The Dirty Secret (20 page)

Dave raised his hand.

“Yes, Dave.”

“You’re not saying we should just roll over and make nice, are you? What if the Democrats they’re paired off with try to question every ballot for Governor Royal? Are we supposed to just sit back and let every vote for Wilson slide by?”

Palmer’s jaw tightened, and he shook his head. “Not at all. If someone isn’t playing by the rules, trying to void as many votes for Governor Royal as they can, call their actions to the County Commission’s attention. They’re still presiding over the recount, and they probably don’t want the whole world to think they’re stupid or corrupt, or both.

“If that occurs,” Palmer continued. “Our lawyer should pull the other side’s rep aside and try to reason with him. Explain that everyone needs to play by the rules. If they want to throw all our votes into a pile to be dealt with during the contest, we can do the same thing. What’s fair for the goose is fair for the gander. We can all look fair and honest, or we can all look mean-spirited and vindictive. Everyone will be happier if the world thinks this is an impartial recount, but we won’t let the other side steal this election by acting unfairly, either.”

Dave nodded, satisfied. Looking around the ballroom, many others agreed.

“Any other questions regarding the overall process?” Palmer asked. With none forthcoming, he hit the remote and the campaign logo returned to the projector screens. “If not, we’ll separate into our individual groups. Those of you from counties using DRE touchscreens will stay here. Folks from counties with optical scan ballots should go to West Virginia Room 105. And the people from Braxton County and Wyoming County will head over to Room 207, where we will discuss the recount of paper ballots.”

As the audience headed to their respective meetings, Dave navigated through the crowd to Jack’s table. As he drew closer, the senator saw him and smiled. Rising to his feet, he extended his hand. “Dave Anderson! It’s been a coon’s age since I saw you. How ya been?”

Dave gave Jack’s hand an energetic, heartfelt pump. “No complaints. How are the kids and Tabatha doing?”

“The boys are shooting up like reeds. Tabatha is … well …
Tabatha
.” He chuckled uneasily and shrugged. “What else can I say?”

Dave tightened his lips and nodded. “Say nothing more. I understand. So are you sticking around tonight? Maybe I could take you out and buy you a beer or something. It’s the least I could do to thank you for introducing me to our next president.”

Jack beamed and let out a loud laugh. “Who could have imagined? You were a young Republican law school grad looking for a job in D.C. I knew Jonathan from our regional state legislators’ meetings, and he had just won his first election to Congress. I gave him a ring, put in a good word for you, and the rest is history.”

Jack let out a sigh. “Unfortunately, I have to head back to Saint Marys right after the seminar. I have a lot of work to get done and this recount has put me behind schedule.”

Dave grinned. “Since when did
you
start working on weekends? The most I’ve ever seen you do on a Saturday is hit a round of golf.”

Jack chuckled. “I can’t deny that. But right now, this big firm’s looking to invest a chunk of money in my company, and I’m busting my hump trying to hammer out a deal.”

“Some big pockets outfit trying to get in on the Marcellus Shale play?”

“Yep, and with big pockets come big expectations. They want me to drop everything to get them the paperwork they need for their due diligence, and with the money they’re talking about investing with me, I’m willing to do it.”

“Good for you,” Dave said. “Well, maybe I’ll look you up next weekend. I’ll be home for Thanksgiving and it’d be nice to catch up with you and see how big the boys are getting.”

“Why don’t you swing by on Saturday night and watch the WVU-Pitt game with us?”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll give you a ring.”

Jack gave Dave a vigorous pat on the arm as they parted. “I’ll look forward to it. Maybe we’ll be able to toast the country’s next president by then. And I don’t mean Melanie Wilson.”

CHAPTER 39

MINGO COUNTY COURTHOUSE
WILLIAMSON, MINGO COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 10:55 P.M.

Sheriff Perkins confidently strolled down Second Avenue in his black uniform, the white streetlamps silhouetting his figure on the concrete sidewalk. Hoisting a bundle of keys, he swiftly found the one that unlocked the courthouse. Swinging the glass door open, he walked through it like he owned the place before studiously relocking it.

