Midnight Secrets

  The car parked smoothly by the sidewalk and his driver emerged to open his door. As soon as the door was open and he was visible, the dark afternoon lit up with the strobe lights as reporters used their flashbulbs. It was half-and-half. Half old-style reporters working for the dailies, holding out boom mikes, half bloggers with messy hair, sloppy jeans and cells held up.

  “Senator Blake, Senator Blake! Who will you choose to be your veep candidate?”

  The question was asked—shouted—by a young journo. Or maybe blogger? Hmm. Very pretty. Auburn hair cut short, green eyes accentuated by smoky eye shadow. Slim, great tits. Blake’s eyes fell to the lanyard around her neck. Area 8, an up and coming political blog.

  There was something familiar about the blogger. Maybe Blake had seen her on TV. He was good with faces and he never forgot a pretty one. So it was strange to find that face familiar but not know where he’d seen her before.

  Never mind. She was as good a place to start as anywhere.

  He stopped right in front of her, clearly ready to answer questions. But instead of gratitude, the minx, she looked up at him, eyes narrowed. Not intimidated, not grateful.

  “Senator Blake, word on the street has it that you might not be running after all. That you might endorse someone else. What do you say to that?”

  Shit! Did that fuckhead London talk? If that preening, empty-headed moron spilled the beans, Blake would have his balls on a plate. But London wouldn’t have talked. Too much depended on discretion. The presidency, no less.

  Blake’s heart beat hard in his chest and he had to school his face to blandness. He smiled down into the reporter’s eyes, momentarily nonplussed to find them so familiar. And intelligent. This was a sharp one and he had to tread carefully. She was getting info from somewhere.

  Blake smiled. His patented you’re-not-getting-anything-from-me smile. “Why, where would you get that idea?”

  She didn’t smile back, simply held her cell up. “Rumors swirl in this city, Senator. You know that better than anyone.”

  The little bitch. Blake wasn’t going to play this game. He held up his hand and turned his head slightly. When played back, the viewer would see a palm and a one-quarter profile. Of no interest for a podcast.

  “This country doesn’t run on rumors, it runs on facts,” he said flatly and moved away. He motioned to his chief of staff and assistant. They came in fast and spearheaded his way through the crowd as he moved forward in a babble of voices.

  Hands reached out to touch him, heads swiveled to follow his progress along the walkway.

  Thank God the plate glass entry doors were wide open. His staff would have insisted on that, knowing he liked to get into buildings fast. He hated revolving doors, they made him feel trapped, shuffling slowly at everyone else’s pace.

  With each step, he realized he had made not only the smart move but also the right move. Politics at this level wasn’t for him. He’d had to glad-hand thousands of Virginians to be elected senator but the presidency? A year and a half of touching thousands and thousands, maybe even millions of voters. A year and a half of bad meals, hotel rooms, smiling at crappy jokes, pretending to like the local pols who endorsed him.

  No, very soon, within the hour, all this would be behind him and he himself would be behind the throne. London would obey him and he’d be Cardinal Richelieu, crafty and strong, to the weakling Louis XIII.

  He, Hector Blake, was going to bring the country to its knees, and it was going to bow to him and the masters he served. But he would stay in the shadows, as real power must.

  Suddenly, the clutching hands, anxious faces, fevered voices got to him. Years ago he’d perfected the art of moving fast without looking like he was hurrying. He couldn’t wait to get this farce over with. He lengthened his stride and watched as his aides and chief of staff scrambled, startled, to keep up with him.

  Blake was only a few yards from the big entry doors of the hotel when someone bumped into him, hard. He was knocked back a step and almost fell. A hard hand grasped his neck, steadied him.

  A vet. A homeless vet, by the look of him. Matted filthy hair, long beard, dark round sunglasses, a BDU that looked like it had been slept in for weeks. And the smell. God. Blake barely kept from wrinkling his nose in distaste. The man smelled like a sewer, with an additional layer of stale beer breath.

  “Don’t forget the vets!” the man shouted, spewing saliva.

