Tracie Peterson Page 2

  “Are you a supporter of Governor Glencoe?” All eyes moved from Kerns to Myers in anticipation of an answer.

  “Not particularly,” the dark-haired architect replied. “I just think it will take more than mudslinging to beat him in this campaign. He is well liked, just as you’ve pointed out. He’s got a strong following in the rural communities among the religious right. That’s one group you could never hope to win over on your reputation alone. People don’t have a high opinion of lawyers these days.”

  Kerns met Myers’ steely eyes and felt a small amount of respect for the man. “True enough, John, and that’s exactly the kind of input we’ll need in order to iron out the rough places in this campaign. Kansas is an agricultural- and livestock-minded state. Even the major industries here take their cues from the barometric readings of the farming community. To ignore the outlying areas of Kansas would be to cut our own throats. However, as you all know, I’ve recently won two major cases for farming cooperatives. That gives me a stronghold with farmers—especially in light of the fact that both cases were against the federal government and very well publicized.”

  “But is that enough to make you a major contender for the office of governor?” Myers braved again.

  “That, along with my favorable reputation in Topeka, Kansas City, and Wichita, will make a good start. If you’ll read the printouts, you’ll see where our weak points are and how you can help. As I said earlier, Russell will be contacting you in the near future to give you updates and see what assistance you might be willing to offer the campaign.” Kerns glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight, and the best thing to do now was to give each member of the Association time to consider the news.

  “I motion we adjourn for the evening,” Kerns said, knowing there would be no challenge. Conrad seconded the motion and the other members echoed their agreement.

  As the room cleared of both smoke and men, Kerns signaled for Owens to stay behind. “Russell, I want you to get right to work on a list of possible running mates. The right person should strengthen my public appeal. We need someone whose reputation is impeccable, someone to draw the more conservative skeptics who question my background. However . . .” Kerns turned to look out on the city from his ninth-floor vantage point. The light atop the Capitol building glowed in the darkness, drawing his attention. He wanted the position of governor more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.

  And he would have it.

  “However?” Owens questioned from behind him.

  Kerns turned back to the table. “However, I want someone I can control. A yes-man who will take orders without question. A man who will take the fall for me, if necessary, and who will smile while doing it.”

  Russell grinned and wrote in a black leather notebook. “Anything else?”

  Kerns studied the man for a moment. His suit was expensive but certainly not GQ. Owens’ hair was fashioned in the current rage of young professionals with a generous amount of mousse and hairspray to give it that “just styled” look. Overall, he represented the crisp no-nonsense image that Kerns desired for his campaign. If Owens were a little older and more widely recognized in the public eye, he’d make a great running mate.

  “How old are you, Russell?” he asked, knowing full well the answer.

  “Thirty, sir.”

  “You’ve done well for yourself,” Kerns said with one final appraisal before picking up his briefcase. “Stick with me and you’ll do even better.”

  Owens smiled and pushed up his gold-tone glasses. “I intend to, sir.”

  Kerns laughed, liking the man’s confidence, but knowing his reputation for ruthlessness and double-crossing. These qualities, and not the fact that he’d graduated summa cum laude from law school, had made their coming together advantageous to Kerns. A man like Owens would get things done. And, at this stage of the game, he was smart enough to recognize just who was buttering his bread.

  “Play the game right,” Kerns stated as he headed to the door. “And never, ever forget who runs the board.”

  Three

  Russell Owens pulled back the powder blue damask drapes from the sliding-glass window that led to his patio. Sunlight flooded the room, falling on stacks of unopened boxes and haphazardly placed furniture.

  He grimaced at the sight.

  His small west-side apartment was temporary election headquarters for Kerns, and boxes of campaign materials mingled with ones marked “FRAGILE” gave the apartment a warehouse appearance. Russell had barely set down his own things before Kerns had begun parading campaign necessities into his home. Given his upcoming schedule, Russell knew it would be a long time before everything got sorted out properly.

  Switching on the television, Russell sat down to a Sunday afternoon of Kerns-focused work. He glanced at the TV, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and picked up his notes. A large stack of newspapers covered his glass-topped coffee table, and beside these were clippings from magazines and business newsletters. All of the articles pertained to Kerns in one way or another, and it would be Owens’ job to sort through the mess and deem the effects of each in regard to his candidate.

  Sipping a hastily made cup of coffee, Owens grimaced at his ineptness in the kitchen and put the drink aside. First thing tomorrow, he would locate the coffee maker, no matter how many boxes he had to search through.

  He listened to the TV news broadcaster give a sketchy report on two legislative bills before turning his full attention to the task at hand. Jotting rough notes on a legal pad, he pored over one article after another. KERNS REPRESENTS FARMERS, read one headline. This was good, Owens decided. It would make for a good campaign quote at a later date. The next newspaper article was not as favorable: KERNS SEEKS TO COVER UP CHEMICAL SPILL. Owens read through the article and found the story of Sheldon Industries’ battle with the EPA to be quite fascinating. Toward the middle of the story he circled a paragraph that he would use as a compaign slogan. “Robert Kerns supports the needs of Kansas industries over the safety of local residents. . . .” Of course the quote would be trimmed to end after the word “industries.”

