Kill The Story Page 3

  “Have a little faith, dude,” Langhorne added. “I said they got it locked down tight, but I got an in. Turns out me and one of the special agents went to college together. Yeah, seemed like he and I were the only two black dudes in State College, back in the day. So we tight, know what I mean?”

  “Do you think he’d tell you where they stashed Hollister?”

  “You mean something more specific than the party line that the senator is safe at a secure, undisclosed location?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “A street address would be nice.”

  “Maybe.” Langhorne hesitated. “But I gotta know it stays between us. My agent friend can’t suspect a thing. I plan on tapping him until this investigation’s wrapped. You gotta swear not to tell anyone. I don’t agree with the senator’s politics, but the man’s life’s at stake. Call me old fashioned, but I believe in voting the bums out, not knocking them off. I can’t afford a security breech here.”

  “Promise,” I said. “Between us, just like last time. No leaks.”

  “I’ll get back to you in ten. I can get you his location, but I can’t put you in the room. You’re on your own there.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Forgetting my number would be a start,” he said, then disconnected the line.

  Exactly twelve minutes later, I had Hollister’s whereabouts. They were keeping him on a National Guard base in neighboring Lebanon County. But he wouldn’t be there long. Langhorne informed me that some Pennsylvania multi-millionaire who had donated mightily to Hollister’s campaign was dispatching a private jet to whisk the senator back to D.C. Once there, Hollister could begin reaping the political rewards that accompany a brush with an assassin. After all, Reagan’s heroic quips after being gunned down by John Hinckley helped cement the Gipper as a mythic figure. It certainly didn’t hurt his chances for a second term. Hollister’s potential upside was even bigger. Yesterday, he was just another junior senator with a big mouth. Tomorrow, he could be on his party’s short list in the next presidential cycle.

  I had one, maybe two, hours to land an exclusive interview with this hot political commodity.

  Langhorne informed me the FBI was nearly finished debriefing the senator. Hollister was a controversial figure. The list of suspects could fill a phone book. Yet, according to Langhorne, Hollister couldn’t name anyone specific. Sure, the senator was no stranger to death threats, but most were the typical stuff penned by the usual whackos. The FBI was running them down anyway.

  Once the Feds were through questioning Hollister, there would be no legal reason why I couldn’t talk to him. It was up to me to convince the senator and, more importantly, his chief of staff, that it was in Hollister’s best interest to grant the interview.

  My best shot was to drive out there and make my pitch in person. This way, they couldn’t deny access for security reasons. I will have demonstrated by my presence that I independently ascertained Hollister’s secure, undisclosed location. So armed with a pen, notebook and the cell phone number of Hollister’s press secretary, I drove to Fort Indiantown Gap.

  Forty minutes later, I pulled up to the base’s checkpoint in my Ford Fiesta. I rolled down the window, my press pass and identification at the ready.

  “State your business,” said a stern-faced soldier in army fatigues.

  “Frank Tellis. I’m a reporter with the Herald. I’m here for an interview with Senator Hollister.”

  The soldier turned a page on a clipboard. “I’m sorry, sir. You are not on the list. You’ll have to back it up and turn around.”

  “I’m here for the senator. I’ll call his press secretary right now. I need that interview.”

  I pulled out the loaner cell phone I had borrowed from the city desk. I detested the things and the people who abused them, but knew it would come in handy.

  The soldier barked the party line. “I can neither confirm nor deny information about the senator’s location. You’ll have to leave, sir.”

  But I was already dialing Hollister’s chief flack. I had spoken to Gerald Kerr exactly twice before, both times in relation to the senator’s homophobic rants. And while I might have been icily detached back then, I was fully prepared to act like the most gushing supporter when Kerr picked up on the second ring.

  “Jerry, it’s Frank. Frank Tellis. From the Herald. I’m out here at the gate. We got a little problem. The guard won’t let me in to interview the senator. Helluva thing, today. I hope everyone’s all right. I was there myself.”

