The Castle: A Ripped-From-The-Headlines Thriller

by Jason Pinter

  “Do you ever feel like you’ve been pulled along? You had no choice but to be Rawson Griggs’s daughter. And if he wins…”

  “How much different can it get?” Alena said. “My life hasn’t really been my life since I was old enough to understand.”

  “Do you think he gets that?”

  “I don’t know. We don’t talk the way we used to. He knows I don’t agree with everything he’s doing. And he wants to keep me away from it. I don’t want to have choose between Rawson the father and Rawson the candidate. But sometimes I look at him and I think he’s different. And I’m scared that at some point I’ll have to choose between the two.”

  Remy toed the ground. They stood in silence for several minutes. Finally, he said, “We haven’t talked about Spokane. That night at the Davenport.”

  “I know we haven’t,” Alena said. “I haven’t really been sure what to say. Easier to just go on as friends.”

  “You know, you could have at least said thank you,” Remy said.

  “Excuse me?” Alena turned to face him, taken aback, but smiling.

  “Well, I mean, I had a twin bed in that hotel room. It’s kind of small. And you apparently spread out like one of those flying squirrels. Plus, you toss and turn like you’re the girl from The Exorcist or something. And my ribs still hurt from all those elbows. So you could have said, ‘Hey, Remy, thanks for spending the entire night dangling off the edge of the bed like a lizard.’ Something like that.”

  Alena nudged him playfully. They stood there, arms barely touching. A current seemed to flow between them. Remy’s heart was beating like mad. He wasn’t sure why, but he put his arm around her. She moved in closer and leaned her head on his shoulder.

  “Do you miss him?” he asked. “Paul?”

  Alena waited for a moment. Maybe a moment too long. And said, “Sometimes.”

  “Ma se tornando non m’hai salvato, a niuno in terra salvarmi è dato,” Remy said.

  Alena turned to him. “La Traviata,” she said.

  “I’ve been listening,” Remy replied. “If in returning you have not saved my life, then nothing on earth can save me.”

  “Remy Stanton. You are full of surprises.”

  Alena burrowed into him. He held her tighter.

  Rocks in a storm, Remy thought.

  The last warm-up band finished their set. A stagehand rolled out a red, white, and blue podium to replace the microphone stand. The lead singer, a middle-aged man with a big belly, a long gray beard and a longer gray mullet, wearing a head-to-toe stars-and-stripes jumpsuit with an American flag bandanna, stepped forward. His image was projected onto massive screens for people in the cheap seats.

  “Ladies and gentlemen and my fellow kick ass Americans!” he shouted.

  The crowd roared back. A chant of “Griggs! Griggs! Griggs!” echoed throughout the Bowl.

  “It is my patriotic pleasure to introduce the man of the hour, the man who was brought here by God himself to unleash the beast in all of us, please welcome your next president of the United States, Mr. Rawson Griggs!”

  “God Bless the U.S.A.” by Lee Greenwood blasted from speakers the size of minivans. Twenty thousand men and women shot to their feet. A deafening roar of applause and approval spread throughout the arena.

  Remy and Alena stood together and watched as Rawson took the stage. He was tall, confident, and handsome. He wore a brilliant black suit, a bold red tie, and an American flag pin that appeared five feet tall on the video screens.

  Thousands of cell phones immediately went up to record the moment, the night sky illuminated by a sea of bright white rectangles.

  Rawson walked slowly. He waved to the crowd, pointing, clapping. He clasped his hands together and mouthed thank you over and over. When he stepped to the podium, Rawson grabbed the microphone, leaned into it, and shouted, “Is this a great country or what?”

  “Yes!” came the thunderous response.

  “And is there anything in the world like a Rawson Griggs rally?”

  Twenty thousand people screamed in unison, “No!”

  “Are there any beasts in the audience?”

  “Yes!”

  Rawson waited until the “Griggs!” chants died down. Then he spoke.

