Tracie Peterson (3 page)

Cara Kessler smiled from the screen in innocent radiance. Russell liked her clean-cut girl-next-door image. She was petite and delicate, yet there was a strength in her dark blue eyes. Wearing a plaid wool dress, Cara Kessler looked as though she were about to bake cookies or drive the car pool, not lead a youth ministry to national acclaim.

“. . . and so it seemed that lack of opportunity along with training, education, and spiritual guidance surfaced as the root cause of most problems. With so much social acceptability toward activities that only work to harm children, my husband and I felt the need to do something positive. We created HEARTBEAT to meet the needs of Kansas youth.”

“But how does HEARTBEAT differ from other organizations that deal with the betterment of youth?”

Cara nodded as if anticipating the question. “HEARTBEAT seeks to train people to help their own community’s children. Unlike national organizations that headquarter in places well removed from the people in need, each community is responsible to facilitate their own organization. HEARTBEAT stresses local people meeting local needs. Each
chapter sets up their own organization, based on the anticipated goals of their community. Of course there is the office here in Topeka, but it’s mainly a gathering place for information. If the local chapters need answers to questions or help finding assistance outside their community, the Topeka office is here to assist them.”

“Does HEARTBEAT represent a particular church or religious affiliation?”

“No, we’ve sought to keep it interdenominational. We see great diversity across the state in regard to religious views, occupational focus, educational needs, and cultural attitudes. The problems that face a youth whose parents are farmers are different from the problems of the inner-city child whose mother is working two jobs to make ends meet. And while children have much in common, it seems to be the individual problems that create the significant complications. HEARTBEAT is designed to help find answers to any and all of these needs, because again, the local church and community are in charge of setting and achieving the goals of their particular chapter.”

“So how does HEARTBEAT fund expenses?”

Cara’s expression never changed as she demurely folded her hands in her lap. “HEARTBEAT is a nonprofit organization. As I said before, because the needs are met at a local level, each community is responsible for their own chapter and what they accomplish. Local businesses and community leaders generally seem more than willing to financially support the kids in their neighborhoods. They see it as an investment in the future good of all who live there. The office here has benefited from a network of support from all across the state. That money comes in the form of donations, and after paying small overhead costs and the salaries of my partner, Pastor Joe Milken, and myself, it is always turned back into the ministry.”

“But how can you support a business without a steady stream of funding?” the reporter asked in disbelief.

“That’s where faith comes in. God has yet to let me down when I’ve needed Him.”

Promising some around-the-state footage of HEARTBEAT’s progress after a commercial break, the reporter carefully steered away from the issue of God.

Russell looked down at the coffee table and picked up one of the newspapers. Dropping it in his lap, however, an idea began to formulate.

“I want someone I can control. A yes-man who will take orders and not question them,”
Kerns had told him. Was it possible he might settle for a yes-woman? And if Kerns was willing, could Cara Kessler be pressed into service as his running mate?

When the program resumed, Russell continued to consider the possibilities. Footage showed HEARTBEAT programs from all corners of the state, and in each area Cara was heartily applauded and praised.

“Mrs. Kessler was just what we needed,” a representative from a small west-Kansas town said. “Our kids were dropping out of school, marrying early out of necessity, and generally finding themselves in dead-end situations. The community was concerned but had no real direction until HEARTBEAT helped us organize. Since then, we’ve added a community youth night, some local job-training programs complete with apprenticeships, and a Bible study aimed at addressing teen issues. Our drop-out and teen pregnancy rates are way down, and the number of kids going on to college is up forty-five percent.”

That story seemed to be echoed throughout the remaining portions of the program. Russell considered the possibilities before him, his certainty growing with each new thought. Throwing his list in the trash, he turned off the VCR and television and picked up the telephone. There was no longer any doubt in his mind. Cara Kessler was exactly what he needed for Bob Kerns’ campaign.

Four

Auburn billowed out behind Melissa Jordon as she ran down Main Street in Lindsborg, Kansas. Governor Glencoe would be making his speech in less than two minutes, but ever since she’d stopped to call Cara to postpone their interview, Melissa couldn’t seem to catch up with the day.