  “I don’t think--” Kerr began but I cut him off.

  “I realize the timing could be better, but the hometown newspaper needs a word with the senator. Central Pennsylvania is his conservative base. He brought this controversy with him to Harrisburg, and the people here need to hear from him about it. They’re his supporters. They believe in him and what he stands for. They want to be sure this ugly incident hasn’t shaken his resolve.” I didn’t want to stop talking for fear of hearing the word ‘no,’ but I ran out of wind.

  “I can assure you that the senator’s resolve is intact,” Kerr retorted.

  It was exactly what I wanted to hear. Not the news of Hollister's unwavering position. I could’ve cared less about that. It was the fact that Kerr was already more worried about the spin, rather than the logistics of an unscheduled interview.

  “That’s great, Jerry. I just need the senator to say that. Otherwise, there may be some doubt. You understand.”

  “We’re preparing a press release as we speak.”

  “Not gonna do it,” I said. “I need an interview. My editors want a one-on-one. Otherwise, they’ll be very disappointed. We’re talking about the flagship paper in Hollister country. You owe us.”

  “The senator’s just not giving interviews right now. You can understand. He’s still a little shaken up.” Kerr sounded more exasperated than firm.

  “That’s not what I’m hearing. I hear he’s already booked with Gregory tomorrow morning. How’s it gonna look if he snubs the newspaper in his home state, his most loyal region, just to run back to D.C. to cozy up to NBC? How you think my publisher’s gonna feel about that?”

  There was a long silence. I glanced over at the checkpoint guard, who was pointing for me to back up. I offered an uneasy smile and raised a finger, begging for one more minute.

  “Jerry, they’re about to throw me off the base,” I nervously said. “I end up in Guantanamo, then we’ll really have a mess. Let me in. Please. Twenty minutes. That’s all I need.”

  “Fifteen and I’ll have to clear it through Grodin.” Kerr was referring to Hollister’s chief of staff, Hank Grodin.

  “By all means,” I said. “Now, please talk to this kind soldier out here before I end up in the stockade.” I was about to hand my cell phone to the guardsman, when Jerry interrupted.

  “We’ll ring the guard post directly. Just back up for now. Once I get clearance, someone will wave you in.”

  “Okay, Jerry,” I said, slipping my Fiesta into reverse. “Just don’t screw me. I’m the type to hold a grudge. On the other hand, a little goodwill can do wonders for press relations.”

  “I hear you, Tellis,” he said, knowing I had him. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter 6

  Twenty minutes later, I was following a monstrous, olive-green Hummer that absolutely dwarfed my beat-to-shit Fiesta. My car was too small to conceal much in the way of explosives, but that didn’t stop the soldiers at the checkpoint from running it by the dogs and using a pole with mirrors attached to check underneath. I passed, yet felt inferior.

  The makeshift motorcade escorted me to a squat, brick building located at the heart of the base. Guardsmen stationed outside stared straight ahead. I made it to the lobby before being asked to raise my arms for the obligatory pat-down. The man felt the pad and pen in the pocket of my overcoat and asked me to remove them for inspection.

  I followed a uniformed soldier down a long corridor to a door protected by still more g
uards. This time, however, the guards wore conservative suits, the uniform of the FBI. One held up his hand for me to wait, then raised his wrist to his mouth.

  “He’s here,” he said. Then to me, “It’ll just be a minute.”

  Ten was more like it, but who was counting? Finally, Gerald Kerr emerged from the room, looking harried. “This is the release,” he said, forcing a sheaf of stapled pages into my hands. So much for a hello and a handshake, I thought.

  “The senator doesn’t have much time, so this is going to have to be quick,” Kerr continued. “There are certain questions he may not be able to answer due to the ongoing investigation. Both Grodin and I will be in the room. We’ll let you know if anything is out of bounds. Be quick and to the point. It’s been a trying day for everyone.”

