Bloodless

57

At the appointed hour, Senator Drayton climbed down from his bus, which had been driven onto the lawn and parked behind the Confederate monument. With aides before and behind him and his wife at his side, he walked around to the front, mounted the stairs, and strode onto the temporary stage, just as the band struck up “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” He checked the chunky Rolex Presidential on his wrist: nine o’clock precisely. A roar greeted his ears: a medley of clapping, horns, whistles, and noisemakers. He drank it in for a moment, then raised both arms, flashing the victory sign with each hand. The people seated on the great lawn rose up in their thousands as if with one mind, cheering, while the crowds standing in the rear and to either side went equally wild.

He smiled and waved as the noise went on and on, the seconds stretching into minutes. He felt that indescribable thrill course through him: a feeling better than sex, better than a shot of the finest bourbon — the electricity of victory, of admiration, of power. How could he lose with this outpouring of support? His pathetic opponent could never pull together a crowd like this, even before Drayton’s hackers and disinformation wonks had gone to work on him.

The only obstacle in his path to re-election was this damned murder investigation. Pickett, his old “friend,” had really failed him, assigning that asshole FBI agent and his sidekick to the case. They hadn’t done jack shit, and — as if to rub his face in it — they’d gone off to Washington State the night before, after he’d given them specific instructions... and a specific warning. And that Commander Delaplane was no better, just spinning her wheels, a waste of space if ever there was one.

He waved as the cheering continued. If everything was going well, then why did he feel this tickle of apprehension? Because he not only wanted to win this election; he needed to. The new Jekyll Island sewage treatment plant was going out for bids, and there was a lot of money to be made in kickbacks. Not kickbacks, he reminded himself — legal campaign contributions, made by those bidding on the work. Kickback was practically a moribund concept — thanks to the Supreme Court, it was 100 percent legal for those who wanted to give in return for “constituent service” — as long as there was no quid pro quo. And there would never be a quid pro quo, because nobody had to say or write anything. It was all just understood, in the secret, unspoken language of politics. But even unspoken, it was as old as the hills: you scratch my back, I scratch yours.

His mind drifted back to that rogue FBI agent, Pendergast, and his partner, Coldmoon. Especially Coldmoon. After re-election, with Pickett out of the way, he was going to make a special project out of that sucker. He was going to bring the full power of his office down on that smartass, insect or not. Coldmoon would be sorry he ever shot off his smart mouth. Drayton would send him packing to the nearest reservation. And he would deal with Pendergast, too, put that southern undertaker of an agent out to pasture in Alaska or North Dakota, where he would freeze his ass off for the rest of his career.

These thoughts ran through his mind as he continued waving at the crowd. God, he hoped those sons of bitches in the press area were getting this. Invincible, that was the word that now came to mind. His people loved him.

The cheering finally trailed off as the governor of Georgia took the podium to introduce him. The man heaped on the honors and praises, one fine phrase after another rolling off his tongue. It was a perfect speech, short, elegant, and to the point — and then the governor yielded the podium to him.

The cheering began all over again as he waited, waved a little, waited some more, waved again, and finally cleared his throat to signal the beginning of his speech. He heard, in the far distance, some catcalls and jeers, but they were faint. He’d made it clear to his advance team that those bastards were to be kept well at bay, and none too gently, either.

“My fellow Georgians,” he began, the towers of speakers echoing his voice back from the buildings surrounding the park. “Now is the time of decision. Now is the time of firmness. Now is the time of...” He went on and on, reading his speech from the teleprompter, although he’d practiced it so many times he had it memorized. He paused at particularly well-turned points to allow more cheering and applause, the audience obliging every time.

This was fine. So very, very fine. His enemies and detractors could eat shit and die — with support like this, there was no way he was going to lose this election.