The Run (12 page)
“Yes, I am.”
There was a brief silence. “Oh, Jesus,” Pitts said. “You’re going to go for it.”
“That’s right; I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. I knew you’d do it eventually, but I guess with Joe Adams out, the time is now.”
“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
“How much you want?”
“Just a thousand.”
“I can handle that.”
“Plus a thousand from everybody you know and all their friends and relatives and all
their
friends and relatives.”
“How about PACs?”
“Nope.” Will had never taken any money from a PAC.
“How about soft money?”
“Not until after the convention. I’ll have to take it as long as everybody else does.”
“Damn, Will, I think my pulse just went up about twenty points.”
“Mine’s been that way all day.”
“Where do I send it?”
Will found the number of his new post office box and gave it to Pitts.
“Will, you remember that first time, when I got those fellows together to talk to you about your Senate run?”
“I’ll never forget it.”
“I want to do that again.”
“You bet. Sam Meriwether’s going to be my campaign manager; he’ll be in touch.”
“Go get ’em, Will!” Pitts cried, then hung up.
That was why he’d called Pitts first; he needed to
hear that kind of enthusiasm. He went on telephoning, and by dusk, he had raised a good seventy thousand dollars, and it would turn into a lot more when the people he’d called had had a chance to call their friends.
Tom Black handed Will a new sheet of paper. “Try this on.”
Will read it. “It’s good. Take it to Kitty and Tim, and see what they can do to help it.”
Will watched him go, then went back to his telephoning. It kept him from thinking about how nervous he was becoming as his announcement approached.
Will stood on the Capitol steps in the still, cold winter air, in bright sunshine, surrounded by a busload of Georgians and a horde of television cameras.
“Good morning,” he said. “During the past few days, we’ve seen American history take a sudden turn. The sudden and tragic illness of our president and the withdrawal of the vice president from the presidential race have cast the 2000 election in a whole new light, and a whole new slate of candidates is now stepping forward. I’m pleased to be among the first of them.
“I’m here to announce my candidacy for president of the United States.”
The little crowd went as wild as a little crowd could.
Will waited until the cheering began to subside, then continued. “And I’m here to tell you why I’m running.” He paused for a moment, then took a deep breath. This would be the sound bite that would be on every news program that evening. “I’m running because I see my country torn apart by partisan wran
gling; I’m running because I see the political parties jockeying for petty advantage, instead of doing what we were sent to this building to do.” He gestured over his shoulder at the Capitol. “I’m running because I want to lead this country toward a New Center, a New Center where every voice can be heard—Democratic and Republican. A New Center where conciliation and consensus can overcome ideology of any stripe and take us on toward new heights in the new millennium to come. We are a diverse country, but one idea has always driven us: We are all in this together!” Will paused for more cheering, smiling broadly, knowing that it was at this point that the TV news shows would move on to something else.
“I run as a Democrat,” he said. “Make no mistake about that. I run on the ideals that have helped our party help this country to be great: individual liberty, without undue interference from government; good public education for all; a safety net for the elderly and the disadvantaged; sensible, cost-effective programs to help our weakest citizens become strong and self-sufficient; a strong and lean national defense; and above all, the guaranteed equality of
all
our people.” More cheering.
“But I will tell you this: We can only have what we can pay for. We have lived beyond our means, and we can no longer do that. As I speak, the federal budget is balanced, and the administration I lead will keep it that way.” More cheering.
“As I go out into this country I’m going to address all the issues that are vital to us; I’ll praise good ideas and condemn bad ones—and the people who put them forward. But I’ll do so in a constructive way that will build consensus. I invite every one of you to come along on this journey.
“I hold out my hand to every American—not just
every Democrat, but every Republican and every independent in this land. I tell you that, together, we can do anything; that, from a New Center, we can take this country
anywhere we want to go!
” Will stepped back from the microphones, waving both hands and smiling. While the applause raged, he shook the hands of those around him, then stepped forward to the microphones again.