  With that, Kerr turned and I followed. The room appeared to be some kind of lounge and snack area. There were a few circular tables with chairs, along with a couple of vinyl-covered sofas. Vending machines lined the far wall.

  Sen. Hollister was seated in a stuffed armchair. His suit jacket was gone, and his tie was undone. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his collar unbuttoned. The glow of a nearby Coke machine accentuated his shell-shocked pallor. The room was silent except for the hum of vending machines. I realized then that Hollister was human. His brush with death had affected him deeply.

  “Senator, this is Frank Tellis from the Herald.” Kerr made the introduction, then stepped aside as I reached out a hand. Hollister appeared vacant. Gone. Checked out. Yet he leaned forward in his chair and held out his hand. It was probably a reflex for a politician like him.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Senator,” I said.

  He didn’t get up. Just released my hand and leaned back in his chair. Grodin stood in the corner, arms crossed, a pose that communicated his opposition to the interview. The chief of staff’s natural instinct was protection. Grodin must have felt it was too soon after the trauma. Looking at Hollister’s blank expression, perhaps Grodin was right. If the interview went bad, he’d hustle me out of the room, and it would be Kerr’s ass. I didn’t know what I was going to get, but I reached for my pad and pen.

  It was Hollister who posed the first question.

  “Were you there?” His voice was thin and used up, little more than a whisper. He looked me up and down, as if finally noticing I was there.

  “Pardon?”

  “Today.” He coughed to clear his throat. “Were you there?”

  “Yes, sir. It was terrible.” I shook my head, my pen was poised over my pad. I was ready to get the interview rolling, but Hollister looked like a zombie. His mouth hung open, and his eyes were wild, like those of an animal when it knows it’s being hunted. Stripped of the puffery of his politics, he appeared gaunt and fragile. Could it be that the bombastic senator who arrogantly believed he had the right to make lifestyle choices for millions of Americans had been humbled by his close meeting with mortality?

  “You don’t realize what it’s like until it happens,” Hollister went on. He wasn’t so much talking to me as he was giving voice to his thoughts. “You feel so vulnerable. It’s as if this other person can decide your fate, your very existence. To have a nameless, faceless person able to decide your life like that. It’s...it’s…” His voice trailed off.

  I couldn’t resist the opening he had given me.

  “Some would say you were trying to decide people’s lives by your opposition to gay marriage, your abhorrence of homosexuality and your refusal to recognize a Constitutional right to privacy,” I said. “How do you respond to that viewpoint, Senator?”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Grodin lurch forward, ready to cut off the interview at any moment. He exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Kerr. But neither said a word, letting the interview ride -- for now.

  Meanwhile, something stirred in Hollister. His features changed. He lost his vacant expression. His forehead wrinkled and something flashed behind his eyes. My rhetorical challenge had aroused him. The politician in him could not resist a debate.

  “How can you compare the two?” he said, his tone growing confident. “To even suggest such a thing is irresponsible. It validates what this coward did today. This would-be assassin fired a shot at the heart of our political process. A process predicated on spirited debate, a representative government and the will of the people.”

  Just like that, Hammond Hollister was fully engaged. My only problem was trying to get it all down in my notebook.

  “This person tried to silence the voice of the people,” he continued, now perched at the edge of his seat, leaning forward and gesturing with his hands. “An innocent man is dead. But I have not been silenced. In fact, I have been awakened. I have been awakened to the true nature of the threat against the American family. They will stop at nothing. At nothing.”

  I was writing furiously, but came right back. “Who’s they?”

  Kerr stepped forward. “That’s a matter for the police and the FBI. It’s not for us to speculate about.”

  “But there’s more than one?” I pressed. “The Senator said they. Or are we talking about gays in general?”

  “No one is blaming any person or group at this point,” Kerr said. The press secretary was now directly between me and the senator. “I think we’re getting off the subject here, and time is growing short. All questions about who’s responsible should be addressed to law enforcement. The senator did not mean to imply anything.”

  “I can speak for myself, Jerry,” Hollister said, tilting his head to one side for Kerr to back off.

