by Kyle Mills
He adjusted his half-glasses on his nose as she pulled away and looked over them at her with a warm smile. “I’m sorry about that, Darby. It was a little exaggeration. Unfortunately necessary.”
The change in the timbre of Sherman’s voice was obvious the moment he had opened his mouth. There was no trace of the uncertainty and depression he’d sunk into. The controlled, authoritative tone and confident expression that had intimidated FBI agents and criminals for decades was back.
Sherman adjusted his gaze, still looking over the tops of his eyeglasses. “Mark Beamon,” he said coldly. “I was wondering if you were ever going to come for a visit” He held up the newspaper he was holding for a moment and then set it aside. “An impressive piece of work. The Dow is off twenty-two. That’s not points, that’s percent, you moron.”
Beamon looked at the floor and repositioned his feet uncomfortably. The silence spread out before him for almost a minute. Finally he couldn’t take it anymore. “Tom, I didn’t—”
“You didn’t what, Mark?” Sherman said, cutting him off. “You didn’t think? Foreign investment is flooding out of the country. The dollar took the worst one-day drop in history. You may remember that it wasn’t strong to start with. The American people have spent the last three years being beaten down by the economy. Confidence in the government is at an all-time low and the front-runner in the presidential election dropped out at the last minute. The country was hanging on by a thread, Mark. Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the time to pull out the scissors?”
“They shot you, Tommy. What was I supposed to do? Let them walk? It wasn’t even Hallorin, it was Taylor. They’re all—”
“Taylor? Of course it was Taylor! Let me guess: you walked into his office, showed him the duplicate file, and demanded that he expose himself and point a finger at Hallorin? Then what? He said he would, right? Said that he’d been wrong to let his own personal problems get in the way of America’s bridge to the goddamn future.”
“Well, yeah. I figured he had no choice….” Beamon stuttered, amazed at how truly stupid it sounded when his friend said it out loud.
“Well,” Sherman continued. “That was a sublime piece of maneuvering, wasn’t it? Do you want to know the real reason why I didn’t come directly to you on this? Why you, with all that brainpower, never made it past middle management?”
The fact was, he really didn’t. But the question seemed to be rhetorical.
“Because giving you any real power would be like giving a child matches. The real world is one big compromise, Mark. That’s how you improve the big picture: compromise. Have you ever once stepped back to take a look at the big picture?”
God, he wanted a cigarette. “I thought you were dying, Tom. I—”
“Mark, you may have done more damage to America than any single person in history. Without the confidence of the rest of the world, this is just an oversized, English-speaking country.”
Beamon finally held up his hands. “Okay, Tommy, enough. Your point is made. I screwed up. But I should have goddamn well never been put in this position—I’m not a fucking politician. I find people, remember? That’s it—the big picture is your thing. But you fell apart, didn’t you? You left me twisting in the wind.”
As always, Sherman’s face remained completely impassive, but when he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its angry resonance. “Touché.”
“Maybe we can still bring him down,” Beamon said. “I don’t have much, but maybe we can find a way to use it against Hallorin….”
Sherman shook his head as Darby came over and pushed some pillows up behind him. He grabbed her hand briefly in thanks before she retreated to her corner again.
“You’re hopeless, Mark. You still haven’t thought through the impact of what you’ve done, have you?” He slid his glasses fully onto his nose again and picked up his newspaper. “There’s only one man who can save the country now.”
fifty-eight
It was the third time in a month that Beamon had found himself standing in David Hallorin’s office—but this time was different. The uncertainty and vague sense of dread were still there, of course, but there was also relief. The sense of uneasy peace that came from knowing that this wasn’t his show. He was just silent backup now.
Physically, Tom Sherman still looked like death. He followed Beamon in, walking with difficulty toward one of the high-backed chairs in front of Hallorin’s desk, and sat with such painful slowness that Beamon had to force himself not to reach out and help.
The scene playing out in front of him would have been funny under different circumstances. Tom Sherman’s pale, drawn face and weak body looked so small and pathetic when compared with Hallorin’s carefully tanned skin and six and a half feet of solid mass. The senator’s advantage was more apparent than real, though, and Beamon could see caution work its way into the mask he always wore. It seemed impossible, but the next president of the United States was afraid of the broken little man in front of him. And Tom Sherman knew it.
With his friend sagging safely in a chair, Beamon stepped back and tried to disappear into the wall like the loyal political aides he’d seen at the Vericomm hearings. He wasn’t quite as smooth, but it seemed to work—Hallorin had already forgotten he was there.
Roland Peck, though, didn’t have his boss’s gift for dismissal. He’d managed to keep his seat, but his head was jerking from side to side, eyes flashing with an undecipherable flood of emotions. Every few seconds his gaze would dart in Beamon’s direction and each time he looked strangely startled.
Beamon edged a little closer to Peck, unable to predict what the man would do in this situation. When he had closed the distance between them to a few feet, he stopped and returned his attention to Hallorin, who hadn’t uttered a sound since they arrived. In fact, as near as Beamon could tell, he hadn’t even moved. Hallorin was carefully appraising his opponent, taking in his obvious physical weakness. Beamon had thought that it was a mistake for Sherman not to try to hide his physical condition, but now he saw it—a clear message was being sent. Sherman’s position was so strong he didn’t need to bother.
