Election

by Brandt Legg

  Not surprisingly, Hudson agreed with every word. Vonner employed several good speechwriters who made the rookie candidate sound like a polished pro, yet still very much himself. He pushed the button on the communicator and instantly heard Vonner’s voice again.

  “The statement looks great,” Hudson said. “But these damned NorthBridgers are changing the dynamic of this election in more ways than just killing the frontrunner.”

  “Don’t worry about the NorthBridgers,” Vonner said gruffly. “They may think they can dictate the agenda with these kinds of tactics, but in the end, people don’t like bullies, and they don’t listen to them. Thorne needs to learn that, but it doesn’t matter; you’ll be one of the few voices of reason, and one good thing is the NorthBridgers are making sure everyone is paying attention.”

  Hudson looked back at the screen. The former Fed building had been reduced to rubble, part of it still burning. Why Kansas City? he wondered. And why can’t they track these NorthBridgers down? He was about to ask if Vonner had a theory, when Melissa whispered, “Tell him about Fonda Raton.”

  Vonner listened silently while Hudson recounted the incident with the journalist, then in a stern, grandfatherly voice delivered a lecture about getting off-message. “Hear me on this, Hudson. You will be the next president only if you let us manage. I chose you because I believe you have all the right ingredients, but we have the recipe. Understand?”

  “Don’t talk to Fonda Raton,” Hudson answered.

  “There are very few places our influence doesn’t reach with the media, but Fonda Raton is one of those dark corners. So, yes, please stick to the script. In the meantime, we’ll have to see if we can clean up whatever mess she makes of your little talk.”

  “Sorry. I was tired.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s early, and now NorthBridge has stolen the headlines again. I think we’ll survive. Now remember, this weekend is our first big fundraiser, your debut with the folks who have the real money in the party.”

  “I know. We’ll be there.” Melissa was excited about the new gown she’d be wearing. In fact, the campaign had provided an extensive new wardrobe for both of them.

  Hudson glanced at the screen as “Newsman” Dan Neuman spoke about resisting the urge to politicize the NorthBridge attacks.

  “The Republicans seem to want to make these tragedies into partisan issues,” Neuman said from a television studio. “But we all need to remember they are thugs, nothing more.”

  “Who’s he calling ‘thugs’?” Melissa asked, laughing. “The NorthBridgers, or the Republicans?”

  Hudson didn’t answer, because in spite of the attack, the flurry of comments from his competitors, Fonda’s ambush, Vonner’s lecture, and the upcoming fundraiser, all he could think about was the Wizard.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The two hundred guests wearing tuxedos and formal gowns had paid $50,000 each to the Super PAC hosting, instantly generating $10 million for the first in a long series of fundraisers. Those in attendance were expected to make additional donations, which would add considerably to the evening’s take. Quite a few A-list celebrities mingled with the nation’s elite business titans.

  The exclusive Venus Resort in Santa Barbara had been carefully selected for the event; fabulous ocean views and a banquet hall, straight out of Gatsby, leading out to a pool and “patio” which could only have been dreamed up in Hollywood. The weather and sunset seemed specially ordered for the evening. Hudson wondered if there were any limits to what Vonner’s wealth could arrange.

  Melissa was swept away with one of Vonner’s people to work one part of the room while Fitz, Coke “cocktail” in hand, guided Hudson to all the right people. As he made his way through the guests, Fitz came and went with practiced ease, always there at just the right time to introduce the candidate to another well-heeled donor. However, it was during one of Fitz’s longer absences that a refined African-American gentleman wearing a dark linen suit approached.

  “I was on my way out,” the man began as he extended his hand to Hudson, “and I thought I should take a moment to speak with the person I paid fifty grand to meet.”

  “Yes, I’m glad you did,” Hudson replied, searching his mind for the identity of the man. He’d seen photos of every guest and had tried to commit as many as possible to memory, and, although he looked familiar, at that moment he couldn’t recall his name.