  Hollister wagged a finger at me as if scolding a toddler. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’d love for me to blame an entire group for the misguided actions of a few or, perhaps, only one. Sorry to disappoint. I’m not pointing fingers at any group. What I saw out there today on that square was democracy-loving people exercising their rights. I’m talking about people on both sides of this issue who came to make their voices heard, some in wonderfully creative ways. I appreciate the passion on both sides. I respect it. But this would-be assassin has no respect for our system. He didn’t just attack me, he attacked everyone who was on that plaza today. Those bullets could have struck down any one of us. It’s God’s blessing that there weren’t more casualties. I’m eternally grateful for that. But to even imply that my views, my actions, somehow provoked this fails to recognize just how subversive this act really was. It fails to realize that all of us were victims today. The target was democracy.”

  Try telling that to poor, dead Wayne Dykstra, I thought.

  “So, no second thoughts then?” I asked. “No chance of changing your position? Softening your style?”

  Hollister stood, his body straightening as if snapping to attention. “None whatsoever,” he said, throwing out his chest. Kerr and Grodin nodded to each other in unison.

  It was then I noticed the Senator’s appearance in full. Earlier, when sitting in the chair, still wearing the residue of shock on his face, he’d seemed gaunt. But standing before me in his shirtsleeves, he looked wider around the middle.

  “Ideas are bigger than bullets,” Hollister boomed, as if addressing a great hall filled with people. The Republican National Convention, perhaps. “Ideas can’t be injured or killed in cowardly attacks such as this. Ideas don’t bleed. I know why I was spared today. I was chosen by a higher power. I was given a mission. Assigned a task. My life’s work, in fact. I must save the family. In doing so, I shall preserve our future. The future of America. I will carry out this task fearlessly, and I shall work tirelessly.”

  I looked up from my notebook, not believing what I’d heard. Had Hammond Hollister just claimed a Divine Right?

  “Are you saying you were chosen by God?” I asked.

  Kerr stopped breathing. This was the moment of truth. Depending upon his answer, Hollister could come off as some out-of-the-mainstream religious whacko. Or he could establish himself as a strong, principled leader with unshakable resolve.

 
Hollister looked up, as if calling on God for the answer. “I do believe He was watching over me today.” Hollister smiled, then let his eye fall shut and allowed the spirit to wash over him. “In fact, I felt it. I believe He protected me so that I could do this work. So that I can fight for the family.”

  Just then, I realized something. I knew the reason for the thickness under Hollister’s tailored and monogrammed broadcloth shirt.

  “And you feel He will continue to protect you? That’s why you’re unafraid to carry on the fight? Is that right?” I asked.

  “Exactly.” Hollister grinned, seeming satisfied that he had converted me.

  “Then why the bulletproof vest, Senator?” I shot back.

  Hollister’s hands went to his artificially thicker middle. He lowered his chin to glance down at his stomach, made bigger by a protective layer of Kevlar.

  “Let’s just say the FBI has less faith than I do,” he sheepishly said.

  A cell phone rang. Grodin was on and off the line in what seemed like seconds. “Plane’s here,” he announced, folding the phone. Then to me, “Interview’s over.”

  The chief of staff reached out and softly placed a hand on Hollister’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Senator. Let’s get you back to Washington.”

  Hollister glanced at Grodin. “You know, Hank, I never thought I’d be relieved to be going back to D.C.,” Grodin lightly patted the senator on the back, a gesture that said everything was going to be all right. The future was bright, the political upside huge.

  Whatever misgivings Grodin had had about the interview, they were gone. Not only did he approve of his man’s performance, the chief of staff likely envisioned Hollister ruling Washington in the not-to-distant future -- with the benefit of Grodin’s sage advice and unfailing political wisdom, of course.

  “If you need anything else.” Kerr slipped me his card, then hurried after Grodin and Hollister, who were already through the door and surrounded by a phalanx of FBI agents and Guardsmen.