Jim McGill 04 The Last Ballot Cast, Part 1

by Joseph Flynn

  Made him think the old saw about having a hollow leg had some truth to it.

  Also that it was possible to survive without one’s liver.

  All one had to do was persist on pure bitterness.

  Hugh tried again as he saw the televised McGill leap up from his chair yet again. “You’d think the least the blighter could do is rip off his clothes and reveal himself as —”

  Sir Edbert clicked the TV off.

  “Superman,” Hugh finished.

  “Would you have had the courage to do that?” Sir Edbert asked his nephew.

  “Uncle, James J. Bloody McGill was never in any danger. What courage was re —”

  Sir Edbert held up a hand and said, “He might have failed, with the whole world looking on. He might have arrived after the woman’s head was halfway removed. He might have wound up causing her death despite his best intentions. He might have put a foot wrong and broken his own damn neck.”

  Hugh had watched the loop more times than he’d bothered to count.

  McGill had barely put a hair amiss, much less a foot wrong.

  Coming ‘round to Uncle’s question, Hugh said, “Yes, I think I would have done much the same thing. If I’d failed, the blokes I know, back in Oz anyway, would still have stood me to drinks all night for trying.”

  “Taken you home and tucked you in?”

  Twitting him about being gay. Hugh grinned. The old man’s supply of bile was endless.

  “Kissed me nighty-night, too.”

  Sir Edbert shook his head and moved on. “You think we’ve been wrong, not joining the mob in singing hosannas to the beggar?”

  Hugh nodded. “It makes us look small, and you know as well as I do that judges are human. When WWN goes to trial, we’ll want all the good will we can gather, both inside and outside the courtroom. Praising McGill’s courage, no matter how we feel about him, would simply be good politics. I told you that, even if all your toadies were too fearful.”

  Hugh thought Ellie would have told him so, too, but one battle at a time.

  “Are we too late now?”

  “To use an Americanism, we’ll look like we’re playing catch up. Still, it’s better to be on the record than not. I also told you what we really need to do.”

  “Set new standards in practicing objective journalism.”

  Sir Edbert looked as if he was ready to call room service for a cup of hemlock.

  “That’s right, and you won’t be able to do it with the same pack of hacks who spout the party line right now.”

  “Change the talent?” Apparently, the notion came as a complete surprise to Sir Edbert.

  “Start with O’Dell,” Hugh said.

  “He has the highest ratings,” Sir Edbert protested.

  “You don’t even like the Irish, and he’s a sod.” This time, Hugh held up a hand, forestalling further objection. “He also has the highest salary on the network. Get rid of him and you can hire three first-class journalists for the same price. After O’Dell is gone, start knocking off the other marquee names. Put the resources into honest news gathering. You’ll knock the competition on their arses.”

  “And our friends in Washington?” Sir Edbert asked.

  “Your pawns in Washington? They will have to find new masters.”

  “And the sweetener?” Sir Edbert asked.

  Hugh always saved his best arguments for last, the media tycoon knew.

  “You’ll displace McGill as the hero de jour, you’ll be in a much stronger position when you have your day in court and if, by chance, one of your new people finds real dirt on Patti Grant, it will be seen as a scoop not a smear.”

  The dear boy. He finally put a smile on his old uncle’s lips.

  “You’re feeling better, Uncle?” Hugh asked.

  “I am … so well that I’ve just decided to approve Colonel Linberg’s TV show.”

  Aboard Irish Grace — 20º North, 82º West

  Carina Linberg was sailing the Caribbean for the first time, making way ahead of a steady wind from the Northwest. Grand Cayman Island lay ahead, a blurry speck in the distance. So far, the passage from Key West had been a piece of cake. Clear skies and seas with nothing worse than moderate swells. She’d been careful to stay outside Cuba’s territorial waters as she’d skirted the western tip of the island. No patrol vessels from the Marina de Guerra Revolucionaria challenged her.

