The Harbinger Break (32 page)

  
He had an idea. What if he could publicly kill Pat–on national television even, and claim Pat was compromised? Claim that the aliens had somehow replaced him?

  
If he could do that, he would be a hero immediately. And the government wouldn't dare assassinate a hero who had prevented an alien compromise.

  
That was what he'd do, Sam decided. During the debate next week, he'd claim Pat intended to kill Ron, then kill him. It was perfect. Plus, he had Pat's trust, an asset more valuable than gold.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Claire's plane landed in Savannah. She rented a taxi and booked an expensive room at a resort near the airport. She knew she might die, and if that was the case, at least she'd spend her remaining days in comfort.

  
She hadn't an idea where to start, but that confusion quickly sorted itself out once she'd turned on the television and heard about the debate. She'd recognized Patches immediately, close to a congressional candidate.

  
The influence he'd begun to spread in this city was obvious–from the shots of picketers to the massive crowds their party attracted at each public meeting.

  
She learned of the first televised debate taking place in a couple days, and with a phone call managed to purchase a ticket to the event.

  
She needed to revise her strategy. Out of the public eye, killing him would've been simple. But now that he had become a public figure, killing him would prove far more complicated.

  
So she went downstairs to the resort's pool, bought herself a martini, and began to brainstorm.

Part 3

Abashed the Devil Stood

Chapter 15

  
The first publicly televised debate was the following day, in exactly twenty four hours, and Ron Howard couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so apprehensive.

  
It wasn't the public speaking or the information he worried about–he felt confident in what he knew and what he believed. They had checked and rechecked their facts, and knew almost verbatim Wilson Clark's key points, possible rebuttals to theirs, and he was certain that the actual debate wouldn't be a problem. Estimates already showed that they were up seventy-three percent in the polls.

  
So what caused the feeling he felt now? He couldn't put a finger on it, but as a psychic he knew that the feeling was not to be put aside lightly.

  
Unfortunately, considering how vulnerable publicly he would be in a matter of hours, there wasn't much he could do. Guards constantly surrounded him and the meeting, which was to be held at Chibiney Hall, would be protected as well with metal detectors and scanners to ensure that nobody could bring inside weapons.

  
But he wasn't worried about people. If the aliens wanted him dead, he knew that there was nothing he could do about it, and that scared the confidence right out of him.

  
His enemy was unstoppable, and in his opinion his death seemed almost necessary to spur his movement. But he didn't want to die–why did it seem like he had to die to save humanity?

  
His only hope remained in the simple fact that his death
would
spur humanity to a restless frenzy, which hopefully the Europans–Rhaokins–whatever–would want to avoid.

  
If he lived, he thought his movement wouldn't be taken seriously enough, and if he died it would, but he'd be dead. And again, death was an unfavorable outcome.

  
He sat in front of the television in his office and rubbed his forehead as he watched the report on the death of the founder and principal of GenDec, and couldn't help but think that his campaign, the deaths at Sherwood Hills, and now the GenDec murder weren't somehow entwining around him, the hull of his Titanic.

  
And Theron Thurston's recording, proof of drugged food, was undeniable proof that society had been compromised by aliens. It all revolved around him and his campaign–which felt more like a revolution, like a final stand. If his campaign failed there was no coming back, humanity would be doomed. But even if his campaign was successful, it didn't necessarily secure humanity's future. He hated the Rhaokins for putting him in this position, for threatening not only his country, but his planet.

  
A knock resounded on his office door, a quick rattling, and he recognized it at once as John Higgins. "Come in," Ron said, quickly checking his ears for blood, and John opened the door and strode in, more cheerful than Ron recalled seeing him of late.

  
He watched silently as his campaign manager took a seat beside him, and realized he didn't know John nearly as well as it felt like he did. That man was nothing but a familiar stranger–but then again in this day and age, who wasn't?