“We have you, David,” Sherman said, breaking the silence in the office.
Hallorin bristled, probably less at the content of the sentence than at the purposefully disrespectful use of his first name. “What do you have, Tom?” The condescension in his tone was well practiced, but didn’t carry any real confidence. “All I see in front of me is a worn-out old man who doesn’t realize his time is over. This isn’t your America anymore. It’s moved on and left you behind.” Hallorin glanced for a moment in Beamon’s direction and gave a short laugh. While Beamon looked healthier than his friend, he was still obviously a battered mass of half-healed injuries.
“And what’s that supposed to be? A bargain basement piece of muscle?”
Beamon ignored the insult and concentrated on his peripheral vision. Peck had leaned forward in his chair in a single, quick motion, obviously wanting to be closer to his mentor but not courageous enough to stand. The desperate smile on his face looked like it was held in place by fishhooks.
Tom Sherman seemed completely immune to the charisma and forcefulness that had worked both for and against Hallorin during the campaign. His face was characteristically passive as he reached down and opened the briefcase on the floor next to him—a motion that must have been intensely painful for him. He laid the handful of papers he dug out on Hallorin’s desk.
“What are they?”
Sherman didn’t answer and the two men just stared at one another. Finally, Hallorin acquiesced and reached for them in as casual a motion as he could muster.
It had taken Beamon three days to collect the documents that Hallorin now had in front of him. Though time-consuming, the task had been surprisingly simple—as Sherman had told him it would be. It seemed that the philosophy Hallorin espoused at their last meeting had been right on: once you resigned yourself to the fact that powerful p
olitical figures were motivated solely by personal gain, it was a simple matter to predict their actions.
Beamon had visited Robert Taylor first. The man had shouted, cursed, insulted, and denied, but in the end it had been nothing but a meaningless and strangely pathetic display. Between the dead professional killer in Tom Sherman’s yard and the fact that the only man he wanted to hurt more than Mark Beamon was David Hallorin, he no longer had many options. If Taylor signed the affidavit stating that David Hallorin had used Prodigy to coerce him into dropping from the race, the investigation into Sherman’s shooting would stay with the Manassas police. If he refused, Beamon had assured him that it would become the target of an overzealous FBI/Interpol investigation.
Surprisingly, the others had been just as easy. Convincing the men who had been exposed by the Prodigy file to sign similar affidavits had, at first, seemed unlikely. As it turned out, though, truth in the political arena was inexorably intertwined with self-interest. In the end, they’d had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Beamon had not-so-subtly hinted that it was Hallorin who had released the file, and his plan was to use the power of the Oval Office to keep their pain alive and to use it to strengthen his position. If they did sign, Beamon had given assurances that Tom Sherman would do everything in his considerable power to see that David Hallorin was completely hamstrung. The White House would take on a conciliatory tone.
Hallorin’s tan seemed to turn into a burn as his face brightened and the pace at which he leafed through the affidavits increased. Finally, he slammed them down on the table and jumped to his feet. “These are lies! You think you can discredit me, coerce me with this? The American people have made their decision. They have elected me!”
“They aren’t all lies,” Sherman said calmly. “But most are. Politics is about perception, not truth, David. I shouldn’t have to tell you that—you based your entire campaign on the principle.”
The sound of crumpling paper was surprisingly loud as Hallorin balled his fists on the desk, sucking the photocopied affidavits into his large hands. Beamon took a half a step forward, thinking that Sherman might be in physical danger, but his friend just smiled.
“Tiny little men,” Hallorin said in a loud voice that sounded oddly hollow. The power and control that he always seemed to exude was falling away from him quicker than Beamon would have imagined possible. “They would do anything to save their insignificant positions. These are the liars and weaklings who destroyed this country! The American people chose me to lead them. Me! You have no right!”
Beamon suddenly saw the real danger of David Hallorin. It wasn’t his lack of compassion or stripped-down utilitarian philosophy; it wasn’t his all-encompassing ego. The truth was, he was a card-carrying nutcase—he really believed his own legend.
“I have no right?” Sherman said. “You involved me in this when you used Prodigy. Now, I’m going to do what I have to do to see that things are set right”
Hallorin stared down at the pale, huddled man in front of him. “I’ve… No. I worked my entire life for this… I will not let you—”
“Sit down and be quiet, David.”
“What? What did you say to me?”
Beamon could hear the anger creeping into his friend’s voice, but knew that no one else would be able to. “I said sit down and shut up.”
Hallorin remained frozen for a moment and then slowly sank into his chair. That final shift in power was more than Roland Peck could take. He jumped out of his seat and lunged forward. “You son of a bitch! You can’t—”
Beamon had been watching the little man’s agitation level increase throughout the meeting and was ready for his little outburst He shot his good hand out and caught Peck by the hair before he could cover more than a few feet A sound somewhere between a squeal and a wail escaped Peck as his feet went out from under him and Beamon dragged him back to his chair.
