hung in the corners, and he couldn't see any new furniture.

“You sure have a long way to go to get this place ready to open,” Jake said, still straining to see inside.

The man smirked. “You're right, and that's why I really must be going. So if you will excuse me…”

He tried to close the door, but Jake leaned hard against it to keep it open.

“Are you sure I can't come in for a moment?” Jake stood on his tiptoes in an attempt to look over the top of the man's head. “Mrs. Alexander really wants me to make sure that you're not busting holes in the walls or doing other structural damage.”

“Tell Mrs. Alexander that everything is fine. Now I really must go,” the man said as he pushed Jake back and closed the door.

 

Agents Boyd and Simon watched through one of the rear windows in the building as Jake drove away.

“That was close,” Jerry said. “It's probably about time we pulled out of here.”

“I agree,” Ron concurred. “Let's call Armacost.”

Cincinnati, Ohio

The Foster for President caravan landed in Cincinnati. Shep knew they were losing campaign workers in all corners of the country and campaign funds were being spent faster than they could be raised. At this rate the campaign would end up $10 million in debt. Top campaign officials told Shep that Mac would, in fact, lose New York and that other big states like California and Florida were also lost causes. The decision was made to concentrate on the Midwest and to try to make a respectable showing in November. Everyone was finally coming to grips with the reality that they could not overtake Vice President Burke.

Everyone except Shep.

Dalton called just after one o'clock. Shep was speaking with some campaign staffers at an office on Front Street near Three Rivers Stadium when his wireless phone rang. He walked away from the group before answering.

“Did you get the e-mail I sent with the F-PAC documents?” Dalton asked.

“I did. I'm trying to find out who is running F-PAC. That might be exactly what we're looking for. I wish we had those documents back when we debated Burke. They may have changed the outcome of the debate. I'm afraid we may still need our friend there in Jackson. Did you get the opportunity to talk to him?”

“I talked to him this morning,” Dalton replied.

“And?” Shep asked.

“And he refused to help.”

“Refused?” Shep grabbed the back of his neck in frustration. “Did you explain to him America needs him, not to mention our campaign?”

“I explained that to him,” Dalton replied. “But he still refused. He wants to be left out of this. He thinks he has accomplished his goal of clearing his client's name, and he does not care what happens in the election. He doesn't think it's a concern of his.”

That's what is wrong with this great country of ours
, Shep thought.
Nobody wants to get involved. The people who should be serving the country are too afraid of being ridiculed by the media to run for office.

“Stay there a little while longer, Dalton,” Shep said after a few moments. “He may change his mind. But I'll also need to think about how to break this news to the press without him if he won't cooperate. Call me in a couple of days.”

 

Hilton Head Island, South Carolina

There were some weekends over the last six months that Hudson had not been able to come to Eden. He told Claudia he was in the middle of closing a deal on another piece of commercial property or that he had a meeting that couldn't be rescheduled. But he always called to tell Claudia he wouldn't be there. It was Tuesday, and Claudia had not heard from Hudson since last Monday. To say she was worried was an understatement.

When she heard the
B-r-ring
, Claudia answered the phone on the glass-top nightstand in the master bedroom immediately. She hoped that it was Hudson.

“Hello.”

“Claudia?” asked an unfamiliar voice on the other end of the line. It sounded like the voice of an elderly man. It was one she had heard somewhere in her past, but she could not match it with a face.

“Yes,” Claudia replied. “Who is this?”

“This is your uncle Samuel.”

Samuel Joyner was Charlotte Duval's older brother and only sibling. He lived three houses down from Charlotte in Claudia's hometown. His daughters, Kathy and Susan, had been two of Claudia's dearest friends when she was a teenager. Like the rest of that chapter of her life, though, she had long since closed the book on them as well.

“Uncle Samuel.” Claudia hesitated. “I haven't talked to you in years.”

“It has been awhile,” he said kindly.

“How did you find me?”

“It wasn't easy, but I finally tracked you down. How are you doing?”

“I'm fine. How is your family?”

“Everyone is doing fine,” Samuel replied.

“Kathy and Susan. How are they doing?”

“They're doing great. Both are married and have children.”

An awkward silence descended.

Samuel broke in again. “Claudia, let me tell you what I'm calling about.”

“What is it?” Her heart was racing with dread.

“It's your mother.”

She stiffened. “What about my mother?”

“She has pancreatic cancer. The doctors have only given her a few months to live.”

After all these years, hearing someone mention her mother was disturbing.

Claudia sat down on the edge of the king-size bed and stared at the floral comforter. She had thought about her mother often over the last ten years but could never bring herself to phone. The emotional scars were too deep. And the longer Claudia went without calling, the easier it became not to. She hadn't been home to Mississippi in fifteen years.

“Cancer?” she asked. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

“Nobody expects you to do anything,” Samuel said. “I just thought you would like to know. That's all.”

“Thanks for telling me, but I really don't see how it concerns me.”

She could hear the catch of breath on the other end of the line.

“She's your mother, Claudia. Won't you at least come and see her before she dies?” Uncle Samuel prodded.

“She was never a mother to me,” Claudia snapped back. “Just because she gave birth to me doesn't mean anything. There's a lot more to being a mother than that.” All these years of carrying anger, and it was beginning to escape. “Besides, she has never made an attempt to contact me. Why should I bother?”

“I didn't call to argue with you about this.” Uncle Samuel was maddeningly calm. “I just wanted to make sure you knew. That's all. You can come if you want to.”

After she and Samuel said good-bye, Claudia continued to sit on the edge of the bed. She hadn't talked to her mother, much less anyone else in her family, in the last ten years. Her stomach ached, and she knew it was due to the stress of the few minutes she had spoken with Samuel.

Why is this happening now?
she agonized.

