The Election (34 page)

In the vicinity of Jackson, Tennessee

The owner of the used-car lot walked toward Osborne and Moyers when they exited their rental car. He slid a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, lit it, and smiled slyly as he approached.

This transaction would be easier than Bill first thought.

“You guys looking for anything in particular?” the owner asked in an exaggerated Southern drawl.

“My son's sixteenth birthday is this weekend,” Bill replied. “And my friend here is helping me look for a pickup for him.”

He and Al had visited virtually every used-car lot within a fifteen-mile radius of Jackson over the weekend looking for a truck that would fit their needs. Late Sunday afternoon they had spotted the navy Chevrolet Silverado truck with tinted windows for sale at this used-car lot. The business was closed, so they had contemplated simply stealing it. But that would have meant that the police would be looking for it, and they didn't need to take that chance. They'd decided to come back during business hours and use some of the Bureau's money to purchase it.

“How much do you want for this truck?” Bill asked. He walked slowly around the outside of the vehicle, as if he were actually inspecting it. Yet he and Al already knew it contained a modified engine for increased horsepower, and that was all that mattered to them.

“That one may have too much muscle for your boy,” the owner warned.

“You let me worry about that,” Bill quipped. “Just tell me how much.”

“Five thousand dollars,” the owner responded.

“Do you take cash?”

“I like that even better,” the owner said with a smile.

Bill gave a fictitious name for the title and registration. The processing of paperwork by used-car dealers was notoriously slow, and by the time the fiction was discovered, it would be too late. Within thirty minutes of arriving at the lot, the two agents were on their way with the last item they needed to eliminate Jake Reed.

 

Law offices of Holcombe & Reed, Jackson, Tennessee

Jake went to the office late Monday afternoon to check the mail and return a few phone calls. He stayed well past sundown, dictating replies to correspondence that had come in while he was out attending to Courtney. The rest of the staff, including Barrett, left well before he did.

“I've got about five more minutes of dictation,” he informed Rachel when she called to check on him. “Then I'll be on my way home.”

“Be careful,” Rachel admonished.

“I will. Butch Johnson is waiting in the parking lot to follow me home.”

“All right. I'll see you in a few minutes.”

Jake finished his dictation, turned out the lights, set the alarm system, and exited the office for his car. He waved at Deputy Johnson, who sat in his patrol car at the entrance to the parking lot. When the headlights on the patrol car flashed, Jake knew Deputy Johnson saw him.

Jake could faintly see his breath in the dark autumn sky as he exhaled and opened the car door. The heated seats in his Volvo were finally needed. He slid his wireless telephone into the mount on the dash and activated the hands-free option before backing out of his parking space.

 

Jackson, Tennessee

“That must be the all-clear signal,” Moyers said to Osborne. They waited in their newly acquired Silverado in a vacant parking lot a block and a half south of the Holcombe & Reed law offices. He'd seen the red taillights of the patrol car when he flashed his headlights at Jake.

“Reed must be coming out,” Al continued. “Let's go.”

Bill stomped the accelerator, and the truck sped from the vacant lot toward the Holcombe & Reed offices. The sudden acceleration pressed Al against the seat. Their instructions from Saul Sanders were explicit. Jake Reed had to die.

“That's his car,” Al said as he saw Jake's Volvo stopped at the edge of the parking lot, preparing to exit. “We've got to eliminate the deputy first.”

The truck slid to a stop beside the patrol car, and Al rapidly fired two muffled shots into the driver's-side window. He saw the deputy try to unholster his service revolver, but he didn't even have time to scream. The shattered glass from the window covered the deputy. Both rounds from Al's gun had struck him in the head, killing him instantly.

Al knew that Jake couldn't hear the shots just twenty feet away because of the pistol's suppressor, but he knew that Jake had witnessed the entire surreal scene. As Jake's car sped past, the right-side tires on the sidewalk, Al fired two shots. The second shattered the rear window in Jake's car.

