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  R O B E R T E L L I S

  Murder Season

  The Lost Witness

  City of Fire

  The Dead Room

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, opinions, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ACCESS TO POWER

  Copyright © 2001 by Robert Ellis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  For my mother, Constance, my brother, Peter, and for Charlotte

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Without the help of many great friends, this book wouldn’t exist. I’d like to thank Neil Oxman and Mark Moskowitz, who have been there for me since this was only an idea. Thomas “Doc” Sweitzer, Ray Noll, and Don Widdoes assisted with research and good stories, all of which helped find the tone for this novel.

  Many thanks go to John W. Nelson, Adrianne Carageorge, Michael Conway, Meghan Sadler-Conway, Lisa Cabanel, Bill Wachob, Mike Hamilburg, Peter Hyams, and Tony Michelman for reading early drafts and pointing me in the right direction.

  And then there’s Frank Weimann and Kate Duffy, who believed in me. I can’t thank Frank and Kate enough for their support and guidance and hard work on my behalf.

  I’d also like to give thanks to my good friend and mentor, John Truby. John’s advice and counsel have made all the difference here.

  I’ve saved Charlotte Conway for last because I think it takes a very special woman to live with a writer. We’ve run this mile together, Char, side by side.

  Chapter 1

  She thought she might be dead at first. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Everything pitch black except for a single bar of light, pulsating at a distance a mile or two off.

  The sound of her breath, shallow and faint, began to register through the haze. Her ears were ringing. She felt a draft flutter across the back of her neck, the coolness of a hardwood floor pressing against her cheek. But her eyes remained fixed on that bar of light as it seemed to rush toward her and recognition finally took place that she had been staring at the light beneath the bedroom door not more than ten feet from where she lay.

  She guessed that she had been unconscious. She tried moving her legs again, then her arms, even her fingers. Nothing worked.

  The door swung open and two men entered the room. They were whispering and seemed agitated, their movement jittery as they rushed to her side not bothering to waste time switching on the lights.

  Help was on its way.

  She could see bed sheets tossed onto the floor, her legs spread open, a lock of blond hair over her bare chest. A hand rested on her breast, but she couldn’t feel its touch. It was a man’s left hand, and she noticed that he wore a wedding ring. The two men became quiet as the hand moved to her wrist, held it for a moment, then let go.

  Why was he shaking his head?

  She wanted to say something and tried, but the room remained silent. It dawned on her that her neck might be broken. And she hoped they wouldn’t try to move her until the ambulance arrived.

  They were whispering again. Muttering. One of them walked out, she thought to get the door. But then the man returned, dragging a trunk into the room. He plugged something into the wall and began poking the trunk with it. The machine made a loud whirling sound. She watched with blank curiosity as the long drill bit punched out holes in all four sides of the trunk. She could see light passing through it, reminding her of white-hot polka dots.

  Then both men touched her.

  They grabbed her by the ankles, yanking her across the floor toward the trunk. She tried to scream, shriek. She tried to tell them that something was wrong with her neck, her spine. That to move her like this might mean her never being able to walk again. She explained everything. She pleaded, cried out, unable to get through to them or anyone else, her voice mute. Mere imagination mixed with lost hope.

  The two men picked her up and dropped her into the trunk like a rag doll. She watched as the lid closed over her head, hoping that they would look at her eyes as she tried to blink. She was alive, trying to blink.

  She heard the latches snap shut, then felt the sensation of lift as they carried her away, through a garage and out to a sports utility vehicle that waited with its engine running. When the trunk came to a rest in the back she saw a face through the holes. Briefly. His skin was smooth and young looking. His eyes a hollow gray that matched the lifeless color of his hair spiked out in a long crew.

  The face vanished and she heard the doors slam. She sensed the SUV’s movement, peering out at the light dancing on the window as they drove through the city. Minutes passed as if a short time. Buildings. Monuments. The traffic noise of the capital district fading as they reached quieter streets and finally pulled to a stop. The sound of the engine died off, followed by silence. A long stretch of silence as if she were alone with her heart pounding.

  She listened for the doors, but they hadn’t opened. There was something in the background though. A lapping sound, as if they were near water. From the dank scent in the air, she thought it might be the Potomac River.

  She focused on the sound of her heartbeat, hoping the two men might hear it as they sat up front without speaking. Then the doors suddenly flew open and the back gate swung down. The two men grabbed the trunk and started running. She saw the man’s face again, teeth clenched as he carried his end of the load. The sound of their shoes smacking against asphalt, then gravel, then the dead silence of grass padding their feet could only mean one thing. She tried to scream, her body bouncing up and down. They were running faster and still faster until the bounce finally stopped and she felt herself being hurled through the air.

  There was a great splash. Her head slammed against the side of the trunk, then settled as ice-cold water ran down her face. She was floating. The trunk was floating. She looked through the holes and could see the bright lights of Washington ahead. The Capitol lost in a sea of stars, sparkling as if in a dream.

  Someone gasped.

