Red, White, and Blood

by Christopher Farnsworth

  Wyman knew Curtis wouldn’t dump him at the convention, but it was a surprisingly close call. In the end, it was decided by the party bigwigs that changing out VPs would be seen as a sign of indecision and weakness by the pundits.

  So Wyman was put on the campaign trail. He was never in a position to do any damage with his big mouth. He either spoke to the rabidly loyal base in secure blue states or endured hostile protesters in the flaming red districts where they didn’t have a chance anyway.

  He still made the rounds on the Sunday talk shows, but there was no question he was out of the loop. For a politician like Wyman, this was living death.

  More than that, it worried him. He didn’t know why, but the Company had stopped using that secure phone in his desk drawer. They never asked for favors anymore. They never gave orders. They simply didn’t contact him anymore.

  Until today.

  The secret phone rang. It wasn’t good news.

  He tried to make a joke of it. “You must have been going through a tunnel,” he said. “I couldn’t have heard that right.”

  The voice on the other end—the man in glasses, sometimes called Proctor—didn’t sound amused. But he repeated himself anyway. “Consider yourself free. We don’t need you anymore.”

  “But I don’t understand. I’m right in position. I can—”

  “We don’t like your chances in November,” Proctor said. “We’ve crunched some numbers, looked at some entrails and rolled some bones. We don’t think you’re going to win.”

  That chilled Wyman. It was one thing to hear a TV airhead blather on about poll numbers. The Company had much more accurate ways of divining the future. The talk about entrails and bones wasn’t any kind of metaphor.

  “We might surprise you,” Wyman said. “Our internal tracking shows some gains.”

  “It’s wrong. You should consider renewing your law license. You won’t hear from us again.”

  “Wait.” Wyman hated the pleading in his voice. “After all I’ve done for you, that’s it? You’re cutting me loose?”

  “You’ve had more than enough chances, Lester. You were given every opportunity to close the deal. You failed. But you’re walking away. Count your blessings. You get to keep that shriveled little thing you call a soul.”

  “I refuse to accept this. I will be president. You’ll see. And then you’re going to have to beg me for favors.”

  A laugh. The kind you hear at a cocktail party when a drunk coworker says something stupid. “Okay, Les. Whatever you say. You take care.”

  The phone went dead. Wyman stabbed at the buttons, but it was nothing more than a hunk of plastic now.

  He’d been utterly abandoned. Even as a traitor, no one wanted him. He had nothing left to bargain with.

  Wyman sat for a long time in his office, watching the sun go down over the Potomac. He ignored the calls that came from his scheduler and his assistants. Let them wait at the damned fundraiser.

  He was alone with nothing left to lose. Good. He’d been relying too much on other people. Ask anyone: Les Wyman was at his best with his back against the wall. He would do it himself. He would be president.

  He just had to figure out how to make it happen.

  BULLETS, NOT BALLOTS

  “THE TREE OF LIBERTY MUST BE WATERED WITH BLOOD OF TYRANTS”

  9/11 WAS AN INSIDE JOB

  WE CAME UNARMED (THIS TIME)

  SAVE THE PLANET: KILL A REPUBLICAN

  GET THE BLOODSUCKER OUT OF THE WHITE HOUSE

  SEABROOK = HITLER

  CURTIS = HITLER

  IT’S 1939 GERMANY ALL OVER AGAIN

  WHERE’S LEE HARVEY OSWALD WHEN YOU NEED HIM?

  —Signs carried by protesters at 2012 campaign rallies

  OCTOBER 12, 2012, MALMEN, ILLINOIS

  Zach and Candace sat with Lanning in the back of the president’s bus. They were on their way to meet with the Malmen Chamber of Commerce. The Chamber was going to give President Curtis ideas for boosting small businesses in America.

  At that moment, Curtis was on the other side of the door, giving an exclusive interview to a couple of reporters from the New York Times.