Neither Hallorin nor Sherman seemed to notice the brief struggle. Hallorin exercised one last burst of energy and focused his concrete stare directly at Sherman. Beamon saw a trace of amusement cross his friend’s face, and obviously Hallorin did too. He slumped back in his chair, looking suddenly exhausted. “Maybe I’ll just take my chances.”
“No, you won’t,” Sherman said. “You’re no different than the others. You’ll take whatever I give you.”
Beamon got ready to physically intercede again, thinking that Sherman may have overplayed his hand. Hallorin remained motionless, though, and waited to hear what was to come next.
“As much as it pains me to do it, I’m offering you the presidency,” Sherman said after a long silence. He looked down at the affidavits strewn across the floor. “Uncluttered by any of this. The country needs the illusion of a stable, responsible hand at the helm—and you’ve been very effective at creating that illusion.”
Hallorin’s head rose a bit, but he didn’t meet Sherman’s eyes.
“You’ll name me chief of staff. You’ll do nothing without my approval. Nothing. And you won’t run for reelection at the end of your term.”
“No!” Peck screamed. This time Beamon had to shove him to the floor and pin an arm behind his back to keep him under control. “David! No! We can fight this—I can fight this. You’re a great man. You can’t—”
“Shut up,” Hallorin said.
Peck’s words caught in his throat, and an expression of deep pain and betrayal crossed his face as Beamon hauled him to his feet and slammed him back in his chair again. Peck strained forward, searching futilely for a moment of eye contact with Hallorin. He looked so desperate that Beamon found himself almost feeling sorry for the man.
Sherman didn’t wait for an answer to his proposal. He stood and started for the door, leaving the copies of the affidavits Beamon had collected strewn across Hallorin’s office. “I’ll expect to hear of my appointment on the news tonight,” he said as Beamon fell into step behind him. His tone was dismissive.
fifty-nine
Darby Moore bent her knees and used her entire body to throw the backpack into the bed of her pickup. It hit the back of the cab with such force that the entire vehicle rocked on its worn-out suspension.
“He’s going to be president?” Her voice was nearly a shout, startling in the silent expanse that passed for Tom Sherman’s front yard. She grabbed a water bottle off the ground and dumped it out into the fire ring at her feet “That’s the best you could do? Three of my best friends in the world are dead and he gets everything he ever wanted?”
“Not everything,” Beamon said. “I told you. Tom will completely control him. I don’t think you could ever understand how frustrating and humiliating that is for a man like David Hallorin. It’s almost a fate worse than death.”
She lifted a cooler off the ground and Beamon stepped forward to help her, but she jerked away. “Almost worse than death.”
He shrugged but didn’t say anything as she struggled under the weight of the cooler and shoved it violently into the truck. When she turned back around, she seemed to have gained control over some of her anger. “What do you think, Mark?”
The truth was, he didn’t know what to think. What he knew was that he felt dirty. “I guess I think I would have liked to see him go down in flames. I would have liked to have had an opportunity to put a bullet in his head. I would have liked to pull his fingernails out with a pair of Pliers….” He looked down at his feet and kicked a half-burned stick into the damp fire ring. “Look, I know it sounds lame, and I can’t believe I’m about to say it, but there were bigger issues that had to be considered. I guess … I guess it’s a fairly gray piece of justice.”
Darby tossed the last of her gear into the back of the truck and slammed the gate shut. “I’d have died a horrible death without your help, Mark,” she said without looking at him. “I guess I shouldn’t be bitching. You saved me and now you’re giving me my life back. I didn’t think I’d ever be free again.”
“Why don’t we call it even, then,” he said, sliding a small k
napsack off his injured shoulder and holding it out to her.
“What’s this?” She unbuckled the straps and peered into it “Oh, my God!”
“There’s a quarter of a million dollars in there,” Beamon said, watching her paw through it. “You need to get lost for a little while. Hallorin’s not after you anymore, but the cops are. Give me a couple of months to get that straightened out.”
She buckled the straps again and shook her head. “I can’t accept this.”
“Take it, Darby. It’s Tom’s money. He wants you to have it, and believe me, he won’t miss it.”
She looked uncertain for a moment and then tossed it into the truck with the rest of her gear.
Beamon smiled. Most people would consider that much money worthy of riding up front. Maybe there was still hope for her yet. Maybe she would be able to forget the lessons she’d learned over the past two months and return to being the terminally optimistic young explorer that she was supposed to be.
“I don’t know why, but I think I’m going to kind of miss you,” she said, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around him.
“Not too tight, I’m still an injured man, you know.”
She pulled back and smiled. “Make yourself happy, Mark,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. “I know you’ve got it in you.”
He put a hand on her shoulder when she turned away, stopping her for a moment. “This is over now, Darby. Nothing else can be done. Put it behind you and make yourself happy, too, okay?”
sixty
It was the first snow that had fallen in D.C. all year.
Only about an inch of overage so far, but the flakes were the size of a man’s thumb and the lazy path they were taking to the earth seemed to be getting more and more direct The cotton-filled air seemed to swallow sound, making the voice of the priest standing only a few feet away a soft, unintelligible drone.