The sky glowed red as the sun dropped below the horizon behind them. Samuel tried the release button again. It didn’t work. Its failure sparked his adrenalin. He closed his eyes, pretending to nap again. In reality, he was clearing his mind. In a few moments, he would recall every detail of his entire day. He had that ability when he consciously exercised it.
The sun was descending. Traffic remained congested but speedier now; sixty, sixty-five, seventy. It slowed briefing as it divided at the intersection of I-4 with I-95. It picked up quickly to seventy-five. North-south drivers it seemed were even more impatient than east-west ones. Carlos kept them ahead of the pack.
Up ahead, flashing red lights indicated a problem.
Traffic slowed. Four banged-up cars and a van sat in the right-hand breakdown lane. A single Florida Highway Patrol car monitored the scene. Speed dropped to forty as everyone rubber-necked as they passed. Even Carlos couldn’t weave through it. Behind them came the faint sound of a siren. Samuel could just make out the lines of an ambulance trying to zigzag its way through the mass of traffic.
Speeds resumed the moment passed the wreck. He looked back at the accident. The BMW switched lanes to gain a few seconds. Another dark-colored BMW was closing on them, also switching lanes. A large shadow to his left distracted him. It crept over the car’s interior like a bedroom door closing off the light from a hallway. Just before it closed completely, Samuel could make out that the shadow was caused by a large white delivery truck. The same truck he had seen in Orlando?
The BMW pulled a little right. The shadow followed. So did the other BMW. A large, dark SUV pulled along side on the right, staying in the blind spot. He loses sight of the dark BMW. He couldn’t be sure of the make of the SUV, maybe a Mercedes. The shadow moved closer. So close that Samuel could make out the rivets in the truck’s paneling even in the fading light.
Carlos gunned their BMW, pulling ahead of the SUV. Then they swerved toward the breakdown lane as the SUV struck its rear tire. Carlos countered the slide. He had definitely been trained in counter-terrorism defensive driving, Samuel thought. Carlos floored it just as the truck struck the rear left wheel, sending the BMW skidding. Samuel’s mind raced. Jesus! What the fuck! These bastards are trying to kill me?
The BMW skidded sideways down the highway, now pushed by the truck. Escape to the center lane was blocked by a tractor-trailer. The truck driver jammed on the brakes. Freed from the lateral force, Carlos expertly righted the BMW, fishtailing only slightly in the breakdown lane. Too late. The SUV shot ahead like a canon ball. It struck with a force strong enough to knock Samuel’s head against the front seatback. The SUV tried to keep their bumpers in contact but the BMW had too much power. They sped down the breakdown lane. In the rear view mirror, the lights of the SUV slipped further behind.
Samuel turned to look behind him. They were pulling away at a steady rate from the white truck and the dark SUV. The tractor-trailer was along side. He turned his head left to rub his neck. A tightness in his lower back. The whiplashing had strained it. He massaged it with one hand, hoping to relieve the pressure before it built. He was sorry now that he had thrown out the rest of the hydrocodone.
Ambulance emergency lights suddenly flashed as it pulled sharply into the breakdown lane barely in front of them. What the hell? The BMW’s tires squealed. Samuel jammed a hand on the front seatback to steady himself. At the last moment, Carlos swung the car onto the grass. Despite his best efforts to protect himself, Samuel is flung to the right, his head connecting to the door jam. The BMW fishtails in the muddy soil. The white truck flies past them spewing balls of mud and grass as it plunges deeper into the swampy muck. The ambulance’s lights grow smaller as it speeds away in the breakdown lane.
For a moment, silence. Then Carlos hits the ignition. The car starts. Tires spin. The BMW slides from left to right but going forward. The nose comes even with the rear end of the white truck. Crack! A shot shatters the driver’s window. Carlos’ head snaps back. The BMW surges farther right into deeper grass and mud. It stops against a clump of small trees and saw palmetto, engine racing, tires spinning. Samuel breathes deeply, trying desperately to will calmness, waiting his turn for a bullet.
