INSIDIOUS ASSASSINS

by Jack Ketchum

  “Oops,” Bernie remarked, peering around the edge of the booth. “Didn’t see that coming.”

  Pandemonium ensued as patrons ducked out of booths and away from tables and dived to the floor. Screams and cries echoed everywhere, and the blatant din of the city came rushing through the shattered window.

  Bernie mumbled into his cone, something that sounded to Turniken like “So leave if you don’t like it.” The waiter strode toward the injured woman who was now cowering in a corner with her hand still to her eye, blood seeping through her fingers. “So leave if you don’t like it!” he yelled, his face in hers like a drill sergeant. “I don’t like it either! I hate it! This place sucks! The food here sucks and the work here sucks! Go someplace else if you don’t like it! Do you hear me?”

  “A bit of a rambling tirade, I admit,” Bernie said with a shrug.

  From somewhere, who knows where, a man in a suit appeared, along with a burly fellow in black and white, and together they rushed the waiter, forcing back his arms and shoving him to the floor.

  Ashland smiled, now looking at the senator and merely listening to the commotion behind him. “Sounds as if our waiter friend might be out of a job. My guess is that once news of this gets around, he’ll never find work anywhere else in town, either. Such a shame. He seemed to be a good worker.”

  Turniken nodded appreciatively. “I think I see where this is going, Bernie.”

  “And I know where this is going, senator. Just make sure I get a seat close to the front. And once the debate starts, be yourself. Don’t try to be someone you’re not. Just give the same inane double-talk and long-winded answers you always give. And leave the rest to me.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Senator Amory Turniken said. He saw the waiter being dragged away along the marble floor just as Bernie was dropping his mind control whistle back into his pocket. “Amazing,” he said again. “Simply amazing.”

  Bernard Ashland laughed. “Yes, it is amazing what a human being can accomplish once someone else puts his mind to it.”

  Turniken was sunk, and he knew it. The debate was nearing an end, and he had nothing to show for it. With each of the moderator’s questions—the moderator, this evening, being Sally Baggers of Channel 4 NewsAndMoreNews News—Turniken had harbored the hope that this would be where Bernie pointed his whistle thingy at Halloran and got him to spout something monumentally stupid. Instead, the incumbent governor fielded each question with confidence and aplomb, while Turniken, even to his own ears, sounded increasingly like a rambling, incoherent blowhard.

  Even before the first question, as the two candidates situated themselves at their respective podiums and Sally Baggers laid down the ground rules—about the debating format, about the need for the audience to remain quiet—Turniken had spotted Bernie in the second row. He had half expected the dark-suited guy to pull out his whistle right then and there and get the ball rolling, but Ashland just sat in his seat, upright and polite, like the rest of the convention hall audience.

  And throughout the debate, Turniken kept hoping that now would be the time, now would be the time for Bernie to do his magic. But a glance out to the audience now and then revealed Bernie still sitting there, with his back straight and his hands in his lap, like some nauseatingly obedient third-grader, doing absolutely nothing! The result being that, for Turniken, certainly not for Halloran, the debate was turning into a hopeless fiasco.

  By now Turniken had begun to suspect that the entire business at the restaurant had been a huge prank. That the waiter and the injured patron and Bernard Ashland himself had been part of a colossal joke perpetrated by the opposition. After all, what’s one broken window in the realm of campaign expenses?

  Mind control—how could he have ever fallen for such nonsense?

  He saw his dreams dissipate as if he had suddenly been jostled awake—the dream of possessing the title governor, the dream of having his enlarged photograph displayed in schools and government offices throughout the state, the dream of living in a mansion, the dream of riding in a limo emblazoned with the state seal, and on and on.

  “And now for closing statements.”

  Still, he couldn’t admit defeat, not at this late stage. He had to be governor, he simply had to be, if only for the free breakfasts, luncheons, and dinners, which would far outnumber the free meals he had ever received as senator.

