“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 wouldn’t do that,” Green stammered. “Give me a moment.”
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
Seeing 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