by Gayle Lynds
"I understand, Mario. Thank you. You're doing a fine job." Former Justice Redmond's gaze was firm as the room basked in his unshakable confidence. He'd spoken to his media man with just the right tone of approval. It gave momentary satisfaction but not too much. He'd developed a way of commending and condemning at the same time, always complimenting but also giving the impression more was needed to really measure up. This was an alluring quality for those with talent, energy, and intellect who were good enough to go for the top but who doubted themselves.
"But you need more than a point and a half." It was the candidate's youngest brother, Brice, who stated the obvious. There was a hint of disdain in his voice. Everyone was well aware he considered politics and politicians to be of little interest.
Their other brother, David, ignored Brice's tone. "That's right. We need a lot more," he complained. "Douglas Powers still has a fifteen-point lead. Fifty-five percent, and the election's only three days away. What do we have that's going to shake him off the top of the mountain? We don't want to be like Bob Dole in ninety-six!"
"What about the fortune the campaign's pouring into the paid media?" one of the nephews asked. "What about all the coverage the free media's been giving you and your issues?" Advertising was called the paid media, while the news was "free media."
Creighton Redmond nodded and turned to the man on his right.
"Walt, you want to field that one?"
Chief strategist Walt Miller said, "We're hitting all the right buttons." Weariness creviced his forehead and cheeks. A forgotten cigarette had burned down to his knuckles. "Lowering taxes. Aggressive campaigns against teen pregnancy and drugs. Protection for property rights. More weapons to bolster our role as the globe's only superpower. They're issues devised to appeal to most Americans without losing our support base, and they're working. But the free media's been pretty damn neutral, and we came in too late to buy this election with the usual paid media. We didn't realize how far ahead Powers's team was."
He looked at Creighton Redmond and forced a smile. In return, Creighton's eyes flickered, giving permission to continue the bad news. The strategist drew deeply on his cigarette, stubbed it out, let out a slow cloud of smoke, and leaned forward. Attention riveted on him. What most had feared was being aired at last—
"Doug Powers's people have been secretly buying ads in medium-sized markets all across the nation for a year, bypassing major cities, where we'd notice. If we'd seen the ads, we'd have countered with our own. Hell, it wasn't just us. The national media didn't tumble either. Now we know they were running TV and radio ads three or four times a week and reaching about a hundred twenty-five million Americans each time. Imagine those numbers! They kept it to key swing states, and they did it without any rebuttal from us. They spent tens of millions of dollars and created a tremendous foundation of support, and then they kept that support in place by continuing to brainwash with their ads."
There was stunned silence.
Someone muttered, "Wish we'd thought of it."
"Yeah. Brainwashing sounds real good to me right now," agreed someone else.
There was a moment of angry laughter.
Astonished and amused, youngest brother Brice pulled himself from his lethargy to demand, "You mean they were the only team on the field? You aren't just behind. You weren't even in the game!"
"I don't believe it," the older David growled. "How do you know the polls are accurate? They could be wrong." David was CEO of giant Global Banking Network. He'd built the international financial-services corporation from the ground up, starting with a small New York bank. In the process he'd developed the kind of hardheaded acumen that could turn even death into profit and loss. Numbers were his passion.
The media specialist gave David a quick rundown on polling. He concluded, "So we question eight hundred voters across the country. We choose them randomly but in proportion to their state's share in the electoral college. I know it seems insane that interviews with just eight hundred people reflect accurately the opinions of two hundred fifty million others, but it does—within a margin of three or four percent. It's been proved time and again."
Brice exhaled, his indifference to politics and exhaustion from chronic depression overridden by his instinct to compete. For the first time in a year, he felt a stirring of interest. "Powers's ads were reaching half the country three times a week with no rebuttal from you. No wonder you're in trouble!"
"What about research on Powers's background?" another nephew wondered. "There's got to be something bad in his past somewhere. You can't be an international businessman and then a U.S. senator without collecting some dirt along the way. Affairs. Prostitutes. Bribes. Substance abuse. A sloppy embezzlement."
