The President’S Angel: Divine Intervention Series—Book One

By Carla Bruce

When their candidate for president dies from a massive heart attack on the eve of the partys convention, the committee scrambles to find a replacement. They agree that the cowboy charm of Drummond Wakefield, junior senator from Wyoming, is their best bet.

Appalled at first at the idea of becoming a replacement candidate, and with only hours to make a decision, Drum weighs the options and decides to go for it. A major factor in his decision is the opportunity to run a campaign with no negative or derisive comments about the opposition. This creates problems for the party chairman, but Drum stands firm.

Three days after winning the election by a narrow margin, he and his team fly to the family ranch in Wyoming to relax. On a horseback ride to his favorite place in the mountains, an angel appears to Drum and informs him that God has an important role for him to play in the restoration of godly values in America.

The idea of a God so vitally and personally involved in his life continually keeps Drum off balance. He must deal with the puzzled reactions of his wife and others. He reveals his renewed commitment to God, but does not broadcast the story of the angels visit. His boldness to propose new ways to deal with old issues upsets the status-quo, and a blackmail attempt forces him to admit and deal with an incident from his past. As the light that has entered the presidents life shines brighter, penetrating the darkness of people and situations around him, opposition escalates and culminates with an assassination attempt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Mar 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781449713799

Carla Bruce

Carla Bruce, an editor, ghostwriter, and author has worked in the writing industry for over thirty years. Her first novel, The President’s Angel, made its successful debut in 2011. With The President’s Faith, book two in the Divine Intervention series, the amazing saga of hope and faith continues. Carla is the mother of three and grandmother of eight. She and her husband, Tom, live in Arizona. She is currently working on book three, The President’s Legacy. Contact her at [e-mail].

Book preview

Prologue

DEAD! WHAT DO YOU MEAN, DEAD? Party chairman Lawrence Nelson’s voice echoed down the long hallway of the hotel.

The aide shoved past Nelson and slammed the door shut. I mean, dead as in a massive heart attack. Here, he shoved a sheet of paper at Nelson, read it. It just came in at our command center downstairs.

Nelson snatched the paper and read that Senator Jonathan Lockman, their party’s shoo-in candidate for president, had collapsed at the airport in Washington, D.C. as he headed up the stairs of the private jet scheduled to bring him to the convention in Denver. Paramedics at the airport performed CPR and rushed him to Walter Reed Hospital where he was pronounced dead on arrival. The heart attack was sudden and massive. Senator Lockman’s chief of staff would call within the hour.

The memo fell from Nelson’s trembling fingers as he sank into the nearest chair. My God! What are we going to do?

In three days it would be Nelson’s job to announce his party’s candidate for the presidency of the United States from the podium of the Denver convention center to an arena jammed with delegates and national and international media. Now, he had no candidate.

Lockman’s string of primary victories had guaranteed his nomination on the first roll call. A long-term senator with fingers in every political pie—he was a media person’s dream. The other party’s contribution hadn’t stood a chance. Nelson and his staff had been celebrating for weeks. But now . . .

Nelson mopped his face with a wrinkled handkerchief and then shoved it back in his pocket. While his sense of loss was more professional than personal, he did feel a twinge of sadness for Lockman’s misfortune. And the opposing party . . . they would offer formal words of remorse, but behind closed doors they would dance for joy.

Fumbling in his jacket pocket for a crumpled pack of cigarettes, Nelson clicked the lighter and inhaled the smoke as though it were pure oxygen. This situation hooked up the entire party on political life support.

Nelson needed…the party needed…America needed…a candidate, and they needed one within 72 hours.

1

UNBELIEVABLE… MUMBLED DRUMMOND WAKEFIELD, Wyoming’s junior senator as he watched CNN’s late night coverage of Lockman’s death.

Startled at a knock on the hotel room door, he glanced at his watch11 p.m. Who could it be? He checked the engaged position of the security bar even as he chafed against the need. There had been no need for heavy-duty locks in his growing up years on the family ranch in Wyoming.

Stooping, he squinted through the peephole. Why is he here? Lawrence Nelson looked as if he had slept in his clothes—but dark circles under his eyes indicated he probably hadn’t slept at all.

After tucking his shirttail into the waist of dark slacks, Drummond flipped back the security bar and opened the door.

