Thanks again to my betas, HarmonyLover and chai4anne
Warning: this chapter contains a mention of domestic violence.
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Peter Burton watched the news coverage of the missing Santos plane, feeling a sense of pride that surprised even him.
Sabotaging the plane had been surprisingly easy. He'd figured out a way to tamper with the emergency shutoff mechanism to the fuel line, causing it to activate sometime after takeoff. It hadn't been as complicated as he'd initially feared. All he'd had to do was loosen some connections and gears, so that the heat and vibration from the plane would cause them to fail. As an added touch he was especially proud of, he'd done some creative re-wiring designed to cause the power to the airplane's electrical system to cut out when the fuel line shutoff was activated. The pilot would have no access to the radio or navigation system. He'd also de-activated the Emergency Locator Transmitter. Those things were important; they would help keep the airplane missing, and in the news, for as long as possible. And given the fact that according to the news coverage no distress call had been received from Santos, everything had worked as well in real life as he'd thought it would on paper.
It was funny, the turns life could take. Three weeks ago, this had just been a fantasy. He'd had no idea he was actually going to go through with it. When he'd noticed on his shift one day that the Santos campaign had booked a charter flight from the airport he worked at, he'd started thinking about how the presidential race might be shaken up by one of the candidates – even a minor one – being killed in a plane crash. Maybe Santos's supporters would start searching for a new dark horse candidate to get behind. In any event, Peter's connection to the tragedy – he worked at the airport Santos had taken off from, after all – would definitely get him publicity.
The whole scenario had been appealing. He'd spent hours working on his notebook, designing his plans for the sabotage. He'd even made sure to get assigned to do the pre-flight inspection for the Santos plane, just in case he decided to go through with it. But there was always the risk he'd get caught. Until a week and a half ago, he'd had a wife and a kid, and needed his paycheck. And the truth was that he'd never really had any expectation of becoming President. For decades he'd tried to get on as many ballots as he could, in as many elections as he could, because getting on the ballot meant your statement got published in the Voter's Pamphlet. He had ideas and plans for the country that the "serious" politicians were afraid to discuss. This was a way of taking his solutions straight to the people. But his presidential campaign had hardly seemed worth risking everything for.
But then the company he'd worked at for nearly twenty years had issued him a layoff notice; his job would end at the end of the month. They'd told him he was a victim of the economy, but rumor had it the company planned to replace him and many of his laid-off coworkers with younger employees, straight out of trade school with no experience, who would work for less money.
The night he'd gotten his layoff notice, he'd gone to a bar. Who wouldn't? When he'd gotten home, his bitch of a wife had lectured him – again – about his drinking. When he'd told her what had happened, she'd even suggested that maybe he hadn't been laid off at all; maybe he'd been fired because his drinking was interfering with his work. That had been more than he could take. He'd smacked her a few times, and she'd fallen down the stairs. He probably shouldn't have done that, but after what she'd said? Who could blame him? Then he'd had another drink and gone to bed. The next morning, he'd discovered that his wife was gone, and she'd taken his son. He hadn't seen either of them since.
With no wife, no son, and soon no job, he'd been raging and desperate. That had been his mood when the people from the Democratic Party had come to visit him. That blond woman had seemed so earnest; she'd appeared genuinely interested in his views. She'd looked at him and spoken to him with more respect than anyone had in a long time. If someone like her could take him seriously, maybe other people could, too. Maybe all that had happened to him was a sign that it was his time. Maybe this time his campaign needed to be about more than just getting in voter's pamphlets. Maybe…maybe…he could even win. But he knew something drastic would need to happen for him to get noticed. Before he'd left for his shift that morning, he'd dug out his notebook that contained his plans for the airplane sabotage. When he'd begun the task of getting the plane ready for takeoff, he'd taxied it to one of the more isolated corners of the airfield, where no one would notice that he was doing work that was much different from his assigned duties. The sabotage had taken longer than a standard inspection would have, of course, but no one had asked about it. If they had, he'd come up with some vague answer about a strange light coming on in the dashboard.
