Mart’s cell phone rang, and he took the call.

Young was the best option, she knew, but he was going to be difficult to control.

Matt severed the connection and set aside his phone.

“Young is it, then,” Carolyn said, forcing a confident tone she didn’t feel. “He has no obvious skeletons and a good family image. His family history in politics will help with the Washington insiders. When do we interview him?”

Matt looked perplexed. “You surprise me. How do you know what Young might or might not have to hide?”

She dismissed his question with a flutter of her hand. She’d never admit to hiring Winston Cain.

“I’ll tell Nick to set it up. Would tomorrow afternoon work for you?”

“Fine, let’s get this done.” Carolyn said, preoccupied with her own thoughts. She knew that all of their guns needed to be drawn when they marched into the National Convention and readied themselves for the shoot-out against incumbent President Charles Washman. But first, Richard Young needed to understand that she and Warner were running the campaign. Hence, he would be expected to take a secondary role, a role that never overshadowed Warner, and never compromised her control.

Jack stepped out of the shower. He tossed his towel onto the bathroom floor and stood damp and naked in front of the mirror. “Decision time,” he said to his reflection.

The man who stared back looked frustrated, stifled, housebroken. He’d been following the Lane campaign for weeks and doing little more than regurgitating their rhetoric and contributing to the Lane propaganda machine. He had to follow his instincts, even if it meant war. Jack knew that his employers would be furious, but it was the forces behind the scene that were truly dangerous.

Jack strode into the bedroom, grabbed the phone, and dialed his secretary.

“Maureen, book me to Missouri and then on to the National Convention.”

Missouri, Jack thought, the Show Me State – time to live up to this motto or he’d force the issue. Maureen, thorough as usual, put Jack on the next flight to Jefferson City.

The first two days he was back in Missouri, Jack felt like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Every candidate had a dark side and Lane was no exception. The figurative bell rang with rumors and innuendo, making his mouth water. The scent of a story wafted through the air, but the meat of the scoop eluded him.

His greatest frustration was Mortimer Fields. Upon his arrival, he’d immediately driven to Fields’s office. Mort’s assistant claimed he was out of town, and refused to say where he was, or when he’d return.

Jack walked to the nearest pay phone. “Mr. Mort Fields, please.”

“I’m sorry, he’s not in.” Fields’s assistant said. “Can I take a message?”

“This is Sergeant Leonard Rand, of the Jefferson City Fire Department We have an urgent matter to discuss with Mr. Fields. Please tell me how to contact him.” Jack said.

“I’ve been instructed not to give out his travel arrangements, sir. Can I take a message and pass it along?”

“This is urgent, ma’am. I believe he’d want to speak to me. His residence needs to be boarded up.” Jack said.

“Boarded up?”

“Yes, ma’am, from the fire.”

She gave Jack a hotel phone number in New York City. Jack called repeatedly, but never got an answer in Fields’s suite. He knew it was better to catch a source off guard so he didn’t leave a message.

Sipping a cup of coffee at a local diner. Jack glanced at his list of leads. One jumped out at him: Erma Miles.

Jack went out for an early-morning jog. After forty-five minutes he slowed, turned a corner and found himself staring at the house of Erma Miles. He walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. When there was no answer he walked around to the back of the home.

Across the yard he saw a small figure, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and crouching over some flowering bushes in the garden. Gloved hands skillfully clipped and shaped the plants.

Without turning to look at him, she asked. “Who might you be?”

“Jack Rudly.” He wiped a bead of sweat as it trailed down his temple.

“You’re Bill Rudly’s son, the journalist, aren’t you?” She turned, her blue eyes sparkling with vitality.

“Yes, ma’am. I was wondering if I could speak to you about your husband?”

Erma’s face clouded. “My Adam passed away some time ago.”

“I was sorry to hear that.”

She stood and patted his arm. “Thank you.”

“I don’t mean to impose on you, but-”

“Yes, you do. You need something.”

“You’re right. I do. I was wondering about Adam’s relationship to my father. Specifically, why they started meeting. Can you help me?”

“I’m not sure. Come in.” She led him through the back door of her home.

“You need to be careful, young man. There are those who would not take kindly to your inquiries. Your father, God rest his soul would have told you that.” Erma removed her hat, revealing perfectly coifed white hair.

“How well did you know my father?”

“Only socially. Our paths crossed quite often at political functions. He and Adam disagreed regularly.” She hung the hat on a wall hook next to the door, and continued into the kitchen with Jack close behind. “Even though they often argued. Adam always had the utmost respect for him. He wasn’t bogged down in all the political hoopla. He just told it straight – very diplomatically, of course. Boy, he used to raise the hair on the back of Edmund Lane’s neck. Those two were always fighting.”

“I have a few questions.”

“I’m sure you do. But smart folks won’t have anything to say about these people.”

“I’ve been accused of a lot of things,” Jack said. “But being smart isn’t one of them.”

Erma chuckled. “Please, have a seat. Would you like some iced tea?”

“Sure.”

“Sugar?”

“No, thanks.”

She poured two glasses. “I doubt you’ll get anyone to go on the record.”

“I don’t understand. The man is running for the president of this country, he’s got to be used to questions.”

“Oh, he’s used to questions. It’s just that they need to be the right questions, coming from the right people. Since your father’s death, there’s been very little opposition here, and what little there is, gets crushed before they can get a foothold. I can tell that you aren’t part of the Lane crowd, so I’m just warning you to be careful. These are powerful people.”

“If it’s risky to speak to me, then why are you doing it?” Jack asked.

“Well, there’s nothing they can really do to hurt me anymore.” Erma said, pouring the tea. “Except, of course, to kill me. But once I’ve spoken to you that’d be a little obvious, don’t you think? In a way, speaking to the press is a sort of insurance policy. Besides, they can always claim that I’m senile.” She laughed at herself. “I’m not batty, I assure you.”

Jack grinned. “Hardly.”

“So, you’re wondering why my husband went to your father.”

“Indeed.”

“Adam and Edmund Lane had been friends for over thirty years. They made their fortunes together, always backed each other up. They were inseparable. Once Edmund had accomplished his goals in business, he became obsessed with politics, especially where his son’s concerned.”

She sipped her tea. “For years, my Adam supported Edmund and Warner. When Adam semi-retired he moved further into the world of politics, although he still sat on the boards of some local corporations. He became what the pundits call a political advisor. The fact was that Adam and Edmund had enough money and political pull to enforce their will. That’s what your father objected to. But Adam objected to abusing his power. That’s when the friction began between him and Edmund.”