by Kyle Mills
“He runs his campaign out of his house?” Beamon had to raise his voice to be heard over the background noise.
“Wait here, please,” the woman said, ignoring his question and melting into the riot. Beamon turned his attention to the bank of televisions secured to the wall, each silently playing various news programs from across the nation. Next to them was a colorful poster at least five feet high. In large black letters it read: “R: 33, D: 26, U: 16.” Beamon assumed that those were the latest poll numbers for the Republican candidate, Democratic candidate and Undecideds. Beneath that was “28 days to go!” And beneath that, in bold green letters was: “Us: 19.”
Beamon reached for the pack of cigarettes in his jacket, thought better of it, and went back to examining the numbers on the poster again. Hallorin had fought a valiant and insanely expensive campaign, sprinkled lightly with flashes of brilliance, or perhaps dumb luck, depending on whom you asked. But despite everything that had happened, it looked like America wasn’t ready for a man like him. Less than a month to go and he was still in the cellar.
“Mark!”
A small knot of young people scurried away like frightened animals, creating a clear path for David Hallorin to rush up and completely envelop Beamon’s hand. “Thanks so much for coming. I know you’re anxious as hell to get out of D.C. Come on back to my office.”
Beamon followed without a word, watching Hallorin ignore the people rushing to get out of his way. Even Beamon had to admit that he cut an incredibly imposing figure. Usually politicians used the tricks of television to make themselves seem more powerful and presidential, but if anything, Hallorin had been forced to use the medium to tone himself down. What Beamon was seeing now was the uncensored David Hallorin. The mildly stylish glasses and the thin lenses that had given a more cheerful glitter to his cold gray eyes were missing now, as was the warm brown-and-tan color scheme that had replaced the blacks and charcoals that he’d favored before his presidential bid. What was even more noticeable, though, was the way he walked. It wasn’t something you saw that much of on television, but it was quite remarkable. It seemed that every motion was punctuated by a strange sense of physical power, a barely contained whirlwind.
Hallorin stopped at an unobtrusive door in the back wall, threw it open, and stepped aside to allow his guest to go first. Beamon paused for a moment, stifled a sigh and stepped through. No good could come of this. Of that he was sure.
The office was much smaller than Beamon had expected, but other than that was fairly typical. The obligatory antique desk favored by men of power dominated and was surrounded by uncomfortable-looking chairs. Strangely, the two bookcases along the wall were full of books and not the reaffirming knickknacks and souvenirs that were the staple of most politicians.
“Nice place you have here,” Beamon said, and instantly felt stupid for opening his mouth.
Hallorin fell into the chair behind his desk and motioned to the one in front of it “You think so?” He looked around him at nothing in particular. “Kind of a vulgar display of wealth, actually. I built it when I was much younger and much more impressed with myself.”
Beamon thought the answer had a slightly practiced ring to it, like his driver’s speech about the car—but couldn’t be sure. His normally acute perceptions were unreliable around politicians—meeting with one always made him want to take a shower. Admittedly, the sensation was less urgent with this one than with most.
Hallorin looked like he was about to continue when the phone on his desk rang. He sighed and held up a finger as he picked it up.
Beamon only partially listened to Hallorin’s half of the conversation—he was answering the person on the other end with one-word sentences, obviously wary of giving too much away to his guest.
Beamon leaned forward and took a framed photograph from the desk before realizing that he probably shouldn’t be grabbing at David Hallorin’s personal effects. Too late now.
The woman in it was quite beautiful, with medium length blond hair and the tall, thin body of a model. Next to her stood a much younger David Hallorin. His jet black hair was a little more severely cut and the crow’s-feet around his eyes were a little shallower, but other than that he looked pretty much the same. The picture, Beamon knew, was at least ten years old—that’s how long Hallorin’s wife had been dead.
“She was killed by a drunk driver,” Hallorin said as he replaced the handset.
Beamon felt he should say something consolatory, but couldn’t come up with anything that wouldn’t sound stock. “I remember the legislation you tried to have passed after her death.”
