Page 36 of Midnight Secrets

They were going to get a puppet and Blake’s job now was to make sure they’d scream for that puppet.

The crowd swayed to the piped in beat of “Happy”, waving banners with 3 x 5 posters of his head, as if he or any politician could make them happy. The song had been chosen by his PR team and would do for London, too. “Happy” was a perfectly fine anthem for unhappy times.

Blake stood at the podium, spotlights honed in on his smiling face, seemingly soaking in the adoration, taking in the frantic crowds, foot tapping to the music, arms up, embracing everything about the event.

The lights blinded him but he was able to pick out people he knew in the crowd nonetheless. But most of the screaming enthusiastic men and women were complete strangers who had no idea who he really was. They were screaming for an idea, not a man. And even the idea was nebulous. Bright, shiny future. Prosperity while saving the environment. Inclusion, as long as it wasn’t of peopletoodifferent from them. Helping the third world as long as it didn’t affect their lifestyle.

That’s what they were screaming for.

They were so ripe. This time next year or maybe the year after, they’d have overlords and he’d be one of them and all the confusion and panic of freedom would be gone forever. They’d be told what to do and when to do it and they’d be happier.

Finally, when he judged the peak of enthusiasm had passed, he held his hands up. He bent to the microphone, judging it would take three passes.

“Dear friends,” he began, but they were still enthusiastically shouting and waving. Blake put an indulgent smile on his face and bent again. “Dear friends.”

They started shushing each other as he waited, kindly smiling at them all.

He patted the air and finally there was silence in the great hall, an expectant hush.

“Dear friends.” Blake looked out over the crowd once everyone had settled down. He’d perfected the paternal smile, a loving father surveying his beloved progeny.Each and every one of you is precious to me, that smile said. “This city, our country, suffered a grievous loss half a year ago.” When the crowd understood that he was opening with the Massacre, even the rustling stopped and they listened reverently. “Our attackers hate us, hate what we represent. And the only way they know how to deal with that is to kill what they don’t, and they can’t, understand. Not only did we lose many of our best and brightest, including the man I believe from the bottom of my heart was to be our next president, but we lost something even deeper. Our hope for the future. But the enemy cannot be allowed to win. They didn’t destroy our spirit!”

Spontaneous applause. He waited it out. The smiling politician was gone, replaced by the somber statesman.

“We need a special kind of person to lead us in these perilous times.” Blake bowed his head and when he lifted it again, there was the sheen of tears in his eyes. He could see himself on a monitor to the side and he had to admit, he was good. He had a sad cast to his face, a man who’d known tragedy and had survived, but it had marked him forever. “I intended to be that man. I wanted to be that man with all my heart. But my soul is troubled. I must admit this to you, my dear friends. I am not the man I was. I have worked hard to be what I once was. I have talked to my friends and my pastor. I have prayed on it.” Another head bow and he bit his lower lip. You could hear a pin drop in the room. Something unexpected was coming and everyone felt it.

Blake lifted his head, looked out over the crowd, everyone still, watching him.

“Dear friends.” His voice was hoarse and he coughed to clear it. He drew a hand down his face, surreptitiously wiping his eyes. Every single person in the room took note. If possible, the crowd grew even more silent. All eyes on him. “Dear friends, fellow Americans, as I said, I have prayed hard over this decision. I have searched the depths of my soul and I find I must open my heart to you.” He allowed his voice to wobble. “I am—I am not the man I was before the Massacre. Before—before, I was willing to go all the way to support my friend, Alex Delvaux, in his voyage to the White House. I believed with all my heart that he is—” Blake stopped, put on a horrified expression as he corrected himself. “Hewasthe right man for the job. The job of leading these great United States forward into the third decade of the twenty-first century. Alex Delvaux is—was—a man of the future who understood the values of the past. He was one of a kind, and we will not see his like again for generations.”

Blake’s voice broke and he conjured up a tear or two, enough to make his cheeks glisten in the glow of the spotlights. Flashes from journalists’ cameras started up, creating a strobe effect.

Blake heaved a sigh. “I knew it would be hard to fill Alex’s shoes. Almost impossible. He was a man with a strong vision for our country and with the strong hand necessary to make that vision come true. I knew Alex well. He was my best friend. His family was like my family, and I honestly thought, unworthy though I am, I could pick up the fallen torch. But—” He held up his hand. Utter silence in the room. Not even a rustling of clothes. “The Massacre broke something in me. I lost my best friend. I lost friends I’ve known since childhood. I cannot stop grieving and my heart is too full of sorrow to be an effective candidate. After much thought and prayer, I realize that I am not the man who can pick up that fallen torch. There is a better man than I for our party and for our country.”

Blake stopped, looked heavenward. Actually he looked up at the lighting technician’s bay. They’d arranged this and the technicians knew what to do.

Blake pointed his finger dramatically. “There he is! This is the man who can carry this country forward into the future and keep us safe from further attacks!”

The lighting technician unerringly spotlit John London’s distinguished face. Piped-in music blared. Nobody was clapping. Most of the morons in the room had their mouths open.

London had the idiotic look of the beauty contestant who’d just been declared Miss America. He all but burst into tears.

Fucker was ruining the moment.

Blake gave a prearranged signal and the lights focused on him again. He leaned forward, making his voice deep, serious, but excited. “Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends, let’s hear it for the next president of these United States, John London!”

* * *

Portland

Isabel watched the events unfolding in the Sentinel Hotel ballroom. She’d been in the kitchen preparing a ton of food, happily humming. Three guys, two and maybe three women. Lunch and afternoon snacks and then dinner. Her head swirled with recipes and that gear she had, the one that told her unerringly what food paired well with what, had finally cranked to life after being dead for so long.

“Honey!” Joe’d called from the living room. “Come see this.”

Isabel had walked into the living room, drying her hands on her apron, looking with indifference at the screen. Some kind of political rally. She couldn’t care less.

Then she saw the chyron on the bottom, big red letters scrolling across the bottom of the screen. HECTOR BLAKE STEPS DOWN, APPOINTS JOHN LONDON AS PARTY STANDARD-BEARER.

What?She stood stock-still, shocked to the core.

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