Born to Run js-7 Read online

  Sometimes, Jack wished he would call it even already.

  “You don’t think this smacks of a midlife crisis?” said Jack.

  “Dude, your whole life is a crisis.”

  The car salesman returned with the keys in hand. Jack’s girlfriend, Andie, was with him. She was smiling-a good sign.

  Jack had met FBI agent Andie Henning under the toughest of circumstances: she was tracking a serial kidnapper with his sights on Jack’s girlfriend. She was now officially Jack’s longest steady since his divorce. Even more important-for present purposes, anyway-any woman trained in hostage negotiation had to be able to cut one hell of a deal on a used car.

  “Here’s your number,” she said, as she handed him a slip of paper.

  Jack checked it. “Nice work,” he said.

  “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

  “So, let’s see the Mustang run, shall we?” said the salesman.

  Andie glanced at the cramped, fold-down backseat and said, “You boys have fun.”

  “You’re not coming?” said Jack.

  “I have a haircut appointment. I think it’s time for that short, professional look, don’t you?”

  Jack was speechless. He loved Andie’s hair-long and raven black. With her amazing green eyes and high, Native American cheekbones, it made her a captivating, exotic beauty.

  “You’re going to cut off your hair?” he said with trepidation.

  “Naturally. It’s what women do when they-wait a minute. I’m sorry. You’re turning forty, not me. Whew, what a relief.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Love you,” she said.

  The L word had entered their relationship in August. Having watched it slowly evaporate from the vocabulary of his first marriage, Jack didn’t take it lightly.

  “Love you too.”

  He kissed her good-bye, and it was just Jack, Theo, and their own little piece of automobile history.

  Theo snatched the keys from the salesman. “Let’s roll,” he said.

  With the push of a button, the salesman opened the showroom door, and then he climbed in the backseat. Theo settled behind the custom leather-grip steering wheel as if the car were made for him.

  “Shouldn’t I be driving?” said Jack.

  Theo glared. “I’m in the bed naked, about to have sex with Beyonce Knowles, and you’re telling me to move over so you can take a nap?”

  “What?”

  “It’s a test drive, Swyteck. We ain’t just kickin’ the tires here.”

  It was one of the things Jack loved about Theo. He could hurl insults to your face and still make you laugh.

  Jack rode shotgun and, with Theo’s turn of the key, smiled at the sound of a perfectly tuned V8. He felt the vibe as the car rolled slowly out of the showroom, and Jack lowered his window. It was one of those mornings that screamed “convertible”-seventy-two degrees, blue skies, not a cloud in sight-but for every perfect December day in Miami there was hell to pay in August. One leaky canvas top on a vintage automobile with crappy air-conditioning was enough in Jack’s lifetime.

  The showroom garage door closed automatically behind them, and Theo burned rubber out of the parking lot.

  “Easy on the new tires,” said the salesman.

  “Sorry,” said Jack, as if it were his fault.

  Theo didn’t apologize. He just beat it up U.S. 1.

  The salesman made his pitch over the roar of the engine.

  “This baby isn’t quite show quality,” he said, “but it’s a dead ringer for the modified Mustang Steve McQueen drove in the Bullitt movie. Highland Green paint. Black interior. Three-ninety big block engine pushing four hundred horsepower. I’ve met dozens of Mustang know-it-alls who swear it was a Shelby flying over the hills of San Francisco in the famous chase scene, but it was a fastback, just like this one. Which is a good thing for you. A restored Shelby in this condition would set you back well into six figures.”

  Theo downshifted and stopped at the red light. A couple of fit young women clad in running shorts and breathable tank tops were jogging in place at the curb, waiting for the walk signal. Theo revved the engine as they passed in the crosswalk. The Latina with long legs smiled and waved. Jack waved back.

  Theo grabbed Jack’s arm with enough force to break it.

  “Never wave at chicks.”

  “Oh, come on. Andie is not going to get upset over that.”