  Blake closed his eyes and stepped back in instinctive horror. God only knew if the man was carrying a disease. He was shouting slogans, rambling phrases, as one of the security guards placed at the hotel’s entrance rushed forward and wrestled him away from Blake. The man struggled but the guard was strong. Blake saw the back of his head, tangled dirty hair straggling over his shoulders.

  Blake cricked his neck, a little ache coming from where the man had grasped him.

  God, he hated people. And he particularly hated poor people. He could never have put up with the farce of a presidential campaign.

  He moved ahead again, eager to get this over with. As he entered the huge ballroom, thousands of people shouted when they saw him. Those who weren’t near the doors saw him enter the room on the huge monitors on the walls.

  Unnerved by his encounter with the vet, Blake made his way forward, touching as few people as possible. Clearly expecting him to glad-hand his way slowly to the podium, his handlers and the security people behind scrambled to catch up as he walked up the short staircase to the podium.

  The roar of the crowd intensified, grew deafening. Blake appeared to bask in it, head uplifted, smiling. Though it was a crowd of politicized people, mostly wealthy, he could smell sweat under the thick haze of perfume. Some women down under the podium were screaming and jumping up and down in a frenzy. Very close to what looked like an epileptic fit.

  They weren’t crazy for him, but for what he represented—the Delvauxes, who had been taken from America. He represented pre-Washington Massacre America. He represented the America that kicked ass, not the weakened giant everyone perceived but no one could say. The crowd wanted a Delvaux but if they couldn’t have Alex, then they’d take his best friend.

  Well, they weren’t even going to get the surrogate Delvaux.

  They were going to get a puppet and Blake’s job now was to make sure they’d scream for that puppet.

  The crowd swayed to the piped in beat of “Happy”, waving banners with 3 x 5 posters of his head, as if he or any politician could make them happy. The song had been chosen by his PR team and would do for London, too. “Happy” was a perfectly fine anthem for unhappy times.

  Blake stood at the podium, spotlights honed in on his smiling face, seemingly soaking in the adoration, taking in the frantic crowds, foot tapping to the music, arms up, embracing everything about the event.

  The lights blinded him but he was able to pick out people he knew in the crowd nonetheless. But most of the screaming enthusiastic men and women were complete strangers who had no idea who he really was. They were screaming for an idea, not a man. And even the idea was nebulous. Bright, shiny future. Prosperity while saving the environment. Inclusion, as long as it wasn’t of people too different from them. Helping the third world as long as it didn’t affect their lifestyle.

  That’s what they were screaming for.

  They were so ripe. This time next year or maybe the year after, they’d have overlords and he’d be one of them and all the confusion and panic of freedom would be gone forever. They’d be told what to do and when to do it and they’d be happier.

  Finally, when he judged the peak of enthusiasm had passed, he held his hands up. He bent to the microphone, judging it would take three passes.

  “Dear friends,” he began, but they were still enthusiastically shouting and waving. Blake put an indulgent smile on his face and bent again. “Dear friends.”

  They started shushing each other as he waited, kindly smiling at them all.

  He patted the air and finally there was silence in th
e great hall, an expectant hush.

  “Dear friends.” Blake looked out over the crowd once everyone had settled down. He’d perfected the paternal smile, a loving father surveying his beloved progeny. Each and every one of you is precious to me, that smile said. “This city, our country, suffered a grievous loss half a year ago.” When the crowd understood that he was opening with the Massacre, even the rustling stopped and they listened reverently. “Our attackers hate us, hate what we represent. And the only way they know how to deal with that is to kill what they don’t, and they can’t, understand. Not only did we lose many of our best and brightest, including the man I believe from the bottom of my heart was to be our next president, but we lost something even deeper. Our hope for the future. But the enemy cannot be allowed to win. They didn’t destroy our spirit!”

  Spontaneous applause. He waited it out. The smiling politician was gone, replaced by the somber statesman.