  
"Less than twenty-four hours now," John said, tossing Ron the day's paper. Ron opened it. The headline was the murder at GenDec, and there was a follow-up story on the Sherwood Hills deaths, but news of the first publicly televised debate between himself and Congressman Wilson Carter took up at least a fourth of the page.

  
The population of Savannah had never been so involved in politics, and Ron knew it was solely due to the awareness (occasionally referred to as paranoia) he brought to the city. He was news, and he couldn't help but wonder what the headline would read two days from now. He hoped it wouldn't tell the tragic tale of his death.

  
Although, looking at John, an aching suspicion arose from his gut that John might realize what his death would mean to the cause. Ron grew even more fearful that he wouldn't survive tomorrow's debate. John had killed before, he'd seen the aftermath with his own eyes. How could he be certain that John wouldn't kill again? How had he been so blindly trusting of John in the first place? Because he acted purely on psychic instinct instead of plain, in-your-face logic?

  
No, he had to calm down. This was just groundless paranoia. Why would the aliens choose to reveal themselves now? How could John even kill him without likely dying himself? It didn't make sense, or he couldn't make sense of it. He was virtually untouchable. Even if an alien tried to murder him, his campaign employed so many bodyguards that they'd likely not only take the bullet, but then find and kill the would-be-assassin as well. Ron took a deep breath. No, he thought, he had nothing to worry about–nothing at all.

  
He glanced back at John, who seemed to be staring at him curiously. Probably wondering whether Ron could take the stress, he thought, immediately grinning and throwing his shoulders back.

  
"We're going to destroy Wilson Carter," John said. "Don't worry."

  
Ron shook his head, still grinning. "Of course I'm not worried, old friend."

  
John continued, seemingly not believing him. "Even some of the Diplomatist followers are wavering. You're so ahead in the polls, some analysts have been joking about whether an election is even necessary."

  
Ron forced a chuckle. What was John getting at? He wasn't worried–right?

  
John continued. "The party's beliefs make their agenda inherently weak, something we're going to exploit easily. The heavy focus on religion, with too strong a hope in God for salvation, seems to be putting some of the less religiously devout ill at ease."

  
Ron wanted to scream that it wasn't the debate he was worried about–it was John–it was those who were willing to kill to further the advancement of their party, but held it back. He hoped John wasn't that kind of killer.

  
"Are you a God fearing man, John?" Ron asked.

  
John didn't respond at first. His brow furrowed and he broke eye-contact.

  
"If there is a God," John said after a moment. "He gave us the tools we need to survive, and it's up to us alone to use them. I don't believe he interferes or judges us by how we use those tools."

  
"You don't believe in divine intervention–in miracles?"

  
"No. Divine intervention may have guided the development of intelligent life, but that's the extent of it."

  
"Then how do you explain our gift?"

  
John locked eyes with Ron again and raised an eyebrow. After a moment he shrugged. "You're right, of course. I guess I've just taken it for granted."

  
He said that without a hint of conviction, and Ron grew increasingly uncomfortable in his presence. John seemed to take note of that, and with a pat on Ron's back, he left the room.

  
No, Ron thought, he definitely had to worry about his campaign manager.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Sam sat in the main room of their campaign office, typing frantically on his computer, dropping anonymous hints that Ron's campaign manager might be an alien. After he killed Pat publicly, he hoped these anonymous rumors would spread and he'd be regarded as a hero, the savior of the Purgist party and the world.

  
Ron's office door opened, and Sam stopped typing and closed the lid as Pat walked out. He glanced up as Pat eyed him curiously.

  
"A-according to ticket sale polls it looks like more than fifty percent of the audience are decidedly Purgist," Sam said quickly. "Which, I don't have to tell you, is amazing considering how new our party is."

  
He'd just made that up. As far as he knew, there was no ticket sale poll–but Pat wouldn't know that–the poll statistics were his job.

  
"I'd be happier if none of them were Purgist," Pat replied. "We are going to cream Carter in this debate. I'd love to do so in front of solely Diplomatists and Radicalists."

