The Frankenstein Candidate Page 11

  At precisely eight forty-five a.m. on a Monday morning, Gary Allen drove into the school car park. Georgia and Natasha got out of the car. They never let him kiss them good-bye when he drove them to school. That kind of thing never happened in front of school friends. He had long since reconciled himself to that.

  He was about to start the engine again when he saw her. She was walking up the road. Her two little nephews were with her. He fondly remembered the time he had met her the very first time. It was only four months ago, out in the schoolyard. He thought she was a teacher. She had explained, in her delightful Belgian accent, that she was taking care of her nephews for the week while her sister was away. He had introduced himself. She didn’t have a car so was bringing the boys down in the public bus. The next day, he made sure he was early and had parked in a vantage point where he would not miss her coming, her two little nephews with her. That’s when Georgia had noticed he was staring. Poor Georgia—she thought that maybe her dad liked boys more so she had asked him whether he would have rather had boys. Only once he had said to Olivia how he might have enjoyed playing ball with a son. At the time, he was sure that the girls were not within earshot. Just as well Georgia thought he was staring at the boys. After all the children had gone in, he had offered her a lift. She had politely refused at first despite his insistence.

  His pensive reverie about their first meet ended abruptly with her voice in his ear.

  “Maybe today you can take me back to Virginia,” she laughed, confident he could not refuse.

  It had been a few weeks since that message on his cell phone. He struggled with himself. He thought he could avoid going inside the apartment. Just drive her back home, chit-chat, that sort of thing and…that’s it.

  She was already in the car. Her musky perfume filled his nostrils again. He revved up the engine. She laughed again. It felt so good to be with people who laughed a lot. There was almost no one his age who did that any more. He had not been back to her apartment in Virginia. There had been no more calls. It had almost ceased to bother him.

  Gary drove his little Volkswagen Eos, which he could ill afford to keep given his current lack of income, but Olivia was making more than enough for the two of them. His Eos swerved into Virginia on the I-495, encountering the western terminus of the George Washington Memorial Parkway at a trumpet interchange.

  He decided to take a detour. He let the car wander around, not deciding what direction to take until he hit a fork in the road.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked.

  “A picnic.”

  “Haven’t got a hamper.”

  “We don’t need a hamper. Just a walk maybe, along the river. Let me find the right place to park.” He loved being so impetuous. Life with Olivia was about diaries and scheduled free time and appointments. Hell, even their love making was diary-scheduled for the days Olivia would be home early enough.

  The Potomac Heritage Trail followed the Potomac River and the George Washington Memorial Parkway for ten miles. Following the road by the trail, he had only just gone past Roosevelt Island when a large truck came ominously close from behind and honked, its brakes screaming.

  The large honk scared the living daylights out of him. What’s a truck doing in this part of town? he thought.

  The large white truck stayed right behind him. He speeded up, hoping to lose him, but the truck matched his speed.

  “Don’t know why we can’t lose him,” he said.

  “Well, what’s the hurry?” she cooed. “We have all day, don’t we?”

  She was right. He slowed down, veering to the right to let the truck pass.

  The truck slowed, but it still nudged into the little Eos, jarring its passengers. He stopped the engine, expecting to get off, but the truck revved up again, pushing the Eos with its nudge bar that seemed to sit right under his car’s number plate, gathering speed. Gary whipped around and screamed, “Hey.” He saw that the driver wore a balaclava and was not slowing down.

  Fear gripped the car’s occupants as they were helplessly pushed along the scenic trail.

  “Gary, should we jump out?” Francesca yelled.

  Abruptly, the truck driver stopped. He reversed and veered to his left and then took off, leaving a shaking Gary and Francesca unable to muster enough presence to jot down any numbers. Not that there were any. The truck’s number plate was missing.

  It took him awhile to try his door. It worked. He went back to inspect the damage. It was considerable, but the car was still functioning.