“We can't let him get away!” Al screamed. He was thrown against the dashboard at the abrupt change in direction as Bill shoved the transmission into reverse and smashed the accelerator to the floor. Fifty feet later he swung the rear of the truck into the first available alley and simultaneously slammed the transmission into forward.

Jake's fleeing Volvo was barely a block in front of them, and they gave chase.

 

Jake's first thought, after realizing he was under attack and that Butch Johnson was most likely dead, was to reach the police station or the sheriff's department. Then he realized he was going in the opposite direction from both.

“I've got to lose 'em,” he muttered to himself. “Or they'll kill me too!”

He made a hard left turn at the first intersection, even though the light was red, and slid across the oncoming traffic on North Highland Avenue, almost striking a Lincoln Continental broadside.

Behind him, car horns blared as his pursuers evidently made the same maneuver.

 

“Stay with him!” Moyers yelled. He hung his arm out the passenger-side window and fired two more shots into Jake's car. The first finished off the rear window, and the second lodged in the front passenger's seat.

 

Jake screamed and tried to duck his head below his seat while keeping it high enough to see through the front windshield. The prey and his pursuers sped north from downtown, and Jake frantically wove in and out of the traffic, sometimes crossing the centerline as he tried to rid himself of his attackers. All to no avail.

Three more shots sounded. Two pierced the trunk of his car, and the third ricocheted off the roof.

The speedometer in Jake's dash pointed at eighty as he approached the intersection of North Highland Avenue and Windy City Road. He glanced over his right shoulder to see how close his attackers were and returned his gaze to the front just in time to see the rear of a Pontiac Grand Am rushing at him. He yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, barely missing the back right corner of the Grand Am, and slid into a right-hand turn onto Windy City Road.

“You idiot!” Jake screamed at himself.

 

Windy City Road, outside Jackson, Tennessee

“We've got him now,” Osborne said. “This road leads out of town.”

“Ram him!” Moyers yelled as he continued firing shots at Jake's car, trying either to strike Jake or at least one of the tires on his car.

“What?”

“Ram him! Run him off the road!”

Bill accelerated, and the gap between the Silverado and the Volvo narrowed quickly until he was able to ram into the rear of Jake's car.

 

As soon as Jake realized he'd made a big mistake—traveling away from the safety and protection of the lights and crowds of the city—he frantically dialed
9-1-1
on his wireless telephone.

At that same instant, his Volvo was violently rammed from behind. The force of the blow caused Jake to almost strike his head on the door pillar. The wheels on the right side of his vehicle slid off the pavement onto the shoulder of the road as gravel and dirt scattered wildly behind him. Instinctively he jerked the steering wheel back to the left, and the car resumed its original path. Jake pressed the accelerator as hard as he could, trying to distance himself from his attacker, and finally completed his distressed call to the Emergency 911 dispatcher.

“E 911. What is the nature of your emergency?” a calm voice asked.

“Someone is shooting at me and trying to run me off the road!” Jake screamed at the small microphone affixed to the driver's-side sun visor. He peered in his rearview mirror and realized he had not created much of a cushion between him and his pursuer. The headlights were again drawing closer at a great speed.

“Sir,” the female dispatcher began, “can you tell me who you are and where you are?”

“My name is Jake Reed! Please call Sheriff West!” he pleaded. “This is Jake Reed, and I'm heading north on Windy City Road. Please call Sheriff West!” he repeated frantically. He looked in his rearview mirror, and all he could see were headlights. “Here he comes again!”

The truck rammed hard into the rear of Jake's Volvo again. This time Jake could feel the front bumper of the truck lock onto the rear bumper of his car. At speeds greater than 80 mph the assailants' truck began to push Jake's car, and Jake knew he was helpless to prevent it.

“Sir, are you there?” the dispatcher said. “Mr. Reed, can you hear me?”

Jake couldn't respond. His mind tried to force words of distress through his mouth, but no sound resulted. He gripped the steering wheel, trying to control the direction of the car, and the knuckles on each hand turned white from the exertion.

