possibilities were endless. He was now a direct link to a national tragedy. He could take a stronger stand on gun control and not have to worry about backlash from the NRA. He could make it a personal crusade to see that the shooter was brought to swift justice, although he knew he had no real clout over police matters. Regardless, he understood people loved politicians who talked tough.
In light of what happened, he could position himself with the “little guy” who can’t even ask a question of a presidential candidate without having to fear for his life.
This is potent stuff, all right.
With thoughts of sugar plum voters still dancing in his head, the car came to a sudden stop in front of a dilapidated house.
“What are you doing? Why are we stopped here?”
The driver exited the car and opened the back door.
“We’re going inside, sir.”
A black station wagon drove into the driveway and Jameson got out. Seeing Adams still in the car, he instructed, “Out—come on!”
From outside the house looked like a real fixer-upper, but inside resembled something torn out of Architecture Achievements Magazine. Adams was stunned. After downing a shot of scotch in the living room, Adams was relieved to see his campaign manager, Harold Green, enter the large living room.
“Is all this spy stuff really necessary?”
“As there has been no apparent attempt on your life thus far, probably not,” came Green’s reply, stepping to the window overlooking the street. “Pretty efficient though, don’t you think?”
“I haven’t had time to think,” Adams said irritably. His features loosened slightly and he added, “That’s not true. I have been—”
Green cut him off.
“Been thinking about the polls, right? Voter recognition. Name recognition.” He turned on his heel and faced his boss with a mile-wide smile plastered across his face. “You can’t buy publicity like this!” he claimed as he took a seat beside Adams. “Don’t get me wrong—I feel genuinely sorry for that schmuck who got offed. He was probably a drug dealer or something.”
“Is that true?”
“Who knows? Who cares? Who would shoot a guy on national television who didn’t deserve it? And the bomb—don’t forget about the bomb.”
“What bomb?”
“The one that detonated right after the broad blew the guy away.” Green saw Adams’ confusion. “You were probably being led out when it went off. No matter. The fact is this thing was an organized hit. It was meant to send a very—how would you say—persuasive message to an individual out there in TV land.”
“You think it was a mob hit?”
“I don’t care if the guy was killed for stealing candy from a baby. He’s dead, you’re alive and this campaign is about to go through the stratosphere.” With a salute, Green added, “Mr. President.”
Adams was startled by Green’s certainty. The more he pondered the situation, however, the bigger the smile on his face also grew.
“This thing is huge. With only three weeks left, the President is now a lame duck candidate. How is he going to explain to John and Jane Public that after four years people still feel the need to—and have the means to—kill a fellow countryman? He can’t.” Green stood and began to pace the room, his arms flailing in front of him. “Our whole strategy has been to show the administration’s shortfalls and what better way to do that than a guy getting blown away during The Nation Today?”
“That’s all well and fine, but what about right now? How long are we going to stay in hiding?” Adams was becoming edgy about the house, not having a clue where he was.
“Only until the press release is ready,” Green replied. “We should be out of here within the half-hour.”
The thought appalled Adams.
“You’re issuing a statement while that dead man is still warm?”
“We really have no choice. If we don’t get our message of condolence to the family and our commitment to make sure this never happens again out there, the other camp will. And personally, I’d rather have Jason Morris read our statement with the whole nation riveted to the coverage than have him read Travers’ spin on things first. This is politics and I play to win.”
Adams knew his top man was right although the feeling didn’t sit well in his stomach.
“Whatever you have to do, do it. I’ll play along,” he conceded.
Green turned on the giant plasma television set in the corner of the room and switched to NCN.
“There is still no word from the police on the identity of the slain man,” Susan Donallee was saying.
The screen cut to a two-shot.
“This just in,” Jason Morris stated authoritatively. “We have been handed a press statement issued by presidential candidate Douglas Adams.”
Sitting on the overstuffed couch, Adams marveled at how quickly events were unfolding. The statement was relatively short in its length yet long on emotion and commitments. The last line slid out of Morris’ lips as though it were a personal pledge from God himself.
“In the days ahead, I will do everything to ensure that this kind of tragic incident never befalls another citizen of this great country.”
“Ha!” Green said triumphantly. “Try and top that!”
His self-congratulatory mood faded slightly when his cell phone went off.
“Hello. No, candidate Adams cannot speak at this moment. Who is this?”
The female voice on the other end was almost a whisper.
“Tell him Robert Barker’s killer wants to talk to him—privately.”
“Robert Barker?” Green turned to Adams and mouthed, Crank call. “Robert Barker isn’t dead. Now I don’t know how you got this—”
“Don’t you watch The Nation Today?” the throaty voice countered.
“Of course . . .”
Green’s face went blank as the pieces at last fell into place. His worst fears were confirmed as he glanced over at the TV and saw a frozen close-up of the man at the microphone.
It couldn’t be, he thought.
Even though the face was partially covered by his hat, there was something about the man’s sly smile that almost floored Green.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“To talk to the candidate, of course.” There was a pause before the caller added, “I know he’s with you, so don’t give me the runaround.”
“I
