The Election (6 page)

Jed was determined not to leave until he'd convinced Jesse to stop the foreclosure.

Thompson cattle farm, Jackson, Tennessee

The assassin lying on his belly heard the commotion at the entrance of the Thompson farm as a red Dodge pickup pulled up. He thought about aborting his mission, but only for an instant. He had to make the hit today, and nothing was stopping him. He had been in the area too long already and had been seen by too many people. He might have to give his employer two hits for the price of one. First things first, though.

He looked back at his mark. Slowly he raised the Tango 51 to his shoulder and peered through the scope on the top of the barrel. He panned the rifle back and forth from bumper to bumper along the outside of the white truck, waiting on his target to exit the driver's-side door. The rifle was equipped with a suppressor to muffle the sound. No one but the shooter would hear the deadly shot. Through the scope he could see Jesse Thompson sitting in the cab of the truck and knew it would be only a few seconds before his victim got out.

 

As Jesse sat in his white pickup, he couldn't help but laugh. The host of the talk-radio show was berating Mac Foster over his position on abortion.

The Republicans will never get it,
Jesse thought as he turned off the engine.
There aren't enough religious people in the country to elect a pro-life candidate, so why campaign on that issue?
It was so simple. The Democrats had figured that out long ago, and that was why Vice President Burke would be elected president this year.

Jesse chuckled again at Mac Foster's political naiveté and got out of the truck. “Stupid Republicans,” he muttered to himself.

 

The mark was now in the open. The assassin aligned the crosshairs in the scope on the target's head, two hundred yards away. He slid the safety mechanism to Off and patiently waited.

Turn your head a little more to the left,
he urged, following his mark through the scope. When the mark unknowingly complied, the assassin squeezed the trigger without hesitation. The muffled sound was barely audible and certainly could not be heard by the person sitting in the truck at the entrance to the farm, whoever he was. The bullet found its intended target, and the mark fell to the ground.

Another easy five million,
the shooter thought as he lowered the gun from his shoulder.

He had killed so often that it came without emotion.

 

Jed, still at least half drunk, saw Jesse as he stepped out of his truck and took a step toward the old barn. Just the sight of the banker enraged Jed even more. He couldn't imagine anyone more ruthless than Jesse Thompson. If Jesse would not listen to him and agree to stop the foreclosure, then Jed would have to use the small .22 caliber handgun in the glove box to convince him otherwise.

Jed firmly believed that Jesse had repeatedly stolen money from African Americans. He had heard the stories of Jesse's bank foreclosing on homes owned by African Americans when they were just a few days late with their mortgage payment. And how African Americans paid a higher interest rate than white people for the same type of loan. It was going to stop, even if Jed had to kill Mr. Thompson.

Jed sat in his truck, his anger swelling by the second.

Then something unexpected happened. Jesse slumped against the side of his truck and crumpled to the ground in a heap. The startled cattle stampeded away, some trampling over Jesse.

Jed rubbed his blurry eyes and looked again. He had to be imagining this. But no, Jesse was still lying on the ground. Jed opened the door to his truck and stumbled out.

“Mr. Thompson!” Jed yelled across the pasture.

No response.

 

FBI headquarters, Washington DC

George McCullough reported back to Charlie Armacost that the Memphis office had found video of Raoul Flores exiting a plane just after noon on Monday.

“Issue an all-points bulletin to every law-enforcement office within a one-hundred-mile radius of Memphis,” Charlie instructed. “Alert the airport, the bus stations, and the train depots. He could be anywhere, but if he's still out there, I want him.”

Charlie had a standing meeting with the director at ten o'clock. He decided not to mention Raoul. Not yet anyway. He wanted more information first. Since the director was a political appointee with no experience in the Bureau, Charlie figured that if he mentioned Raoul, the director would tell the attorney general. Then the two of them would decide that the CIA was better equipped to handle the search for an international assassin than the Bureau. Charlie couldn't run the risk that the AG would pull jurisdiction. He'd wait until after they caught Raoul to tell the director about him.

