The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey) (18 page)

“No, my friends, we are a strong people;
the strongest in the nation.  Do we have our challenges?  Sure.  But, I’ll take a hillbilly against a Buckeye, a California hippie, or a damn Yankee any day of the week.”  The supporters roared once again.  Holland knew he had drawn them back in…even if that last line was not his.  “Who needs the busy streets of New York to be a success?  Who needs the glamour of Hollywood to affirm who they are?  We don’t need the concrete jungle of Chicago or the godless streets of Las Vegas to complete us.  No, we are made whole by the dirt under our feet, the family around our tables, and the genuine concern we have for our fellow Mountaineer.”  A raucous celebration came from the guests.  Holland inhaled the power he drew from them, certain his speech was now his own.  “I say let them have their plastic surgery, their $5,000 suits and vacations to Aspen and Hawaii.  All I need to be complete is for someone to take me home down those country roads.”  His reference to John Denver’s “Country Roads”, the unofficial state song, was understood by all and an impromptu singing of its chorus broke out.

As the chorus died down and
the crowd in firm agreement with his ethnocentric diatribe, Holland continued.  “We know how to do the hard and important things in life.  Didn’t a small group of fearless men create our state by abandoning the horrific principles of slavery?  Think about that.  Our ancestors created a state out of whole cloth because of an idea.  We chose to allow all to live free and pursue that foundational aspect of our nation’s declaration…the pursuit of happiness.  Are we pursuing that today?  Are you, the powerful class of West Virginia pursuing happiness?  Are your inbred relatives pursuing happiness?” 
Shit,
thought Holland.  Without hesitation Holland continued, “I say we are not.  We have let others dictate what we think about ourselves for decades and it is time we stopped and became our own people.  And as Governor, I will lead us into becoming our own once again."

The crowd roared with thunderous applause.  Sensing a crescendo building, Holland cut short their affirmation and continued.  "
As I was preparing for tonight, I came across a word that I believe exemplifies what my future administration will do to afford all Mountaineers their pursuit of happiness.  That word…”  Holland abruptly halted his speech as he paused to stare at the teleprompter. 
That can’t be
, he thought. 

H
is trance was broken by an audience member shouting, “What’s the word?” 

Holland
regained his composure and looked back out over the crowd.  Then said slowly, “Porter.” 

His hands gripped the sides of the podium so tightly his knuckles went white.  “
You see, that word has multiple meanings,” Holland said, carefully following the prepared text.  “So what kind of porter can I be for our great state?  Am I a dark beer? Obviously not. However, I do tend to drink to excess quite frequently.”  Holland forced a laugh to join with those in the audience.  “Am I a porter who carries the burdens of the citizenry?  Or maybe a porter who carries the baggage left by so many of our past and present political leaders…and yes, I am speaking directly to our chief carpet bagger Senator Rockefeller.”  This caught many by surprise as they stifled their laughter.  His philosophical generalizations were now specific, and overtly hostile to their senior Senator; the one who drove truckloads of money from Washington back to the hills.  But the low rumble of laughs confirmed what Holland knew, that most still considered the Senator a rich outsider who only moved to the state to advance his political career.

“
But seriously,” Holland continued.  “When was the last time any of you saw me do manual labor?”  More laughter.  “No, the definition I hope characterizes my administration’s dedication to our state is the porter who cleans up the messes made by others.  To right the wrongs that those in power have refused to address.  And to make those who would abuse their power to pay the highest price.”  At this phrase, Holland turned from the teleprompter and looked directly into the darkened glass behind which Porter sat.

Jack turned to Porter and
with some glee said, “He’s looking right at us, isn’t he?” 

“Yes
, he is," said Porter facing the man he had manipulated. "Listen Jack, things are going to get really nasty for you after tonight.” 

“What are you talking about
, Phil?” asked Jack who was making mocking faces at an unknowing Holland.

“I mean Holland knows somebody changed the text of his speech and he is natu
rally going to think it was you.” 

Jack stopped his playfulness and looked at Porter. 
“Wait. What?  Those weren't his words? But I didn’t touch it.  I just plugged and played.”

“I know that,
" said Porter. "But Holland won’t believe you and then he'll get creative in how he extracts the information he wants from you."

“Information?  What the hell
?  I don’t have any information,” said an anxious Jack. 

“
Oh, but you do.  You’ve seen me and even worse, allowed me to be alone with his property.  He’ll trump up some charge on you and call it tampering with campaign material or something…anything.  He won’t care.  Legal or not, Holland will find a way to imprison you.” 

“Dude
, you fucked with his speech?” asked Jack incredulously.  “Are you serious?  And now you’ve drawn me into your mess?  Hell no!  I’m going straight to the cops.”

“To tell them what?” asked Porter.  “That a guy named Phil
, who doesn’t exist, changed the copy of Holland’s speech?  I doubt they’ll buy that story and they sure won’t be able to protect you because Holland is their boss."  Pausing to emphasis his final statement, Porter said, "You know in your bones that you need to get away from Holland.”

Jack considered this and agreed
, “Shit, man.  What am I gonna do?” 

“You’re going to run
,” said Porter.  “Get in your vehicle now. Don’t tell anyone where you are going. Don’t contact anyone by any method, and never use your credit card.  Holland will be on you in a minute if you do any of that.  And park your car in a parking garage so he can’t track your plates.”

“
But, I…” started Jack when Porter interrupted. 

“You have maybe five minutes before Holland finishes his speech. 
Then he's going to send his security in here and once they have you, it will be a long time before you see the sun again.”  Reaching into his pocket, Porter took out a thick wad of cash and offered it to Jack.  “This is $20,000.”  Jack’s eyes grew as wide as coffee saucers.  “Use this for whatever you need but make it last for at least three months.  It may take that long for this to blow over.  If you get into a pinch, use a pay phone and call this number,”  Porter said as he handed Jack the number to his answering service.  “It notifies me what number you are calling from.  Unless I’m dead, I’ll call you back within five minutes.” 

