by Brandt Legg
Hudson scoffed. She stared back in silence. He could see her calculating.
I never should have said ‘ruined me’, he thought. She shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be talking to her. She’s going to run the damn story no matter what I say.
“Hudson, this story, the one I’m going to run, is going to cost you six or seven points in the polls. That’s nothing. You’re an American hero. Fitz and Vonner’s spin-doctors will explain all this away. I believe you. You have a long history of helping ex-cons.”
He nodded, and knew her words should be a relief, but he felt even more uncomfortable.
“But . . . if there is something else. Something I haven’t found yet . . . and there is, isn’t there?” She licked her lips slowly.
“No,” Hudson said a bit too eagerly while trying to maintain a poker face.
“Oh, Hudson. Why do you insist on doing this the hard way?”
“You’re the one looking for a story that isn’t there.”
“And when I find it,” Fonda said, standing up, “I’m going to bury you.” She stared into his eyes. “Because even though I think you’re a good man, or at least once were, the thing I like least in the world is liars.”
She held his stare. He could not speak. He could almost see the calculations and possible scenarios whirling in Fonda’s mind. She’d find it. After all these years, someone was going to dig up the secret, and it would be her.
In an attempt to end her probing and the uncomfortable silence, he finally asked her why she hated Vonner so much.
“I don’t hate anyone,” she said. “But if I did, he would definitely be on the list.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She shook her head as if disappointed in him. Hudson knew her thoughts were still back on what secret he was hiding among the group of criminals who clouded his life.
“Even though your office is bugged,” Fonda began, “and even though I don’t think you’re ready—”
“My office is bugged?” he asked, surprised, looking around expecting to see hidden cameras and dime-store-novel PIs.
Fonda raised her eyebrows. “Your naïveté is amazing.” She laughed to herself. “Normally I wouldn’t do this,” she said, rubbing her hands together, “but since you insist on continuing to lie to me, I’m going to send you straight into the hornet’s nest. But when you get stung, don’t come crying to me. You asked for this.”
“What? I didn’t ask for anything.”
“You want to know why I don’t like Vonner? When you have a little time, do an internet search of his name and the word ‘conspiracy’ and that will give you some idea. I’m surprised you haven’t done it already, but obviously . . . ” She paused and stared at him, like a cat about to pounce on a mouse. “Obviously, you haven’t.”
“The internet is filled with crazy conspiracy theories, especially about the super-rich.”
“Let me give you two more pieces of advice. First, some of those conspiracy theories online are actually true. And, second, just remember they will know everything you search for.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
Fonda shook her head and sighed, then spoke into the desk lamp as if it were a microphone. “Vonner, you sure found a Boy Scout here . . . incredible.” Then, turning back to Hudson, added, “I truly hope they don’t kill you.”
“Who is ‘they’?” he repeated.
Fonda rolled her eyes impatiently. “Don’t worry, I can see my way out,” she said while walking into the hall.
It took him a few seconds to shake her words, then he scrambled to the hallway. “Hey, Fonda,” he called after her. “Plungers are on aisle seven.”
“No thanks, you don’t have one that’s big enough.”
Hudson couldn’t help but laugh, but the enormity of what had just happened quickly snuffed out the humor. He had things to do—prepare Fitz, warn Gouge—and then he needed to take a quick drive to Cleveland.
But first he had to do something he’d never tried before.
Hudson reached in his pocket, pulled out the flash drive, and shoved it into his computer.
Chapter Forty-Two
Suddenly paranoid by Fonda’s claim that his office was bugged, Hudson grabbed his laptop and snuck back into the warehouse. He set the computer on a pallet of furnace filters, grabbed a roll of electrical tape, and used a piece to cover the in-screen camera.
The monitor filled with the rapidly scrolling characters of matrix mode, and a few seconds later the Wizard’s typed greeting came through. Dawg, is something wrong?
Everything.
Good, you’re finally catching on. This is no accidental universe we live in.
Fonda Raton knows about Rochelle.
There was a noticeable pause on the screen before the next typed line appeared.
What does she know?
Hudson, realizing in his panic that he hadn’t tested the Wizard to proof his identity, typed, How many cases of beer did we take on that trip after graduation?
Eight. Eight cases of Molson, came back the immediate response. What does she know?
So far all she knows is that I knew Rochelle and Gouge. She‘s doing a story about my criminal associates.
She can’t find out about that night.
She can if she gets to Gouge.
Gouge is a rock. Don’t worry about Gouge.
I do worry about Gouge.
Some people worry too much, some don’t worry enough, and others worry about the wrong things. You, Dawg, are deep in the latter category—you’ve always worried about the wrong things.
Maybe, but how do you know?
You were in the army. Wasn’t there a guy, maybe a couple of them, that everyone knew would fall on a grenade to save the others?
Sure, Hudson replied, thinking back on several soldiers he knew in the service who fit the Wizard’s description.
Gouge is that guy. He’ll do anything for you. But you’ve got other friends to worry about.
Who?
Vonner.
Not this again.