  “We need a special kind of person to lead us in these perilous times.” Blake bowed his head and when he lifted it again, there was the sheen of tears in his eyes. He could see himself on a monitor to the side and he had to admit, he was good. He had a sad cast to his face, a man who’d known tragedy and had survived, but it had marked him forever. “I intended to be that man. I wanted to be that man with all my heart. But my soul is troubled. I must admit this to you, my dear friends. I am not the man I was. I have worked hard to be what I once was. I have talked to my friends and my pastor. I have prayed on it.” Another head bow and he bit his lower lip. You could hear a pin drop in the room. Something unexpected was coming and everyone felt it.

  Blake lifted his head, looked out over the crowd, everyone still, watching him.

  “Dear friends.” His voice was hoarse and he coughed to clear it. He drew a hand down his face, surreptitiously wiping his eyes. Every single person in the room took note. If possible, the crowd grew even more silent. All eyes on him. “Dear friends, fellow Americans, as I said, I have prayed hard over this decision. I have searched the depths of my soul and I find I must bear open my heart to you.” He allowed his voice to wobble. “I am—I am not the man I was before the Massacre. Before—before, I was willing to go all the way to support my friend, Alex Delvaux, in his voyage to the White House. I believed with all my heart that he is—” Blake stopped, put on a horrified expression as he corrected himself. “He was the right man for the job. The job of leading these great United States forward into the third decade of the twenty-first century. Alex Delvaux is—was—a man of the future who understood the values of the past. He was one of a kind, and we will not see his like again for generations.”

  Blake’s voice broke and he conjured up a tear or two, enough to make his cheeks glisten in the glow of the spotlights. Flashes from journalists’ cameras started up, creating a strobe effect.

  Blake heaved a sigh. “I knew it would be hard to fill Alex’s shoes. Almost impossible. He was a man with a strong vision for our country and with the strong hand necessary to make that vision come true. I knew Alex well. He was my best friend. His family was like my family, and I honestly thought, unworthy though I am, I could pick up the fallen torch. But—” He held up his hand. Utter silence in the room. Not even a rustling of clothes. “The Massacre broke something in me. I lost my best friend. I lost friends I’ve known since childhood. I cannot stop grieving and my heart is too full of sorrow to be an effective candidate. After much thought and prayer, I realize that I am not the man who can pick up that fallen torch. There is a better man than I for our party and for our country.”

  Blake stopped, looked heavenward. Actually he looked up at the lighting technician’s bay. They’d arranged this and the technicians knew what to do.

  Blake pointed his finger dramatically. “There he is! This is the man who can carry this country forward into the future and keep us safe from further attacks!”

  The lighting technician unerringly spotlit John London’s distinguished face. Piped-in music blared. Nobody was clapping. Most of the morons in the room had their mouths open.

  London had the idiotic look of the beauty contestant who’d just been declared Miss America. He all but burst into tears.

  Fucker was ruining the moment.

  Blake gave a prearranged signal and the lights focused on him again. He leaned forward, making his voice deep, serious, but excited. “Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends, let’s hear it for the next president of these United States, John London!”

  Portland

  Isabel watched the events unfolding in the Sentinel Hotel ballroom. She’d been in the kitchen preparing a ton of food, happily humming. Three guys, two and maybe three women. Lunch and afternoon snacks and then dinner. Her head swirled with recipes and that gear she had, the one that told her unerringly what food paired well with what, had finally cranked to life after being dead for so long.

  “Honey!” Joe’d called from the living room. “Come see this.”

  Isabel had walked into the living room, drying her hands on her apron, looking with indifference at the screen. Some kind of political rally. She couldn’t care less.

  Then she saw the chyron on the bottom, big red letters scrolling across the bottom of the screen. HECTOR BLAKE STEPS DOWN, APPOINTS JOHN LONDON AS PARTY STANDARD-BEARER.

  What? She stood stock-still, shocked to the core.

  John London was a joke! Those handsome looks hid a mediocre mind and dubious morals. Dad had hated him.

  Joe put an arm around her. “I’m sorry, honey. That should have been your father.”

