The Senator's Mistress

By James Prince

Life has been good to Senator Jack E. Wilson, a God-fearing Republican from North Carolina. The President's aide, Party spokesman and deputy-leader of the Senate, things have been going pretty well for Jack. With a good friend in the Health Secretary, Senator Finley; two trusted lieutenants in Jim and Frank, and a beautiful personal assistant in Monique, little seems likely to trouble his road towards becoming House Leader of the Senate.

Then, in apparent spite of his late wife Grace who died of lung cancer, the trade and industry Senator Anello decides to build a giant tobacco plant in his home town of Raleigh. Jack vehemently opposes the location of what at first sight appears to be just another irrational whim of big industry, but soon finds that the stakes are a lot higher than they at first appeared.

A trail of murder and malice follows a bitter conflict between the rival camps. Eventually something has to give, somebody has to betray, and someone has to lose in this deadly game whose winner stands to gain a lot more than just a forest in North Carolina.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 11, 2009
• ISBN: 9781467000796

James Prince

Hi, everyone. I am a Jesus’s disciple, and because I listen to my master, I want to make the truth known to all the nations as he asked me to do in Matthew 28:20: “And teaching them everything I have commanded you.” I have known the desolation because this is something that all the religions I know don't do. They are preaching Paul instead of Jesus, and for this reason, the truth is not known. Jesus’s instructions are completely opposite to Paul’s teachings, and people must know about it. You'll find a lot of proofs in this book of mine, and all of them are from the Bible, not from me.

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The Senator’s Mistress: A Synopsis

Life has been good to Senator Jack E. Wilson, a God-fearing Republican from North Carolina. The President’s aide, Party spokesman and deputy-leader of the Senate, things have been going pretty well for Jack. With a good friend in the Health Secretary, Senator Finley; two trusted lieutenants in Jim and Frank, and a beautiful personal assistant in Monique, little seems likely to trouble his road towards becoming House Leader of the Senate.

Then, in apparent spite of his late wife Grace, who died of lung cancer, trade and industry Senator Anello decides to build a giant tobacco plant in his home town of Raleigh, North Carolina. Jack vehemently opposes the location of what at first sight appears to be just another irrational whim of big industry, but soon finds that the stakes are a lot higher than they at first appeared.

A trail of murder and malice follows a bitter conflict between rival camps. Eventually something has to give, somebody has to betray, and someone has to lose in this deadly game whose winner stands to gain a lot more than just a forest in North Carolina.

ONE

Fortuna fortes iuvat

Jack had always considered himself lucky. Even his misfortunes seemed to have yielded more in the way of silver lining than clouded despair. Since his earliest youth Jack had led an enchanted existence. He had hated school, although not the social side, as he had always been the most popular boy in his class. Yet all the reading, writing and arithmetic had seemed as dull, when compared to the icons viewed tantalizingly through his school room window, as washing the pots and pans were to the pleasure of his mother’s home cooking. In fact, he had spent most of his school days in Raleigh staring through the window from his mooring, gazing dreamily across a tranquil lawn of sunny green that was shaded only by the cherry blossoms. His yearnings took him beyond these tamed delights of Nature, out through the school gate and across to the other side of the road. The other side of the fence was not greener though, indeed far from it. It was a warm brick red. He would enjoy watching the summer sun chase the brilliance of fresh white gloss paint, contrasting it against the sanguine and earthy new red brick that had been flawlessly laid for the newest, biggest and best law practice in all of town. Fourteen was not too old, nor perhaps too young to experience the first summer passions of youth, and what a long and glorious summer it had been.

Every day, at regular and entirely predictable intervals, white cotton blouses would pass fleetingly before the brick-red canvas, their beauty momentarily framed by the windows. His span of attention was not too short to catch their divine visions in their comings and goings through the ancient oak door on some pre-textual errand or another, floating or gliding along the main street towards the local printers, stationers or dress-makers. Katie, Samantha and Annie were, without need for debate or deliberation, simply the three loveliest secretaries in town, one each for Messrs. Randolph, Samuel and Roebuck, Partners in Law, as proudly proclaimed by the shiny brass plaque mounted on the broad white door frame.

Katie was a buxom blonde twenty-something. She never did disclose the something to Jack, even after many passionate and timeless hours spent entwined in the deep bluegrass by a secluded bend on the riverbank. Barely reaching the chest of his precocious six-foot frame, Katie loved to hang upon his strong, young shoulders, reaching upon tiptoe to kiss the softness of his neck, her blue eyes glistening in the warm sunlight, his soul relaxed by the gentle backdrop of a slow, warm river in early June.