Nelson pushed past him, plopped his overweight body in a wing-back chair. Leaning back and emitting a deep groan, he peered at Drum. I know it’s late, but we have to talk.

After silencing the TV, Drum sat at one end of the maroon upholstered couch.

You alone? Nelson gave a cursory glance around the suite. Loosening the knot on his brown striped tie, he pulled it over his head and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.

My wife’s asleep. He motioned toward the closed bedroom door. I think she hit every art gallery in the city today. Want some coffee…soda…beer?

Nothing. I’m coffee-logged and a beer would put me to sleep. More silence. Then, Nita; that’s her name, right?

Yes. What’s Nelson up to? From Drum’s limited interaction, the man didn’t beat around the bush.

We finally came up with a replacement candidate for Lockman. Nelson scrutinized Drum from beneath shaggy brows.

Why’s he looking at me like a bug under a microscope? He sat up straighter. How can I help? I’ll support whoever you’ve decided on.

A grin broke Nelson’s frown and he slapped his thigh. Great, because we came up with you, Senator.

2

GLANCING OVER HIS SHOULDER as he walked down the hall to the elevator, Nelson gave a little salute to the stunned Wakefield still standing in the open door. It would take a while for him to get his bearings. Yeah, the man would look good on TV—enough gray at the temples to look mature but still appeal to younger voters. Forty-eight—nice presidential age.

All in all, their discussion had gone well. As he had related the committee’s route to settle on a candidate, Nelson watched Wakefield’s expression change from shock, to disbelief, to curiosity, and—bingo!—to interest. Wakefield hadn’t told him yes, but neither had he said no. Nelson would proceed on the assumption a yes was coming in a few hours.

He could already envision the billboards—Wakefield on horseback in a typical John Wayne pose, the Grand Tetons in the background. The public would love it.

He checked his Timex and headed for the lobby to pick up messages. Then, riding the elevator to his floor, he flipped through the stack of pink memos, deciding all but one could wait. Examining the East Coast area code, he shrugged. Probably some nervous behind-the-scenes contributor. He’d need to feed the fundraising machine and return the call. The message stressed calling back regardless of time.

In his room, he dialed the number. Tapping impatiently on the desk, he waited. Come on…come on… I don’t have all night. Finally, someone picked up the phone.

Phil Underwood here.

Lawrence Nelson—returning your call. You said to call regardless of how late it was.

Yes. Thank you. I represent Horizons Unlimited, a business conglomerate that substantially—and I stress substantially—supported Senator Lockman. We are very—and I stress very—concerned. With Lockman’s VP choice opting out, we need to know who you’re considering to replace Lockman.

The voice had a Bostonian accent, probably Ivy League. Throwing his jacket over a nearby chair, Nelson kicked off one shoe. Listen, we’re working around the clock to settle on a candidate. I’m more concerned about this situation than anyone you represent. Right now I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. He took a deep breath and softened his tone. The guy was obviously a big contributor. I appreciate your concern, Mr. Underwood, as well as your past support to Lockman and the party. I think I’ve heard of Horizons Unlimited, but can’t recall any details. Have we met?

No. We keep a low profile.

Yeah, you must. Nelson undid the top two buttons on his wrinkled shirt with one hand while holding the phone with the other. But then—for all I know, you could be a reporter trying to get a story for the early edition. I can’t give you any information.

I assure you, the voice grated on Nelson’s frayed nerves, I’m not a reporter. I can give you the name of someone who knows about our generous support of Jonathan Lockman, if that would make you more comfortable talking with me.

And who would that be? Nelson sat on the edge of the bed, took off his other shoe and dropped it to the floor.

Representative Gerald Monroe.

I’ve known Gerry a long time. That Monroe had ties to a low-profile outfit didn’t surprise Nelson. The guy had been around a long time and knew something about everyone.

Call him. Then get back to me. The voice sounded impatient.

Too late to call now, but I’ll check with him in the morning. Rubbing his face with his free hand, he wondered why he’d missed Horizons Unlimited’s connection to Lockman. Underwood, Underwood. Nelson knew everyone of any influence in the party, or thought he did. Actually, we’ve pretty much settled on a candidate, but I can’t give you his name until we get his answer in the morning. It’s gonna take a miracle to salvage this election.

