Gospel (4 page)

The problem was, Tom was the one who had catapulted her amazing efforts to stratospherical proportions. There was no point in denying it.
She had put in the work but he was the genetically blessed political miracle who would hand them the November elections on a platter.

She flicked to the bio on page five and browsed through the familiar information and accompanying press photographs, her brain linking the written facts with her own ‘in-between-the-lines' knowledge of the Presidential prototype that was Tom Bradshaw.

‘Thomas Wills Bradshaw,' she read aloud. ‘Born in Virginia
(the most common birthplace of Presidents!)
, some thirty-nine years ago to a now retired university professor father and his local GP wife.

‘He is the second child of three (
every President has had a sibling!
), was Captain of his Elementary School, Dux of his Middle School and voted all round “Most Likely to Succeed” at Ashburn Virginia's Stone Bridge High.

‘He was awarded a scholarship to Harvard where he made Law Review and was promptly employed by the Virginia Attorney General's office where he progressed rapidly through the . . . blah, blah, blah.'

She was improvising now – her former career as a journalist kicking her into reportage mode, abandoning the neatly printed ‘script' in favour of her own rendition of her high profile son-in-law.

Bradshaw has light brown hair (like Washington and Kennedy), blue eyes (like Lincoln and Eisenhower) and a straight but not perfect nose which could often be seen supporting conservative but fashionable reading glasses (
all US presidents have worn glasses, most just for reading!
).

His jaw is square, but not prominent, his mouth wide but not distracting, his teeth straight and white, his neck long but not effeminate. He is above average in height, his body toned but not buff, with skin that tans easily in the summer, and shoulders broad enough to carry the burdens of a nation!

His hands are strong and masculine, his smile warm and genuine, he is humble but assertive, respectful but forthright, modest but confident, calm but determined . . . she could go on and on and on . . .

‘It was as if he was bred for this purpose,' she said at last. ‘The perfect Presidential candidate, who just happens to have arrived on my watch.'

Her eyes drifted across to the shot of Tom and his family – her daughter Melissa and their two perfect children who completed the archetypal package – she the attorney with the breeding and contacts, and they with the faces of pure American innocence.

‘And all this despite the mammoth mistakes of your youth,' she said looking at Bradshaw once again, the sarcasm now dripping freely from her words. ‘Only a man like you, Tom, could turn such a gross transgression into a triumph. That is the extent of your unshakeable appeal.'

She looked at her watch. 8.06.

It was time.

She set the press kit aside and grabbed her black beaded wrap from the end of the bed. She would have to be quick. There was no time for procrastination. Her mind was set and her purpose resolute.

She walked across the room and towards the main suite door, moved into the corridor and turned left, then she headed directly south towards her son-in-law's room, praying the next few minutes would secure her future forever.

‘Wow,' said David as he tilted his head back to look straight up at the circular ceiling of the Fairmont's opulent Oval Room.

‘Wow, indeed,' said Nora Kelly, both of them mesmerised by the iridescent sky and cloud mural that curved above them. The frieze was bordered by scores of crystal chandeliers and essence of pearl shell lighting that made the room glow with an unworldly sense of extravagance.

‘Now my eyes are completely confused,' he smiled. ‘I don't know whether to keep looking up at that awesome roof, or back down here at the beautiful lady standing beside me.'

‘Ah, dear boy,' said Nora, straightening the collar on her emerald green gown. ‘Best to keep your eyes above you, for if that is heaven up there, you can thank the Lord for helping you find a lass as charitable as Sara.'

‘So my girlfriend dates me out of pity,' laughed David.

‘Now don't go running yourself down, lad. I'm sure it's more a case of generosity and self-sacrifice.'

‘Very funny.'

‘What's funny?' asked their grey-haired boss Arthur Wright, who had found Boston homicide's Lieutenant Joe Mannix and his wife Marie, and brought them over to join the little group at the far end of the reception room.

‘Joe in a suit,' said David, shaking his detective friend's hand. ‘Hey Marie, how are you doing?'