Hallorin leaned back in his chair. “Before she died, I didn’t really know anything about the problem. The thousands killed every year.”
Despite being something of a drunk himself at the time, Beamon had supported Hallorin’s stand: Drunk drivers would have their licenses revoked for the rest of their lives on the first offense. He couldn’t remember the proposed penalty for the second offense, but it probably involved pliers and thumbnails. More power to him.
“I’m sorry you never got it passed,” Beamon said sincerely. “I believed in what you were trying to do.”
Hallorin looked him straight in the eye. “That’s because you and I are rare birds in the government, Mark. We put results above politics. The American people are just now coming around. I think they’d sleep better knowing their children’s stomachs were full than knowing that there—”
Beamon finished the sentence in his head. “—are a bunch of generals at the Pentagon sitting on $700 toilet seats.” It was one of Hallorin’s favorite lines.
“I’m sorry,” Hallorin said. “I’m making a speech.”
Beamon studied the man. Had the senator seen through his normally infallible poker face and read his disinterest? He’d have to be more careful in the future. “I have to wonder why we’re meeting. Senator.”
“Why do you think?”
“I assume that it relates to the Vericomm tapes. But I’m not sure what I can tell you that wasn’t in my report or won’t be on the transcript of today’s hearing.”
“The last tape just cuts off,” Hallorin said bluntly. “Why?”
“It’s in my report. Senator. I was downloading those wiretaps from a central mainframe where they were stored. I lost the feed.”
Hallorin laced his hands in front of his chest. “You’re sure?”
Beamon got the impression that they were negotiating but wasn’t sure for what. Hallorin seemed to be searching for something in his expression. Whether or not he was telling the truth? Whether or not he had a price?
“I’m sure, Senator.”
Hallorin didn’t respond, but continued examining Beamon’s face for whatever it was he was looking for. After another thirty seconds or so, he must have found it.
“I know what you’re thinking, Mark. That my credibility has benefited greatly from the discomfort of some of my colleagues.”
Beamon looked on impassively. He really didn’t want to be here. His life was already too complicated for him to comfortably manage, and frankly, he truly, deeply, didn’t give a shit who the next president was.
“I’ve been critical in the past, it’s true,” Hallorin continued. “But I think things are starting to get out of hand.”
“I thought your campaign was about clearing the air,” Beamon said, paraphrasing one of Hallorin’s ads as respectfully as he could and concentrating on not letting his skepticism show.
“The air’s getting a little too goddamn clear,” Hallorin said, raising his voice a bit.
He stood, rising to his full height for a moment and then leaned forward against his desk. “The people of the world are looking to be led out of the hole they’ve dug for themselves. If we don’t do it, the Europeans or Japanese will. We’ve just started a new millennium and we’re at a crossroads. Will we regain our power or will we fall from grace?”
Beamon tried unsuccessfully to count the number of metaphors and clichés in
that little speech as Hallorin walked around his desk and put a hand on his shoulder. “Americans are losing confidence in their country, Mark. Yes, some of that’s benefited me, but it’s gone too far now.”
Beamon shifted uncomfortably. Despite the sincere resonance of Hallorin’s voice, he just couldn’t buy it. Men who attained what Hallorin had in the world of politics were men who never got tired of being proven right—it just wasn’t possible for their egos to be overfed. “There are no more tapes that I’m aware of, Senator.”
“I have your word on this?”
“You have my word.”
Hallorin stood in the doorway of his office watching Mark Beamon wander, slowly through his campaign headquarters and didn’t immediately turn when he heard the voice behind him.
“Do you believe him, David?”
Hallorin finally closed the door and turned to face Roland Peck. “I do.”