Another shot must have struck his right rear tire, blowing out the rubber. In two short seconds Jake lost the battle for control of the car, and despite his practically standing up on the brake pedal, the Volvo began to veer off the right side of the road. The smell and smoke from rubber burning against asphalt filled the night air as Jake tried unsuccessfully to stop his vehicle.

“Sir, can you hear me? Mr. Reed, talk to me!” the dispatcher said.

The only audible sound Jake finally made was a horrifying scream associated with impending death. Both vehicles were still traveling at a high rate of speed, and in an instant Jake's car was completely off the road. He was being tossed around in the driver's seat, screaming, but caught a glimpse of the shiny steel guardrail to the bridge that traversed the Forked Deer River less than thirty feet in front of him. His only reaction was to jerk the steering wheel to the right, farther away from the road.

Jake's car broke loose from the front of the truck and bounded past the guardrail. He had no hope of stopping.

As the Volvo careened over the embankment to the Forked Deer River, thirty-five feet below, an image of Rachel and his three children appeared in his mind…

E 911 dispatch, Jackson, Tennessee

The Emergency 911 dispatcher heard the last few seconds; then the line went silent. She had heard pleas for assistance on numerous occasions before, always after an accident or crime had occurred. Never had she been listening when the person on the other end of the line died. She lowered her head momentarily before resuming her responsibilities.

“Sheriff's department, come in. Over.”

“Sheriff's department, go ahead,” replied the night dispatcher.

“This is E 911 dispatch. We had a call from a motorist on Windy City Road. He sounded as though he was run off the road by an assailant, and then the line went dead. He asked for me to call Sheriff West and said his name was Jake Reed.”

“Did he say where he was on Windy City Road?”

“Negative. He was only able to tell me he was going north.”

“I've got it. We'll send a patrol car.”

 

Windy City Road, outside Jackson, Tennessee

“Look out!” Moyers screamed from the passenger's seat as the truck slid to a noisy and dusty halt just before it, too, would have plunged over the embankment into the Forked Deer River. He and Osborne peered through the front windshield in some disbelief as to how the events had unfolded. They had not intended to push Jake over a bridge, Al knew, but the end result satisfied their need. Their plan had been to shoot him, execution style. Either way, he was dead, and that was all that mattered.

Unable to clearly see Jake's vehicle from this position, and scared to pull any closer to the river's edge, Bill shoved the transmission into reverse and stomped the accelerator. Al bounced around in the passenger side of the truck as it leaped backward onto the asphalt. He nearly slid onto the floor as Bill brought the truck to a screeching stop; then before it came to a complete rest, Bill slammed the transmission into drive and smashed the accelerator again. He stopped in the middle of the Forked Deer River Bridge, and from there Al was able to see only the taillights of Jake's Volvo near the surface of the water. The car was pointing straight down, and within a few seconds the taillights also disappeared from sight.

“It's done, Sanders,” Al said when the FBI director answered the call from his wireless phone. “Jake Reed is gone.”

“Are you certain?” Sanders inquired.

“As certain as I am about anything. We just watched his car sink to the bottom of a river with him in it. There's no way he survived.”

“Good, Al. That's good. That should be the end of our problems.”

In the distance Al could hear the faint sound of an approaching siren.

Bill immediately extinguished the exterior lights on the vehicle.

“We've got to go,” Al told Sanders.

The two agents drove away from the scene in the opposite direction of the approaching siren, with the headlights off, using only the glow from the full moon to illuminate their path. Soon they were far enough away to turn the lights back on, and they continued until they were safely away from the crime scene and its aftermath.

 

Reed residence, Jackson, Tennessee

Rachel looked again at the green numbers on the microwave clock in the kitchen.
7:35.
She'd expected Jake fifteen minutes ago, but there was no sign of him.

“I wonder what your daddy's doing?” she playfully asked Jeremy. “We better call and check on him to make sure nothing has happened.” She dialed the number for Jake's wireless phone.

