 
## REUNION AT UNIVERSITY AVENUE

### Copyright Information

© 2005, 2008, 2013 by Kenneth Kerns.

All rights are reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real characters or incidents is purely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 9781301983285 (Smashwords edition)

Smashwords edition, ebook, published in August 2013.

### Dedication

For my friends and coworkers, who encouraged me throughout this process to keep at it and enjoyed watching me sweat through it all. I also want to thank and dedicate this book to the University of Florida for the three years of my life that gave inspiration to this novel.

### Chapter One

ONCE UPON A TIME, there was a group of prominent college students who were noticed by the state leadership in Florida as people to watch. They created a Student Government for this group and tapped them with the best jobs, the best spouses, and the best lives, one could hope for after they left college. This group fulfilled their destiny by taking power in the state. However, they developed an unusual but reasonable desire to perpetuate their influence. They, in turn, drew into their circle the next generation of student leaders, by giving them the power to control Homecoming at the largest university in the state.

To ensure that future leaders could be identified early and this power could be consolidated, the circle publicly promoted their strength in networking among those most obsessed with their meaningless resumes – freshmen. They quickly assumed control of the largest organizations and reigned in the campus student government.

As the generations went by, with more wealth and power and opportunity than they had any reason to deserve in their adult careers, the circle's membership grew complacent. Their public image faded as the old Solid South confronted civil rights and the sexual revolution. Florida became a two-party state, at a time when most of the circle had been Dixiecrats. Forced to regroup, they retained enough influence and money to put ambitious and talented members into power regardless of the party label, but could no longer put a mindless anybody into office.

On campus, unlike statewide, their influence continued unabated once they accepted the reforms of the 1960s and brought diversity to their ranks. Every year, active members of the circle selected the new inductees. Every year, the new inductees came from the ranks of student government and other perpetual student organizations. And every year, elections for student leadership were rigged by the student groups, all of whom dared to vote as a single block, amassing thousands of votes just by donning their brightly-colored shirts and smiling widely at unsuspecting students who would find that this circle had no real opposition.

And why would they? Every student leader wanted to be tapped for the glory the circle promised and frequently delivered. Why risk the circle's wrath by opposing the political "party" the old guard backed when it was just as easy to go along with it?

Over the years, the circle got creative. Sometimes they changed the name of their party. Other times, they would publicly split into two during an election and get into passionate disagreements for all to see. Yet, it was nothing but a façade put on to avoid the threat of democratic competition, as both sides would reunite after the election to deliver the spoils and induct new members to their circle.

Finally, a small but determined group challenged the status quo. In their eyes, not enough women, minorities, or liberals, were included in the ranks of the influential, and the rampant corruption needed to end. They lost every election as expected, but pressed on in the hope that the circle would widen itself to include a more representative selection of the student body. But the demographics of a college campus dictated that this rebellion would be short lived unless they recruited a next generation of their own.

Unfortunately, only one of them recognized this fait accompli. An idealist, he would never give up the fight against elitism. His specific ideas, ranging from the mundane to the radical, gave the circle pause. They were unsure what exactly he was doing to their campus government and to the enduring power they held over it.

In the end, the circle decided that the one truism to their activities should work on him as well. It was the very reason for their long-running success. It might take work, and it might take deception. It might even take a belated tapping. Once accomplished, however, it would solve all of their problems.

After all, after a century of guarding terrible secrets and perfecting hardball tactics, they believed fervently in one simple fact. No matter what it took, no matter how long they tried, anyone could be brought into The Circle.

Even Mike Adams.

### Chapter Two

PART OF MIKE'S Tuesday night ritual was the walk down "power lane" – the corridor leading up to his weekly meeting place within the student union. If things were timed right, he could see a half dozen student groups conducting their meetings. He would also be constantly passed by busy-bodies preparing for his meeting. He'd even been stopped by the campus media more than once for a sound-bite about the day's news developments.

Tonight was no different. With just fifteen minutes to go before the evening's meeting of the Student Government, the power lane was especially bustling with activity when Mike arrived with his friend and ally, George Avelli, in tow.

George was telling another story of his younger brother's unusual antics with their mutual friend, Frank Lazio. This time, the duo had become partners in an eBay auctioning enterprise. George was always a good story-teller, full of animation and energy, but mostly because the way he told it said at least as much about him as it did about those he was talking about. In this case, he showed his utter amazement at their strategies, which went beyond holding an online garage sale.