I understand, Underwood’s voice lowered. You mentioned salvaging—while our focus and contributions were primarily on Lockman, we are prepared to make substantial contributions, as well as use our considerable influence, to see that the person nominated will be willing to go along with Lockman’s policies.

Now they were getting to the real issue. Nelson grunted. And that would be . . .?

Fewer restrictions on trade with our border neighbors, maintaining a strong military force, policies favorable to big business. Sounded like a grocery list. Lockman’s picks for key positions, such as Ellen Anderson for attorney general—that sort of thing.

Just a few things, huh. Odd that Lockman had never once mentioned this low-profile group. Look, it’s late. His brain was done for the night. I understand your concern and I appreciate your offer of help. Contributions for the campaign—whoever the top man turns out to be—will be appreciated.

Of course, Underwood replied. Just one more question…did anyone mention Gerald Monroe as a possible candidate?

Someone—Conners from Ohio, I think— tossed his name out, but it was rejected immediately—he’s boring.

What about vice-president? Personality’s not a requirement there.

You push too hard, buddy. Look, I can’t manipulate this thing. I’ve spent most of my time these past two days just calming people down. Keep your TV on; you’ll probably hear sooner than if I tried to call you again.

Very well. We’ll be in touch.

I just bet you will.

Hanging up the phone, Nelson flopped back against the pillows. Sleep hovered so close, but so did Underwood’s connection to Lockman and Monroe. Forget it, he argued. Deal with it in the morning. A few more moments passed and then his eyes popped open. He groaned.

Nelson stepped into the elevator, punched in Monroe’s floor, and pictured the man he was about to meet. Nondescript pretty well summed up Monroe. Quite a contrast to Drummond Wakefield—which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Wakefield, at six foot four or five, exuded a rugged vitality—that cowboy aura. Monroe, at half a foot shorter, seemed to wander through life in a brown haze. Always wore brown suits, had thinning dark brown hair, lackluster brown eyes—even baggy brown circles under his eyes. Mundane, boring, ordinary—he never stood out in a crowd. Yet he was a survivor in one of the toughest arenas in the world.

Monroe never initiated major projects or introduced controversial bills, but he served on several important committees. He always seemed to come out on the winning side of important legislature. Somehow, Monroe had turned dull and ordinary into an asset.

Hmmm… Twenty years he’d known Monroe and never seriously analyzed him. Nelson stepped out of the elevator to the left. Actually, Monroe might be a feasible candidate for VP. He would be a safe candidate…and one who likely could be influenced. That would be a plus—with the right person doing the influencing. Like me.

3

HIS WORLD KNOCKED OUT OF ORBIT, Drum’s sweaty hand clutched the doorknob as he stared down the hall long after Nelson was out of sight. The ding of the elevator broke his trance-like state; he stepped back into the room, closed the door, and slumped against it. His knees felt like Jell-O. He looked toward the closed bedroom door. Nita! What will she say?

He rehearsed a few opening lines. Honey, guess what…. Honey, you’ll never believe what just happened…. Nita, how would you like to have your life turned upside down? That’s what would happen if he accepted. If he accepted? Was he considering it? Who wouldn’t? He picked up the phone and ordered coffee from room service. There would be little sleep tonight.

Eight years ago, when he broached the idea of running for U.S. Senator, Nita had been reluctant. He had been well established in his own law firm, serving on a state-sponsored environmental committee, and keeping his dream alive of one day following in Grandpa Dan’s footsteps as governor of Wyoming. But then the senior senator from Wyoming died with two years left to serve on his term. The governor had appointed his lieutenant governor to fill the spot, but when this proved to be detrimental for the state, the party approached Drum to run in the general election. Drum felt so strongly about the lack of direction from the appointed senator that he agreed.

Nita had not wanted to disrupt their children’s schooling or move from their large, comfortable home in an upscale neighborhood on the outskirts of Cody. Still, realizing how much it meant to him, she supported him. They worked out the logistics of a D.C. townhouse and their Wyoming home. Drum stayed in D.C. during Senate sessions—Nita and the children, Mike and Beth, joining him when possible. Not the best of arrangements, but they made it work.

Now, with Mike and Beth in college, Nita spent more time in Washington, although she shied away from all but mandatory public appearances. She preferred to spend her time with family or a few close friends when she wasn’t painting landscapes. A private person, his Nita. All tease and sparkle with him, but reserved and quiet around others.