  Francesca’s trembling hands were holding her phone.

  “Wait, what are you doing?” he was still shaking.

  “Gary, we need to call the police.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “What are we doing here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “You are the one who took the detour.”

  “Forget the police.” He was thinking how he was going to explain all this.

  “But someone may have tried to kill us.”

  “No…no…someone tried to warn us. Listen, let me just drive you home. I will report it to the police later.” He knew he wouldn’t.

  She sat speechless and shivering as he drove his wrecked sports car back onto the highway.

  An hour later, Gary was at a mechanic’s garage. Joe Dalgedi was a large man with an unshaven face who had known Gary for a long time. Joe quoted him six thousand at first, but upon hearing that Gary was not going to report it to insurance, he lowered his quote to four.

  “So you can’t collect insurance because you need a police report?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You don’t want to tell the police what you were doing at the time.”

  “Something like that.”

  “How’s Olivia?” Joe asked. “I saw her on the news the other day.”

  “She is fine. She is in New Hampshire at the moment.”

  “Okay, not my business to get too nosey here. I will have her ready in two, maybe three days. You gimme cash, my friend?”

  “Of course.”

  “I can give you a ride to the terminus. You can get a cab there.”

  “Or a bus.”

  “Yeah, when was the last time a dude like you caught the bus?”

  “I can’t remember, maybe ten, fifteen, twenty years ago.”

  “You are sure everything’s okay?”

  “Yeah, why do you ask?”

  “There is fear in your eyes, my friend. My imagination tells me someone rammed you on purpose. You could have been killed or badly hurt. Sure you don’t want to go to the cops?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Awright, just asking. Okay, man, let’s go.”

  As he was getting into Joe’s car, Gary’s phone beeped. He looked at the text he had just received.

  “And that was your final warning.”

  Gary’s face turned ashen, but Joe had decided it was best not to ask any more questions. Gary tried to call Olivia to see how she was, but her cell was turned off. Gary got off at the bus terminal to make his own way home. His normally striated mind, which so cleverly made work/life/family distinctions, was overcome with a mixed bag of feelings ranging from confusion, fear, and dread to anger, each taking its turn to further ravage his already guilt-ravaged brain. By the time each of the four monsters had a turn, he was slouched, broken-down, and zombie-like on the bench, awaiting the bus that came and went without so much as an upward glance from him.

  Finally, brushing off his lethargy, he caught the third bus that passed by.

  18

  This Is Not a Test

  Olivia Allen sat in the second row, poised, smiling, and flanked on one side by Larry Fox and by Katrina Marshella on the other. Forty thousand voters had registered interest. The venue for the primary debates had shifted to the newly constructed Concord Entertainment Centre; the Town Hall in Concord, New Hampshire, could seat only three thousand people. CEC to the locals, the likes of Rihanna and Justin Timbe
rlake had once filled the venue to capacity.

  The CEC was actually selling tickets. At $20 each, it was just meant to make sure the crowd was controlled within the maximum capacity of the new venue of twenty five thousand. It also let the early birds take the better tickets. The media packed the front rows. Rarely had the American public bought their way into listening in on an early nomination debate.

  It was to be two days of debating. Day one was for the Democrats, with Spain, Ganon, and Rogers doing battle. Day two was for Kirby, Logan, and Reed. Tickets were not restricted to registered voters of either party.

  Rumors had begun to float around about Olivia’s relationship with Colin Spain. A tabloid in Philadelphia had raised the question, no doubt fuelled by Republicans trying to unnerve the frontrunner. She had told Gary to expect this. Gary had brushed it off. Anyway, it would be all cleared when the world was told about Colin Spain’s plans for her. She switched her cell phone off. The men were on the podium now.

  The venue was full. CEC had sold exclusive rights of coverage to NBN. NBN, which stood for National Broadcasting Network, was a newly created private broadcasting station, and had quickly established itself as a ratings leader in political affairs. Their cameras were rolling. The bell sounded. This was it, she thought—this was the real test.

