by Brandt Legg
“Our fates?” He laughed. “I’m talking about the fate of the country. If I become president.”
“You say ‘if’ like it’s a dangerous word.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Don’t you want to be president?”
“I believe I can do a lot of good.”
“If they let you.”
“That’s my point. The voters will make that decision.”
“It’s not up to the voters.” She looked at him sympathetically. “It’s never up to the voters.”
“Tell that to Hillary Clinton.”
Linh smiled. “I did.”
“I’m sure you did.” He laughed again.
“You never answered my question,” she said gently, as if talking to a young student.
“Which one?” he asked, resisting the urge to add that she hadn’t answered his. Is she testing me for something? It feels like a damned test, the type where you never know the rules until it’s over.
“Do you want to be president?”
“Yes, I do, but even with all the influence and interference, it really will be the voters who will decide if I get to be president. Why else would we bother with all the speeches, promises, and damned political commercials?”
She shook her head. “What are you afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“It’s in your eyes.”
“Then you tell me. You and your Inner Movement, New Age ideas that most people find crazy or, at least, fantastical.”
“It may be convenient for you not to believe in what we do, but what if I told you that at least fifteen presidents are known to have consulted with psychics?”
“I’m a history teacher, I know the stories, but that doesn’t mean anything. Do you really think Reagan’s astrologer changed history?”
“A psychic tried to stop Kennedy from going to Dallas. A seer warned Lincoln not to go to the theatre that night. McKinley—”
“A broken clock is right twice a day,” Hudson said. “These psychics make a hundred predictions and three turn out to be true, and those are the ones they talk about. That doesn’t mean—”
“It doesn’t mean you’ll be assassinated?”
“Exactly.” But as he blurted the word, a nervous feeling overtook him. He could deny all the coincidences of history and lump the quacks together, even pretend nothing strange ever happened among the rulers of nations, and yet standing there, talking to this beautiful woman, a person who exuded such authenticity, next to her he felt himself a total fraud. “What do you want? Are you trying to warn me?”
“I’m telling you that in order to live, you will have to navigate the lies; more lies than you can imagine.”
“Can you be specific?”
“Everything is a lie, and everyone is lying.”
“That doesn’t help me much.”
“I can’t be much clearer. Perhaps you will understand soon. But that’s not really why I’m here.” She stepped toward him. “May I?” she asked, extending her arms as if preparing to hug him.
“Uh, I don’t think that . . . ”
She met his eyes. Suddenly, all he could do was say yes. He felt her against him. Soft, like a breath, as if only light wrapped them together. Hudson’s eyes closed. What seemed to be less than a second had passed, but when he opened his eyes, she was at the door.
Linh turned and smiled sadly. “I hope you survive, Hudson. I’ll do everything I can.”
“Will it be enough?” His question surprised him.
“I’m not sure.” She turned the knob and left.
Two Secret Service agents came in immediately. “We didn’t know you had company,” one of them said questioningly.
“Neither did I,” Hudson said, glad someone else had seen her. Otherwise, he might have feared he imagined the whole thing. So captivated by her mystique, it never occurred to him how risky it was to be alone in a hotel suite with a young woman on the campaign trail. A lecture would be in store from Fitz. It could not happen again.
Chapter Sixty-One
A nationwide heat wave dragged on through August. The notoriously slow news month proved to be no different this year—no new attacks from NorthBridge, no arrests or credible leads either. Polls still showed Newsman Dan ahead. Hudson continued campaigning, clinging to the notion that voters would still decide the race. The Wizard still hadn’t gotten into Zackers’ drive, but Gouge had managed to stay out of sight.
Fonda Raton threatened to shatter the news lull when she requested a meeting seeking comment before publishing a controversial post about Hudson’s personal life and past. At first Fitz said no, but after seeing how upset Hudson was about what the piece might contain, he agreed on the condition that the campaign’s press spokesperson could also be present. Hudson refused, and both men went to Vonner.
“No surprise you side with Fitz,” Hudson said.
“We need to get out in front of whatever she has,” Vonner said on speakerphone, while pointing to Rex and mouthing, Get on this!
“That’s why I’m going,” Hudson replied.
“What does she have?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you think she has? Fonda Raton doesn’t bluff. She has something. What could it be?”
“You tell me,” Hudson said. “You know more about me than I do. What do you think she has?”
“More of this criminal affiliation garbage? Are there other unsavory characters we missed?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“Then you won’t mind if Fitz goes with you.”
“I don’t need a babysitter, Vonner. I’m going alone. I’ll let you know what she says.”
Vonner knew that Hudson had never gotten over the bugging of his house, and thought giving in to the candidate would be a good peace offering. The odds were good that Vonner would be able to get a recording of the meeting anyway. He also felt confident that, with a little over two months until the election—an eternity in political terms—whatever Fonda did, Rex could fix it.
“Fine, go alone, but ask yourself something. Why is this damned woman so fixated on you? She hasn’t run a single negative piece about Newsman Dan.”