“I want to introduce you to some of the people who will be making this journey with me. First among equals is my wife, Kate.” He held out his hand; she took it and joined him for a moment. “You’re going to be seeing a lot more of me than you will of Kate, because she has important work to do here in Washington, and I’m not going to take her away from it. Wouldn’t be good for the country.” He introduced Sam Meriwether, Tim Coleman, and Kitty Conroy. “Finally, I want to introduce you to someone who hasn’t decided yet whether to vote for me. I’m determined that this campaign will follow the letter and the spirit of the laws governing campaigns, and that the actions we take will be not just legal, but ethical. With that in mind I’ve asked former federal appeals court judge Mason Rutledge to be an objective arbiter of all our actions. Judge Rutledge has had a long and highly distinguished career at the bar, in the Justice Department, and in the courts. He has been, since his retirement from the bench, a professor of constitutional law and legal ethics at Harvard Law School. He will remain there during the campaign, but he will be on call when we need him to help us make the right decisions. And if he feels we haven’t, he’ll be free to call a press conference and tell you why. Judge Rutledge?” He beckoned the tall, handsome man forward.
Rutledge faced the cameras for only a moment. “I’m here,” he said, “because I was impressed with
Senator Lee’s insistence on running a clean campaign, and I’m happy to help him do it. I expect I’ll decide sometime before the first Tuesday in November whether I’ll vote for him.” He stepped back.
Will came back to the microphones. “Now we’re going to invite you all to join us on a brief tour of our new national headquarters. There are buses here for those of you who need a ride, and the rest can follow. We won’t keep you long. And the next time I see all you folks watching on TV, I’ll be asking you for money.” Loud laughter.
Preceded by two Secret Service agents, Will boarded a bus with his campaign workers and chatted with them while they were driven to the downtown office building that housed the headquarters.
Will, Kate, Sam, Tom, Kitty, and Judge Rutledge sat in the Lee kitchen and ate hamburgers while they watched the evening news and Will’s performance before the cameras. They made the top, or near the top, of every newscast.
“It went beautifully, Will,” Tom Black said. “I can cut at least three good commercials out of the footage we got.”
“I was very impressed,” said Judge Rutledge, who was staying the night. “It was a good announcement, not too long.”
“I hope I can make ‘not too long’ the hallmark of my campaign,” Will said.
Kate spoke up. “And I’m grateful, sir, for having been publicly let off the hook so early in the campaign.”
“I promised, and I meant it,” Will said. “Tom, what’s next?”
“Buy some long underwear,” Tom said. “We’re going to New Hampshire.”
Zeke Tennant woke habitually at dawn, and Sundays were no exception. He left the bed gently, so as not to wake his sleeping wife, Bonnie. He got out of his flannel pajamas and into long underwear, jeans, a flannel lumberjack shirt, and heavy socks and boots, then tiptoed out of the room.
Zeke’s sixteen-year-old son, Danny, was leaning against the inside of the front door, peering out of a narrow slat at the world outside. “Morning, Daddy,” he said.
“Morning, Danny. What kind of night did we have?”
“I thought I heard a noise, but I couldn’t spot anything with the night goggles. Heard a helicopter, though; I’m sure of that. Must have been two, three miles off, to the west.”
“Yeah, they come around with their heat-detection systems, trying to catch one of us out of the house at night.”
“We had a couple of inches of snow, but it’s stopped.”
“You keep watch, and I’ll get you some breakfast, then you can go to bed.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
Zeke threw some homemade sausage in the pan and got some eggs from the gas-operated refrigerator, then sliced some of Bonnie’s bread. A few minutes later, he set two plates on the table by the front window, and they sat down to eat.
“That mirror plastic stuff on the outside of the windows was an ace idea,” Danny said. “Nobody can see in.”
“Yeah, there was a time when we wouldn’t dare sit down in front of the window like this.” The window was made of steel, and the panes of armored glass. As the sun came up, the scenery outside took on a gray cast from the mirrored material. They could see down the mountain road, some five miles, to the highway. Zeke had chosen the site to provide an early warning.
“You going to church?” Danny asked.