Reaching into his pocket for the thin polished gemstone of Wyoming jade about the size of a silver dollar, he rubbed it between his fingers and sighed. It had been a gift from Grandpa Dan who carried his own. Reminds me of the things I love, Grandpa had said. Family, the land, God—the Rock of Ages.

A vague yearning washed over him. He put the gemstone back in his pocket and pushed down the emotion. Maybe later he’d think about what the feeling meant. Now, he had to tell Nita the news.

As he opened the bedroom door, a narrow shaft of light fell across Nita’s face and upper body. The ever-present angel pendant on its gold chain shimmered at her throat. He flicked on the bedside lamp, bent down, and touched her shoulder.

Nita. Wake up. I need to talk to you.

Eyes flying open, she bolted upright in the bed. What? What’s wrong? She pushed back a strand of long black hair and then reached for the tiny angel with its outspread wings. The kids—has something happened?

No, no. They’re okay. He plopped down on the edge of the bed. Lawrence Nelson, the party chairman, was just here. You know about Lockman…? He was stalling. And what a dilemma this is for the party?

Everybody knows that. She yawned, rubbed her eyes. You didn’t wake me up to tell me that.

Not exactly. His words came out in a rush. They’ve asked me to consider running. Her dark brown eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.

What?

I said—

I know what you said. Flinging back the covers, she swung long legs over the side of the bed, her knee-length navy satin gown riding up on shapely thighs. Where are my slippers? She shuffled her feet around trying to locate them.

Drum dropped to one knee and reached under the bed. Here. He handed them to her; their gaze held as she put them on. Say something, Nita—anything! She stood up, walked over to the closet, and pulled a satin robe from a hanger.

I ordered coffee.

It’s going to take more than coffee. She cinched the belt around her slender waist. But that’s a good place to start. Give me a minute to put in my contacts and splash some water in my face. She paused with her hand on the bathroom door, and then looked back over her shoulder. "They want you to run for president?"

He held both arms out, palms up.

Shaking her head, she closed the door behind her.

Arms dropping to his sides and shoulders slumping, he looked at the rumpled bed. I’d like to crawl in, pull the covers over my head, and pretend this hasn’t happened. A knock at the door startled him. Must be room service. After signing for the coffee, he stood in the middle of the room. Okay, okay, need to figure out what to do. Ordinarily, he would have spent days, or even weeks, privately contemplating such a major decision before speaking to anyone—including Nita. But here he was—being asked to consider the starring role in an unwritten play. The part was his if he wanted it. Did he?

Nita stepped into the sitting room—her expression unreadable. Not a good sign. Her face went inscrutable when her opinion didn’t match his. He poured coffee and handed her a cup. She gave him a wan smile as their fingers touched. They called this their coffee connection. When one or the other was troubled, or miffed at the other, the coffee connection forced a touching—not only of hands, but souls.

Perched on the edge of the couch, Nita watched him over the edge of the cup as she sipped. After what seemed forever, she set her cup on the low table in front of the couch, and turned to him. So . . . talk to me, honey.

This is so wild. He ran his fingers through his hair. I was speechless for most of the time Nelson was here.

I’m sure you managed to say something. The diamonds in her wedding and engagement rings sparkled in the lamplight as she laid a warm hand on his arm.

Uhhh…mostly inane comments. Taking a sip of his own coffee, he looked up at the ceiling. I never thought about anything like this. . . .

I know, so why you? You’re a junior senator from Wyoming. I would think the VP candidate moves up.

That’s what I said. Had it only been less than an hour ago that Nelson had looked him in the eye and asked him to consider running for the highest position in the land?

And? Impatience edged Nita’s question. Drum forced his attention back to her.

Lockman’s choice for VP opted out as soon as the news hit.

Raising her eyebrows, Nita’s gaze never left him as she swallowed more coffee. The kids hated that look. It made them spill their guts even when they hadn’t done anything wrong. Now it had the same effect on him.

No way could he garner the support for the number one spot, so it was probably a wise move for the party. They considered Senators Olson and Randall—for their high national profiles—then rejected them because of their alignment with special interests…figured they’d split the party. Whitman and Jacoby made it clear they wouldn’t risk their careers on the possibility of a November loss.

And they thought you would?

