Fatherless: A Novel

by Dobson, James

  “So there’s no cause for concern?”

  Kevin’s loyal guardian shook his head. “I don’t know. It feels odd. No prior gifts or connections. It doesn’t usually work like that.”

  “We can’t afford to look a gift horse in the mouth, Troy. Schedule a lunch so I can thank him.”

  “Already set,” Troy replied. “I’ve also asked Shaun here to research his company and associations.”

  The intern grinned at the mention of his name. “We’ll update you before you meet the guy,” he said.

  The door opened. “Excuse me, Congressman. It’s time to head to your ten o’clock appointment in Senator Franklin’s office.”

  “Thanks, Renee. Tell the driver I’ll be right down.”

  “Driver?” Troy said. “Since when can we afford a driver?”

  “We can’t. Franklin offered his.”

  Troy gave Kevin a be careful frown before raising his way to go eyebrow. “Make us proud, Congressman.”

  * * *

  Sliding into the long leather seat of the senator’s limo, Kevin remembered the first rule in courting power brokers: They believe their own good press, so be sure you’ve read it. He opened his tablet to scan for any news items referencing Franklin. One story surfaced.

  EPI-GENOMIC FUNDING QUESTIONED

  A leading voice on Capitol Hill has raised questions about the value of further epi-genomic research, citing a series of inconclusive findings despite billions in federal spending. Senator Joshua Franklin gained popularity among younger voters after launching a mobile app that invites registered voters to review every federal budget allocation before dragging it into a “Thumbs Up” or “Thumbs Down” bin. The most recent item recommended for elimination is a request for additional R & D funding by the widely respected Epigen Inc., a company working with several leading research universities on an effort it claims could “eradicate many age-related diseases and associated dementia.” But Franklin’s constituents don’t buy it. In his words, “We have yet to see any serious breakthroughs on the epigenetic front. We simply can’t afford to keep throwing the dice.”

  Scanning the rest of the article, Kevin found a link to Franklin’s SLASH citizen network. The running tally at the top indicated more than a trillion dollars had been categorized as “unworthy spending” by users, every one of them a registered voter in someone’s district. Another number revealed how many of the proposed cuts had made it through Congress to date, 64 percent. The app had created enormous austerity momentum in Washington. It had become political suicide to oppose any Franklin cost-reduction proposal.

  Five minutes later, Kevin found himself standing in a large office complex being greeted by a cheerful receptionist. One look around the bustling room reminded Kevin of his place in the political food chain. Franklin lived a very different reality, including assistants who had assistants, drivers and pilots, and a long line of lobbyists jockeying for five minutes of time with the most popular fiscal conservative on Capitol Hill. The significant donation Kevin had received that morning would have been a mere rounding error in Senator Franklin’s campaign budget.

  “Kevin!” The senator extended his right hand while lifting the other toward his guest’s shoulder. “Thank you for taking time to meet on such a hectic morning. I bet your staff greeted you with a laundry list of urgent decisions the moment you got back from the summit.”

  The comment was another reminder of Kevin’s lesser world. Troy’s list of “urgent decisions” that morning had taken less than fifteen minutes to discuss.

  “Thank you for the invitation, Senator. I’m honored.” Kevin meant it. He admired Joshua Franklin, a man many described as a political genius. “Congratulations on the epi-genome story. The Journal seemed upbeat.”

  “We only need to find a few trillion more to make a dent!” the senator huffed in mock dissatisfaction. “Please, have a seat.”

  As Kevin settled into a chair he noticed a young woman poke her head inside the office. “Excuse me, Senator, I’m afraid they’ve initiated roll call.”

  The senator cursed. “I’m sorry, Kevin. We’re trying to rush through another austerity cut before the break. You know the drill.”

  “Shall I bring Congressman Tolbert a drink while he waits?” The young woman smiled at Kevin in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable. Rumors about Franklin’s “intern harem” were probably exaggerated, but Kevin preferred denying his imagination any room for mischief.

