by Stuart Woods
“We’ve already got her in a car,” the agent replied. “She’ll meet you at the hospital.”
Zeke got into the car, started it, and pulled into traffic. He made the first turn possible, and he could see police halting traffic ahead of him. He drove around the block and headed for the Beltway; he had already memorized the route.
Will lay on a table in the ER while a surgeon who had been on call for the Secret Service stitched the wound in his forehead. Kate sat next to him, watching closely.
“Maybe I’d better learn to do this,” she said, “if people are going to keep trying to kill you.”
“Maybe the guy was trying to kill Eft,” Will said. “If he did, I’d probably win California.”
“You should wish he had hit you,” she said. “Being shot is a sure vote-getter. Look at Reagan.”
The following morning, Zeke drove west along the interstate at the speed limit. He was a happy man, considering that he’d failed. He hadn’t really expected to be alive at this moment, and he found the condition pleasing. Home lay a thousand miles ahead of him. They still didn’t know who he was. They’d never find him. He’d go home and wait for another opportunity.
64
Will looked out the window of the Boeing as it lifted off from Oakland airport and turned east, toward Georgia. The lights of the city passed under him, then vanished as the airplane climbed toward the Sierras. It was just after 1 A.M., Tuesday morning, election day. It was over.
He had made more than seventy campaign stops around California during the past three days. His campaign and the party had poured every possible cent into television advertising all over the country, but especially in California. Efton had done the same thing, he reflected.
“What do you think?” he asked Kitty Conroy, who was sitting next to him.
“I think we’re going to win, of course.”
“Does Moss still think it’s too close to call?”
“Yes, but he plans to do exit polling tomorrow—I mean, today.”
“Tell him not to waste the money. What’s the point of polling when we’ll have the answer by midnight, anyway.”
“I’ll tell him,” she said. She got up and walked forward.
Will got out of his chair and followed her. He might as well have a last word with the press. He passed Moss and Kitty, deep in conversation, and opened the door to the forward compartment, summoning up a last bit of energy. To his surprise, the cabin was dark; bodies lay under blankets on the reclining seats; snoring could be heard. He’d thought there’d at least be a late poker game, or people writing their last campaign stories.
He closed the door and walked aft to his private cabin and the flying bed that awaited him. He had one more stop, a morning appearance to thank the campaign workers in Atlanta, then to Delano, to vote, then back to Washington. For a while, he replayed the campaign in his mind. There was nothing more he could do. He fell asleep.
When he finally reached the Georgetown house, Kate was already home from work, watching CNN.
“You look exhausted,” she said, kissing him and drawing him onto the sofa next to her.
“I think that’s a fair assessment of my condition,” he said. “The strange thing is, I’m not sleepy. I got a few hours on the airplane last night, and a good nap on the way from Georgia to D.C. What does the news say?”
“A good turnout, but not a huge one,” she replied.
“Oh.” They had been hoping for a large turnout, usually better for Democrats. “Did you vote?”
“You bet.”
“Dare I ask for whom?”
“Don’t push your luck, kiddo.”
Will held up his hands in a defensive posture. “I guess it’s too late now.”
“What time are we due this evening?” she asked.
“Ten o’clock,” he replied. His campaign had taken a hotel ballroom and a suite and had rented a lot of TV sets for election night. “We can have a nice quiet dinner here.”
“Who’s cooking?” she asked. “I had a tough day, too.”
“Let’s order a pizza.”
Kate laughed. “The next president of the United States orders a pizza on election day.”
Their attention was suddenly drawn to the TV set by the mention of Will’s name, and they turned to watch.
“The Secret Service and the FBI have identified a suspect in the assassination attempt last Friday night at Ford’s Theatre in Washington,” the anchorwoman was saying. A photograph of a bearded man flashed onto the screen. “He was identified from a fingerprint on the outside doorknob of the projection room at the theater. He is William Ezekiel Tennant, formerly of an address near Atlanta. Tennant disappeared from his home some ten years ago, after he failed to make a federal court appearance in Atlanta, and a warrant for his arrest dates from that time. Tennant was a member of a right-wing militia group headquartered in the Atlanta area, a member of which made an attempt on the life of Will Lee, who was at that time a candidate for the Senate. Tennant is rumored to be somewhere in the northwestern United States, and authorities are already searching for him there.
“In another breaking story, CNN has learned that a South Carolina newspaper is running a front-page story tomorrow, alleging that Senator Frederick Wallace of that state has for many years kept an African-American mistress, and that he has two grown sons by her. We’re attempting to locate Senator Wallace now for comment, and we’ll keep you up to date on this story.”
Kate and Will burst out laughing. “I don’t know which story I like better,” she said.
“Neither do I,” Will agreed.
65
Will, Kate, Peter, and Will’s parents walked into the hotel ballroom and stood for a moment, taking in the scene. A big band was playing swing tunes, and many of the campaign workers were dancing to the music. A movie-theater-sized television screen had been erected, and other TV sets were scattered around the ballroom.
Will and Kate made their way to the stage, were introduced, and Will stepped to a microphone as the band stopped playing.
