The Election (13 page)

“He's a wonderful man,” Shannon began. “He's an excellent husband and father and lives out his faith in God in everything he does.” She gazed thoughtfully at the audience. “Let me tell you a story about my husband that will show you what I'm talking about. One Christmas when our children were small, Mac and I were talking about what to get them for Christmas. Mac suggested something that actually became a family tradition: that we contact one of the local civic organizations and get the names of some underprivileged children who needed toys and clothes. Our kids had the best time buying toys and clothes for those other children. And we continue that tradition to this day, even though our kids are now in college. Mac is always thinking of others…and what he can do to help them.”

Shep continued to watch Shannon's interview from his position, stage left. To him the interview couldn't have gone better. Shannon was genuine and sincere. She appeared very First Lady-like. He knew her national television debut would put some life back into the Foster campaign—and right when it was so desperately needed.

The question that remained was how it would play in the polls.

The task of winning the presidency still seemed almost impossible, but they had taken a big step in the right direction.

And Shannon Foster, bless her, had carried out her part well.

En route to Dallas–Fort Worth International Airport

Mac Foster loved fall, and the long Labor Day weekend meant that autumn was just around the corner. The leaves on the trees would soon start changing colors, and Saturdays would be filled with college football games. Kennedy liked sailing; Ford played golf; and George H. W. Bush brought horseshoes to the White House. When he became president, Mac told Shep, Saturday afternoons would be set aside for watching college football.

“Labor Day also means there are only two months left before the election,” Shep reminded Mac that Friday as they cruised toward Dallas–Fort Worth International Airport on the Boeing 747. “And we are still trailing by ten points in our own polling.”

Mac nodded. “I know. But the campaign is a long way from being over. Everything will come together in God's timing, not ours.”

“I'm sure you're right. By the way, we did get a little bounce in the polls from Shannon's interview.”

Mac appeared thoughtful. “I still don't like the idea of her being exposed to the media. But I have to admit, she did a great job.” Mac stood to stretch his tired legs and walked around the cabin. “Shep, I watch our campaign workers and some of them have defeat written all over their faces. But you never do. Why is that? Why do you always seem so positive?”

“It's the same thing you just said. I'm convinced that God has a plan, and part of that plan is for you to become president. With that kind of outlook, how could I be anything other than positive?”

Shep meant what he said, but he also knew he wasn't being entirely forthright with Mac. Shep had a sudden urge to spill everything about Dalton Miller's investigation but suppressed the words before they erupted from his mouth.

Now is not the time,
he reminded himself.
Let Dalton get some clear proof first.

“We're almost to DFW,” he noted. “You probably need to get ready for your speech.”

“You're right.” There was a twinkle in Mac's eye. “See what you can do about spilling some of that positive attitude on the rest of the staff, will you?”

The campaign plane landed at Dallas–Fort Worth International Airport just after noon. A platform was erected on the tarmac for a quick speech, and then the motorcade would be off to a “Texas bar-b-que” campaign rally. Mac had to carry Texas. Without Texas he had no chance of winning. He had already spent a lot of money in Texas and would spend a lot more before November.

The crowd at the airport was boisterous and completely pro-Foster. The Texas governor, a Republican, met Mac as he descended the stairway from the airplane. The governor had announced his endorsement for Mac during the primaries and had been campaigning hard for him in Texas. Hundreds of supporters were waving Foster-for-President signs. Thunderous applause and cheers greeted Mac as he stepped up to the podium in a red-and-black-plaid shirt and jeans. He motioned for the crowd to quiet down, and the noise softened to a small roar. Shep stood just to the side of the platform, stage right, and soaked in all the applause and cheers. He smiled slightly in anticipation as Mac stepped to the microphone, because Mac always began his speeches the same way.

“Friends, it is time for a change!”