‘Fine thanks, David,' said Marie Mannix, her fair hair and olive skin complemented by a classic long, chocolate-coloured dress. ‘More than fine actually, the last time Joe took me to a place like this was . . . well, I don't think Joe has
ever
taken me to a place like this.'

‘Don't tell me,' said David. ‘That suit hasn't been dry-cleaned since your wedding day, right?'

‘Wrong,' smiled Marie. ‘It's a rental, just like the one he wore to our wedding.'

‘All right, enough already,' said Mannix, tugging at the bow tie at his neck.

‘You're an easy target,' said David.

‘Well, just so long as there are no other easy targets tonight. Big dos like this make me nervous.'

Joe went on to tell the group of the extensive security at the night's rigidly planned reception. Drinks were being held in the Renaissance-inspired Oval Room, before the 900-strong crowd, surrounded by at least thirty discreetly positioned Secret Service agents, would be directed into the Fairmont's ballroom for dinner.

The Grand Ballroom, reminiscent of the palaces of Louis XVI, would also be ‘secured' by the Secret Service, with at least thirty local uniforms patrolling the perimeter and a team of strategically placed FBI agents manning all exits.

Joe then pointed through the Oval Room's open doors towards the stage at the far end of the adjoining ballroom, large enough to hold an orchestra of twenty and the obligatory lectern where Vice President Bradshaw would give his welcome speech. He explained that when the VP arrived, the Secret Service would surround the stage area and continue to scan the crowd for anything untoward.

He also pointed out the four additional security checkpoints down either side of the ballroom – each directly under the eight chandeliers which cast tiny crystal spotlights on American flags hanging draped from the Greek-inspired banisters.

‘So this is a security stronghold disguised in opulence,' said David. ‘The powers-that-be obviously aren't taking any chances.'

‘Not in a room packed with some of the most influential personalities in the country,' said Joe. ‘The Feebs have been doing recon on the hotel
and its staff for the past month. They are all over the place, both the guys from the Boston Field Office and a crew from Washington. The space is contained, but there are close to a thousand guests and hundreds more hanging around outside.

‘The funny thing is,' Joe went on. ‘Despite being aware of all this security around them, the politicians seem oblivious to the fact that all this pomp and ceremony actually comes with a risk.'

‘Probably because it also comes with enough potential campaign donations to feed a small country,' said Arthur. ‘It's all part of the process, Joe, the money spinning game that is democracy.'

‘What time does Bradshaw arrive?' asked David.

‘He's staying here, in the penthouse. So as soon as the bigger of the big names get here, he'll be escorted down the elevator.'

‘Well, if you need an extra pair of hands . . .' said David with a smile.

‘. . . you'll be the last person I ask,' finished Joe. ‘If I recall, the last time I caught you at a political event, you almost beat the guest of honour to a pulp.'

‘That was different.'

‘Maybe so, but I promised Sara I'd keep you out of trouble and she would kill me if I . . .'

‘If you what?' said a voice from behind them.

And then David turned to see the most breathtaking thing he had seen in, well, at least four months.

She wore a pale blue fitted gown, her long brown hair loose, in a flowing cascade of curls around her narrow face. Her mocha skin was glowing, her white smile radiant and her pale aqua eyes set squarely on him as if no one else in the room existed.

‘
Sara
,' he said.

‘I heard you needed a date for a party.'

‘I . . .' David turned to give Arthur and Nora an accusatory smile. ‘You two arrange this?'

Arthur grinned, gave no reply and scratched the unruly grey mop on his head.

‘It's like I said, lad,' smiled Nora. ‘The girl is a saint, and who am I to stand in the way of divine intervention. Well, give the girl a kiss before she is spirited away by someone more worthy.'

H
e was neat in death.

He lay straight, face-up, eyes closed, on the left hand side of the king-sized four poster bed.

His clothes were uncrushed, his dark blond hair smooth and flat on the ornate green and white quilting which was folded back revealing the two plush duck down pillows beneath.

His Italian leather shoes, plain, black and shiny, were still on his feet. His dinner jacket hung on the hotel-crested wooden hanger on the back of the bedroom door. His crisp white shirt was still crease-free, apart from the left sleeve which was folded (not rolled) evenly above his elbow.