A hand reaches through the shattered driver’s window. Long fingers press a button on the driver’s armrest. The rear doors unlock. Samuel, groggy, shifts as far right as possible. The opposite door opens. A woman’s face appears. Dark sunglasses, dark hair, ponytail. The girl from the float? How did she get here?
“Walter sent me,” she says.
Her right hand holds a savage-looking knife, serrated on one side to gut fish. She reaches for him. He raises an arm in self-defense. She smiles. She grabs the shoulder belt and slices it in two with a single slash. Another slash and the lap belt falls.
“Come on! Ándele!”
There’s something familiar in her voice but he can’t place what.
She backs out, beckoning to him. He slides toward her, still foggy but slipping easily across the faux-leather seat.
He stands, holding the open door for support. For the first time he gets a good look at his rescuer. She seems familiar but his foggy mind can’t place her.
Pfftt!
Her knees buckle. She falls backward.
He stares at her, horrified, mystified.
A hand grabs his shoulder. He turns, raising his arm in self-defense.
“We have to get you out of here, Senator,” a male voice says.
Again, something not quite familiar. The jock from the beach? “We? Who? Do I know you?”
With one hand, The Jock flashes a wallet with a badge and an ID card that reads, “FBI.” With the other, he pulls Samuel away from the BMW. “Your office called.”
Samuel nearly collapses as he looks down at the now still female body. A tiny streak of blood flows from her chest. The Jock slips an arm under Samuel’s before the senator’s knees give out completely. His whole body shakes uncontrollably.
They start walking toward the SUV, The Jock supporting, steadying, dragging Samuel. The muddy grass grabs at their feet like giant suction cups trying to hold them back. It is all Samuel can do to put one foot in front of the other.
The SUV’s engine revs. Samuel can make it out now, not a Mercedes but a Range Rover with tinted windows.
The Jock opens the backdoor, more shoving than helping Samuel in.
“Put your belt on,” he instructs Samuel. Samuel’s hands are shaking so badly he can barely grasp the two ends. They flail around each other like fresh-caught brook trout. The Jock grabs Samuel’s hands, holding them. With the other, he locks the belt in place. He distracts Samuel by raising the flopping hands above his head while plucking the senator’s cell phone from his jacket pocket.
The driver turns to look at Samuel. Orbital sunglasses. The girl that The Jock was patting down? No floppy white hat but streaked blonde hair. Samuel can’t be sure. It’s all too much. His mind is spinning, thoughts not connecting.
“Agent Rhodes,” The Jock introduces her.
She shoots The Jock FBI agent an angry look.
As he steps quickly to the passenger door, The Jock allows Samuel’s cell phone to drop into the mud. He tosses something in the direction of the white truck.
The Range Rover churns through the wet grass, all four wheels eagerly clawing at it. The jolting seems to awaken Samuel’s senses. They pass the empty dark-colored BMW, the driver’s door fully open as if someone had exited in a hurry. The girl with the knife? He rubs his head, trying to clear the cobwebs.
Traffic on the interstate had slowed for the usual rubbernecking. The Range Rover pulls onto the shoulder, flashing its lights. She expertly maneuvers between lanes to the far left breakdown lane. The Rover slows before pulling onto the medium, reversing direction, and back into southbound traffic.
“Aren’t we supposed to meet near the beach?” Samuel asks? He tries to relieve the pressure of a splitting headache by holding his forehead with his right hand. He grasps the ri
ght hand with his left trying to subdue the shaking.
“Change of plans,” The Jock answers. “The house has been compromised. Czeiler’s doing.”
Samuel nods, his mind still too foggy to fully comprehend much.
The Range Rover speeds away. The darkness, broken only by headlights, is oddly comforting. It seems to help. As the miles shoot by, Samuel slowly recovers cognitive thought. They might be FBI, they might not. Walter’s man had warned him. Maybe Czeiler sent them. No, that wouldn’t make sense. They wouldn’t tell him that if he had. He settles back. At least he can memorize road signs. He lets his head flop back to the left, pretending to sleep. His back hurts too much to actually sleep he thinks, even exhausted as he is from the stress. He is wrong. His eyelids flutter and close involuntarily as he drifts into the twilight state between waking and sleep. Each bump in the road sends a spasm to his back, his eyes snapping open for a minute or two before drifting back to semi-consciousness.
