by Brandt Legg
“Vonner is part of a group that’s using Dad?”
“It looks that way.”
“Is Dad going to quit?” she asked.
“He can’t.”
“Why not?”
Just before inhaling the mellow smoke from his hand-rolled cigarette, he lowered it, looking sharply into his sister’s eyes. “Because he’s Dad.”
She knew what her brother meant. Hudson Pound was a patriot and a brave man, but more than anything, he was an obsessive problem solver. If he saw something wrong, he couldn’t rest until he righted it. “He can’t fix that kind of corruption.”
“He thinks he can,” Schueller said, staring back at the restrooms as a husky man in jeans and a flannel shirt came out, straightening his belt.
“Because he’s smarter than they are?”
“No, he just assumes he understands the game better.” His eyes followed the man in jeans until he got into a battered F150 pickup truck.
She rolled her eyes, thinking of her father’s arrogance about his knowledge of history, as if everything going on now was rooted in something from the past. “The world isn’t some old book filled with maps and dates. It’s too complex now. Doesn’t he get that?”
“I told him that very thing,” Schueller said, watching the man in the suit exit the restroom and head back to his van. “I said, ‘Dad, the stuff that’s going down today isn’t based on history, it’s about things that haven’t even happened yet. Current events are more affected by the future than the past.’”
“What did he say?”
“That I was wrong. So then I asked him what happened to the last guy who thought he could change things, thought he could challenge the puppet masters. I told him I didn’t want my father to be the next JFK.”
Florence shivered.
“Dad didn’t want me to tell you any of this.” The F150 pickup finally pulled away, heading back out onto the Interstate.
“Why not? Does he think I’m not already crazy worried? After Colorado, what—”
“It’s not that. He doesn’t want you to try to talk him out of it.” Schueller took another drag from his cigarette and tried not to be too obvious while watching the suit now just sitting in his van, talking on a phone.
“What is it?” Florence asked, following Schueller’s eyes to the van. “Did the Secret Service find us?”
“That’s not Secret Service.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Schueller looked over his shoulder, wondering if there were more people watching them, more coming for them. “I think it’s one of Vonner’s goons,” he said, taking a quick drag.
“As long as it’s not NorthBridge.”
“I’m not sure there’s a difference,” Schueller muttered, crushing out the butt.
“You think Vonner’s connected to NorthBridge?” she said, her anger flaring as she remembered what NorthBridge did to them in Colorado.
“He’s connected to everything. And it’s not cool that he’s gonna find out about this.”
“What?”
“Us sitting here together. It looks pretty suspicious.”
“You’re my brother.”
“Yeah, but why are we meeting at a rest stop at night?”
“Then why did we risk it? Did you just want to scare me?”
“No, I need your help.” Schueller leaned into his sister and whispered, “Let’s go for a walk.”
They moved briskly to the other side of the lot where three semis were parked. Schueller nervously kept an eye on the van from underneath one of the big rigs.
“Do you keep in touch with Zackers?” he asked.
“Zackers?” she echoed, surprised. “Not really. His ex-girlfriend, Sabrina, and I are Facebook friends, but—”
“Can she get in touch with him?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“I need someone who can find stuff I can’t.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t think we have time to get into that right now,” Schueller said, noticing a 3D-system camera on the light pole above them. “Man, those things are everywhere.”
Florence glanced up.
“And those are the ones we can see,” Schueller added. “Bet Vonner has access to them.”
Florence shook her head. “Everything isn’t a conspiracy.”
“Find me Zackers,” Schueller said. “Please. And don’t even mention his name on Facebook.”
“Why? Is Facebook part of the Illuminati, too?”
Schueller reached for a cigarette to avoid screaming yes. He found the pack empty, but knew a sealed one waited in his car. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Three-D has facial recognition, and the Secret Service is probably already on the way.”
The man in the van watched as Hudson Pound’s children left the rest area in the same two cars in which they’d arrived. There was no need to follow; both vehicles were tracked and bugged. He phoned in his report.
Florence didn’t believe in a global conspiracy—not because it didn’t seem possible. She didn’t believe in it because she was afraid it might be true and couldn’t bear the thought. Still, after Colorado and knowing her dad’s life was at stake, she would do anything to help. She stopped for gas, messaged her old college friend on Facebook, and got lucky. The woman lived in Hancock, Maryland, a tiny town on the route home to Charlottesville. Once Florence explained she’d be passing through, the two agreed to meet for a drink at the Shotgun Tavern.
The bar, decorated with the heads of various animals and neon beer signs, was busy. Florence couldn’t help but wonder what else people in the sleepy town did at night. Even there in the nowheresville bar, 3D cameras were present. She caught a glimpse of two men better dressed than the crowd, and silently cursed Schueller for making her paranoid. Sabrina showed up just as a waitress handed Florence a sparkling water and slip of paper.
“That’ll get you entered to win a gun.” The waitress smiled as if she’d just given a sure-thing stock pick.
Sabrina and Florence hugged, quickly calculating it had been three years since they’d seen each other. Sabrina rambled about the excitement of knowing a presidential candidate’s daughter, and how worried she’d been when news of the Colorado attack broke. Florence was tired and wanted to get back on the road, so she quickly steered the conversation to Zackers.