Peck nodded and walked quickly to a straight-backed chair against the wall that seemed to fit his small, thin frame better than the heavily padded one centered in front of Hallorin’s desk. “Yes, yes. I’m afraid I do, too,” Peck said, wiping away a thin coating of perspiration that made his pale, almost translucent, skin seem to glow from some internal power source. His hand caressed the side of his sharp nose and then moved down to smooth the meticulously trimmed red mustache growing from his upper lip. The motion was nothing more than one of his many elaborate ticks, an obsessive-compulsive ritual that told Hallorin the young man was concentrating on other facets of the problem at hand.
“There’s nothing in Mr. Beamon’s profile or history that would suggest he would lie,” Peck said, abruptly clipping each word and phrase as he always did. “Nothing that would suggest he wouldn’t turn all of the tapes over to the FBI. No, nothing.”
“He might have held back some information to help him in his suspension hearing,” Hallorin offered, slipping back into the chair behind his desk.
“No. No. He’s not a game player, that one. And my sources say his suspension is based completely on hearsay evidence. Most of it relates to a newspaper article about his alleged drinking problem that came out in the Flagstaff Chronicle. The article was retracted, though, so—”
“Then the alcohol problem was a fabrication?”
“Oh, no, no, no. It was very real. The question was whether it impaired his ability to do his job. An impossible question to answer, but it’s clear that he has one of the best conviction records in the Bureau. In short, Mr. Beamon was a drunk, but not at work. One could use the rather dramatic phrase, ‘He gets the job done.’ Yes, absolutely.”
Hallorin took a deep breath. “Was a drunk.”
“Mark’s got a girlfriend,” Peck half said, half sang. “A psychiatrist, no less. I understand that she’s henpecked him down from bourbon to beer. Light beer, I think.”
Hallorin laced his hands on top of his head and leaned back in his chair. “If he’s that talented, should we be making a place for him in this organization?”
Peck barked out a short laugh that shook the air for a moment. “Your Mr. Beamon is uncontrollable—no, no, that’s the wrong word. Unstable. And worse, completely apolitical. He has a juvenile arrest record that, if you put it into a notebook as I have, leaves considerable space between the covers—”
Hallorin cut him off. “What kind of arrests? Drugs?”
“No, no. Nothing like that.” Peck paused and looked around the room, his head moving in random, birdlike motions. Another compulsive mannerism Hallorin was familiar with. Peck was thinking of an example.
“When he was seventeen, a woman who worked in the cafeteria of his high school died. Young Mark liked her, so one night, he poured a concrete monument some five feet tall in the middle of the front lawn of the school. Of course, the school had it torn out a few days later. So incensed was Mark, that he re-poured the monument. This time, he first dug down around the main to the school’s electrical system and poured the base around it. Also, he mixed the concrete with .22 shells. That left a construct that could not be chipped away or pulled up. It is my understanding that it still stands today.” Peck tapped his fingers together. “I tell you this generally irrelevant story because I believe it gives some insight into Mr. Beamon’s psyche.”
Hallorin crossed his legs and examined Peck coolly. He’d found—acquired—Peck when the man was only eighteen years old. He’d come with an advertising and business consulting firm that Hallorin had purchased sight unseen based on its inspired and wholly unconventional marketing strategies.
It had taken only a couple of weeks to realize that the genius of the organization wasn’t in its management team. A few more days of investigation had turned up Roland Peck, a thin, red-haired boy toiling in a small basement office that looked like a trash dump.
Peck’s tenuous grasp on sanity was obvious the moment Hallorin met him, as was his brilliance. The boy’s ideas were utterly original—sometimes too much so—and showed a depth of understanding of human nature and its manipulation that Hallorin had never seen before.
On that day, he had taken the parentless boy under his wing and discarded the company Peck had worked for. Hallorin had spent years carefully cultivating a father-son relationship that would ensure Peck’s undying loyalty. With the right handling, Roland Peck was the ultimate weapon.
Now, sixteen years after their first meeting. Peck controlled every aspect of the Hallorin campaign and the widespread business holdings of Hallorin Industrial. On paper, though, he was still nothing more than an assistant marketing director in one of Hallorin’s insignificant real estate partnerships.
