The Frankenstein Candidate (2 page)

Later, Raul waited at the truck stop at the top of the steep descent of the Cuesta Grade segment of U.S. Route 101 for over an hour. He was in luck. A billowing white fog—the majestic product of sea spray, wind, and Central Valley heat—was taking hold. The fog answered his prayers for mitigating circumstances. He heard “
Five minutes now
” in his earpiece, and soon after, his quarry arrived. There were three cars, just like they said. They were all in the middle lanes. Stein’s car was the first in the pack, said the unknown master in his earphone.

Raul shifted into third gear as he accelerated and came up behind the line of cars. He honked, which seemed to scare the bejesus out of the driver of the third car, who swerved into the right lane. Raul kept cruising speed, keeping his rolling giant in good control. Stein’s driver had put some distance between him and the second car, for which Raul was thankful—there was enough space to swerve into the middle of the two and isolate Stein, but he didn’t have to. Raul edged closer to the second car. The mere sight of the monster in the rearview was enough for the second car to make way.

Now only the tiny two-ton target was in front of him, although there was plenty of traffic in the other lanes. He kept a safe but steady distance and waited for the side lanes to clear. It would be gruesome, he thought, like an offensive lineman smashing straight into a three-year-old kid.

Three minutes into the grade, Raul had his moment. There were no vehicles on either side of Stein. Raul pressed his foot on the accelerator, moving into fourth gear just as someone screamed in his ears, “
Abandon mission, abandon—
”

Raul smashed his foot on the brake, but the delayed reaction worked exactly as it was supposed to. Ninety tons of galloping steel swerved and swayed in the seconds before impact as Stein’s driver made a desperate turn into the bank, having the presence of mind to maintain full speed.

Nevertheless, the behemoth clipped its target and rolled over on the grade. The semi spun out of control, sweeping gigantic arcs of screeching metal across the tarmac and swallowing five vehicles in its turbulent fury.

For one brief second before his skull was cracked open by the lacerating force of a steel tsunami, an upside-down Raul thought again of Costa Rica.

Olivia Allen was beginning to feel like a threesome: herself and the two quarreling voices in her head. Lately, she hadn’t been at peace. Her beloved country was shaken to its very roots. Olivia had always believed in a compassionate society. But was compassion only the first layer of the onion skin? Peel it away, and what do you see? How do you become compassionate when you have nothing to give? Whenever she had time, like right now, waiting for someone to appear, the voices in her head started to discuss such issues, then debate, then argue, and finally quarrel.

The voices belonged to her father and her mother. Olivia was forty-four years old, but the voices had never left her, even though her mother had passed and her father was living over a hundred miles away in a retirement home.

Compassion was a virtue she learned from observing her father practicing it consistently—children do what their parents do, not what their parents tell them to do. Ambition and Mother to her were virtually indistinguishable. The voices’ tug on her was fearsome and usually conflicting. In her head, they even had names: Compassion and Ambition—she never talked to them, but they told her things.

She was born into an upper middle-class family in Philadelphia, the second of two sisters. She was not bad looking, but her elder sister was beautiful. By far, though, Olivia was the clever one. Her father had been a compassionate congressman who represented Pennsylvania for two decades before being pushed out of politics by…well, politics. Her mother had been a high school teacher. She was very bright, but she’d been born in the wrong era, a Baby Boomer who just missed out on the feminist revolution as she came of age. Mother was determined to get one of her girls to do everything she could have done if only she had been born thirty years later. So as it turned out, the cleverer one was the unfortunate one.

Dressed in a pin-striped business suit, her calm, hazel-green eyes hiding the storm inside, her brown locks straying across her forehead, Olivia sat in the back row of the press room of the White House.

The president had called an urgent press conference. Emma Coleman, the White House press secretary, owed her a favor, and Olivia had called it in.

Olivia looked around and saw the usual faces: the
New York Times
, the
Washington Post
, the
East Coast Chronicle
, CNN, PBS, CBS, ABC, and NBC. The president was Republican, and Olivia was a Democratic senator. Olivia was neither media nor part of the administration, but that was not why she felt the way she did. Amidst all the slick suits, the important people, the adrenaline, the microphones thrust every which way, the rolling cameras, and the security staff, one of the most powerful women in Washington DC felt like she simply did not belong there. Ambition was not pleased. Ambition was scolding her inappropriate emotion as if, like a bouncer at a club’s door, she could regulate every emotion that would be allowed to enter the club. But emotions come and go, and one can’t get much value by scolding them.

Nevertheless, Olivia did not leave. She could not leave, for if she left, she would have to go where she did belong. She was forty-four, but she had not figured out just where that was. So she stayed—quiet, aloof, and as nondescript as possible.

Whatever it was the press was about to find out had been kept very close. Normally, there were at least rumors surrounding a press address. Not this time.

