MIND FIELDS (29 page)

  Sandi laughed.  “Just some O.J. for me.”

Wanda winked at her.  “Watch out for this one, now,” she said, nodding toward Paul.  “Y’all let me know if you get hungry.  The blueberry muffins are awesome here.”

The power of suggestion is a mighty thing.  Wanda brought out three muffins, fresh from the oven. They
were
good.

The TV mounted in the corner of the room was inaudible over the clamor of the brunch crowd.  Richie glanced up as CNN was broadcasting coverage of an impromptu press conference on the steps of Walter Reed Hospital, where President Huntley Forsyth had just been visiting with his chief of staff, Harold Bradley, still recovering from the injuries sustained in his Labor Day weekend accident.  The president was answering questions from reporters, as Bradley’s picture was superimposed in the bottom right corner of the screen. He was due to be released within a couple of days and his miraculous recovery was big news.  One of the reporters apparently asked a question about the driver of Bradley’s vehicle, as a second picture was briefly displayed on the bottom left corner of the screen.  It was a picture that looked familiar to Kincade from an article in the Sunpapers, but he probably would not have been able to put a name to the face if it weren’t for the caption underneath: “Rocky Stankowski.”

“Hey, Kincade?”

Richie ignored Hingston, his eyes fixed on the TV.

“Kincade!” Hingston reached over and tapped Richie’s arm. “You want any more or not?”

Richie looked up and saw Wanda standing there with a pot of coffee.  “Oh, sorry.  No thanks, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look so fine.  You look kind of flushed,” she said.  “You sure you’re OK, honey?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.  Thanks.”  Richie was still staring at the TV.  He watched Wanda walk away, and then looked back across the table at his new friends.  “I know who R.S. and H.B. are.”

Chapter twenty one

President Huntley Forsyth was distraught over the accident of his chief of staff and good friend, Harold Bradley.  They had first met at a party Forsyth’s parents had thrown in honor of his graduation from Harvard Law School.  Bradley was a close family friend of one of Forsyth’s classmates.  He was so impressed by Huntley’s valedictorian speech that he had to meet the young man, and crashed the party with the blessing of Mr. and Mrs. Forsyth.

Huntley vividly remembered the first time they had met.  He was having a glass of champagne with his girlfriend when a slightly graying and very distinguished looking gentleman approached him.  “Young man, your sharp wit is exceeded only by your uncanny ability to connect with your audience.  Your speech was truly inspiring.  It is quite a shame that you have chosen to waste all that on a career in law.”

Bradley was a political analyst for the Boston Globe, well liked and respected by many of the nation’s leading politicians.   Forsyth recognized him instantly.  “But, sir,” he responded, “surely you would not have me waste it on the septic tank that is politics.”

Bradley smiled.  “Well, somebody has to clean out the septic tank.”

It was not long before the two were good friends.  Bradley gradually swayed the interests of the brilliant and charismatic young lawyer toward a career in politics, and several hard-fought campaigns later, Forsyth was elected as the President of the United States.

“You look like hell, Harry,” President Forsyth said as he stood over Bradley’s bed at Walter Reed.

“Thanks, kid.”

“Kid?  Geez, Harry, nobody calls the president ‘kid.’  It ain’t fittin’, it just ain’t fittin’.”

They both laughed.  Gone With the Wind was one of their favorite movies.  They had discussed it often.

“It’s good to see you laugh, Harry.”

“Thanks…kid.”  He winked.  “I’m going to play this brain injury thing out for all it’s worth.”

“Don’t want your job back, then?”

“Hell, yes, I want it back…Mr. President.  I’m sick of this hospital food.”  Bradley hopped out of bed and walked over to the window.

The president laughed.  He pointed to the hospital gown as Bradley looked around.  “Enjoying the breezes, are you?”

Bradley, realizing that his gown was open in the back, reached around and pulled it together.  “And I’m sick of these God-damned gowns.”  He walked over to the closet.  “Where the hell are my clothes?”

“Relax.  It’s not everybody who gets to moon the president, you know?”

Bradley smiled.  “Yeah, you’re right.  There are a few other presidents I’d rather have mooned, though.”

“And just which ones would those happen to be?”

“Mostly the Republicans, Huntley.  Mostly elephants.”  He pulled on his pants and grabbed his robe.  “Let’s take a walk.  I’ve got to get out of here.”

The president glanced over at the security guard by the door, who shook his head in the negative.  “I’m afraid you’ve got to stay put a couple more days, Harry.”  Bradley gave him an icy stare.  “Tell you what, how about we walk down to the lounge at the end of the hall.  I think I can talk my way past Jack, guarding the door out here, but I doubt the two of us could take on the Secret Service contingent by the elevators.”