  “Got nothin’ to do with Andie. Mustang Rule Number One: You don’t wave at chicks. Period.”

  “But she waved at me,” said Jack.

  “Don’t matter. You just look, nod kind of cool-like, and say Wassup?”

  “How is she supposed to hear me if I’m sitting inside a car?”

  “She can see your lips move.”

  “She can also see me wave.”

  “If she sees your lips move, her mind hears ‘Wassup?’ If she sees you wave, she hears ‘Hey there, Lieutenant Dan: it’s me, Forrest. Forrest Gump!’ So, don’t wave. Ever. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  The light changed and the Mustang launched like a rocket. Jack switched on the radio.

  The salesman leaned forward and said, “The sound system is obviously not original, but you’ve still got your AM dial if you want that 1960s experience.”

  Jack tried to find music, but the AM band was mostly Spanish talk radio. At the left end of the dial, an English-language news station caught his attention. The reporter had a decided urgency to his tone:

  “-is no official word yet, but Associated Press is reporting that Vice President Grayson was unconscious when emergency responders airlifted him from a private refuge near Everglades National Park and transported him to Jackson Memorial Hospital in Miami.”

  “Music,” said Theo.

  “No, wait.”

  “Mustang Rule Number Two,” said Theo, but Jack cut him off.

  “I’m serious. Shut up.”

  The reporter on the scene continued: “The vice president spent all day Friday in the Everglades with a special blue-ribbon commission that is studying twenty-first-century threats to the ecosystem. This morning he was on a guided hunting trip on privately owned land when, approximately thirty minutes before sunrise, something went terribly wrong. Of course, it is widely known that Vice President Grayson has a history of heart trouble. He suffered two heart attacks in his forties, and two years ago he spent his fifty-second birthday in the hospital with chest pains. We can only speculate as to whether today’s emergency was health related or some kind of accident. At this point, information is scarce. The hospital has released no comment, except to confirm that the vice president is there. And this area of western Miami-Dade County where the incident occurred is very isolated, as you might well imagine. We’re told that the other members of the vice president’s hunting party are being transported back to a private residence in Key Largo, where Vice President Grayson was staying with friends. We’re not sure how many hunters were in the party, but we hope to talk to them and bring additional details to you just as soon as we can.”

  The anchorman in the studio interrupted to promise “more on this breaking story in sixty seconds,” and the station cut to a commercial.

  Theo stopped at another red light.

  “Wow,” said Jack. “Sounds pretty grim.”

  Theo checked his sunglasses in the rearview mirror. “Your old man still buddy-buddy with the president of vice?”

  “I’d say so,” said Jack. “He was on that hunting trip.”

  Chapter 4

  Jack was standing at his father’s side as they watched the landing of Air Force One.

  Jack had just signed the papers for his new Mustang when Harry called to tell him that the hunting party-sans vice president-was being transported by yacht from Everglades National Park to Ocean Reef Club. The exclusive Key Largo resort had its own airstrip, and Jack had driven down from Miami at nearly the speed of Air Force One. Steve McQueen would have been proud.

  “It
was all so surreal,” said Harry, his voice barely audible over the roar of jet engines at the other end of the runway. “Phil’s boat was in another part of the channel, but I knew from the burst of spotlights and all the shouting that something had gone wrong. It was a Secret Service frenzy. My guide tried to motor us over there, but an agent jumped onto our boat, cranked up the out-board, and took us in the complete opposite direction. I felt like I was in JFK’s limo speeding off to the hospital-without Phil.”

  “You think he’ll survive?”

  “They won’t tell us if he’s alive, if he’s dead, if it was his heart-nothing.”

  “Did the Secret Service take your statement yet?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know what their agenda is, but they made me feel like I needed a lawyer.”

  One thing all criminal defense lawyers knew: if you think you need one, you probably do.