"We found nothing," the chief of staff, Jack Hart, told them. "There was an early marriage and divorce, but no children from it. He and the ex remained friends. And now he's got that all-American family—pretty wife, two kids, the dog, the cat, the RV. Mr. Wholesome." Hart was Creighton Redmond's age, a classmate from Andover and Harvard law school. He was drinking a stiff Bloody Mary and looking gloomy. "In any case, I doubt it'd help. Rampant rumors of a mistress didn't hurt George Bush, and Paula Jones's claims rolled off Bill Clinton like shit off a duck in the ninety-six election. The Watergate break-in didn't keep Richard Nixon from a second term, and Iran-Contra didn't stop Bush from winning a first. Looking at the big picture, I see nothing that'll stop Douglas Powers in the short amount of time we have." He checked his watch and shook his head in discouragement. "Less than seventy-two hours."
The large library was hushed. A sense of inevitability had spread like a shroud.
The chief of staff took a long drink of his Bloody Mary and pronounced the verdict they'd muttered among themselves for days: "We're going to lose."
The library erupted in talk and accusation. Voices rose with anger and blame and disappointment. The room seemed to shudder a long time with charged emotion until at last they heard an odd sound. It began as a low rumble and soon turned into a chuckle.
Grim, angry, disheartened, they turned to stare at the candidate behind the big desk. Creighton Redmond was laughing.
Still laughing, he stood up to look around at them—his staff and family. They'd given him their loyalty, and many had worked twenty-four-hour days for him for months. Yet now they were resigned to defeat. He'd known their despair was there, and he'd needed them to let it out, to express their worst and deepest fears. Terror thrived in the shadows, but it was far less compelling in the light of day.
Now the pustule had been lanced, and he had to convince them to put their defeatism aside, because they were facing monumental tasks they didn't yet know. He needed them to be sharp, energetic, and loyal. He had a plan that'd send him to the White House. It'd be forever secret from them as well as everyone else. But they were the ones who were going to make it work.
He laughed louder. "Look at yourselves! Armageddon's not here. We're not going to fry in our boots!" He threw back his head and laughed even harder. His brothers, David and Brice, watched the performance with something close to shock. They'd seen their father laugh the same way, throwing back his head with its great mane of white hair and laughing with the same utter contempt for the facts of life.
Creighton Redmond's fist slammed down on the desk. "You're not giving up! I know you're not. Look at yourselves, those long faces. You're better than this—"
Brice could almost see old Lyle Redmond behind that desk, hear his heated lectures, see the hard face, recapture the sense that nothing was impossible if a boy only worked and dared enough. And all of them—the three brothers—had.
Not quite buying it, Brice watched in admiration as Creighton called upon Oliver Wendell Holmes and Abraham Lincoln to inspire them all to continue the fight. Creighton paced alongside the desk, his brow knitted, his hands clasped earnestly behind him. Everyone in the room listened raptly as he reminded them of how his perfectly timed candidacy had captured primaries and caucuses and rolled
like an invincible juggernaut to the convention.
Although several other Supreme Court justices had considered it, only one had resigned in the twentieth century to pursue the presidency—Justice Charles Evans Hughes. He'd barely lost to Woodrow Wilson in 1916. That was a long time ago, and Creighton Redmond and his team weren't going to fail. He hadn't given up his lifetime seat on the highest court in the land to be a loser. The electorate hungered for a fresh, unsullied chief executive to lead it in the new millennium, and he was the one.
His voice ringing, he finished: "Remember what Anwar Sadat said: 'You are not a realist unless you believe in miracles.' But miracles are also about timing and perseverance. We've come a long way together, and we still have three days to turn this situation around. No one knows what's going to happen in those three days, and I have faith something will. If we quit now, we'll be in no position to take advantage of any lucky breaks. We must keep up the fight. Not let up for a minute. Think what winning this election will mean to the country and to your futures." He stopped to open his arms grandly, encompassing them all. "To all our futures. We can implant our ideas, and we can profit along the way. A flat tax. Open markets. Smaller government. Strict constitutional interpretation of the law—"
A wave of optimism swept the room. The men began to clap and cheer. Those who'd been sitting jumped to their feet. They'd remembered what this election was all about. It was about them . . . all of them and the future. Shoulders straightened. Heartbeats quickened. Creighton Redmond was their president. The man who stood taller than all others. He was going to lead them to the White House, and they were with him every fighting step of the way.