  
Sam didn't respond. The office was empty, as most of their team were setting up at Chibiney Hall. Pat took a seat and began looking over paperwork, and Sam found the following silence awkward.

  
He couldn't take it, fearing that at any moment Pat would realize his betrayal.

  
He stood. "I'm going to head over to Chibiney. I'll see you later."

  
Pat nodded and watched Sam as he packed away his laptop and left, hoping that Pat wouldn't notice the slight frenzy to his pace.

  
Once out of the office, he sighed. Every time he and Pat locked eyes he feared that Pat would immediately catch on to his plan, not to mention the idea of betraying Pat as he intended to felt wrong, despite his pure motives. He had to keep reminding himself that Pat was a killer and deserved to die–that he was crazy and had to atone for his sins.

  
He walked from the office, heading to a nearby gun store. Called Frank's Firearms, Sam intending to purchase a gun. He wished he had more of a plan, but considering the circumstances, he was lucky to even have one.

  
Sam had grown to hate Pat since resolving to kill him those weeks ago, and every time he saw him his mind flashed back to his house, remembering how Claire had walked out of his bedroom and Pat following after her, and a few moments before, walking in on them. It was humiliating–a thought that made him cringe and shiver and shake his head, as if that would dislodge the thought.

  
But the more he opted to forget, the clearer it remained in his mind. But that wasn't why he had to kill Pat, he kept reminding himself. It was because Pat was crazy, and would kill a lot of people. And after everything Sam had been through, he deserved to be the hero, not Pat. Pat was the villain.

  
He arrived at the Frank's Firearms, a small shop connected to a corner store, seated on top of a small hill with a slanted parking lot that had enough room for only four cars. He walked inside with a ring of the door bell. Sam avoided eye-contact with the clerk at first, noticing the dirty navy blue carpet and countless random objects on the walls and display cases. Jewelry and knives, guitars, picture frames, clothing, and behind the counter and the clerk, guns. Finally, he made eye-contact as he approached, attempting to look confident.

  
"I've got six-hundred for a pistol," he said. "What do you have?"

  
The clerk, tall, bald, wearing a sleeveless black leather vest, looked at Sam curiously and then, after a moment, chuckled. Sam stared back, his already thin confidence wavering, and finally the clerk sighed and bent down, retrieved a box, and stood back up.

  
"Need ammo?"

  
"Yes," Sam said, eyes glued to the box.

  
The clerk turned wordlessly, grabbed a box, and placed it on the counter next to the gun.

  
"Six-hundred exactly," he said.

  
Sam had a feeling that he might be getting ripped off, but didn't really care–he just wanted to get in and get out of there as quickly as possible. He took the money out of his wallet, counted six $100 dollar bills, and placed them on the counter. The clerk picked up the money and counted it, then held it up to the light as Sam took his gun and ammo, pulse racing.

  
The clerk nodded, Sam let out a quiet "thanks," and left, thinking as he walked out that the clerk probably would've given him a bag for his gun had he been more patient. But he got what he came for, and left the shop with a second ring of the door.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Claire was certain that the overweight balding man she watched lurk from the gun shop was none other than Sam Higgins, but after their last encounter the last thing she wanted was to confront him face to face, so she hung back until he'd cleared the area. She was there for a gun, and as she entered she couldn't help but be surprised at herself for actually doing it, and although she was scared, she'd never felt more empowered.

  
The door opened with a ring and she walked straight towards the clerk. "I need a small, concealable gun."

  
The clerk paused. "A lot of people buying today," he said bluntly.

  
Claire understood that Sam must've bought a gun, others as well, which was nerve-racking. She made a mental note of it for later, but for now, she had her own problems.

  
"Can I ask why you need a concealable gun?" he continued.

  
"What's it to you why I need a gun?" she replied.

  
The clerk glared at her. "I'd rather not deal with the police if I can help it. You planning on murdering someone?"