One Man Two Votes (The Robert Carlton Series Book 1)

by J Russ Briley

  Andy finished discussing his detailed fishing strategy with Craig, and the two of them turned back to the river. Edward was gone.

  “Where is he?” Craig asked, his eyes scanning up and down the river.

  Andy squinted, looking in the same direction as Craig. “He must have moved down river,” he said, pointing toward the bend.

  The river bend and scrub brush hid the view around the corner. Craig moved down to the water’s edge, trying to push his way around protruding brush with Andy right behind him. A multitude of sharp branches hung far out over the water, forcing Craig and Andy to climb back up the bank to go around.

  In the bottom of the dark pool, well below the water’s surface, Edward’s body was screaming at the sudden shock of ice-cold water. The rush of frigid water into his waders froze him to the bone. His mind flashed to stories of fishermen who drowned when their waders filled with water, and he reached for the suspenders to release them. He couldn’t see the light. How could he be so deep in this seemingly shallow stream? Fumbling for the clasps he could feel his chest cramp from the cold, his air running out. The current knocked him into the rocks repeatedly, and he couldn’t tell whether he was moving downstream or stuck in a whirlpool. He had no sense of direction, and couldn’t tell up from down. Bubbles in the water swirled in all directions. They were no help even if he could see them. The line around his ankle strained against his movements, but in his shocked state Edward couldn’t feel it. The line held taut against his struggles, anchored around a boulder at the bottom of the pool.

  The diver, clad in a dry suit with a bubbleless rebreather tank, watched silently. He sat in the comparative calm of the eddy, in the upriver edge of the pool. The diver’s booted feet were held firmly by nylon loops fashioned to climber’s cams, and locked in the boulders. He had every advantage as he watched his quarry struggle in the murky water.

  Craig had quickly climbed up the bank beyond the brush. Andy clambered down after him. Craig stopped, scanning upstream, and ignoring the bleeding scratches on his face and hands caused by the bramble.

  “Where the hell is he?” Craig bellowed at Andy. ‘Where could he have gone? He couldn’t have disappeared!”

  Andy was standing with his hands on both hips, looking up and down the river. “Didn’t you find him?” He yelled back over the noisy river. “He’s got to be here somewhere.”

  Craig shook his head “No,” and waived for Andy to look farther upstream.

  Edward was out of air. Cold sank steadily into his arms, making them weaker each second. He managed to release the suspenders, and reached down to pull the waders off. If only he could get out of the water-filled waders he could reach the surface, but his soaked clothes clung to the rubber.

  The surging current constantly spun Edward around, disorienting him. Up was down, and down was up. The waders would not come off. His muscles were cramping with the cold, and his fingers had lost all their strength. Unable to see, and unable to pull down the waders, he thrashed at the water. The line held tight. For the first time, Edward felt the line around his ankle and realized he was snagged. Bending at the waist he reached for the tied ankle, his lungs burning; screaming for air, and his body temperature was dropping.

  The diver moved in.

  Edward’s movements were becoming sluggish and weak. His hands reached the line and the securing D ring. His numb fingers fumbled with the unfamiliar clasp when he felt something knock his hands away. A sudden thump to his stomach robbed him of his last oxygen. Gulping in ice-cold water, his mind blurred, and his vision clouded. He gasped for air, taking in more icy water. His body convulsed, then went silent. Edward’s eyes stared lifelessly into the dark water, mouth open. His body bounced against the rocks, tugging at his ankle tether, limp and lifeless. Deep in his chest, his heart gave its last faint beats and became still.

  The diver made several tight wraps of aged and tangled fishing line around Edward’s loose ankle, then pulled back into the shadows and waited.

  Craig came back from searching down river.

  “Nothing!” he declared.

  “Me, either,” Andy replied, panting as he ran up. “I’m sure it’s nothing. He’s probably just taking a break.” He assured Davidson.

  “What are you talking about?” Craig was sounding frantic.