9
The atmosphere in the library was vibrant with winning, and Creighton intended to keep it that way. He seized the opportunity to reinforce it by having his media team describe the final advertising blitz—hard-hitting and, all agreed, stunningly effective.
His publicist gave an overview of Creighton's whistle-stop tour tomorrow through California, designed to attract maximum press while stroking the voters of that critical state. Creighton would fly west tonight, and the daylong, Sunday event would be family-oriented, with his two younger children and several of their cousins crowding the train's tailgate at every stop. Vice presidential nominee Arthur Friedman, on a swing through the South, would join Creighton in Los Angeles for the end of the tour.
Finally, to end the morning's gathering on a high note, Creighton called on his chief of staff to describe the transition plan that would segue all of them into power. As they listened, the group smiled. They discussed the White House with firmness in their voices. Their fears and doubts had evaporated in the light of what was now more real: Their man deserved to win. He was the best. Since he'd chosen them, they were the best. All they had to do was make certain the election reflected that.
From where he leaned against the wall, Brice Redmond continued to watch it all. The painful lethargy that was his constant companion had been eased by the excitement of the campaign meeting, and a bemused smile etched his face. He had fading red hair, intelligent blue eyes, and a mouth that could harden quickly into a concrete line.
He looked like neither of his brothers, with their Irish-black hair graying rapidly, brown eyes, hawklike faces, and broad shoulders. He was a half-foot taller and dressed in Levi's jeans, blue work shirt, and gray herringbone jacket. They—Creighton and Davids—wore expensive suits and silk ties appropriate for the press conference at noon.
As the group broke up, he remained behind. Deep inside, Brice was in turmoil. The murder of their only sister. Marguerite, had hit him hard. He was the youngest of the siblings, in his mid forties. Marguerite had been only two years older. Once they'd been very close. Her death had shocked him not only because he'd loved her, but also because for the first time his own mortality was more than academic.
Of his parents' four children, he and Marguerite had been the rebels, while Creighton and David had pursued the paths their father had set for them—Creighton into law, and David into banking. Every family needed lawyers and bankers, old Lyle had decreed. On the other hand, doctors were simply hired hands. No doctor made serious wealth practicing legitimate medicine. Worse were teachers, scientists, academicians, and artists of all kinds. Lyle had been adamant about that.
Nevertheless, Brice had gone his own way. Twenty-five years ago he'd seen the future—computers. His father and brothers had told him he was crazy. Disgusted, he'd emptied his small trust fund, brought together a stellar team of young computer minds, and started a software firm. Within two years he was in the black, and within five years he'd branched into hardware.
Today his company—Redmond Systems—rivaled Microsoft and IBM, and he'd acquired more money than he knew what to do with. Unfortunately he'd also lost his zest for living. Redmond Systems needed managers now, not an entrepreneur. It depressed him. He ached for a new challenge that would make getting up in the morning worth doing.
"Poor Marguerite." Creighton Redmond nodded soberly as he, his son Vince, and David headed out of the library. "A terrible way to die. Such a tragedy. We'll all miss her. Are you coming, Brice?"
Brice stepped abruptly away from the wall. "'We'll miss her'? 'Such a tragedy'? That's all? You can be a damned cold fish, Creighton, you know that? Our only sister? Dead? Murdered, for God's sake."
"Don't blaspheme, Brice," David chided, joking. "You never know when the cardinal's listening."
Creighton made his voice sincere. "I'm sorry, Brice. I lost touch with Marguerite when she got so busy managing poor Julia's career, but that's no excuse. I expressed myself badly. Blame it on the pressure of the campaign. Marguerite's a great loss, and I will miss her terribly. We all will, I know that. But you most of all. Perhaps you'd rather not join us in the pub?"