He clinked his coffee cup to hers. Great minds think alike. I said the same thing to Nelson. A corner of her mouth tugged upward.

Someone got copies of my bio and a few pictures to pass around. Being Governor Dan’s grandson and him a two-term governor didn’t hurt. Family legacy and all. And they thought I’d look good on TV.

Nita rolled her eyes.

So, are you ready for what Nelson said next? She was handling it well; the only clue to internal agitation was her touching the angel pendant. In a surge of want, he needed her to agree he should at least consider this. If she wasn’t with him on this, then it was all ashes. Swallowing a suddenly dry throat, he mustered up a weak grin.

Tell me.

They said they’d draw a name out of a hat.

Nita choked on her coffee, setting the cup down violently. Tears ran down her face as Drum hitched closer and pounded her on the back. Gasping, she finally raised her hand to stop him.

That’s how they picked you?

No, but it started them thinking out of the box.

Ah yes, the political box. She must be feeling okay. Her wry wit was back. "Okay, honey, I think I need the Reader’s Digest version for the rest of this."

Telling her how it happened thus far only reinforced the surreal aspect of this night and Drum nodded.

Nelson said when they couldn’t come up with any big names, someone yelled out, ‘What about the cowboy from Wyoming?’ Someone else screamed, ‘Wyoming only has three electoral votes.’ Then someone said at least I hadn’t had a problem with interns, exotic dancers, or drugs. After that they waxed ridiculous on the appeal of cowboys…you know…Willie Nelson’s song and John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, and—here we are. He took a deep breath. His life hung in her French-tipped fingers. I need you, Nita.

God bless America. We certainly need Him to protect us from the politicians. Her curtain of hair slipped down her shoulder. But you’re not a cowboy. Your brother Nate’s the cowboy. She nudged his brown, tasseled loafer with her foot. You hardly ever wear boots.

He grinned, and then recounted how they’d checked his voting record, and despite a little apprehension about what Nelson called a streak of independence on some issues, they were satisfied.

Nita leaned back in the corner of the couch, her feet in Drum’s lap, a chuckle emerging from her throat. Streak of independence, huh? They don’t know the half of it. So…. She tilted her head.

Uh, oh. The head tilt. Drum braced himself. Nita’s eyes never left him as she adjusted a cushion behind her. And we are discussing this because…?

She’d dropped into let’s be calm and sensible and he’d missed it. Irritation poked him. An opportunity like this doesn’t happen to every person in politics. A little excitement would be nice.

This is where you say, Gee, honey, you’d make a great president.

The head tilt again—this time with the raised eyebrows. Nita was now wide awake and in full fighting mode.

If you weren’t considering it, you’d have already told them no. Remember that streak of independence?

She knew him. No one could have something like this tossed his way and not consider it. Let’s say, hypothetically, he held up one hand, that I’m seriously considering it. What would you say?

Forget it.

Hey, tell me how you really feel. Irritation flared into anger. She hadn’t really heard him, hadn’t heard the excitement in his voice, seen it in his eyes. One just didn’t ignore being asked to run for president.

Her black hair bounced as she shook her head. Doesn’t it tell you something that the men who turned it down are a lot higher profile than you? She laid her hand on his shoulder. You’re a good senator, Drum—and a good man. I know that, but how many other people outside of Wyoming have even heard of you? I don’t want to see you throw away a career you love for some lost cause.

You don’t think I’d have a chance? If she didn’t believe in him, he couldn’t either.

"Do you?"

He rubbed his hand across his chin, feeling the stubble of whiskers. A chance—yes, I think I’d have a chance. After all, this is a completely new ballgame; the other side hasn’t fielded a very strong team. Everyone knew Lockman was a shoo-in. He watched as her brow furrowed. Tell me, he pleaded inside, his eyes on her. Tell me I can do this.

I don’t know, Drum. Her voice rose. You can’t expect me to have an intelligent opinion fifteen minutes after hearing about it.

Okay, your honor, let me rephrase the question. He looked her in the eyes. "Flat out…do you think I’d make a good president?"

A smile lit up her face. Oh, Drum, you’ve been good at anything you’ve set out to do.

Relief washed over his turbulent emotions.