Chapter Two.
Six weeks earlier. St. Pierre, Vermont.
The bright red-white-and blue bunting contrasted to the faded red brick storefront that proudly proclaimed the campaign headquarters to “Re-elect Senator Samuel Winters, St. Pierre’s Favorite Son.”
It was an old town, modest even by Vermont standards, small by any unbiased measurement. The two- and three-story red brick buildings that lined main street had been built in the mid-1800’s. The Confederate Army had launched its northern most raid of the Civil War not far from where Samuel’s campaign was now being strategized. The town’s banks were looted simultaneously. Less than half of the two hundred thousand dollars was eventually recovered. The raiders had made their escape to the safety of Canada, about an hour’s hard ride to the north by horse. Samuel was counting on escaping the humdrum of small town existence with his second six years in the excitement of Washington, DC. He knew there was little chance of him earning a yearly sum equal to the robbers’ lost loot if he stayed in St. Pierre and he had substantial dreams.
The office was a hubbub of activity so long as Samuel was present. Everyone wanted to impress him that they were going all out to help him win. The walls were covered with campaign posters, bumper stickers, and cards of lapel pins all proclaiming the virtues of Samuel J. Winters. “Winters is a Winner.” “Stick with Sam.” “Winters and Vermont Go Together.”
The campaign office originally had been a store of some sort. Over the years the building had been occupied by a variety of different enterprises. It was obvious that the office in back, enclosed by panels of laminated wood on the bottom and windows half way up, had been added long after the original interior. Perhaps it had been installed by a successful merchant who could keep his books in relative quiet while keeping an eye on customers and employees. Even Ed Burke, Samuel’s campaign manager couldn’t remember by whom or when. If not recorded, some things remembered simply faded into time as people died off. The hairline surface cracks on the lacquered chair moldings along the walls dated and distinguished the original décor from the newer glass office. The office panels had been varnished in an attempt to match the dark hue of the molding and wooden floor. The effort had not succeeded even though both had likely originally been stained and coated with Cabot products. The Cabot Company, founded by Samuel Cabot in 1877, had been making wood finishing products for more than a hundred and thirty years. Many Vermonters wrongly believed that Cabot stains were manufactured in Cabot, Vermont as opposed to Newburyport, Massachusetts. Given a choice, Vermonters naturally chose to buy established homegrown products. It would take a lot of money, artfully orchestrated publicity, and promotion by respected citizenry for a relative newcomer to overcome a closely held myth. That would be precisely the type of face-off in this election. Samuel was not overly concerned.
“Shoot, Sam, you can’t go now. That Thomas fella is makin’ inroads.” The futile plea came Ed Burke, owner of the bank and several of the main street red brick buildings, as well hundreds of acres of leased farmland just outside the town limits. Try as he might, Ed had the look of a farmer; not tall, a bit of a bulge around the middle, and a cheap haircut. Burke’s family was as old as the Winter’s, both having made their way north from Connecticut in 1802. Their ancestors didn’t come over on the Mayflower but followed shortly thereafter. Ed was nearly old enough to be Samuel’s father. He enjoyed the tussle of a political fight but never wanted to be the main attraction, just the controlling hand that wielded the power.
Samuel considered Ed’s caution. He was right. Jack Thomas, attorney and conservative Republican from Fort Dummer in the southeast corner of the state, was grabbing headlines. A lot of Vermonters, like a lot of the country, were fed up with a do-nothing Congress. There was a growing groundswell to throw out whoever was in Congress and replace them with fresh faces. Thomas had strong support from the business community not only from the flatlanders in the south but throughout the state. However, Samuel was betting on practicality at the poles—better the devil you know than one you don’t know. Besides which, in the ads Samuel had seen, Thomas came across as a bit standoffish, a bit too smart for his own good by Vermont standards and he was a newcomer from California, only been in the state a couple of decades. Samuel was pretty certain he could beat him on style points in a debate. Style always counted for more than substance. Still, poli-sci 101 nagged at him--money talks and everything else walks.