Entering his department’s second floor suite, Perkins turned on the overhead lights and walked back to his private office. Using another key, he unbolted both locks and entered the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Perkins tiptoed through his darkened office to the windows overlooking Second Avenue. Sure enough, the occupants of that damn black van were scurrying around the building. Peeking through the blinds, he saw four men feverishly training their video cameras on strategic areas of the building, including his office and that of the county clerk.

Turning from the window, he walked across the room and stood in front of the bank vault door guarding his department’s weapons. Reaching into his pants, he pulled out the only key in existence that would open the door without a locksmith’s assistance.

Still operating in the dark, Perkins ran the palm of his left hand along the door face and located its locking mechanisms. Deftly retrieving a small flashlight from his utility belt, he leaned his forehead against the door and placed the flashlight in his mouth, directing its beam down toward the combination lock. Using his right hand to rotate the dial clockwise, then counterclockwise, then clockwise yet again, he held the key in the keyhole with his left hand. After entering the combination, he turned the key to the right, pulled down on a lever located to the right of the keyhole, and grinned when the tumblers fell into place.

The door nudged open. Widening the gap, the sheriff peered inside the weapons cabinet and saw the means to Melanie Wilson’s election lying on the floor, waiting for him.

CHAPTER 40

CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 11:25 P.M.

Sitting alone on a barstool in the hotel lounge, Dave stared at the television behind the bar, watching college football highlights on SportsCenter. The bartender also watched the highlights while gathering discarded bottles and glasses.

“So what did you think about UCLA knocking off USC?” the barkeep asked.

Dave swallowed a mouthful of beer. “I thought USC was kind of overrated this year. But it ought to help the Mountaineers, anyway.”

“If we can beat Pitt next weekend, we should be sitting pretty,” the bartender opined, throwing empty bottles in the trashcan. The glass bottles clinked together loudly before hitting the bottom of the can with a resounding clank.

Dave shook his head, wearing an amused grin. “Never bet
on
and never bet
against
the Mountaineers, my friend. They’ll break your heart and steal your money every time.”

The bartender wiped down the bar with a wet dishcloth, clenching his teeth. “You got that right. I still have nightmares about RichRod costing us a shot at the title in ‘07.”

Dave barked a pain-filled laugh. “Whoever coined the maxim, ‘Don’t count your chickens before they hatch’ would have gotten a kick out of that game.” Draining the dregs of his beer, he tapped the empty bottle on the lacquered bar. “Damn bubble screens.”

Dave’s cell phone rang. Leaning back, he pulled the phone from his pocket. The call was coming from the campaign’s national headquarters. “Anderson here.”

“It looks like we might have a problem down in Mingo County.”

Dave’s posture straightened and he put his hand over his open ear. “What’s going on?”

“One of our video surveillance guys is on the other line. They said the sheriff unexpectedly walked into the courthouse a half-hour ago.”

“Is he supposed to be on duty tonight or something?”

“No clue. It’s not like we have a copy of the sheriff department’s work schedule. But the video guys are freaking out about it.”

Dave sighed and motioned for another beer. Without knowing whether Perkins was slated to work that night, his presence at the courthouse could be completely innocent. “Can you patch their call through to me? I wanna hear what they have to say first-hand.”

“Sure thing. Hold on just a sec.”

The line went silent as Dave was put on hold. Ten seconds later, a new voice came over the line. “Mr. Anderson!” the man panted. “Thank God we got in touch with you!”

“Calm down. Tell me what’s happening.”

The man took a few deep breaths. “Sorry I’m winded, but I sprinted down the block to get a stronger cell phone signal, and I’ve been living off little chocolate donuts and cheeseburgers for the past two weeks down here.”

“Take your time.”

Silence, interspersed with desperate attempts to inhale oxygen, ensued. “The sheriff showed up about a half-hour ago and walked in the courthouse.”

“Is he scheduled to work tonight?”

