“So why not go with a different studio and make good movies? If you have the talent, there must be work available.”
“I wish it were that simple.”
“I don’t know what you want from me, Anthony Carmeli.”
“Maybe I like you.”
“I think you are confusing romance with lust.”
“Somehow, cruelty doesn’t suit you. I’d take a different direction if I were you. There are lots of avenues out there.”
“And plenty of boulevards of broken dreams as well,” she responded coyly.
“Been down them myself, more times than I’d care to admit.” He held out the bouquet and bottle of wine. “Please take these as a gift. If you don’t want to see me again, I can understand that. But you should know that I didn’t come here to have sex with you. And I didn’t go to that bar last night because I wanted to get laid. I went there to listen to some music and recharge my batteries. But in the process I met you .”
Taking the flowers and wine from him, Skyler found a mixture of emotions vying for space inside her: guilt at being a contract killer and for treating him so badly last night; rapture that he was pursuing her as a person and not a sex object; fear at the idea of violating one of the cardinal rules of her profession, getting involved with someone who could blow her cover. The strange thing was she knew last night there was something special about him, something beyond his good looks and sense of humor. There was a world-weary charm about him and, though she hated to admit it, she had felt a connection.
“Tonight,” he said, abruptly. “Tonight would you have dinner with me?”
“I’m busy tonight.”
“How about tomorrow night?”
“I don’t know...I...” She swiped a hand across her face in exasperation, like the host of a party scrambling around at the last minute to prepare for guests. This is crazy—absolutely crazy!
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll come by at six and we can go out for dinner. Not a date, just to talk. And no hanky-panky. Not unless you guarantee me medical clearance from a board-certified physician.”
His grin widened, and a hint of a smile crossed Skyler’s lips, vanishing quickly. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up. I’m not looking for a relationship—with you or anyone else.”
“I’m not either. But at least we’re sort of connecting. When I was chained to the bed, I felt like we weren’t connecting very well.”
“You weren’t chained, you were handcuffed.”
“Yeah, but they felt more like chains.”
He winked at her and started down the sidewalk. When he had gone about ten feet, he turned back and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“Maybe,” she said, and she watched him walk away.
CHAPTER 25
TURNING RIGHT ONTO NEVADA AVENUE, Benjamin Bradford Locke pressed down gently on the accelerator of his Cadillac Seville. His loyal assistant, Gregory Powers, sat next to him; they were on their way to their meeting with President-elect Fowler. The world around them was a portrait in urban anonymity: dingy motels, homogeneous fast-food chains, dilapidated auto shops. Locke preferred the I-25-to-Lake-Avenue route to the Broadmoor, but they were running a little late and this way was faster.
He made a quick inventory of the people on the street: the old hag pushing the shopping cart full of aluminum cans; the cheap shop owners in their shabby clothes; the nervous-looking man and raffish prostitute sneaking into the motel on the right; the vacuous young adults with the glowing-neon hair and obscene rings projecting from all regions of the face. He felt a deep, profound pity for them and hoped that one day they would be touched by the hand of God and go on to live productive, meaningful lives. He only wished that he could give every one of them the same fresh start that he had given Peter Brown, but he could not help everyone in the world. It was a pity because if only he had the resources, he would happily do it.
His thoughts turned to Katherine Fowler. For those poor people out on the street, she was truly the nation’s best hope. It was the dawning of a new era. The Chosen One would step into the bully pulpit of the Oval Office and, over the next eight years assuming her reelection, enlighten the masses with a vision of hope. She would bolster the struggling economy, reduce the size and scope of government, and reclaim America’s standing in the world just as the Great Communicator, Ronald Reagan, had done. With a charismatic, photogenic, articulate conservative president presiding over a Republican-tilted House and Senate and a 7-2 conservative advantage in the Supreme Court, there was as much chance for a successful paradigm shift and economic renaissance as there had been during the Reagan Revolution.
The Coalition was banking on it.
When Locke reached Lake Avenue, he took a right and headed into the famous Broadmoor area, one of Colorado Springs’ oldest and finest neighborhoods. The towering spruce, oak, and elm trees along the road were set at regular intervals and threw their heavy limbs over the broad avenue, dappling the sunlight. The sprawling mansions and wide streets perfectly captured the idle elegance of early twentieth-century Colorado. Ahead soared the world-renowned Broadmoor resort, where the gold barons of Cripple Creek—today it was hard not to call them thieves—once came to relax in luxury. Visitors today came for the same reasons Gilded Age blue bloods did: the gentle climate, healthy mountain air, and easy access to the great outdoors.
Locke took a left onto Tanglewood and turned right on Broadmoor Avenue. After passing a dozen multimillionaire’s homes, and several obligatory Jaguars and Mercedes, they came upon the former two-term senator’s English country manor. The twenty-room dwelling looked like a castle with its steep-pitched roofs, creeping vines, and exquisite turrets, dormers, and gables.