  “On the other side of the country,” Rawson said, “a debate is taking place. Six men and three women who represent a party that has been stealing the American dream for too long. The brilliant lessons about honesty, resilience, hard work, and self-reliance taught by Lincoln and Reagan have been forgotten. And next week, another debate will take place. Four men and two women representing a party that has long pandered to minorities and the downtrodden, promising a better future in exchange for votes. This Trojan Horse Party has played identity politics for decades. But as the American people have suffered, these two parties have remained silent. They hear your cries as they count their ballots.”

  “I am not here tonight to ask for your support so we can keep the status quo. I’m here tonight so we can bring this movement, this beautiful, unprecedented movement, to the steps of the White House. We will march through the corridors of power and to tell the snakes in charge that they’re no longer welcome. The men and women who have put their own interests above those of the American people will no longer be welcome. They have picked your wallets clean and raped your cities and towns for decades. This. Ends. Now.”

  A chant of “This ends now!” reverberated throughout the amphitheater.

  Rawson continued.

  “The Lügenpresse, as they were once known, wants you to believe that our movement should not be taken seriously. They want you to think that an outside-the-box third party candidate has no chance at being elected president. They want to keep you comfortable on the bed of nails that Washington has made for you. They don’t want to report the truth because they’re bought and paid for. They don’t care about the thousands of patriots who stand in this arena today, praying for a better future for themselves and their families. I stand before you tonight, humbly, saying that betting against Rawson Griggs is a losing bet. We will no longer send our jobs overseas. We will not send our troops to die to protect other governments that will not protect us. We will no longer spend blood and treasure propping up countries that offer nothing in return. We will build bridges with nations that have our best interests at heart and create the worldwide superpower we were always meant to be.”

  More cheers. Rawson waited.

  “My first acts as president,” Rawson said, “will be to remove all of the useless sanctions that have been strangling our businesses and stunting job growth for decades. For years we have suffocated our great companies and alienated potential trading partners. The days of saber rattling are over. We will extend an economic olive branch to the world. And if they can work with us, then we will work with them to raise our economy to heights never before reached.

  “In addition,” he said, “we will no longer respect outdated agreements signed years ago, obsolete in a world where these strategies no longer apply. We will immediately be withdrawing from NAFTA.”

  The crowd cheered.

  “The Trans-Pacific Partnership.”

  The crowd grew louder.

  “And the Geneva Conventions.”

  The crowd boiled over.

  “Jesus Christ,” Remy said. “Did he say he’s pulling out of the Geneva Conventions?”

  “You cannot put out an inferno with a bucket of water. And we cannot have a military strategy that handcuffs our brave men and women and prevents them from defending our nation in whatever way necessary. When I am elected, we will rain down a fire on our enemies that will burn hotter than anything they have ever known. If that means considering a nuclear option, so be it.”

  Remy looked at Alena. Nuclear option? He could tell from the look on her face that she was completely unaware of what her father would say tonight.

  “Make no mistake,” Rawson said. “I do not take these responsibilities lightly. These are tough decisions. But o
ur country depends on them. The rules of war and combat have changed. Wars are waged not just with bullets and bombs, but with computers and smart phones. We must be prepared to adapt to this new form of cyber warfare. Because I promise you, our enemy does not care about treaties. They are planning their next move as we speak. And under a Griggs presidency: we will be ready. We will not treat enemy combatants with kid gloves any longer. People will once again fear us. They will fear the great beast.”

  A chant of “Beast! Beast! Beast!” broke out.

  “A few months ago,” Rawson said, “my family and my friends were attacked by two vicious, soulless criminals. I will not repeat their names, because they do not deserve to be recognized.”

  A loud voice rang out over the silence: “They should burn in hell!”

  The crowd cheered their approval, and Rawson allowed a slight smile. “I have no doubt that’s exactly where they are. But these two men—and I hesitate to call them that—came to this country legally. They were granted legal status here. They were allowed to work, to play, to live among us. Maybe you crossed their path at some point and never even knew it. Maybe they smiled at your daughters. Maybe they served you coffee. And more of them could be walking our streets right now. They could be in line with you at the grocery store. Giving your children candy at Halloween. Letting us get complacent before they strike.”

