by Brandt Legg
Chapter Sixty
The president was on Air Force One over the Pacific Ocean en route to Hawaii when he got the word about Covington’s death. They told him preliminary indications pointed to a heart attack, but Hudson knew better. Someone had killed him. Most likely Booker ordered it so Covington couldn’t deny his involvement in the Air Force One attack. Easier to blame a dead man. He wouldn’t miss Covington, but Booker’s words, “There is always another rodent waiting,” kept repeating in his mind.
He tried to focus on the chores ahead of him: a long-awaited meeting in Hawaii, and then, after that, he would take the gamble of his life. If he survived that much and returned to the White House, he’d still have to deal with the other two NorthBridgers—that is if they hadn’t fled the country. Surely, Booker had tipped them off.
It was a nice house, ocean view, easily $3.5 million, maybe more. The land surrounding it was an artful combination of manicured and natural, giving the house a welcoming appearance. After the Secret Service checked the house, he insisted they break protocol and all of them remain outside. They were reluctant, but these agents had been handpicked by Hudson.
Tarka was nearby. She couldn’t get too close because of the nature of the location. However, she sat with a listening device and a high-powered scope about two hundred yards away, shielded by a line of palm trees and flowering shrubs.
Finally, Hudson found Rochelle standing in a sunroom with a ceramic tiled floor that looked like sand, surrounded and almost enveloped by lush tropical plants.
Hudson stood staring at the ghost of his lost innocence, a ghost who knew the truth of his failings and lies. In the lines of her face, he saw decades of his own guilt and shame. Mirrored in her eyes was his past; a young man, scared and stupid with inexperience. She was not like him. Rochelle had never been afraid, even when surrounded by the thugs who would rape her, kill her brother, and leave her with a twisted, empty wreckage of existence.
He wondered in that moment, as he had so many times over the years, what he would have done if he had been her. Would he have killed the man who killed his brother? Would he have gone after all of them? But those questions had always been burned out by a question so big it terrified him.
What if he had told? What if he had reported what really had happened that night? Would she have gone on to kill the governor? Or would she have simply been content that justice had been done?
But would justice have actually prevailed in that corrupt place, that corrupt time? These things had eaten away at him, robbed him of so much sleep and stolen his peace.
Now, all these years later, as he stood staring at Rochelle Rogers, he could still see the girl of that night, the horrors of that scene, the awful men . . . The same images had exhaustedly tormented him. Could it finally end? Those thoughts pummeled him, ricocheting in his mind, threatening to engulf him yet again.
He summoned all the strength he could muster, reached into the depths of his being, and drew upon everything that had happened since, and with a hoarse voice, pushed out the words, “I'm sorry,” unsure if his apology had even been audible enough for her to hear.
“I'm sure you are,” she said, holding his stare. “But now look at this. You’ve done become the president of the United States of America, and what have I become? I spent my life in prison.”
He started to say that he hadn’t been the one who did that to her, that he hadn't been one of those men, but they both knew that wasn’t true. He could see it in her accusing stare. If he had acted differently that night, everything would've been different. And that's when those deeper questions surfaced, the worst ones that had almost killed him, the same ones that had ruined Gouge and the Wizard.
What if he had tried to stop the rape? What if he had tried to stop the killing of her brother? By doing nothing, he was, in fact, an accessory to those heinous crimes. Because he’d never reported them, he was also an accessory after the fact. He should have gone to jail.
Standing before that strong, brave woman, he wanted to hide. She’d known all along what a coward he'd been, yet she had never come forward. Had she told Bastendorff? Did he have some sort of confession or story of that night recorded, ready to air? Because if he did, Hudson knew he could never deny it. He would be ruined. He didn't think anyone could understand who wasn't there that night, who hadn’t grown up in that little town, back in those days. He didn’t. Not even with the excuses he’d so often repeated to himself when he dwelled within that nightmare. Hudson Pound knew he was as guilty as those other men for letting the rape and murder happen, and he was as guilty as Rochelle for the governor’s death.
“I wish I’d acted differently that night. It’s haunted me every second since,” Hudson said, his voice still raspy. “The thing is, when we make a mistake, especially when we’re young, that’s so big and causes so much damage, it kind of buries us in quicksand.” He paused, but she gave no reaction. “We’re forever trying to get free from that sinking, the mistakes of our youth, as we grow older and try to figure out how to make it right, but we’re still in that damned quicksand.” His voice cracked. “You see, it won’t ever set us free. It’s not the same as a normal person trying to figure out what to do, trying to make it right, because we’re trapped in that dark, cold, wet, quicksand. We’re trying to figure it out, but at the same time we’re struggling for our own life, our own sanity, trying to—”
“Just save yourself,” Rochelle finished.
Hudson looked at her, his eyes brimming with tears, hers still stoic and wise. He nodded. “I just wish I could go back . . . ”
“You were trying to save yourself that night,” she said. “You were barely older than me. I know how scared you were . . . ” Her eyes widened. “But they weren’t doing it to you.”