"A drink might help."
David pulled his tie loose. "I'll second that."
Reconciled as quickly as they'd disagreed, the brothers walked toward the door.
Creighton studied Brice. "You lose some weight, little brother?"
"Some. Thought it was time." It was a lot—thirty pounds. The weight had disappeared with his appetite. Depression did that, Brice had heard.
Creighton smiled. "You're bored. That's all that's wrong with you. Come on, we'll talk more in the pub. Son, you'll join us?"
Vince had been listening respectfully but saying little as usual. "I'd better check in with the office. I'll skip the pub and meet you as we agreed, in the retreat, Dad."
Creighton nodded. "I'll be there."
Vince took out a cigar and turned back into the library, where a phone sat on the desk, lights blinking. The brothers strode down the hall abreast, the two smaller men in their Saville Row suits and Brice in his jeans and herringbone jacket. All exuded the same sense of power and destiny. It hovered about them like an unmistakable scent.
"How much longer until Julia's here?" David asked.
Creighton checked his Rolex. "She's on the nine-twenty Concorde into Kennedy. Two of my agents went to pick her up. They're going to take her off the plane out on the tarmac and drive her straight here so she can avoid the media circus." The press would be unable to interview her because she'd be locked safely behind the tinted-glass windows of one of the family limousines.
"No wonder you like the Secret Service." David chuckled. "So convenient."
Oil paintings worth millions of dollars decorated the walls of the corridor and the rooms they passed. Museum-quality statues and vases stood on tables and in arched nooks. And everywhere were flowers—arrangements large and small from a multitude of friends and other sympathizers.
In the foyer and long hallways children played and shouted, and as the three men passed the wide arch that opened onto the living room, they saw adults gathered there—family, close friends, and the Reverend Monsignor Jerome O'Connell, Father Fechtman, Sister Mary Margaret, and Sister Mary Alice, all members of the local parish. Surrounded by female relatives, Creighton's wife, Alexis, sat near th
e opening on a high sofa, her neat gray hair sprayed into a mannequin's helmet, her manicured fingers curled around a cup of coffee almost certainly laced with her usual bourbon.
Alexis was relating anecdotes about her latest forays to luncheons, fund-raisers, hospitals, and schools. She pointed to her Ferragamo pumps. "These shoes, ladies, have more miles on them than any car you've ever owned!"
The brothers continued down the hall into the west wing and down three steps into the mansion's pub, where a white-jacketed servant stood behind the tall mahogany bar, polishing already shining glasses. The pub's walls, ceiling, and floor were of stone that looked centuries old. In truth, the architect's company had cast the stone in the early 1900s, adding bicarbonate of soda to the lime-and-cement mixture to produce the scars and pits of long aging. It was a deft job, and because of it visitors could almost smell English moss and catch a glimpse of a knight's gleaming armor.
Outdoors on the other side of the paned windows, a Secret Service agent stood under an oak to scrutinize the grounds. He wore aviator sunglasses and an intense expression.
David stared out at him, and Brice watched, realizing that despite all their wealth and privileges the Redmonds were awed by having a presidential nominee in the family. They seemed to find the very air around Creighton more rarified, an almost kingly ambience falling like an ermine mantle over his future . . . and theirs. The Secret Service was the palace guard, inspecting every detail for the sake of security, even the groceries delivered to the estate. When Creighton was campaigning, the agents sealed off entire hotel floors a week in advance. Wherever he was, the Oval Office called daily, as it did the other candidate, to keep both abreast of breaking situations.
Those on the periphery of so much devotion quickly deduced the nation held the presidency dear. Not even a megamillionaire could buy this lofty position. It had to be earned. There was something about what Creighton had accomplished that even Brice had to admit he admired.
The brothers ordered Bloody Marys. As soon as the drinks were served, David asked the bar steward to leave. He had business to discuss.