Mike scratched a spot of his t-shirt just above the itchy spot on his wide belly, and looked around. Two random students sprinted down the hallway in brightly colored shirts not unlike his own; they disappeared into a meeting room. Others shifted their weight in oversized sofas, pouring over textbooks. There was even one wearing a suit, talking to a pair of university administrators.

"And then Frank said..."

George continued his rambling anecdote as Mike made passing glances at his notes. Tonight was an important session of the Student Senate, and he wanted to be prepared. His bill to require the disclosure of the qualifications of high-level nominees in Student Government had passed through committee and was about to take its first floor vote. His gut instinct told him that after a fair debate, it would pass. Most of his agenda was passing nowadays. People trusted him. In some ways, his independence and eclectic political base made him less of an electoral threat, thus giving him unprecedented access and power on legislation. And he was enjoying every minute of it.

"But can you believe my little brother? He's better at being like Frank than Frank is! Oh..." George said, shaking his head as he rubbed his fingers through the thinly-cut mop.

George had supported the majority in the last election, but came over to the fading Gator party after he saw his former allies failing to live up to the promises they made. Mike welcomed his help – on rhetoric, campaigning, etc. – but was cautious. The two shared the same moral compass, but George's political acumen left little room for idealism in practice, just in principle.

Mike barely paid attention, as his mind was somewhere else at the moment. They began moving in the direction of their final destination. "And if we're going to be leaders in an open society, our leaders are required to be open with us. That is why this rather simple and harmless bill is before us," Mike whispered aloud to himself as he familiarized himself with his speech.

George hung back a little, and shook hands with some people and handed out some buttons. A campaign never ends, not even for the weekly Senate meeting. They passed an Asian student meeting that was blissfully unaware of the politics down the hall. An impromptu debate was being held in the Evangelical Student Alliance between members of the Gator and Campus parties. This caught only a passing glance from Mike, the debate junkie, but received a much more attentive glare from George (whose religiosity was rare for an active student leader).

But the two of them stood in awe of the meeting they saw next. A packed conference of over 25 people, nearly all wearing blue Campus party shirts, were listening to a prominent student leader whose pantsuit was off-set by a noticeable Campus party button.

"They're having a caucus?" George asked about the obvious.

George peered in through the glass window. The caucus looked like a house of mirrors. All wore the same blue shirt and khaki pants – although some wore flip-flops, others wore tennis shoes. All had fair skin, and the brown hair was lighter than average. They all sat up straight, and their personal belongings rested on their left-hand side. And the leadership stood at the front facing the crowd and gesturing. Three of the caucus members turned at almost the same time and noticed George peering in.

"The Circle hasn't done that for months," Mike said.

George nodded in agreement, and quickly pulled away from the door. That was a tactic usually reserved for ensuring that a close, controversial vote goes their way. Otherwise, wayward members of the majority may actually vote independently.

"But there's nothing partisan or campaign-related going on tonight, right? We all want to hurry out and get back to grabbing voters' attentions," Mike said with disbelief as they continued to pass a couple of other largely empty meeting rooms.

And then he tugged at his t-shirt and remembered something. He passed his notes to George as he dug into his messenger bag for a button-down shirt to cover the partisan advertisement he currently wore.

"Thanks," he muttered as he covered it up and George caught the door. They had finally arrived at their meeting.

THE CONFERENCE ROOM was unofficially dubbed the Senate Chambers, although it was used frequently by other large student organizations. The floor plan was bleacher-style, but the seating was that of a more conventional lecture hall. The presiding officer – otherwise known as the Senate President - and his aides sat in the front row, turned to face the rest of the Senate. They sat behind a covered table, with a podium off to one side – and a gigantic gavel sitting right in the middle of the table.

The general seating was split into three columns, with the Student Body President and other luminaries generally sitting on the senate President's left, and Mike and the other dissidents sitting on the right-hand side.

Mike always felt a rush upon entering the chambers. Whether it was from a sense of patriotism, suspense, or even adrenaline, he would never know for sure, but the feeling was very much like a junkie getting his fix for the night. George never really felt that way – his rush came from seeing people he liked to chat with before the Senate, so he rushed through the line to pick up the session's materials and get to talking with someone else.