  Upon reaching the twelve-mile limit of Cayman waters, she’d called Island Port Security, identified herself and her vessel and requested permission to proceed directly to the Barcadere Marina where she’d rented a slip. Permission was granted for her to clear customs at the marina. As she approached the island and watched it grow sharper and larger in her vision, she wondered how her life might have been different if Captain Dexter Cowan, USN, had been a decent guy or even just a horny Navy man instead of a Pentagon provocateur who’d set out to ruin her military career.

  Dex, though, had been nothing more than a handsome pawn. Former Air Force Chief of Staff General Warren Altman had been the man making all the moves. He’d dumped Carina as his lover after she’d reached the rank of colonel; he’d feared that if she got even one star on her shoulder she might become too independent for him. There would no fun in that. It was so much more enjoyable when the woman under you in bed was also under your thumb.

  Altman had told her that to her face, the bastard.

  He’d also said she had lost sex appeal as she rose in rank.

  Carina had hit back, hoping to wound Altman as deeply as she could. Her idea had been to show the bastard that all the women in his life had screwed him only to get ahead. Including his wife, Cheryl. Given a choice, Cheryl would even prefer another woman to him.

  It had turned out that Carina didn’t need to seduce Mrs. Altman. She needed only to get Mrs. Altman moderately drunk before the general’s wife admitted knowing that Carina had been one of her husband’s many lovers. Cheryl Altman thought it laughable that Carina had conceived the idea of seducing her. She had long thought she should see for herself what was so great about all the whores her husband screwed.

  The forty-five minutes the two women spent in bed together was nothing more than an exercise in mutual debasement. Carina still cringed when she thought about it. Wanted to put it permanently out of mind. She’d never imagined that Cheryl Altman would go home and gloat to her husband about what she had done, and what a mistake he’d made leaving Colonel Linberg.

  If the general was any kind of man, Mrs. Altman said, he would take both her and the colonel on at the same time. Altman, who followed only his own orders and had already targeted his next military mistress, slapped his wife so hard he knocked her out. When she regained her senses, Mrs. Altman called Carina to warn her that retribution would surely be coming her way, too.

  Not that it could take the form of a beating. The Uniform Code of Military Justice forbade corporal abuse. The general didn’t want to ruin his own career. So he’d sent Captain Dexter Cowan, posing as a divorced man, Carina’s way. After Dex and Carina had slept together, their affair was discovered, and only then had Carina learned her new lover was a married man.

  Adultery was also forbidden by the UCMJ.

  At least for those without four stars on their shoulders.

  Carina faced not only losing her rank but also being imprisoned at Fort Leavenworth. She learned without question that a chief of staff’s revenge could go far beyond anything she might conceive. Then the possibility of Carina standing before a court-martial fell apart when Dex Cowan got himself killed. No witness, no prosecution.

  Dex had been told that General Altman’s connections would help land him a lucrative post-military career in the defense industry. The irony was both Carina and General Altman soon left the Air Force and went to work as military analysts for competing media outlets. In television, though, military rank took second place to other considerations; a good-looking woman got better ratings and bigger money than a grumpy old man. In that way, at least, sh
e’d trumped the bastard.

  If Carina had anyone to thank for squeaking through a very tough situation and coming out a free woman, it was the young Air Force investigator who had been assigned to her case, Lieutenant Welborn Yates. It might have helped that he’d developed a crush on her. That and, according to the rumors she’d heard, having James J. McGill give him uncredited guidance.

  As she struck her sails and motored slowly toward the marina, she received a text message from her agent. Sir Edbert Bickford had approved her idea for a TV pilot. Discussions regarding finding a director, casting and a production budget would begin at her earliest convenience.

  Carina beamed, feeling as if she’d just been reborn. Again.

  She wanted to celebrate, but her mood ebbed when she realized she had no one with whom to share her good news. Then she though to hell with that. She’d find —

  Welborn Yates. He was standing at the end of the breakwater watching Irish Grace arrive.

