by J W Brazier
“I know my citizens, Agent Rashid,” Abram interrupted. “Agent Rashid, you can pledge to your superiors in Washington that Governor Clayton is well prepared for Operation Chameleon.”
Jamal tilted his head just a bit, as though still not quite convinced. “Governor, what reactions do you expect from the Christian conservatives, independents, and the Tea Party types?”
“Oh, yes, reactions. I expect they will react, and I’ll be disappointed if they don’t.”
Now Jamal looked both alarmed and confused.
Jim folded his hands in front of him on the table. “‘Choice’ and ‘control’ are the key words, Agent Rashid. Allegiance is a choice, and is what we want and what we’ll demand. Let me explain further. There are two main obstacles with choice: religion and politics. People avoid either discussion as much as possible. Why? Because they’re rabbit holes to an infinite number of questions and twisted individual answers when it comes to someone’s faith and ideology. Both are idealistic in nature.
“Wielded in the right hands, though, religion can empower individuals to do great feats of good or evil—example, the Muslim radicals.”
Jamal bobbed his head in agreement, but his expression told Jim that he found the association between his Muslim faith and terrorism distasteful. Jim ignored it and plowed on.
“Control, in reality, boils down to money and power. Touch an individual’s money, you affect their lifestyle, their family, their sense of self-worth. Survival comes into play. So, our task, Mr. Rashid, is to reward those who’ll swear allegiance to our mantra—hence, a choice. What we have in store will add control to the mix. Constitutional freedoms will become an afterthought. Control populations, and people become like cattle in a herd.”
Jamal pursed his lips, not looking satisfied at all. He opened his mouth to say something—Maybe to share some misgivings about the plan? Jim wondered—but Abram jumped in first.
“What’s your impression on the coming mayoral race in White River, Jim, is there a potential problem brewing with our candidate?”
Jim shrugged. “It’s possible. Polling predicts Ben Archer’s chances of a fourth term have diminished. We’ll need to keep an eye on his challenger, Joshua Austin.”
“Oh?” Abram said.
“Yes,” Jim said. “Seems Mr. Rashid’s feared conservative, independent, and religious-based voters are a mounting renaissance. Win or lose, Ben Archer is of no consequence. I have an alternate plan. He’ll be useful either way.” Jim unfolded his hands and leaned forward. “Oh, and there’s one other important thing to note. Members of my staff have seen and listened to this Joshua Austin. They tell me there’s a disturbing strong presence around him … if you understand my meaning.”
Abram nodded—quickly. “Yes, my staff informed me as well. This … presence appears stronger than most.”
Then Abram looked at his wristwatch and stood to leave. Agent Rashid was fast to his feet in response.
“I have to leave, my friend,” Abram said. “As for Ben Archer, he isn’t our concern. This independent, however, could prove a handful.”
Jim smiled and stood. “No need to worry, Abram. He’s a flash in the pan with no political savvy or power base, but I’ll keep you posted.”
“Good to hear, Governor. I’ll hold you to it.”
Chapter 13
Slouched against the mini-bar in his study, Ben Archer held a crumpled piece of paper. His hands trembled while staring at it in complete disbelief. Before leaving Ben’s office, Stanley Jones had delivered his analysis of exit polling of voters on his way out of town. The stark data confirmed Stanley’s bad news. Ben’s reelection chances appeared to be evaporating.
Feeling his face growing hot, Ben snarled and flung the wad of paper into the trash. He’d used every proven tactic in his bag of tricks, called in favors, talked to everyone who was anyone … all to no avail. His opponent had captured the conservatives and independents.
What am I gonna do now? he wondered while reaching for his favorite Kentucky bourbon.
“Ben, honey, I’ve got dessert. You interested?” Ben’s wife, Olivia, asked from the kitchen.
He looked in that direction even though he couldn’t see Olivia. “Uh, no, Livy, not tonight … too much dinner.”
A moment later, Olivia walked into his study with a plate of pecan pie in her hand. He ignored her and dropped ice cubes into an oversized glass goblet, followed by a generous helping of the bourbon.