Of course, he was exposing himself somewhat. Given the fact that he'd serviced the plane prior to takeoff, he'd probably be questioned. But he'd arranged for the plane to fail in a way that no one doing a routine pre-flight inspection could be expected to notice. The company itself would end up shouldering the blame; it would look as though they'd sent out an aircraft that had been very poorly maintained for some time. Maybe their new policy of firing experienced workers in favor of younger, cheaper ones would come to light. Maybe the countless other companies who routinely did the same thing would take notice. He'd be helping to stop the assault on ordinary workers by the big corporations. If that wasn't something worthy of a presidential candidate, he didn't know what was.
He walked into his kitchen and got a beer out of the fridge. He'd just popped it open when he was startled by the wail of sirens coming down his street. Seconds later, there was a sea of flashing lights outside his house, and he heard a police officer on a bullhorn ordering him to come out with his hands up.
He closed his eyes. He knew he'd been caught; they wouldn't be sending out this kind of response if all they wanted to do was question him about servicing the airplane. He felt his hopes for his presidential campaign vanish in an instant. But he had planned for this contingency, too. One way or another, everyone in the country would know his name, and would know about his ideas for the country.
He went to his computer, logged on to his blog, and started typing.
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Donna walked a few paces behind Will and the Vice President as they headed up to Russell's hotel suite. They were planning to have a short meeting to finalize plans for the next day before they all headed to bed
"So anyway," Will was saying, "tomorrow morning we head out early for Des Moines. You'll do a town hall there, and then you have an evening rally planned. It'll be outdoors, rain, shine, or snow. I have a list of talking points you'll want to be sure to bring up at the town hall. They're in my room. I'll run and get them, and be back in a second." He headed down the hall. One of the Vice President's Secret Service agents unlocked the door to his suite for him, did a quick inspection of the room, and then took his position outside the door as Donna and Russell walked in.
Donna automatically reached for the remote and turned on the television. She was about to turn back to the Vice President when the news coverage suddenly had her full attention.
"Police have surrounded the home of Peter Burton, a 58-year-old airplane mechanic who works at the airfield Congressman Santos took off from. Although authorities are being tight-lipped, it is believed this activity is in some way related to the missing airplane. Our reporters have just arrived on the scene, and we will of course be bringing you the latest as it develops."
The papers Donna was holding slipped from her fingers. She didn't even notice. Her face turned as white as a ghost.
"That's him," she whispered, barely recognizing her own voice.
"What?" The Vice President looked over at her.
Before Donna could explain, the news camera zoomed in on the front door, which was opening. Peter Burton came out with his hands up.
"I'd just like to make a statement," he called out over the shouts from police to get on the ground. "I'm unarmed, I'm surrendering; just let me say my piece." Without waiting for permission, he turned his gaze to the sea of news cameras that had assembled, and continued. "I'm being persecuted because my candidacy for President is a threat to the establishment. The authorities will stop at nothing to silence me. That's been made very clear to me today. I know most of the people watching this will probably think I'm crazy, but I'm not. If my ideas for this country are so insignificant, why did several prominent members of the Democratic Party come to visit me this morning, anonymously of course, to tell me how important it was for me to make my voice heard? So to answer the question I know all of you are asking, yes, I sabotaged Matt Santos's airplane. Desperate times call for desperate measures. And If the plane crash draws more attention to my solutions for this country – well, too bad that's what it took, but the country needs to hear what I have to say. I hope all Americans will go to my website," he added, listing the web address.
"Get down on the ground!" an officer roared through a bullhorn.
Burton ignored the order, and instead reached into his back pocket. His claim to be unarmed had apparently been false. Donna gasped when she saw him pull out a pistol.
He didn't even have time to aim it before several gunshots could be heard. Peter Burton's body crumpled to the ground, riddled by bullets from the officers surrounding his home.
As the camera quickly panned away and the news anchors started stammering apologies to the viewers for what had just been broadcast, Donna remained standing in front of the television, so numb she wasn't quite sure how she'd managed to avoid collapsing. Her insides felt like jelly.
"Donna?" Russell's voice registered in her consciousness. "Are you okay?"
"That's him," she said again. "Peter Burton. We were at his house this morning. He's one of the fringe candidates we were trying to stack the debate with. We were the Democrats he mentioned." She suddenly felt like throwing up.
She saw the Vice President frown momentarily. "You didn't give him your names, right?"
Startled, she turned around and stared blankly at him. "What?"