  As they shook hands, the man squinted at Hudson and seemed to grasp the candidate’s predicament. He smiled. “I was a last-minute addition to the party. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Booker Lipton.”

  “I’m sorry, of course you are,” Hudson responded. How could he not have recognized the wealthiest man in the world? “Thank you for coming. I can’t tell you how much your support means to me.”

  Booker laughed. “Oh, I’m not supporting you.”

  “I’m sorry?” Hudson stammered, not understanding.

  “I just wanted to stop by and take a look at Vonner’s latest entry.” Booker stared into Hudson’s eyes. “You have no idea, do you?”

  “What?”

  Just then, a beautiful young woman with a slight Asian appearance walked up. “I’ve been looking for you,” she said to Booker.

  Hudson’s gaze met hers and he gasped. The woman’s eyes were lit up as if starlight had been captured, stored, and projected back at that very moment. Hudson was surprised at his thoughts. There was something about this woman that changed something in him. And her eyes held something else, too; a wisdom which belied her age by decades. Hudson felt certain that in a single look, she knew everything about him. Everything.

  As he stared in a slow-motion pause, she nodded slightly. He took that almost imperceptible action as an answer to his silent question. She did know everything.

  Surely, he was just being paranoid. Ever since the Wizard’s call, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that long-ago night and what would happen if Gouge or the Wizard decided to talk. But for now, that was all gone, as he couldn’t take his eyes off the woman.

  Is she some kind of mind reader? Does she really know the secret? How could she?

  Hudson tried to stop staring at her. He’d forgotten about Booker until Fitz returned.

  “Booker Lipton, what a nice surprise,” Fitz said.

  “Yes, you probably thought the guest list had the right quota of black folks already, but I thought one more couldn’t hurt,” Booker said smiling.

  “Oh, come on, Booker, you’re welcome anytime.”

  Hudson suddenly realized the woman had slipped away.

  “Fitz, you look good in a tux,” Booker said, his tone more sarcastic than charming. “But isn’t it a tad warm for wool?”

  “It’s not wool.”

  “My mistake. I assumed you always wore wool.” Booker offered an obviously phony smile. “Take care of yourself, Hudson. I’m sure when we next meet, you’ll be in the White House.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” Fitz said.

  “Oh, Fitz, you know that God has absolutely nothing to do with it,” Booker said, smiling for real now.

  “Either way,” Hudson said, “you’ve got a pretty good track record at predicting the future, Mr. Lipton, so I hope you turn out to be right in this case.”

  “Prediction?” Booker asked rhetorically. “In order for it to be a prediction, there has to be a chance it might not happen.”

  “Where did your companion go?” Hudson asked, ignoring Booker’s “double-talk.”

  “You mean Linh? Oh, she’s probably gone looking for fresh air. She’s allergic to wool.” He smiled at Fitz again. “Remember, Hudson, people who want to change the world usually end up getting changed by the world instead.” Booker turned and walked away. Hudson lost sight of him in the crowd as he continued searching for the woman named Linh.

  “Do you know the woman he was with?” Hudson asked Fitz. “He said her name was Linh.”

  “No, I’m afraid that’s one person I don’t know
.” He laughed. “So that must mean she isn’t very important.”

  But Hudson thought she might actually be very important. He felt a little like the prince in Cinderella. Not because he wanted a princess, but rather because he thought she knew his secret, and that she might also have one of her own. One that he needed to know.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Back on the campaign trail in Iowa, Hudson tried to forget about the Wizard and Gouge, the NorthBridgers, and Linh, the woman with the magical eyes. His request to Fitz for help in locating Linh was met with a sharp rebuke.

  “Look, we don’t need another Gary Hart, or Bill Clinton,” Fitz said, slamming down his soda. “Damn it, man, just because you look like a Kennedy doesn’t mean you have to act like one.”

  “It’s nothing like that,” Hudson shot back. “I just need to talk with her.”