 

Thompson cattle farm, Jackson, Tennessee

Still lying on his stomach, the assassin peered through the rifle scope at the large unknown man as he exited the red Dodge. Slowly the assassin ejected the empty shell casing from his rifle. It was automatically replaced with the remaining bullet. Mentally he identified the African American as the second mark…and he was in the open. The shooter did a quick calculation. The second mark was too far for a clean shot. If he fired now, he probably wouldn't hit the intended target. Worse, it might alert the second mark to his location. He couldn't risk that exposure.

Removing his finger from the trigger, he studied the man.
Only an assassin who makes a mistake gets caught,
he told himself. And the hunter didn't plan on becoming the prey.

His instincts kicked back in. He'd been in much more precarious positions before.

He continued to lie quietly, waiting for an opportunity to escape.

 

Jed stumbled toward the entrance to Jesse's farm. Once he reached the gate, he stepped on the bottom slat, tried to climb it, and fell over the top, landing on his back with a
thud
on the other side. Struggling to his feet, he began running along the dusty field road toward the place where Jesse lay.

When Jed was within twenty feet or so, he knew instinctively that something was terribly wrong. He stopped dead in his tracks. “Mr. Thompson, are you all right?”

Again, no response.

Jed's breathing was heavy and labored. He walked slowly the remaining twenty feet, whispering “Mr. Thompson” over and over again as he approached. As he drew closer, he could see that the back half of Jesse's head was completely missing, and a pool of blood had collected around what remained. Splattered blood and brain matter covered the front left fender and hood of the pickup truck, streaking its white exterior. Not knowing what else to do, Jed knelt down, grabbed Mr. Thompson's left shoulder, and rolled him onto his back. Mr. Thompson's eyes were open wide but were not seeing. There was a single hole the size of a penny in the middle of his forehead.

Jed's stomach began to churn.

 

When the assassin realized he hadn't been detected, he saw his chance for escape without having to give away a free hit. Shoving the empty shell casing into his pocket, he ran through the woods toward his parked vehicle on the road near the entrance to the farm. He slowed only to slip between the two strands of barbed wire that formed one section of the fence.

His flight took him past the red truck of the second mark. In order to divert the police authorities' attention, he stopped at the second mark's truck just long enough to place his rifle in the bed. He covered it with the army green tarpaulin already in the truck.

Dashing the remaining one hundred feet to his vehicle, the assassin sped away from the scene. He would not remove his surgical latex gloves until he'd properly disposed of the Chevy S10 and its contents.

 

Jed McClellan was sweating profusely. The heat and humidity were squeezing him of every drop of hydration, and his heart was racing. The sight of Mr. Thompson lying there with his blood and brains soaking into the ground made Jed want to run, but he couldn't stand up. So he began to crawl away from the corpse. He had crawled only a few feet, however, when he began to vomit violently…until he had nothing left to give.

Falling over on his back in exhaustion, moaning and groaning, he stared up at the cloudless blue sky.

After a few seconds he realized something horrible. The person who had killed Jesse Thompson was probably still close by.

Jed stumbled to his feet in terror and staggered to the bed of Jesse Thompson's truck. He braced himself against the tailgate and frantically scanned the pasture and trees in all directions.

Nothing.

Then he heard the sound of an ignition starting. He squinted back toward the road as the small black truck he had almost hit earlier sped past the entrance to the farm. Still clinging to the side of the pickup, Jed made his way to the passenger-side door. He opened it and saw Jesse Thompson's wireless phone on the seat. He dialed 9-1-1.

“What is the nature of your emergency?” the dispatcher asked.

“A man's been shot,” Jed replied, still trying to catch his breath. He wiped his face and mouth with the tail of his shirt before continuing. “He's been shot in the head. The whole back of his head's been blown off.” His voice became more animated with each phrase.

“Slow down, sir,” the dispatcher said calmly. “Please tell me your name.”

“Jedediah McClellan.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm at the Thompson cattle farm off Old Medina Road north of town.”

“Do you know how far it is to the nearest intersection?”

Agitated at the questioning, Jed barked, “No, I don't know. Just send some help quick!”

“Do you recognize the victim?”

“Jesse Thompson,” Jed answered. His inebriated mind was finally beginning to register that his enemy was dead.

“Sir, did you say Jesse Thompson?” the dispatcher asked.