  “You don’t mind walking with me, do you, Kevin?” Franklin asked. “I don’t want to waste your time. I think we can settle our business on the fly.”

  Our business? Kevin wondered. “That’s fine. Lead the way.”

  “Two issues,” Franklin began as they paced quickly down the hall toward a waiting car. He raised a single finger. “First, I want you to play a key role in the coalition I’m forming. Like I said in Scottsdale, we need to get ahead of this budget revision fallout before it hits the public.”

  Kevin had expected the request, but tried to appear surprised. “Thank you, sir. Although I’m not sure I’m the most qualified—”

  “No need for false humility, Kevin,” Franklin interrupted. “You and I both know the Western State mantle is shifting from Nicole to you.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Kevin protested.

  The senator stopped. “Yes, you are,” he said while looking into Kevin’s eyes. “And so is she. Let’s face it. Old is out of style, and Nicole has definitely passed her sell-by date.”

  Kevin paused. There was only one thing to say. “Thank you for the invitation. I’m honored.”

  “Good,” Franklin said as he resumed walking while raising another finger. “Second, I need every member of my coalition to support phase two of the Youth Initiative.”

  Kevin froze in his tracks. Had Franklin surmised Kevin’s covert opposition to the program? He had very intentionally remained under the radar to avoid being labeled disloyal—or worse, naïve. The budget comes first. He and Troy had agreed.

  “Senator Franklin, sir,” Kevin responded. “I don’t think I can form an opinion on that one yet since we haven’t seen the specific—”

  The senator cut him off. “Listen, Kevin, I know you’ll need to hold your nose on this one. Lots of us will. I’ll be the first to admit it’s not a perfect solution.”

  “I’m not sure it’s a solution at all,” Kevin heard himself say.

  The senator forced a patient smile. “I understand your opposition, and I respect your religious convictions.” He seemed to be reading a script. “But we can’t sacrifice the savings it generates. This fiscal hole is deep enough already. I’m not aware of any other way to cut as much from entitlement spending. Are you?”

  Kevin held his tongue. He knew he could not afford to blow this opportunity. Franklin could open doors he would never walk through on his own. An appointment to Franklin’s coalition could provide the ideal platform to propose changes, give him leverage no freshman representative from a midsize district could hope to attain in isolation.

  “Listen to me, Kevin.” Franklin’s tone and demeanor softened, transforming him from power-wielding strategist to affectionate uncle. “In a matter of weeks the entire nation will know that what we’ve done so far isn’t working. The markets will panic. Voters will get angry. I need leaders ready to articulate workable solutions. You’re smart and you’re popular. I really want you on the team.”

  “Can you give me a few days to think it over?”

  “Afraid not. We’ve already prepared two versions of the press release. One has your name and the other Congresswoman Florea’s.”

  “Has she already agreed?” Kevin asked.

  “I haven’t spoken to her yet. We’re having lunch today. She wants this pretty bad, and I’ll need at least one player from the Western coalition. I had planned to tell her the role has been filled by a sharp young leader who will represent the Western states with reasoned, fiscally viable recommendations.”

&n
bsp; Kevin heard the approaching clack-clack of a woman’s heels running to catch the senator from behind. The young aid from Franklin’s office positioned a signature screen before the advancing senator, offering a stylus pen and pointing him to the right location on the screen. The interruption gave Kevin a welcome moment to gather his wits.

  The deficit first. That’s how we gain credibility, he reminded himself.

  Franklin finished signing as they approached the car doors. “What do you say?”

  “I’m in.”

  “And the Youth Initiative?” Franklin pressed.

  “I’m not sure I can support it, but I promise to withhold criticism until we find something better.”

  “Not likely,” the senator scoffed while extending his hand to Kevin’s. “Deal. Welcome to the team, Congressman Tolbert.”

  “Thank you, Senator Franklin.”

  As Kevin watched the senator’s limo pull away from the curb he felt surges of elation and trepidation collide within.