“My dad is looking for computer geniuses to work on the campaign, and I thought of Zackers.”
“He’s definitely a genius,” Sabrina said. “Kind of dark and crazy, too, you’ll remember.”
“A lot of geniuses are. Do you know where he is?”
“Landed in Manhattan with some start-up doing crazy nano-medical stuff. I should have stayed with him. He’ll probably make a zillion dollars when the company goes public.”
Florence smiled.
“Of course, no one can stay with a freak like that—”
“But you’ve got a number for him,” Florence pressed, stealing a glance at the two well-dressed guys across the room.
“Yeah, here.” Sabrina pulled a number up on her phone. “I’ll send you the contact.”
“No,” Florence stopped her. “Let me just write it down.”
“O-Kay.”
Florence fumbled in her purse for a pen and scribbled the number on a napkin.
“Hey, are those guys your Secret Service escort?” Sabrina asked after catching Florence looking at the well-dressed men.
“No, they’re waiting outside,” she lied. “In fact, apologies, but I should go.”
“Already? Come on, catch me up quick. I’m a physical therapist, still single, but I am seeing a great guy. Now you!”
“Nurse at UVA, and I run a health blog. I’m married to a very patient man—a lawyer.”
“And your dad is running for president. Life is good,” Sabrina said genuinely.
“It is,” Florence said, smiling as she got up. “Sorry, I have to run, but next time we’ll do a proper visit. I promise!” She opened her purse.
Sabrina waved her off. “I got this.”
Florence thanked her and moved to the door, suddenly worried she’d put Sabrina in danger, afraid of the men in the corner, terrified of the 3D cameras, of Vonner’s “goons,” of everything.
Chapter Forty-Eight
By the next day, Florence managed to put Schueller in touch with Zackers, as well as get word to her father that she wanted to join him in New Hampshire on the weekend.
Schueller caught a last-minute flight to New York in order to meet with Zackers in person. The 3D cameras’ facial recognition system at the Cleveland Hopkins International Airport ID’d Schueller before he’d even gotten out of the parking area, but the system had already predicted his destination based on his movements. A woman whose mission meant finding out why Pound’s son was going to New York, and also to record everything he did there, quickly reviewed the data. She had just enough time to board a private jet which would arrive at LaGuardia Airport ahead of Schueller.
As the campaign bus rumbled along a snow-packed side street, Hamilton, the young staffer from Iowa who’d distinguished himself by working eighteen hours a day for weeks and always asking for more, sorted lunch orders. He hustled to the private room in the back and handed Hudson a turkey-cheddar club sandwich, fries, and a ginger-ale, then gave Fitz two Cokes, two bags of chips, and a Philly cheese steak.
The candidate read a carefully worded text from Schueller, which might not have made sense to anyone else, but Hudson got the meaning and worried about his son going to New York. Fitz interrupted with the latest poll numbers and a revision to Hudson’s stump speech to give more attention to the tax-reform wing of the party.
The snowy streets outside of Keen, New Hampshire, were starting to ice over as the clouds closed over the sun thirty minutes before it was due to disappear below the horizon. The Pound for President bus, already ten minutes late for a speech, cruised along as fast as conditions allowed. Hudson stared out the window as the rural countryside, awash in blue shadows, rolled by. His thoughts were far from New Hampshire as the scenery he’d grown so used to in recent months became hypnotic. Hudson stood, stretched, and walked toward the front of the bus where he knew he’d find Hamilton.
Suddenly, the bus slowed as it eased around a car pulled off on the side of the road, hood open. A woman stood staring at the engine.
“Stop the bus!” Hudson yelled.
Fitz came bursting from the back room as if they were under attack by NorthBridge. “Why?”
Hudson pointed back out the window. “That woman is stranded.”
Fitz looked out the window, and then toward the section of the bus where the press corps rode. Hearing the candidate’s outburst, the reporters were already craning to get a view of the woman.
“Look, Hudson, we’ll call someone. We’re late.”
“No!” Hudson said, a little too loud, as he moved toward the driver. “Stop the bus!”
The driver pulled over. Hudson put on a jacket.
“What are you doing?” Fitz asked.
“I’m going to see if she needs help.”
“Wait a minute,” Fitz said, moving to block Hudson’s path to the door. “She could be a NorthBridge suicide bomber. There could be NorthBridge snipers waiting for you.”
Two reporters from major news outlets were now standing next to them.
“I don’t think so,” Hudson said.
“Colorado!” Fitz barked through gritted teeth. “Let’s just call someone for her.” He snapped his fingers, pointing to Hamilton. “Get Triple-A on the phone.”
“Okay,” Hudson said. “But we’re waiting here until a tow truck arrives.”
Fitz pulled Hudson a few feet away from the reporters and spoke in hushed tones. “That could be half an hour, and we’re already behind schedule. What the hell is this about?”
“She’s in trouble.” Hudson was shaking.
Fitz noticed the candidate’s agitated state and saw that the reporters hadn’t missed it either. “She’s fine,” the campaign manager assured him. “Nothing is going to happen to her. This isn’t Afghanistan.”