“Yes, Jesse Thompson.”

“Medical personnel and sheriff deputies are on their way.”

 

Birmingham, Alabama

“Tell me what the overnight national polls show,” Mac prompted when he and Shep were safely in Mac's campaign limousine after their early-morning flight from Detroit.

“They still show you trailing by 10 points, sir,” Shep replied, knowing that Mac expected the answer. The campaign was stagnant, slowly dying on the vine. They needed something to pump new life into it.

“What have you heard about Burke's campaign financing?”

Shep paused. He knew he couldn't tell Mac about Dalton. Mac would demand that the investigation end immediately. But without the investigation, Shep believed, Mac would lose any chance of overtaking the vice president.

Shep masked his secret by not looking Mac in the eyes. “The Senate may announce that it's conducting an inquiry. That would at least give us something to talk to the voters about.”

Mac stared out the window as they passed by modest homes. “It doesn't look good, does it, Shep?”

“No, sir, it doesn't,” Shep replied. “But maybe our luck will change soon.”

“We're not relying on luck, Shep. If it's in God's plan for me to be president—and I believe it is—then he'll intervene.”

There was nothing more to talk about. Shep knew Mac was right. God was in control. Neither spoke until the limousine pulled into a local elementary school for a question-and-answer session with a group of fifth graders.

NBC studio, Rockefeller Plaza, New York

“I met Ed when we were in law school at Yale,” Millie Burke said, responding to a question from Annette Stewart of NBC. She was being interviewed on the morning talk show about her best-selling book on the feminist revolution. “He went to college at Vanderbilt, and I graduated from Columbia. That was in 1972. We married in the summer of 1975.”

“You maintain a very active schedule, Mrs. Burke. Are you heavily involved in Vice President Burke's campaign?”

“Absolutely,” Millie replied. “I can't think of anything better for our country than for Ed Burke to be president.” No one would question that she was an essential part of the Burke-for-President campaign. She was intelligent and articulate but also domineering. Very few people crossed her. She was involved in every major campaign decision from fund-raising to speech writing. And she loved it.

In her younger days Millie had been moderately attractive, but never a ravishing beauty. Years of a strained marriage had taken their toll, though, and she struggled to maintain an attractive appearance. She hated to look at herself in the mirror because her body was now the shape of a pear rather than the number eight. Wrinkles encircled her eyes, and her gray-auburn hair always seemed to need attention. Millie's greatest disappointment, though, was that Ed hardly noticed her at all.

After their wedding Ed and Millie had moved to Nashville. Both began working for large law firms that allowed their pursuit of liberal causes. Millie wanted to run for Congress but knew a woman had little chance of running a successful campaign in a Southern state. So she encouraged Ed to run. And he successfully won the seat for United States Congressman for Tennessee's Fifth Congressional District in 1980.

Both Ed and Millie thrived in Washington. He quickly rose in the ranks of the Democrat-controlled House of Representatives. She became a staff attorney for the American Civil Liberties Union. Neither could pinpoint exactly when they had begun to grow apart.

Millie discovered Ed's infidelity during his third congressional term and had confronted him about it. At first he denied it, but eventually he confessed—probably, she ruminated, because it really didn't matter to him what she thought. She considered divorcing him several times, but she liked the Washington environment and the lifestyle that came with it too much to follow through. In the end she chose simply to tolerate his affairs.

By the time they moved into the vice-president's house, Ed and Millie had not slept in the same bedroom, much less the same bed, for years. Ironically, now that Ed was running for president of the United States, Millie was colluding with his staff to keep his affairs secret. She wanted the power of being First Lady almost as much as he wanted to be president. She warned him to stay away from other women until the election was over. They couldn't afford any mistakes. Ed told her that he would, but both knew he was lying.

“Tell me about your book,” Annette suggested as the interview continued. All the questions had been preapproved by Millie's staff, so there would be no surprises.

“It's a wonderful book that starts with Betsy Ross and traces the history of the evolution of women in politics through the years,” replied Millie. “There are so many women leaders no one knows about. I thought it was time someone gave these women the recognition they deserve.”

“You are also one of these women, aren't you, Mrs. Burke?” asked Annette as she pitched another softball.