  “Senator Turniken, from a previous coin toss, you were selected to speak first. You have two minutes.”

  Turniken looked at the camera with what he hoped was sincerity. He had never felt sincere about anything in his life but, since entering politics, he had made a careful study of sincerity, or, at least, had seen it portrayed in the movies. So he believed he was somewhat knowledgeable about what a sincere expression entailed—the angle of the brow, the turn of the lips—and he now drew on his experience to display that look as best as he was able.

  “Thank you, Sally,” he said. “Thanks, also, to the members of the audience and to those of you watching on television, and thanks to my wife, Penny, and to my two children, Nicki and Marshall. And thanks, as well, to everyone from the great state of—”

  And he was off.

  He reminded everyone of his solid record as state senator without citing a single achievement. He emphasized the importance of values without listing any. And he stressed the need for fairness and equality without elaborating, figuring the words packed plenty of punch on their own.

  In no uncertain terms, he stated that he was a fighter and that he would fight for the people. Not only fight, but fight every step of the way. Not only every step of the way, but each and every day. And not only each and every day, but tooth and nail and with every fiber of his being.

  And he promised to make things better. He promised a better economy, first and foremost. He promised better housing and better schools. He promised better wages, healthcare, roads, bridges, and schools. And when he realized he had mentioned schools twice, he informed everyone that it bore repeating. And then he listed a slew of other things, things that came to him off the top of his head, and he promised to make each and every one of them better.

  But most of all, he promised to fight for a better direction.

  “You know ...” he said, with his forearm resting on the podium as if this were just you and him chatting, “as senator, I receive emails from the people of this great state all the time voicing their concerns. And I remember one email in particular from a Charlie Jones. He said—and I hope I get the wording right because it was quite eloquent—he said, ‘Senator, this may not be my place, but I believe that what this state needs is a better direction.’”

  Now, still maintaining that look of cinematic sincerity, Senator Amory Turniken concluded with these words, and just slightly over the two-minute limit:

  “And so that’s what I intend on fighting for. A better direction. And to that end, I ask you for your support in November. Together we will face the challenges of tomorrow and meet them head on, as we journey toward that better direction. Thank you.”

  Turniken hadn’t the slightest idea what he had said over the past two minutes and change. Lofty-sounding bullshit was his gut feeling, but it might have been even worse. And what on earth had made him dream up a tired old name like Charlie Jones?

  There was some applause, perhaps a smattering, certainly nothing raucous. But Turniken couldn’t have cared less. All he knew was that he was doomed. And as the lights and camera and moderator focused on his opponent, Turniken leveled daggers with his eyes at the dark-suited stranger in the second row.

  But Bernie didn’t meet his gaze, apparently. He just sat in his chair staring off into the distance, inert and impotent.

  Then, just as Governor Halloran began to speak, Turniken saw Bernie pluck the mind whistle from his shirt pocket and put it to his mouth. Turniken couldn’t believe it. He shook his head ever so slightly and thought to himself, “It’s a little late for that now, don’t you think, Ass Gland?”

  “
... and, as you may know,” the incumbent governor was saying, “I’m the sort of person who prefers specifics to generalities. And with that in mind, I’d like to lay out three specific goals for my next term, should you choose to elect me. First ...”

  An odd look suddenly came over Halloran as if he were struggling with his very own mouth, fighting against the next word it was forming, but it was a fleeting look. It came and went so quickly, Turniken wondered if he’d imagined it. Indeed, he must have, he figured, because Halloran kept speaking as if nothing unusual had happened. “Yes, first, what I’d really like to do first, is take that luscious thing in the blue dress sitting there in the first row and bonk the living daylights out of her.”

  Turniken detected a slight gasp from the audience and a confused look in Sally Baggers’ eyes, but Halloran went on.