A thronging pack of media hounds outfitted with the latest gadgets crowded the pavement outside the electric gate to the house. Inside the gate stood a veritable army of Secret Service agents, which Locke took as a good sign. It meant that Katherine Fowler was already being treated like a president.
This is the will of God, he thought. She truly is the Chosen One.
CHAPTER 26
AFTER AN EXASPERATINGLY LENGTHY and thorough security check, they were escorted by two Secret Service agents to the president-elect’s home office. The hallway was cluttered with nattily clad aides scurrying about industriously. When Locke and Powers appeared at the open door, Katherine Fowler looked up from the phone and waved them in. She had returned an hour earlier from her press conference, where she had paid tribute to her running mate, expressed condolences to his family, and confidently reassured the American people that she would work tirelessly on their behalf, striving to overcome the many challenges facing the nation.
Locke was reminded, yet again, of what an excellent choice he had made in Katherine Fowler. Here, most assuredly, was the person to lead America’s renaissance. Though she could not be described as beautiful, she was attractive in a wholesome ex-athlete kind of way and she had a natural leadership quality about her. Her eyes were aquamarine, her hair blond without a hint of artificial coloring, her figure vaguely muscular. With her All-American looks and affable smile, Fowler presented a pleasant package to voters. Even before her selection as Kieger’s running-mate, she had been considered the new blood of the Republican Party. Though well right of political center, she nonetheless managed to convey, by her salubrious physical presence and articulate manner, an impression of moderation.
Peter Frautschi, Fowler’s campaign manager during the primary and likely chief of staff, stepped forward to greet them. It was Frautschi who had secretly given Locke Kieger’s campaign schedule weeks earlier, as well as informed the group last night of Fowler’s swearing in as president-elect following her speech in Colorado Springs. The former director of a conservative Washington lobby and regular contributor to The American Spectator had a miser’s eyes and a pugilist’s nose, and was reported to be tough as nails in protecting his own turf and that of his boss. Locke considered Frautschi the operation’s most critical insider; not o
nly did he have ready access to Fowler, he was the new president-elect’s most trusted political advisor.
While Fowler worked her way off the phone, they were served drinks by an aide and settled into the Southwestern-style lounge chairs set about an engraved Spanish table. Locke had given up alcohol years earlier, and opted for soda water with lime. Minutes later, Fowler hung up the phone and turned to face her guests.
It was time for the much-anticipated meeting with the Chosen One.
CHAPTER 27
“I’M PLEASED TO SEE YOU, GENTLEMEN,” she began solemnly, “though I wish it were under better circumstances.” She picked up her Perrier from the desk and stepped towards them. “Our nation lost a great man yesterday. We will be in a state of mourning for quite some time, I’m afraid.”
Locke felt the familiar sting of shame and regret at the taking of poor Kieger’s life, though he ultimately regarded it as a necessary evil in order to save his beleaguered nation. “Yes, it’s terribly sad,” he said with genuine contrition as they shook hands. “But as in every tragedy, there is a silver lining. We still have you, Mrs. President-elect. In two months’ time, you will be the first female president in the nation’s history. Despite the terrible sense of loss that our mournful nation feels, this is a truly historic occasion.”
Though Fowler no doubt understood the deeper implication, she merely nodded as if she accepted the compliment at face value, and offered her hand to Powers. “Hello, Gregory.”
“Mrs. President-elect.”
Fowler motioned for everyone to sit down. Locke could feel the tension building inside him—there was so much at stake!
“Have you gentlemen heard anything more about this Green Freedom Brigade?”
“Nothing since this morning. The TV and radio stations are going full tilt, but no one seems to have any new information. The president is taking a beating. Do you think it’s possible he’s involved as reported?”
“All I know right now is that this will take some time to sort out. By the way, Benjamin, I had a little visit from two federal agents after my press conference. I understand they spoke with you this morning as well.”
A flash of surprise crossed Locke’s face, swiftly suppressed. “Yes, they came by. Apparently, the gunman left some promotional buttons in the office where the shot was fired. An AMP button and three other campaign buttons. I take it one of them was one of yours.”
She nodded. “An old button from my first senate campaign. I told them I didn’t have any idea where it came from, but I’d look into it.”
“I told them the very same thing. You know, anything I could do to help.”
Powers fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. The involuntary gesture, while subtle, made Locke feel uneasy.
Fowler rose from her chair and began pacing in front of a large oil painting of the Battle of New Orleans. “What do you make of these buttons? What do they mean?”
“I’m not sure. Seems like the assassin’s trying to leave behind a few false trails to confuse the authorities. But, of course, I’m no expert on such matters.”
“The whole thing is troublesome. But I know you didn’t come here to discuss criminal matters.” She walked back to her chair and sat down. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
Locke took a moment to collect his thoughts. “We realize this is a time of sober reflection and mourning,” he said with an unintentionally sententious air. “But we feel it is important for the party, and you in particular, to demonstrate to the country that the situation is under control.”
“So you want assurances?”
