The Dirty Secret (15 page)

“Aye,” Warner and Thompson declared in unison.

“All those opposed to the motion will signify by saying, ‘No,’” Monroe continued. “No. By a vote of two-to-one, the motion carries. The county’s canvass will include the initial returns reported by the Gilbert and Matewan precincts, including those from the nine machines with malfunctioning memory cards. Madam Clerk, please calculate our final results on that basis.”

The Clerk nodded curtly, rose from her chair and exited the room. For three long minutes, the Commissioners sat silently while the audience murmured to one another in excited but hushed tones and reporters whispered into their microphones.

Finally, the Clerk returned, holding a thin document. Clearing her throat, she spoke into her microphone. “The official general election results are as follows: For president and vice president, 5,886 votes for Senator Wilson and Governor Vincent; 5,107 votes for Governor Royal and Senator Johnstone; 28 votes for the Libertarian nominees and one write-in vote.

“For United States Senator, there were….”

The Clerk continued announcing the results, but the audience was already filing out of the courtroom. A few local Democrats scowled, shaking their heads in disgust.

Monroe banged his gavel once, returning Dave’s attention to the platform. “You’ve heard the final election results,” he announced gruffly. “Does anyone have a motion to make?”

Warner said, “I move that the Commission declare these figures to be the official results of the general election, thereby concluding our work as the Board of Canvassers.”

“Subject to the right of any candidate to request a recount,” Monroe interjected. “Correct?”

Warner’s jaw clenched. “Correct. Although I don’t see what purpose would be served by having the machines count those ballots again.”

The blank look on Monroe’s face reminded Dave of an old Hollywood western card shark. Whatever his cards were, they were held close to his chest.

“I just want to make sure we do everything by the book,” Monroe replied. “The statute says candidates have 48 hours to decide if they want a recount, and we can’t certify the results until then. That’s all I’m saying.”

“So moved,” Ruth said.

“And seconded,” Monroe added. “All those in favor?”

“Aye,” all three Commissioners declared.

“The motion carries. The Mingo County Commission sitting as a Board of Canvassers will stand adjourned until we reconvene on Friday, November 21st at 9 a.m. for the purpose of certifying the results of the election.”

Monroe pounded the gavel three times, pushed his chair away from the desk and stormed toward the exit. Leaning down toward Ruth Thompson as he passed, Monroe’s voice was almost inaudible over the P.A. system.

But if Dave’s lip-reading was accurate, he would have sworn the man had growled, “You’re gonna regret screwing the party like this, I promise.”

CHAPTER 26

RALEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 10:30 P.M.

Dave stared vapidly at the logs crackling before him. An icy bottle of Yuengling sat on the table between him and Jonathan Royal, the current occupant of this fine governor’s mansion.

Royal had installed the small fire pit soon after taking office nearly eight years earlier. Traditionalists denounced the move, arguing the fire pit clashed with the Victorian ambience of the Executive Mansion’s Southern Garden. A few architecture professors accused him of insufficiently revering the building’s history, sniffling that such a trait might bode ill for his prospects in office, when he would have to
compromise
with those who opposed his positions.

Royal gave not a damn about such criticisms. It was
his
house, he argued. If he had to live in the place, he was going to enjoy it. Plus, the fire pit was removable and if the next occupant of the mansion didn’t like it, he (or she) could get rid of it.

For the next two months, regardless of the results of the election, Royal could satiate his desire to unwind by the fire at the end of the day. And on a clear, beautiful night like this one, with a cold beer in one hand and a fine cigar in the other, Dave was not inclined to argue with the man’s thought process.

“How ya like that stogie?” The fire’s glow danced along Royal’s face as he awaited an answer. In the distance, strolling atop the red brick wall surrounding the garden, a Secret Service agent aimed to make sure no one offed the candidate.

Holding the cigar lightly, Dave blew out a plume of smoke and gazed appreciatively at the cigar’s label. “Cohiba Sublimes. I’m sure some of our friends in South Florida would argue we shouldn’t be propping up Cuba’s current regime by spending money on these things.”

Royal chuckled. “Probably. But what’s the point in being President if you can’t smoke Cubans every now and then?”