  “Yes, it should have been. Uncle Hector was a miserable replacement. But John London? He’s not worthy in any way of this. He’s a moron and a lech. I’m ashamed to have him mentioned in the same breath as Dad.”

  Joe looked at her curiously. “Yeah. I wasn’t able to follow US politics too closely in the field, but London’s been around a long time. No one has ever praised him for his smarts. But a lech?”

  “Pinched me once so hard I was sore for days,” Isabel said. “Tried to fondle my breasts when I was sixteen. He’s a total creep. And he doesn’t give a shit about the environment. How dare Uncle Hector choose him as if he were a natural successor to Dad!” She frowned up at him. “What?”

  He’d gone all stiff, his hand biting into her shoulder.

  “He pinched you? Fondled you?” Joe’s voice sounded choked.

  “Yes. He’s a creep. What was Uncle Hector thinking?”

  “I want to tear his throat out,” Joe said.

  So did she.

  “I like your thinking, Joe.” She sighed. “But it’s not possible. He’s going to be surrounded by Secret Service agents from now on. And I don’t think pinching and fondling, however awful, are crimes that warrant having your throat torn out.”

  Though the idea was appealing.

  John London as president of the United States was so wrong on so many different levels she felt sick. But he’d make it probably, if he could keep it in his pants and if they didn’t let him talk too much. Other morons had made it. And there could never be a candidate like her dad. Certainly not Hector and certainly not London.

  Her father had been smart and good and capable of fighting for what he believed in. He’d had solid old-fashioned values while being open and tolerant. And he truly believed in protecting the environment and would have fought—and fought hard—special interests. There was no one else like him on the political horizon.

  And her mother’s nightmare, the reason they’d fought so bitterly over his candidacy, had actually come true. He’d been assassinated.

  And so had she.

  “This must be disturbing for you.” Joe kissed the top of her head. “Knowing your father and knowing him.”

  She looked up at him and for the first time saw something she should have seen before. He shared characteristics with her father, which hadn’t occurred to her before. She’d thought they were polar opposites.

  Her father had loved living large. He always dressed in expe
nsive clothes, wore expensive shoes and had expensive tastes. She rarely saw Joe in anything but jeans and T-shirts. A jacket when he was really dressing up. Track shoes and boots. He didn’t have three-hundred-dollar haircuts and manicured nails.

  But he said what he meant and he meant what he said and there didn’t seem to be any bullshit in him at all, exactly like her father.

  “It is. I hate the thought of a man like that representing my father in any way.” She snaked her arm around Joe’s lean waist and rested her head against his shoulder. “Nothing I can do about it, though.”

  Joe kissed her head again. “Nope. Maybe he’ll lose. Then I rip his throat out when there aren’t Secret Service agents around. How’s that sound?”

  Isabel smiled. “Perfect. So, who’s coming today to turn my house into a fortress?”

  “Jacko and Metal and maybe the Senior. One of my bosses. He didn’t know if he could make it, but he’ll try.”

  “The Senior? Is that his name?”

  “No. His ranking. Former ranking, but we all just call him the Senior. He was a Senior Chief.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “Man, that guy defines serious. You did not want to get on the wrong side of the Senior. Talk about ripping your throat out. He’d do worse when we were in the military, like ordering us to drop onto the grinder and pump out an extra hundred and fifty.” Joe shook his head, smiling faintly though Isabel didn’t see how pumping out a hundred and fifty push-ups could be a fond memory. “Then go for a ten-mile run in the freezing surf. That’s if he found a wrinkle in your bed. If you missed a target on the range, then he’d get creative.”

  Isabel blinked. “He sounds—he sounds cruel.” Did she want someone like that in her home?

  “No, not cruel.” Joe took her hands in his. His face had turned sober. “Not cruel at all. The Senior’s job was to train us to complete the mission while staying alive. He was our worst nightmare, until we actually went into battle. Being kind and soft to us in training was the very best way to get us killed in the field. If you sweat in training you don’t bleed in the field. That’s what we lived by. Man, we sweated a lot.”