“You know we can’t do that right now. I’m going over to Harv Shelton’s place for a little meeting, though. You’ll be okay here; the younger kids can keep a lookout, and I don’t think they’re going to try anything in broad daylight. And if they do, they’ll have to deal with the land mines. You feed the dogs, then let them in.”
“Daddy,” Danny said hesitantly, “is anybody for sure looking for you right now?”
“You never can tell,” Zeke said. “I’ve got a failure-to-appear warrant out on me in Georgia; they can always use that for an excuse.”
“But that’s ten years old, isn’t it?” the boy asked.
“All they need is an excuse to come up here legal, and if they want to, they’ll do it.”
“How long you reckon we could hold out against them?” Danny asked.
Zeke looked at him sharply. “As long as we have to, boy; you remember that.”
“Yessir,” Danny said.
Zeke finished his breakfast and took a turn around the house. There were three bedrooms and two baths, a little office for himself, a kitchen, and a large family room. He and his family and co-militiamen had built the log cabin themselves, and not from a kit. It had taken them two years, but they had done it. They were completely self-sufficient. The well had been drilled first, then the house built over it, so nobody could poison them; the cellar was stocked with dried and canned food, a year’s worth. There were two huge propane tanks sunk into the earth—enough for two, maybe three years—and, if worse came to worst, there was the escape tunnel that ran two hundred yards under the woods, connecting with an old mine. On top of the house, reached by a ladder from the family room, was an eight-foot turret. Like the rest of the house, it had been built of two layers of logs and was lined with sandbags. The roof was six inches of poured concrete on top of logs, lined with cedar shingles and, on the southern exposures, an array of solar panels that kept a large bank of batteries in the cellar charged and ready. The whole exterior house had been repeatedly sprayed with a fire retardant. The place had been built so that no small arms could ever penetrate; it would take heavy military weapons to breach the walls, and the feds couldn’t do that, for fear the media would find out. And if they did anyway, he had two M60 machine guns, with mounts in the turret.
Zeke got into a shoulder holster and jammed in his 9mm automatic, with two extra clips. He put a smaller automatic in his coat pocket, then strapped another to
his ankle. He put on the sheepskin coat Bonnie had made for him and walked into the connecting utility building. He took the three-wheeler—not enough snow for the Sno-Cat, and too much for the pickup. He popped the steel garage door, started the engine, and drove out. The door closed automatically behind him. The two German shepherds on the front porch lifted their heads and watched him go. Keeping a sharp eye out, he roared down a well-beaten trail, scattering powder snow in his wake, and plunged into the woods. He drove for nearly two miles along the trail, then stopped at a heavy fence topped with razor wire and whistled loudly. A moment later, he heard another whistle, and a section of the fence swung open. He gunned the engine and continued toward the cabin ahead of him.
The garage door was open; he parked inside and pressed the button to close it. He walked into the house, hung his coat on a hook in the mudroom, and went into the living room. Half a dozen men greeted him.
“Hey, Zeke,” Harv said. “You had breakfast?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said.
“We just finished some eggs Benedict and champagne,” Harv said. “Too bad you’re late.”
Everybody laughed.
Zeke lowered himself into a chair by the fireplace. “I could use a second cup,” he said.
“Mary!” Harv shouted. “Get Zeke some black coffee, will you?”
“Coming,” a female voice said from the kitchen. A plump, pretty woman in her late thirties brought in the coffee. “Morning, Zeke,” she said.
“Morning, Mary, and thanks.”
“Mary,” Harv said, “if you’ll excuse us, now, we’ve got some business to discuss.”
“Bye, gentlemen,” Mary said, closing the door behind her.
“Well,” Zeke said, “what did it come to?”
Harv grinned. “A little over a million eight,” he said. “I guess you want yours now.”
“I reckon I do,” Zeke said. “I reckon everybody does. Did you have to launder it?”
Harv shook his head. “Nah, it was all fresh out of three or four banks, a good mix of denominations, old and new bills. I put away some bundles of sequential serial numbers, nearly half a million.”