“She told me it’s because she hates you.”
“Really? Maybe she isn’t so bad after all,” Vonner said, laughing.
Hudson’s Secret Service detail was much larger now. They had swept the building hours before, and now, as the candidate entered through the hotel lobby, they were vigilant. It was an unannounced stop, but NorthBridge always seemed to know things no one else did.
Hudson entered the private conference room and was reminded of his first meeting with Vonner at the bank fifteen months earlier.
Could it have only been that long? he wondered. I feel fifteen years older.
“Hudson!” Fonda sang out. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”
“I’m sure.”
“Don’t be so stuffy,” Fonda said, standing up with her arms open. “Give us a hug.”
Before he could stop her, she embraced him, and as several agents moved closer, Fonda whispered in his ear.
“The room is wired. Let’s go out for a walk.” Fonda quickly pulled away and smiled at the closest agent. “Don’t worry, words have always been my only weapons.”
Hudson momentarily stared at her, not sure what to do. But, realizing she might have found out about that night with Rochelle, he decided to not take any chances on someone overhearing their conversation. He told the agents that he’d prefer to walk outside. There was much disagreement, but in the end, Hudson won, and soon Fonda and Hudson were walking side-by-side, trailed by ten agents. The exclusive hotel stood on a hill, its grounds lush in the way that only decades of attention and the southern California climate could provide.
“Why am I here, Fonda?”
“I want to do you a favor.”
“Really? Last time we spoke, I recall you threatening to bury me.”
“Are you familiar with a billio
naire named Karl Bastendorff?”
“I might have heard of him.”
Fonda smiled. “Then you know he’s supporting Newsman Dan for president?”
“It’s possible that I’ve heard a rumor to that effect.”
“Do you also know the term R-E-M?”
Hudson resisted the urge to stop and look at her. Instead, he checked the distance to the closest Secret Service agent. He believed the conversation was about to go in the direction of Zackers. She had to have investigated his death, his life. Everyone knew Hudson’s son had been there when he died, but the media seemed to have accepted that Schueller had just happened to find the body.
The media either bought the story or were bought off, Hudson figured. Either way, the heat had never materialized, and his son was safe. But Fonda wouldn’t have believed it, even if it had been true. And she couldn’t be paid off, not untouchable Fonda. She would have dug until she found that Florence and Zackers were at college together, and then she’d go further.
Fonda Raton is going to ambush my campaign with Zackers’ suspicious death, and then expose the entire CapStone conspiracy! He took a deep breath, trying not to panic. Vonner was right, I should have had Fitz here. But as soon as I tell them Fonda’s plan, Vonner will find a way to silence her.
Hudson suddenly realized that he was thinking Vonner would order Fonda killed, and that he was almost wishing for it so the problem could go away and he could still become president.
“Oh my god,” he whispered to himself, spotting a bench nestled in flowering bushes and almost collapsing onto it.
“Are you okay?” Fonda asked, sounding genuinely worried.
“Yes,” he said, making eye contact with the closest agent. The man also seemed concerned. Hudson waved and flashed a brief smile, wanting to quickly assure his security detail.
“Then you acknowledge knowing about the REMies,” Fonda continued as she sat down next to him. “Therefore, you must also know of their involvement in the election.”
“Is this your story, Fonda? Are you really going to write about the REMies?”
“No,” she said in an uncharacteristically muted tone. “I don’t have it yet.”
“Then what?” he asked wearily.
“Your family. I’m going to post a piece on how you’ve neglected your family and can’t be expected to run the country if you can’t even take care of your loved ones.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, stiffening.
She handed him a copy of her story. As he started to skim it, Fonda fired off the main points.
“You have a chemically dependent brother, Dwayne, who lives on the streets half the time; a sister, Jenna, who was discharged from the Air Force under questionable circumstances; another sister, Trixie, the one running your hardware stores, and she’s dating one of your ex-con employees; your son breaks the law every day with his pot smoking, not to mention the Miami Airport incident; and then there’s the fact that Tommy Gouge, with his long rap sheet, is actually your cousin. His father, your uncle, testified at Rochelle Rogers’ trial, a connection I’m still looking into, and—”
Hudson stood up and turned toward her angrily. “What does any of this have to do with the damned election?”
“It goes to competence,” she said, as if it should have been obvious. “Also, you want to legalize marijuana, which is not a popular view among Republicans. Perhaps that’s to help your son avoid landing in prison. What else can we expect you to do because of your propensity to be drawn to the lesser elements?”
“Lesser elements? Where do you get off, lady?”
“Don’t take it personally, Hudson.”
“You’re attacking my family! How am I supposed to take it?”
“This is my job, Hudson. I’m sorry if it gets in the way of your ambitions, but the truth has to come out. This story is only the beginning.” She looked at him pointedly, as if to emphasize the word “beginning.”