“The wireless customer you are trying to reach is not available at this time,” the recording began. “Please try your call again later.”

“That's strange,” she mumbled and pressed the redial button. Again all she heard was the recording.

 

Windy City Road, outside Jackson, Tennessee

Deputy Billy Laymon drove slowly along Windy City Road, scanning the roadside ditches on both sides with the spotlight affixed to his patrol car. Dispatch had tried to reach Deputy Johnson on his radio but hadn't received a response. Deputy Laymon knew that all on-duty deputies had been mobilized to look for Deputy Johnson and Jake Reed. Since Billy wasn't finding anything, he called back to the dispatcher on the patrol car radio.

“Are you sure 911 said ‘Windy City Road'?” he questioned. “'Cause I don't see anything.”

“She said Windy City Road,” the dispatcher responded. “Keep looking. I'll send another car out to assist.”

“Wait a minute. I think I've got something here.” Deputy Laymon looked closer at the road. “There are some skid marks in the northbound lane, just south of the bridge. Let me see where they lead.”

He drove slowly, following the marks with the headlights of his patrol car, and panning the drainage ditch on the right-hand side of the road with the spotlight. The tread marks were visible for approximately one hundred feet before veering sharply to the right and leaving the roadway.

Deputy Laymon stopped his patrol car at that point and traced the ruts with his spotlight. He had worked enough traffic accidents to be able to estimate the speed of vehicles, and he knew from these markings that the vehicle that made them must have left the roadway at an extremely high rate of speed. When he determined that the ruts led directly toward the bank of the Forked Deer River, his heart sank. The drop down to the water was at least thirty-five feet.

“Dispatch, you better call for paramedics 'cause this car's in the river. And while you're at it, call the sheriff. If this really is Jake Reed, he's gonna want to know.”

 

Holcombe residence, Jackson, Tennessee

“Barrett, this is Rachel. I hate to call you at home.”

“You know you can call me anytime,” Barrett replied. He was in his kitchen preparing a cup of hot chai tea when Rachel called. “What is it?” he asked as he poured the hot water from the teakettle into a porcelain coffee mug and began stirring.

“It's Jake. He should have been home by now, and I'm worried about him.”

“I'm sure everything is all right. Have you tried his wireless phone?”

“I tried but couldn't get an answer.”

“When's the last time you heard from him?”

“About an hour ago. I called him at the office, and he said he would be leaving in a few minutes. He should have been home thirty minutes ago.”

“He has a deputy with him, doesn't he?”

“He said Deputy Johnson was waiting on him in the parking lot.”

“I bet he's OK. Probably stopped somewhere and left his phone in the car. I'll make a few calls and see if I can locate him.”

“I appreciate it, Barrett. With everything that's happened, I'm more than a little worried.”

“Don't be. I'm sure everything is fine. I'll call you back when I know something.”

The first call Barrett made was to the sheriff's department. Dispatch connected him directly to Sheriff West's patrol car. “Sheriff, I'm looking for Jake, and the dispatcher said I needed to talk to you. What's going on?”

“We're looking for Jake, too, Barrett. We got a 911 call from him that shots were fired, and someone was trying to run him off the road. Billy Laymon found what appears to be where a car left the road near the Forked Deer River Bridge on Windy City Road. It matches what Jake said on the 911 call. Paramedics and divers are on their way to the scene, and I'm on my way to Jake's house to talk to his wife.”

“I'd better go, too, Sheriff,” Barrett replied.

“That's probably a good idea. We found the deputy assigned to protect Jake dead in his patrol car behind your office. He was shot twice in the head.”

Barrett grew pale. He set the porcelain mug of hot tea on the kitchen counter with shaking hands and stared out the kitchen window over the sink into the night.

“Barrett, you still there?” Sheriff West asked after several seconds of silence.

“I'm here,” Barrett replied. “This doesn't look good, does it?”

There was a heavy sigh from the sheriff. “No, it doesn't.”