  “You know, he’s probably just gone to ‘see a man about a horse’,” Andy smirked, sounding more confident than he felt.

  Craig muttered something unintelligible, and ran up the trail toward the trucks, searching through the scrub on both sides. He yelled into his radio, alerting Eric. Andy followed.

  As soon as Craig and Andy turned away, the observer’s hand pressed the switch on the transmitter again.

  The light on the diver’s remote flashed several times, then went dark. The diver unclipped the D ring and released the line. Edward’s body floated to the surface and began to drift down river, face down. Detaching his own securing lines from the rocks and coiling them neatly into a rubberized pocket, the diver followed along with Edward. He looked like a shadow in the water as the current pulled them along. Around the bend Edward’s body headed toward the shallows. The diver glided between deep pools, disappearing far downstream.

  Chapter 2

  Setting his coffee mug on the counter next to the computer tablet, Robert Carlton pulled his Burberry coat closed and tied the belt. Today’s headline was on the economy...again. The last big story had been about the drowning of the Attorney General, Edward Bradley. The headlines had been huge: “Attorney General Drowns,” and “Attorney General Mourned.” It had been quickly ruled an accident, and just as quickly the story had been relegated to page four of the political section. That article, when Robert finally found page four amidst the ads in the online newspaper, coldly speculated on the possible ripple effects within the government. Robert’s name was mentioned in the last paragraph, so he left the page up for Tracie to see. He hit the print button, and heard the wireless printer in the office crank out a copy. Tracie would save it in his scrapbook. She kept every noteworthy mention about him. She kept hers, too, in a separate scrapbook.

  Tilting his ear toward a raucous noise emanating from upstairs, Robert listened to the boys whining and fighting about going to school. Andrew was bellowing the usual, “I don’t feel good,” or maybe it was, “I don’t feel like it.” James was starting to sound just like Andrew, so Robert realized it could be his voice. Either way it wasn’t a surprise. Both kids were going through what seemed to be a permanently obstinate and spoiled phase. Robert felt that they had a bad case of entitlement, and that it, along with their lack of respect came directly from Tracie’s deficiencies in the art of discipline. Robert wondered why they had to go through this every morning. He detested it. He also knew that the situation wasn’t going to change. Tracie was too wrapped up in her own sense of entitlement and social ambitions to take on the uphill challenge of changing the boys’ attitudes. Robert didn’t notice his own lack of proactive attention to the matter.

  He checked his Panerai watch, wondering if it was time to leave. He had never been sailing, but he liked the image the watch presented. Like his car and clothes, the watch was a symbol of what he wanted his friends and colleagues to think about him. He and Tracie shared an understanding of that, at least.

  The Westminster chimes of the antique grandfather clock in the hall struck seven, and the doorbell rang. Immediately Robert heard the key turn the lock in the front door, and the alarm system made a brief chirp, signaling the door opening. Alicia, their household assistant, was right on time to pick the boys up for school. Alicia was always right on time. Robert wondered if she waited out front until the clock chimed, to make sure she was punctual. Then again, maybe she was savoring each moment of freedom before the clock demanded that she enter their house and take charge of their children.

  “Alicia is here! Don’t forget your ID cards!” Tracie called out as Andrew and James cavalcaded down the stairs past Robert without a word, racing to
Alicia’s car. Andrew yelled, “Shotgun!” while simultaneously texting something on his phone.

  “No fair! You had shotgun last time!” James snapped back, still playing his handheld Nintendo.

  “Did not!” Andrew’s next comment was cut off as Alicia pulled the door shut, taking over the child rearing for another day.

  Robert heard Tracie leave the upstairs hall for the master bedroom, heaving an audible sigh as she went. She would be coming down the stairs in a few minutes to say goodbye to him. It was a habit she’d kept over the years, except after very late nights. She used to have the kids in tow to say “goodbye” to their father, back when they were too little for school. In those days she’d follow up Robert’s departure by taking the kids shopping, to the doctor, to see relatives, or to organized events—all the usual soccer mom activities. That seemed longer ago than just a few years to Robert. Other things had changed since then, and he wondered why. Tracie’s goodbye kiss was shorter, and the list of things she gave him to do was bigger. Tracie’s bathrobe was full-length, now, and thicker.