“True, but we’re not home free yet. I feel better about our chances now, though I have to admit that when the time came for Ruth to vote today, it took everything I had to smile and look relaxed. Until she actually said, ‘I second that motion,’ I was scared shitless.”

Royal laughed and slapped Dave on the back. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that, Hoss. Woody Allen once said ‘Ninety percent of success is just showing up.’ But personally, I’d say the key is finding that delicate balance between being
gutsy
enough to take risks when opportunity knocks and being
smart
enough to know when it’s time to be scared.”

Dave smiled and nodded, but said nothing. Staring into the fire, he took a swig of his beer and subconsciously placed the half-empty bottle back down on the table.

Royal looked at his confidant studiously. “So tell me, Dave: Once this election is over, are you finally going to buckle down and find yourself a good woman?”

Dave kept staring at the logs. Wayward pinpoints of brilliant white light flickered and arced away from the fire as logs crackled and popped in the heat. The air was saturated with the smell of burning pine logs mixed with the sweet, pungent aroma of the Cohibas.

“You know,” Dave began. “I think I’m in a pretty good place right now. I’ve accepted the fact that marrying Krista was a piss-poor decision, and getting divorced was the best thing for me under the circumstances.”

“Especially before you had any kids,” Royal interjected.

Dave turned his face to the governor. “No doubt. But ‘finding a good woman’ isn’t at the top of my priority list right now. Don’t get me wrong: I’d be
thrilled
if it happened. But when it comes to women, I’ve spent most of my life trying to jam square pegs into a triangular hole, and I figure the best thing I can do is to just let things ride for a while.

“If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be,” he continued. “As hokey as it might sound, I really do believe God has a plan for me. Maybe next year, I’ll fall head over in heels in love with some amazing woman who will birth me a big-headed kid destined to cure cancer. But I could just as easily get flattened by an eighteen-wheeler tomorrow.”

Dave paused long enough to take another drink of Yuengling. “Who knows? I don’t have a crystal ball. All I can say for sure is I’m damn tired of bashing my skull against square pegs. But if God ever gets around to introducing me to a woman who’s
really
right for me – you know, the kind I can get along with, be myself with, laugh with and grow old with. Well … If He ever decides to do that for me, I’m ready for it.”

Royal eyed his friend closely, blowing two smoke rings toward the fire as he mulled it over. “Fair enough. Lord knows you’ve had enough bad women in your life over the 15 years I’ve known you. It’s a wonder you don’t have a big square hole in your forehead.” He raised his bottle. “Here’s hoping The Man Upstairs sends you a triangular peg soon.”

Relieved that their discussion of his love life had ended, Dave clinked bottles with the politician. “I’ll
definitely
drink to that.”

CHAPTER 27

PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 5:40 P.M.

“No fair!” the dark-haired boy squealed, thrashing his legs around wildly. His neck was twisted at an odd angle as he pawed at his incapacitated left shoulder.

Sprawled on the plush gray carpet, Jack was smiling but panting as he struggled to fight a two-front war with his sons. He had inflicted a “Vulcan nerve pinch” on his oldest son while restraining his youngest son with his legs in a scissors grip.

“Quit your belly-aching, Logan,” Jack said. “You’re eight years old. You should know better than let me get a ‘Spock Lock’ on you!”

Jack’s gloating was rudely interrupted by an excruciating blast of pain from his inner thigh. He screamed and opened his legs, thereby releasing the red-headed boy who moments ago seemed safely ensconced. “How many times do I have to tell you, Brandon? No biting!”

The freckle-faced youngster slithered out-of-reach and smiled up at him triumphantly.
If he feels any guilt or remorse for fighting dirty, he sure doesn’t look like it
, Jack thought.

The click-clack sound of high heels making contact with ceramic tile approached from the kitchen. Jack looked up and saw Tabatha standing in the doorway, scowling and holding a phone to her ear. “Knock it off! Can’t you see I’m on the phone here?”