  Chapter Eight

  Julia drove through the neighborhood well below the posted fifteen miles per hour, giving herself ample time to envy each house more than the last: three-car garages, perfectly manicured lawns, white stone facades, double oak doors situated behind enormous front porches at the ends of rosebush-lined walkways. She wondered how much time and money each resident of the Mountain Springs Resort Community spent trying to outdo the next.

  “Arriving on right,” announced a friendly dashboard voice. Julia pulled into a long driveway that encircled an ensemble of red boulders positioned in front of what she guessed to be a five-bedroom, four-thousand-square-foot residence. The only thing missing from the picturesque scene was a tree swing blowing casually in the wind or a kid’s scooter leaning delinquently against the side of the house. Like the eighteen other neighborhood homes she had passed since turning onto Summerhill Lane, this address showed no signs of children.

  Pressing the doorbell prompted an echo of orchestral chimes followed by the faint yip-yip of a tiny dog eager to defend its master against Julia’s invasion. Several minutes passed, the pooch growling threateningly while Julia checked her schedule. She definitely had the right time.

  Through the window Julia noticed a fortyish woman tying her waist sash while rushing toward the entryway. “Shush, Teddy!” she ordered before opening the door. Hannah Walker retained a natural beauty, a hint of gray at her roots and a mature figure in a lovely Asian silk robe.

  “Ms. Walker? I’m Julia Davidson. We exchanged texts last evening.”

  The dog retreated in deference to his queen.

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Please come in.” Hannah appeared flushed, as if she had hurriedly splashed and toweled her face to wash away tears.

  A lovely interior reflected a woman who enjoyed spacious, ordered beauty. The contrast to the crowded, disheveled Santos apartment could not have been more stark. It seemed lawsuits had the power to link disparate worlds. Julia thought of the awkward grieving rituals that occur at funerals between distant cousins who no longer send Christmas cards. Something similar united Jeremy Santos and Hannah Walker.

  Julia and her hostess endured polite small talk as Hannah offered and poured fresh-brewed tea, delaying the conversation she seemed reluctant to begin. It was one thing to anonymously feed information to Jeremy Santos’s lawyers; it was another thing entirely to go on the record with a prominent journalist.

  Hannah finally summoned the courage to ease into the topic Julia had come to discuss. “I’ve read your columns.”

  Julia waited as Hannah bolstered apparently waning courage with a sip of tea. The scar across her jaw showed itself for the first time.

  “You’re wrong, you know,” she continued.

  “Wrong? About what?”

  “About the volunteers.” Hannah paused, pressing herself to finish what she had started. “They aren’t heroes.”

  Julia took immediate offense. Not for herself. For millions of others. What could be more heroic than transitioning your resources to loved ones rather than wasting them on costly end-of-life expenditures? “I’m sorry?” she heard herself say.

  “They aren’t heroes. They’re sheep.”

  “How can you say such a thing?”

  “Have you ever participated in a transition, Ms. Davidson?”

  The question silenced Julia. Her column had repeatedly celebrated the transition industry. She had defended its virtue against religious extremists. But she had never actually witnessed the procedure firsthand. Who had?

  “Ever spoken to someone just before they enter a transition room?”

  Silence again.

  “I didn’t think so,” Hannah continued. “There was a time I read your column to convince myself that what I was doing was good, something important for the economy and best for the volunteers.” She stopped, remembering her manners. “Forgive me. I hope this doesn’t sound like I’m being critical of you.”

  “Don’t worry.” Julia’s professionalism conquered her offense. “You need thick skin in my line of work.”

  Hannah offered a polite laugh before continuing. “To be honest, what you wrote probably motivated me to continue the job longer than I might have.”

  “Are you thanking me or blaming me?” Julia asked.

  “Neither. I just think you should know that what you write has an impact. That’s why I’m trusting you with my part of this story. Only a tiny fraction of the population knows anything about the Youth Initiative beyond headlines touting budget savings or mocking religious nuts.”