Millie shook her head sincerely. “I do not belong in the same category with these women.” Humility was not her best trait, but she could bring it out when necessary. “I have tried to be a good wife and mother. And being married to the vice president has given me numerous opportunities to speak. With those opportunities, I have tried to educate the public about the impact of women in politics.”

“Do you think one day we'll have a female president?” Annette asked.

Millie wanted to say that she planned on being president one day herself but knew now was not the time for such a statement. So instead she replied, “I certainly hope so. I think a woman would do an excellent job. Right now, though, I'm concentrating on my husband's campaign.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Millie saw the show's director hold up his right hand, signaling to Annette that five seconds remained until the next commercial break.

Annette began to conclude the interview. “Thank you, Mrs. Burke, for being with us this morning.” She smiled broadly at Millie.

“Thank you for inviting me.” Millie returned the smile.

“We'll be right back after these messages,” Annette said into camera number two as the program went to a commercial break.

The director announced they were off the air, and Millie left the sitting area to meet Zoe Newton, her press secretary, backstage. Millie spoke to the producer and other network personnel for a few minutes before she and Zoe and the rest of her entourage began walking toward the exit.

“How do you think it went?” Millie asked Zoe as they walked along a corridor in the rear of the studio.

“Perfect,” replied Zoe. “You appeared confident but not arrogant. Very First Lady–like.”

“Good. That's the impression I wanted to convey.”

One of Millie's aides opened the exit door, and Millie and Zoe stepped through it into a throng of supporters awaiting her appearance. Millie greeted the crowd warmly and shook hands with several people before climbing into the car that would take her to her next appointment—a luncheon with the White Plains Garden Club. As the group cheered and clapped for her, one female well-wisher yelled, “I wish you were running for president!”

Millie smiled and waved.
One day I will
.

 

Hilton Head Island, South Carolina

Only a few palmetto trees and the ecological dunes that ran the entire length of the Atlantic side of the island stood between the palatial house and the water's edge. Claudia Duval had finished her daily morning jog thirty minutes ago, showered, and was now enjoying her breakfast of a bagel with strawberry cream cheese and orange juice on the veranda. She had nothing planned for today and decided she would spend the day shopping in Savannah.

The morning tide was almost at its peak as the cool ocean breeze ruffled the edges of her newspaper. Occasionally she looked up at the tranquil Atlantic. She stopped reading to watch the sun separate itself from the eastern horizon and chase away the haze. It would be another glorious day.

The dorsal fins of a school of dolphins were visible as they chased a shrimp boat returning to port with its morning catch. Seagulls, kingfishers, and sandpipers wafted in the gentle wind currents above the ocean's surface.

Claudia sighed.
What a beautiful place.

Hilton Head had the ability to invigorate her, but its serenity was also relaxing.

The house next door was usually unoccupied, but today Claudia saw a middle-aged man with closely cropped brown hair standing on the balcony that overlooked the pool. She didn't recognize the man, but she waved to be neighborly, and the man returned the greeting.

 

“Do you think she suspects anything?” a voice from inside the house asked the man on the balcony.

“No,” Agent Al Moyers replied. “She probably thinks we're vacationers who have rented the house for the season.”

Satisfied that Claudia Duval didn't suspect anything, Al walked back into the upper level of the house. There he found his partner, Agent Bill Osborne, examining the woman next door through binoculars. The night before, while Claudia was out, Al and Bill had planted listening devices in every room in her house. They could now hear every word that she—or anybody else in the house—uttered. After Claudia had returned home, Bill had sneaked into the open garage and attached a tracking device on the underside of her white Jaguar XJ7 convertible. The device would allow them to trace Claudia's car using a Global Positioning System, or GPS.

Al knew that Claudia Duval was thirty-seven years old, married once but divorced, and enjoyed listening to classical music. But the photograph in the dossier did not do her justice. She was beautiful—tan skin, shoulder-length blonde hair that she constantly tucked behind her ears, and intoxicating, deep blue eyes. This would be one assignment that Al and Bill would enjoy.