But as Hudson typed, Fonda’s warnings replayed in his head. He’d convinced himself that Vonner chose him because research showed voters wanted a non-politician; that Hudson’s record in the Army, on the school board, and as a small business owner made him a perfect fit.
But what if there’s more to it? he thought. What if I’m being set up?
His doubts were seeded now, yet he had no idea what it meant. Vonner could have chosen anyone. Schueller’s question echoed: “Why you?” He still couldn’t answer, but one thing Hudson did know was that he was expendable. Everyone is expendable. And in the age of NorthBridge, with presidential candidates dying all around, that terrified him.
Do you think Vonner has my office bugged?
Are you kidding? Yes, of course he does . . . and your car(s), home, phones, shower, toilets, everything! Why do you think I go to so much trouble to talk to you encrypted this way?
Hudson read the screen. The words had the effect of food poisoning. Wait a minute, he typed in, then got up and bought a ginger ale from the soda machine next to the double doors that led to the restrooms—where he figured he might be headed next—took a slow sip, and then responded by typing a question he didn’t expect the Wizard to be able to answer. What’s Vonner’s game?
He’s trying to win a war.
The response surprised him. With who? Hudson pounded the keys as if his fingers were hammers.
I’m not sure, but my guess is it’s against Bastendorff.
This is the second time you’ve mentioned Bastendorff. Who is he?
One of the richest men in the world.
Then why haven’t I heard of him?
That’s how you know he’s super rich; he’s got the power to make sure people don’t know about him. But in order to even understand what that means, what’s at stake, you need to first look at something that you do think you know about, something that is very different from what you believe.
Which is?
History.
Hudson looked at the word, trying to figure out what his old friend was talking about. He’d loved history his whole life, and would still be teaching it if circumstances hadn’t taken him in another direction. Wow, how far away from the classroom have I gotten? he wondered.
How can this help me deal with Fonda Raton?
Just listen, you need to know this. The Wizard’s words began filling the screen again. It goes way back, but it’s primarily the events of the past hundred years or so that have brought us to this point. Many of the highlights of the history of the last century didn’t happen the way you think, and the people that created it are using you to make a huge power play. Dawg, it’s the endgame, and they’re on the final move.
A Secret Service agent poked his head into the warehouse. “Sir, are you okay?” he asked, scanning the innocuous massive space, checking the bay door to the loading dock.
“Yeah, thanks, Jason. I’m just working on a speech. Needed a little privacy.”
The agent spoke into his wrist. “Teacher secure,” he said, using Hudson’s code name, and then ordered another agent to move outside to the loading dock. With a long look up into the rafters, he nodded, then motioned over his shoulder. “I’ll be right over there if you need anything.”
Hudson thanked him again and turned back to the screen. Even though all the text had erased, he was still glad he’d kept the computer facing the wall.
I don’t have much time, Hudson typed.
Let’s hope you’re wrong about that. In the meantime, I’ll get you a digital file with the true history of the ‘American century’, and how it relates to the CapWars.
CapWars?
You’ll understand when you read it. Too much to get into now.
Is it going to just be more of your conspiracy theories?
There is no ‘theory’ about it. The CapWars are real, and so is the danger to our country . . . and to you.
What should I do?
Win the election!
The answer surprised Hudson. But if I’m part of some outrageous scheme . . .
You are. And that’s precisely why you must win . . . because you’re the only hope to stop it.
Hudson shut his laptop, bent his head, and broke down.
Chapter Forty-Three
During the drive to Cleveland, Hudson thought about what the Wizard had said, and about Fonda’s visit. He missed Florence and Schueller, but even with their dad running for president, they had their own lives to lead. Schueller and his girlfriend had gone to her parents’ house for the holiday, and Florence had taken a shift for a friend.
Hudson had alerted Vonner and Fitz of the upcoming Raton Report detailing his association with felons. Fitz had cussed up a storm and generally acted as if he’d been a victim of each name on the list, but the campaign manager quickly came around to what he did best—building a narrative that neutralized the story. By the end, even Hudson had to admit it might make him more appealing to voters.
“Hudson Pound, struck by the sad paths taken by two of his classmates and two members of his army unit, instituted a plan within his company to give those who had paid their debts to society a second chance. Just another way Pound has repeatedly given back to the community. Forgiveness and redemption. We are the change.”
Vonner didn’t seem fazed in the least by the bombshell. “Raton can’t stop you. Have you seen the latest CompuPoll?” Vonner laughed. “I’m just sorry we have to waste any more time with these damned primaries.”
“Well, that’s the process,” Hudson said. “And we haven’t even gotten past the first one yet.”
“Don’t worry about that. Once the dominoes start falling . . . ”
“I wish I shared your confidence.”
“Spend your time thinking about the general election and knocking out Neuman.”
“Neuman?” Hudson echoed, quite surprised. “You think the Democrats are going to nominate Newsman Dan?”
“Uh . . . well, shoot. I mean, I can hope, can’t I? Clearly he’d be the easiest to beat. Don’t you agree?”
“I don’t know,” Hudson said, remembering the Wizard’s prediction about Neuman winning New Hampshire. A sick feeling came over him. “I kind of figured it would be Kelleher or Morningstar, maybe Packard.”
