To add to the pressure he faced, he still had two problems remaining. Aaron Gallo and McFarland Hart III had to be eliminated. Now, however, he was to locate Grant Winchester at Washington Dulles Airport and persuade him to board an aircraft, no matter what. The words “no matter what” were capitalized and underlined. Anderson could not follow the logic of killing the most popular reporter in the world. It would raise a multitude of questions. The controversy surrounding the death of the First Lady would quadruple in size with the death of Grant Winchester. Anderson was tempted to go to the airport, board an unknown plane of his own with the money he just received, and then just disappear. He knew, though, that he would be shot dead within a week if he disobeyed his orders. There was no loyalty from those who were not loyal. He could be replaced at a moment's notice.
He sat in his limousine for about half an hour thinking over his life. How did a small town boy who graduated Magna Cum Loude from Florida State University turn into one of the most feared and deadly hit men on the planet? He used to go to baseball games with his father, eat cookies as his mother baked them in their kitchen like any normal child. What went wrong? He wished he could live a normal life now and that he had never left Lakeland, Florida. His father wanted him to stay home and take over the family business, but he wanted more than that. He had not wanted to be stuck in Lakeland, but wanted to see the world. Right now, he was wishing he had taken his father's advice.
He decided to follow the orders of the President one last time. He would then board the jet to move into his mansion on the island of his choice, like Farnsworth promised. He would never be heard from again. His legal documents would all be changed again, giving him a new name, with the accompanying plastic surgery. Then, he would keep to himself for the rest of his life, which would be drenched with luxury. He loaded his pistol, screwed on the silencer, and tucked it under his arm, inside his jacket. The limousine driver dropped him off at the rear entrance and drove away. He went to the gate that Grant's CNN jet was stationed at.
Anderson was virtually unknown to anyone. Only a select few on the inside of certain circles knew that he existed, and only two of those people knew what he looked like. The President was one of them. He could snoop around in any area and go unnoticed for days before people started to ask questions about him. He walked into the area of gate C16 and began to look around. Noticing that there was no security, he flipped open his wallet to the stewardess, who was occupying the desk at the gate, and explained how he was hired by CNN last week as an on air security advisor. His badge and credentials indicated as much. As he boarded the jet, he realized he was shaking. Hopefully this would be his last job. Regardless of how many times he had been through the routine, he still got nervous when he walked through metal detectors at airports, and absolutely petrified before he killed someone.
Anderson could see from the window on the entrance ramp right before you enter the aircraft that the pilot was asleep. He slipped through the door and slowly moved towards the rear of the jet, which was sectioned into three separate rooms. Anderson had a sketch of the layout in his briefcase. Farnsworth had ridden in the jet before and knew the layout well.
There was a foyer-like room, with coat closets, three couches, a wet bar, seven television screens and a reception desk. The second room was an office used by any and all occupants, usually Grant Winchester. It housed three computers, four fax machines, scanners, video and audio equipment, and a team of telephones. The third room was a conference room that was used for in-flight meetings. It had only been used three times in the last four years: the day Howard Farnsworth was elected to his second term in office, the day Farnsworth had a mild heart attack while visiting Elmsford, New York, and, just three days ago, when Laura Greene broke the news about the evidence she held against The President. In the closet to the rear left of the conference room were four parachutes, three loaded shotguns, and four loaded pistols in case of an emergency. These items were never used, but always loaded. Anderson remembered Barry Stienham bragging that his employees could handle any worst-case scenario. If the jet was going down, they could jump. If the jet was being hijacked, they could fight back.
With his hand on the gun handle under his arm, Anderson moved through the first room. He looked in all four corners before he entered the room completely, then moved behind each couch, and finally opened and scanned each closet quickly.
When he got to the second room, there was not as much area to visually inspect. The room was much more open. He looked under each desk and moved to the third room. Grant had to be in here. Anderson would approach him as Carlisle Dunlap, a confidant and representative of the President. On Farnsworth's behalf, Dunlap would explain that the President was deeply distressed over the death of his wife and wanted Grant to hold a special interview with him this evening at the White House. Anderson knocked at the door, but there was no answer.
Anderson opened the door slowly and stuck his head in, expecting to see Grant fast asleep in a chair or taking a phone call at the conference table. He was surprised to find no one there. Anderson checked all four corners of the room then leaned over slightly to look under the table. Just then he heard the door open behind him. The pilot was awake now and had noticed that someone in the room from his monitor in the cockpit.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” said the tall slender pilot.
Anderson tried to think of an excuse. All that came to mind, however, was the mansion on the beach. He rolled his eyes in disgust and reached inside his jacket, and under his arm. As he was about to grab the gun, the pilot landed a right cross to the stranger's jaw. Anderson fell back onto the conference table. His hand had jerked from his pistol. He had to search for the holster again, but had no time before the pilot pounced on him once again. The pilot grabbed Anderson's trigger arm and his wrist, which he twisted and turned until he had Anderson's arm up behind his back and applied pressure. He pushed Anderson towards the closet where more parachutes and firearms were stored. The pilot's blue sport coat was stretched across his back and shoulders almost tearing at the seams from the unexpected activity. He spoke in a deep, distressed voice, “You picked the wrong day, asshole. I've had a tough fuckin' day and I still have a lot of flying to do.”