From her back row seat, Olivia could not see the diminutive Kayla, but Olivia knew she would be there. Kayla Mizzi had been with the
Washington Post
for six years. She had recently joined Net Station, an integrated online television programming, newspaper, and magazine web site. She was lucky enough to get a front row seat.

Emma Coleman, the White House press secretary, appeared first and said, “Thank you all for coming here at short notice. The president himself will be making this announcement. He is extremely busy. So I’m afraid there will hardly be time for questions afterward, albeit he can take a maximum of two.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Emma Coleman continued, “the president.”

President William Young strode onto the podium in his usual confident manner. Watching him, dressed in his sober grey suit, Olivia thought he looked younger than his sixty-five years. It appeared he had lost weight lately, which suited his large frame and his tendency of being heavy.

President Young spoke concisely.

“Thank you for being here at short notice. Unfortunately, I am in a hurry today so let me cut to the chase. Over the past few weeks, I have suffered a recurring illness that my doctors had some difficulty diagnosing. Unfortunately, it is not good news. I have malignant lymphoma, and it is in an advanced stage. At this stage, it is most likely a fatal diagnosis…but doctors are optimistic as regards a three- to four-year survival rate.”

The collective gasp at the words “fatal diagnosis” cut through the room like a fallen glass that shattered. Pens scribbled while fingers texted and twittered.

“However, after considerable deliberations with my advisers, I have made some decisions. Firstly, I will not resign or step down from the position of president. However, Vice President Kirby shall take an increasing role in the administration from here on.

“Secondly, I will not contest the 2020 presidential election. This decision is regrettably necessary, and it is very much in the best interests of the American people. Thirdly, if my condition worsens before January 2021, I will allow for an orderly passage of power to Vice President Kirby, but neither my doctors nor I believe that will be necessary.

“That is pretty much all that I was going to say. As you all know, we have a situation developing in the Middle East. We have room only for a few questions.”

Shock descended on the hall, but Olivia felt more tired than shocked. Ambition had worn her out.

The first question related to Vice President Quentin Kirby’s new responsibilities. President Young answered dismissively, citing foreign policy. Pens scribbled again.

Many hands went up. Olivia spotted Kayla’s raised hand in the crowd.

“Miss Mizzi?” President Young had spotted Kayla. Olivia was now alert, for she knew Kayla’s reputation for asking difficult questions.

“Mr. President,” Kayla drew a breath, “do you support Mr. Kirby as a candidate for the Republican nomination in the 2020 election?”

Some in the audience recoiled at the audacity of the question. The president wore a wry smile. He had expected Kayla to go for the jugular.

“I don’t know if he has made up his own mind about standing for nomination. In any event, it is the party’s decision, and it is up to the party’s registered voters ultimately.”

With that, he left the room. The room buzzed with BlackBerries and mobile phones even as security tried to usher the assembly out.

Olivia was serene. As the energy around her exploded in hushed tones, fast paces, and ringing mobiles, she left the press room rather quickly.

On her way home from the White House, Olivia’s car passed a large gathering of the homeless passively demonstrating against the lack of jobs, squalid conditions, and the biting DC cold with placards that said “Give us jobs,” “Washington does not care,” and “I am cold and my baby needs a home.” She took it all in. The army of the homeless in DC had doubled, according to her aides. Compassion made her want to get out of the car. Ambition agreed that it would look good on her CV.

“I will only be a few minutes,” she said to her driver.

It never bothered her that she would look out of place in her designer outfit.

“Hello, I’m Olivia.”

“And why should we care?” one of the men asked, a gentle-looking, bearded giant of a man. His was a voice of authority: deep, firm, and articulate. His frame stayed steady, like an oak tree stuck into the middle of the concrete curb with no soil around it, no fence—a city designer’s idea of a confrontational mistake.

“You giving us any money?” someone asked. She heard his whining tone—a male voice, but a weak one—like a shrub interrupting the authority of the oak tree.

“No, but I’m going to fix things,” she said.

They all laughed.

One of the others had noticed the U.S. flag on the hood of Olivia’s car. “She is one of them,” he hissed. A tree, a shrub, and now a snake.

“Except that I’m—”

She stopped as she noticed a larger, more rambunctious crowd turn the corner. There were perhaps thirty or forty of them, mostly youth.

“Miss, you better get away,” the gentle giant said. It was expressed without fear.

“From what?” was the only phrase she could summon before some in the frenzied mob started throwing gasoline bombs, hollering slogans as they got closer to her car. The odor of burning gas filled the air. Olivia heard screams from all directions as civilians began to flee the scene. The siren of a police car wailed. She was about thirty feet away from the car.

“Here!” the giant shouted. “Get behind me!” He stood between her and the mob.

Instead, Olivia darted around and started running toward the car screaming, “Jacques, get out, Jacques.”