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Like any seasoned politician, Harper denied all charges until there was no other choice. When that time came, he declined to issue any comments and hired a legal team. His wife, embarrassed and humiliated, left him and went back to her parents in rural Pennsylvania. They had no children, so there was no messiness on that front. The public, feeling confused and disillusioned, unplugged themselves from the debacle and simply waited for a successor. After awhile most people weren’t even sure Harper was technically still in office, he maintained such a low profile.

Now, six months and a string of follow-up articles later, on the eve of what surely would be his last significant appearance, he was being asked to sharpen the blade for his own professional execution. It was the only option left. At least the media and the courts didn’t find out everything, he thought. Yes, he would lose his job and maybe end up indicted, but he was certain he would go down for much less than he had actually done. And even now, a part of him was still genuinely baffled by how it all could’ve happened in the first place.

Once again Jay Bennett, Esq. shook him out of his daze.

“Mr. Harper, we have to have a decision,” he said firmly, showing more emotion than was usual for him.

Harper paused for one last, precious moment, savoring the position he’d worked so hard and so long to achieve. Then, with a heavy sigh, he wrote the first word in what surely would be the darkest chapter in his family’s political history.

Leaning back in the leather chair of an office he knew he would not occupy much longer, he said, “Tell the judge my plea will be ‘guilty.’”

“Thank you, Mr. Mayor.”

News of Harper’s plea traveled like lightning along the following path: First it went to the courthouse, where it was entered into the public record. Two minutes later it traveled from the municipal clerk through a phone line to the home office of E. Gordon Davis III, attorney-at-law. Davis lived in LBI’s upscale town of Loveladies, in a fairly intimidating three-story monstrosity overlooking the ocean.

Davis did not answer the phone when it rang. Instead it was picked up by one Thomas T. Wilson. Small and bookish with neatly combed dark hair and round glasses that added an air of intellect to his otherwise boyish face, Wilson was, technically, Davis’s political advisor. He had no formal degree in politics, nor did he have any firsthand political experience. He was commonly known as a “natural”—one who possessed an innate gift for knowing what worked and what didn’t in a particular field without the aid of any official training or education.

Wilson had been Harper’s right-hand man since the day Harper’s name first appeared on a ballot. Outwardly, Wilson hated everything political—he hated the underhandedness, the sleaze, the corruption, and the rampant, unchecked incompetence. He favored no party, only truth and honor. To that end he resented any elected official for not using his granted power to inject more good into the world. Anyone who had the opportunity to do something decent and chose not to, he felt, should be stripped of their power and humiliated. He was as honest as the day was long.

Wilson was willing to work as an advisor for Harper because he felt Harper had similar qualities and beliefs, and because local history suggested Harper’s family did likewise (his personal theory was that the Harpers never rose above a modest local level because New Jersey’s corrupt upper echelon intentionally kept them down). He believed Harper possessed the seeds of greatness and, with his help and a little luck, could reach dizzying political heights. In truth, deep down, he loved the political system of America because he believed it was the only one where a person even had the chance to do great things; in other systems such opportunities simply did not exist. He never considered running for any office himself, for he knew he didn’t have the required traits. It simply wasn’t part of his destiny.

Harper, on the other hand, had them all—he was handsome, commanding, sure of himself without being cocky, a scholar, and a reassuring leader. He was also an excellent speaker with tremendous public presence and charisma. Women liked him; men wanted to be like him. He came from a solidly middle- to upper-class family: He wasn’t too rich. He was active in extracurricular activities during his school years and retained close friendships with people from a wide variety of backgrounds and races. He worked hard and didn’t complain about it. In short, he was blessed with what most called the “X factor”—that indefinable quality that makes people follow and believe in you. Politically speaking, he was built for speed.

The two men fit together seamlessly. Wilson covered Harper’s blind spots, and Harper covered his. They trusted each other, and their egos never clashed. They were comfortable in their respective roles, and both focused on the same objective—getting Harper into the U.S. Senate.

When the scandal first reared its head, Wilson didn’t believe it. He was sure one of Harper’s political rivals had fabricated the story. When bits and pieces of what appeared to be solid evidence began surfacing, Wilson decided it was an elaborate setup, and that Gus Riggins had been a plant.

Then the night came when Harper, alone with Wilson late in his office, confessed that it was all true, every word of it, and that he had no explanation or defense for his actions. He said he got caught up in a current and was unable to free himself. Wilson was stunned, speechless at the ugly fact that his idol was not only human after all, but no better than the legions of crawling maggots who polluted the current political scene. He was just another one of Them.

Wilson stormed from the office and never spoke to Harper again. He drifted for awhile, unsure of everything he had ever known. Ten years of his life shot to hell. How could Harper have done this to him? How could he be so evil? (Maybe he did still have a bright political future, Wilson thought—he was, after all, obviously a master of deception. In today’s political climate, he’d fit in perfectly….)

Harper tried repeatedly to contact his old friend, tried to make amends and attempt to explain himself. Wilson wanted nothing to do with it. He didn’t want to hear Harper’s story because Harper had had plenty of time to compose it. It would be good, for sure, but it wouldn’t be honest. It’d paint him in a sympathetic light, somehow make him out to be the victim. Wilson believed he was the only victim here—he and all the people who had believed in Harper and given him their support. On an island that was largely Republican but still had its fair share of Democrats, Harper got nearly eighty-six percent of the vote. Eighty-six percent. It was a record, and a confirmation of Harper’s mass appeal.