  Lanning had the window open to vent his cigarette smoke. He looked out as the bus crawled along the town’s main drag. Empty storefronts. Midwestern imitations of L.A. gang tags spray-painted on street signs. Garbage overflowing from corner trash cans. Broken bus benches.

  Lanning smiled, the smoke flowing out over his teeth. “Christ. Look at this town. The leading industries are meth labs and yard sales, and these geniuses want to lecture the president on how to jump-start the economy.”

  “Jesus, Lanning, someone could hear you,” Candace said.

  Lanning snorted. “The press? You think they don’t know this already? Another free tip from your uncle Dan, sweetie: hypocrisy is the secret ingredient that keeps American politics healthy and strong. We all agree to the basic story line: ‘America is a good and great nation founded on the strength of its people. Democracy is all about the common sense of the common man.’ But you ask any one of those jackals out there what they really think, they’ll tell you the same thing: most Americans can barely figure out how to program their universal remotes, and we would be in dire fucking straits indeed if we had to rely on them to steer the ship of government.”

  Lanning pointed out the window with his cig.

  “Take any one of these dipshits in their easy-fit pants and triple-XL T-shirts. Ask them what we should do about the Middle East, or health care, or abortion, and they’ve got all the answers. Half of the voters can’t find Iraq on a map, but they know just what to do about the War on Terror. Sixty percent of them are on some kind of government handout, but they can’t stand freeloaders. And ninety percent of them don’t know what the Fed does, but they’re ready to abolish it. Meanwhile, they’re bouncing paychecks to firefighters and teachers and their kids are all watching double-anal penetration on the Internet. I’ve got an idea: let’s see if they can build something other than a shopping mall for a change. I would dearly love to see a single one of these bastions of homegrown wisdom show us all how it’s done. Manufacture something again. Invent something. Create a few jobs that don’t require a fucking name tag. Hell, I’d be impressed if just one of these crusaders refused to cash their Social Security check. They pull that off, then they can give us their deep thoughts on how to save America. Until then: fuck them.”

  Candace frowned deeply and checked again to make sure the door to the rest of the bus was closed. “Awesome. That will look great on Drudge: ‘Curtis campaign says “Fuck the Heartland.”’”

  Zach could see this getting ugly. He tried to defuse it. “I know you’ve got to blow off steam, Dan, but Candace is right. We don’t want anyone to overhear and spice up a slow news cycle.”

  For a moment, Lanning looked like he was gathering his breath for a tirade that could crack drywall. Then he chuckled.

  “Look at the two of you kids, all grown up. You think you can run this damn ship by yourselves? Just remember, I was there when you were caught in the Lincoln Bedroom. So don’t lecture me about discretion, all right?”

  He tossed his smoke out the window and pushed past them. Zach and Candace stood there, a bit sheepish.

  Lanning turned back. “Oh Christ, don’t look like that. You’d think I just killed your puppy. Come on. I’ll buy you some ice cream.”

  7:14 P.M., OCTOBER 12, 2012,

  MALMEN UNIFIED HIGH SCHOOL

  Everyone was strung tight. It wasn’t just the usual energy of the campaign. That would have been enough. A presidential campaign was like doing shots of pure adrenaline every morning at breakfast.

  But on top of that, there was the fear.

  Zach saw it in the tightness of the agents’ moves, heard it in the clipped tones of their speech. They were all wondering the same thing: when is the Boogeyman going to show?

  Butler stood behind the curtain of the stage that sat at the front of the high school gym. The
president was waiting in The Beast outside. He would be hustled in through a portable tunnel stretched from the door of the limo to the door of the gym; no sniper would be able to get a bead on him even if they managed to find a high point that hadn’t already been secured by the Secret Service.

  Butler’s attention was on the array of screens in front of him. Earlier that day, the agents had put wireless cameras in a dozen locations through the gym and the school. He kept an eye on both the locals and his own people, watching for the slightest aberration, for anything that might present a threat.