“Really? A minute ago she was a suicide bomber and snipers were waiting.”
“We’ll leave Hamilton to wait with her,” Fitz said. “Will that be alright?”
“I’m on it,” Hamilton said, moving past them and jumping out of the bus.
Hudson nodded.
“Let’s go,” Fitz called up to the driver.
Hudson watched as Hamilton jogged back to the woman, wondering what he would do if she suddenly turned and shot him. He saw her grateful smile as the bus resumed its journey and thought back nearly three decades, wondering if Rochelle had smiled like that.
Chapter Forty-Nine
For the next few weeks, Hudson endured a whirlwind schedule of stump speeches, luncheons, town hall meetings, and debate prep. There had been some cynics in the media who thought his dramatic plea to help a stranded motorist was more image-building than sincerity, yet many of the reporters present at the scene reported on Hudson’s sincere rage at not being able to do it himself. Polls showed his base and a growing number of swing voters believed him to be trustworthy, honorable, even heroic.
During the blur of his pre-primary sweeps across key states, Hudson read the CapWar history file the Wizard had given him again and again. The contents so crushed his world view and shook his faith in history that he hardly knew what to do, but slowly, it sank in. If the CapWars had really happened, if the mysterious author of the file was right, then Hudson had to stay in the race and win. As crazy as it seemed, he repeatedly uttered a phrase to himself that would have sounded comical before he’d seen the CapWars file.
“I have to save the world.”
On the eve of the final debate before the Iowa caucus, Melissa and Hudson found themselves alone in a hotel room—alone for the first time since forever. Although they spoke daily on the phone, Hudson had not been able to tell her about Schueller’s search for information on Vonner and his ties to an Illuminati-like group, or the CapStone conspiracies that the Wizard had presented. There seemed to be so many secrets.
“Are you okay?” Melissa asked while taking off her shoes. “You’re too stressed.”
“I know.”
She walked over and pushed him down on the bed. “You can’t forget to relax.” Melissa straddled him and playfully pinned him down.
“I wish I knew how to relax.”
“Are you worried about the debate?”
“No, that may be the one thing I’m not concerned about,” he said as she stripped off his necktie. “I just don’t trust Vonner.”
“Of course you don’t,” she said, leaning back as she helped him get his sport coat off. “Why do you have a problem with that?”
“Why? Why did he choose me?”
“Because . . . you . . . are . . . the . . . change.”
He raised his eyebrows.
Melissa stood up and pulled off Hudson’s shoes. “Remember, people elected Trump for the same reason they’re voting for you. They knew something wasn’t working, and realized only an outsider could fix it. Trump failed because he didn’t understand there was only one way to take on the establishment.”
“Which is?”
“The coastal elites, with all their money and power, have one weakness: there are so few of them, and that’s no small thing. Even though the masses forget they have the advantage of numbers, the ruling class has never forgotten that fact. That’s why, for so long, they’ve pitted us against each other. Divided we fall, united we stand.”
“Clearly Trump missed that point.”
“Yes,” she said, kissing him. “Half the people despised him. Fueled by his own faults, the media, being the elites’ propaganda machine, fanned those flames and portrayed him as the devil. Remember all the comparisons to Hitler?”
“Why won’t the media do that to me?”
“Because they can’t. You’re not a billionaire, you’re one of the people. The peo
ple love you.” She undid the button on his shirt, opened his belt. “If the media tries to vilify you, it will only expose their corruption even more.”
“It won’t be that easy.”
“You’re a former teacher, an army vet, a hardware store owner, a small-town hero, an all-American every-man, and that’s the reason Vonner picked you. You’re exactly what the masses want; a man without scandal who will do what he says.”
Hudson felt his stomach tighten when she mentioned scandal. “The media will invent something.”
“Nothing anyone can prove.” Melissa pulled him on top of her.
“That hasn’t stopped them in the past.”
Getting updates from Schueller was difficult since virtually no means of communication could be trusted other than face-to-face, and with 3D, even that couldn’t be counted on any longer. However, in a few days, they would see each other in New Hampshire, and Schueller had promised answers.
Was Vonner connected to the CapStone conspiracy, and was there any truth to the CapWars history? From what Schueller had told him about Zackers and the information Zackers had come up with thus far, Hudson was impressed, but also concerned.
He went into the final debate before the Iowa caucus distracted and uneasy about the prospect of an incredible decades-old conspiracy swirling around him.
Fitz had insisted that Hudson go after Thorne as much as possible, and so he did.
“Don’t you see? NorthBridge isn’t releasing anything bad about Thorne,” Hudson said at the end of an answer about the many disclosures and intercepted communications from politicians and government agencies coming out of NorthBridge. “They’re targeting me, and others, but they want Thorne to win. Why is that?”
“Maybe because they know a true leader when they see one,” Thorne broke in.
“Are you supporting NorthBridge?” the moderator asked the shock-jock.
“I can’t help it if they like me,” Thorne replied, smirking. “But Pound is the one who speaks their language—constantly talking about what the Founders wanted, returning the country to its eighteenth-century grandeur.”