He decided to play innocent, hoping to conceal the Coalition’s true ambitions from her. “We are interested in how you might govern differently from your able colleague. You know we always like to have a little input on behalf of our constituents.”
“What can we expect in return?” asked Frautschi bluntly.
Locke kept his gaze on Fowler. “We’re prepared to donate twenty million into your reelection coffers.”
The president-elect’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Twenty million dollars?”
“It has a pleasant ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Why yes, as a matter of fact it does.”
“That will pay for a lot of TV spots four years from now,” Frautschi said.
The president-elect’s expression brought to mind wheels in motion, as if she was already making plans on how to spend the money. “How soon can we have the…donation?”
My, aren’t we greedy? “By the end of the week.”
“And what, might I inquire, are you asking for in return?”
“The usual. Some assurances on the party platform and a little input into your minor cabinet appointments. Not secretary of state or defense—just attorney general and heads at Health, Interior, and Labor. Nothing binding, of course. We’re just looking for a gesture of good faith on your part.”
Fowler nodded, as if she had expected as much. “I can assure you, Benjamin, my stands on the key issues important to you two gentlemen are the same as during the primary. I still see no middle ground on fiscal austerity, taxes, job growth, abortion, gun control, anti-terrorism spending, or school vouchers.”
“We were hoping for a little more than broad brush strokes.” Locke kept his voice deferential yet forceful, recognizing that now that he had offered the money, he controlled the meeting. “We gave you tremendous patronage during the primary and general election and we need to reassure our members that you will govern as judiciously as we all have hoped.”
Fowler considered this a moment. “You know where I stand, gentlemen. You know every bill I’ve voted for or against the last twelve years. But given the tremendous support you have given me, and continue to give me, I agree it’s only fair I lay out my positions for you. As long as you promise not to quote me to the media.” She followed with the same little wink and disarming smile that had won over the Midwestern heartland, Southern states, and Western interior during the Republican primary and general election.
“We promise.” Locke returned the wink and leaned forward eagerly in his chair.
“Very well, here’s where I stand. I am committed to appointing men and women to the Supreme Court and federal bench who interpret the constitution in the manner intended by our Founding Fathers, people who will put a halt to this judicial activism that is spreading like a disease. I am committed to shrinking the size and reach of the federal government, not expanding its powers. I hold zero-tolerance positions on homosexual marriage and adoption, flag burning, and public financing of the NEA. I back a constitutional amendment banning abortion, human cloning, and embryonic stem-cell research. I want to expand religious rights in public schools and roll back unnecessarily restrictive gun laws. I’m for across-the-board corporate tax cuts and unlimited soft money contributions. And finally, I would fill my domestic cabinet positions with people of unassailable character who believe, as I do, that ‘conservatism’ is not a dirty word. There, does that give you some feel for where I stand on the issues important to your constituency?”
Locke smiled. “Why yes, it most certainly does.” That was Fowler’s gift, he realized, her ability to make you support her, to make you literally hers, absolutely, without coming across as harsh or extreme in her views. Again, Locke congratulated himself for making such a fine choice. This really was going to work!
“I think we’re set, then.” The president-elect rose to her feet, signifying the meeting was over, and extended her hand. “Benjamin, I just want to tell you again how much I appreciate your tireless support. I can say, without equivocation, that I wouldn’t have gotten this far without your help.”
If you only knew, thought Locke, resisting the urge to glance at Frautschi for a reaction. “Thank you, Mrs. President-elect. And I can say, also without equivocation, that we have the greatest confidence in you.”
She gave a winsome smile. “Well then, I just hope I don’t let you down.”
“Oh, you won’t,” he sai
d. “I’m one-hundred-percent certain of that.”
CHAPTER 28
AFTER THE MEETING, they were escorted to Locke’s car by the Secret Service. Locke was ecstatic: the meeting had turned out even better than expected. Fowler was absolutely the perfect person for the job, a true American patriot. Phase Three was shaping up spectacularly. She didn’t just agree with the party platform, she would be its most zealous promoter. In two months’ time, she would take charge of the nation’s highest office and unleash a whirlwind of political reform.
It was all going so perfectly.
Modern liberalism had brought America to her knees and made her doubt her own exceptionalism, but here was a bold opportunity to turn it all around. Fowler would be the new Reagan. Once again, a charismatic conservative—a new Great Communicator—would control the White House. Only this time the president would not be held in check by a Democratic Congress. She would be backed by a fiercely loyal cabinet, a conservative-leaning House and Senate, and the most conservative Supreme Court in the nation’s history. It would be a political paradigm shift of epic proportions and, once again, the country was ripe for positive, groundbreaking change.
When they climbed into the Cadillac, Locke fired the engine and pulled forward to the electric gate. A flock of reporters stood restlessly beyond, while a wall of Secret Service agents stood implacably in front. When the gate opened, Locke turned left onto the street, feeling the euphoria coursing through his body like a mighty river.
It was truly the time of the Chosen One .
The Coalition: A Novel of Suspense Page 11