  “And when I say bonk, I mean right now, right here in front of all of you. That means you, Sally, and you in the audience, and all of you from the great state of whatever state this is. Who cares? As long as it’s a state of bliss, eh, sugar? Just let me slip off that pretty blue dress of yours, undo your bra, and pull down your panties. How’s that sound? Huh?”

  A host of murmurs passed through the audience, and Sally raised a hand to quell them. “Everyone ... please. Uh, Governor, is this really necessary?”

  “Uhh, yeah, it’s necessary!”

  Halloran stepped out from behind the podium and approached the front of the stage. He looked down at the woman in the blue dress and proceeded to thrust his hips forward over and over, pulling his elbows back with each thrust. “Oh, baby! Oh, baby, baby, baby! You stay right there, honeybunch! Just open ‘em up and lift ‘em, and I’ll be right down!”

  “Governor!”

  “What?” Halloran shouted back. “Are my two minutes up already?” He flashed his hand three times. “Fifteen seconds! That’s all we need! Just fifteen seconds! Right, baby doll?”

  Baggers pounded the table furiously with her fist. “Governor! Stop this right now!”

  The sandbags of imposed silence gave way to a torrent of rage and anger from the audience. There was no silencing anyone now, and the moderator didn’t even try. Here and there in the crowd, men and women shot to their feet, cupped their hands to their mouths, and screamed up at the stage.

  “Someone get him out of here!”

  “Halloran, you’re a disgrace!”

  “Impeach the bastard! This instant!”

  Turniken observed the uproar with an inner delight—at least he hoped it was inner—as everyone now got up and rushed to the nearest exits as if someone had shouted fire.

  Well, not everyone was leaving. A certain gentleman was still sitting down, calm as can be, with a whistle still to his lips.

  “Wait a minute!” Halloran was now yelling. “No one wants to stay and watch? I demand equal time!”

  The moderator from Channel 4 NewsAndMoreNews News was beside herself, struggling to regain control. “Shut off the cameras,” she said finally. “Just shut off the damn cameras.”

  Down in the first row, someone else was not moving—the woman in the blue dress slumped over with her head in her hands, heaving sobs. A couple of people now helped her to her feet, spoke to her, consoled her, and together tried to spirit her up the aisle and out the back exit.

  “Hey, where you going, you sexy thang?” Halloran cried out. “Come back here! The three of us—you, me, and the wife—in the governor’s bed every day for the next four years! Can you picture that?”

  Turniken didn’t know for sure, but he sensed that the look of sincerity was slowly vacating his face.

  Governor Amory Turniken sat back in his big governor’s chair behind his big governor’s desk and savored his good fortune. He had been savoring his good fortune every day since his swearing in three months ago, and only now did it dawn on him that someday he had better get down to business.

  But not today.

  He took in the immense desk at a glance and rested his head on it, feeling its cool smoothness against his cheek. He spread his arms wide, reveling in the desk’s vast emptiness, and resolved to put something on top of it—a measure, a memo, a fountain pen—within the week.

  Just then, the telephone on the nearby table buzzed, and, reluctantly, Turniken sat back up in his big governor’s chair and answered it.

  It was his personal secretary. “Governor, your appointment’s here.

  “My what? Who?”

  “He says you know him. A—er—Burning Asshand?”

  Turniken was certain he had not scheduled any appointments only because he was certain he had not done a stitch of work since getting elected, but no matter. “By all means, send him in,” he said.

  Turniken suspected he would have to learn his personal secretary’s name at some point, but he had four years for that.

  The door to his office swung open, and in marched Bernard Ashland in what looked like the same suit he had worn at the restaurant. The governor’s office was much, much brighter than that place had been, what with the noonday light pouring in through the huge window behind the desk, but Ashland still looked as if he were standing in the bleak darkness of some deeply buried cellar.

  Turniken managed the long trek around the desk, met his visitor mid-carpet, and clapped a big governor’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Bernie! Bernie! Bernie!” he gushed. “I owe you big time! I see a humongous steak dinner in your future.”