Anderson, like the pilot, was in a high-risk job. They both had been trained for combat for the purpose of defending themselves and anyone else who needed to be protected.
Timothy Anderson simply muttered back, “Your tough day just got tougher, buddy.”
He landed a backward kick square into the pilot's groin, and the pilot fell to the floor writhing in pain. Anderson now had the gun out of his jacket and was ready to fire. To his surprise, the pilot, still on his knees, returned the favor. He landed a forward punch directly below the belt of Timothy Anderson. The pilot was stronger than he looked, and Anderson realized it now. The pilot landed a blow to the bridge of Anderson's nose, dazing him momentarily. As his vision and senses returned, he felt a right hand connect with his left temple. He crumpled to the ground unconscious. Andrew cupped his hands over his testicles and let out a loud shriek. His bad day just became worse. He stood up slowly and moved towards the closet with the guns. He opened the closet door, moved all the parachutes, and revealed the gun case.
As Anderson got to his feet he could see his own reflection in the glass of the gun case. Obviously the pilot saw it too. Anderson was reaching for his pistol. The pilot spun around and caught Anderson just below the chin with a kick from his black work boots. Anderson fell back again. Andrew tried for Anderson's gun but was caught in the knee with a kick. The kick landed on the front of his knee, forcing it to bend backwards. They were both on the floor, but the gun was three feet from either of them.
The pilot was the first to his knees. Anderson jumped within seconds and dove at him. They rolled under the conference table as Anderson delivered several head butts to his face. Blood trickled into the pilot’s eyes. Anderson turned back for the gun and hit his head on the corner or t
he table on the way up. Blood started streaming down the side of his head.
Had anyone walked onto the plane, they would have heard the loud shrieks and groans immediately. The plane had to be shaking on the outside. Anderson hoped that airport personnel would not see this and come assist the pilot. He was now in the pilot’s lap underneath the table. The angry pilot punched Timothy Anderson in the face, but the awkward angle substantially affected the power from his punches. Briefly, Anderson was within reach of the free gun, but the pilot wrapped his arm around the intruder's neck and pulled him back further under the table. He started telling Anderson that he had a wife and child. The second Anderson heard this he knew he had his man beat. This guy was winning the fight, but begging for mercy at the same time. One law of fighting that Timothy Anderson always incorporated was one of complete confidence. The instant your opponent shows a small amount of insecurity, he loses. He could not understand why other men did not realize this. Anderson reached up for the pilot's throat, where he planted his hand and squeezed with fury.
The pilot tried to throw more punches but was limited by his location under the table. Anderson swung his body in position to grab the gun, the whole while not letting go of his counterpart's throat. His fingers barely found the gun. When he had it in his grasp, he swung it up to the pilot’s head and fired one silent shot. Blood flew everywhere, covering Anderson with bits of fractured skull, brains and bodily fluids. The pilot's body collapsed to the ground motionless. Anderson noticed that his hand was still locked around the pilot's throat, who would not be going home that evening.
Anderson crawled out from under the table, which was dripping remains. He was disgusted by what he had just done. He had been trained to block the guilt out of his mind. In the past he was very good at this, but this time it bothered him. He checked the second room, saw no one and continued to move through the cabin. He thought he saw a restroom sign in the first room. He needed to find it and a first aid kit. At this point, he also needed a change of clothes, considering he could not walk through the airport dripping with blood. There was no one on this plane, yet he was still nervous about the possibility of passengers boarding. He felt certain Grant would be back soon.
Anderson found the restroom. Neatly tucked up under the countertop was a first aid kit. After unlatching it from its secured position, he slowly opened it with shaking hands. He unwrapped the moist napkins and scrubbed it across his cheek, just below his eye. The sight of himself made him sick as he stared in the mirror. Still, he stood before it, breathing heavily and wiping the blood from his face. All he could think about was his childhood again, questioning how he had gotten here. Timothy Anderson always tried to convince himself that he was still young enough to find a wife and have a child. He just killed a hard working man who had a family as he was pleading for his life. Now he was wondering how he could commit the same act again. He still had to kill Grant Winchester. The innocent boy, turned hit man was sure he would rot in hell. He reached for the gun he had placed back in its holster moments before, and put it to his head. Beads of tears were streaming through the blood, as they made their way down his face.
11
President Farnsworth sat at his desk mulling over the seven and a half years of his term. He knew that most voters thought he was a genius. He smirked at this thought. He knew damn well that he had walked into the perfect situation. Just before his speech on election night he told his wife that they were blessed. He knew that no matter how bad things got, it had to be better than the previous years during the term of President Marshall Swift, a Republican. Swift was a frivolous spender, often compared to the late President Milstone. The only way the country could go was up. He thought long and hard about his lucky streak, which he referred to as “Farnsworth's Luck.” The economy had to get better. The media had been calling for a change. He came in and made his changes based on advice from his cabinet. As a result, he had come out looking like a genius.