July’s conquest had been Samantha, and perfection was the only word that sprang from his memory’s evergreen forest. Samantha had seduced him, or perhaps it had been the other way around, for the only one who knew for sure was the Fate concerned, for it is nigh impossible to separate two closely matched threads of silk. Her lithe and firm young figure, perfect in both height and weight had pushed his long and rangy frame onto willing knees, made comfortable by the firm bed of the shaded woodland floor. Dark, deep brown eyes flashed willing submission as she sighed and brushed the skin of his soft, strong white chest with her flushed red cheeks and soft brown hair. He remembered only the breathless euphoria that melted into some near form of heaven as he stretched forward and lay upon the tender pink of her newly disclosed flesh. Jack melted with the memories as his aged, angular chin sank deeper into the warmth of his supporting hands, driving his elbows deeper into the sumptuous leather inlay of his mahogany desk.

Annie had resisted the longest, her conquest taking him until the harvest days of August of that long and magical summer. Finally his wily perseverance and innocent boyish smile, framed by a handsomely chiselled jaw, had prevailed over her better judgment. It was after a long, humid Sunday morning of praise at the local Baptist church, over which his father proudly presided, that she had finally succumbed. Jack had pressed himself against her succulent form throughout the service, pouring his eyes over her best blouse and long modest skirt, enjoying her growing warmth and flushed cheeks as the heady, sweaty scents of the summer grew ever more intense. The hayloft had lain but a short five minute walk off the well-trodden path that led back down towards Raleigh’s sober, sleepy streets. That dull sobriety had seemed an eternity away as Annie wrapped her arms around his slender waist and tip-toed until the point of her chin was level with his. Softly, she delivered her well-practiced kiss, pressing her plump succulent lips to his, finally sealing the union of the four lovers. Their passion was renewed with the freshness of every spring, until, inevitability, his dutiful ascent into manhood had taken him tearfully from them.

Aside from the undying love and silent influence of his doting mother, the other formative and overpowering influence had been his father. It had now been but seven short years since his father had been relieved from his worldly duties and had followed the ascent of his beloved wife, from whom he had been parted in slumber not six months before, to share their well-deserved residence beyond the pearly gates. Yet not even a tear had fallen from his father’s wrinkled eyes when Ma had died. Pop had just smiled with his eyes and had gone real quiet, not that awful quiet that accompanies tragic loss, but succumbed to a serene inner peace which told him that his work was done and that his rest was long past due. He and his brother Randy had remained solemn throughout the remainder of that fateful year, and maybe even beyond into the spring. How could they stay mournful or regretful of such happy memories? Although it may have become more difficult talking to Ma and Pop in prayer alone, and family Sunday lunch had become a decidedly smaller affair, how could he or Randy ever mourn such a legacy? Their parents had left no great wealth or estate to speak of, but something far greater: they had left Jack and Randy, their grandchildren, and a whole dynasty of love and fellowship right down through to the great-grandchildren they had only seen from up on high. A fine father Pop had been too. He was noble and kind, with strong, massive hands that had seemed to offer only fellowship, protection and guidance; hands that had never threatened any malice to a soul, well none that the rose-tinted spectacles of his memory could remember anyhow. What was their legacy? The significance of this question caused him to straighten before his desk, relieving the dull ache within his elbows, and to sigh contentedly. They had left a legacy of principle.  No, more than that, they had instilled a strong sense of right and wrong. With this rising sentiment he straightened his back proudly and lifted his chin high, a gesture that met with a stiff creak of approval from his well-padded antique chair. They had instilled a sense of purpose, no far beyond that - destiny. God had not intended Jack to become Senator of North Carolina if it had not been his destiny. Certainly it was so, for how else could he explain all of his good fortune and success if it had not been so ordained by the Almighty? A warm flush radiated as a wave of pleasure throughout his body. Jack responded by exhaling strongly and confidently, puffing out his massive barrel of a chest out to its full extent. Without hesitation he reaffirmed his undying loyalty to the memory of his father and his vow never to miss a Sunday service, wherever his busy life might take him, a promise that he had not broken in seven long years. In fact, so strong was his dedication to his Father’s memory that he insisted that Monique arrange all his travels around the premise that a suitable church was within walking distance of his hotel, a duty which had become the bane of his personal executive assistant’s administrative duties.