Her editor had called at five-thirty that morning to announce he needed her in Lindsborg to represent
The Capital-Journal
when the governor announced his intentions to run for a second term. Melissa had tried to explain her obligations to Cara and to ask for someone else to cover the announcement, but it was no use. The photographer was already on his way to pick Melissa up. Cara’s interview was put on indefinite hold.

She approached a black- and yellow-striped barricade and waved her press pass at the highway patrolman on duty. The uniformed man took her credentials, studied them for a moment, then let her through. Still panting, Melissa took her seat just in time to hear the master of ceremonies ask the crowd to join him in greeting the governor of Kansas. Throwing down her purse, Melissa got to her feet and opened her notebook.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to present the current and next governor of this state . . . The Honorable Edward R. Glencoe.”

Cheers rose up in a deafening roar. It was hard to believe a crowd no bigger than this could produce that kind of noise. Melissa did a mental head count and figured about two hundred people had come to hear the governor.

Like many candidates, Glencoe had chosen his hometown of Lindsborg to make his “intent to run” announcement. And Lindsborg had turned out in grand style to receive one of their own.

“Friends,” Glencoe began, waving down the continued roar of applause. The governor waited for the fervor to quell, and Melissa jotted notes about the crowd before turning her attention back to Glencoe.

The man was a grandfatherly sort—medium height, with a softly rounded midsection that seemed appropriate for his sixty-five-year-old frame. His balding head sported a ring of snowy white hair, and he smiled in a broad open manner that Melissa had come to appreciate as sincere. He was more like a member of an extended family than the prestigious governor of the state—maybe that was why people liked him so much.

“Friends,” Glencoe began again, “please join me in singing the national anthem.”

A band began the familiar notes and Melissa put aside her notebook and placed her hand over her heart. She noticed that only a handful of other people mimicked her patriotic action. From her days as a Girl Scout, she had developed a deep sense of pride in her country. She still got goosebumps when she heard
The Star-Spangled Banner.
Thinking of Girl Scouts reminded her again of Cara. Why had she let their friendship slip away? Why had she been unable to deal with Jack’s death in a way that would have allowed her to keep her relationship with Cara intact?

As all eyes focused on the color guard, Melissa joined in singing.

“. . . and the home of the brave.” The last notes of the national anthem faded away and a strange silence seemed to hold the audience captive.

Melissa watched Glencoe, wondering what he would do next. She wasn’t surprised when he took out a pair of reading glasses and put them on. With typewritten notes in front of him, the governor began his speech. This had always been his no-nonsense style.

“Fellow citizens, friends, and loved ones, I come to you today in a spirit of gratitude and hope. Gratitude for the past four years we’ve shared together in this great state of Kansas . . .” Cheers interrupted his speech and Glencoe patiently
waited, smiling benevolently from the podium. The noise died down and he continued. “And hope that we can share another four years. I take this opportunity to announce my intention to run for reelection as your governor.” Again cheers.

Melissa took shorthand for the entire speech, underlining important points she’d want to draw out in her story and putting question marks by issues that needed a bit more clarity. As the speech wrapped up, Glencoe invited the crowd to meet him personally and to share with him their ideas for the betterment of their state.

People immediately began to swarm the podium area, and the press was soon engulfed in a massive wash of supporters for Governor Glencoe.

“Looks like we may be trampled underfoot,” the man beside Melissa said. “I’m going to try to get to him for a few questions. You coming?”

Melissa shook her head. “No, I’ll catch him later.” She finished writing in her notebook and placed it in her purse. Then glancing around, she called across the crowd, “Darren!”

The man looked up and Melissa motioned him to join her. The clean-cut slender photographer from
The Capital-Journal
looked hardly old enough to be out of high school. “I’d like you to get some good close-up shots. You might want to stand over there and use the zoom.” She pointed and Darren nodded. “Get some good crowd shots and something that would tug at the heartstrings. You know, the governor and some kids . . . young and old blending for the good of tomorrow. Something like that.”

