Jim McGill 04 The Last Ballot Cast, Part 1 Page 5

  It was a big bedroom, up on the second floor, but there were four beds in it. Three of the beds had men lying on them, even though it was the middle of the day. Danny was told the remaining bed was his. He was shown where the bathroom was; all four of them in the room had to use it.

  Two of the men he had to share the room with looked real scary to Danny. They needed to shave and comb their hair and maybe not let their eyes look so crazy. The other man was younger than the two scary ones. He was sleeping, so quietly he looked like he might be dead.

  Danny didn’t want to be in the room with the men.

  He asked, “Can’t I be in with some other kids?”

  The two guys who walked him everywhere only smiled at him and closed him into the room with the others. Danny got into the bed he’d been told was his and crawled under the covers even though the room was warm.

  One of the scary men, the one with a scar running down his forehead, grinned at Danny and asked him, “What’re you in for, kid?”

  Danny rolled over and faced the wall.

  He heard two of the men laugh at him.

  The other guy was probably still asleep — or dead.

  Danny must have fallen asleep, too, because the next thing he knew he woke up with a boner in his hand. At first, he thought he must have been dreaming of the pictures he saw in the manga comic book. Then an image popped into his head of a real woman — who was as bare naked as any of the girls in the drawings. Only her effect on him was far more powerful. He almost moaned in ecstasy.

  Almost, but something told him to turn his mouth into the pillow and stifle the sound. Still, he had to do something to relieve himself. It wasn’t hard to figure out what. He’d have to be careful, though. His big brother, Chill, had told him not to jerk off in bed without having something to catch his squirt.

  Making sure to be quiet so he didn’t wake the others, Danny slipped out of bed and into the bathroom. There was no lock on the bathroom door but he felt safer in there than in the bedroom. If he was quick about it, no one would catch him.

  Would they?

  He listened closely for sounds from the other room, heard the steady rasp of two guys — the scary ones, he thought — snoring. Nothing from that third guy. What about all those other guys, though, the ones who walked him around. The ones who asked him questions. The ones who watched him all the time. He listened some more and didn’t hear anyone moving around.

  Maybe they’d forgotten about him. Maybe they just didn’t care about him any more.

  Well, he didn’t care about them either.

  It was the time to take his boner for a ride.

  He put a hand against the wall over the toilet and closed his eyes. There she was, the woman who got him so worked up. She was standing now, too. Showing herself to him front and back, anything he wanted to see. It surprised him a little but what he wanted to look at most was her face. God, she was beautiful.

  And when she smiled at him —

  Oh, Christ! He’d forgotten the toilet paper. His free hand shot out and grabbed the whole roll right off the holder. The plastic spindle went flying and ricochetted around the room sounding, to his ears, like a church bell clanging.

  Not that he could stop then. The pleasure went on and on. Made him dizzy.

  Then a voice, the guy with the scar, called out to him.

  “Hey, kid! You wanna hurry up in there? You’re not the only one who wants to jack off.”

  The intrusion would have scared the hell out of Danny Templeton, but he was gone.

  Dr. Damon Todd was back. Smiling. Grateful to his dream girl, Chana Lochlan.

  Fucking CIA had tried everything they could think of to bring him out of hiding.

  Never occurred to them all they needed to do was give him a hand job.

  Salvation’s Path Administration Building

  Ellie Booker decided to run the risk of having Reverend Burke Godfrey send for her rather than go to him. She’d have the element of surprise that way, but maybe the feds would make their call demanding the surrender of Godfrey and all his people while she waited. The Rev might tell them to fuck off. Then there would be no stopping a government onslaught, and she’d have lost the chance to show she was on the good guys’ side.

  Would lose the opportunity to grab Godfrey and surrender him to the feds.

  Her hunch, though, was the call would come later in the day. Special ops units liked to get things rolling in the dead of night when the bad guys could barely keep their eyes open. Of course, Godfrey might have his ragtag militia amped up on meth and ready to shoot at anything that moved, but Ellie didn’t see that. Drugs wouldn’t fit with the Rev’s holier-than-thou world view. Of course, it probably hadn’t taken anything more than zeal to get that clown to fire a burst at the FBI helicopter.

  So, really, she couldn’t be sure what Godfrey’s people might do. Still, she had to trust her instincts. Ellie, now armed and dangerous, went back to her car and dictated a narrative of the siege at Salvation’s Path up to that moment. Having fulfilled her professional responsibility, she cracked the windows of her car an inch to keep the temperature bearable, reclined the driver’s seat and went to sleep.

  She dreamed of Hugh Collier and Sir Edbert Bickford cursing her as she told them to go fuck themselves. She no longer worked for WorldWide News. She was keeping the publication, broadcast and movie rights to her account of the takedown at Salvation’s Path. Hugh and Sir Edbert threatened to sue her. She laughed at them. She’d lived through the firefight at the church compound, shooting video and taking notes as the battle raged around her.

  If she could survive that, two jerks like Hugh and Sir Edbert couldn’t scare her.

