The Election (28 page)

Jackson-Madison County General Hospital, Jackson, Tennessee

Courtney Reed was transferred to a private room on the third floor after spending most of the morning in the ER. Being in a hospital had to be unsettling for Courtney. It was a strange place to her, Jake knew. For that reason he decided that either Rachel or he would be in the room with their daughter at all times.

Jake dimmed the lights in room 351 to make the atmosphere more conducive for rest. Courtney was finally asleep. It had taken a mild sedative to induce the sleep, but it was necessary. The doctors had said that sleep was an important part of the healing process.

When Rachel went to get a sandwich from one of the vendors in the basement, Jake was left alone with Courtney. He sat on the edge of her bed and gazed at her angelic, petite face. Occasionally she would scream out in her sleep, and he would try to comfort her. He knew the trauma from her harrowing night would take several months—maybe even longer—to overcome.

A full spectrum of emotions bolted through him as he watched her chest rise and fall as she breathed deeply in sleep.

Again he felt it—the one emotion he always kept hidden from everyone. It was fear. What had happened to Courtney scared him. It terrified him, down to the core of his being. He didn't fear for his own safety or his own life. But no one could mess with his family.

He knew exactly what the note on Courtney's nightstand meant, he finally admitted to himself. Whoever terrorized his daughter had also killed Jesse Thompson. And they had threatened to do worse than that to Jake's loved ones if he told anyone what he knew about the Thompson murder, which Jake knew meant the documents he had obtained from Earline Thompson.

What Jake couldn't determine was the source of the threat. Was it Edward Burke, the vice president of the United States? Or Dalton Miller? Or the FBI? Or maybe someone even more sinister than any of them?

All Jake had ever wanted was to keep Jed McClellan off death row. He never meant for anyone to get hurt, particularly his own child. But there she lay. Her little body bruised and battered. Her psyche damaged. The pediatric psychiatrist had assured Jake and Rachel that children were amazingly resilient. But how could Jake be sure that this night wouldn't haunt Courtney for years to come? And, if she did recover emotionally, how could he ever forgive himself for allowing this to happen? In his own home?

Jake's self-pity was interrupted by a light rap at the door. He turned his head toward the noise.

“Come in,” he said in a low tone, barely louder than a whisper. He didn't want to do anything to wake Courtney. She was finally resting peacefully.

The door opened slightly and Naomi McClellan entered the room. She was the last person Jake expected to see.

“Ms. McClellan, what are you doing here?”

“I overheard some nurses on Jed's floor talkin' and knew I needed to come down. How's she doin'?”

“OK,” Jake said wearily. “It will take awhile for her to get over the terror, but otherwise she'll be fine.”

Naomi tiptoed to the side of the bed opposite where Jake sat, and peered down at the sleeping child. “Jake, does this have somethin' to do with Jed?”

Jake knew that Jed's case was the only explanation, but he hadn't quite pieced everything together. So he simply replied, “I don't know, Ms. McClellan. It might.”

“Is it because Jesse was Jed's father?”

“I don't think that's it,” Jake said slowly. “I think it's something with a much larger scope.”

Jake hoped Naomi wouldn't pursue it any further. He couldn't tell her about the documents from the bank or even the money at this point. Those conversations would have to wait.

“How are you doin'?” Naomi asked, her eyes sympathetic.

Jake's gaze fell back on his delicate daughter as tears welled up in his eyes. For some inexplicable reason he felt as though he could share his soul with Naomi McClellan. Maybe it was because she was facing a similar struggle in her own life.

“I'm not doing so well,” he responded. “I don't know how you manage to be so strong when you're with Jed. I can't stop believing that what happened to Courtney is my fault.”

“You can't blame yourself,” Naomi advised. “There are some strange people in this world, and there ain't no explainin' why they act like they do sometimes. Jake, let me tell you somethin'.”

Jake turned his head away from Courtney and focused his attention on Naomi.

“You've gotta believe that there's some greater purpose in everythin' that happens. Somethin' greater than me and you both. God knows what's goin' on down here. And you've gotta believe that he's in control of everythin'.”

“I've heard you say that before, but I don't understand how that's possible. How can anything good come from what happened to my daughter? How can God allow something like this to happen to such an innocent child?” Jake pointed his hand at Courtney as she slept. “I just don't understand it.”