  The last time Jack had visited Ocean Reef, he was fifteen years old and zipping around the club’s two thousand acres with friends on a golf cart. Even back then, a vacation home there had been well beyond the financial reach of the Swyteck family. Today, it was barely within the reach of Donald Trump. Ocean Reef was a perfect place for a vice president to vacation. The club was surrounded on three sides by water, and on the fourth by protected lands under federal and state ownership. Forty-five security guards, continuous camera surveillance, and monitored water access made it an exclusive playground for people of privilege. Jack had passed a mile-long line of media vans on the entrance road, but not one got past the guardhouse. Every local station and several national networks had a microwave dish hoisted high into the air-tower after tower of modern communications systems that rose like a wintry forest from the mangroves and turquoise waters of the fragile keys environs. Helicopters were kept at bay for the landing of Air Force One, but Jack could see them hovering on the horizon, well beyond the championship golf course, the town houses that sold for over a million dollars, the new waterfront homes that sold for ten times that much, and the marina filled with yachts-many of which came at a price that made the homes seem cheap.

  Two Secret Service agents pulled up in a customized golf cart that looked like a miniature Bentley. Jack said hello. They said, “Get in.”

  “Where are we going?” said Jack.

  “The president wants to see you in his office.”

  “On the plane?”

  “No, at the Tiki Bar.”

  A Secret Service agent with a sense of humor-now that was something Jack hadn’t expected. The cart took them straight to the Jetway, and the door opened at the top of the stairs.

  Jack felt a little rush of adrenaline, momentarily forgetting the circumstances of his first meeting with the president. It wasn’t the familiar Air Force One-the runway at Ocean Reef wasn’t long enough to accommodate a Boeing 747-but the smaller C-32 had an aura of its own. His father looked somber enough for both of them as the Secret Service led them aboard. Olivia Thompson, the president’s blond, thirty-nine-year-old chief of staff, greeted them inside. A quick turn up the corridor took them to the state room. Thompson knocked, opened the door, and announced the Swytecks’ arrival in a respectful tone.

  “Welcome, Governor,” said the president, as he rose to greet him.

  They shook hands firmly, and then Harry introduced his son.

  Another round of handshaking and good wishes followed, but the president’s signature smile came across as a bit weary to Jack. Perhaps the news was bad about Grayson. Perhaps it was the cumulative weight of his first two years in the White House. Jack had seen photographic face progressions of past presidents, showing how the office aged them from one year to the next. By that standard, President Keyes was faring well. His skin was as youthful as could be expected for a man in his fifties, and he didn’t have Lincoln’s worry lines or Nixon’s jowls. His transformation was more subtle-with the exception of the hair, which had been steadily receding since inauguration day. He was a handsome man, nonetheless, and he might have done well to throw in the towel and shave his head, like a Bruce Willis or a Yul Brynner. Keyes, however, seemed to be on track for the comb-over, preferring to hide as long as possible the Gorbachev-like birthmark at his vanishing hair line.

  Jack and Harry took the seats facing the president, and the chief of staff stood quietly to the side.

  “How is-”

  “Harry,” the president said before he could ask about Grayson, “how long have you and I known each other?”

  Harry had to think about it. “I’m sure we shook hands long before this, but the first real sit-down-and-get-to-know-each-other conversation I can recall was at the national governors’ conference in Milwaukee.”

  “And I recall taking an immediate liking to you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Much the same way I felt about Sunny Phil.”

  Sunny Phil was the nickname Harry had given his friend for his “always sunny” disposition. “He hated that name,” Harry said, smiling.

  “But it fit.”

  “Yes. As long as I’ve known him.”

  “You boys go way back,” said the president. “Both of you All-Southeastern Conference athletes in college, I understand.”

  “Well, different decades, and definitely with different loyalties. He was a Georgia Bulldog. I was a Florida Gator.”

  The mention of a “gator” just hours after the vice president had been plucked from the Everglades triggered a moment of awkward silence. The president dug into the bowl of cashews on the tray table, then thought better of it. He had the body of a man who exercised and watched his weight.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, Harry. But Phil Grayson has passed.”