  When she realized that it had come from her own lips, she sucked in air and forced it out quickly through her teeth. She heard it. A light whistle. A signal to the two men who must be watching from the riverbank that she was still alive.

  She took in another deep breath and forced it out with all her strength. The whistle grew less faint. She did it again and again, the water rushing through the holes and over her knees. She whistled, signaled, kept her eyes on the Capitol. The feeling in her body was coming back, the water rising until it washed over her face. Her chest stiffened and she screamed. It was real this time. She heard it in the river as her lungs filled with water and the trunk began to sway, then pitch forward, tumbling at a severe angle to the bottom.

  Chapter 2

  Frank Miles grabbed the remote, hit STOP, REWIND, and then PLAY. A political ad flashed up on the TV screen.

  It was an off-year election, meaning that the presidency wasn’t up for grabs. Most of Frank’s races this cycle were state-wides and Senate incumbents that would bring in a lot of money by the sheer number of campaigns. Of the firm’s thirty clients, twelve belonged to Frank with the rest split between his two partners. Frank knew that ten of his clients would win, one was ridiculous and had no chance. But the last would be a tough call, his primary focus. A U.S. Senate seat had opened up in Virginia. His client, Mel Merdock, a Senate wannabe, needed a fortune to play and had it to spend. But he was young, green, new to politics. And their opponent was a seasoned businessman who spoke common sense and had a solid political base. Lou Kay was popular and ready, and his consultants had fired their first
salvo. A tough negative ad that hit every TV station in the state.

  Frank managed to get a copy of Lou Kay’s spot an hour after it had been delivered to the stations. There was a map of the United States with lots of graphics, then shots of Virginia cities and neighborhoods under a cutout photo of Mel Merdock smiling. Whistles and gongs—the whole thing was meticulously put together to look like a game show. And Mel Merdock, Frank’s client and candidate for the U.S. Senate, with his trim body and boyish face, came off naive, even goofy. Let’s face it, Frank thought, his client looked like an idiot.

  VOICE-OVER ANNOUNCER:

  Question. Of these five places—New York, Washington, L.A., Fort Worth, or the entire state of Virginia—where has Texas millionaire and son of an oil tycoon now turned senatorial candidate Mel Merdock NOT lived in the last ten years? If you guessed Virginia, you’re right! Millionaire Mel Merdock has never lived, voted, or paid taxes in Virginia, and only moved here from Fort Worth to run for office. Does it make sense for Virginia to elect someone who hasn’t lived here? Of course not. We need a senator who will fight for us—NOT millionaire Mel Merdock. Virginia’s Lou Kay. He’s a working guy. He’s one of us!

  Frank hit the pause button, staring at the image as his mind chewed over what he had just seen.

  “We’re dead,” he muttered finally.

  Everyone in the office was packed into the media room, poised for his reaction. He could feel Woody, his partner since law school, scowling at him from the doorway through a pair of thick, wire-rimmed glasses. Linda, new to the firm four years ago, sat at the table in back, holding in a smile with a pen between her lips. His assistant Tracy and the two interns rented from Georgetown, Harry and Tom, were huddled up front, wanting to learn something, waiting for orders as Frank thought about what to do.

  Frank knew for a fact that everything in Lou Kay’s ad was true. Mel Merdock was the son of a rich man. Texas oil money. He probably hadn’t gotten a job on his own merits his whole life. Merdock was also a carpetbagger: his only connection with the state of Virginia being that he wanted to fill the open seat. Because they were three weeks from election day, people watching their televisions were beginning to focus on the race. Lou Kay’s negative ad would do damage. The spot’s message would cut through.

  Linda crossed her legs and gently cleared her throat. “It’s not like you weren’t expecting it.”

  “We’re dead,” Frank repeated. “How many times did they use the word millionaire?”

  She gave him a look, flashing that smile again. “I counted three.”

  Linda was in her early thirties and had natural blond hair cut just below the shoulders. Her face was refined, striking. Her green eyes, steady and clear, especially when in the company of men, working or otherwise Frank had noticed, where her ease and confidence seemed contagious. Dressed in a business suit made of fine European tweed, the expensive cloth fit the contours of her slender body like a glove. Her skirt was cut well above the knee. Her tight-fitting jacket designed to be worn without a blouse or jewelry. She looked fabulous.

  “You’re on the wrong side,” Woody said. “Merdock’s everything they say he is only a hundred times worse and you know it, Frank.”

  Frank jerked his head toward the door. “Stewart Brown is doing Lou Kay’s campaign. If I don’t hit back, we’ll lose.”

  Frank turned to Tracy. He knew that whatever he did had to be done quickly. Now.

  “I need someone to read a spot,” he said. “Call Sammy or Rick. We need to be recording the voice track in thirty minutes. Then call Vintage Video. Tell them to clear out a room. I want to be editing in an hour.”

  “You want messengers?” she asked, writing everything down.

  He nodded, turning back to Lou Kay’s spot frozen on the monitor and pointing the disclaimer out to his interns. “I want you guys to call the TV stations. Tell them that Lou Kay’s disclaimer violates the election code. It’s too small. Tell them if they air it again, they’ll be fined. And try to act like you know what you’re talking about.”