“I just wanted to speak to you for a moment,” he said. “Although we don’t know the outcome yet, I’m optimistic. I want to take this opportunity to thank you all for the hard work you’ve put into this campaign. If we don’t win tonight, it won’t be your fault. I don’t think any candidate has ever had such an enthusiastic group of people working for his election, and I’m very grateful to each and every one of you. Kate and I are going to go upstairs, now, and wait for the final returns. I’ll speak to you again, after we know the result of the election. In the meantime, have a great evening. You’ve earned it!”
The four of them were whisked backstage and to an elevator that took them to a large suite on the highest floor of the hotel. There waiting for them were Will’s closest staff and a lot of big contributors to his campaign and to the party.
Kitty ran over. “The polls have just closed in Illinois,” she said, “and the networks, based on their exit polling, are giving it to us by two points.”
“We can all thank you for that, Kitty,” Will said, hugging her. “Your idea for the debate against the TV set gave us the state.”
“I hope that turns out to be true,” Kitty said. “I’ll never get tired of taking credit for it.”
Will deposited his parents on a comfortable sofa with drinks; then he and Kate wandered around the huge suite, shaking hands and talking to supporters, while the voting results mounted from around the nation.
Tim Coleman came over to Will. “It’s going pretty much the way Moss predicted: We’re neck and neck in electoral votes; California is going to decide the election.”
“Is there anything we didn’t do in California?” Will asked.
“Not that I can think of,” Tim replied.
“I don’t think there’s a hand in the state I didn’t shake,” Will said. “My arm is sore to the shoulder.”
“That’s the way it ought to be,” Tim said, laughing.
Midnight was ap
proaching, 9 P.M. in California, when the polls would close and the networks could announce the results of their exit polling. The crowd in the suite were all sitting down, occupying all the furniture and much of the carpeted floor, facing the big TV screen, which was divided into quarters, one each for NBC, CBS, ABC, and CNN. Kitty was switching the sound from network to network. More coffee than champagne was being served at that hour.
“Quiet!” Kitty yelled, switching to NBC, where Tom Brokaw was speaking.
“…the closest presidential race in American history,” Brokaw was saying, “closer than Kennedy-Nixon, in 1960, closer than Nixon-Humphrey, in 1968. The polls have just closed in California, and we can now talk about the exit polling we’ve been doing in that state all day, right up to a couple of hours ago. Based on that polling we can now call the California race. Although no more than one percentage point separates the candidates, we can now say that California has gone to Congressman Howard Efton. And that means that Efton takes all fifty-four of California’s electoral votes and the election. Howard Efton is going to be the next president of the United States.”
The crowd sat in shocked silence. “Switch to ABC,” Tim Coleman shouted.
“…California gives the election to Eft Efton,” Peter Jennings was saying.
Kitty switched to CBS and Dan Rather. “It looks as though Efton has won this election,” Rather said.
Kitty switched to CNN. More of the same.
Nobody said much of anything.
Will beckoned Moss Mallet over. “What do you make of this?” he asked.
“No other kind of polling is as accurate as exit polling,” Moss said. “They talked to people who had already voted, as they left the polling places. Quite frankly, if even one of the networks had disagreed, I’d say we have a chance, but they’re all coming up with the same result. I’m sorry, Will, but we’ve lost it.”
Will stood up. “Listen up, everybody. I’m not going to say anything now, except to thank you for being here tonight and for your support during the campaign. Certainly, it doesn’t look good at the moment. Kate and I are going to go home and get some sleep, now, and I suggest you do the same. Kitty, schedule a press conference for noon tomorrow, on the Capitol steps, and I’ll make a statement then.” Will took Kate’s arm and started for the door, shaking hands along the way.
Kitty appeared at his elbow. “I’ll call you if anything changes,” she said.
“Don’t,” Will said. “I’m going to go home and sleep the sleep of the dead, and I don’t want to be disturbed by anybody. Please see to that.” He hugged her. “I’m sorry, Kitty; I know how hard you worked and how much you wanted this. Set up a dinner tomorrow night with just you, Tim, Moss, and Sam Meriwether and my folks, and we’ll pick over the bones and talk about what we might have done. I’ll be in the office by eleven-thirty. Have a statement ready for me to look at.”
“All right, Senator,” Kitty said, and there were tears in her eyes.
Will and Kate were quiet on the ride to Georgetown, but Billy seemed to want to talk.
“You know,” he said, “you ran one hell of a campaign, and if there were any justice, you’d have won. But we both know there’s precious little justice in politics.”
“I guess you’re right, Dad,” Will replied.
“I had an awful good time, though.”
“So did I,” Patricia echoed. “You’ve got a lot to be proud of, Will.”
When they got out of the car, the head of the Secret Service detail approached Will. “Senator,” he said, “we’ve just had word that the FBI has tracked down Zeke Tennant. He’s in a mountain cabin in Idaho, and they’re planning to take him tomorrow morning. They’re not releasing this to the media; they don’t want to alert him.”
“That’s good news,” Will said. “I want to thank you and all your people for your great work during the campaign,” he said. “You saved my life more than once. I’d appreciate it if you’d put together a list of the name of every man and woman who worked on the detail. I’d like to write to them.”