 

Reed residence, Jackson, Tennessee

Rachel knew it couldn't be good news when she saw both Barrett Holcombe and Sheriff West at her front door. She began to cry immediately. Both men tried to console her, and Sheriff West provided the limited details of what they knew.

“They've killed him,” she said through her tears after Sheriff West finished.

“Who, Rachel?” Sheriff West asked. “Who are you talking about?”

“The same people who broke into our house and attacked Courtney. Jake told you about the note they left threatening us, but he didn't tell you everything. But now they've killed him and Butch Johnson too.”

“Did Jake know who it was?”

“Not exactly. And I don't know everything. But it had something to do with Jed and Jesse Thompson and money and Vice President Burke.”

“Does anybody else know about this?” Sheriff West asked Rachel.

“I don't think so. I know he didn't tell me everything he knew. He always keeps things from me because he thinks it protects me.”

“I'm going to double the officers outside your house until we find out what's happening. Whoever did this to Jake may come looking for you if they think you know something.”

“Sheriff, do you think Jake's really dead?” Rachel asked.

The sheriff removed his hat. “I'll be honest with you, Rachel. It doesn't look good. Until we know for sure whether that's Jake's car in the river, I can't answer that. We have divers in the water now trying to look for it. But it's dark, and the water is murky. It may take awhile before we can know for sure.”

Sheriff West's answer caused Rachel's crying to intensify, and Barrett wrapped big, fatherly arms around her.

After a few seconds of crying on Barrett's shoulder, she pushed herself away. “I've got to tell the kids.”

Barrett looked concerned. “Do you think that's a good idea?”

“They've been asking for their daddy all night, and I'm not going to let them go to bed wondering why he's not home. I think they need to know.”

She walked into the den, where the three children were sitting quietly on the couch. They could sense the seriousness of the moment, and the redness of their mother's eyes told a story that none longed to hear. But hear it they must.

Brett was the first to seek answers. “Why are the police here?”

Rachel didn't correct him. She knew that, at his age, he couldn't appreciate the difference between the sheriff's department and the police department.

“Does it have something to do with Daddy?” Courtney inquired.

“Yes, it does.” Rachel knelt on the floor in front of the couch and placed her arms around the outer legs of Brett and Courtney. Jeremy sat between the two. “It seems that Daddy may have been in an accident on his way home.” Her motherly voice was soft, calm, and reassuring.

“Is he all right?” Courtney asked.

Rachel knew that the last thing Courtney needed after her ordeal was the mental anguish of being told of her father's probable demise, so she answered cautiously. She didn't want to concern the children any more than necessary, but she also didn't want to give any sense of false hope. “We don't know yet,” was the best reply she could muster under the circumstances.

“I want my daddy!” Brett began to cry. His voice got louder and louder with each weeping repetition of the phrase.

Jeremy joined the conversation. “When's Daddy going to be home?”

“Soon, honey,” Rachel replied, gazing into Jeremy's tender eyes. “Daddy will be home soon.”

Brett's crying soon caused spontaneous crying in the other two children. There was nothing else for Rachel to do than to pull all three as close as possible and hold them as they cried for their father. “It's going to be all right,” she whispered, fighting back more tears of her own. She squeezed their innocent bodies tighter and tried to be as brave as she could be. “No matter what, it's going to be all right.”

Rachel looked over the tops of their heads at Sheriff West and Barrett, who stood in the doorway leading from the foyer into the den. Neither man spoke, but each raised a hand to his eyes and brushed away tears.

 

Hampton Inn, Jackson, Tennessee

“We are live at the scene of a one-car accident on Windy City Road, north of Jackson,” the young female reporter from the local network affiliate said as the ten o'clock evening news began. “Just over my shoulder you can see the lights of emergency vehicles. Moments ago divers with the Tennessee Highway Patrol located a car resting on the bottom of the river, and rescuers are now trying to hoist the vehicle from its murky grave. The car is believed to be that of local attorney Jake Reed. Attorney Reed is the defense attorney for Jedediah McClellan—”