  Julia felt her conscience prick her. Hannah seemed eager to expose a dark side to the industry that had left a scar on her formerly perfect world. Like Jeremy, she saw Julia as a sympathetic ally in her pursuit of revenge. Julia had let them think it.

  She recalled Paul’s words. “We need to get ahead of this story before some crusading reporter plays it wrong.” Attacking NEXT or the Youth Initiative would definitely violate RAP Syndicate’s editorial agenda, not to mention undermine her own journalistic credibility.

  Julia began the formal interview. “I understand you quit your job after the Antonio Santos incident.”

  “I was given an extended medical leave to recover from this.” Her hand gently caressed a faint line across her jaw. “At least that was the official reason. I certainly didn’t need six months. My doctor removed the stitches after a few weeks.”

  “Employer generosity?”

  “More like employer anxiety,” Hannah mocked. “They didn’t want me at the clinic when the police began asking questions.”

  “Police? What kind of questions?”

  “I don’t know. I assume they didn’t want anyone around who might veer off the official script.”

  “Would you have?” Julia asked.

  “No. I’ve seen their report. Pretty accurate,” Hannah explained. “The irony is that giving me such a long leave ended up creating more problems for them.”

  “Because?”

  “I’d been fighting feelings of depression for nearly a year. The time away from work gave me an opportunity to reflect.” Hannah stared out the window for a moment, appearing to reach for distant memories of better days. “I had always been a fairly upbeat person. My husband used to call me his little joy bubble.” She turned slightly red at the admission. “He hasn’t used that nickname in a while.”

  “We all have ups and downs.” Julia realized the comment sounded tactlessly glib. Hannah didn’t seem to notice.

  “I found myself becoming short with Philip, more irritable, much more difficult to be around. At first I assumed normal hormonal swings. But I never swung back. And then the dreams began.”

  Julia’s eyes widened. “Dreams?”

  “A sequence of faces.”

  “A man?” Julia asked.

  The question surprised Hannah. “Sometimes. There are lots of faces. They haunt me.”

  “Who haunts you? The boy? Antonio?”

  “No. I don’t remembe
r his face. I had stopped looking them in the eyes long before his appointment.” Her voice broke. “I’m sorry. This is hard to talk about.”

  Julia sat in silence while Hannah reached for a tissue.

  “They’re sheep to the slaughter,” she continued.

  “But transitioning is a voluntary activity,” Julia defended. “Sheep don’t volunteer.”

  “They don’t resist either.” Hannah paused for another sip of tea. “Before they realize what’s happening, a knife slits their throat, turning them into a meal for the people they had trusted to protect them.”

  Julia showed disapproval at the analogy.

  “That bothers you, doesn’t it?” Hannah pressed. “I don’t like to think about it in such naked terms either. But it’s true. Where do the assets go?”

  “I suppose to loved ones or a charity of the volunteer’s choice,” Julia guessed.

  “Seventy percent goes to family members who, in the past, would have been saddled with the cost of care.”

  “Of course. Who wants to burden their kids with—”

  “Any idea where the other thirty percent goes?” Hannah interrupted.

  “I don’t know. The cost of the procedure?”

  “A small portion. The rest funds Youth Initiative advocacy programs. Last year alone the transition tax contributed nearly thirty billion in new revenue to the federal bottom line. But that pales when compared to reduced entitlement spending. Fewer beneficiaries in 2041 translated into about two hundred billion in savings, an amount that will accumulate year over year.”

  Julia’s eyebrows lifted at numbers more impressive than she had realized.

  “I can’t tell you how often I repeated those statistics to myself, trying to connect what I was doing to some greater good. Everyone wins, right?”

  “Don’t they?”

  “Maybe. But someone has to hold their shaking hands, wipe their dejected tears, calm their quiet panic.” Hannah looked Julia in the eyes. “Slit their outstretched necks.”