“He pretty much comes and goes as he pleases. But he
did
work the midnight shift last Saturday, come to think of it.”

The bartender slid a local microbrew in front of Dave, who raised it to his lips and frowned slightly.
Not bad, but definitely not as tasty as Yuengling.

“Okay,” Dave said, gently setting the bottle down. “So the mere fact he’s at the courthouse doesn’t tell us much. Have you seen anything else suspicious?”

“Well, the Sheriff’s Department usually doesn’t have more than two guys on nightshift at the courthouse. Counting the Sheriff, tonight there are three.”

“Odd,” Dave conceded. “But not overly so. Anything else?”

“
Holy shit
!” the man exclaimed.

“What? What is it?”

“There was a loud explosion on the hill and every fucking light in town just went off!”

“Say
what
?!”

“Every fucking light in town just went off! Streetlights, the lights from the gas station down the road.
Everything
. It’s like the whole town of Williamson just lost power.”

Dave’s mind began racing. “Where are the voting machines stored?”

“Down in the courthouse basement.” The investigator was breathing heavily.

“Are there any windows to that room which are visible from the outside?”

“I’m not sure. We don’t exactly have a copy of the blueprints in the van.”

“I know that,” Dave snapped. “We need to think fast. Try to remember exactly where that room is located.”

“It’s kind of in the middle of the basement. Along the back wall, on the opposite side of the building from the side that faces Second Avenue. Kinda towards the end of the courthouse that’s adjacent to the Coal House.”

Dave consciously tried to remain calm. “Okay. Get the cameras positioned on windows that are located as close to that area of the building as possible.”

“There
aren’t
any windows close to that area,” the man answered emphatically. “I ran back down to the courthouse, and I’m looking at it now. There’s a wall of black marble four feet high wrapped around the base of the whole building and there are no windows in the basement.”

“Then focus the cameras on the glass doors and any windows that might give you a glimpse into the stairwells and call Pete Warner immediately. He has keys to the courthouse and we need him to get in there and see what’s going on.”

“I’m on it. We’ll call you back.”

Dave’s phone went silent. Slumping forward, he thought he might pass out. He was a hundred miles from Williamson, and he could do nothing but wait and pray.

CHAPTER 41

MINGO COUNTY COURTHOUSE
WILLIAMSON, MINGO COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 12:15 A.M.

“What the hell are you boys
doing
out here?!” Perkins yelled. He was standing in the front doorway to the courthouse, propping it open with a black snakeskin cowboy boot.

The two cameramen whirled away from the windows they were monitoring and marched toward him, plainly itching for a confrontation.

“The better question,
Sheriff
, is what have you been doing in
there
?” one shot back.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve been trying to get paperwork done in the fucking dark. That’s what.”

A gold SUV barreled up to the courthouse and squealed to a stop. Pete Warner jumped out wearing gray sweatpants and a camouflage jacket, and jogged up to the courthouse door.

“Commissioner Warner,” Perkins said with a malicious smile. “What brings you all the way here from Varney this time of night?”

“You know damn good and well what I’m doing here,” Warner growled. “What are
you
doing here? You’re not scheduled to work tonight.”

The sheriff took one long stride toward Warner, still smiling but deliberately invading his personal space. “Bob called in sick. Bad case of the Hershey squirts. I’m filling in for him. You got a problem with that, Pete?”

Warner’s chest heaved up and down as he stared at the sheriff, his balled fists clenched to his sides. “What’s going on with the power?”

“I don’t rightly know. I sent a deputy to check on it but I haven’t heard back from him. Hold on.” He pulled a handheld radio from his belt. “Fifty-four, you there? Over.”

A baritone voice replied through crackling static. “Fifty-four here, Sheriff. Over.”

“Have you figured out what happened to the electricity yet?”

Static filled the air for 15 seconds as Warner and the two cameramen surrounded Perkins. The other two video guys came trotting around the corner of the building to join the festivities. The bright lights from their cameras bounced in the dark with each step.

“Roger. Looks like a transformer up here at the substation blew. The power company has a man here working on it. Over.”