“I have to, Ed,” Samuel said flatly. “We need the money. It’s one day, more or less, down and back.”
“Can’t it wait ‘til after the sugar-on-snow? That’s goin’ ta be a big fund raisa.”
Ed’s Vermont accent was pronounced. Samuel had buried his years ago. It resurrected slightly only when he returned home, or more so when it served his purpose.
“Nought, it’s now or nevah. Walter Bensen ain’t a man ta ask twice.”
Betty picked up his briefcase from the only wooden desk in the open room and handed it to him. “All your notes are there, for Houston and the fund raiser,” she said.
“Thank you.”
She stepped back, leaving the way clear for Ed. From her desk next to Samuel’s, she watched Ed steer Samuel by the elbow through the office. Her desk here, like all the others, was cardboard, an idea that Ed had gleaned from the census people down in the capitol a few years back. Buying cardboard desks was cheaper than renting metal ones. They would hold up well enough for the duration of the campaign. After they could be sold for recycling. A few pennies on the dollar to be sure but Ed was a man always looking to shear the hide off the buffalo on a nickel. Vermonters were nothing if not practical.
“At least stop by the rail yard. You know them boys can’t leave there. They’re solid supportas,” Ed pleaded.
Samuel nodded. He checked his watch. He had a few minutes to spare. The American Rail Dispatching Center was a small but important enterprise. It controlled rail traffic on more than 5,000 miles of rail across the eastern seaboard from the Canadian border to Pensacola. The office was manned 24/7/365. There weren’t many employees but the jobs paid well for this part of the country and the work was permanent as long as railroading was more economical than highway transportation. It was important to Samuel as well. This little operation was the main reason for his appointment to the Senate Transportation Committee.
The moment Samuel cleared the window on main street, Betty stood up. Taking her purse and her briefcase, she wasted no time in heading for her regular office a few doors down and one flight up. Her body language made it clear that she didn’t much care to be around Ed Burke.
She spent as little time as possible in the campaign office. She had her customary duties to attend to in the senator’s local office. From her perch on the second floor, she could keep an eye on the main street comings and goings. She might not say much but she knew what was happening in St. Pierre.
Samuel paused momentarily at the end of the street. The rail yard building stood out. Like those on main street, it was fashioned from old red brick. The two sq
uare towers at either end distinguished the three-story structure. Like so many things in Vermont, the towers were a bit odd. One was taller, shaped like a cupola but with a nearly flat top. The other was wider, shorter, squat, but with a more distinctive pointed cap. Vermonters relished being different, doing things their own way. Given Vermont practicality, he strongly suspected that there was a sound reason for the towers differing at the time they were built; he just didn’t know what.
The main office was fairly plain. Old wooden floors that had been refinished a time or two. Double pane glass had replaced the original windows. Inserts had been added to make the windows resemble the old six-pane ones. A row of desks, each with a computer, stretched along the inside wall and down past the windows on one side. It was well lit by both natural light and overhead fixtures. A large monthly Canadian Pacific Railway calendar was pinned above the desks, high enough so each man could see it. One of the men had worked on that railroad in his younger years. The annual calendar always had a colorful picture of train or locomotive. He had brought a calendar with him when he first went to work here. It had become an annual tradition. All the men looked forward to the new calendar, never posted before January first, even though their office had no business connection to that railroad.
“Sam,” a man near his own age called out from his swivel chair.
Samuel walked quickly to him and shook his hand firmly.
“Pete.” Samuel’s smile spread across his whole face in a genuine-down-in-your-gut-glad-to-see-you way.
“You knockin’ any sense into them dunderheads down in Washington?”
The question came from an older, balding man wearing a headset and reading glasses. George Nixon was, by all accounts, a sober man in appearance and character. They, too, quickly shook hands.
The black and white dog lying next to George’s chair stood, wagging his tail, waiting. “Hello, Pirate,” Samuel said. The shaggy dog, some odd genetic mixture, larger than a Jack Russell Terrier, smaller than a German Shepherd, a black patch over one eye, walked to Samuel, his thin hairy tail wagging as though he was trying to shake it off. Samuel rubbed his head fondly.
Mid-Life Friends and Illusions Page 2