Jim McGill 04 The Last Ballot Cast, Part 2

by Joseph Flynn

  “Do I want to know?” the chief of staff asked.

  “You might, but it wouldn’t be good for either you or me.”

  “Well, then. I believe there was one item left on our agenda.”

  They moved on to how they should respond to the president being called a quitter.

  Interstate 80 Westbound — Iowa

  Crosby was driving now, had been for the past fourteen hours. He showed no signs of fatigue yet, no signs of amphetamine use either. For a man in what was certainly the last quarter of his life, he exhibited amazing endurance. In the absence of Anderson’s adolescent gregariousness, a streak of deep bitterness had also emerged in Crosby.

  Todd, forcing himself to remain awake for fear Crosby would drift off at the wheel and kill them both, saw several instances when Crosby would have liked to inflict pain on drivers who passed them. None of the targets of his ire had come close to sideswiping them or cutting them off once they’d passed. They simply had the freedom to speed while Crosby felt obliged to hew closely to the speed limit.

  That had produced in Crosby a hair trigger sense of road rage.

  Not that he necessarily intended to shoot anybody.

  He had his Vietnam tomahawks under the driver’s seat.

  If a cop pulled Crosby over for any ticky-tack offense, things would get ugly.

  Out of the blue, he glanced at Todd and said, “Thanks, Doc.”

  The expression of gratitude made Todd feel uneasy. He asked, “For what?”

  “For not saying Olin fucked up. Which we both saw he did.”

  They’d agreed to wait twenty-four hours for Anderson before leaving Virginia. But when the camera in Anderson’s flag pin showed them that he’d been shot at James J. McGill’s direction they’d left Comfort House without bothering to check out.

  They headed west. Crosby explained that was the direction Chana Lochlan’s speaking tour would take her. His idea was to wait until just after the last stop on the tour to strike. That was the most likely time for the other side to let their guard down. Then he lapsed into grim silence.

  Todd was far from sure he agreed with Crosby’s reasoning.

  But he wasn’t about to debate the point at the moment. Todd turned his attention to his iPad, looking for any news online of what had happened at the Royale.

  He found no mention of Anderson, but he came across a replay of a D.C. television station’s interview with Chana Lochlan. Todd couldn’t take his eyes off her. Margaret Sweeney stood just behind Chana, but he didn’t care a whit about her. Not with Chana in the picture.

  “What good would criticizing Anderson have done?” Todd asked.

  “Only improve gas milage, I guess,” Crosby said with a sour smile.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The less weight a car carries, the better its mileage.”

  “Indeed.” So Crosby was in a mood to lash out.

  He’d have to look for opportunities to make a quick getaway.

  Crosby said, “Olin didn’t like you much at first, but he came to respect you by the end.”

  “And you?” Todd asked.

  “Jury’s still out. You don’t try to fuck me over, we’ll be okay.”

  “You think they killed Anderson?” Todd asked.

  “Olin will be lucky if they only kill him.”

  “They shot him twice.”

  Crosby’s practiced eye had seen how his friend had been shot. He explained to Todd. Then he added, “A Taser or a beanbag can kill you. Getting hit with both increases the chance of dying. But Olin is one tough bastard, and my guess is those two broads knew where to shoot to keep him alive.”

  “You think he’ll be returned to the CIA?”

  Crosby shook his head. “He’ll go to a supermax prison under a new name. All the necessary paperwork will show he killed somebody in some awful way. It’ll also diagnose him as —”

  “A paranoid schizophrenic?” Todd asked. “Someone with delusions he was a covert operative for the Central Intelligence Agency?”

  Crosby gave Todd a look. “You are one smart SOB, Doc. That’s just what I was going to say. Maybe now you can see why I’m a bit cranky.”

  Todd nodded. “I do, but please remember, I want to see James J. McGill die.”

  “Then we’re on the same page. We work together, we’ll get him.”

  They were not quite halfway to their destination, the last stop on Chana Lochlan’s speaking tour, San Francisco.

  Bellevue Hospital Prison Ward — Manhattan

  Ever since the 9/11 attacks, the CIA had maintained a collegial relationship with the intelligence units of the NYPD. For the most part, the Agency got along better with New York coppers than it did with their federal brethren at the FBI. When the CIA needed a private space in a locked psych ward, they found one at Bellevue. For an appropriate fee, of course.

  McGill and Daryl Cheveyo were sitting opposite Olin Anderson in a private room when he awakened. He saw McGill and said, “You pussy.”

  McGill kept a straight face and didn’t say a word.

  Anderson was strapped into a hospital bed. His wrists were chained to metal railings on either side of the bed. An IV line was attached to his right arm. Cheveyo liked the irony of using ketamine hydrochloride as a sedative to keep Anderson calm. An antihistamine had been administered to dry out Anderson’s mouth. He wouldn’t be spitting at anyone.

  “Interesting choice of insults,” Cheveyo said.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Anderson asked.

  He was trying to work himself up, but the IV sedative drip kept him from getting far.

  “I’m the CIA shrink who recommended not hiring Damon Todd.”

  “Asshole.”