“I’m willing to give it a try.”

“Let’s just settle for the sofa in the lounge, shall we.”

Harold Bradley nodded.  He was grateful just to get out of the room for a while.

“Looks like you’re getting along pretty well, old man.”

“Who are you calling old, sir?”  Bradley forced a lilt into his step.

“All right then.  I’ll tell you what.  You and me at Windsong Meadows, one week from Saturday.”

“One week!”

“Hell, man, you’re getting out of here the day after tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but…”

“You chicken?”

Bradley glared at him.

“Besides, I want to get you while you’re down.  Heck, I haven’t beaten you in what, two years?”

“Two and a half.”

“Right, but who’s counting.  I’m gonna whup your ass a week from Saturday, Harry.”

“Fat chance…sir.”

“So we’re on?”

“We’re on.”

President Forsyth smiled.  He could see the fire return to the eyes of his old friend. 

“Mr. President?”  One of the guards tapped his watch.

“Right.  My public awaits.  I promised the administrators I’d do a little press conference on the front steps of the hospital on my way out.”

“You don’t want to disappoint your voters, sir,” Bradley said.  They shook hands and the president turned toward the elevators.  “Sir?”

“Yes?” Forsyth looked back at his friend.

“Thanks.”

President Forsyth nodded.  “See if you’re still thanking me when I sink the winning putt next Saturday.”  He smiled and walked into the elevator.

___

Richie Kincade settled into the family room sofa to watch some TV.  It had been another frustrating day.  Once again, he had uncovered new clues, only to find himself in a new quagmire. 

“It makes perfect sense,” he said to Sandi, who sat on the other end of the tweed sofa.  “R.S. and H.B. are Rocky Stankowski and Harold Bradley.  I mean, they both had head injuries and they were both treated with nanobots.”

“Yeah, but...the White House Chief of Staff?  I mean, if you were trying to work out the bugs for a new secret weapon you were developing, especially one that you want to use for covert operations, would you test it out on one of the most public men in the country?”

“It does seem kind of dumb when you put it that way,” Richie had to admit.  He sat, sipping on a glass of tea, staring at the television screen but not really watching.  “But what if they were finished with the testing?”

“I don’t follow?”

“Well, we don’t really know for sure how many tests they’ve run or how far they’ve gotten with the Phase Three nanobots, but we do know they’ve gotten pretty darned good at getting their subjects to do what they want.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, what if Stankowski and Bradley aren’t test subjects at all?  What if they’re not just
part
of the game, but they’re the
objects
of the game?”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Look, Stankowski got jumped by three hoodlums with baseball bats, but the only place they hit his head was directly over the frontal lobe, the
right
frontal lobe.”

“Not so strange.  Most guys are right handed.  If they came up behind him with a bat and swung high, they’d hit the right side of the victim’s head.  One blow like that is about all it would take.  Even a bull like Stankowski would go right down.  They wouldn’t need a second swing.”

“Spoken like a true detective, Doc.  But still...  And what about Bradley?  A focal right frontal lobe injury again.  No other brain damage.”

“How could anyone have controlled that?  It happened in a car accident.”

“There are ways, believe me.  Hell, he could have even been bopped over the head before the accident.  Maybe Stankowski was taking him to a hospital for help.”

“Without calling ahead to report it?  Why wouldn’t he have called for the paramedics to come and help?”

“Yeah, you’re right.  A guy like Stankowski would play it by the book.  But someone could have rigged the car and staged the accident, set it up so that when the car swerved, Bradley’s head would smack into the door at just the right angle.  It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done.”

“Do you realize what you’re saying?”

Kincade nodded.  “Afraid so.  The NSA could be trying to infiltrate our own government.”

“But to what end?  They
are
the government.”

The CBS evening news was coming back on the TV, which Richie had kept muted through the commercials.  “Shh,” Richie said, as video of the afternoon press conference from the steps of Walter Reed Hospital came up on the screen.  “I want to hear this.”  He turned up the volume.

___

“I sure do,” the president responded to a question from the crowd of reporters.  “In fact, I’m so convinced he’ll be fit for duty that I’ve challenged him to a round of golf a week from this Saturday.”

“Do you think you can take him, sir?” joked the reporter from NBC.  President Forsyth’s mediocre golf skills were a matter of public knowledge.

“I’m hoping he’s still rusty,” the president chuckled.  “I know he hasn’t swung a club for at least a couple of weeks, anyway.  I think I might be able to take him on the front nine if I don’t let him warm up too long.”  Forsyth smiled his election-winning smile.  The reporters laughed.

“Where is the match going to be held, Mr. President?”

“You’ll have to try and convince one of the Secret Service boys to reveal that, ladies and gentlemen.”