  Ashland took a step back and, with a tilt of his head, considered his host. “Really? I hand you the highest office in the state on a platter, and all you have for me is a dish of prime rib?”

  “Well, there’ll be a baked potato, of course. And some sort of vegetable. Salad, if you want it.”

  Bernie looked as if he was about to say something, but dismissed it. “We’ll get back to this in a moment. In the meantime, did you hear the news?”

  “No. What happened?”

  Without ceremony, Bernie went over to the TV cabinet in the corner and grabbed the remote, aimed it at the screen, and clicked.

  “I hope it isn’t a flood,” Turniken said. “That’s all I need to begin my term—a goddamn state of emergency.”

  One or two seconds of warm-up, and Sally Baggers was up on the screen, her features etched with news-anchor grimness. Behind her: a Channel 4 NewsAndMoreNews News video of the former governor.

  Bernie immediately muted the sound and looked over at the current governor. “I’ll try to summarize this in the most sensitive way I know how. Halloran just snuffed himself.”

  Turniken gasped—because that’s what people did under these circumstances. “Oh, my God!”

  “Couldn’t have been more than a half hour ago. Didn’t you hear the sirens?”

  “No, I was busy.”

  “Listening to the people is your thing, not to their ambulances, eh?”

  Turniken laughed. “Something like that.”

  “Anyway, he—Halloran—was out on the Capitol Plaza earlier—you probably could have seen him right here from your window—delivering his long overdue mea culpa to members of the press.

  “It was quite the sob fest, from what I understand. He explained all about how, right after the debate, he realized what he’d done and immediately went into seclusion. He described how he’d shrunk into himself from shame and embarrassment over these past months, refusing to see or talk to anyone. How he began blaming outside forces for his behavior, as if it had been someone else making those lewd comments during the debate, not him.

  “And then at some point, according to him, he realized that he couldn’t blame anyone but himself, and that he had to get back out in public and face the music. And, oh, how he apologized. It’s right there on the screen if you want to listen to it. A big ‘Boohoo, I’m so sorry’ to family, to friends, to the girl in the blue dress, to her family, to her friends. To the people of the state for letting them down—and to their family and friends. It must have been very moving.

  “He promised
to seek treatment and to devote the rest of his life to helping others with similar mental issues. He thanked everyone for coming. And then, inexplicably, he suddenly turned away from the reporters, dashed out toward the busy street, and hurled himself directly into the path of an oncoming truck.”

  “My God,” Turniken said, again.

  “They didn’t show the aftermath on the news, obviously, but from what I gather, it wouldn’t have qualified as a scenic wonder.”

  Turniken nodded solemnly. “I suppose I’ll be expected to say a few words.”

  “Well, he was your predecessor, after all. And it might be the appropriate thing to do. On the other hand, it’s Friday. Maybe by the time Monday rolls around, people will have forgotten all about it, and you’ll be off the hook.”

  “I hope so. I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”

  “Yes, I know. Plus, it will only distract you from the work you really need to get done.”

  The word sent a cold chill down Turniken’s spine. “Work? What work?”

  Bernie reached into his jacket and whisked out a folded sheet of paper—and in doing so sent something else flying out of his pocket, which he caught in time. “Whoops,” he said, holding up the cylindrical mind device. “Can’t lose this baby.”

  He unfolded the paper and held it out to Turniken, who shied away from it as if Bernie were handing over a dead fish. “It’s a complete list of tasks I expect you to accomplish during your first term.”

  Turniken gingerly took the list and perused the first couple of paragraphs, skimmed the next three or four, then glanced at the rest. “Bernie, I can’t do this,” he said and handed the list right back.

  Bernie waved it off. “You keep it. I have a copy.”

  “You expect me to pass a law legalizing hit-and-run? You want me to raise the state’s blood-alcohol level for drivers to one-hundred-percent?”