  He brought himself to a posture of attention and gave Carina a crisp salute.

  Without a second’s hesitation, she returned it.

  Pennyman’s Cafe — Grand Cayman Island

  Welborn Yates had spent less than twelve hours with Kira before he turned around and went back to the Caribbean. George Town was in no way a hardship posting, and after a brief discussion with the president, he had been given permission to stay there at government expense for as long a time as he thought reasonable, but he missed his bride. The irony of whiling away time alone in what for many couples would be a honeymoon destination — after he’d cut his own honeymoon short — was not lost on him.

  In fact, it grated.

  So did the fact that Kira had acted unilaterally in making her decision to leave the White House. He couldn’t blame her for supporting Mather Wyman. The man was her uncle, her de facto father, really. Welborn knew he would do almost anything for his mother and was feeling progressively better about his own father, whom he’d met only recently. So, considering matters on a rational plane, he could hardly blame Kira for …

  Aligning herself with the second best candidate in the presidential sweepstakes.

  Welborn wouldn’t vote for his mother ahead of Patricia Darden Grant.

  Maybe it was just the lack of consideration that bothered him.

  Would it have been so hard for Kira to at least give him fair warning?

  He took a deep breath and got a grip on himself. The bastard responsible for killing his three best friends was bound to show up soon. If he wasn’t too busy sulking, he’d put Linley Boland in handcuffs and take him back to Washington. March him through the streets and put him to the sword on the National Mall as thousands cheered.

  Welborn grinned at the flight of fancy.

  “About time your storm clouds blew over. You were scaring off the tourists.”

  He looked up and saw Willa Pennyman give him a wink. The café bearing her family name was operating at capacity. The only open chair on the terrace was the one opposite Welborn. Willa took it and asked, “The villain you’re chasing didn’t get nicked by someone else, did he? That’s not what’s causing your tropical depression?”

  Welborn shook his head.

  “He’s still out there. I’m sure you would have told me if you’d turned him in for the reward.”

  “I’d have my hand out, if I did. Actually, I have the Pennyman family watching the whole bloody island for your bloke.”

  “There are that many of you?”

  Willa nodded. “We’re a fertile lot.”

  Welborn wasn’t going anywhere near that one.

  “So he couldn’t have nipped into the bank and slipped out unnoticed?”

  She shook her head.

  “I have a cousin drives a taxi. He could give you a tour of the island. Maybe you’d see your villain coming in at the airport or sailing into George Town harbor. Meanwhile, we’d get our table back. Turn it over a few times, make some money.”

  “You’ll have someone watching the bank?”

  “Luv, we have someone in the bank. A hundred thousand dollars goes a long way among working folk on this island.” A thought crossed Willa’s mind and she took Welborn’s hand in a way that wasn’t at all flirtatious. “I hope you’re not having me on about all that money.”

  “No, ma’am,” Welborn said.

  Willa matched his words to his eyes, and patted his hand.

  With a summoning gesture, she brought a taxi to the curb next to Welborn’s table.

  “Eddie’ll take you anywhere you want to go, charge you only standard fare. Go see what the tide brings in.”

  Stretching his legs on the breakwater at Barcadere Marina after hours in the taxi, Welborn was surprised to see the tide bring in former Colonel Carina Linberg, suntanned and looking like the million dollars it must have cost to buy the boat she was helming.

  Reacting to the presence of a superior officer as he’d been trained, he saluted her.

  He was pleased when she returned the salute.

  It would be rude, Welborn thought, not to welcome the colonel ashore.

  Camp David — Catoctin Mountains, Maryland

  “No good deed goes unpunished,” McGill told Patti.

  He was sitting in the whirlpool in the master bathroom at Aspen Lodge. Patti had just flown in from the White House that Saturday morning. McGill had picked Abbie up from school a day early, Thursday, and they’d made their way to the presidential retreat to escape hounding from the media.