A seedling of doubt began to creep into his subconscious and was swiftly deprived of light. Of course the Lord’s hand had been instrumental in his charmed life. After all, who else could have had saved his life in Korea, who else? For most of his contemporaries a lack of interest at school had resulted in a life of dull inadequacy in a back office, or worse still, rough hands and a bad back. Yet Jack had been blessed by the Muses, appearing to him in the form of Kirsty who was, a way back then, a warm and sensuous brunette of twenty-five unblemished years.  The Muse of Poetry had graced Kirsty with plump, ruddy cheeks and sugar-sweet red lips.  So dedicated was Kirsty that she had made it her personal cause to keep Jack in regularly after school during the long evenings when he was not otherwise inclined to rendezvous with Katie, Samantha or Annie after football practice. Two evenings a week Kirsty and Jack would spend three long, drawn out hours engrossed in each other company, preparing his scholarly ascent. She would smile a toothy white smile as she ran her long painted nails through his fine, dark hair, rubbing her cheeks into his to relax him in preparation for the hour or so they would later spend reciting the great romantic works. Jane Austen’s ‘Sense and Sensibility,’ Charlotte Bronte’s ‘Mina Laury,’ and D. H. Lawrence’s ‘Love among the haystacks’ were amongst the countless works which still to this day rhymed rhythmically through his gilded memories. A soft smile appeared upon his aging lips as his wallowed in such sweet sentiment. To this day, forty years on, he could still remember the passages she would recite to him by heart. He would still occasionally cite them when he wrote back to Kirsty, who had long since retired to Fort Lauderdale, although Jack could never understand why such a pretty lady had never married.

So devoted had Kirsty’s attentions been, that she had succeeded in imprinting the classic romantic works upon his soul. Friends of the family would often remark that when he gave his recitals that he could project the very essence of the writers’ souls. Such a gift, coupled with his new found love for literature, had so impressed the Princeton admissions’ committee that he had not only been awarded a Football scholarship, but also a scholarship in literature. This great luck not only relieved his parents of any financial burden, but also gave him enough spare change to procure his pride and joy, a gleaming white Ford Mustang charged with five hundred and seventy three cubic inches of vibrant passion. Such good fortune allowed him to devote most of his energies to attending to his two great passions, football and the fairer sex. His position as Princeton’s reserve quarterback, and his diligent attendance of literature classes provided him with a seemingly endless supply of eligible and willing young companions.  Janie, Mary-Lou, Mary-Beth, Sarah and Mae were but a few of the names he recalled from the pageant of beauties who had in turn adorned the red leather passenger seat of his gleaming white Shelby Mustang.

At this point his chin promptly sank several inches further into the leather inlay, as another great sadness returned to the fore of his memory. He nodded fatefully. Few had doubted that he would have been starting quarterback in his final year at Princeton, or that his future would have been anything but bright. Well, they had been right in that respect at least.

As another of the fates would have it, war had broken out in Korea only a few months into his sophomore year. At first his mind had been sceptical as to the importance of shedding young American blood on foreign soil, and he grew weary of ominous warnings of an impending yellow peril, a jaundiced view he had felt was the figment of an over-fertile military imagination. Yet deep within he had felt a cold wind gathering, made chilling in moments of solitude by fearful imaginings. December’s icy blast had penetrated the human channels that lay between the gray-and-white stones of Princeton’s academic temples, bringing with it an end not only to his athletic career, but as fate would have it, also his academic path. Receiving a hastily-contrived snap late into the fourth-quarter, his offensive line had driven forward to make headway for the rush as he strode backwards, looking in vain for the opportunity of a long pass down field. Instants later his right leg had fallen pray to a hungry defensive end and voracious nose-tackle, surging ominously through the gaping holes in his offensive line. Six months later, the plaster that had stolen his youthful gait was removed, but a slight limp remained with him to this very day. In one fraction of an instant his Fate had stolen his athletic grace and carefree gait, despite the public optimism of his prestigious Princeton surgeon.