By the time Mike was seated, it was very close to the gaveling time for the night's session. And yet, not a blue shirt was seen in the room. There were, to be sure, a handful of white Gator party shirts and even an orange shirt from a campaign long since gone.

He leaned over to George, who was recounting his latest anecdote to Bennita Jones – a burly African American female who was painfully trying to look more interested than she was with what he had to say.

"Hey, George, where's everyone?" he finally asked.

All but two seats in the middle section of the room were empty. All but the delegations from Arts & Sciences, Engineering, and On-Campus Housing were gone – no lawyers, no grad students, no business majors, no architects, or health science people. No accountants and no medical students. The freshmen and sophomore senators were gone. All that remained from the usual suspects of the majority party was a single senator from a crowded off-campus housing district.

It was past time for the gavel to be banged when the first of the blue shirts came in, while trying to have a congenial conversation with Adam Ruppesberger, the current minority leader in the Senate. The blue shirt was David Snyder, an ambitious sophomore who lacked affiliation with any of the Greek-lettered communities, which made him suspect in some circles. Petty jealousy can often have such reactions, as David is the founder and current leader of a fast-growing volunteer organization on campus.

Finally, Adam broke free of the chatter and made his way down to Mike's side of the room – just in time to see the in-flux of blue shirts.

"Do you know something we don't?" Mike asked.

Adam grinned and handed each of them a piece of legislation that he had dropped on the front desk. "We're going to push this through tonight."

Adam's idea was to finance an additional polling location for the new history building, expanding the current offering from 19 to 20 locations where students can vote in the upcoming elections. Mike privately disapproved not of the idea but of the nature of the prank – by trying to bypass the committee process Adam was creating unnecessary conflict.

"Well, you know best," Bennita said to Adam.

"If what we want is drama," Mike said dryly of the English major who recently got Student Government to fund the drama club to enter a production contest – in England.

Amid the three dozen blue shirts that were still filing in, two unlikely allies were chatting, and this caught Mike's eye. Aimee Jackson, the impartial chief judge in SG, and Kyle Schiff, a key member of the minority party and Mike's own Academic Council, were allowing each other to be seen talking with one another in front of both parties. Given Jackson's perpetual interest in being student body president, and Schiff's own desire to see the minority party succeed, it might be a political connection that's beneficial to both.

Bennita grumbled for their small group to hear before ruffling through some papers absent-mindedly. Unlike George and Mike, she was hardly an idealist. And also unlike those two, she could only trust Aimee as far as past transgressions would allow, which wouldn't allow for much.

Finally, the senate president rushed in, and began gaveling the room to order. "Please take your seats ASAP!"

He banged the gavel again. "We're running late enough, people!"

Nick Atlee was a tough – and some would say arrogant – student leader, even though he hardly proved himself worthy of the self-image necessary for such behavior. He was especially eager during this meeting to move things swiftly out the door – his embarrassment over verbally abusing a cop that had caught him speeding was overwhelming.

After the rituals of the meeting were taken care of, Adam spoke loudly and ensured that Nick heard his motion to amend the night's agenda to debate his legislation.

There were several equally loud objections from the other side of the room, and Kyle shouted out for division before Nick could gavel the voice vote to a close.

"By roll call," Adam suggested.

Nick sighed, and called for the ethics chairman to return to the front and resume her roll call duties.

Mike had the misfortune of voting first.

"Nay."

George, shocked, held firm. "Aye."

And on and on it went, as the names of nearly 60 senators in attendance were called. Finally, the chairman closed his book, confirmed the tally with the Senate secretary, and older professional named Brenda Freddies. She handed a sheet to the presiding officer, glanced at the white board behind him that he had been using to run a tally for all in the room. With a smirk, he announced the results.

"By a vote of 16-41, the motion is not agreed to."

This caused quite a stir in audience, not for the margin, but because it gave them a chance to chatter for a minute or two before the next item of business was taken care of.

But the crowd grew silent as another blue shirt then raised his hand, and quickly requested, "Motion to amend the agenda to put Bill 1051 back to committee."

Mike gasped under his breath. Bill 1051 was his.

"Are there objections?"

"Yes," Mike said loudly, along with a handful of other senators.

"A vote by hands," Nick said.