Jack clamped down on his rising anger. Half out of breath, he took in two lungfuls of air and counted to three. Relinquishing his hard-won grip on Logan’s nerve, he patted the boy on the back and sat up Indian-style in the floor. “Sorry, honey. We got a little carried away and I didn’t know you had a call.”

Tabatha said nothing but the message in her smoldering eyes came across loud and clear:
Keep those kids quiet and don’t bother me!

At that moment, a loud beep echoed from the office. “Okay, boys,” Jack said. “Let’s take a break while your mom’s on the phone. Go clean up your rooms before dinner is ready.”

“Oh,
man!
” Brandon complained. “Just when we had you right where we wanted you!”

Jack chuckled. “In your dreams, bucko. Scoot! We’ll finish this match later.”

The boys glumly trudged away. Tabatha shot Jack one last cold look before turning back into the kitchen. “I’m back,” she said into the phone. “I just had to lay down the law a little bit.”

Just as Jack thought his anger would boil over, two little arms wrapped around his neck. Peeking over his shoulder, his mischievous younger son was pretending to put him in a sleeper hold. “We’re not finished with you yet, old man!”

Jack couldn’t help but laugh. He knew which of his two sons would give him ulcers later in life. “Oh, yeah? Well, we’ll just see about that.”

As the boys ascended the stairs to half-heartedly clean their rooms, Jack tried to ignore his aching joints and rose from the floor. He headed into the office, sat down at the computer and clicked on the new email:

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Tues, 18 Nov 5:41 pm

Dear Mr. McCallen,

I’ve relayed your response up the chain of command. I expect they will want you to provide us with some additional information about MR’s operations to help us do our due diligence. I’ll let you know when I hear more.

I apologize for not getting back to you sooner, but I’ve been out of the office and tied up in meetings most of the week. I just started working here last week and I’m trying hard to bring myself up to speed on things. Here is a link to Petromica’s press release announcing my hiring.

I’ll be in touch. As always, if you need to reach me, feel free to call me on my cell.

Sincerely,

Alex Beria
Executive VP, Mergers & Acquisitions
Petromica, LLC

Jack clicked on the link, opening a press release dated November 12 indicating Petromica was pleased to announce Alex Beria had accepted a position with its mergers & acquisitions department. “Mr. Beria brings a wealth of experience to the table, having previously held leadership positions with several Fortune 500 companies. He will primarily work at the firm’s new headquarters for North American operations located in Reston, Virginia, as we seek to expand our corporate footprint into new regions.”

A small glamour-style photo depicting the company’s new hire was included in the release. His face was positioned so that the right side of his head was most prominently featured, and Jack was immediately taken aback by the jarring whiteness of his toothy smile. His eyes looked to be blue, but the picture was small. He had high cheekbones, a strong jawline and his blond hair was cut short and neatly trimmed.

After reviewing the press release once more, Jack fired out a short response to Beria and forwarded it to Rikki, along with the simple note, “FYI.”

The clock on Jack’s computer showed it was almost six. Shocked the boys weren’t hungry yet, he leapt up and headed for the kitchen, hoping Tabatha had whipped something together for dinner.

Much to his chagrin, his wife was sitting on the couch in the living room, still gabbing on her cell phone. Gingerly approaching her, he mouthed, “What’s for dinner?”

Tabatha scowled and tilted the phone away from her mouth. “Can’t you see I’m
busy
here? Your hands aren’t broken. Fix it yourself.”

Jack felt the sudden urge to rip the phone out of her hands and punch her in the face. But remembering his two sons were upstairs helped him resist that impulse. Gritting his teeth, he stormed into the kitchen and tore open the refrigerator door, looking for something he could quickly heat up to feed the family.

As his eyes scanned the fridge shelves, his mind tried to ascertain why he would continue living like this, never knowing with which of his wife’s personalities he would have to deal from one day to the next.

CHAPTER 28

McLEAN, VIRGINIA
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 6:45 P.M.

Senator Wilson’s formal dining room was silent as the eight people in attendance waited for someone to take the lead. Although that prerogative belonged to the Senator, Luke Vincent (and everyone else) knew she preferred to ask questions, listen to her advisors’ opinions and formulate her own thoughts before asserting control of such meetings.