Depression had set in soon after Christmas, and his mind had even drifted from his love of the classics, as June and the torrid veracity of the exam season approached in earnest. To nobody’s surprise he had not fared well, but the committee met and taking circumstances fully into account, he was allowed to retake his sophomore year with full honour intact. But depression had stolen his winning smile, and his heavy limp his youthful gait, and even the Muses no longer seemed to smile upon him. Inevitably he lost his athletics scholarship, and with it went the Mustang, Janie, Mary-Lou, Mary Jane and all. Increasingly withdrawn and introspective he had sought fresh motivation and direction, and found it one fine summer’s day as he wandered in lonely isolation down the shady boulevard towards the coach that would take him home to Raleigh. The military were out in force that day, their polished brass shimmering in the sun and resounding triumphantly, diligently accompanied by black polish stepping crisply in time to the music.  Such military regalia had been a rare sight in Raleigh, and his parents had never talked to him or Ralph about the Great Wars or their two uncles who had perished on Flanders’ Field. To his folks war was the work of the Devil, pure and evil, and the less spoken of it the better. Jack however found himself carried away by the pomp and splendour and spirit of this military spectacle, and for the first time that year he raised his head high and straightened his back. He stopped awhile to listen with awe and child-like fascination until at last the vanguard had passed and he had turned his shoulder in preparation to leave. Just at that moment a fresh-faced and pretty blonde in her late teens strode boldly up to him, brandishing a sealed invitation for him to enlist. Her fresh and innocent spirit woke him from his dream time and he felt suddenly rejuvenated. She smiled at him provocatively, and then blushed red when he smiled handsomely back.  Jack’s spirit was further lifted by her look of awe and fascination. Her words and vision remained as crisp in his memory as the day she recited his invitation,   

Can you help Uncle Sam and America? she demanded boldly before biting her lip as she gazed dreamily upwards into his eyes.

How so? he replied with a wry grin.

By signing up to free Korea from Communism of course! she replied, laughing as she realized that he was a College student, free from the gravity of such earthly concerns.

Oh yeah, of course, sorry! It was Jack’s turn to blush as her blue eyes sparkled forgivingly in the early June sun.

Well do you want to take my invitation, or don’t you? she insisted softly, thrusting the sealed roll into his limp hand.

Well… why not? he replied firmly clutching the scroll in symbolic acceptance, What’s your name?

Cindy, she had replied bashfully, but that was not part of the script. Then, as suddenly as she had appeared, a call from the vanguard caused her eyes to break contact with his and the spell was broken. Casting him a farewell smile, she dashed back across the street to chatter excitedly about tall handsome College boys with her friend. Jack smiled inwardly as he gazed at the leather inlay of his desk, his well-worn eyes wrinkled by the beauty of the memory.

This simple seduction had been the turning point of his life. Soon after he had enlisted, despite his parent’s strong reservations, and had fitted as seamlessly into the officers’ mess at West Point like a white velvet glove on a well-fleshed hand. The training had been as tough as it was brief, and the time flew by with fine companionship. Before he had even had time to begin to settle into life as a lieutenant in the Marine Corps, his company were ocean bound, part of MacArthur’s great and masterful counter-attack at Inchon.

His company were amongst the first to land behind enemy lines, or so they had been told. Light resistance had been expected, as he and his platoon of eighty men landed in the first wave in the midst of a firestorm. He found himself fifty yards from the beach, wading deep in troubled waters. Their advance was greeted with the resounding shudder of heavy machine guns, as ten, maybe twenty comrades, tumbled lifelessly into the turbid waters as the bullets raked their lines. Thirty yards from shore, and Joe took his share of the hot, hurtling thirty-millimetre metal, and Jack’s face was sprayed with his brother’s lost love. His knotted intestines tightened as the waters turned blood red with the passion of his men, the waves churning it upwards in revulsion. Ten yards from the line and ten more failed to make the shore. Thirty marines reach the shore, ten falling heavily upon barbed wire, declaring their love with anguished cries of determination. The smell and sound of hot metal grew louder as he lost his count. Eighty yards to the ridge, noting gun emplacements right and left. ‘Cover me’ brother, and love lost, fire at will, red hot metal and shoot to kill. Al falls, and Johnny follows, up onto the hill and down into the hollows. Grenades and teeth, tear and throw, pause for the roar and face the foe. Charge, Tommy gun blazing, into the bunker, there’s no time for paining. Slanted eyes respond too late, guns chatter, declaring their fate. Numb shock then dull pain, where there was a leg, now there’s just pain. Dizzy, bleary, blood-soaked eyes spy Johnny, knife to his throat. One last discharge from