Free The Brethren by John Grisham Page B

hell Ricky was, might want more. What would stop Ricky from extorting again, and again?
    If he had guts he’d run off anyway, run to Key West or some hot spot where it never snowed and live any damn way he wanted to live, and let the pitiful little people of Bakers, Iowa, gossip about him for the next half-century. But he didn’t have the guts, and that’s what made Quince so sad.
    His children were staring at him, freckled smiles with teeth wrapped in silver braces. His heart sank, and he knew he’d find the money and wire it precisely as directed. He had to protect them. They had done nothing wrong.
    The bank’s stock was worth about $10 million, all of it still tightly controlled by the old man, who at the moment was barking in the hallway. The old man was eighty-one, very much alive but still eighty-one. When he was gone, Quince would have to contend with a sister in Chicago, but the bank would be his. He’d sell the damned thing as fast as he could and leave Bakers with a few million in his pocket. Until then, though, he’d be forced to do what he’d always done, keep the old man content.
    Quince’s getting yanked out of the closet by some con man would devastate his father, and pretty much take care of the stock. Sister in Chicago would get all of it.
    When the barking stopped outside, he eased through the door and passed his secretary for a cup of coffee. He ignored her as he returned to his room, locked his door, read the letter for the fourth time, and collected his thoughts. He’d find the money, and he’dwire it just as instructed, and he’d hope and pray with a fury that Ricky would go away. If not, if he came back for more, Quince would call his doctor and get some pills.
    The real estate agent he was meeting for lunch was a high-roller who took chances and cut corners, probably a crook. Quince began to make plans. The two of them would arrange a few shady loans; overappraise some land, lend the money, sell to a strawman, etc. He would know how to do it.
    Quince would find the money.
    The Lake campaign’s doomsday ads landed with a thud, at least in public opinion. Massive polling through the first week showed a dramatic increase in name recognition, from 2 to 20 percent, but the ads were universally disliked. They were frightening and people just didn’t want to think about wars and terrorism and old nukes getting hauled across mountains in the dark. People saw the ads (they were impossible to miss), and they heard the message, but most voters simply didn’t want to be bothered. They were too busy making money and spending it. When issues were confronted in the midst of a roaring economy, they were limited to the old standbys of family values and tax cuts.
    Candidate Lake’s early interviewers treated him as just another flake until he announced, live on the air, that his campaign had received in excess of $11 million in less than a week.
    “We expect to have twenty million in two weeks,” he said without boasting, and real news started tohappen. Teddy Maynard had assured him the money would be there.
    Twenty million in two weeks had never been done before, and by the end of that day Washington was consumed with the story. The frenzy reached its peak when Lake was interviewed, live yet again, by two of the three networks on the evening news. He looked great; big smile, smooth words, nice suit and hair. The man was electable.
    Final confirmation that Aaron Lake was a serious candidate came late in the day, when one of his opponents took a shot at him. Senator Britt of Maryland had been running for a year and had finished a strong second in New Hampshire. He’d raised $9 million, spent a lot more than that, and was forced to waste half of his time soliciting money rather than campaigning. He was tired of begging, tired of cutting staff, tired of worrying about TV ads, and when a reporter asked him about Lake and his $20 million Britt shot back, “It’s dirty money. No honest candidate can raise