Green’s ghostly white face, Adams became very concerned.
“What is it?”
“The dead man is Robert Barker.”
This news caused Adams to momentarily stop breathing.
Before the shock really set in, Green continued.
“Remember how I said the shooting was a message for someone out in the TV audience? It would appear I was right. Unfortunately, that someone is you.” He held the phone out in front of him. “There’s a woman who wants to speak with you. As your campaign manager, I strongly suggest you take the call.”
With hands trembling, Adams took the phone and placed it to his ear.
“This is Douglas Adams.”
“Dougie, how are you holding up? I guess you’ll think twice about appearing on another morning show any time soon, huh? Well, let’s talk the talk for a few minutes. What happened to our mutual acquaintance Mr. Barker is a tragedy beyond compare but also a necessary evil.”
The woman spoke with a quiet intensity. Her manner was almost nonchalant, one moment speaking as if threatening and then switching to a gentler, yet deeply sarcastic tone.
“You see, Mr. President—I hope you don’t mind me being too presumptuous—we have a case of you scratch mine and I’ll scratch yours. Funny thing is I’ve already scratched your back, as you’re now well aware. Okay, enough of you—let’s talk about me and my needs. What I’m looking for in a man, Dougie, is someone who can use all his power to shut down Mantis Pharmaceuticals.”
“That’s Barker’s company,” Adams said, fear falling off each syllable. “How am I going to shut down a dead man’s company?” he asked swiping his brow.
“I’m sure an influential man like yourself can do anything you set your little mind to. Otherwise, the press will be very interested in certain campaign donations—or should I call them by their real name: kickbacks—from the Litchfield Corporation. You know—the guys in direct competition with Mantis for those big government grants you and your cronies are always giving out.”
Green snapped into action, seizing the phone before it hit the floor as Adams sat on the couch, shaking uncontrollably.
“This is Harold Green again. I don’t know what you’ve told Douglas but I assure you whatever it was, we can work this out. We all know what Douglas is after and as his right-hand man, I know whatever you’re after is attainable.”
Green listened intently as the caller reiterated her business proposal.
At its conclusion, he said, “I’m not sure how we’re going to manage that. You have our word though, that as soon as Barker is identified, we will begin to resolve your situation to your satisfaction.”
“Stop with the lawyer jibber-jabber. I know you’ll come through, otherwise Adams will have a lot of explaining to do, won’t he? Kissing the presidency goodbye will only be the beginning of his troubles. Now put the old guy back on.”
“Yes?” Adams said wearily.
“Your yes-man said we’re in business, even though I don’t trust him wholeheartedly, if you know what I mean. So, as a final inducement to get the deed done before Election Day, I want you to remember one thing.” An extended pause almost caused Adams to have a seizure as the anticipation built. “Just so you know, the press kits I’ve made up not only document your questionable dealings with Litchfield, they also contain some lovely photos of you and your wife—oops, a little Freudian slip there. I meant to say you and Robert Barker’s wife, Lynn.”
Douglas Adams’ heart rate skyrocketed. What remaining blood was in his cheeks drained away, leaving him with the facial mask a refrigerated corpse would be proud to call its own.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he wept into the phone.
“Because the bigger they are, the harder they fall.”
“Please leave Lynn out of this. I’ll do anything you want,” Douglas pleaded. “By killing her husband you’ve caused her enough pain.”
The voice laughed.
“Did I say I killed Mr. Barker? Well that is simply not true.”
In a voice now weathered by life, Douglas asked the fateful question, knowing the answer would surely kill him.
“Then who did?”
“I can see the giant headline dancing in front of me as we speak: ‘Wife Kills Hubby on National TV. Senator’s Mistress Hoping to Become First Lady.’” Hearing only Douglas’ laboured breathing, the woman’s tone turned serious once more. “If you play straight with us, you won’t have a care in the world.”
Douglas’ wheezing intensified.
“Think about it, okay? You kill Mantis and we won’t kill your career, your reputation or your mistress.”
The wheezing stopped.
“What do you mean kill my mistress?”
The connection was abruptly terminated.
Seconds later, Harold Green was frantically dialing 911.
“Presidential candidate Senator Douglas Adams is in the midst of a medical attack of some kind and emergency attention is needed immediately!”
* * *
She placed the phone in her pocket and walked to the car.
“How’d it go?” the male driver inquired.
“Let’s just say the campaign manager is currently asking one of the security guards to loan Adams his underwear for the day.”
“That well, huh?”
“Couldn’t have gone better.” She searched through her purse and asked, “Got a smoke?”
“These things’ll kill you,” the driver said, handing her a pack from his shirt pocket.
She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“What do I care? I’m about to become a multi-millionaire.”
“No, I’m about to become a multi-millionaire,” the driver corrected her. “You’re about to become my wife.”
“Keep talking like that and I may soon afterwards become a widow.” She laughed and smiled broadly. “If you know what I mean.”
The drive would take less than half an hour, during which would be a chance to reflect—individually. Talking would come later. Basking in personal satisfaction for a job well done came first.
Their thoughts, however, were nearly identical.
* * *
After the initial adrenaline rush of the shooting and the subsequent getaway, they had to act fast—dumping the Volvo off and then