  Fitz rolled his eyes. “Talk to Melissa.”

  A staffer burst in. “Brickman just proposed a special task force to go after NorthBridge.”

  “Damn!” Fitz shouted. “Great idea. We should have been on that first.” Brickman, the former governor of Pennsylvania, also a Republican candidate for president, had been rising steadily in the polls and threatened to take the late Senator Uncer’s place as the front runner. “Put out a statement that denounces Brickman for second-guessing the brave men and women of the FBI, and push again that the governor is trying to get to the top by standing on the bodies of the victims of terrorists.”

  The staffer glanced at Hudson. The candidate nodded his approval, happy that some saw him as the one in charge.

  In the hotel lobby, Hudson and his entourage collided with Democratic hopeful, tech billionaire Tim Zerkel. A reporter caught the two close enough and shouted for the two men to shake hands. Several photographers caught the moment which, an hour later, was the banner on the leading political website with the headline: “A Preview of the General Election?” The piece was mostly click-bait, since both were still considered long shots, but it was the first time anyone in the media mentioned Hudson with a serious chance at getting the Republican nomination.

  Fonda Raton still hadn’t run anything on Hudson. It had been ten days since their meeting. Hudson wondered if Vonner had found a way to get to her after all. Or, maybe, as Melissa suggested, “The barracuda is just waiting until she has enough to bury you.” The Raton Report was anything but a fluff factory, and the stories that Fonda wrote herself were always irrefutable and packed full of verifiable facts. Whenever Hudson dwelled on it, he felt instantly sick, thinking about her finding Gouge or the Wizard.

  The next two months were a blur of fundraisers, stump speeches, minor endorsements, sound bites, and events that kept the Star-Spangled Banner ringing in his ears. There were also no less than five trips to New Hampshire, six more to Iowa, and two to South Carolina, plus stops in several other early primary states. He’d quickly grown accustomed to Vonner’s private planes and luxury hotels, and wondered if every campaign had it so good. Even though there were regular fundraisers, he never worried about money. The Super PAC brought in cash faster than they could spend it.

  “Don’t worry,” Fitz said. “We’ll need all of it, and more, for the general.”

  “Everyone seems so sure that I’m going to be the nominee,” Hudson told Melissa on one of the rare nights they spent together, since she was doing her share of campaigning across other states, having referred all her clients to other consultants.

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Not yet,” Hudson admitted.

  “Well, Schueller sure is,” Melissa said. “I had lunch with him today.”

  “I thought you were in Pennsylvania earlier.”

  “I was. He’s got a gig in Erie.”

  “How is he?”

  “Still convinced you’re being manipulated by Vonner.”

  “On many days, I could agree with him.”

  “I know, but you’re still making the decisions. It’s like you’re the quarterback and Vonner’s the head coach.”

  “And you?”

  “The cheerleader!” she shouted triumphantly.

  Hudson’s cell phone played “Bang the Drum All Day,” by Todd Rundgren. They both knew the ringtone meant Fitz.

  “Listen, Hudson,” the campaign manager said. “There’s been a threat.”

  “What?” Melissa said before Hudson could get it out.

  “The FBI is trying to run it down, but someone claiming to represent NorthBridge said they’re going to kill you in the next three days.”

  “Good God!” Hudson exclaimed.

  “No, listen,” Fitz said. “We don’t know if this is really NorthBridge, or just some quack.”

  “As if NorthBridge aren’t quacks,” Hudson said.

  “Well, either way . . . ” Melissa began, “this is terrifying.”

  “You’re getting Secret Service protection, you and Brickman,” Fitz said. “It seems the former governor’s continued calls for a special task force to go after NorthBridge has angered them.”

  “When is the Secret Service coming?” Melissa quickly asked.