“Is the liquor necessary, Ben?” she asked.
The glass was still at his lips when he snapped his head left to glare at her. His expression, a purposeful scowl, apparently wasn’t at all what she’d expected. She cowered back a bit, as if he were about to attack and strike her.
Olivia cleared her throat. “I-I meant … I meant to say, that’s a large drink, honey. Whatever’s happened, it can’t be that terrible to drown yourself in whiskey.”
This time, Ben sneered, gulped the whiskey, and then poured another glass full. “We’re in trouble, Olivia. I’m going to lose this election.”
Olivia crossed the room, looking preoccupied in thought. She sat on the edge of his leather couch and placed the plate of pie on the coffee table. Fighting back tears, she pulled a handkerchief from her apron.
“Ben, throughout our marriage, I’ve always supported you, even your political ambitions. This time, for both our sakes, I believe your losing is the best medicine for our marriage.”
Ben glared at her again, this time slitting his eyes. He tossed his head back and gulped the liquor, then slammed the goblet onto the counter.
Olivia jumped at that, but pulled herself back together. “Ben, I meant that you’re more devoted to politics and being mayor than to me and our marriage. Honey, even when our children were little, your job came first.”
“Enough!” Ben roared. “Woman, you’re about to cross a line I won’t tolerate!” He pointed a finger at his wife. “You’re right about one thing: my job is my life! So what? Your fancy car? Paid for because of my job. Our big house you love so much? Paid for with my job. Your hairstyles, credit cards, designer clothes? All paid for by my job.”
Olivia sighed, then hung her head. “Ben … Ben, who is it this time? Is it your secretary, Angela?”
Ben pulled back. “What?” he said.
A wave of thoughts spiraled through his mind. How had she found out? Who’d told her? Most of all, would she ruin his career with a divorce?
He shoved aside all the mental questions and slithered into politician mode with ease: bluff and deny any accusations.
“Your first thought is that I’m having an affair with my secretary? Ridiculous nonsense, Olivia. There’s no other woman. I’m mayor of White River. The job is my only mistress.”
He waited for her to cave in, but she didn’t. Olivia’s eyes never wavered away from Ben’s. She’d clearly heard what he’d said, but she said nothing. After a few moments, she sighed again, this time sounding as if she’d resigned herself to his fabrications.
Still, her eyes never left him, and Ben could feel his insides twisting up under the weight of her stare. Thankfully, the crackling of hot embers in the fireplace presented him an opportunity to escape her probing eyes. Since he’d failed at deflecting the issue of his infidelity, he turned away and waited, hoping she’d leave the room.
Finally, Olivia stood and stepped up close behind him. “Ben,” she said in a soft voice.
He said nothing and didn’t turn around.
“Honey,” she said, “I don’t want to argue with you. How about we do this? Win or lose, let’s take a trip together. We can go anywhere you’d like, just you and me. What do you say?”
Now Ben turned around and saw Olivia’s dejected face, but he just shook his head.
“Never,” he growled.
She took a few steps back. He turned away again to avoid having to look at her, but could hear her crying.
“I’m about to lose this election, woman, and you want a vacation? I�
�m the mayor of this town. I, Ben Archer, made White River what you see today! This is my life’s work, Olivia. Don’t you comprehend that, woman?”
She just cried harder. He turned around and saw her standing there, wiping at eyes that were already red and swollen.
Ben grunted and wiped a hand over his face. “If those conservative, independent, religious yahoo do-gooders believe that by voting me out of office, they can change the status quo of this community, they’re delusional. They haven’t a clue what we’ve in store for them.”
Just like that, Olivia stopped crying. Now her eyes grew wide and she covered her open mouth with a hand.
“Oh my God, Ben Archer, you’re a deacon, for goodness’ sake. You should be ashamed. Those ‘do-gooders,’ as you call them, are our church members, neighbors, and friends.”
Ben whirled around, wanting another drink. A brief thought crossed his mind as he picked up his empty glass: A few healthy slaps across the face would get her attention. She needs to get with the program or get out.
