No Rules, Ridge King [the snowy day read aloud TXT] 📗

His stomach was a knot of anguish because he knew nothing of the details of Slanetti’s plan. There could be silent conversions he was keeping for the finale. The announced switches might be ploys. He couldn’t tell, and he didn’t know how to approach members in question without letting them know that he knew something of what was going on behind the scenes. He wanted to guard against making targeted members more skittish than they already were.

He saw his domestic and foreign policies in the balance, and, more important, he saw his own future crumble before him—all his hopes, desires, aspirations—flicker before his mind’s eye. He knew that all his life had been directed to the time between now and January third. All his life!  From that day as a young serviceman when he clasped the fence outside the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue, the early constant studying in college to do well, the struggle through law school to excel, the fancy social footwork to arrange a beneficial marriage that would boost him a little higher in the world, the long nights spent making a name for himself as a young lawyer, the rigorous campaigns for state and federal office, the tension, the mental and physical exhaustion, the struggle, struggle, struggle that had been his whole life without a moment’s relaxation or minute of tranquility.

There was nothing debonair or casual about Fred Thurston. His entire mind, body and life worked towards the White House, had always worked towards the White House. He was as tense as a timepiece, the coiled intensity, always in reserve, providing energy to every extremity of his body and soul. He never let down, never weakened, never left the public platform.

I can’t lose it, I can’t give it up, he thought. His time had come, he felt, the chance still stood before him—challenging him onward.

And yet he didn’t know what to do.

What he could do?

He couldn’t accurately judge what he was fighting. A ghost? A ghoul?

A secret!

A secret revealed to him by the momentary luck of coincidence, by the unexpected strength of one man’s honor, deep integrity and respect for fair play.

He knew when he considered the stakes that he’d rather have the secret on his side than Eric Stathis’s honor. Secrets were powerful in Washington; honorable men were not.

Thurston found himself damning Washington, damning the secrecy that gave the government and its institutions and the people caught up in them their impetus for survival and action. If honesty existed, he would be President of the United States on January third with no questions asked. He would actually be President.

The gap between his position as senior senator from Michigan and the Presidency hung like a heavy, red-hot iron around his neck, holding him down, deepening his morose mental wanderings. He poured more of the Johnnie Walker into his glass and lit another cigarette, gazing into the milky blue smoke that swirled into the soft glow from the lone light on his desk as he exhaled. He wouldn’t give up, he told himself, he couldn’t give up the fight. He’d literally spent his whole life, his whole conscious life, to win the prize now weeks, days from his grasp. The Presidency stood up before his mind and haunted him as palpably as Macbeth’s dagger plagued and tormented him. The only way he could rest, the only way he could find some peace to assuage the desire urging him incessantly forward, ever onward, was to win that office!

This was Frederick Thurston’s only dream and it drove him ahead every day of his life, kept him awake at night, pushed and shoved him into the color, glitter and backbreaking agony that was American politics. That it could now, after so long, after so much work and pain, so much personal sacrifice, be snatched from his hands, plunged him down, down, down into the bottom reaches of his soul.

He was amazed that he wasn’t driven to high fury, exalted indignation and majestic anger. Too much of what Frederick Thurston was as a man was pragmatic, common, somewhat base—certainly not high-minded. And so at this moment his emotions, rather than illuminating the blackness of the night around him, in their sour strength and extremity, ate away at him and gnawed into the fiber of his being.

He’d recover, he thought. He always recovered. Tomorrow he would make the rounds again. He wouldn’t quit making the rounds. He felt his senses returning to him, what perspective he retained building into some vague course of action. He would at least know now not to angrily and contemptuously dismiss someone like Delamar. He would appeal to them first from the bottom of his heart. But he knew that he’d have to come up with something more powerful and influential than that. Big hearts had always been a premium in Washington, he thought with a silent, bitter smile.

Chapter 4

THE MONEY TRAIL

Jack got to his feet as St. Clair Island Club General Manager Santiago Ravelo led Ramona Fuentes to his table in the corner by a long row of French doors that looked out onto the green that separated his house from Flagler Hall. The maître d’, Luis Seijas, followed them with a menu. A waiter trailed behind.

“Jack, how are you?” asked Ramona as she leaned over for Jack to kiss her on the cheek.

“Just fine, Ramona, just fine.”

“It’s hard to believe it’s only three weeks till Christmas,” she said, a little out of breath.

“I know. In four weeks, we’ll know if dad’s the next President.”

Ravelo held the chair for her and Seijas placed the menu by her side.

“Thank you, Luis.”

“De nada, Señora,” he answered with a slight bow before leaving the table.

“Your father will arrive within the hour,” said Ravelo.

“Thanks, Santi. That gives us plenty of time for a quick lunch. What would