  What woke her with a jolt was a hand rapping on her car window. She raised her head to see, what was his name? Art … Dunston. Yeah. Reverend Burke’s public information officer. The lunatic who had raised the idea that the defenders of Salvation’s Path might emulate the ancient Israelis who had defended the fortress at Masada. Those madmen had spoiled the fun of the attacking Roman legions by committing mass suicide.

  It was all Ellie could do not to reach for the Beretta in her courier’s bag.

  “You want something?” she asked.

  If the guy said anything about Kool-Aid, she was going for her gun.

  But Dunston only smiled at her.

  “Reverend Godfrey would like to do an interview with you, Ms. Booker, the two of you on camera. I’ll handle the camera. If you need a few minutes to brush your hair and put on a little makeup, that would be fine.”

  “How come you’re not doing the interview? You’re on-air talent.”

  Dunston had told her he’d worked as an anchor at network affiliates in Georgia and South Carolina.

  “I could do it,” he agreed, “but I was small market talent. You’re WorldWide News.”

  Despite her dream, Ellie was going to hang on to that perception as long as it had any possible value to her.

  “Okay,” she said. She looked at the sky and saw the sun was going down. The clock on the dashboard said it was 7:15. “You think maybe you could get me ginger ale or something?”

  She unlocked the door and Dunston opened it for her.

  “Whatever you like, Ms. Booker. I’m here to please.”

  Yeah, right up to the moment it was time for everyone to take that last jump. She slung her bag over her shoulder and wondered if she’d have to kill Dunston to make her plan work.

  The Oval Office

  Until that moment — 8:00 p.m. — Mather Wyman had chosen not to sit behind Patricia Grant’s desk in the Oval Office. It was all well and good, and certainly necessary, that he fulfill the responsibilities with which he’d been entrusted, but the last thing he wanted was to seem too eager about filling the president’s … well, no, not her shoes. They’d be far too small for him. But her role.

  He was waiting to take a call from Patti Grant and had thought to do it at Edwina Byington’s desk. The president’s secretary had told him th
e only proper place for him to take or make any call was at the president’s desk — which for the time being was his desk. He was no mere functionary dotting i’s and crossing t’s; he, too, had sworn an oath to support and defend the Constitution. The country was depending on him now, and the American people had to be reassured that he was up to the job.

  Wyman was fewer than ten years younger than Edwina, but hearing her speak he imagined his mother would have said the same to him, gently lecturing him about the proper way to do things and his obligations to others. He’d long thought his mother had been the only person in his family who knew he was gay. She’d never said so directly; that would have been anything but her style. He suspected she wouldn’t have criticized him had he revealed himself to her and the world.

  He just hadn’t had the courage to take the chance of doing anything that might make her think less of him. His fear, he came to think, had caused him to fail to give his mother sufficient credit. Letting her go to her grave without being honest with her was a great regret.

  His comfort was that could she see him now she would think well of him.

  As he sat behind the president’s desk, he felt he belonged there.

  In Patricia Grant’s absence, he could think of no one better to be in his position.

  He had called George Washington University Hospital an hour earlier. Jim McGill had taken the call. He said the president would be happy to speak with him, but she wouldn’t be available for a little while. Where might she call him back? To his credit, he hadn’t said Edwina’s desk; he’d said the Oval Office.

  He was pleased that McGill hadn’t been affronted.

  The phone rang and Wyman picked up.

  Edwina told him, “Mr. Acting-President, Madam President is on the line.”

  He heard laughter in the background.

  “Madam President, is that you?” he asked.

  “It is, Mather. Are you happy now, Edwina?”

  “I am, Madam President. Thank you for obliging me.”

  The president’s secretary clicked off.

  “What was that all about?” Wyman asked.

  “Edwina thought a phone introduction between the two of us would make a good line for volume one of her memoirs,” Patti said.

  Wyman chuckled. “I’d better be careful what I say around her.”

  “She’ll treat both of us kindly, I’m sure. How are you, Mather?”

  “Coping well, I think. How are you, Madam President?”

  “I just had a medical once over. I’m afraid the company of watchful physicians is going to be a regular thing for the near future. After that, I was allowed to take a warm bath which left me feeling wonderful.”

  Wyman was happy to hear that, but didn’t think it proper for him to comment on any woman’s bath, much less that of the president.

  He said, “Would I be remiss to give you a briefing on the situation at Salvation’s Path, and to ask your opinion on one point of what I have in mind for Reverend Godfrey? I wouldn’t want to spoil your feeling of well-being.”

  There was a beat of silence.

  Then Patti said, “Mather, if I didn’t trust you completely, I wouldn’t have asked you to join me on the ticket. Whatever you decide, short of a presidential pardon, you have my complete support. If you want to let me know what you intend, especially now that you’ve made me curious, I’ll be happy to listen. If you’d like my advice, I’ll be happy to give it.”

  Wyman said, “I wasn’t sure of the proper etiquette for this situation.”

  Patti told him, “Make the boss look good usually works.”

  “I’ll make a note of that.”

  They both laughed. Wyman told Patti of the plan the military had devised.

  “Galia told Admiral Dexter about the tunnels?” Patti asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Has anyone considered that Burke Godfrey might already have used them to make an escape?” Patti asked.