  Rawson took a deep, dramatic breath.

  “It is not enough for us to be vigilant against terrorism. We have been on the defensive for too long. We must take the fight to them. Not just on the battlefield, but in our own cities and counties.”

  Rawson’s voice grew louder as he spoke the words that would ring throughout the country.

  “On day one of the Griggs presidency, I will instruct both Homeland Security and the department of Immigrations and Customs Enforcement to thoroughly vet every man, woman, and child residing in the United States who was not born here. This includes green card residents, illegal aliens, and anyone who intends to travel to this country. We cannot keep our nation safe if we have no idea the quality of people within its borders. If I handed you a box of one hundred crayons and told you ninety-nine of them were safe, but one was an explosive, would you let your child play with it? Evil does not play by normal rules. So neither will we. We will create residential detention centers to house these people while law enforcement vets our citizens properly and thoroughly. It may sound inconvenient. It may sound severe. But I would much rather inconvenience the few for the safety of the many. How many lives would you inconvenience to stop a killer? Personally, I’d rather keep them off the street than take a chance.”

  There was applause, but the crowd seemed shocked into silence. Remy thought to himself, What the hell are residential detention centers?

  “Would you let your child play with something that had even a one percent chance of doing them harm?”

  “No!” came the roar from the crowd.

  “And neither will we,” Rawson said.

  Remy looked at Alena. She was watching her father, her face expressionless.

  “If you’re with me,” Rawson bellowed, “stand up! If you place the safety of this country above the cronyism of the elites, above the social justice warriors who put strangers and foreigners above their own neighbors, put your right hand in the air, raise it high, and say, we’re with you, Rawson!”

  Nearly twenty thousand people leapt from their seats. A sea of hands shot into the air, shouting in unison, “We’re with you! We’re with you!” at the top of their lungs. Remy stood there, rooted in place. His arm was at his side.

  The Hollywood Bowl had turned into a great roiling sea, twenty thousand strong on their feet, pledging allegiance to a man who was promising to keep them safe, to bring back prosperity, to deter evil. By any means necessary.

  Despite what Rimbaud and O’Brien had said Rawson was capable of, Remy had retained a sliver of doubt. Now, his doubts were gone.

  He had traveled around the country sleeping four hours a night, forsaken his friends, given up his life to try and help this man become leader of the free world.

  Suddenly, Remy felt sick to his stomach.

  Remy looked at Alena. Hundreds and thousands of people all around them had their hands raised proudly in the air, declaring their love for Rawson Griggs.

  Rawson’s daughter stared at the ground. Her arms hung limply by her sides.

  Leaked dossier alleges Senator Annabelle Shaw’s husband was longtime client of infamous D.C. Madam:

  Bombshell report drops as Shaw narrows Griggs gap

  by Peter Drummond, Daily Wire

  Photocopies of a ledger purportedly belonging to Kimberly West, a high-profile Washington, D.C. madam, allegedly show that Philippe Shaw, husband of Senator and Democratic presidential frontrunner Annabelle Shaw, was a regular client of West’s. The emails were obtained by the hacker collective PoliSpill, which was also responsible for the leaks that led to the resignation of Governor Richard Bertrand. Emails obtained from Mr. Shaw’s private server allegedly show that both Senator Shaw and the DNC were aware of Philippe Shaw’s dalliances, following a state inquiry into Mr. Shaw’s possible illegal use of state credit cards for personal expenses. The emails suggest that both the DNC and Senator Shaw paid West sums totaling nearly $500,000 over the last six years to keep her husband’s activities a secret.

  West has been long-rumored to “serve” a clientele that includes many D.C. powerbrokers, sports icons, and foreign dignitaries. Yet this is the first time West’s infamous “diary” has ever been seen by the public.