“Stop being a lawyer,” Naomi instructed. “You're not gonna understand everythin' about God. That's why he's God. But he has a plan. And everythin' that happens, good and bad, fits into God's plan.”

It all still seemed implausible to Jake.

“Don't you worry, Jake,” Naomi advised, patting his hand. “God's in control, and that means your daughter will be all right.”

 

Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, Atlanta

Claudia waited in the gift shop until she saw the officer she'd talked to and the other airport security officers escorting her two assailants off the escalator and into the terminal. She covered her face with a magazine so her pursuers wouldn't see her. She strained to hear above the noise what, if anything, was said between the security officers and their captives.

“Officer,” she heard the man with blood on his shirt say, “I'm telling you for the last time. We're with the FBI.”

“And I'm telling you I don't care,” the officer retorted. “You can take it up with the lieutenant.”

When Claudia heard her assailant say “FBI,” she couldn't move, much less run. Her feet felt bolted to the floor. Her mind screamed,
FBI! Why is the FBI chasing me? Why did they attack me?

Those two men had been watching Hudson's house at Hilton Head for weeks, she remembered. What was Hudson involved in that interested the FBI? So far she was finding more questions instead of answers to the ones she had already.

She couldn't wait here any longer. Her instincts told her to run to her car and drive away as fast as she could while she had the chance. She could just leave and forget that any of this had happened.

But something inside her wouldn't let her run this time. She had to keep going. She had to find answers to her questions, and she hoped the answers to all the questions, the old ones and the new ones, could be obtained from Attorney Jake Reed.

She checked her watch.
12:15.

Her plane was scheduled to depart in thirty-five minutes. She picked up her duffel bag and began to quickly make her way to gate B-27. She knew she didn't have a minute to spare. Twenty anxious minutes later Claudia arrived at gate B-27 just as the last passengers were walking down the Jetway. After handing her boarding pass to the attendant, she followed an elderly couple into the airplane. She felt confident the two FBI agents who had been following her were still being detained by airport security, but she nervously scanned the faces of the passengers already on board. No one appeared to pay her any attention. She located the aisle that corresponded with the number on her boarding pass, placed her duffel bag in the overhead storage compartment, and settled down in her window seat.

In a few minutes the pilot announced over the intercom that they were next in line for departure.
It can't happen soon enough
, Claudia thought. The sooner she got as far away as possible from the two FBI agents, the better.

Within minutes the airplane taxied to the end of the runway. Claudia watched out the small window beside her seat as the plane accelerated. She saw the scenery race by faster and faster, until it eventually transformed into blue sky and white, fluffy clouds. The flight to Memphis would be an hour and thirty minutes, and she would be that much closer to reconciling the events of the last two days.

The seat beside her was empty, and the man in the seat near the aisle was preoccupied with the contents of his briefcase. She glanced quickly at him and then returned to staring out the window. She surmised that he was a business traveler and was probably returning home to a wife and family. She repeated the word in her mind—
family
. The sound of it aroused a warm feeling inside her that tingled throughout her body. But, at the same time, it also caused feelings of sadness and despair. The contrast of emotions was not lost on Claudia. She realized she would probably never have a family of her own now that Hudson was gone.

When she had fled her mother's house all those years ago, she had such grandiose ideas. She wanted a life far removed from the quiet nights under starlit skies that, as a teenager, she considered boring and useless. She wanted a life where every moment was full of exhilaration. And most of all she wanted a life away from her mother. But what she found instead was a life full of emotional valleys and loneliness, of continual disappointment and unhappiness. For the first time since she'd left her mother's house, Claudia began to realize that the things she thought would bring her happiness left her empty. And that the true happiness she sought for so long had been there all along. She simply chose to ignore it.

She said the word again in her head—
family
. This time the warm feeling filled every cavern of her body, overshadowing the feelings of sadness and despair. For the first time in several days, she allowed a smile to crease her lips. Her only concern was whether her revelation had come too late.

Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, Atlanta

The security office was in the main terminal behind a nondescript door immediately past the Delta Airlines ticket counter. Lieutenant Parker Mitchell, head of airport security, watched as two angry-looking men were led through the door to the office area and instructed to sit in the interrogation room across the hall from his office.

“What's that all about?” the lieutenant asked as the arresting officer entered his office.

“Two guys fighting in the lower concourse,” the officer replied. “Get this. They claim to be FBI agents.”