What did the electorate think now?

Roughly three months after their last conversation, Wilson decided his future. As he had played a key role in putting Harper in power, it was his duty to the people of Long Beach Island to take him back out. In addition, he had to make sure some other lowlife didn’t take Harper’s place. He had to find someone with genuine integrity, someone who was already high-profile enough to slip painlessly into the job.

Elliot Davis became the man. Davis was small and heavy, with a charming, impish way about him. He smiled easily and enjoyed the company of others. He had been the president of Continental Savings and Loan for nearly ten years and was active in community affairs. He had earned a reputation of unprecedented decency and compassion as a bank president, working out cautious but generous loans for private citizens and businesses after they’d been rejected everywhere else. He seemed to be a shining example of the now-famous “compassionate conservatism” ideology, which appealed to much of the island’s populace. He most assuredly did not possess Harper’s many other, smaller political gifts and certainly would never get anywhere near the U. S. Senate in this or any other lifetime. But he would be an easy replacement for Harper. He would competently mind the store while the people of Long Beach licked their wounds. At least this was how Wilson envisioned it.

Davis was amenable to Wilson’s plan because, as Wilson knew, he had often flirted with the idea of running for mayor. He was born and raised on LBI and loved every inch of it with all his heart. Davis knew Harper well and felt genuinely bad for him when his career began to unravel. He knew nothing of the details aside from what was printed in the local papers, and Wilson never offered any. So he simply accepted the situation and went forward, letting Wilson be his guide. This guy had a proven track record, after all.

Wilson, perched on the edge of Davis’s desk, snatched up the phone when it rang on this sunny spring day. He’d been staring out one of the windows at the back of the house. Sandy Island was hazy but visible in the distance.

“Elliot Davis’s office. Yes? Oh, hi, Freddie. What’s up?”

Davis leaned forward, his eyebrows raised. Wilson held up a finger.

“Really? Are you certain? Okay, thanks. I’ll talk to you a little later.”

Wilson’s expression did not change. In fact it rarely ever did—he was as stone-faced as they came. If you were to draw a picture of his mouth, a short, straight line would be more than sufficient.

Davis was about to crawl out of his pants. “Well?”

Wilson permitted himself a rare smile in this instant—one side of that short, straight line curled upward almost a millimeter.

“Congratulations, Elliot. You’re going to be our next mayor. Our current one just figuratively tipped over his king.”

Davis stood and shook Wilson’s hand.

“Great, Tom, just great. Sad that it had to happen this way, but…”

Wilson nodded, tried to appear empathetic. Inside he was savoring the victory.

“Yes, very sad. Very sad indeed.”

Mark set the cell phone gingerly on the passenger seat and pressed the foam-covered bud into his ear. The microphone hung about six inches farther down the coated wire, bouncing off his neck. He worked the tiny buttons without taking his eyes off Bay Avenue, cruising past Marine Street in central Beach Haven. Jennifer picked up on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi!”

Warmth flooded into him, a nourishing, soul-caressing warmth. He had grown addicted to the joy in her voice whenever she picked up the phone and found him on the other end. That unabashedly I’m-so-glad-to-hear-you tone that made him feel like he was truly wanted. They’d been together nearly a year now, and it was still as bright and sincere as ever. I love her so much, he thought.

“What’s going on? Are you almost there?”

“Yeah, almost. I just wanted to call and say hello, tell you that I loved you, and make sure everything’s still on for later.”

“You bet it is. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“Great.”

“And I love you, too, Mark.”

He paused, stiffened slightly. His foot went to the brake pedal on its own as he drew too close to an elderly woman puttering along in a rusting red something-or-other from the sixties.

“You do?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really? I mean…really?”

“Yes,” she said through a laugh that sounded more like an attempt to clear dust from her nose. “You silly, of course I do.”

He relaxed, smiled. “Okay. Sorry, I don’t mean to be so needy.”

“That’s all right.”

It is? Are you sure about that?
The words were there, in that echoey place in his brain where all his words were manufactured. But he clenched his teeth and kept them in. He didn’t want to push, didn’t want to turn her off. If he pushed too much she might…

Disappear like your dad did? Or maybe just stop loving you like your mom? Stop loving you and pretend you’re not even there? No…please God, no. Not with Jen. Not that. Anything but that. Anything…

“Uh…what time? Twelve-thirty?”

“Right, twelve-thirty,” she said. “I’ll bring the food, you just bring your wonderful self.”

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

“Okay,” she replied, kind of singing it—o-KAY-ee.

“Bye.”

He pressed the button that disconnected all calls and removed the bud from his ear. He tried to return his attention fully to the road as he entered Holgate, but it was hopeless. For nearly twelve months he had examined and re-examined the mystery of why a girl as sweet and as wonderful and as…normal as Jennifer King would want to dispose of her precious hours with the likes of him. She came from the kind of sane, stable world he only dreamed of—a nice home in a middle-class town, with parents who were still together and, from all outward appearances, still in love with each other. She was “good stock,” a girl any mother would want her son to marry.