He waved the question off. "Right. I know you know better than that. So there should be no way to link that visit to our campaign. We should be fine. And even if somehow someone does find out it was us – well, hey. He'd filed to run. He was going to be on the ballot. All we have to say is that we were just trying to do some research and find out who he was. The press can't blame us for that. We couldn't possibly have known what he was planning."
"The press?" She continued to stare at him numbly.
"Yeah. I wouldn't worry about it. I don't see how this hurts the campaign."
"The campaign?"
His brow furrowed. "Donna, are you okay?" he asked for a second time.
"Don't you get it?" She started shaking. "We made him think he had a chance in the election. He sabotaged that plane because of us. Because of-" Her voice broke off as the full horror of the situation began to fully sink in.
"You don't know that," Russell argued.
"He practically announced it on live television!"
"Donna, who knows why crazy people do what they do? But it's really not our problem." He glanced toward the door, clearly ready to move on from the topic. "What the heck is taking Will so long, anyway? I told him I wanted this meeting wrapped up quickly so I could get to bed at a decent hour. I don't know how many nights in a row a person can be expected to function on four hours' sleep."
Donna stared at him in shock, her guilt and horror converting at least temporarily to rage. "You bastard."
He started. "Excuse me?"
"You're worried about getting a good night's sleep? Six people may be dead. Josh may be dead. Don't you even care that we may have pushed his murderer over the edge with our sleazy, pathetic campaign tactics?"
Russell's eyes flashed angrily. "I think you're forgetting who you're talking to."
She ignored him. "You don't care, do you? As long as the media can't link us to the carnage, that's all that matters to you, isn't it, you son of a bitch?" Her voice shook violently, and tears had started forming in her eyes.
"You just stepped way over the line." Russell's voice rose.
She knew she had, but it didn't stop her. "Josh was your friend. I mean, maybe not your friend, exactly, but he sure gave you a lot of free political advice you didn't deserve when he was at the White House, or have you forgotten that? My God, are you even capable of caring about anyone other than yourself?"
Russell turned and glared at her, his jaw twitching. He clearly wasn't used to being talked to like this, and he didn't like it. When he spoke, his voice was as cold as ice. "A lunatic sabotaging an airplane doesn't change the fact that I intend to be the next President. And if you're not up to helping me get there, I'll find someone else who is. Trust me, you're not so invaluable to this campaign that you can't be replaced in about five minutes. Don't count on having a job tomorrow morning."
"Screw you!" She turned and began storming toward the door. She couldn't stand to be in the same room with him for another second.
"Just where do you think you're going? I decide when this conversation is over. Hey!" As she stalked past him on her way to the door, he reached out and grabbed her arm to stop her.
She knew almost as soon as she'd done it that her next action was a horrendous mistake, but by then it was too late. Reflex took over, and she turned and pushed the Vice President away from her, harder than she'd intended to. He stumbled back against an end table, knocking a lamp to the floor.
The sound got the attention of the Secret Service agent stationed outside the door, who quickly entered the room. When he did, he saw the lamp on the floor, the Vice President holding onto the end table to regain his balance, and Donna standing several feet away from him, red-faced and teary.
"What's going on?" the agent demanded, carefully positioned himself between the Vice President and Donna, his hand on his holstered gun.
Russell recovered and stood up straight. "She just pushed me into the table."
"I did…I did…" Through the other emotions that were racing in Donna's body, fear began to surface as she began to realize the kind of trouble she was in. "He grabbed my arm." Suddenly that sounded like a pathetically weak defense.
The Vice President looked flustered for a moment, as if deciding how to respond to the charge. Then he met her eyes coldly. "I did nothing of the sort."
Her jaw dropped in disbelief. "You liar!"
Russell sighed and turned to the agent. "Look, just deal with it, okay? And get her out of here. I don't have time for this crap."
Donna closed her eyes in disbelief as she felt handcuffs being placed around her wrists and listened to the agent informing her of her Miranda rights. As he led her away, they nearly ran into Will, who came through the door, memos in hand.
"Sorry to take so long. I was watching the news. Did you guys see-" his voice broke off as the scene in front of him registered. "What the-"
Whatever he said next faded from Donna's ears as the agent continued leading her down the hall.