The left side kept its hands down, as did the handful of other members on the other side of the room and scattered about elsewhere. Instead, every single senator wearing a blue shirt voted in favor – including David Snyder, whose entry into Student Government was Mike's fault.

He called for hands in opposition, and they were decidedly in the minority. "The ayes have it," Nick declared, and quickly ended the agenda fights by taking a blue shirt's motion to approve the agenda as amended.

As the meeting finally began in earnest, Mike turned around in his seat and asked Adam, "Did you tip anyone off to your bill?"

"Only Brenda knew. She helped me make copies."

"Oh, Adam! Office gossip spreads faster than SG gossip. All she needed was a copy or two to show to Nick."

"Why do you think she did that?"

"Adam, they were having a caucus meeting just before Senate! That's why things ran late."

A scowl appeared on Adam's face. If Mike was certain about anything else that was going to happen that night, he knew the rest of the proceedings would be less than pretty.

And on this, Nick agreed. He dreaded the long meeting he now anticipated – exacerbated by the student body president's usually verbose presentation.

ALL THE COMMOTION that comes with the end of a meeting was even more acute given the tense atmosphere and the near-mid-night closing of the session. Open debate continue for more than an hour as senator after senator argued over the fracas with the agenda. And then each of the spending bills for student activities was debated endlessly down to the penny. And finally committee reports turned into efforts by the majority to defend their actions.

Mike found it to be quite taxing and a rather boring anti-climax to the night. He was as grateful for the end as many of the otherwise apolitical blue shirts that sat in the backbenches of the chambers – although he didn't leave as quickly or as abruptly as they did.

Unfortunately, that had more to do with the grabbing of his elbow from behind by Kyle Schiff, who wanted to talk.

"Mike, what was that tonight?"

"What do you mean?" he replied, trying not to act like he knew the answer to his own question.

"Your vote!"

"Kyle," Mike said as he gestured and drifted in the direction of Power Lane, "it was nothing. We were going to lose. I knew it, you knew it, and even Adam knew it. The bill was a silly stunt to gain votes and didn't deserve to be rammed through the Senate tonight."

"Besides," Mike said as he twisted in place to stare at his political mentor. "You're the one who keeps preaching that we are Independents, which we are free to think our own way. Our party holds no caucuses for that very reason, to the point of not meeting even as an elections supervisor nearly gets impeached."

"Don't you dare lecture me about the way I vote."

Mike spun away and within less than twenty feet bumped into Cathy Davis, who is widely anticipated to be the next Senate President Pro Tempore. Her beauty pageant good looks made her an asset in campaigning, but her quality intelligence also made her an asset in a setting like sessions of the senate.

"Cathy!"

"Mike," she said with a sparkling smile and a bubbling personality. "I am SO sorry about the way things worked out tonight. It was not our idea; it just got out of control. Election time, you know."

"Oh, it wasn't that big of a deal – I mean I can't win them all, can I?" he insisted, brushing off the set back.

"No...Although you could if you joined the Circle," she said with a smile. Knowing that it wouldn't go anywhere, she continued with, "Well, chin up and hopefully next week will be better."

"Are you kidding? Next week is one week closer to the elections. It's only going to get worse from here on in." Cathy rolled her eyes at hearing the dispiriting yet self-evident news. "But thanks for the pep talk," Mike insisted. She nodded, as if to say "you're welcome" and began pulling away to talk with another departing student.

Over her departing shoulder, Mike saw and tried to avoid Kyle Schiff's glare.

"AND TONIGHT WAS Exhibit A as to why I will never trust those people!" Bennita exclaimed as she began draining more from her Styrofoam cup.

The Gator party crew had retired into the largely deserted food court, just a floor below the senate chambers. Mike and Kyle pointedly sat on opposite sides of the table, while everyone else had chosen seats at random.

"Is it just me or is SG becoming more of a soap opera every day?" Mike wondered aloud.

"It's definitely making its own case for 'SG: The Movie' even if no one else would care to watch it," William Ose said.

"As long as my character's name is Kendra Jacobson, I wouldn't mind watching a movie like that," Bennita invited.

"But who would we get to play you?" Mike asked.

"I shudder to think. Maybe they'll land Ben Savage to play you," Bennita offered.

"Hey, at least we'll have some issues to run on," Adam proclaimed proudly. "Trust and opportunity are good themes for us, and the Campus people just gave us the publicity we needed without thinking things through."