  The guest speakers warmed up the crowd. Loud cheers erupted every time the president’s name was mentioned. Some idiot had handed out noisemaking sticks, which didn’t help calm anyone’s nerves.

  Then the sun dropped below the horizon. Zach didn’t see it. He didn’t have to. Cade appeared backstage like clockwork.

  He stood there for a moment. Cade didn’t require Butler’s orders. His job was simple. Wait for the Boogeyman. Try to kill him if he shows up.

  But they nodded at each other anyway.

  “Good hunting,” Butler said.

  Cade’s mouth twitched. “You too.”

  He walked out into the gym and into the crowd.

  CADE THANKED GOD every day for soap.

  When he’d been turned, people didn’t bathe. Their sweat built up over days, even weeks, working into the crevices of unwashed clothes and skin. The gases in their stomachs, the oils on their skin and in their hair, it all formed a cloud that saturated the air around every person, each one reeking of different flavors.

  To Cade, it was like the aroma of a steak on the grill. Everywhere he went, he had to restrain himself. His mouth constantly filled with saliva as the bloodlust hit him with each person he met. He focused on the pain of the cross at his throat, thinking of it like a vise that would cut off his thirst.

  As the years went on, however, Americans began to bathe every week, then every day. They invented fantastic chemicals to erase any hint of odor. Cade could still sniff out a person under the sterile wrapping of clean clothes and air-conditioning, but it was light beer compared to twenty-year-old Scotch. Sometimes, he even missed the old days when he could at least smell the food if not taste it.

  A pack of humans in close quarters, however, erased a century of progress. Air-conditioning was impossible or useless in the great convention halls and auditoriums on the campaign trail. The adrenaline flowing in the crowd’s veins overpowered all their colognes and antiperspirants. After a few hours, a campaign event began to smell like an all-you-can-eat-buffet to Cade.

  It made his job even more difficult.

  He walked through the crowd and scanned for any likely candidates for his quarry. But he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was wasting his time.

  The Boogeyman liked to catch its prey off guard and isolated. It would never be spotted under these bright lights, battered by the thumping music coming from the speakers in every corner.

  The Boogeyman preferred to work in darkness and silence.

  For that matter, so did Cade.

  So why was he here?

  He could not escape the feeling he was being played. That they all were.

  THE BOOGEYMAN stood in the crowd, waiting. He had the advantage. He knew what Cade looked like. But with all these people, he couldn’t see a blessed thing.

  Time to see just how prepared Cade was.

  Time to make his move.

  CADE SCANNED FOR THE PEOPLE who stood apart, who seemed alone even in this great wadding of exuberant flesh.

  His eyes locked on a little man in a heavy green camouflage jacket. He was near the back of the auditorium, pushing his way slowly and unsurely toward the stage. The crowd was packed in, standing shoulder to shoulder, wall to wall. He wasn’t making much progress. But he was determined. And he kept one hand clutched in his pocket.

  There was no way Butler’s people were sloppy enough to let this walking checklist of warning signs through. How did he get inside?

  Then Cade saw. Someone had unlocked the emergency exit at the side of the gym and was opening it to let more supporters in. For whatever reason, the alarm was not working.

  It was one of those random little gaps. One of the ways in which events just seemed to break in favor of an assassin.

  Cade began moving through the crowd toward the little man.

  “GOT MOVEMENT,” Butler said, watching the screens. “Cade’s going after someone.”

  Zach looked over his shoulder.

  “What the hell… ?” Butler muttered. “South entry, what’s going on over there? Why is that door open?”

  The radio buzzed to life. “Fire codes. We should hear the alarm if anyone opens it.”

  “You should? Well, maybe we’ve all gone deaf, because some stoner kid is opening and closing the goddamned thing. Get over there!”

  Butler switched channels. “Cade,” he said. “Cade! Where are you going? Who is that?”

  No response.

  “What the hell?” Butler said.

  “Yeah, he does that,” Zach said. “Don’t take it personally.”