  Picking up his briefcase, Robert headed down the tastefully decorated hall to the garage door. As always, the guest powder room door stood open, showing the perfect towels, scented soaps, and silk floral arrangement on display. The family wasn’t allowed to use that bathroom. Tracie insisted that Robert and the boys always “messed it up.” The bathroom had become a symbol of the things in their lives kept for appearances.

  Each of Robert’s steps echoed on the immaculate, hardwood floor. Right on cue Tracie came up behind him, and stood at the door to the garage. Her soft Prada slippers disguised her quick steps. The long Coco Channel robe with its beaded collar was draped and tied gracefully. She looked crisp and wrinkle free. Her dark blonde hair was nicely arranged, although Robert was sure she wouldn’t have agreed with that assessment. Robert thought that except for the lack of makeup, no one would guess she had just awakened. She looked beautiful and elegant as ever, and quite proper in every way. Robert felt he should appreciate that more.

  His Washington Post and Wall Street Journal were in her hand. They were the traditional papers needed to complete the look of a Washington DC politician or lawyer, and he was both. These were part of his appearance statement. He never read the papers, preferring to get his news electronically, by RSS feed, or by podcast.

  “You remember we have the Barrys’ dinner next Friday, and the Quezadas’ on Saturday?” Tracie reminded him.

  “Yes.” He answered, well aware that she’d remind him at least four times between now and then. His smartphone would be equally annoying with its reminders.

  “I just wanted to make sure. And my car needs to be inspected, the oil changed, and that squeak fixed. Can you pick up your laundry? I’m going to be going in the other direction today, and Alicia will be at the boys’ after-school activities until six.”

  “Yes, I’ll take care of it, and I’ll get you an appointment at the dealership.”

  “Thank you. Not for Thursday, though, I have a luncheon.” She smiled sweetly. “Are you going to check again on when they will make your promotion public?”

  Robert’s jaw muscles flexed as his teeth clamped together. His response was carefully neutral. “You know that takes time, Tracie.” Every single day she asked. She would keep asking each day until she got the answer she wanted to hear. Robert was beyond being tired of it. Her question felt like an attack; a personal attack that he dreaded. Heaven help him if he didn’t get the job.

  “I know, but there is so much to plan, and I can’t arrange most of it without a date. I need at least three weeks advance notice.”

  “Of course, but they haven’t scheduled any of the preliminaries, much less appointed me, yet.” Sometimes Robert thought she wanted...no, needed the title more than he did; and he needed it. Really needed it. “I’ll check on it today.” It was a lie. He knew he’d asked too often already. Plus Bradley’s body was still warm, politically speaking.

  Tracie noticed the flexing jaw, and felt the irritation in his voice. She had seen his eyes narrow. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to be pushy. I won’t bring it up again.” Her smile was as thin as her voice. Her apology sounded artificial, and was as untrue as her promise to stop asking.

  “That’s okay, I don’t mind.” Another lie. He offered a half smile. “They’ll get to it. Oh...I was mentioned in the Post article on Bradley. I left it on the counter.”

  “Did you print it?”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Well, congratulations! I’ll clip it out.” She didn’t know, or care whether it was a positive mention. Any news was good publicity in her mind.

  Handing him the papers, Tracie reached for the doorknob, neatly managing a brief one-way hug, and light kiss. “Bye, Honey.” She smiled prettily. “I hope you have a nice day.”

  “Bye, beautiful.” Robert responded automatically. “I’ll call if I’m running late.”

  Tracie waived as she pulled the door closed behind him, before too much cold air could rush in from the garage. He heard the alarm system being armed as he headed toward his car.