  Jack felt goose bumps, and instinctively he took his father’s hand. It was shaking. Harry started to speak, then stopped to gather his composure. He was normally not one to express emotions, but it was as if the events of this overwhelming day-hunting alligators, battling the Everglades, working through a friend’s medical emergency, and now his death-had struck him down. For the first time in his life, the sixty-four-year-old former governor truly looked old to his son.

  “Sorry,” said Harry, reeling in his emotions. “How’s Marilyn?”

  “Twenty-eight years of marriage. About what you’d expect.”

  Jack said, “Are you okay, Dad?”

  Harry nodded.

  The president said, “The White House will release a statement in about twenty minutes. I’ll make a public television address from the East Wing this evening. I’ll order flags to fly at half-staff for thirty days. It’s appropriate that we mourn as a nation. But I don’t want that period of mourning to turn into national anxiety over Phil’s replacement. The Twenty-fifth Amendment to the Constitution doesn’t say how quickly I have to move, but I plan to make an announcement on a vice presidential designate as soon as possible.”

  Jack bristled. Talk of a replacement so soon after death was a bit unseemly. But most everything about Washington struck Jack that way.

  “That’s wise,” said Harry. “As you know, I’m retired from politics, but if I can be of any help formulating a short list, I’d be honored.”

  The president cast a half smile in the chief of staff’s direction. “Didn’t I tell you Harry’s the most humble guy around?”

  “You did, sir,” she said.

  The president said, “You’re a good man, Harry. You were certainly a huge help in delivering Florida for the Keyes-Grayson ticket in the last election.”

  “That was my pleasure, sir.”

  “Hard to believe we’re less than two years away from another election. Florida will be a key state again.”

  “It’s the political story of the twenty-first century: Florida, Florida, Florida.”

  “You’re one of the most popular governors that crazy state has ever had. If it weren’t for term limits, I would have put my money on a third term for you.”

  “Thank you for saying that, but I have no regrets about moving on.”


  “Well, you have certainly kept moving. As you should. You’re a young man.”

  “Not as young as you, sir, and getting older every day.”

  “Hell, you’re not even eligible for Medicare yet. The bipartisan leadership role you’ve played in disaster relief efforts since your exit from politics has been nothing short of amazing.”

  “It’s fulfilling work.”

  “Not to mention high-profile. Everyone from Floridians and their hurricanes to Californians and their earthquakes has taken notice.” The president leaned forward in his chair, looking Harry in the eye. “Voters have taken note.”

  “Sir-”

  “The work you and Phil were doing in the Everglades shows your commitment to the environment. And who knows more about dealing with the burdens of immigration and illegal aliens than a former governor of Florida? Another hot-button issue.”

  “Sir, I’m retired, and I-”

  The president silenced him with a slow but firm shake of his head.

  “I’m not taking no for an answer, Harry. I went through this short-listing exercise a year ago when Phil had his heart surgery. My list hasn’t changed since then. I want Governor Swyteck to be my new vice president.”

  “Whoa-” said Jack. It was purely a reflex.

  “Double whoa,” said Harry.

  Chapter 5

  Washington was dressed in black. Flags were flying at half-staff. The country was in an official period of national mourning.

  It had nothing to do with Jack approaching forty.

  “The nation has lost a great and faithful servant,” President Keyes said in a televised address from the White House, “and I have lost a dear friend.”

  William Grayson was the eighth U.S. vice president to die in office, only the second since the passing of President McKinley’s would-be successor in 1899-and the first to be chomped by an alligator. The official cause of death was myocardial infarction, which gave his loved ones the comfort of believing that he’d probably never felt the removal of his right foot and ankle.

  Funeral services began the following Monday on Capitol Hill, where Grayson’s body lay in state in a flag-draped oak casket atop the Lincoln catafalque. Family, friends outside the Beltway, and a short list of dignitaries assembled on Thursday to pay their final respects in the vice president’s hometown of Madison, Georgia. The flu kept Mrs. Swyteck from traveling, so Harry brought Jack.