The Frankenstein Candidate (7 page)

She thought of Georgia again.
Why did her nine-year-old think she only wanted boys?
It was just something Georgia said as she got out of the car as Olivia was dropping her off at school. Olivia needed to ask her later.

And that was the last thought she had before she fell asleep.

Her alarm went off at six thirty. Gary was already up. She could hear him downstairs. Work or no work, he acted busy. He rushed off to his morning jog, came back and had a shower, made the girls and himself breakfast, and got them ready for school. Then he made Olivia’s breakfast and sat down to discuss how they would manage their day. When Olivia could not drop the girls off at school, which was on most days, Gary dropped them on his way to work. At work, Gary spent most of the day reading newspapers and meeting prospective clients. Then he would pick the girls up from school, bring them home, play with them in the yard, and make dinner.

One thing she felt happy about—Jacques, her chauffeur, had recovered fully. He even wanted to get back to work straightaway, but she had insisted on him taking a month’s break. The Hill had a used Volvo in its fleet and had loaned it to her while she collected her insurance and bought herself a new one.

Olivia got dressed. At seven fifteen a.m., she woke her daughters up and got them ready for school. At precisely seven forty-five a.m., she was out the door, getting her daughters into the three-year-old Volvo X99 wagon. As she dropped them off at school, they hugged and said good-bye to each other. How wonderful that felt. She never got the feeling of dread when she was with Georgia and Natasha.

Olivia got to Colin Spain’s campaign office before eight thirty. Colin was already there. “Good morning,” he said.

Colin Spain was a striking man; he was dressed immaculately in a smart suit and tie. A career politician, tall and suave and in his mid-sixties, he had served as a senator for California for four consecutive six-year terms that finished in 2018. At sixty-four years old, he didn’t seek a fifth term. If people thought that meant retirement, they were wrong. Colin was anything but ready to retire. He was tanned, fit, and always energetic.

“Good morning,” Olivia replied.

“Larry will be here soon,” he said.

Larry Fox was by far the most experienced and thorough campaign manager and a strong blue-collar faithful. Some called him the Democrats’ answer to Scott Howell. Larry, they said, had been singularly responsible for two winning Democratic gubernatorial campaigns and had influence in several other races.

“I’ve met Larry. Will he be running your campaign?”

“Not exactly,” Colin said. “He will be what I call the chief strategist. I have someone else in mind for running the logistics of the campaign per se, doing budgets and the fundraising. She will also be here soon, same time as Larry.”

Olivia narrowed her eyes.

“Her name is Katrina Marshella.”

Olivia had heard of her. A rookie, she thought. She had never run anything this big. Olivia believed she was only thirty at best.

It was as if Colin read her thoughts.

“She is only thirty-two and new at this game. But she has this way, a way of finding material and exploiting it, and I need someone to take the pressure off Larry.”

“I see.”

“Your role, Olivia, if you want it, is to be my understudy.”

“Excuse me?”

“At the end of the day, we could go too far and lose sight of the big picture. We are here for the people. And I do not know anyone who holds that dearer than you.”

Olivia smiled.

“What this means, though, is that you will be part of the campaign, in effect. You will be part of the strategy meetings with Larry and Katrina. You will need to accompany us on the campaign trail. We hit Iowa straight after Thanksgiving, on December second, so we fly out Monday, a week from tonight.”

He let that float in the air before he added, “Sorry about the late notice. I don’t need an answer right now. I know you have two lovely young children, and God knows there is enough here in Washington to worry about anyway. But perhaps you could tell me by Wednesday.”

“I’ll certainly think about it,” Olivia replied.

There was a knock on the door. It was Larry Fox. He looked a lot older than she remembered.

Larry had not even closed the door when Katrina Marshella made an entrance. She was strikingly beautiful, like a Hollywood A-list star. Olivia had not expected that.

They exchanged a few trivialities and got down to business.

“Well, it is indeed a tumultuous time in America,” Larry said. “This election is shaping up like no other. There are voters out there, in the tens of millions, harboring deep suspicions. Last election, in November 2016, the voter turnout was 44 percent of the population, the least that it has been for a very long time.

“Now, what does this tell us? One, that voters are largely disillusioned with both the major parties. Two, that they simply do not believe there is a credible alternative. Now, the second part is actually the good part. This means that if a candidate staked out a good middle ground, neither left nor right, neither hawk nor dove, neither conservative nor liberal, he could accomplish what Barack Obama did in 2008—which is to bring new voters into the equation.

“And if you can do that, everything is suddenly up for grabs. Even the most red of states.

“The question is what is the message we need to get out there that will not just keep the faithful but bring new people into the fold, Mr. Spain.”

“Colin,” he said. “Call me Colin.”