  The game was beginning to be fun. Owens smiled and circled additional bits of information before turning his attention to a list of possible running mates for Kerns. The list was long and unreasonable. Owens immediately took to black lining any name that even mildly represented a problem. Having done his homework on the men listed, Owens saw the list diminish in size until only two possibilities held any real interest for him. And even those names conjured up the possibility of a political crisis. One man was well known for his support of the death penalty—an issue that Owens hoped to keep out of the public eye for as long as possible. The other man had created his own business in computers and had become an overnight phenomenon across the state. But he had a reputation for being a playboy. In and of itself, it wasn’t necessarily all that damaging, but in conservative Kansas, it just might be the one thing to send voters running to the other side.

  “And on the local scene,” a female reporter was saying, “I had the opportunity to spend a day with Cara Kessler. Mrs. Kessler is the co-founder of HEARTBEAT Ministries, a statewide youth ministry that seeks to give spiritual direction, job training, and education to Kansas young people.”

  Russell looked up, not really knowing why. He found an attractive brown-haired woman smiling back from the twenty-seven-inch screen. She looked like the stereotypical country sweetheart with her shoulder-length hair just turned under at the ends.

  “Cara Kessler, you’ve been most notably described as a ‘dynamo’ and ‘spiritual torchbearer.’ Your ministry work with HEARTBEAT is nationally acclaimed, and HEARTBEAT’s founding motto, ‘Youth are the pulse points by which we monitor the heart of our nation,’ has even been praised by the President of the United States. What can you tell us about your work?”

  Russell put down the list and leaned forward for the remote. Quickly pressing the “record” button, he watched, completely mesmerized, as Cara Kessler eloq
uently explained.

  “My husband, Jack, and I founded HEARTBEAT ministries almost ten years ago. We saw a desperation among the youth in our hometown, as well as in the cities around us. As youth ministers in our local church, we sought to answer why there was such deep despair among people who had so much for which to live.”

  “And what kind of answers did you get?” the reporter asked.

  Cara Kessler smiled from the screen in innocent radiance. Russell liked her clean-cut girl-next-door image. She was petite and delicate, yet there was a strength in her dark blue eyes. Wearing a plaid wool dress, Cara Kessler looked as though she were about to bake cookies or drive the car pool, not lead a youth ministry to national acclaim.

  “. . . and so it seemed that lack of opportunity along with training, education, and spiritual guidance surfaced as the root cause of most problems. With so much social acceptability toward activities that only work to harm children, my husband and I felt the need to do something positive. We created HEARTBEAT to meet the needs of Kansas youth.”

  “But how does HEARTBEAT differ from other organizations that deal with the betterment of youth?”

  Cara nodded as if anticipating the question. “HEARTBEAT seeks to train people to help their own community’s children. Unlike national organizations that headquarter in places well removed from the people in need, each community is responsible to facilitate their own organization. HEARTBEAT stresses local people meeting local needs. Each chapter sets up their own organization, based on the anticipated goals of their community. Of course there is the office here in Topeka, but it’s mainly a gathering place for information. If the local chapters need answers to questions or help finding assistance outside their community, the Topeka office is here to assist them.”

  “Does HEARTBEAT represent a particular church or religious affiliation?”

  “No, we’ve sought to keep it interdenominational. We see great diversity across the state in regard to religious views, occupational focus, educational needs, and cultural attitudes. The problems that face a youth whose parents are farmers are different from the problems of the inner-city child whose mother is working two jobs to make ends meet. And while children have much in common, it seems to be the individual problems that create the significant complications. HEARTBEAT is designed to help find answers to any and all of these needs, because again, the local church and community are in charge of setting and achieving the goals of their particular chapter.”

  “So how does HEARTBEAT fund expenses?”

  Cara’s expression never changed as she demurely folded her hands in her lap. “HEARTBEAT is a nonprofit organization. As I said before, because the needs are met at a local level, each community is responsible for their own chapter and what they accomplish. Local businesses and community leaders generally seem more than willing to financially support the kids in their neighborhoods. They see it as an investment in the future good of all who live there. The office here has benefited from a network of support from all across the state. That money comes in the form of donations, and after paying small overhead costs and the salaries of my partner, Pastor Joe Milken, and myself, it is always turned back into the ministry.”

  “But how can you support a business without a steady stream of funding?” the reporter asked in disbelief.

  “That’s where faith comes in. God has yet to let me down when I’ve needed Him.”

  Promising some around-the-state footage of HEARTBEAT’s progress after a commercial break, the reporter carefully steered away from the issue of God.

  Russell looked down at the coffee table and picked up one of the newspapers. Dropping it in his lap, however, an idea began to formulate.

  “I want someone I can control. A yes-man who will take orders and not question them,” Kerns had told him. Was it possible he might settle for a yes-woman? And if Kerns was willing, could Cara Kessler be pressed into service as his running mate?

  When the program resumed, Russell continued to consider the possibilities. Footage showed HEARTBEAT programs from all corners of the state, and in each area Cara was heartily applauded and praised.