  The final straw had been when WorldWide News had contacted Aggie Wu to request an interview with McGill, and had made assurances that it wouldn’t be a hostile piece.

  Following the instructions McGill had left, Aggie declined on his behalf, explaining as she had to all the other newsies that, “Mr. McGill injured his lower back in coming to the aid of Chief of Staff Mindel. He’ll be recuperating for the foreseeable future.”

  “Coming to the aid” was the official language used to describe McGill’s actions.

  He might have helped an old lady cross the street.

  A soft sell might be peddled to the press, but it didn’t hold up when Aaron and Joshua Mindel called to thank McGill for saving their mother’s life. He could hear the two young men choke back the fear of having almost lost Galia. McGill wasn’t going to disrespect that, didn’t try to deny the significance of what he’d done.

  “Your mother and I are the closest of rivals,” he told Aaron and Josh. “Each of us thinks we know what’s best for the president. I have the upper hand, but I need Galia to keep me honest.”

  Galia’s sons laughed and Aaron said, “Mom loves you, too, Mr. McGill.”

  McGill joined in the laughter, and then turned serious. “Galia was also tested as a potential bone marrow donor for my son, Kenny. I’ll never forget that.”

  “A mitzvah,” Josh explained.

  “For me, too,” McGill said.

  He told Galia’s sons he wished her a swift recovery. She’d suffered a laceration of her esophagus that had been surgically repaired. John Patrick Granby had done the damage with the length of fishing line he’d secreted in his necktie. Galia was recovering in New York. She had made news from her hospital bed when, following doctor’s orders not to speak unnecessarily, she’d allowed a pool photographer into her room.

  In her right hand she’d held up a photo of General Douglas MacArthur bearing a caption of his famous vow, “I shall return.” In her left hand, Galia held up a handwritten note, “Me, too.”

  Various talking heads had sniffed that if Galia could throw them a bone, McGill could, too.

  McGill wouldn’t play ball with the media. He had tweaked his back.

  The muscle strain, however, hadn’t been so bad that he’d failed to honor his promise to Kenny to continue his Dark Alley lessons, but with both Abbie and Caitie on hand for the weekend they insisted on being included in the instruction, too. Having no reasonable way to exclude his daughters, McGill gave in. Teaching three students, showing
them proper technique, making sure none of them did any unintended harm to the others, he’d aggravated his back.

  Took it for a hot, swirling soak in Aspen Lodge, where Patti found him.

  Then he’d complained about the back pain being reverse karma.

  “Your good deed has not gone unrewarded,” she told him.

  “How’s that?” McGill asked.

  Patti held up a printout of a computer screen capture.

  “Your public approval rating across five major polls is a cumulative eighty-nine percent.”

  McGill said, “Whoop-ti-do.”

  “A likable spouse is a decided plus for a presidential candidate. That would be me. You were helpful last time, too.”

  Last time. McGill had an abiding regret about not being able to save Andy Grant’s life. Finding Andy’s killer, he thought, was a poor substitute. The public, however, had found Erna Godfrey’s swift arrest compelling. If Patti still found comfort in it, he wouldn’t argue.

  “Thank you. Whatever I can do for you, I will. Short of talking to WorldWide News.”

  “Something’s going on over there,” Patti said.

  “Like what? Sir Edbert has renounced his title?”

  “Close. He’s fired Mike O’Dell.”

  “Mike Odious, gone? The madhouse won’t be the same without him.”

  “Aggie says the rumors are there will be a wholesale change of on-air talent.”

  “The apocalypse nears. Or it’s one big fake-out.”

  Patti asked, “What do you mean?”

  “As you know, I normally don’t read more than the sports section, but I thought I saw the DOJ was going to take WorldWide News to court, something about bribing cops in England.”

  “That’s right,” Patti said.

  She started to take off her clothes. McGill gave her a look.

  “I’m a little stiff myself. I believe there’s room enough for two in there.”

  “Sure, there is, but I’ve already lost my train of thought.”