The crowd erupted again. Mac backed away from the podium and triumphantly raised his arms. The campaign rally planners arrived a few hours before Mac at every stop and always did an excellent job of whipping those in attendance into a frenzy. The television cameras recorded every cheer, and Shep hoped that a clip from the rally would be on the evening news on all the national networks.

Shep watched as Mac continued his speech. His wireless phone was set on vibrate because he knew he wouldn't hear a ring amidst the cheering. He felt the vibration and checked the caller ID. It was Dalton.

Shep stepped farther away from the rally so the noise would not interfere with the conversation. He raised the clam shell to his right ear and covered his left with his left hand to block the crowd noise. “Hello.”

“Shep, this is Dalton.”

“I haven't heard from you in a couple of weeks. I've been worried.”

“I've been busy,” Dalton stated.

“On our project, I trust.”

“Of course,” Dalton replied. “I haven't quite put my finger on it, but there's something out there. I told you about the Randolph Winston connection.”

“Right.”

“Well, my contact at the Bureau tells me that they smell something fishy about the murder of the vice president's friend in Tennessee.”

“What does he mean?”

“I'm not sure. He tells me that it looks like a hit rather than a murder by a disgruntled customer like everybody is saying. The shot was too clean from too far away. They say there's no way the guy who's been arrested could be that good. Everything points to a known Colombian assassin.”

“Do they think the vice president hired a hit man to take out his own friend?”

“They're not sure,” responded Dalton. “They can't find any other connections. No large sum of money is missing from Burke's account, but it's hard to track every penny of campaign funds.”

“Does the Bureau know about Winston?” asked Shep.

“I don't think so, and I didn't mention it.”

“Good. Let's keep it like that for a while. What else do you have?”

“Get this.” There was a little more excitement in Dalton's voice. “Deputy Director Armacost is covertly conducting the investigation into the Thompson murder, and he has not told Director Sanders anything about it. What do you make of that?”

“Obviously Armacost is convinced there's something to the assassination theory, but I don't know why he hasn't told Sanders. Perhaps he's waiting until he has more to go on.”

“Or perhaps he's hedging his bets,” Dalton said, answering his own question.

“What do you mean?”

“Armacost is the only holdover from the previous administration. Everyone else was sent packing, but not Armacost. Why? I don't know, but for some reason he doesn't trust Sanders.”

“You think he might want to share his investigation results with us?” hoped Shep.

“Either that, or he might be planning to go straight to the vice president. Depending on what he finds, he could use it as a bargaining chip to get the director's job.”

“Did your contact say what Armacost planned to do next?” Shep paced back and forth as he considered the information.

“They can't put too many men on this, or Sanders will smell something. Other than a phone call by one agent from the Memphis office, the Bureau has not performed any field investigation. Two agents are being sent in by the end of the week.”

“I think you need to go too,” directed Shep. “See what you can find, but don't let anybody with the Bureau see you there.”

“I thought you might say that. I'm booked on the first flight to Memphis in the morning. It's the closest major airport to Jackson.”

“Do you know anything about the lawyer representing the man accused of killing Thompson?” Shep knew that Dalton always did his homework.

“Only a little at this point. His name is Jake Reed. He's in his midthirties and married with three kids. His parents died when he was young, and he was reared by family members, mainly an aunt who died three years ago. He went to college on a partial baseball scholarship and worked odd jobs to make up the difference. That's where he met his wife. She put him through law school, and he finished fifth in his class at Vanderbilt University in Nashville.”

“Sounds like he's determined to succeed. What are his politics?”

“As best I can determine, he's apolitical. He voted in the last three presidential elections, but not in any primaries. It's impossible to tell whether he has any loyalties, and if so, where they lie.”

“Any skeletons?”

“None that I've found.”

“You better get going,” Shep said as he drew the conversation to a close. “Let me know as soon as you hear anything new.”

“I'll do that.”

“And, Dalton, hurry,” Shep pleaded. “We're running out of time.”

Shep placed the phone in his left inside coat pocket and returned to the platform to hear the conclusion of Mac's speech. He had heard it so many times before that he could give it himself from rote memory.