  “They’re on their way,” Fitz answered. “And there’ll be no way to keep this a secret. The media will see the Secret Service presence and ask why you’ve gotten protection so early, so we’ll just refer to threats and offer no comment beyond that. No specifics, no mention of NorthBridge. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” Hudson said. “What about my kids?”

  “No Secret Service, but Vonner will assign a team to both of them.”

  “Schueller’s going to hate that,” Melissa said.

  “Too bad,” Hudson said. “Risking my life is one thing, but my children must be kept safe. Fitz, I’ll call you back. I need to talk to the kids right away.”

  His son took the news better than he expected, and agreed to the security detail. Florence thought her dad should drop out, but knew he wouldn’t. Hudson always said he learned one thing in the army, and that was never to back down from a fight.

  Before he called Fitz back, the Secret Service arrived.

  “Mr. Pound,” the lead agent said, after presenting his credentials, “we have to get you out of here now. This instant!”

  “Why?” Hudson demanded.

  “Governor Brickman has just been assassinated.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Vonner Security, the billionaire’s control and protection division, coordinated with the Secret Service, and almost immediately a convoy of four vehicles—two of them black SUVs—was speeding toward the Interstate. Seated next to Melissa in the back seat, Hudson took calls from the FBI, Fitz, and Vonner.

  A sniper had caught Governor Brickman leaving a campaign stop in New Hampshire. A single shot ended his life, and not one of the hundreds of people on hand had seen the gunman. In an audacious move, NorthBridge, through a statement signed by AKA Hancock, claimed responsibility almost a full minute before the trigger had even been pulled. The terrorists had timed the calls so that the FBI and five media outlets were all notified simultaneously.

  The Secret Service’s plan to protect Hudson was to keep moving until a better plan could be developed. All appearances for the next three days were cancelled, and in yet another surprising development, two candidates who had only been in the race for five and seven weeks, respectively, dropped out.

  “NorthBridge has capabilities far beyond anything we’ve ever seen before,” the FBI director said in a press conference that followed a brief statement from the president. “Today we are announcing something that has been in the works for several weeks; a joint task force led by the FBI, comprising agents and representatives of the National Counterterrorism Center, the National Security Agency, CIA, Secret Service, Homeland Security, Department of Defense, and involved state and local law enforcement. The collaborative operation will be known as the “Brickman Effort.”

  The Brickman Effort’s first official action was to increase security around the remaining presidential candidates. There were not enoug
h Secret Service details to give each of the remaining twelve Republicans and eight Democrats in the race round-the-clock protection, so a patchwork was utilized—private contractors and a pool of military and law enforcement personnel with protective services. The two top-polling candidates from each party got the full Secret Service treatment. Hudson qualified additionally only because of the direct threat.

  A few hours later, Hudson, Melissa, and their Secret Service detachment boarded one of Vonner’s private jets in Cincinnati. Once at cruising altitude, Hudson asked his wife the unspoken question that had been tearing at him.

  “Should I quit?”

  To him the idea wasn’t only rooted in the threat, Brickman and Uncer’s assassinations, and the other two rivals dropping out. He knew a time bomb sat ticking in his past, waiting to destroy his dreams of the future. But Melissa knew only of the current events.

  “Are you serious?” She could see that he was, but it surprised her. The man she knew had never been afraid of a fight. The man she believed would become the Commander in Chief was a determined tough guy, undaunted by any challenge, an optimist who believed he could solve any problem. “Is it because of the kids?”

  “The kids?”

  “Are you afraid to leave Schueller and Florence without a parent? Or are you trying to protect them?”

  Hudson certainly carried the terror that the NorthBridgers, or even some other monster, could go after his children, but he believed it unlikely, and he had confidence in Vonner’s security people. “No, but I just don’t want to be crazy.”

  “Then don’t let the bastards win,” Melissa said, squeezing his hand and looking into his eyes. “They threatened you because they’re afraid of you. They’re afraid because you’re different.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense. Have you read their manifesto? I’m the exact type of candidate they want.”