“Got it, Melissa.” The man loaded a new roll of film with graceful ease while juggling two other cameras, a bag of lenses, and a backpack crammed full of who-knew-what.

Melissa slipped in and out of the crowd, eavesdropping as she loved to do. There was more to be learned in the private little circles of politics than in the grand arena itself. People in the smaller groups forgot to guard their tongues. Melissa had gotten the scoop on more stories by riding around in elevators in state offices and the Capitol than anywhere else.

“I’m going to that little restaurant downtown,” one of Glencoe’s staff was telling another. “I think it’s called The Swedish Crown. It’s supposed to have authentic Swedish food, and since I’ve never eaten any, I thought I’d give it a try.”

Melissa caught sight of Darren snapping pictures as the governor posed for a photo-op with the town’s merchants.

“He’s going to promote tourism this time around,” a woman was saying to another reporter. “He promised this would be a top priority. There’s a lot of money to be had in tourism, and Lindsborg has a great deal to offer.”

“Such as?” the reporter questioned and Melissa hung on, waiting for the explanation.

“This community was settled primarily by our Swedish ancestors. We have a wonderful college here, and they put on first-class productions of Handel’s
Messiah
twice a year. We have a beautifully restored Victorian mansion and a wonderful bed-and-breakfast called The Swedish Country Inn. You can get some pretty good food here, too,” the lady said with a laugh.

Melissa thought of laying hands on some of that “pretty good food” as she wandered down the street, continuing to take notes while her stomach growled in protest. Spotting Glencoe just ahead, Melissa pressed through the animated crowd and prepared to ask some of her own questions. Maybe she’d even address the tourism question. After all, the woman had a point, and the fierce pride of these people and their Swedish ancestry would make a great backdrop for the story.

She was less than an arm’s length away from Glencoe now, standing directly in front of a shop that sported Swedish crafts and novelties. The window display portrayed a variety of candelabras. Most were bright red, painted with dainty white flowers and streaming greenery. This seemed to be one of the most popular items available. In the window opposite the door to the shop, a T-shirt blazed, “You can tell a Swede, but you can’t tell him much.”
Most politicians must be Swedes,
she thought with a smile.

“Ah, Mrs. Jordon, isn’t it?” Governor Glencoe asked. “I see you’re enjoying yourself.”

Melissa turned around and nodded. “Very much. This is my first trip to Lindsborg.” She was closer to Glencoe now than she’d been during the speech. It seemed to her that he looked a bit pale, maybe even sick. His eyes betrayed dark circles, although it was evident a makeup artist had tried to conceal them.

“And what do you think?” Glencoe asked in a voice that sounded almost pained.

“I think there’s great potential here for tourism.” There, she’d given him the ball to play with, now she’d wait and see if he’d take up the issue.

“Tourism can be a strong industry . . . ah,” Glencoe stammered a bit and took out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. “The state could benefit from additional tourism.”

The uniformed highway patrolmen nearby seemed to take note of the situation.

“Are you okay?” Melissa asked, seeing the governor sway.

The ashen color of his skin spoke for him. Glencoe was obviously sick. Before he could take another step, the governor glanced almost pleadingly at Melissa, then collapsed on the ground.

“Help . . . somebody help!” Melissa yelled.

One patrolman grabbed a two-way radio, while another pushed back the crowd. “Have the plane standing by.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Melissa shouted above the din.

A dark-suited member of Glencoe’s team came running. “Have you called ahead?”

“The plane’s ready,” the patrolman answered, then in a low voice he questioned, “Should I contact his oncologist?”

“Would someone tell us what’s wrong with the governor?” Melissa shouted again.

Strong hands took hold of her shoulders. “I’m afraid you’ll have to move back.”

The handsome face of another patrolman looked down at her. The wide-brimmed hat he wore shaded his eyes, but Melissa thought he looked strangely familiar. “Is the governor all right?” she questioned him.