  “Mrs. Kessler was just what we needed,” a representative from a small west-Kansas town said. “Our kids were dropping out of school, marrying early out of necessity, and generally finding themselves in dead-end situations. The community was concerned but had no real direction until HEARTBEAT helped us organize. Since then, we’ve added a community youth night, some local job-training programs complete with apprenticeships, and a Bible study aimed at addressing teen issues. Our drop-out and teen pregnancy rates are way down, and the number of kids going on to college is up forty-five percent.”

  That story seemed to be echoed throughout the remaining portions of the program. Russell considered the possibilities before him, his certainty growing with each new thought. Throwing his list in the trash, he turned off the VCR and television and picked up the telephone. There was no longer any doubt in his mind. Cara Kessler was exactly what he needed for Bob Kerns’ campaign.

  Four

  Auburn billowed out behind Melissa Jordon as she ran down Main Street in Lindsborg, Kansas. Governor Glencoe would be making his speech in less than two minutes, but ever since she’d stopped to call Cara to postpone their interview, Melissa couldn’t seem to catch up with the day.

  Her editor had called at five-thirty that morning to announce he needed her in Lindsborg to represent The Capital-Journal when the governor announced his intentions to run for a second term. Melissa had tried to explain her obligations to Cara and to ask for someone else to cover the announcement, but it was no use. The photographer was already on his way to pick Melissa up. Cara’s interview was put on indefinite hold.

  She approached a black- and yellow-striped barricade and waved her press pass at the highway patrolman on duty. The uniformed man took her credentials, studied them for a moment, then let her through. Still panting, Melissa took her seat just in time to hear the master of ceremonies ask the crowd to join him in greeting the governor of Kansas. Throwing down her purse, Melissa got to her feet and opened her notebook.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to present the current and next governor of this state . . . The Honorable Edward R. Glencoe.”

  Cheers rose up in a deafening roar. It was hard to believe a crowd no bigger than this could produce that kind of noise. Melissa did a mental head count and figured about two hundred people had come to hear the governor.

  Like many candidates, Glencoe had chosen his hometown of Lindsborg to make his “intent to run” announcement. And Lindsborg had turned out in grand style to receive one of their own.

  “Friends,” Glencoe began, waving down the continued roar of applause. The governor waited for the fervor to quell, and Melissa jotted notes about the crowd before turning her attention back to Glencoe.

  The man was a grandfatherly sort—medium height, with a softly rounded midsection that seemed appropriate for his sixty-five-year-old frame. His balding head sported a ring of snowy white hair, and he smiled in a broad open manner that Melissa had come to appreciate as sincere. He was more like a member of an extended family than the prestigious governor of the state—maybe that was why people liked him so much.

  “Friends,” Glencoe began again, “please join me in singing the national anthem.”

  A band began the familiar notes and Melissa put aside her notebook and placed her hand over her heart. She noticed that only a handful of other people mimicked her patriotic action. From her days as a Girl Scout, she had developed a deep sense of pride in her country. She still got goosebumps when she heard The Star-Spangled Banner. Thinking of Girl Scouts reminded her again of Cara. Why had she let their friendship slip away? Why had she been unable to deal with Jack’s death in a way that would have allowed her to keep her relationship with Cara intact?

  As all eyes focused on the color guard, Melissa joined in singing.

  “. . . and the home of the brave.” The last notes of t
he national anthem faded away and a strange silence seemed to hold the audience captive.

  Melissa watched Glencoe, wondering what he would do next. She wasn’t surprised when he took out a pair of reading glasses and put them on. With typewritten notes in front of him, the governor began his speech. This had always been his no-nonsense style.

  “Fellow citizens, friends, and loved ones, I come to you today in a spirit of gratitude and hope. Gratitude for the past four years we’ve shared together in this great state of Kansas . . .” Cheers interrupted his speech and Glencoe patiently waited, smiling benevolently from the podium. The noise died down and he continued. “And hope that we can share another four years. I take this opportunity to announce my intention to run for reelection as your governor.” Again cheers.

  Melissa took shorthand for the entire speech, underlining important points she’d want to draw out in her story and putting question marks by issues that needed a bit more clarity. As the speech wrapped up, Glencoe invited the crowd to meet him personally and to share with him their ideas for the betterment of their state.

  People immediately began to swarm the podium area, and the press was soon engulfed in a massive wash of supporters for Governor Glencoe.

  “Looks like we may be trampled underfoot,” the man beside Melissa said. “I’m going to try to get to him for a few questions. You coming?”

  Melissa shook her head. “No, I’ll catch him later.” She finished writing in her notebook and placed it in her purse. Then glancing around, she called across the crowd, “Darren!”

  The man looked up and Melissa motioned him to join her. The clean-cut slender photographer from The Capital-Journal looked hardly old enough to be out of high school. “I’d like you to get some good close-up shots. You might want to stand over there and use the zoom.” She pointed and Darren nodded. “Get some good crowd shots and something that would tug at the heartstrings. You know, the governor and some kids . . . young and old blending for the good of tomorrow. Something like that.”