  Climbing into his BMW, Robert punched the built-in remote garage door button. After pulling out, he patiently watched as the door closed completely before he began the commute to downtown Washington, D.C., and his office in the Justice Department. The office of The Associate Attorney General of the United States of America.

  Chapter 3

  Winter was coming on fast this year. The warmth and color were being sucked completely out of DC. A few colored leaves held onto their limbs in grim defiance, while their brown relatives tumbled past in the wind. The grey season had begun in the Capital.

  The commute was awful. Bad weather had socked in the area overnight, and Robert was completely unprepared. He never watched the weather reports, believing that weather reporters mostly guessed at the forecast. He shuddered at the cold pouring off the car windows, feeling chilled despite having started from a warm garage. A heavy cloudbank loomed in the northwest sky.

  Robert drank more coffee and took more vitamins in the grey season. He wore brighter shirts and bolder ties. He did everything he could to counteract the effect the dark days had on his personality. Not long ago simply driving past the Lincoln Memorial would have been enough to lift his spirits out of the gloom. The sight of the nation’s monuments had inspired him with national pride. Now his feelings of patriotism were clouded by pessimism, and darkened by a need for personal recognition. He struggled with knowing that his capabilities were well beyond the duties he performed. He wondered whether it was recognized in the Executive Branch of government that he could achieve more. His aspirations were focused on his rise through an elite circle, and he wanted some indication that his career was keeping pace with his drive to excel.

  Robert pulled into the secured garage, and eyed the “Deputy AG” parking spot that he hoped would soon be his.

  The elevator came quickly, but not quickly enough to outrun the cold air sweeping over Robert. The chill rushed in between the stainless steel doors, surrounding him. Still, the tepid warmth the elevator held after the doors closed was welcome. Robert paid no attention to the few people who got on at the first floor, and they paid no attention to him, either. They each issued the mandatory DC, “Good Morning,” without making eye contact, as if an empty space was being greeted rather than people.

  Exiting the elevator Robert passed through the wide marble corridors. The hallways always harbored chilly temperatures. It was a welcome feeling in the humid, sweltering summers, but at this time of year the marble seemed unnecessarily arctic. Occasional bursts of heat from the vents provided a reminder that somewhere in the building a higher temperature existed. Robert was quick to reach the AG office suite door. He rapidly pulled it shut behind him.

  Passing his assistant he heard her customary, “Morning.” Robert reflexively answered, “Morning,” in return, as he went to his office. He automatically thumbed through the stack of m
essages on his desk after discarding his coat. The pink pages did nothing more than prioritize the electronic mound of voice mail, e-mail, electronic meeting invitations, and register of dockets. Most would be answered with e-mails, the de-facto standard for office memos. Some he’d handle with texts.

  Amidst the pile of actions he could delegate were a few items that needed his immediate attention, and which might be politically smart to address. Robert didn’t look forward to attending to these chores. They’d require the usual frustrating, drawn-out con-calls, meetings, phone calls and above all else diplomacy; endless, innocuous, superficial diplomacy. Plus, each call he made tended to generate two more. It seemed to him that the issues he dealt with became more tedious and less interesting each day. He’d made a habit of scanning everything for the important names first: his boss, the cabinet secretaries, or the occasional governor. Lately those had been few in number. The office had been uncomfortably quiet since Bradley had died. It wasn’t a good omen for Robert’s career.

  Lorraine, Associate Administrative Assistant during the last seven Attorney General’s reigns, brought his second cup of coffee in about nine-thirty. She was the most experienced admin, but not the highest in rank. No amount of good work or efficiency could make up for Lorraine’s lack of political skill, so she’d stayed at the same desk while nine political animals who’d served as her supervisors came and went. She scooped up the contents of Robert’s outbox, and was out the door before Robert had time to reach for the cup she’d set next to him.

  Robert stretched in his high backed chair, accidentally sweeping a number of the remaining messages onto the floor. As he picked them up, three caught his eye. They were all from an old prep school friend, Chris Stoker.