For the first time in her life, Claudia Duval was happy. Her life with Hudson was wonderful. Financially, she was satisfied. The last thing she wanted was to see her mother. To dig up all the old wounds, the old arguments. She didn't need that kind of turmoil in her life.

She refused to go home.

Her mother—who really wasn't a mother anyway—could just die without her.

 

Agent Bill Osborne rewound the tape from the telephone conversation between Claudia and Samuel. The male voice clearly stated that Claudia's mother “had pancreatic cancer.”

“What do you make of that?” he asked Al Moyers.

“I think Ms. Duval has a lot of problems. Not the least of which is that the man she thinks is Hudson Kinney is not really Hudson Kinney.”

 

Bogotá, Colombia

Raoul Miguel Flores slapped the back of his friend as they left the Restaurante Kurnik on Avenida 127 in Bogotá. It was early Sunday morning, just after midnight, and the restaurant was closing. They had spent the last three hours eating, drinking, and partying with several other members of the Hermillo Family. Raoul's car was parked in an alley on the north side of the restaurant. He laughed loudly as his friend told one last joke, and then they parted ways.

Carefree, Raoul strolled around the corner of the building and into the dark alley. He reached into his pocket and removed his key ring. Two keys, a BMW medallion, and a remote-entry control dangled from it. The medallion glistened under the streetlamps as he playfully twirled it around his index finger. As he neared his car, he pushed a button on the remote entry and heard the familiar sound of his German-made BMW 740IL unlocking.

He was within five feet of the car when he was grabbed from behind and shoved to the pavement. The assailant landed on top of him with his knee in the lumbar area of Raoul's back. A small caliber pistol was thrust into the base of his neck. He had no choice but to surrender.

“Don't move,” the assailant demanded in Spanish. “Don't move, or they'll hardly recognize your face when they find your body.”

“OK, OK,” replied Raoul. “What do you want?”

“Slowly move your right hand behind you,” the assailant instructed.

Raoul complied, and the assailant grabbed his arm and twisted it, palm side up. He tied one end of a plastic restraint to Raoul's right wrist.

“Give me your other hand,” he demanded of Raoul.

Again Raoul complied, and the assailant attached the remaining loop of the restraint to Raoul's left wrist. The gun was still pressed hard into the back of Raoul's head.

“My wallet is in my front pocket,” Raoul said. “Take it and leave.”

“It is not your wallet that I want,” the assailant replied.

“Then what do you want?”

“Look at the great Raoul,” the assailant said in a kind of crowing tone, as if savoring the moment. “The great assassin has been trapped.”

“Who are you?” Raoul demanded.

“That's none of your business,” the assailant growled. “You don't talk unless I tell you to. Understand?” He grabbed Raoul's hair and slammed his head against the hard concrete. “Tell me—who hired you for the hit on Jesse Thompson?”

“Jesse Thompson? I don't know what you're talking about.”

The assailant pulled Raoul's head back, and slammed it into the concrete again. Blood began to rush from a large gash on Raoul's forehead.

“Let's try this again. Who hired you?” the assailant growled.

“Go to—”

Before Raoul could finish his defiant response, the assailant grabbed the index finger on Raoul's left hand, and in an instant snapped it just below the second knuckle. Raoul screamed out in pain.

“Tell me,” the assailant warned, “or I'll break the one on your right hand.”

Raoul was right-handed. He knew that a broken index finger on the right hand would significantly hamper his livelihood. So he quickly complied. “All I know is the name Winston.”

“Winston who?” the assailant demanded.

“I don't know. Just Winston.”

“I found you this time,” the assailant threatened, “and I can find you again. If you're lying, or if you tell this Winston about our encounter, I'll hunt you down and kill you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

The pressure on Raoul's back lifted. By the time Raoul dared to struggle to his feet, there was no sign of his assailant.

 

The Lowell Thomas State Office Building, Jackson, Tennessee

Jake had spent the remainder of the previous week contemplating his conversation with Dalton Miller and his confirmation that the old jewelry store was not being remodeled. In fact, he hadn't seen any activity there since he had tried to enter through the back door. He had also scoured the Holcombe & Reed offices until he was satisfied that all the bugs had been removed. He was now back on track and focused on getting the charges against Jed dismissed. He decided to surprise District Attorney General Drake Highfill with a personal visit. What he had to say couldn't be said over the telephone.

The Lowell Thomas State Office Building was located six blocks south of downtown Jackson, just off Auditorium Drive, and across the street from the Carl Perkins Civic Center. Three state employees rode the elevator with Jake, and he watched the numbers above the door light up as the elevator ascended past the second floor. It reached the third floor, and the doors opened to a reception area for the district attorney's office. Jake exited the elevator and stopped at the receptionist's desk.

“I'm Jake Reed, and I'm here to see Mr. Highfill,” he told the young lady sitting behind the desk.

“Please have a seat over there.” She pointed to a group of chairs in the waiting area. “And I'll let Mr. Highfill know you're here.”

Jake sat in an oxblood imitation-leather chair near the window that overlooked the parking lot below. In the several times he'd been here before, he'd never noticed how terrible the view was. He picked up a
U.S. News & World Report
sitting on the table in front of him and thumbed through the pages as he waited on Drake.

 

Drake was meeting with his chief assistant district attorney, Harvey Orman, when the receptionist knocked on his office door.

“Come in,” Drake stated dramatically.

“Mr. Highfill,” she said as she opened the door, “Mr. Jake Reed is here to see you.”

“Thank you.” Drake nodded. “I'll be with him in just a few minutes.”

As the receptionist left, closing the office door behind her, Drake turned back to Harvey. “Jake Reed is here to talk about Jed McClellan. Since Judge Prickett denied the motion to suppress, I have no intentions to plead that case. I have already told Jake as much. Is there anything we're missing?”