“Of course, Senator,” the agent said. “I’ve had your cars brought back; they’re in the garage. Our people are already out of the house, and I’ll leave a couple of men on the front door to see that no one disturbs you tonight; in the morning, we’ll be gone.”
Will let them into the house and began closing blinds. “God, I’m tired,” he said.
Kate walked to the rear hallway, switched off the telephones, then came back. “The agents are already gone,” she said. “They left everything as neat as a pin. Would you like something to eat? There’s still some pizza in the oven.”
“No, I just want to sleep,” Will said. He took her hand, and they walked upstairs together.
“Do you folks need anything?” Kate asked Patricia.
“I might have a glass of milk after a while,” Patricia replied, “but right now I just want to get Billy to bed. He’s very tired. Don’t worry, I know where the kitchen is.”
“Good night, then,” Kate said, kissing her.
Kate switched off the upstairs phones. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“Numb,” Will replied. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”
They got undressed and into bed.
“You know,” she said, “life will be simpler now, but I had started looking forward to your being president. I think I’m more disappointed than you are.”
“I’ll catch up with you tomorrow,” he said.
Will fell asleep with Kate’s head on his shoulder.
66
Will came awake very slowly in the darkened room. Kate wasn’t there, and he could smell coffee brewing downstairs. He rolled over and looked at the bedside clock. Nearly seven o’clock. He’d slept through the night without even turning over.
He got up, went to the bathroom, and brushed his teeth, using his left hand. His right was too sore and swollen from shaking hands to make a fist. He put on a robe over his nightshirt, got into his slippers, and walked downstairs.
Kate looked over her shoulder from the kitchen. “Morning. Your folks are still asleep; you want some eggs?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, looking around. “Did you bring in the papers?”
“Nope.”
“Do we have any sausage?”
“Some in the freezer, I think. I’ll nuke it.”
It suddenly occurred to Will that he had lost the election, and he felt momentarily nauseated. He drank some orange juice and felt better. “I’ll get the papers,” he said.
He walked through the darkened living room, undid the latch on the front door, opened it, and stepped out onto the porch. Suddenly, he was blinded by a hundred flashes, and a roar of voices washed over him. Blinking, shielding his eyes from the continuing flashes, Will looked around him. Except for his block, the street was full of people, press, and cameras, held at the cross street by police, and the sudden din was amazing. The police removed the barricades, and the crowd rushed toward the house, stopped only by another cordon of barricades at the foot of the steps.
Kate came to the door. “What the hell is going on?” she asked.
Kitty Conroy, Tim Coleman, Moss Mallet, and Sam Meriwether broke through a cordon of police and rushed up the front steps of the house. “You won!” Kitty shouted over the noise.
“What?” Will yelled back.
Kitty shouted into his ear, “There was a huge rush of after-work voters in California, and most of the absentee ballots were for you; those two things put us over the top. Efton is conceding even as we speak!” She handed him a copy of the national edition of the New York Times. “This edition went to bed at midnight.” EFTON DEFEATS LEE, the banner headline read.
Will stood, dumbfounded, staring at the newspaper. His parents joined him on the porch, and Kate slipped an arm around him.
“Wave at the people, dear,” she said. “Try not to look semiconscious.”
Will waved at the crowd and held up the newspaper, to the crowd’s del
ight.
“Smile,” Kate said. “Presidents have to smile a lot.”
Will smiled, showing all the teeth he had.
At first light, Zeke was eating a bowl of homemade granola when his son, Danny, came down the stairs from the log cupola carrying an assault rifle, a 9mm pistol strapped to his side. The boy was pale. “What is it, son?” he asked.
“They’re coming through the trees,” Danny said, and his voice trembled.
“Wake up your mother and your sisters and get them armed,” Zeke said, “then come upstairs with me.” Zeke ran up to the cupola and looked down the hill. Men in camouflage suits were creeping up the incline in squads, one group taking shelter and covering, while another group ran ahead a few more yards. They were three hundred yards away, Zeke calculated, using the distance markers he had placed. He checked the wind sock and adjusted the telescopic sight on his rifle for distance and windage. He heard Danny coming slowly up the steps behind him. “Hurry up, goddammit!” he yelled. “We’ve got to pick off as many as we can before they get any closer.”
“No, sir,” the boy said quietly. He sounded very shaky.
Zeke turned and looked at Danny. He was holding the Glock pistol out in front of him. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded.
“I’m not going to let you get Mama and the girls killed,” Danny said. “Nor me, neither.”
“You holster that weapon and get to a gun port,” Zeke commanded. “We’ve spent two years preparing for this, and we’re not going to screw it up now.”
“You brought this on us,” Danny said, “and you’re not going to stop until we’re all dead.” His voice was stronger, now. “And I’m not going to have it.”
“You’ll do as you’re told, boy, and you’ll do it right now!” Zeke yelled at him.
“No, sir, I won’t,” Danny said, pointing the pistol at Zeke’s head.
“Have you completely lost your mind?” Zeke shouted.