Mike was uncertain, but did offer, "The best way they know how to stifle issues is to co-opt them. That may explain why my legislation seems to have a better chance of passing than yours do. But they also block things like they did tonight when that option becomes too poisonous for them to stomach."

"Well, we might not even put up much of a fight," Kyle finally said, in breaking his silence. After the rest of the group gave him some quick curious glances, he explained himself. "We never win these fall elections – not even by a close margin. And if Aimee is to win next spring, we need to do to them exactly what they do to us."

"To stifle the opposition, co-opt it." Adam said knowingly.

"Exactly. If we don't piss them off much, maybe it will give Aimee the chance she needs to break away part of the circle to join our side."

"That's a risky strategy," Mike insisted, with Bennita and George nodding along in agreement. "We could damage the independent movement. Everything we fought for, in favor of everything we fought against. We could lose it all."

"Or we could win everything," he shot back. "Everything we ever wanted – access to the kind of power to really change this campus for the better. Isn't that what we want?"

Bennita shook her head, disgusted with the plan, but she said nothing. She knew as well as anyone, short of nominating an engineer, the majority would never win the votes of her college. So why argue?

"It's just not worth it."

"Would you go it alone?" Adam asked Mike. "Fight the Circle without the usual party support? In an uphill battle you're unlikely to win?"

"If that's what I have to do. Someone's gotta run a campaign against them, to keep them honest. To show them that the student body does not agree with their leadership."

"You'd lose, and lose badly," Kyle reminded him.

"But if that's what it takes to ensure our group's survival after we all graduate," Mike rose from the table and took in one last look at the bunch he'd worked with for the past three years.

"Then that's one risk I'll have to take."

### Chapter Three

SIX MONTHS HAD passed, and as much as things had been different, very little had changed. Mike's band of rebels, calling themselves the New Democracy Party, had lost the fall elections – indeed lost every Senate seat up for grabs save one, an uncontested seat for on-campus residents. Yet, there was a silver lining in this failure. Much of the old guard in the Gator party had been swept out of office when their terms expired, leaving him as leader of the Senate minority.

Now, as another campaign approached, everyone expected him to file for re-election, with the only discussion being on which party he would align with – the redefined party of The Circle, the Alliance party, with Aimee Jackson as the presidential nominee and much support from older independents, or the new generation's SOAR party (which was privately known as Students Opposed to Aimee and Richard).

The truth about his intentions was not known by anyone, which only fueled the speculation.

Mike saw his friend from a distance. Rick was reading the on-campus paper, The Free Gator Times, and the expression on his face revealed to Mike which article he was reading at the very moment. It was not a pretty sight.

The editorial read: "Rick Roberts, like many SG insiders these days, must be anxious about his future. The first day of recruitment into the University's officially designated student elite has begun, and by the end of the week, several dozen new members will be "tapped" to join The Circle. The only way he can run for Student Body President next year is if he gets in. At least that's the conventional wisdom. God only knows why these students perpetuate a tarnished organization's power by pretending that it has any power to begin with. But we wish Rick luck. May he be corrupted by the promise of the kind of prestige that Student Government cannot already provide him."

But Mike knew as Rick did, that it could be a nerve-wracking experience for those interested in membership – some people fail repeatedly before be tapped, while others never get in. Several fraternity presidents have tried and failed to gain entry into The Circle. So, a lot of his frat's ambition rest on his shoulders, and he has only a decent shot of getting in now, on his first try.

Even more than that, Rick was being pressured by SOAR to turnout the votes of his fraternity and the non-Greeks he can persuade for the upcoming election. Smartly, however, Rick did his best to hide his troubles, even if the effort failed to work on some of his friends.

Rick grew elated when he saw Mike heading his way. Mike was an example of one of those persuadable he needed to swing over to his side. The idealist would not stop complaining about the election, suggesting that he was torn between two good friends – Richard Lowell on the Alliance ticket, and SOAR's nominee opposite Aimee Jackson, Kit Moody. He was disgusted with the Alliance campaign tactics and even some of Alliance's unsavory elements, but struggled with the possibility of splitting his beloved Academic Council in two.