“FBI agents?”

“I thought you would like that one. They claimed they were on some kind of undercover assignment.”

“Did you get their names?”

“Yeah.” The officer removed a small notepad from his shirt pocket and read the names to his superior. “Osborne and Moyers.”

Lieutenant Mitchell rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Osborne and Moyers's claim would be easy enough to verify. “I'll call an old friend of mine to check out their story. You keep them busy for a few minutes.”

As the officer left, the lieutenant placed a call to FBI headquarters in Washington, DC. Even after several years away from the place, he could still remember the number.

“This is Lieutenant Parker Mitchell with Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta,” he announced to the receptionist who answered the call. “I need to speak with Deputy Director Armacost.”

 

FBI headquarters, Washington DC

“Parker Mitchell,” Charlie Armacost said affectionately. “I haven't heard from you in years.”

“It has been a while,” Lieutenant Mitchell replied. “How have you been?”

“I'm fine. And you?”

“I'm doing fine, but I need your help with something.”

“Anything,” Charlie responded.

“I've got a couple of guys in detention down here who claim to be yours.”

“What are their names?”

“Osborne and Moyers.”

“Hold on a minute, and let me check.”

Charlie pushed the hold button and dialed the extension for George McCullough. “George, I've got an old friend of mine on the phone, Parker Mitchell. He's head of security at Hartsfield in Atlanta.”

“I think I remember him from when he was with the Bureau. Wasn't he on your team in Panama?”

“That's him. He has a couple of guys detained who claim to be working for the Bureau. Their names are Osborne and Moyers. Check them out, and tell me what you find.”

Charlie then returned to his telephone call with Parker. He didn't mind taking the time to help a friend, even in the midst of the Thompson murder investigation. They talked about old times and how things used to be with the Bureau. In a few minutes George was in Charlie's office, and Charlie immediately noticed the disconcerted look on George's face.

“Let me put you on hold for a minute, Parker.” Charlie pressed the hold button and lowered the receiver from his ear. “What is it, George?”

“You're not going to believe this. We do have two agents named Osborne and Moyers. They're assigned to the Boston field office. But they were placed on special assignment, and the only thing the assignment file says is top-secret. There are no reports in the file. No memos. Not even any orders.”

“Who made the assignment?”

George hesitated before answering. “Saul Sanders.”

Charlie slowly returned the receiver to his ear and pressed the Hold button again. “Parker, did they say what type of special assignment?”

“My officer hasn't been able to get that information out of them. One of them asked if any of our officers had seen a blond-haired woman, and the officer recalled that a woman matching the description pointed him in the direction of your guys.”

“Where is the woman now?”

“Security tapes show her boarding a plane for Memphis.”

Memphis!
Charlie glanced up at George. “Parker, here is what I want you to do. Release Osborne and Moyers, but don't tell them where the woman went. Don't let them review your tapes or any other information about the woman. I need to force their hand. I can't tell you what all this is about, but it's not good.”

“I understand,” Parker replied. “We'll handle it exactly as you've asked.”

Charlie hung up the phone and turned to George. “We may have just caught the break we've been looking for. If my instincts are right, Sanders should be getting a call anytime now. See what you can find out.”

 

Apollyon Associates, Inc., lower Manhattan

“We lost her,” Saul Sanders reported when Randolph Winston answered the call.

Saul's voice sounded cowardly…as if fear filled his every bone.

And the man had a right to be afraid, Randolph thought viciously. “What do you mean you lost her?” he screamed.

“I mean she got away, and we don't know where she went. And she has the packages from McAdams with her.”

“You idiot! How could she have escaped? I thought you had your best agents on this assignment!”

“They were detained by airport security in Atlanta. By the time they convinced security they really were FBI agents, she had boarded a plane. We're looking for her now, but at least one hundred planes departed Hartsfield during the time my guys were confined. She could be anywhere.”

“Did you say she boarded a plane?”

“That's right. Her car is still in the airport parking lot. So we know she didn't drive away. The only other possibility is that she got on an airplane.”

“Wait a minute,” Randolph instructed. He activated the computer on his desk and, with a few keystrokes, logged in to the Cannibal software that his company's engineers had developed over the summer. He searched through the data bank until he found a user identification for Claudia Duval; then he traced any purchases she'd made in the last two days.

