The Last Election (9 page)

Martineau was devastated by the death of her husband. New York City now held nothing but painful memories for her, so she left the U.N. and moved back to Louisiana where her family welcomed her home. To honor her husband’s legacy, she dove straight into a career in politics. Remarkably, she was elected to be the republican congresswoman from Louisiana’s third district less than a year later. Soon after that, she became famous for her courageous actions that saved many lives during the Hurricane Katrina disaster, and her determination in quickly securing government assistance for the rebuilding of homes that had been destroyed.

Martineau had worked with Clark often during their time in the House together. She considered Clark her mentor. Clark admired her spirit and determination and her ability to get the job done. From afar he watched with pride as she spent the last two years whipping the Republican House members into shape so they could stop Bonsam’s legislation dead in its tracks.

Martineau took a deep breath as she stepped up to the lectern. She was surprised at how calm she felt as the hundreds of Floridians who had come to this rally waited to hear her speech. She gave Clark one last look, then turned to the crowd with a delightful smile on her face. She leaned forward slightly as she prepared to speak into the microphone. “The Bonsam presidency,” she said, “is coming to an end. The time for bold new leadership is at hand. So move over Bonsam-Holden, ‘cause Clark-Martineau are coming to Washington to restore faith in the government!”
 
  

The crowd loved her straightforward message as she continually lambasted the Bonsam administration. Her speech ended to even more thunderous applause. Clark stepped up to join Martineau and they again clasped hands and raised them in the air to the delight of the crowd. “Great speech, Kenna!” Clark yelled as they walked offstage. She gave Clark a wink and high-five. The crowd in the stadium was still cheering wildly. “You’re a natural!” he said.

“Whew, that was fun,” she said. “But I had no idea that campaigning at this level would be so exhausting.”

“Well, that’s one of the reasons I chose you as my running mate. Campaigning is tough. Many people can’t hang, but I knew you could, Kenna. You have been doing a great job.”

“Sam, you know how hesitant I was to accept your offer, but once I did I have never looked back. I have zero regrets. We have the opportunity to turn the country around,” she said with a smile.

“I know Kenna, I know! And that is how I knew with complete certainty that you were the ideal choice for VP,” said Clark. “Your work in the House as Speaker over the last two years has been phenomenal. I’m sure you have given the president a migraine or two!” Clark laughed and patted Martineau on the back as they walked off the stadium grounds toward the campaign bus.

Chapter 18

In the Oval Office, President Bonsam flipped off his television. “I cannot stand to watch one more minute of that bitch Kenna Martineau singing the praises of Governor Clark,” he said to himself. He sat there alone, remembering how miserable she had made things for him after she became the Speaker of the House. She made sure that the Republican House members toed the party line when it came to voting on legislation, which killed over a dozen tax-and-spend programs Bonsam had been trying to ramrod through congress. She had vehemently spoken out against his stand on the second amendment, which caused a gun-restriction bill that he had so proudly brought before congress to get tabled in committee, where it died. That embarrassed Bonsam, and he did not like to be embarrassed. He always had spies watching her, but since she was selected as Clark’s VP running mate, he cranked up the surveillance on her several notches. He knew her every move and he knew where she was going to be even before she did.

Bonsam felt his temperature rise, so he got up from his chair and walked around the room. He desperately wanted to avoid yet another bout with the demons that came to him in the visions. “She is starting to get to me,” he said. “I have to stop her.” He walked to the thermostat on the wall and cranked up the air conditioning to help himself cool down. His mind felt cluttered. As he sat back down at his desk, the clutter in his mind was quickly wiped away and was replaced by absolute clarity. He knew what had to be done.

He picked up his phone and punched in a number. A moment later he heard, “Yes, sir!” in the receiver.

“Jorge, contact your team leader in Manhattan. I have another mission for you,” said the president.

Chapter 19

Clay was extremely happy to be leaving Ypsilanti.
Ypsitucky
is more like it
. He headed up South Huron Street with his windows down. The air was refreshing, especially after sitting in Colonel Lane’s hovel half the night. He pulled his truck into a Speedway gas station to top off the tank for the ride back down I-94 to his apartment.

Clay knew that Jorge Delgado would be interested in hearing the report on his meeting with Lane. Delgado had instructed Clay to contact him as soon as the meeting broke. Clay thought about Delgado for a minute. He couldn’t explain it, but something about Delgado had always rubbed him the wrong way. Sure, Delgado was the person who made him a member of the team that would carry out a dream assignment. Still, he never fully trusted Delgado.

Fuck George!
Delgado hated it when Clay called him George. He decided he would contact Delgado when he was damned good and ready. He finished filling his tank and screwed the gas cap back into place, then made his way into the store. He paid the old coot behind the counter for the gas, and since he was feeling lucky for finally getting to meet Lane, he bought a Mega Millions lottery ticket.

Clay felt the need to wash the funk off his skin from shaking hands with an untold number of rednecks that evening, so he headed for the restroom. He washed his hands vigorously. He seriously considered checking himself for ticks when he got home. Once he felt that his hands were adequately sanitized, he cupped them together and pulled a big splash of water to his face. He did it again and then looked into the mirror. For a moment he was taken aback when he saw his own reflection.