Press Secretary Gracie MacNeil tapped President Forsyth on the shoulder.

“Well, folks.  My boss here,” he nodded toward Ms. MacNeil, who rolled her eyes,  “says it’s time for me to go, and I know better than to argue with the boss. Thanks for enduring me.”  He waved to the crowd, and then winked at MacNeil as he handed her the microphone.

“I’ll be glad to answer a few more questions,” MacNeil said as the president was escorted to a waiting car.

___

Kincade hit the mute button.  “Golf, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sandi said.  “It’d be nice to have time to play golf once in a while, wouldn’t it?  Busiest man in the world, my ass.”

“What’s that about your ass, dear?”  Lara Kincade had just walked in the room with a cup of tea for Sandi.

“Oh,” Sandi said, blushing, “I am so sorry, Mrs. Kincade. I didn’t mean to...”

“Relax,” Lara laughed.  “You’re at home here.  You’ve got enough things to worry about without having to worry about your ass.  I’m sure Richie will be glad to worry about it for you.  Isn’t that right, dear?” she asked Richie.

“Uh… yeah.  Right,” Richie mumbled.  His mind was obviously elsewhere.

The two women laughed.  Sandi appreciated Lara’s ability to put her at ease.

“Huh?” Richie chirped.  “What?  What’d I miss?”

“I believe Sandi was talking to you about her derriere.”

“Lara!” he said.  “Really, now. You don’t think that me and the doc here are...”

“Oh, Richard.  Don’t be so up tight.  I’m just having a little fun.”  She turned to Sandi.  “It
is
comforting to know that he’s so harmless.”

“Hey,” Richie protested as Lara left the room, “you don’t have to insult me.”

Sandi took a sip of tea.  “I hope I can have that someday.”

“What?  A nagging spouse.”

“Unconditional love.”

“Yeah,” Richie said, glancing back toward the door that Lara had just walked out of.  “I am pretty lucky.”

“So is she,” Sandi smiled.

Richie’s blush was barely perceptible, but Sandi noticed.  He looked away without a word. 

The ring of the telephone was a welcome break from an awkward moment.  “I’ve got it,” Richie called out as he picked up the receiver.

“Kincade? Is that you?”

Richie recognized Paul Hingston’s voice.  “Yeah.  What’s up, Doc? It’s late.”

Sandi burst out laughing.

“Hang on a sec,” Kincade said into the receiver.  He looked over at Sandi. “What?”

“
What’s up, Doc?”
she burst out laughing again.  “Who’re you talking to, Elmer Fudd?”

Richie shook his head, and brought the receiver back up to his mouth.  “Uh, sorry.  I think your girlfriend needs a little sleep.  So, what’s up, D…uh, Doctor Hingston?”

“Just call me Paul.”

“Right.”

“Listen, …can we talk?”

“Yeah.  Some of my boys swept the phone lines for me just this afternoon; they’re clean.”

“Good.  Well, I was thinking about our conversation at lunch.  If R.S. is Rocky Stankowski and H.B. is Harold Bradley, then this thing is even scarier than I thought.”

“Yeah, Sandi and I have just been talking about that.”

“Well, I thought of something else that might just rattle your nerves a little more.  On my way home tonight I was listening to NPR.  They were running a story on the campaign.  It seems that Russell Stetson is the only Republican of any consequence with the balls to try and take on President Forsyth next year.”

“Balls?  They can say that on NPR?”

“I think so, but they probably used another word…guts, or something.”

“Probably.”

“Anyhow, the analyst said it’s tantamount to political suicide to take on a guy as popular as Forsyth, and he can’t understand why an up-and-comer like Stetson would do it.”

“Yeah, well, I try not to think about politics too much.  So just why is it that you thought I’d be so anxious to get a campaign update at ten-thirty at night?  It’s past my bed time, you know.”

“Oh, sorry.  I’ll get to the point.”

“Fine idea.”

“Well, that story got me thinking. You see, last October at Anderson’s big Halloween bash, I stumbled across Sean and Senator Stetson talking out on the patio.  It was a cold night and they were off by themselves, which I thought was kind of odd.  Sean… or Trace, if that’s his real name… never impressed me as the kind of guy who’s real interested in politics.  If he’s really NSA, I’m sure he’s just in it for the action.  Hell, I was surprised he even knew who Stetson was.  Anyway, I popped out to say hi.  I was obviously interrupting a pretty heated conversation, but they both brushed it off as idle party chat.  It struck me as being pretty strange, but I just shrugged it off.  I didn’t really make anything of it…at least, not until today when I heard that broadcast.”

“So what about it?  What does Stetson have to do with all of this?”