Her expression sobered him. Gouge’s father actually was his uncle, and the Rochelle connection was getting too close to the truth of that night. The rest of the media would take Fonda’s lead and rip into the story until they found blood.
“You can’t run it,” he blurted.
Fonda smiled. “Do you realize this is the second time you’ve tried to suppress news?”
“I’m not trying to suppress anything. And this isn’t news, it’s a hatchet job!” he said, waving the papers.
“Why shouldn’t I post it?”
“I wish I could tell you.”
“Tell me right now,” she said, taking out her phone and swiping the screen a few times. “Tell me the truth, Hudson. Tell me your secrets.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” he said.
“Don’t do that,” she said, shaking her head. “The truth is the only thing that can save you.”
“I don’t need saving.”
“Yes, you do.”
“From whom?”
“The REMies.” She stared at him for a long moment. “You know you do.”
He shook his head.
“Come on, Hudson, I don’t care about your family, and I know you’ve done a good job with your kids. All I want is Vonner, Booker, Bastendorff, and the rest of the REMies. Tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know anything.” He so wanted to know what she knew.
“If I tap this button, the story about your family will instantly be forever on the internet, and also reach the inboxes of millions of my readers.”
Hudson felt the sun on the back of his neck. He was sweating, and in spite of his hatred for the woman in front of him, he couldn’t help but want to confess everything to her.
He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and exhaled. “I can’t.”
“You can,” she said almost sweetly. “I know you have unlimited courage, Hudson. Do the right thing.”
“Please don’t post that story.”
“You can stop it. Just tell me what I want to know.”
“No,” he said, slowly shaking his head.
“You sure?” she asked with a concerned expression.
“I can’t,” he repeated.
She stared into his eyes, squinting against the sun. She gave him one last questioning look, then tapped the button. “It’s posted.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
Fonda’s piece on Hudson’s family had the opposite effect on the voters than he expected. “Turns out not many people have a perfect family,” one pollster said. “It’s yet another reason for the electorate to identify with Hudson Pound, the everyman candidate.”
The press didn’t present a problem either. Vonner owned enough media outlets, and even Bastendorff’s stations couldn’t find anything to connect Hudson to Rochelle Rogers other than the fact that they were from the same town and went to the same high school. Still, it gave Newsman Dan plenty of ammunition with which to attack Hudson during the first general debate held in Philadelphia a few weeks after the story hit.
Security was lock-down-tight. There were more federal agents on hand than media or spectators. The event began with a moment of silence for the three candidates who had been assassinated. Hudson then asked that they take another moment to remember the six Secret Service agents who died in the Colorado attack. He meant it sincerely, but it was also a shrewd political move, reminding voters that Hudson had survived an assault from NorthBridge, and likewise showed his respect for law enforcement.
Hudson’s debating skill, which had helped him defeat a large field of Republican challengers, was no guarantee against the polished Newsman Dan. As the evening unfolded, Hudson couldn’t help but notice that he’d had almost every question during his mock debate prep. Not just the general topic, but almost the same wording. He suspected that Fitz had obtained the questions, and contemplating the unethical and possibly illegal act distracted him enough that by morning, most commentators were declaring the debate a draw.
Within days, polls reflected Hudson’s poor showing, h
aving him down another three points. However, it was more than the debate. Hudson began questioning all of the compromises he’d made along the way.
“Is this how someone gets elected?” he asked Schueller one morning over breakfast. “It feels a lot like cheating.”
“That’s because it is,” Schueller responded.
Hudson felt ashamed. He’d always taught his children that playing fair was the only way to play.
Schueller saw the pain in his father’s expression. “But, Dad, politics is a game where the only rules are that everyone cheats.”
“A rather cynical view,” Hudson said, knowing it was true.
“It’s a rigged game. You gotta do what you gotta do in order to win. But you’re different.”
“How?”
“Because after you win, then you can change the rules. Change everything.”
“Sounds like the ends justify the means.”
“Not always a bad thing,” Schueller said.
“No, but usually.”
Schueller shrugged. There didn’t seem to be a choice. “Anything from our friend?”
Hudson knew Schueller was referring to the Wizard and his efforts to crack into Zackers’ drive.
“No luck yet,” Hudson said. “I know the Wizard asked you, but can you think of anything else he said that could help us get in?”
“No.”
Hudson ate another strip of bacon and glanced out the window of the hotel suite. He’d forgotten for a moment what city they were in until he recognized the Charlotte skyline. He could feel the pressure and stress physically. His chest and upper arms were always tight, and he couldn’t recall the last time he didn’t have at least a mild headache. Fonda would eventually get enough to go public with the CapStone conspiracy, and Hudson would appear to be just another REMie puppet.
Linh’s warning also haunted him, made him paranoid, distracted him even more. He looked across the table at Schueller and wondered, What if they assassinate me? What will become of my son? Schueller was an adult, but Hudson didn’t want him to have to live without a father just so he could try to change the world, a Quixotesque task at best, an impossible dream at worst.