They watched as Claudia left the veranda and retreated to her bedroom to dress for the day. Thirty minutes later her Jaguar left the garage. Al and Bill allowed her a head start of two minutes before leaving in a Chevy Tahoe that was parked in their garage. Al drove while Bill followed Claudia's car with the GPS in his briefcase. She left the Palmetto Dunes Plantation and turned north on William Hilton Parkway. In a few moments she would cross the bridge that connected the island to the mainland over the Intracoastal Waterway. Al and Bill wouldn't be very far behind.

 

En route to Savannah, Georgia

Claudia left the island, traveled Highway 17 through Bluffton, South Carolina, and drove toward the city of Savannah, Georgia, which was located barely across the Georgia state line and along the Savannah River. The weather was pleasant, so she drove with the convertible top down, her honey-colored hair fluttering in the warm coastal breeze. Five miles before she reached the Savannah River, she could begin to see the pinnacle of the Savannah River Bridge in the distance. As she drew closer, the bridge began to take on the appearance of tall, white sails of an armada sailing into Savannah Harbor from the Atlantic. She had seen it hundreds of times before, but each time it still took her breath away.

After crossing the bridge and entering the city, she parked her car in a public parking garage on the bluff overlooking the river and traversed the cobblestone steps to the bustling River Street below. At the bottom of the steps an elderly African American sat on a makeshift stool and played his brass saxophone. Claudia stood for a moment, listening to the melody, and then dropped a five-dollar bill in the man's open saxophone case. The music faded away as she ducked in and out of several shops along the cobblestone street.

Claudia had shopped River Street before, but today something was different.

She had an eerie feeling that someone was watching her.

 

Thompson cattle farm, Jackson, Tennessee

Sheriff Craig West waited in his patrol car at the entrance to the Thompson farm while Deputy Butch Johnson used his department-issued bolt cutters to remove the lock. After the gate was open, the sheriff raced his patrol car, blue lights flashing, through the opening and down the field road toward Jesse Thompson's white pickup. He was followed closely by Deputy Billy Laymon. Craig had instructed Butch to remain at the gate to ensure that only authorized personnel entered the property.

Craig and Billy found Jed McClellan sitting on the ground, leaning against the left-rear tire of Jesse Thompson's vehicle. His knees were pulled up under his chin in an almost upright fetal position. He was less than ten feet from the dead body. Craig stared at the lifeless body of Jesse Thompson for several seconds before he squatted down beside Jed, his face less than a foot away.

“Jed,” Sheriff West began, “tell me what happened.”

“I don't know, Sheriff,” Jed replied in a monotone. His gaze was fixed on a tree across the field. He appeared to be in a trance. “I was sittin' in my truck back there, waitin' on Mr. Thompson, and the next thing I know he's fallin' down on the ground. I yelled for him and started runnin' this way. When I got here, I found him like this. That's all I know.”

“Did you hear a gunshot?” the sheriff questioned.

“No, sir,” Jed answered, still staring straight ahead.

Billy squatted beside Jed, opposite Craig, and joined the conversation. “You been drinkin', Jed? 'Cause you smell like whiskey.”

Jed finally blinked his eyes and cocked his head slightly in Deputy Laymon's direction. “A little last night, but I ain't drunk.”

“Billy, get the breathalyzer and check Jed's alcohol level,” Craig instructed.

Both officers stood up, and the sheriff peered down at the man who was quickly becoming a murder suspect. “If you're not drunk, then you won't mind letting us test you now, will you, Jed?”

We still know how to handle our blacks in Madison County,
Craig thought.

Billy Laymon retrieved the breathalyzer from the trunk of his patrol car and shoved the mouthpiece into Jed's face, demanding he blow into it.

Jed hesitated and then grabbed the breathalyzer with his right hand to steady it. He blew one short breath into the mouthpiece.

As Craig West waited for the results, he turned away from Jed and walked over to the dead body of Jesse Lamar Thompson.

A few seconds later Billy rather cheerfully relayed the result. “It registered .13, Sheriff.”

Sheriff West gave further instructions without turning around. “Put Jed in the back of your patrol car,” he told the deputy. “And radio Butch to search Jed's truck. Also, call dispatch and have an investigator sent out here. No one comes within a half-mile of this place until homicide is finished. We're going to need a couple of extra deputies to secure the area.”