“…and ladies and gentlemen, I want to be your next president!”

The crowd roared its approval as Mac waved his arms victoriously and left the platform for his waiting limousine.

Shep entered the back of the car opposite Mac. He still couldn't tell Mac what was going on. Perhaps he never would, but the future was beginning to look brighter, and that was the important thing. His biggest concern was time. Whatever Dalton found would be useless if he found it after the election was over.

“Shep, you look troubled about something,” Mac stated when Shep sat down across from him. “What is it?”

“Nothing, sir,” Shep lied. “Nothing.”

 

Pinecrest Club, outside Jackson, Tennessee

It had been ten days since his meeting with Naomi McClellan, and Jake still had not told anyone else her story, including Rachel. He was convinced, at least, that Jesse Thompson had raped Naomi. He couldn't imagine that any woman would voluntarily subject herself to the ridicule and scorn that would come from falsely accusing a dead man of rape. The question he struggled with was whether Jesse was in fact Jed's father. Jake didn't doubt that Naomi believed it, but he had to be certain. Naomi was married at the time, so her husband could also be the father.

Jake had to find out for sure. He knew that DNA testing, or even a simple blood test, could prove almost conclusively whether Jesse was Jed's father or not. Getting blood or a hair sample from Jed was easy enough, but Jesse was dead. The only place Jake could find a sample of Jesse's blood would be in the evidence room at the sheriff's department.

The Labor Day weekend was just beginning. It was early Friday evening, and Jake was on a mission. As he pulled into the parking lot of the Pinecrest Club on Highway 70, west of town, he cringed. What a stark contrast his Volvo was to the motorcycles and pickups with rebel flags in the rear windows. The rectangular club building was constructed of concrete blocks, painted white, and trimmed in green. A sign on top displayed a picture of mountaintops and a pine tree growing from the highest point. All windows in the building were covered from the inside by confederate flags.

Jake probably wouldn't have been welcomed at a place like the Pinecrest under any circumstance, and the fact that he was the lawyer of a black man accused of killing a white man didn't help matters. His palms were sweating as he reached for the doorknob. He could only guess what his wife would say when she found out he'd died at the Pinecrest.

When he stepped inside, everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at him. All he could see through the cigarette smoke were angry faces with shaggy, unkempt beards immediately above sleeveless shirts bearing some type of motorcycle logo. Every arm boasted at least one tattoo, and every foot was covered with a cowboy boot.

I bet there's no tassel loafers in this crowd,
Jake thought.
But at least no one's wearing a white cloak and pointed hat
.

“I'm looking for Billy Laymon,” Jake said to the bartender.

The bartender had been drying a glass beer mug when Jake entered, and he was still holding it in his hand. The stub of a cigar protruded from the right corner of his mouth, which was surrounded by a long beard and mustache. His nose was crooked.

Perhaps from a barroom fight?

The bartender never said a word. He simply indicated with a jerk of his head that Billy Laymon was in the back of the room.

The room was still deathly silent. No cards were being shuffled, and no billiard balls were being racked. There was not even any music playing. Jake had no idea what hell was like, but as he walked farther into the interior, where the light of day never reached, he decided hell had to be better than the Pinecrest.

In this crowd, even if he tried to make an escape, he'd have no chance. The roughnecks would be all over him. It was safer to find Billy and get his business done than try to run. He could feel every eye in the room on him as he walked through the smoke in the direction the bartender had indicated.

Finally he saw Billy sitting at a table in the back corner playing poker. “Billy, I need to talk to you.” Jake looked at the other men standing nearby, trying to determine where an attack might come from.

Billy waved a dismissive hand at his playing partners. “It's OK, boys. I can handle it.”

Loud music, louder talking, and cussing arguments over poker games resumed immediately, as if Jake wasn't even there.

“What do you want, lawyer?” Billy asked sarcastically.