  “We have. FBI agents are watching the exits. Nobody has left that we can tell. That leads to the only point left for me to consider. Should I make a call to Godfrey, give him a last chance to surrender?”

  Patti said, “That would be one way to determine if he’s still around. If you’re told he won’t talk to you, that would be a good sign that he’s already on the run. But an implied ultimatum — this is your last chance — would let the people inside the wall know the battle was about to begin.”

  “That’s what Admiral Dexter has told me. He thinks talking to Godfrey would increase the chances that his people would take casualties.”

  Patti was momentarily silent again.

  Then she said, “Not if … he’s planning to use special forces, I assume.”

  “Yes, Madam President.”

  “What I would do then, Mather, is have Admiral Dexter move his people as close to church grounds as possible, either in the tunnels or if possible onto the property itself. If Godfrey refuses your offer or doesn’t take your call, have the assault team strike immediately. My guess is an amateur militia won’t be up to dealing with special ops people that quickly. You’ll need to get the military’s opinion of that idea, but it seems to me to preserve most, if not all, of the element of surprise while giving us the high ground of offering Godfrey one last chance.”

  Mather Wyman was humbled. Patricia Grant had come up with that idea off the top of her head. From her hospital room. He might be capable of doing the job he’d been handed, but he didn’t have the mastery of the boss.

  “An excellent idea, Madam President,” Wyman said. “I’ll call Admiral Dexter.”

  “Thank you for calling, Mather. You’ve made me feel I’m still useful. I hope, I think, all will go well. I’d like to hear from you again, whatever happens. If I’m not available, please tell Jim. He’ll make sure I hear.”

  “Yes, Madam President. Be well. We all look forward to welcoming you back.”

  “Thank you, Mather, and remember, a win will look good for both of us.”

  Founding Farmers Restaurant — Washington, D.C.

  Elspeth Kendry got to the restaurant at 8:30 p.m., as requested. The shrink from Georgetown University, who used to work for the CIA and had called to request the meeting, was waiting for her when she arrived. He’d told her his name was Daryl Cheveyo and had said he would be the best looking Hopi-Navajo guy in the joint. It helped that he wore a button on his lapel that said: Native American before you were.

  Elspeth extended her hand to him and said, “You’ve got me there. I was born overseas.”

  “No reason to be ashamed,” Cheveyo told her. “Immigration’s been quite the fad the past four or five centuries.”

  A hostess showed them to a table for two in a corner, twenty feet from the next closest diner. The restaurant closed at ten on Sunday and the evening rush had come and gone. Elspeth got the feeling that Cheveyo had motivated the staff to maintain their zone of privacy.

  He’d also been considerate enough to pick a place just blocks from the White House.

  They browsed their menus and ordered salads: Late Harvest for her, 17 Vegetables for him.

  “That is a cool button,” Elspeth told him, smiling.

  “An acquaintance, Marlene Flower Moon, gave it to me. She works for the BIA. Went to some big three-day law enforcement conference here in town. What I heard was, some starchy, arrived-on-the-Mayflower types were lording it over their lesser colleagues. Marlene showed up the next day wearing a button like this one. Got some dirty looks from the Mayflower crowd, but they suddenly got a lot more modest about their origins.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Yeah, well, she can be quite a handful herself, but I like the button, too.”

  Their meals and drinks came. Elspeth allowed a three-forkful grace period before asking, “What can I do for you, Dr. Cheveyo?”

  “You’ve already done a lot just by not being Celsus Crogher. Did he tell you that he almost broke my neck?”

  Crogher hadn’t. But that certain
ly explained why he had sent her to talk with Cheveyo. Elspeth listened closely to the shrink’s story. It was always helpful to know your superior had a homicidal streak in him.

  She said, “I’ve read the file on Damon Todd as part of getting up to speed on my new job, but I didn’t see anything about you and SAC Crogher.”

  Cheveyo laughed. “You want to publish a bestseller? Compile all the things that get left out of government reports.”

  “If somebody tried that, I believe the current Supreme Court would find that prior restraint didn’t violate the First Amendment after all,” Elspeth told him.

  “No doubt. Freedom of the press? Who needs it? Anyway, the reason I’m talking with you is I made a promise to James J. McGill to let him know if anything changed regarding Dr. Todd’s status.”

  “Has it?” Elspeth asked.

  She knew from doing her homework that Todd had tried to kill the president’s husband after McGill went to work for Chana Lochlan. She was his first client as a private investigator and he had brought an end to a really creepy relationship between Dr. Todd and Ms. Lochlan.

  Taking umbrage, Todd had tried to kill McGill.

  Things hadn’t worked out for Todd and a court remanded him to the custody of the CIA.

  “I can’t say for certain that it has,” Cheveyo told her, “but that’s the feeling I have.”

  “Based on what?”

  “Sad to say, my former colleagues have been unable to penetrate the cover personality Todd constructed for himself — after three years of trying. Things have gotten so bad they called on me for advice, and you know how government agencies hate to admit they can’t handle anything in house.”