  Justin Flannery, political correspondent with NBN, was the host of the show. He began by citing the various crises hitting the American economy. Fire alarms are typically false, he said, used only to practice evacuation maneuvers, but the alarm bells were real this time. “It is not a test,” he said, “I repeat, this is not a test.” It was the way he said it; he drew the first claps from the audience before any of the candidates had even spoken.

  It was inevitable that the Iranian and the Chinese crises were going to be on the agenda. Everybody knew it. They were prepared for Mr. Flannery. What they were not prepared for was the whole Stein thing, or what had become known as the Frankenstein effect.

  Ganon, cynicism engraved in his face, drew the short straw to go first in his introduction, and while that did not allow him to attack the other candidates, it meant he would go last in the concluding comments.

  Ganon made an impassioned, nationalistic speech based on his “Restore America” slogan. He argued for federal jobs programs but stopped just short of calling for a halt to immigration altogether. He argued against war and interference in other countries. Olivia glanced sideways, and saw Katrina taking notes.

  Amiable Casey Rogers had a negotiated approach to everything. He didn’t say anything definitive enough that he could be nailed on. Rogers, the political Houdini, always had an escape route spelled out prior to uttering a sentence.

  Flannery’s questions included the twin crises. Ganon had no choice. He said he would block China and ignore Iran. Spain said he was inclined to block China while he was still studying the analysis of the aftermath of a Chinese currency sell-off scenario. Spain also hedged on Iran, saying, “America has a responsibility to have a watching brief.” Olivia saw Larry smile. Rogers said he would negotiate with China, Iran, U.S. allies, and with Turkmenistan.

  It wasn’t until the people’s questions started that Rogers got a knockout blow. A middle-aged man dressed in casual overalls asked Rogers, “Congressman, you say that you would negotiate with Iran and with China. What is the outcome you wish to have in each of these cases should the negotiation be completely successful?”

  Rogers hemmed, hawed, and then spoke about the brilliance of industrial giants like Intel, Google, and Boeing and how they were quintessentially American. Olivia fidgeted in her seat as she felt the disquiet of the crowd. But Rogers could not quite bring himself to say that he would rather risk a currency crisis than turn these corporations over to foreign ownership. Of course, he steered clear of Exxon-Mobil. Olivia knew that Big Oil was not something any politician could call “quintessentially American.”

  Rogers said he would sit across the table with Iranian leaders, and have a dialogue concurrently with the rebels and the “Turkministers,” as he called them. Still, no specific outcome was specified.

  That’s when it happened. It was only one at first. It hit the lectern—but then it was followed by several more. Rotten tomatoes! The man in overalls had lost it. He got up and flung more, this time aiming at Rogers. Olivia caught another hint of a smile on Larry’s face as security staff swooped in. The man threw his bag into the crowd. Someone caught it. As the man was being led away by security staff, at least three others began throwing rotten tomatoes at the podium. A few tomatoes went astray.

  A startled Katrina watched one flying object catch the shoulder pad of Olivia’s business outfit.

  As the last of the throwers were being led away, the chanting began, “We want Frankenstein, we want Frankenstein, we want…Frank-en-Stein.” Many others, unwilling to throw tomatoes, joined in the chant as Mr. Flannery urged for calm and civility.

  In the end, the ensuing mayhem required eleven security guards to evict six people from the center and arrest them. By the time order was restored, Rogers’s lectern was dripped in bloody red, stinking juice, and the litter spread across the stage. “I hope it teaches them a lesson”, Olivia thought to herself, unperturbed by the sticky juice flowing down her outfit.