  “We’ll get around to that. Right now, what I’d like to know is whether you’re interested in helping us find Dr. Todd and your friend Arn Crosby.”

  Anderson didn’t even bother cursing Cheveyo. He just turned his head away.

  McGill said, “He’s a tough guy. Of course, his reputation’s going to suffer when people hear a couple of women brought him in.”

  Anderson turned his head back. McGill could tell he’d wanted to put some snap into it, make the movement dramatic, but the drugs had left him sluggish.

  “You should fucking talk. You needed to bring those broads with you.”

  McGill shrugged. “I’m just an easy-going guy.”

  “Olin’s going to be a lot easier-going soon,” Cheveyo said.

  Anderson managed to smile. “You think you can scare me? Shit.”

  “So you know you’re going to spend the rest of your life in a cell, right?” Cheveyo asked. Not waiting for an answer, he continued. “I think you’d be able to endure that better than most, but what I was wondering, how would you tolerate having to sit down to pee?”

  “What the hell are you —”

  The implication filtered through Anderson’s foggy brain.

  “You can’t do that,” Anderson whined. “You can’t mutilate me.”

  “We’ve already made preparations. Sterilized your package for surgery. Want to see?”

  Anderson shook his head, “No.”

  “Of course not. That’s the last thing you’d want to see, but take a look.”

  Cheveyo crossed to the bed, lifted the hem of Anderson’s hospital gown and held a mirror at just the right angle. Anderson had been shaved clean. His genitals had been painted orange with mercurochrome. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  Anderson had to look, though, if only to see Cheveyo wasn’t bluffing.

  When he began to tremble, Cheveyo let the gown fall.

  McGill was standing now. He asked, “You want to talk?”

  Anderson pressed his lips together and shook his head.

  “Your choice,” Cheveyo said without rancor. He held up a small audio recorder for Anderson to see. “Voice activated. I’ll leave it on the chair here. You start talking, we’ll cancel surgery. But don’t wait too long. A surgical anesthetic is going to be intro
duced into your drip line. Don’t know exactly when because suspense is part of the fun. Once you’re under, that’s it. Into the OR you go.”

  Cheveyo gave Anderson a nod and left.

  McGill stepped over to the bed.

  He said in a quiet voice, “Just so you know, asshole, I’ll get your buddy and Todd, anyway.”

  Then he left the room. He rejoined Cheveyo in the hallway. “You think it’ll work?”

  “I think so. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but Anderson and Crosby used the same gambit on an assignment. When they didn’t get the information they wanted, they followed through.”

  McGill winced and said, “He has to know that you know that.”

  “I sincerely hope so,” Cheveyo said.

  10

  August, 2012

  Democratic National Convention — St. Paul, Minnesota

  For a recent arrival to the Democratic Party, Patti Grant was given a rousing welcome. Vice President Jean Morrissey, the former Minnesota governor, brought down the house with the ovation she was given. Movement feminists were in ecstasy over the all-female ticket. Of greater significance, every poll taken in every corner of the country showed that women of all ages and political leanings were more enthusiastic about voting in the upcoming election than they’d ever been before.

  Patti Grant won cheers, laughs and applause when she told the convention, “My beloved American sisters, our day has come, and we promise to make the most of it. My dear American brothers, we promise to take very good care of you, and treat you with the utmost respect. My precious American children, our every thought will begin with concern for what is best for you.”

  It was only after the party’s two nominees were affirmed by a vote of the delegates with the president’s adopted home state of Illinois putting the ticket over the top, that any controversy arose. The vice president visited a Sunday morning talk show on the new Drucker Direct Network and was interviewed by editorial director Ethan Judd.

  DDN had caused a stir in the broadcasting community with its brash slogan, courtesy of Putnam Shady’s chosen ad agency, Wheaton & Kennerly. DDN: Get your news from journalists not propagandists.

  Judd asked Vice President Morrissey how the newly constituted Grant ticket would deal with tough issues, like national defense, the economy and second amendment rights, on which the Republicans accused them of weakness.

  Morrissey had been well briefed on national defense.

  “You’ll remember, Mr. Judd, what the president said about defending our country when she ran for the presidency the first time. ‘If another assault is launched against the United States by any foe, we will determine the countries that supported the attackers and destroy their capital cities, without warning or mercy. If the United States is attacked with a weapon of mass destruction, that will trigger a nuclear response. Any aggressor nation involved in any way will be obliterated.’

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself, and I agree with the president completely. If it were ever my choice to make, I’d do the same thing.”

  The president’s words had been stunning in their day, but now it became the vice president’s turn to shock the nation’s sensibilities.

  “It’s interesting,” Morrissey told Judd, “that you should mention jobs and guns in almost the same breath. We have to do a lot better for the American worker. We have to create more jobs with higher pay. We also have to find a way to connect work with government guaranteed health care insurance. There’s nothing more important to people than having a real opportunity to provide for themselves, their families and their futures.

  “Prosperity is also of critical importance to the continuity of the United States government. When you see widespread joblessness and despair in other countries, you’ll see people throwing rocks, maybe even Molotov cocktails. If we get to the point in this country where Dad has lost everything but his assault rifle, we’ll be in real trouble.