He turned back around to her. “Your church, you filthy hag, not mine! Your God, not mine! I do my bit on Sundays for the sake of appearances, and that’s a struggle. Scratch me off the list of the church faithful. It’s not for me anymore, Olivia. I’ve seen the light, as you churchgoers say, and made my choice. God and church membership are not in my future. So you’d better get used to the idea.”
Olivia staggered backward and collapsed onto the couch, crying again. Ben blinked several times, feeling as if he’d come out of a trance. He stared at Olivia, lying on the couch with her face buried in her hands as she sobbed. Ben rubbed at his eyes, realizing he must’ve gone over the line, but he honestly couldn’t remember what he’d said.
Must’ve been the liquor … but I don’t feel drunk.
The glass in his hand was empty. It needed refilling. Moments later, with his glass half-full, Ben corked the whiskey bottle and glanced at Olivia. She looked to be wrestling with tortured thoughts. He saw tears dripping off her cheeks. Whatever pronouncements he’d made must’ve cut deep into her soul, even if he couldn’t remember saying anything.
The telephone rang. Olivia’s head jerked up, her face looking defensive and fearful, as if she expected him to unleash another attack on her. He took his glass of whiskey with him and answered the phone.
“Hello? No, John, I’m not busy. The little missus and I are having a quiet evening.”
He saw Olivia shake her head at his assertion of just another peaceful night at home with a happy wife.
“No, John, you know me. I’ve never paid attention to early voter returns. It’s bad luck. But since we’re on the topic, any improvement on exit poll projections?”
Ben listened to the news, none of which was good. He sighed.
“No, tell them there’ll be no concession speech.”
He hung up and tossed the cordless phone into the seat of his recliner.
“It looks like you’re going to get your wish, Olivia. My term is over. I’ve lost the election. Congratulations.”
Saying nothing, Olivia stood and walked out of the room. He couldn’t tell by her behavior if she was saddened or relieved that his political ambitions had come to an end.
The telephone rang again. He hesitated and then finally answered.
“Yes! … Oh, ah, Governor Clayton. What … Well, no. No, it’s not good, sir. There’s a problem. I’ve lost the mayor’s seat.”
He wasn’t sure, but Ben thought he heard the governor say that he was happy Ben had lost.
“Could you say that again, Governor, because I’m confused? Did you say you’re happy that I lost?”
“That’s what I said, Ben. In the coming days, we’ll put your talents and abilities to better use. I’ve got a more important job for you, a new position, and considerably more money, I might add. Now, are you interested, or are you going to sit there drunk, having your own pity party?”
Ben looked at his glass and smiled. “Well, Governor, doing both would be a good bet.” He lifted the goblet and took several long gulps of whiskey.
“Ben, I want you in Little Rock in two days—and sober. Now, can you manage something that simple? We’ll brief you about our plans when you arrive.”
“Sounds like I’m back in the saddle, Governor. I look forward to seeing you soon.”
Ben ended the call and glanced toward the stairs, knowing Olivia would be waiting. He rolled his eyes. She could go on waiting; he didn’t care anymore. He swirled his drink in the goblet, raised the glass in a mock toast to his success, and then took one last, long swallow of whiskey.
“Oh, yes, Governor, I’ll be there. You can count on that.”
Chapter 14
When the polls closed, the final count wasn’t even close. Ben Archer’s polling data proved worse than reported. Joshua Austin’s double-digit landslide victory had made a bold statement. Voters had turned the tables, clearly declaring that they’d had enough of progressive liberals’ tax-and-spend agenda.
After being in office just over two weeks, Joshua received a surprise phone call from Governor Clayton. He’d asked for a private meeting Monday morning at his cabin in Heber Springs, a two-hour drive from White River. The governor emphasized the purpose of their meet-and-greet would be of the utmost importance, as it involved White River. Joshua thought such an impromptu get-together odd and suspicious, but agreed, hoping that perhaps it might shed some light on all the rumors of the UN using White River for testing a new monetary system—something he’d heard from Pearlette and other business owners around town.
