“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 racing back to the motel.
For Melanie Fields, it had been the longest day of her life. Aside from not being able to sleep the previous night, the most frustrating part was the waiting. Once The Nation Today began, the news report, the weather report, centenarian birthday greetings and the always asinine host chit-chat seemed to go on endlessly. It was only after the first commercial break that Melanie made her move.
With the gym bag strapped over her shoulder and the gun in the pocket of her sundress, she made her way to the front of the crowd outside the studio. From the huge monitors above them, the curiosity seekers could see the events unfold through the glass and then how they appeared on TV. When Douglas Adams appeared on screen the onlookers became excited and talked animatedly amongst themselves. For many, this would be the closest they’d ever get to a man who one day soon might become their president.
After Adams restated his various platform positions, Evan MacLean announced that after the commercial break they’d be going outside to get reactions and questions from the voters.
In two minutes it will all be over, Melanie thought, as she placed the bag on the sidewalk.
It was then she saw Robert Barker being positioned in front of the outdoor microphone, that Melanie decided to move a little closer. As she ducked under a wooden barrier, a security guard appeared and told her to stand back.
Without thinking, she said, “I’m with him,” pointing to Barker.
She was terrified that Barker might turn and see her.
Then what?
Luckily his attention was glued to a small television monitor on a table in front of him.
“Okay then,” the guard said as he turned back to the crowd, watching for more gate crashers.
Melanie adjusted her blonde wig and calmly flicked the safety off the gun. Waiting for that idiot MacLean to throw the broadcast to the street became excruciating.
“And now let’s go outside to see what the voters think of your views, Senator Adams.”
The words were music to her ears.
Barker stared at the microphone in front of him, making sure the fedora he was wearing covered much of his face. The idea to wear a hat was brilliant.
I’ll have to thank Jerry when I get to the office, he thought.
The plan was to keep his features obscured as much as possible until he actually asked the first question. He would then discard the hat and look straight into the camera, ensuring Adams knew who he was.
After clearing his throat, he began, “I have two questions for Mr. Adams.”
Melanie quickly took the three steps that separated them and pulled the gun from her dress. She heard a gasp from behind her as she squeezed the trigger, sending the bullet into Barker’s right temple. Before his body hit the ground, she turned and ran toward the street, leaving those behind screaming and ducking for safety.
In a surreal state of mind, Melanie ran as fast as her legs could carry her. The world around her was in chaos, yet she still felt in total control. She had one goal and one goal only: get to the car. Running with the gun tucked against her side, she thought she knew what football players must experience sprinting toward the end zone to win the big game.
She jumped into the backseat of the Volvo, which was driven speedily out of the area. As her accomplice Jerry Steele navigated through the congested morning traffic, Melanie tore off the blue and white sundress, as well as the wig and glasses. After placing them in a bag she changed into a track suit.
“Any problems?”
“Not that I can see,” Jerry said, checking his mirrors.
By the time they neared the airport, the shooting was all over the airwaves.
Jerry pulled into an alley behind a burnt-out bar. After changing the vehicle’s plates, they continued to the airport where Melanie—using her middle name, Alison—returned the car to the rental office. The car was virtually untraceable and if everything else fell into place, the police would soon be looking for Lynn Barker and her car with a vengeance.
Back at the motel office, Jerry intently watched the colour monitor.
“Is she still there?” Melanie asked.
“Yep and sleeping like a kitten,” he said with a smile. “Do you have time to put that stuff in the room?”
“Yeah, no problem. The gas will keep her under for another half-hour at least.”
Melanie grabbed the bag and walked to unit #2. She unlocked and eased the door open, terrified Lynn might be waiting to ambush her.
Lynn, for all intents and purposes, however, was lost to the world.
Using the sunlight coming in from the doorway, Melanie watched Lynn’s chest rise and fall before entering the bathroom to hang the dress and place the wig and glasses on the vanity. As she was preparing to leave, an idea hit her and she walked to the bureau. She switched on the TV, turned it to WCNY, the local NCN affiliate, and set the volume low.
“You’ve been a very bad girl, Lynn. What will the old gang say now, Prom Queen?”
Melanie closed the door behind her, locking it from the outside.
“Sweet