“You can’t always believe the polls,” Vonner said.
“Except when they say I’m winning?”
Vonner laughed. “Damn right! Oh, hey, I’ve got to jump, been waiting for this call.”
After Vonner was gone, Hudson stared at the communicator for a long time, thinking about everything his billionaire backer had said, and what he hadn’t said.
Damn it, Vonner knows it’s going to be Newsman Dan and me in the general! How in hell can he know that?
Schueller had been surprised when his dad emailed saying he’d be there in a few hours, but when Hudson insisted on taking a cold walk along the shore of Lake Erie, the younger Pound became worried. Edgewater Cleveland Lakefront State Park was one of Schueller’s favorite places—sandy beaches, a wilderness of trees, scenic vistas, and the distant skyline of a beautiful city. Hudson liked the park’s privacy, and although Secret Service and Vonner’s security agents tailed them, he believed their conversation could not be overheard.
“Listen closely,” he whispered to his son as they stared out into the massive body of water that seemed more ocean than lake. “I need you to do some real research. Get a new laptop, make sure it can’t be traced to you.”
“On Vonner?”
“Yeah,” Hudson said, almost sadly.
“Something happened? Something that made you believe me?”
Hudson nodded. “I think so. I don’t know what to think. How could I have been so naïve?” He thought of Fonda Raton. “How did I let myself believe it was so simple?”
“Simple?”
“That I’d led the perfect life and had all the right attributes to become the first common man to become president.”
“Dad, you’ll be a great president. The campaign has proven that, your actions in Colorado, the fact that NorthBridge is so threatened by you.”
“But who do I believe?”
“Me,” Schueller said, turning to his father. “You can believe me.”
Hudson nodded. “I know.” His words had many meanings.
“Now tell me what you need me to do.”
“Find every conspiracy theory, every controversy, every anything that you can, not just on Vonner, but also Booker Lipton, and some billionaire named Karl Bastendorff. Especially anything that connects the three of them.”
“I’ve never heard of Bastendorff, but there’s plenty on Vonner and Booker. I’ve already accumulated a ton of stuff on them.”
“I read those papers you gave me a while back. That stuff was way too general, and not enough facts. Forget the global conspiracy stuff, just concentrate on those three names: Vonner, Booker, and Bastendorff.”
“Vonner and Booker are at the center of the storm.”
Hudson glanced back at the agents, and then at his son. “What storm?”
“The Illuminati, or whatever you want to call it.”
“I remember back in college a few friends really got into that Illuminati stuff and the whole alternative history track. I looked into it, researched, read, dug. Part of me wanted to believe it, but nothing . . . The Illuminati is a myth.”
“Yeah, maybe the whacky cult stuff. Maybe the Masonic rituals and secret societies don’t add up to a true conspiracy, but someone is pulling strings. It may not be organized, or it may have another name, a dozen names, no name, I don’t know. It just seems obvious that this isn’t all happening by accident. Look at you. Rich dude decides you’d be a good president, and you go from complete unknown to frontrunner in six months. Is that a coincidence?” He threw a flat stone, skimming the water’s rippled surface several times.
Hudson shook his head, leaned down, chose a rock, and skipped it, even more than
Schueller. They scrambled for flat stones, competing with each other for several minutes. They both laughed openly, and then looked at each other.
“If the Illuminati don’t exist, then why are you telling me to get a new untraceable computer?” Schueller handed his dad a perfectly flat stone.
“You know why.” Hudson threw the stone, then stared at his son, his expression conveying sorrow, a plea for forgiveness, fear, and most of all a desperate demand for caution. “Promise me you’ll not just be careful, you’ll be perfect.”
“I will.”
“I can’t stand putting you at risk, but there isn’t anyone I trust more than you.”
“We’re already in it.”
Hudson shook his head, dismayed.
“What about Florence and Melissa?” Schueller asked.
“Keep them out of it. Melissa will never believe it. I don’t even believe it, but when I get some facts, I’ll talk to her.” Hudson looked back out over the lake. “And Florence has already been through too much,” he said, thinking of the horrors of the Colorado attack. “You I can keep close.”
“We take care of each other.” Schueller held his father’s stare. “And what will you do with whatever we find?”
“It depends on what we discover. I just want the truth, but we’ll have to sort that out of the rumors and lies that clog the internet.”
“Dad, you won’t believe how much more is out there than when you looked into this twenty-five years ago.”
“Facts, remember. Stick to the facts. If there’s enough, then I’ll take it to the next level, maybe even withdraw.”
“Dad, please, whatever we find, whatever you do, don’t quit. Even if we find out Vonner is the worst guy in the world.”
Hudson nodded. He knew what Schueller was going to say. His son reminded him of the Wizard and Gouge, and how he himself used to be. Schueller’s idealistic nature both warmed and worried him. Hudson had shared that idealism, too, until the night his innocence and trust had been stolen. What would the Wizard, Gouge, and he be doing now if it had never happened? The Wizard lived in a storage shed chasing conspiracies, ghosts, and who knew what else; Gouge, an eternal wrecked ex-con, was a shadow of who he once was.