Hudson’s lips tightened. Her stare was unblinking.
“And when they did that, you just stood there, silent,” she said bitterly. “And when they were killing my brother, you still stood there, Hudson Pound . . . while they were killing him! You watched. WATCHED!” She let out a cry, gnarled and deep, years of repressed emotion erupting, then stopping as suddenly as it had appeared.
Hudson shook his head in shame. He wished she had a gun, and could finish it.
“And then, after, you didn’t never say a damn thing.” Her tone had shifted from bitter to disgusted.
Hudson opened his mouth, searched for words. Nothing.
“I kept waiting for you,” Rochelle went on. “I kept thinking, ‘That boy is gonna do the right thing, that boy is gonna tell the truth of what happened that night. He’ll make sure my brother's killers pay for what they did.’ I thought there were witnesses that saw, I counted on that, knew you’d do the right thing.” She let tears well in her eyes. “But you didn't do it,” she growled. “You never said nothing!”
Hudson still couldn’t get anything out, as if someone held an old dirty rag over his nose and mouth and he had to keep reminding himself to breathe.
“And you think that by pardoning me, or rescuing me from some kind of captivity, that makes it right? It don’t! It don’t even begin to make it right!”
Hudson shook his head. That wasn’t what he thought at all.
“What you think you're doing? Giving me back my life? Is that what you think? ‘I'm saving her now.’ Well you ain’t! You can’t save me. I died that night with my brother!”
“I know,” he whispered.
“You don’t know!” The intensity of her rage seemed to stop time itself.
Please, he thought.
“Don’t you get it? That's why it didn't matter what I did afterwards. The governor, whoever, because I had to go out there myself and do what you were afraid to do. I had to make it right, to get justice!” She wiped her nose. “People might think it was revenge but it ain’t revenge. You can’t revenge something like that . . . that massacre.”
He nodded.
“But it would be justice!” she said, shouting now. “It was the only way to get justice
when you were too scared, scared like a little boy, to do the right thing. Now you’re the president. God help us, what are you going to do with that?”
The lump in Hudson’s throat was too big to let him speak. He swallowed hard a couple of times, couldn’t breathe for several seconds. Not many people ever get to confront the demons of their past in such a way, and he was ill-prepared. He realized just then that somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d thought when they finally met that she might hug him, tell him it was all right, that she forgave him and would thank him for rescuing her.
“For a politician, you don’t got much to say.” She moved closer and lowered her voice. “Or are you still afraid?”
“Why didn't you ever tell anybody that I was there? That I saw?” He regretted the question as soon as it slipped out.
“Because who the hell was going to believe me?” She clenched her fist, took a step toward him, just another half-step, not in any way threatening, but incredibly intimidating. She looked up into his eyes, their faces only inches apart. “You think that I spared you because I had some noble thought about your intentions? Or, not wanting to drag you into it? No! I spared you because no one would believe a little Negro girl against all those high-positioned white men. That’s the only reason you didn’t get dragged into it, ‘cause I know how it would’ve gone down, and you know it, too.”
“Yeah.”
“And you think anybody’d believe me? Because if you do, I’ll happily go out and tell my story right now. See, Hudson Pound, I'm still looking for every scrap of justice I can find. I'll take it from you, I'll take it from your friends, I'll take it from those beasts that did it . . . ” And then the tears finally came. “Why? Why didn't you stop them? Why didn't you tell?”
“I’m sorry,” Hudson repeated. “I was too afraid.”
Her appalled expression gave him no relief, no forgiveness, but he had no other answer.
While she dried her tears, Hudson informed her that all the perpetrators were dead. He told her the details of each death, finishing with Gouge’s father in the tire shop fire.
“So it’s burnt to the ground?”
“Yes.”
She nodded, her lips quivered, but she didn’t break again. “Good.”
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
She shot a look as if to say, too late. Then she turned away. “I’d like you to leave. And, Hudson Pound . . . ”
“Yes?”
“Please don’t ever come see me again.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Hudson, dejected and feeling worse than when he’d arrived, had no time for self-pity or regret. The world stood on the brink of nuclear war. The media thought he was in Hawaii for a long weekend, and he’d been widely criticized for taking time off with so much turmoil swirling around his administration.
But he wasn’t there for a break, and hours after his ill-fated meeting with Rochelle, he was back on Air Force One, this time joined by the First Lady, Schueller, the Wizard, Colonel Dranick, and several other of his closest aides. The president and his small entourage were headed to Beijing on a secret peace mission.
Hudson’s phone began playing the familiar tune, “Bang on the Drum All Day.” He ignored it, but five minutes later, when the ringtone played again, Hudson answered.
“What do you think you’re doing, going to China?” the chief of staff asked, obviously furious.
“Damn it! How’d you find out?” the president asked, worried the media had already discovered his stealthy mission.
“I’m you’re chief of staff, or had you forgotten? I find out everything. It’s my job.”
“I don’t want this in the media.”