  “Come on,” Butler shouted to Zach and the others nearby. “Keep the president in the car. Prepare to get him out of here if I give the word. The rest of you, with me.”

  Zach ran after them as they went out the backstage door.

  THE LITTLE MAN saw Cade and began hurrying in the opposite direction. He was closer to the door. As the teenager opened it again, he squirted out before another group of supporters could get in.

  Cade was caught in the crush of bodies. He began making eye contact with people. All but the most fervent supporters, the ones blissed out on the excitement and spirit, shrank away from Cade. He reached the door in no time after that.

  It opened. Latham and Thomason were on the other side.

  “Where—” Thomason said.

  “Move,” Cade snarled.

  The little man was running to a beat-up car in the distance.

  Cade slipped between the two agents and was after him in a second.

  He caught him easily and yanked him back by the collar of his green jacket.

  The little man yelped. He closed his eyes and screamed, “Sic Semper Tyrannis!” and pulled his hand out of his pocket.

  There was the gun.

  Cade covered the man’s fingers with his own, almost like holding hands, preventing him from pulling the trigger or pulling away.

  He looked deep into the face of the little man, nearly touching him nose to nose.

  “Not you,” he said.

  Behind him, Butler and the others arrived in a clatter of hard shoes and heavy breathing.

  Cade tossed the man over his shoulder as if discarding trash.

  The little man tumbled through the air. The shock was evident on the faces of Butler and the other agents.

  He hit the surface of the parking lot hard. Butler and the other agents scrambled to cover him. Butler was shouting, “GUN GUN GUN” over and over. Just as the would-be assassin wobbled to his feet, he was taken down in a pile of suits and uniforms.

  Within a few seconds, Butler was up from the scrum, his clothes and hair askew. Four men had the would-be shooter down and were cuffing his hands behind his back. Butler held the man’s pistol in one hand.

  “What the fuck, Cade?” he shouted.

  Cade only seemed to notice the commotion when his name was mentioned. He looked back at Butler, face completely uninterested.

  Butler was furious. He stomped into Cade’s personal space, still shouting. “You just drop an armed man into the middle of my agents? What the fuck was that?”

  Cade looked at Butler, blinked slowly, then looked at the gunman being dragged away by the other agents.

  The silence dragged out for a moment. Butler seemed to realize who and what he was shouting at. He still looked pissed, but he stepped back from Cade.

  “He’s of no interest to me,” Cade said.

  “Well, that’
s fucking great,” Butler said. “You ever stop to think about disarming him before you let him go?”

  “It seemed within your capabilities,” Cade said. “He’s only human.”

  Cade walked away.

  Butler puffed up his chest to shout something else but thought better of it. Instead, he wheeled on Zach.

  “What the hell is with him?”

  Zach shrugged. “You get used to it.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” Zach admitted.

  THE BOOGEYMAN HAD watched the whole thing. He’d seen the little man with the green jacket lingering around the entry to the gym. He knew the twitchy little bastard would never get within a thousand yards of the president. Probably never work up the courage to use that cheap .22 pistol in his hand.

  So the Boogeyman had given him a little push. It was easy. He talked a little bit with him about the “goddamned federal government,” got him worked up, and then found the hole in security right when he needed it. He’d always been lucky like that.

  He’d pushed the man through the door and followed, then allowed the crowd to pull them apart.

  Now he knew. Cade was staying close to the president. Even with his obscene luck, he was not going to be able to breach that final wall of security. Not as long as Cade was around.

  He had to admit, everything was working out just as Holt had predicted.

  No one need think that the world can be ruled without blood. The civil sword shall and must be red and bloody.

  —Martin Luther

  OCTOBER 12, 2012, SEABROOK CAMPAIGN EVENT,

  PITTSBURGH GRAND HILTON,

  PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA

  Seabrook kept smiling as he backed into the private room of his suite. He’d learned from experience never to let anyone see his irritation until he was on the other side of the door.