“What’s the common theme, the common thread?” Katrina asked.

Larry continued, “I think it is Middle America. We stand for Middle America. The middle road, the middle class. We are not ideological, we are practical. Practical, family values, that’s what America wants. But most importantly, we govern. Govern in the interests of Middle America, we compromise when we need to.”

“I like it,” Colin said.

“A touch too predictable,” Katrina said.

“What do you think, Olivia?” Colin asked.

“I don’t know,” Olivia found herself saying. Her mind was repeating what Larry had just said—
practical, family values is what America wants—weren’t they supposed to think about what America needs?

“You don’t know or you don’t like it?”

She didn’t want to disparage the old sage. Diplomatic words slipped from her lips. “I think it does not differentiate you enough. It may be enough for the nomination, but perhaps it is not enough for the real race.”

“I don’t mind that,” Colin said. “The first challenge is to win the nomination.”

“You will,” Larry added, “it will be clear by Super Tuesday who you are against, and we can then adjust the bigger game plan.”

A text message sent to Larry Fox made the four of them sit up and turn the TV on. An announcement was expected.

It was the billionaire investor Frank Stein.

Frank Stein had announced his candidacy, earlier than people expected. He said he would have a program called the Ten Commandments. Commandments that would transform America, make it glorious again.

“Just a gimmick,” Larry said, “but not a bad one for a newcomer. Anyway, Stein is not someone I would be worried about.”

The TV was still on. Frank Stein was saying, “The major political parties hire spin doctors who spin meaningless slogans. Before we can think of governing, we need to get rid of the slogans and the bromides. You the people have every right to expect that your elected representatives stop sidestepping every difficult question. Exercise that right, starting now. No more rhetoric, that’s the message for today. Thank you for your time.”

“Isn’t that itself rhetoric?” asked Olivia half-heartedly, wanting to belong, desperately, to the elite club whose doors had just opened to her.
What better way was there than to demonize the opposition?

Larry agreed, “Yes, in a sense, he is sloganeering too. Even senators and governors need complex bills broken down into simple formulae. The people? Rhetoric is the only thing they will ever respond to.”

Olivia thought she had handled herself well on the first day on the elite circuit—she had expressed herself and offended no one. She belonged—maybe that’s where she did belong, an even higher place than the Senate—in the ranks of the rulers, men and women who could change things.

Olivia left the meeting on Capitol Hill, energized by the vote of confidence expressed in her. Her cell phone beeped as soon as she turned it on. There was a message from one of her assistants—they had found him!

It had taken almost three weeks for her staff to locate the man she was looking for: the bearded giant. When Olivia had got into the ambulance with Jacques, she’d had the presence of mind to take his picture with her cell phone. It wasn’t a close up, and the man had since shaved. Nevertheless, they had eventually found him. Now she knew his name: Dan Curtis. She knew where he lived. She was on her way.

She drove there herself. It was a poor neighborhood on the outskirts of the District zone, not far from where the incident with her driver occurred.

She stopped half a block away from her destination.
Perhaps he’s not at home
, she thought. She should have rung first, but she was keen on surprising him. With her car still parked, she called his cell. A voice message confirmed that it was indeed a Dan Curtis whose cell phone she had called.

She made her way to a decrepit apartment building in an inner-city neighborhood famous for its crime statistics. The streets were quiet and littered with waste. At least three older men were lying on the sidewalk, a bottle or two of whiskey at their side.
Perhaps I’ll leave a message to meet elsewhere.
But Compassion, the name of her father’s voice, was inside her head, urging her to go. Her legs obeyed even as her mind hesitated.

Two African American youths stood near the entrance to the building. They looked wasted. She strode on, unfazed.

The pungent odor of garbage swirled in her nostrils. One of the youths whistled. Then the other one yelled at her.

“Hey, babe, nice ass you got there, huh?”

She ignored him. He sniggered at her. The other one jostled his friend with his elbow. Undeterred, she stepped into the building.

Once inside, she looked for a residents’ name board. There was none. She looked around. She did not have the apartment number, and the last thing she wanted to do was to knock on every door.

“Looking for something?” An old woman startled her from behind.

“Uhh, yes…Dan Curtis. Does he live here?”

The old woman looked her over from head to toe without saying a word. She didn’t need to. Her look said, “You do not belong here, lady.”

“Maybe he doesn’t, I guess,” she said. Fighting Compassion, Olivia decided it was better to wait until she connected by phone and began to retrace her steps.

“Fifth floor, second door. The door is painted,” the old lady said on her way out.

Olivia walked to the stairwell and commenced her nervous ascent up the creaky floors. She had an eerie feeling that the youths were following her, just a floor behind. But there was no turning back. If Dan wasn’t there, she’d have to confront them on her way out.