  In the pages obtained by the Wire, Philippe Shaw’s name appears no less than eighteen times. Mr. Shaw, who is referred to in the dossier as Mr. Arthur Lee, is listed as having made appointments with various pseudonymous West employees such as Veronika, Jade, Krystal, and DiamonDD.

  Ms. West commented via email, “I’m not one to judge peoples’ personal behavior, but I’m just not sure I can vote for a woman whose husband was clearly so unhappy at home that he needed to come to me and my girls for comfort.”

  These emails come at a particularly inopportune time for Senator Shaw. In recent polling, Shaw has consistently been within the margin of error, and is down just three points nationally to frontrunner Rawson Griggs of the Mayflower Party.

  Following the suspension of Governor Richard Bertrand’s campaign, Wisconsin Senator Bobby Garrett has eked to the front of the GOP field.

  However, Garrett has routinely polled far behind Shaw and Griggs. CNN’s poll of polls has Garrett behind by double digits in both two- and three-person races, and the analysts widely see the presidential race coming down to Senator Shaw and Mr. Griggs.

  Neither Senator Shaw nor the DNC responded for comment before press time.

  The crowds grew larger. As did the resistance. The bitter chill of New York winter had settled in. Following Rawson’s speech in Los Angeles, both the press and a fairly large swath of the country had turned solidly against Rawson Griggs.

  A recent op-ed in the Wall Street Journal read:

  Rawson Griggs’s “speech” in Los Angeles was the most startling display of nativism by a mainstream politician since the infamous “Klanbake,” where the resurrected Ku Klux Klan maintained tremendous influence at the 1924 Democratic National Convention and brought shame to our nation. And that a man with no governmental or military experience would suggest the use of nuclear weapons as a legitimate option was both stunning and terrifying.

  On CNN, a former presidential press secretary said:

  “Rawson Griggs seems to believe that FDR’s executive order 9066, which evicted 120,000 Japanese-Americans from the west coast and into internment camps, and remains a blight on the great history of our nation, didn’t go far enough in peeling back our civil liberties. Thank about all the progress we’ve made. Rawson Griggs, by sheer force of ego, cult of personality, and money, wants to literally turn back the clock seventy years.”

  In the New York Times, a columnist wrot
e:

  It is startling that the so-called “Griggs TV” show would feature a senator-turned-lobbyist like Brent Scott, who has not only raised millions for pro-Griggs Super PACs, but has longstanding ties to the Kremlin. Scott has lobbied for years for the U.S. to ease their sanctions on Russian-imported energy. Mr. Griggs’s embrace of Senator Scott, combined with his unwillingness to be transparent about his international debts and conflicts, should shake Americans to their core.

  Every morning there was a deluge of stories attempting to eviscerate Rawson Griggs, in every media outlet from Bangor to Seattle, from Austin to Fargo. Every day, Remy expected that the next set of polling numbers would show Rawson cratering amidst the backlash. That Annabelle Shaw would finally overtake him.

  But they didn’t. Following the leak of the West Dossier, Shaw had begun to lose ground. Rawson’s lead was a solid six points nationally.

  Remy had lost weight. He was lethargic, moved like an automaton. He was subsisting on buckets of coffee and moist hotel sandwiches that always left his tongue feeling like the underside of a couch. He had turned twenty-nine late in the year, but felt twenty years older. He was pale. The bags under his eyes could have hidden car keys.

  And every time Remy appeared on television, Trevor would text him. They were rarely complimentary.

  Dude, you look like stuff I scrape off the bottom of my shoe. Are you really going to work yourself to death for this asshole?

  Remy could never come up with a response.

  Paul Bracewell’s death had slowly faded from public consciousness. Remy spent every moment he could with Alena. She was the only person on the team he could speak with, who he could trust. Alena seemed detached from her father. They spoke less and less. Her guidance, once constant and necessary, was non-existent. She rarely came to strategy meetings, and her absence from the campaign trail had not gone unnoticed by the press. Rawson claimed he was limiting Alena’s exposure out of safety concerns.