After a year in the White House, Farnsworth was starting to realize that anything he did was acceptable. The country, as according to the media, was so happy to have an economy headed in the right direction that it did not care what he did wrong. His record setting approval rating meant that most citizens gleefully accepted his faults, as long as he governed a strong state of affairs. In 1993 he had a brief affair with a White House aide, and it was obvious what was going on in the Oval Office. He knew that the media and his wife knew, but he also knew that everyone was so happy with his leadership that they would choose to keep the entire ordeal from the public.
If Farnsworth was impeached and removed from the White House, his Vice President, William Gilbert would take over. Vice President Gilbert was chosen as a running mate because of his ability to follow. He supported everything that anyone ahead of him stood for. He was a parrot, and with enough training, he would repeat whatever Farnsworth said to him. He was the perfect Vice-President for Farnsworth, but he was not a perfect fit for the Presidency. The media had to know it. Congress must have known it. The Senate surely knew it. Most importantly though, Farnsworth knew it.
President Farnsworth quickly began to feel invincible. He saw how his actions were affecting his marriage, but no longer cared. Knowing that his wife was riding his coat tails to fame and fortune made him even angrier with her. He made every effort to leak news to her about his affairs because he wanted her to feel the pain. Farnsworth became extremely sadistic as the years went on. Seeing others hurt kept him thriving and confident.
In 1975, Howard Farnsworth was elected to the 20th Congressional District of the United States of America in the state of Alabama. The election exhausted him. Running for an office was much harder than maintaining it. By the time he had won the election, he was in no mood to serve, so he immediately began to bully his way around his district. It was one of the smallest districts in Alabama. His first conquest was Roy Steel of Roy Steel's Auto World. Howard heard that Roy had been running fake inspections for years. The violations would have crushed Roy financially.
Before Howard Farnsworth was elected to anything he was a regular at Roy's. Roy tended to Howard whenever he came into his store. Roy was the class nerd, while big Howie Farnsworth was the hot shot Quarterback at Sloan High School in Blackburn, Alabama. Howard could tell that when respected gentlemen from high school came into the shop, it made Roy feel like “one of the guys,” a feeling he probably never had when he was in high school. Roy would do favors for good customers, and bogus inspections were one of them.
After Howard was elected, he strolled down to Roy Steel's Auto World. He sat Roy down in his office and told him that if he did not donate fifteen thousand dollars a year to the Blackburn Police Department then Roy's Auto World would be brought up on some “pretty nasty charges.” All Howard was doing was using Roy's money to pay the police department for his protection. Should any questions ever come up, Howard's hands were clean. Basically, he was running a small Mafia in Blackburn, Alabama.
Roy shook his head at his old friends' actions, but the fact was they were never friends. Everyone who graduated from Sloan High School in 1958 intimidated Roy. Howard was taking advantage of the squeamish man because there was nothing he could do. Farnsworth ran the media, the town, and the police. He could not move his business. He had to pay his donations, as they called it, each and every year. Roy would just learn to accept it as punishment for the hundreds of fake inspection stickers he had passed out over the years.
In return for Roy's donations, Howard Farnsworth received access to all the good things in life. Police never reported the hotel rooms or the prostitutes. They never interrogated Howard when someone turned up missing. Howard was immune to the law.
As Howard Farnsworth became more powerful, so did his hunger and need for more power. His second obstruction of justice came in 1978. After winning his re-election to Congress in a landslide victory, he needed to recoup some of his loses. His last congressional race had been one of the most expensive in the state. He tappe
d all of his personal, business, legal and illegal resources. In Jefferson, a town within his district, there was a doctor named Anson Ripple. Dr. Ripple had been well known as an extraordinary plastic surgeon. He would fly to New York, Washington, Atlanta, Los Angeles and every other major metropolis to perform his work. He was a millionaire who just preferred the quiet southern lifestyle that Alabama had to offer. He did not mind the travel because he could easily afford it.
In 1977 Dr. Ripple began performing abortions, but only in the state of Alabama. Again, he became well known for his splendid, almost flawless, work. Patients would travel hundreds of miles to his ranch in Jefferson, where he had a recovery room and everything else he needed set up on his estate. It was, in essence, his little hospital. There had been some disputes with the locals that he needed to acquire more licensing than he had. Townspeople were grumbling that no man should be allowed to just open a “chop shop” because he was wealthy and famous enough to do so. In reality, the people of Jefferson simply did not want their small town to become the abortion capital of the world.
One Sunday afternoon Howard took a drive up to Anson Ripple's estate. He sat down with Anson to discuss the situation, explaining, “Anson, I don't want you to lose your business. I know how much money you have, and I don't want to stop a man from making a living.”
Dr. Ripple was smiling from ear to ear. “Thanks Howard. Anytime I can make a contribution to your campaign, just call me, buddy. I'd be glad to show whose side I'm on with a donation.”
Howard Farnsworth was smiling now, too, and was quick to respond. “Sure Anson, I'm always taking donations for campaign purposes. What do you say to the tune of a quarter mill?”
The Whisper Box Page 11