  If Mr. Flannery was furious, he did not show it. He knew the cameras had captured it all. He knew he had come across as a calming force that had enabled the suspended debate to resume. The show of wrath, though, was not new to American politics given the severity of the Code Pink and pro-life demonstrations, but it was good for television’s holy grail—ratings! NBN had been the first to capture it. Justin Flannery knew that every other media station would be clamoring for their exclusive footage, which no doubt they would receive for a hefty price, after NBN had exploited its advantage. Best of all, he knew ratings would skyrocket and make him a star. That’s what he was there for—to be a media star.

  Only Spain came out of it relatively unscathed. In leaning toward a blockage of Chinese takeover, he exploited a populist anti-China sentiment but carefully hedged against being seen to encourage a currency crisis. By tiptoeing around the issue of American involvement abroad, Spain had managed to avoid an isolationist tag while keeping well away from the fury of the antiwar activists, the numbers of whom he was well aware were growing, even among conservatives. “Keeping a watching brief,” “a last-resort policy of UN troops not completely ruled out,” “working with our allies to find a multilateral solution,” and “affirmation of our principles of democratic freedom” were his perfect buzzwords and slogans.

  “That’s how it is done, my dear,” Larry later said to Olivia, with Katrina Marshella nodding in unison as the three of them sat in Colin’s hotel suite waiting for Colin to get back to his New Hampshire abode.

  “Is it time?” Katrina queried of Larry when Colin finally made it back to the hotel suite.

  “It is time,” Larry said.

  “For what?” Olivia jumped in.

  “For the announcement,” Colin remarked. “I spoke with Victor Howell. He’s advised us to wait till New Hampshire is decided, although waiting until Super Tuesday would be even better he said.”

  “Rogers could die in this race early,” Larry said. “If that happens, our announcement would isolate Ganon. That would be perfect. If Rogers becomes a liability, Ganon could hardly come out and announce Rogers as a partner.”

  “But their deal would eventually become known, unless he doesn’t keep his word.” Katrina smiled.

  “How so if Ganon keeps quiet?” Olivia asked.

  “The Rogers-Ganon deal could be leaked at an opportune time when everyone had decided that Rogers was a liability. Ganon couldn’t deny it without being seen as doing a two-face. And he couldn’t drop Rogers without being seen as lacking in judgment for the deal in the first place. He couldn’t go through with it without losing funds and, of course, voters.”

  “Brilliant,” was all Spain could say as he backslapped Katrina rather cas
ually.

  When the three of them left Spain to retire in his seventh-floor suite, they caught the hotel elevator up to their rooms.

  “Word is that Kirby will choose Jackie Harding if he wins, they are close and she is young,” Katrina quipped.

  “She is redoubtable,” Olivia said.

  “Yes, but she has chinks that we can exploit once the two-way showdown begins,” Larry offered.

  When Larry got off the elevator, Katrina told Olivia that Ganon and Rogers had exchanged e-mails and that they had obtained copies, knowing instinctively that the fire of curiosity was burning inside Olivia’s head but being wise enough to not expose her naiveté at scheming in front of Larry.

  Olivia got off on her floor, thanking Katrina and bidding her goodnight. The elevator kept going up to Katrina’s floor. Little did Olivia know, therefore, that Katrina never got off on her sixteenth floor but instead took the elevator all the way back down to the seventh floor.

  19

  The New Media Darling

  Spain won New Hampshire handsomely, and as expected, Rogers was a very distant third. Colin Spain was clearly the frontrunner now, and a win on Super Tuesday was going to seal the nomination for him.

  As soon as the New Hampshire results were in, Katrina and Larry strung together a series of fundraisers across the country, and Olivia was away from home for several days.

  On the Republican side, Kirby won against Reed and Logan, but that was a much closer race. On the day of their town hall debate, bags containing fruit were strictly forbidden, but one woman nevertheless managed to sneak in two dozen eggs with predictable effect. The eggs were pelted in the direction of the speakers whenever they evaded questions or spoke around them. Some Frankensteiners were arrested and removed from the hall and they made the television news that evening. Mr. Flannery was delighted.