She added quickly. But that doesn’t mean I think you should run—or let them run you, which is what it sounds like. She jumped up from the couch, looking down at him. Most people spend years preparing for something like this. No one just wakes up one day, or the middle of the night, and says, ‘Gee, I think I’ll run for president.’

We’re not dealing with usual circumstances.

Despite how slowly she walked to the serving cart and poured more coffee, he knew her mind was working furiously. Turning, she faced him. If you run, our lives will change drastically. She sat the cup back on the cart. Should you happen to win—everything will forever be changed.

I know. Crossing the room, he stood behind her, bending down to nuzzle her neck. She leaned back, pressing herself more closely against him and he felt a flicker of arousal. Twenty-five years of marriage—she still turned him on. She swiveled in his arms and looked up at him. A tear made its way down her cheek. His lips brushed it away.

Whatever comes of this—you and I will be okay—I love you, Honey. Always have, always will.

She nodded, letting him take her hand and guide her back to the couch.

What about Beth and Mike? Nita’s hand rose again to touch the angel pendant. This will change their lives too.

True, but the change doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

I suppose not.

Do you want to call them? Hi kids, guess what your old Dad’s gonna do? He couldn’t envision that scenario.

No…I don’t think so.

A short silence filled the suite. Then she dropped her hand to her lap, twisting the belt of her robe. This seems so petty. She looked away from him. But…my plans to open an art gallery in Cody next year…I figured I could still spend a good part of my time in Washington with you…But now…

Drum sighed. I know. This flings our future into a completely new orbit. But you wouldn’t have to give up your gallery.

She stared at him.

Well, maybe postpone it. He glanced at his watch. I can barely produce a coherent thought and we have to make the most important decision on our lives in the next seven hours.

Seven hours?

Nelson and some of the committee will be here at 7:30 tomorrow—no—make that today. It’s after midnight now.

Nita threw up her hands. You can’t make a decision of this magnitude in seven hours.

He shrugged. The convention is in less than 72 hours. If I say no in the morning, they have to scramble to find someone else.

"If you say no…sounds to me like you’re already on board."

No, I’m not, he protested. I haven’t decided—and it can’t be just my decision. It has to be yours too.

Nita stood up and looked down at him, her hair cascading over her shoulders. "No. This is one time it has to be just your decision. I’m not bailing on you, but I simply can’t tell you to go for it; neither can I tell you not to. The best I can do is tell you I’ll go along with whatever you decide. Now, she headed for the bedroom. I’m going to take two aspirin—no, make that three—and go back to bed."

But, there’s so much we need to talk about…. He scrambled to his feet. Being alone right now terrified him.

Is there really? She blinked back tears. What could we discuss in the next seven hours that would make the decision any easier?

4

WHAT’S SO IMPORTANT? Gerald Monroe sat across the coffee table from Nelson.

Nelson took in Monroe’s dark brown pajama legs sticking out from under a light brown robe. Someone should tell him there are other colors in the Crayola box.

Couple things. Nelson briefly related the committee’s decision and his meeting with Wakefield. Monroe’s bland features gave no hint whether he agreed or disagreed.

Sounds like as good a plan as any, given the circumstances. Monroe shrugged, but what does this have to do with me?

You were suggested as a possibility for vice-president.

Really? He sat up straighter. Well, I’m flattered. Who did that?

Conners, from Ohio.

Doesn’t ring a bell. Monroe shook his head. But then, I’ve made a lot of connections over the years.

Your connections are the reason I’m here. Nelson leaned forward. I just spoke with a Phil Underwood from Horizons Unlimited. Not a flutter of movement crossed Monroe’s features. Do you know him or the organization?

I’ve heard of the organization—and it’s possible I’ve met him. Monroe shrugged. Hard to keep up with all the contributors and special interest groups.

According to Underwood, they were highly instrumental behind the scenes in Lockman’s bid for election.

A lot of organizations were.

Nelson eyed him closely, but Monroe was unreadable.

True—but this Underwood seemed to think highly of you.

What exactly did he say?

He mentioned you as a possible candidate for vice-president.

Hmmm, Monroe rubbed his chin. Seems like I should be able to place him. Probably at a fund raiser or two—and you know how that goes. Monroe’s furrowed brow pushed his eyes into narrow slits. Did he say anything else?

So, Monroe was more interested than he wanted to show. Nelson shrugged—he could be vague too. Oh, mainly, he wanted to know who we were considering. Then he reminded me about Ellen Anderson.