His anonymity was at times inconvenient, but absolutely necessary. Hallorin knew that Peck’s sexual tastes ran well past amoral and into the bizarre. In fact, when Peck was twenty-five, Hallorin had provided him with a wife who was amenable to allowing him to act out his twisted fantasies with her—keeping the possibility of scandal to a minimum. If there were any extramarital excesses, Peck hid them with his normal brilliance.
“So where are we, then, Roland?”
“We had never counted on additional tapes, David. No, we hadn’t ever counted on them. They would have been helpful, but it doesn’t matter. We’re still on track. It doesn’t matter.”
five
From his position in the back of Darby’s gently rocking ’76 VW van, Tristan Newberry couldn’t see the ground or the trees, only the gray clouds moving through the sky. He pushed the sleeping bag off and adjusted himself into a more comfortable position on the bed as Darby turned and began maneuvering up a steep incline. The feel of the old mattress, the smell and motion of the van—it was all so familiar, so comfortable. Right now, he wished he’d never left it.
They had been inseparable—best friends. They’d traveled all over the world together: wandering from Africa’s heat and claustrophobic crush of humanity, to the empty expanses of Patagonia, to the icy tundras of Tibet and the Himalayans. There had been no agenda then; nearly everything they owned and certainly everything they cared about fit in her van or on their backs. The only thing they ever had to think about was where their next adventure would take them and how they were going to finance it.
Tristan felt their progress slow and looked up at Darby as she leaned forward and squinted through the windshield. He felt the van drop as the front tire hit a rut, then a slight acceleration, and the back tires were in and out. Only the right side of Darby’s face was visible, but it was enough for him to see the broad smile and exaggerated sigh of relief. No important parts had fallen off what was left of the old vehicle.”
You alive back there, Tristan?”
He stretched and kicked the sleeping bag that was Darby’s only blanket into the corner of the bed. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Good.” The van lurched to a stop. “Because we have arrived at our final destination. How ’bout setting the emergency brake?”
Tristan smiled and slid the van’s door open. A blast of cool, damp air rushed at his bare chest and face a
s he jumped out and began searching through the tall grass for appropriately sized rocks. Less than a minute later he was shoving the two he’d found beneath the back tires of the van. “Okay! Ease off it!”
The brake lights went out and before the tires had fully settled in against the rocks, Darby jumped from the van and ran full-speed past him toward a cathedral of a cave fifty meters away. He watched as she scrambled up a ten- foot-tall boulder and stood gazing at the gray sandstone that undulated in front of her.
“This is it,” she said excitedly as he climbed up the coarse boulder in his bare feet. About halfway up, he was reminded that the skin on his soles was more used to argyle and leather than to stone and dirt these days.
“This is it,” she repeated as he came alongside her.
Tristan surveyed the intimidating stone wall in front of them and decided that it looked like a Dr. Seuss nightmare. Black and gray rock rose from dense undergrowth in a wave that probably averaged thirty-five degrees overhanging for about the first sixty feet, then kicked back to virtually horizontal for another forty or so. From where he stood, the cliff looked almost featureless—he couldn’t make out much more than the occasional doorjamb-width edge or two-finger-wide hole. He craned his neck and looked overhead at the imposing stone roof above them. The hand- and footholds on that section were hidden, but he could see brightly colored nylon slings dangling from the roof every ten feet or so. Called quickdraws, they were the things that climbers would hook their ropes through when they were on the route. Not just any climber, though. By the looks of it, there were probably only a handful of men around the world that would even have a chance of making it to the top. And only a couple of women, one of whom was standing next to him.
“How hard?” he asked.
“In the end, I think it’ll go at a fairly stiff fourteen,” she said, dropping into a full split on top of the flat boulder and starting to stretch.
That confirmed it. The hardest climb in the world had a difficulty rating of easy fifteen. “Jesus, Darby … what’re you gonna call it?” All routes up a rock face had a name—just like all routes down a ski hill had a name.