“I've got her,” Randolph said, after a couple of minutes in the Cannibal software. “She purchased a ticket for a flight to Memphis.” A few expletives raced through his mind as he realized she must be on her way to see Jake Reed. “It departed Atlanta at 12:55, and is scheduled to land in Memphis at 1:28 central.” He looked at his Rolex watch. “That's thirty minutes from now. Saul, get someone to the Memphis Airport immediately. There's not a minute to spare.”

“I've got it,” Saul said. “1:28.”

“And Saul, don't disappoint me again,” Randolph warned. “If she gets to Reed, everything might blow up in our faces.”

“I understand.” Saul's voice sounded even weaker than when the conversation began.

Randolph was certain that Saul understood the implication of the threat.

 

Jackson-Madison County General Hospital, Jackson, Tennessee

Dalton Miller stood outside the automatic sliding glass doors that opened to the ER. He spoke to the visitors and employees who entered, searching for information about Jake Reed's daughter. He loitered the length of time it took to smoke three Marlboro Lights before he located the paramedics who had transported Courtney Reed to the hospital. They initially refused to discuss it with him or even acknowledge they had transported her. Medical confidentiality, they said. But two Ben Franklins bought the information he needed, and he retreated to his rental car in the parking lot to call Shep Taylor.

“Shep, something big is brewing,” Dalton said hurriedly when Shep answered the telephone. “I don't know what it is yet, but it has got to be big.”

“Dalton, slow down. What are you talking about?”

“Somebody broke into Reed's house last night and terrorized his daughter. The paramedics told me the girl was gagged, and her arms and legs were tied to the corner posts of her bed.” He paused. “Somebody is trying to scare Reed.”

“How's she doing?” Shep asked.

Dalton could tell from Shep's tone that the question was sincere—that Shep was genuinely concerned about Courtney's well-being.

“The paramedics said her wounds were superficial and should heal in a few days. They also said she cried all the way to the hospital. I'm sure she was terrified.”

“Somebody sure is going to great lengths to keep Mac Foster from winning the election. But attacking a little girl is going too far.”

“That's what I was thinking,” Dalton replied. “I just hope Reed doesn't think it was me. I'm the only one who has had any contact with him that I know of.”

“Have you talked to Reed?”

“No, I thought that would be too risky. I didn't want him to think I had anything to do with what happened to his daughter.”

“I agree. Stay out of sight there. I don't want us to be the catalyst for anything worse happening. But I think it's time to call your contact with the Bureau and bring him into the fold. Tell him everything we know.”

Dalton ended the call with Shep and immediately called George McCullough at FBI headquarters. “George, this is Dalton Miller.”

“Dalton? You shouldn't be calling me here.”

“I know it's risky, but we need to talk. It can't wait until we have a more secure line.”

“All right, Dalton. What is it?”

“Do you remember our meeting a few weeks ago at the Flying J?”

“I remember. What about it?”

“What I didn't tell you that day is that I was working for Mac Foster.”

“I can't say I'm surprised, but why was that important enough that you risked calling me at my office?”

“That's only the beginning. I've been in Jackson, Tennessee, for the last several weeks.”

Dalton could sense that George's interest was piqued. He knew that George quickly calculated there could only be one reason why he was in Tennessee. The Thompson murder.

“What are you doing there?”

“The same thing your agents were doing here. Looking for a connection between the Thompson murder and Vice President Burke. I know your guys pulled out of here, but there's something going on I think you should know about.”

“What is it?” George asked eagerly.

“Somebody broke into Attorney Jake Reed's house last night and terrorized his daughter. We think it has to do with Burke.”

“Why do you say that?” George inquired.

“Who else would have motivation to keep Reed quiet?” Dalton went on to tell George everything he knew about Edward Burke, Jake Reed, and the Thompson murder.

“I don't see how any of it ties to Burke,” George commented after Dalton finished his recitation.

“I know,” Dalton conceded. “That's where we need your help.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“We want your help in pinning this on Burke.”

Dalton hoped that George would take the bait and help the Foster campaign expose Ed Burke. But hope was all he, and the Foster campaign, had at this point.

“Dalton, I'll see what I can find out from my end and call you back as soon as I know something. I can't promise anything.”

“That's fine, George. But tell Armacost that I have it on good authority that if this breaks before the election and Foster wins, there'll be a nice promotion for the two of you.”

“I'll tell him,” George replied. “But I don't know if it will matter.”