Yes, she is definitely counting on becoming attorney general. I would hope it can still go through.

I don’t see why not, Nelson said. But back to this Horizon’s Unlimited. It bothers me that I’ve had no contact with this group—especially when Lockman evidently knew them well—and you seem to know them too.

Monroe shifted in his chair but said nothing.

Are we talking about a legit group here? Any potential underworld connection?

Monroe hesitated, and then sat up straighter. If Jonathan Lockman was associated with them, they would have to be on the up and up—don’t you think?

I would hope. Nelson cocked his head to one side and held Monroe’s gaze. And, yes, I would think so.

They aren’t the only group who’s called asking questions or making suggestions, are they? Monroe looked away.

Nelson sighed. Maybe he was being overly suspicious. There are lots of anxious people out there.

We both know how the game is played—take advantage of what’s offered, without compromising your overall objectives. Monroe’s eyes narrowed. And…our objective is what at this point?

Nelson took a deep breath. Salvage anything we can from this fiasco—and maybe, with a major miracle, win the election. It didn’t sound so crazy now. He sat up straighter in the chair, pointing at Monroe. One thing hasn’t changed—the opposition still does not have much going for them. Maybe, in spite of all this, we still have an even chance. I think I’m convincing myself. He’d deal later with his qualms about Underwood and his connection with Lockman and Monroe.

So how about it? Will you consider the number two slot? Showed what desperation could do. He’d just asked Mundane Monroe to run for VP. I don’t think you’d get hurt.

Not exactly true. Monroe shook his head. Some VPs fade into oblivion if they don’t make the trip to the Oval Office. I don’t want to wind up on TV pitching Viagra.

Nelson almost smiled. How about that…Monroe made a joke. "So think about it and talk to me in the morning, okay.

Monroe nodded.

LOCKING THE DOOR BEHIND NELSON, Monroe slumped against it. He had to call Underwood. Sometimes he wished he’d never gotten involved with him. The benefits had been numerous, but lately…

Brown slippers flapping, he shuffled across the room to the dresser where earlier he’d emptied the contents of his pockets. After flipping through the pages of the small brown appointment book, he dialed Phil Underwood’s number, shuddering as the terse voice answered.

I figured you’d call.

Monroe took a deep breath. You called Nelson, suggesting me as vice-president?

I did.

Monroe sank into a nearby chair, uneasiness growing. Why?

You know exactly why. With Lockman out, we need someone in high places favorable to our agenda.

You need someone in your pocket. Monroe shuddered.

Was Nelson concerned or upset about my call?

More curious than concerned I think. He tried to pump me for more information—but I handled it. At least he hoped he had. Nelson was no dummy.

Did he say anyone else had suggested you? Underwood probed.

Conners, from Ohio.

At my direction. His words shot across the line like bullets from a pistol. And, at my direction, if you’re officially asked, you will accept.

That grated. Biting back a caustic reply, Monroe reminded Underwood, Vice-presidents don’t have a lot of influence.

Let me worry about that.

As he listened to Underwood, Monroe’s stomach began the slow tumble of regret. Hindsight had perfect vision.

Just do your part and we’ll continue to do ours on your behalf. I’ll be watching the news…. The connection broke and Monroe stared at the silent phone in his hand. Things had escalated way too fast. He’d become an item on Underwood’s To Do List. As cold, clammy suspicion rolled over him like early-morning fog, Monroe shivered. More than hip deep in this mess, he couldn’t back out.

5

HANDS HANGING AT HIS SIDES, Drum watched Nita close the bedroom door behind her. He wished he could go with her and put this decision off for another day. But there was no other day. He’d asked what she thought and she’d told him.

Okay, okay. Need a plan of action here. Compare the pros and cons. He sat at the desk, rummaged in the drawer and extracted several sheets of hotel stationary and a pen. In block letters at the top, he wrote Yes and in another column, No and then drew a line beneath them…and a line between them…and then went over both lines several times. No inspiration here.

Maybe I’ll get a revelation or something. He kicked off his loafers and lay back on the couch. Aunt Carrie would probably tell him to pray about it, but when’s the last time he did that? Guilt pinged quietly somewhere deep within as childhood memories of church flickered…then faded. No, heaven wasn’t going to be any