“Really? They’re going to find out, and when they do, they’ll crucify you!” Fitz ranted. “Pandering to the Chinese is going to make you look even weaker. Come on, you’re smarter than this. Tell the pilot to turn the plane around before you give your enemies in Congress more fuel for impeachment.”
“Do me a favor, Fitz. Keep the media away from this, and let me worry about doing my job. I’m the president . . . or had you forgotten?” Hudson said, ending the call.
“That wasn’t nice,” Melissa said.
“I know. Can you believe—”
“I meant you weren’t nice. Fitz is just trying to keep you out of trouble.”
Hudson looked at her and laughed. “Oh, you’re on his side? Do you really think he’s got even half a chance of keeping me out of trouble?”
She smiled. “Lord knows I can’t. But Fitz is right, this is a huge risk. And not bringing the Secretary of State or Defense, or anyone with negotiating experience . . . ”
“This isn’t about diplomacy or negotiation tactics,” Hudson said. “This is about the truth. That’s why I convinced the Wizard to come. With Crane dead, it’s the Wizard, Dranick, and Schueller who know the most about what the REMies have been doing. The reasons for this war aren’t real.”
“The REMies are real.”
“Don’t worry,” Hudson said, taking her hand. “I have to try this. There’s nothing left to lose.”
Hudson knew this would work only if the Chinese president weren’t controlled by the REMies. It was a gamble, but they had good evidence that he wasn’t.
“Fitz said Congress is going to impeach me,” Hudson said to the Wizard.
“Funny you should mention that,” the Wizard said. “I’ve been wanting to show you this. Remember after the Air Force One attack, you had that huge bounce in the polls, but then the media and members of Congress kept questioning your competence?”
“Sure, they used my opposition to a war with China to make me seem ‘confused’ and weak.”
“Yeah, they made you into a MADE event,” the Wizard said. “Anyway, I found a way to get into Three-D and uncovered private conversations of people in Congress.”
“Really?”
The Wizard smiled triumphantly. “Dawg, every tool of the Empire can be flipped on them.”
Hudson allowed himself a small smile.
“Anyway,” the Wizard continued, “they won’t impeach you because many of them are afraid the REMies have gone too far, and that with NorthBridge and everything else going on, the country is in grave danger. They’re scared to risk a leadership crisis.”
“Wow,” the President said. “If they’re scared, I guess we should be terrified.”
“People in Congress are extremely concerned that the CapWars have gotten out of hand and too dangerous.”
“But the REMies put them in power.”
“Sure, but they’re still human. They don’t want the country to go down the tubes,” the Wizard said. “They’re also petrified that NorthBridge is going to cause an all-out revolution, and for the first time since the Civil War, they’re wondering if the Union can survive.”
“REMies don’t care about a country or a people, only about consolidating power. They’ll continue on, all wealthy and fat, even if America doesn’t.”
“It might serve the REMies better to have America split into five or six separate nations, some parts crippled, and some at war with each other for years. Dawg, even if you stop the war with China, there could be regional wars in North America and other countries on and off for decades.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
When they arrived, without fanfare or publicity, the presidential motorcade went directly to the central headquarters for the Communist Party of China. Hudson and his group were ushered into an opulent private room deep within the Zhongnanhai complex, adjacent to the Forbidden City. They were met by the Chinese President and eight of his closest aides and government officials.
Initially, those gathered did an awkward diplomatic dance, as none of the normal protocols existed in this unprecedented furtive summit. Hudson noticed that none of the high ranking Chinese officials, including their leader, were wearing neckties. He found out later that this was out of respect for him, since the whole world knew he’d given up neckties after his nine-minute
death.
As the two leaders, arguably the most powerful men in the world, shook hands, their warm politician smiles belied the fact that the two largest militaries on the planet were faced off in what could easily escalate into an extinction event.
In Hudson’s desperate attempt to avoid the potential war, he’d worked through every back channel between the two nations to arrange and keep this moment secret. The Chinese leader had agreed to the eleventh-hour meeting because of Hudson’s public stance against war, a conflict they also wished to avoid. China’s President had also been impressed by Hudson’s willingness to come to them.
Still, other than the two leaders, there were no other happy expressions in the room. Even Melissa wore a scowl. The two superpowers were less than weeks away from armed conflict, perhaps only days if a mishap in the South China Sea mushroomed. Amongst the tension, the US President began his plea openly and honestly.
“There need not be war between us,” he said. “We are old friends who have fallen victim to schemes and manipulations by a global cartel of billionaires with no allegiance to any nation. These people, known as REMies, play the planet like a chess board, and they’ve made us their current pawns.”
The Chinese leader, who spoke perfect English, looked startled for a moment. Hudson held his breath, terrified he’d guessed wrong, that the REMies owned the Chinese government, too. A scurry of activity among the top Chinese officials added to the muted chaos of the anomalous scene. The head of MSS, their intelligence agency, whispered into the Chinese leader’s ear. Hudson looked over to Melissa and Dranick. Both shrugged with their eyes.