  “The lunatic fringe militias we see now will be Cub Scout troops compared to millions of armed, long-term unemployed who don’t see any future for themselves. Facing a prospect like that, we have no choice but to reestablish the middle class as the secure bulwark of our society.”

  Judd questioned whether things could get that bad.

  “Mr. Judd, there are more guns than people in this country. The gun lobby has a long record of having its way with Congress and state legislatures. We’ve already seen too many tragedies where distraught people turn their guns on their families and their coworkers. If we ever see widespread economic desperation, I think other targets will present themselves.”

  The vice president refused to specify those targets.

  It wasn’t hard to figure out whom she meant, though.

  The conspicuously wealthy and the pols who tilted the playing field their way.

  Galia Mindel placed a call to Jean Morrissey the minute she was out of the DDN studio and had a few choice words to share about the political firestorm she’d just started.

  Jean Morrissey wasn’t about to be intimidated by anyone’s chief of staff.

  She said, “I thought I was fairly subtle, Galia. I mean, I wasn’t the one who talked about obliterating entire nations.”

  Republican National Convention — St. Louis, Missouri

  Mather Wyman, like everyone else in the country, had heard Jean Morrissey speak on the subject of jobs and guns. He refused to take the advice given by several party leaders and condemn Morrissey for inviting anyone with a grudge to shoot a rich person.

  Wyman said, “She was careful not to say that, and we don’t want to be the ones to put that thought into anyone’s head.”

  The party leaders persisted. It was time to attack.

  Wyman countered, “We open that can of worms, and there will be talk of gun control linked to demands to repatriate jobs from abroad. Is that what you want?”

  Wyman’s running mate, Rosalinda Fuentes, backed him forcefully.

  In private, she told Wyman, “We’d better hope your idea of calling Patti Grant a quitter works. If it doesn’t, we’ll have a big hill to climb.”

  When Governor Fuentes was introduced to speak to the convention, all the women in the hall did their best to match the vocal enthusiasm given to the Democratic candidates. A beat later the men joined in for an effective two-part roar if not harmony. Watching from his hotel suite, Mather Wyman, sitting alone, whispered to himself, “Without you, Rosie, I’d be sunk.”

  He’d already heard rumors that some of the party’s big donors were calling for a last-second coup. The plan was they’d put together a big enough pot of money to bring Howard Hurlbert back into the party as their nominee. If it had been anyone but Hurlbert, Wyman would have been worried.

  On the night Wyman was to speak, the giant video screen behind the podium came to life with a field of sky blue. A single puffy cloud gave the viewer an impression of great height. After a moment of quiet, a deep rumbling sound began, as if something immensely powerful was about to appear from over the horizon. The rumble built to a roar, the roar became a deafening din and then a shock wave made things start to shake.

  In the blink of an eye, a formation of dots appeared on the screen. With incomprehensible speed the dots took on raked geometric lines and grew in size. They sped toward the eye of the beholder with a sense of both awe and menace. For the briefest moment, they were recognizable as U.S. Navy fighter jets. Just as it seemed they would burst free from the screen, they pulled up into a steep climb and there was an enormous bang.

  A sonic boom.

  When the lights went up, Mather Wyman was standing at the podium. Everyone understood what they’d just witnessed, the kind of force Acting President Wyman had unleashed on the militants at Salvation’s Path. They roared in approval, loving the fact that their nominee had been the man to unleash such overwhelming power.

  More than one person in the hall, and not just the men, had the same thought.

  Seeing something like that made you want to go
out and bomb somebody.

  Three minutes passed before Wyman had the silence he needed to start his speech.

  “My fellow Republicans,” he said, “I’m so happy to be here tonight as your nominee.”

  The cheering resumed.

  Wyman continued, “I had thought I’d be here to support the renomination of the president.”

  Boos rang out now. People would be going to bed with sore throats tonight.

  “The president, however, had other plans.”

  More boos filled the convention center. Sore throats and ringing ears.

  “A number of other former colleagues also went south on us,” Wyman said.

  That round of boos almost matched the one for the president.

  Wyman thrusted his chin forward and said. “I’ll tell you this. A Republican won the presidency in the last election and a Republican will win the presidency in this election.”

  Now, the cheers went on longer than any of the boos had.

  “And I’ll tell you why we will win. Because you can say the same thing about every last person here tonight: We are not quitters!”

  Wyman thought he could actually hear voices crack now, the cheers were so loud.

  He hadn’t said the president was a quitter.

  He’d said he wasn’t one.

  But the meaning was perfectly clear.

  As every politician knew, there was a time for subtlety and a time for red meat.

  Tonight, the carnivores had to be fed.

  True South Convention — Dallas, Texas

  The one thousand delegates to True South’s first national convention fit comfortably in the ballroom at the American Airlines Training & Conference Center. The new political party also had the distinction of holding the first convention that would be covered by the new TV outlet Drucker Direct Network. It was an honor they could have lived without.

  Word had gotten around quickly about DDN. Try to play fast and loose with the facts around them, and they’d nail you for being the charlatan or ignoramus you were. In the blink of an eye, DDN came to be feared and loathed by spin doctors everywhere.