His bow tie was straight.

The light was on.

Next to him, on the bedside table, under the ornate nineteenth century brocade lamp, sat seven things in equidistance: an empty syringe, an empty vial, a rubber tourniquet, one latex glove, the single silver Tiffany cufflink which had been removed from his left sleeve cuff, a half full bottle of Evian and a Good News Bible.

When viewed in reverse order they drew your eyes back to the neatly folded sleeve and the exposed left arm which, when you looked closely,
bore the impression of one fine needle prick acting as a gateway between life and death.

Melissa Bryant Bradshaw stood and stared. Ten million thoughts and nothing going through her head all at the same time. There he was. Her husband. Future President. Moral crusader.

She looked at the paraphernalia beside him and found herself registering the items one by one, ‘ticking' them off, forming links in her brain, piecing together the story that the whole world was about to hear. It was as if she had to absorb the shock first, act as a buffer between her husband's passing and the millions who were devoted to him. Ridiculous of course, under the circumstances. She took a deep breath and walked towards the front of the suite, habitually turning to check her appearance in the living room mirror before reaching the door and staring Secret Service Agent Daniel Kovac straight in the eye.

‘Dan.'

‘Yes, Mrs Bradshaw.'

Her eyes tracked left down the hotel corridor where she saw what must be the entirety of her husband's immediate staff, all smiles and anticipation.

‘I need an ambulance.'

With this, six Secret Service and two FBI agents burst past her into the room, acting on impulse, yelling into their tiny radios, preparing for the worst.

‘Karl,' she turned to her husband's personal secretary, Karl Jankowski. ‘Go to the ballroom and find Professor Stuart Montgomery. Quickly. Have him excuse himself. He must be discreet.'

‘Oliver,' she looked past the ashen-faced Karl to Oliver Deane, the Vice Presidential Chief of Staff. ‘I need to speak with you and I . . . I need my mother up here right away.'

‘What is it, Mrs Bradshaw?'

‘It's Tom, he . . .'

Deane reacted first, reaching her just as her knees began to weaken. She looked up as her head tilted back, the crystal lights appearing like stars being swallowed by the encroaching tunnel of darkness as she allowed her eyelids to descend. She felt him grab her around her waist, breaking her fall and lowering her slowly to the lavishly carpeted ground.

‘I didn't know,' she said, focusing on Deane as if determined to make the point before her long dark lashes closed upon her pale blue eyes.

‘Know what, Mrs Bradshaw?'

‘That he was back . . . in that dark place again. That I was losing him,' she said. ‘It's over, Oliver. It's over.'

W
hen Tom Bradshaw was eighteen, he fell off a horse. It was the summer before his first year at Harvard and in that split second after his horse lost its footing on a root snag, he thought he was going to die.

He didn't, but according to the specialists who reconstructed his right shoulder, he came damn close. Tom had flown directly over the front of the horse and into an old chestnut oak, grazing the right side of his face as his shoulder took the full impact of the fall. He crushed his clavicle and broke his humerus, but took relief from the words of the ever-cheery Dr Irving who explained: ‘Two inches to the right and it would have been your skull. In other words, kid, you got a lucky break.' No pun intended.

The pain however, was another matter.

At first he thought it was just post-operative. Dr Irving explained there was a lot of damage to his rotator cuff; the torn tendons swollen, his three glenohumeral ligaments severed, his muscles bruised and inflamed. They assured him the discomfort would subside in a matter of months, once the inflammation receded and his muscle strength grew and his scope of movement returned and the nerve damage repaired – but unfortunately, they were wrong.

That September, Tom Bradshaw joined the new crop of students flocking to the Cambridge, Boston campus of the hallowed Harvard Law School, with high hopes and big ambitions. They were the chosen few; the duxes of their high schools, the graduates of distinction, the pride of their families and the ‘ones in thousands' of those who applied to follow in the footsteps of the likes of Robert F. Kennedy and Oliver Wendell Holmes and made it.