Clay felt that he looked very different since he got his hair cut in preparation for tonight’s meeting. His dark black hair had been shaved close to his head so that only stubble remained. That was Jorge’s idea. Delgado said that it made his appearance more convincing because it made him look like a skinhead. “Plus,” Delgado added, “you can’t go in to meet Colonel Lane looking all nappy.” Clay shook his head.
Jorge is such an asshole.

As he continued looking into the mirror, he felt a strong pang of sorrow deep in the pit of his stomach. He found it hard to look at himself in the mirror sometimes, because he looked just like his father. This always took him back to the painful memories of his childhood.

Suddenly his mind flashed back to one of the typical nights when his father’s friends would come over and hang out in the garage, drinking Jack Daniel’s and behaving like bullies on a playground. On these nights, his father would always break out his guitar. Wade Jackson, in his own mind, was an equal to the legends of country western music. He often bragged that he was related to Alan Jackson, but once you heard him butcher
It’s Five O’clock Somewhere
, it was quite evident that he and Alan were not of the same bloodline.

Clay’s hands trembled. He tried to block the memory that came racing into his mind. This one was the worst of all. He could see his father stumbling in from the garage after yet another drinking binge, steaming with anger because his friends had had the nerve to make howling dog noises while he tried to play and sing. Clay remembered the ominous feeling that shook his nerves when he saw the look in his father’s eyes that night. Clay, who was just a few weeks past his tenth birthday, immediately felt tremendous fear flush throughout his body. He quickly jumped to his feet and went racing down the hall. He screamed to his mother, hoping to warn her as to what was about to come. He only made it halfway down the hall when his father grabbed his shirt collar and threw him backward. Clay hit his head on the wall and fell to the floor. He was in pain, but he had to warn his mother. He cried out for her, but he knew it was too late.

His enraged father viciously kicked the bedroom door right off the hinges. Clay remembered the look of horror in his mother’s eyes. She wasn’t looking at his father, though — she was looking at him. Clay saw tears streaking down her cheeks. She looked as if she knew that she would never see him again.

His father grabbed his mother by the hair and dragged her off the bed, kicking her hard in the ribs as she hit the floor. He still had a firm grip on her hair as he pulled her down the hall to the front room. She screamed Clay’s name over and over. Clay could still hear it in his mind. He looked back into the mirror, and he hated what he saw. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

After a while, Clay pulled himself together and left the restroom. He kept reminding himself that it was his looks that had secured his place on this assignment. He got back into his truck, but paused before he started the engine. As much as he didn’t want to, he looked at himself again in the rear-view mirror. God, he hated looking like his father. He always wished he looked more like his Uncle
Matthias,
the man who raised him after his mother was killed and his father incarcerated.

Chapter 20

Following his mother’s death, Clay was placed in the Ypsilanti, Michigan, foster care program. John and Denise Parks, the couple that took him in, were fine Christian people. Mr. Parks was a deacon at St. John the Baptist Catholic Church and Mrs. Parks was a part-time nurse at St. Joseph’s Mercy Hospital. They were kind to Clay in every way, but all he could remember of that time was crying himself to sleep every night.

About a month after he had joined his foster family, Mr. Parks told Clay that a man was coming to meet him. He wondered who it was and became frightened, but Mr. Parks assured him it was a person who would help him. That still didn’t shake his feelings of fear.

On the day of the meeting, Clay was a bundle of nerves.
Who is this person and why does he want to meet me?
When the doorbell rang, Clay nearly leaped out of his socks. Mr. Parks took him by the hand and led him to the door. Clay could hardly contain his feelings of dread.

Mr. Parks opened the door, and there stood the largest black man he had ever seen. He was a tall, broad, imposing figure. He had steely eyes and a rock-solid expression on his face. His hands were placed on his hips, and he stood there motionless, looking down on Clay.

Clay gasped and stepped back as the man leaned down toward him, but the man’s eyes softened. He smiled and gently said, “Hello Clay, I am your Uncle Matthias.”

“But, but,” Clay stammered, “I don’t have any uncles.”

“Yes, you do, Clay,” Matthias replied. “I am your mother’s brother.”

“Please come in Mr. Grant,” said Mr. Parks. “Let’s move to the kitchen, shall we?”
 
   

Mr. Parks led Matthias and Clay to the kitchen. Clay was still in shock from the news he had just received and could not think of anything to say. Mrs. Parks poured Matthias a mug of coffee, which he politely accepted. Clay could not take his eyes off Matthias. He had never known that he had any relatives on his mother’s side. She had never talked about her family. After thanking Mrs. Parks for the coffee, Matthias told a story that held Clay spellbound.

Matthias Grant was the older brother of Clay’s mother. Matthias and Miriam had been born and raised in Jackson, Michigan, only 45 miles away. They were raised in a loving family by wonderful parents. Matthias described Miriam as a girl who was always full of life. Matthias and Miriam were very close and Matthias watched over her in a very protective way. Miriam knew in her heart that as long as Matthias was around, things would be all right, and Matthias always made sure his little sister was kept safe from the lowlife that never stopped trying to get at her.
  
 

Matthias took a big swig of his coffee and then paused for a moment. He wanted to remain upbeat as he continued to tell Miriam’s story, but her life had its share of problems as well.

Miriam had been born prematurely and she had suffered from mild intellectual disabilities all her life. She was easily confused and had attention deficit problems.
 
She struggled in school year after year, but managed to pass each grade due to the love and support of her teachers and the school system’s special education director. Her decision-making abilities were often hindered by her disability, and she frequently had difficulties interacting with others.