At 6:00 a.m., already showered and dressed for his meeting with the governor that morning, Joshua soft-stepped downstairs. His wife, Brenda, and their four children were still asleep. He ambled into the kitchen to make his coffee. No time for breakfast, he knew.
While waiting for his coffee to brew, he thumbed through the news articles in the local newspaper—all as depressing as ever. One piece, though, stopped him cold. The president appeared to be floating a new idea around Congress. He wanted all Americans to register for a national ID.
Joshua shook his head. “Why the American people won’t rise up and have Congress impeach this guy is still a mystery to me,” he mumbled.
Next came opinion pieces and editorials that filled two pages with far-left locals offering disgruntled chatter all the way to heated rants. All, though, complained about Joshua’s ascent to mayor, and all of them also sounded worried that he’d be able to make good on his campaign promises. Joshua had promised to cap spending at 20 percent of revenues, to cut taxes, and to make changes to the city charter. A balanced budget clause was his first order of change.
Reading further, it appeared his enemies, the city municipal union in particular, were preparing for a fight. He’d suggested that the current structure of pension and health care contracts would bankrupt the city if not renegotiated. The unions didn’t seem to care.
Other articles lambasted his promise to prosecute area businesses and vendors that hired illegals—chicken plants in particular. From there, the content of the articles went from bad to worse the more he read.
He poured a cup of coffee and picked it up just as the telephone rang. Absorbed in the articles, he gulped down a mouth full of the hot liquid. Joshua’s reaction was immediate. His cup shattered in the sink as he moaned and danced about like a clown at a birthday party.
Finally, he grabbed for the irritating telephone. Before he spoke, he felt the hot coffee scalding his throat.
Going to burn through my stomach any moment, he thought.
Holding his belly, he managed an agonized word: “Hello?” he whispered.
“Mayor Austin, Andrew Baker, state security chief for the governor. Have I disturbed you? I hope I haven’t called at an inconvenient time?”
Joshua swallowed as the painful sensation began to subside. “Yes—I mean, no, I’m fine. You’re good, Mr. Baker. How can I help you?”
“Sir, a driver should be arriving at y
our home within thirty minutes to drive you to your meeting with the governor at his cabin.”
“That’s thoughtful, Mr. Baker, but as I told the governor’s staff Friday, it isn’t necessary. I can drive myself. In fact, I’d prefer it.”
“I understand, but it’s a security matter—routine for our department. Your driver will be Sergeant Jeff Crosby , a qualified agent.”
“Okay. Anything further?”
“No, sir. I look forward to meeting you in Heber Springs.”
“Thank you, and likewise. Good-bye, Mr. Baker.”
He hung up and began to fill a glass with cold water, but stopped when he thought he heard someone calling his name.
“Joshua?”
It was Brenda.
“Joshua?”
“Coming,” Joshua said.
He could tell by Brenda’s voice that she was on edge. Lately, she’d had recurring nightmares with the same haunting image. Blood-drenched fingers would start to write a word on a wall—and then the dream would end and she’d awaken entangled in sweat-soaked sheets.
Joshua entered their bedroom and found Brenda sitting slumped at the edge of their bed, weeping. He sat next to her, pulled her close, and wrapped his big arms around her small frame.
“You okay, honey? Is it the same dream?”
She nodded. “Yes, the same awful dreams.”
He hugged her and kissed her forehead.
“Joshua, what does it mean?
He pulled back a bit and looked at her. “I don’t know, honey. Perhaps a warning, who knows, but I’m sure it’ll become clear sooner or later. Try not to torment yourself trying to figure it out. Hmm, on the other hand, it could be your homemade pizzas.”
She laughed and slapped his shoulder. “Ha-ha. You’re real funny … but thanks for making me laugh.”
In a split second, she sat erect, her face expressive, as if her thoughts had coalesced. She stood and turned to face Joshua, smiling ear to ear.
“That’s it, honey! Don’t you see?”
“Uhh … No, I don’t, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”