  Harry leaned toward the monitor, adjusting his glasses. “It looks okay to me.”

  “It is okay,” Linda said. “But they’ll have to pull the spot to check. It won’t be running.”

  Harry laughed as it sank in. Vintage Frank Miles.

  It was a trick used to buy time. Frank knew that the television stations would have to pull Lou Kay’s spot against Mel Merdock out of the rotation in order to electronically measure the size of the disclaimer. The size of the disclaimer, PAID FOR BY FRIENDS OF LOU KAY FOR THE U.S. SENATE, measured in scan lines, had always been a sensitive issue because consultants like Frank had always tried to hide it, bury it, particularly when on the attack. Depending on how busy the TV stations were, how much time it took, it was possible that Frank could respond with a new commercial before Lou Kay’s ad did any damage at all.

  “What about script approval?” Tracy asked, smiling.

  “Forget it,” Frank said as he bolted out the door. “I’m gonna kill these guys.”

  Chapter 3

  Frank cut through the war room into his office. Beneath neatly framed prints of Jefferson, Lincoln, FDR, Jack Kennedy, and LBJ, he sat at his desk, grabbed his keyboard and got started. This was what he liked most about his job, the thing that kept him alive. Striking back. Going for the takedown with his back against the wall.

  “The guy is a lie, Frank.”

  He looked up, not realizing that Woody had followed him into the room.

  “It’s a lie,” Frank repeated excitedly. “I like that.” He turned to the monitor, repeating the words as he typed them. “It’s a lie.”

  Frank’s corner office was larger than the rest. An antique table made of solid cherry and four matching chairs stood to the right of the glass door with bookcases running the entire length of the room. His desk stood in the corner so that he could look through the plate glass walls into the war room and still have a view of the Capitol outside his window. Off to the side, a couch long and deep enough to sleep on sat before a coffee table and two overstuffed reading chairs.

  Tracy stuck her head in the door. “Sammy and Rick are both available. Who do you want to read the spot?”

  “Find out who’s pissed off.”

  “Sammy’s wife just left him. She wants a divorce.”

  Frank stopped typing and looked at her with an inquisitive smile. Tracy was the best assistant he had ever had. She was extremely loyal and possessed an uncanny feel for everything happening all over town. A bit on the hefty side and only twenty-five, she had a wholesome face and was engaged to a man who would soon be graduating from Harvard Law School. Frank knew that he would lose her one day and dreaded the thought.

  “How do you know that?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “He’s on the phone. He’s in a bad mood.”

  “Tell him we’ll fax the script over in ten minutes.”

  Tracy nodded, vanishing from the doorway. Then Frank noticed Woody standing by the window in another one of his moods. It seemed to Frank that Woody had been in a bad mood since the last election cycle two years ago.

  “I’m busy, Woody. What do you want?”

  “I want you to drop the Merdock account.”

  Frank laughed and turned back to the monitor. “You’re ridiculous. Get out.”

  “Merdock’s trying to buy a seat in the Senate with his father’s money. He’s a dick, an incompetent boob.”

  “The victim of a negative campaign,” Frank said, typing the words onto his screen.

  “He’s morally bankrupt. He’s gonna spend fifty million bucks.”

  Frank smiled. “What Virginia needs. No,” he said, correcting himself. “What Virginia REALLY needs.”

  “This is the U.S. Senate, Frank. Merdock hasn’t talked about one real issue. He doesn’t stand for anything!”

  “I’m sure he stands for something,” Frank said, reviewing his script on the monitor. “If you don’t want your share of the media buy, then don�
��t take it. Simple as that.”

  Woody reached over Frank’s shoulder, opening his desk drawer and taking a cigarette from the pack Frank kept for emergencies. Then he settled into the deep cushioned chair. There was a long silence. Frank glanced at him briefly, checking to see if he was still in the room.

  “This isn’t what we had in mind when we got into this,” Woody said finally, almost whispering.

  Frank let go of his keyboard and sighed. He looked at his friend slumped in the chair with his feet on the coffee table.

  “What we got into was the business of getting people elected,” Frank said.

  “No matter what?”

  Frank smiled, turning back to his work. “Children and puppies,” he said.

  “What?”

  “He’s for children and puppies.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Woody got up and left the room enraged. Frank shook his head. Arguments with Woody had never been personal before. They’d been through too much together. Arguments were a game for Woody, part of the show. But Frank wondered if it was still true. He wondered if Woody hadn’t seen the handwriting on the wall. When they started the business, elections were tough, but day-to-day politics had been a clash of ideas and philosophy brought together by the strength and character of men and women willing to work with each other and compromise for the sake of the country. Now the two parties had circled the wagons, trying to hold their positions whatever the cost. Compromise and moderation were dirty words. Strength and character in short supply. Campaigns were never ending, more like a war with the winner the one left standing. And Frank knew that his partner was having trouble making the transition. If you didn’t kill your opponent, your opponent would kill you.