Porter sensed his hesitation and said
, “Jack, I’m sorry I had to lie to you.  But Holland cannot be allowed to stay in his position of power, much less become Governor.  You know this.  Hell, the whole state knows this.  So trust me and get out of here.” 

Jack nodded his head and said
, “You’re right.”  After a second’s more consideration Jack asked, “You’re not going to kill him, are you?  I can’t be an accomplice to any of that.” 

“You have my word, Jack
,” said Porter.  “I won’t pull the trigger.  I’ll just load the chamber.”  With that assurance, Jack disappeared out the door.

Holland
had turned back to face his audience but this time completely ignored the teleprompter.  “My friends, in closing, I would like to ask you for your support, your vote, and most importantly your trust.  I need your trust because our state is like a dove, or as our Spanish speaking friends say, a paloma.”  Holland glanced at the darkened glass once again.  Porter felt his adrenaline begin to course through his veins. “Isn’t that a beautiful word, paloma,” Holland gestured.  “And our state, just like all delicate birds, needs handled with the greatest of care."  Porter fought the urge to call Mario so as not to miss the message Holland was conveying. 

"
Palomas, like the citizens of West Virginia, deserve total freedom.  But,” Holland continued, “both also need protection.  What I will do as governor, just as I have done with law enforcement, is to have an inside guy.  What do I mean by that?  I mean that at every level we need to be in the inner circle of people’s problems to know exactly where to help.  Be it education, commerce, welfare, wherever.  We need to be as close to the problem as possible.  As Attorney General, I have authorized numerous covert operations which have placed our people on the inside to root out the criminals.  On more than one occasion, I have placed my men on the security teams of known drug cartels.  One or more even to guard the family members of the cartel leaders regardless of where they traveled, be it Istanbul or Indianapolis."  Porter went cold. "At any time, I can place a call and my men will take action.  What action you might ask?  The right action,” Holland snarled, as he again looked back at Porter. The crowd showed their approval but seemed less interested in the idea of moles inside criminal enterprises than the red meat Holland was feeding them about West Virginia being the best state in the Union.  Porter was numb.

“So thank you again for your trust and your vote
,” said Holland.  “We can and will make our state the envy of the world.  May God bless you and the great state of West Virginia.  Good night.”  Holland stepped to the side of the podium and offered the typical politician wave.  He then turned to face Porter and stared.

Porter
understood Holland’s message perfectly.  Contacting Paloma now would tip off the mole he had next to her and be her death.  Killing or kidnapping Holland was not an option as the mole likely had a daily check in time with Holland.  If Holland didn’t answer, Paloma would die. 
He could be bluffing
, Porter thought.
No, he said Indianapolis.  Shit
!

Holland stepped from the stage and into the crowd.  He greeted
them with the clichés typical of every politician. “We’ve got great things planned,” and, “I couldn’t have gotten this far without you,” and, “I’m counting on your vote.”  After thirty minutes of mingling, Holland said his goodbyes and made his way to the black stretched Hummer which awaited him at the Marriott's entrance.

*****

"He's in the car now," Connie said hurriedly into her earpiece, as she sat in the back of her rented black Tahoe.  "He's leaving the hotel onto Lee Street; probably headed home.  Wait, not home. He just cut through the Embassy Suites parking lot and is turning onto Washington Street .  He's going to the interstate," concern evident in her voice.  "Is anybody near Holland's house?  No?  All right, get them coming my way."

*****

Inside the vehicle and a block from the hotel, Holland loosened his tie and said to his driver, “Holy Hell, I hate the public.  Especially all those kiss-ass social climbers.  Take me to the Black Curtain.  I need a drink and a man in the worst way.” 

“First
, give me your phone,” came the driver's demand. 

“What
?” said a confused Holland. 

“Your phone.  Toss it up here.” 

“Paul, are you out of your fu…” and then Holland saw Porter’s face.  Holland dove for the door, but Porter had them locked as he accelerated to 65 miles per hour. 

“You jump now and you’re in a coma at best.  Give me your phone
, and I’ll let you live.” 

“Go to
Hell!” said Holland. 

“I’m sure I will, but I’d rather you get there first
,” retorted Porter as he violently rocked the car, tossing Holland against both sides of the limo.

*****

"Something's happening," Connie reported.  "Can you see him from the sky?  Shit!  Why the hell not?" she barked as the panic began to consume her thoughts.  "Okay, well the limo just swerved hard.  It was probably just Porter getting Holland's attention.  Listen, if this goes bad, it'll happen fast.  How far is the other team from downtown?  Come on!" she yelled.  "That's not going to be fast enough.  You gotta get them here now!"

*****

“Give me your phone Holland!” shouted Porter as he pushed on the unconscious Paul whose limp body had slid next to him when he rocked the vehicle.  Holland did not respond but stared at Porter through the rear view mirror. 

“Oh, I see
," started Holland.  "You think you can find the mole through my call log.  Very clever, Porter.  Well, I will die or break this bitch before you get it.”  Without regard for the other drivers, Porter slammed the brakes, throwing Holland against the rear-facing seats and Paul onto the floor. Porter released the steering wheel, leaned over the divide, unsheathed his knife, and drove it deep into Holland’s thigh as his fist met Holland’s nose and left cheek bone several times until both crunched like the shell of a hard-boiled egg. 

*****

"He just hit the brakes!" Connie screamed into the phone.  "They're approaching the interstate overpass near Penn Avenue North.  He'll probably take the on ramp right before the bridge.  Get somebody on the interstate going west."