Rick crumbled the paper, and tossed it into a nearby trashcan. After they met up, Mike offered his opinion: "Relax, being ridiculed by the Times is a ritual we all go through, and the sad thing is it might actually help you get tapped. The Circle, as much anyone else, likes to spite the paper as much as the paper bashed them."

"That still guarantees nothing," Rick said obviously as they moved their way out of the plaza.

"Of course, but if anyone deserves to be recognized for their work in SG this year, it's you. The Circle should recognize that."

"Too bad you don't have a vote in there," Rick pointed out as Mike turned in the direction of the student union, glancing toward the third floor of that infamous building.

"You know, Rick, there are days... But I almost don't want to know what goes on in there more than you want to be there." Mike pulled out his phone and checked the time. "I gotta jet; got class in five minutes."

As he walked away, Mike remembered something. "Don't forget! The Academic Council bash is tonight, downtown!"

"I'll be there." Rick stood and watched his friend pass him by. As a gentle spring breeze rubbed against his skin, Rick shivered. "It's too cold to be springtime in Florida!" He also thought for a moment that an important opportunity had just walked away from him.

UNFORTUNATELY, FOR RICK, no one from The Circle called him that day. By evening, he had grown frustrated, even angry with himself and the whole system he had worked with for the last year. The Circle promises a strong career, great connections, and a rich and rewarding life after college – but only if you are picked by its active members.

Like the fraternity he is a member of, The Circle is cliquish, protective of itself and its members, and would never let go of any perceived transgressions. Even members of The Circle have been known to be tossed out for their lack of solidarity.

So, when that prestigious leadership honorary never called, he began questioning himself and all his actions and associations over the last two years. He soon sank into the desk chair of his dormitory room. Mike Adams. He was a friend of Mike Adams. That had to be the reason they were denying him membership. Or perhaps it's because he failed to recruit the persuadable idealist over to their side.

What can it be?!? Rick was still venting when the "swoosh" sound interrupted his stream of consciousness. An orange envelope had slid underneath the door to his room. He ran to pick it up, and opened the door.

On the other side of the hall, an entryway door slid shut.

Damn, just missed him.

But inside that envelope, he saw a tan-colored piece of paper with a typewritten message: "Join OUR Circle, Rick. Put this on and meet us at Graham Square at 8:20." Rick leaned over and peeked into the envelope. A gold ring with a unique inscription – in a language Rick didn't recognize – was inside.

He tossed the envelope aside and saw the clock.

Shocked, he spoke out loud to no one in particular. "Shit! I've got get across campus in less than five minutes!" None of neighbors blamed him for sprinting across the hall and jumping down the staircase to get out of the building.

CONTRARY TO POPULAR belief, the Academic Council does know how to throw quite a party – even if their idea of fun has something to do with their chosen major. Of course, the conventional wisdom about the Academic Council's Treasurer still held true. Mike Adams was uncomfortable in packed rooms with loud, pounding music.

That is why he volunteered to be the bouncer at the front door to the night club. Well, that and Mike was always interested in seeing what kind of people would be willing to show up at an event sponsored by the Academic Council. Given the way dance parties go, being a bouncer is the only real way to meet everyone that shows up.

Brrr... This is got to be the only time in history when a night in Florida was actually cold! Mike rubbed his hands together, as he waited the next rush of party-goers to come by and seek entrance.

Luckily for him, he did not have to quiver under the warmth of his leather jacket for long. A small crowd of people was making its way down to his club, just as another beat-heavy song came to an end inside.

"Hi! Welcome to the A.C. Bash at 60 Seconds!" he said to the smartly and tightly dressed group of college students. Most of them were not notable, and got the quick wave through. Bennita Jones, however, held back from the group.

"You volunteered for this job again?!?" she asked him.

"Hey, you know how much I really like dance music."

"Mike, you really have to learn to live a little."

"I do just fine. Now, go mingle. Kyle is in there waiting for you."

"Is SHE there?" Bennita meant Aimee Jackson, of course. Her distaste for and general lack of trust in the Alliance nominee meant she had sat out this election and kept a low profile even when Richard Lowell, a fellow engineer, was nominated to join Aimee's ticket.

"Kyle invited her."

"You could have stopped her!" she insisted.

"Hey, I like her just fine. Besides, I am only supposed to stop people from getting in who aren't on the list. Not pass political judgments on them."

"Oh, fine. Maybe I can find Josh and some of the other old-school people to talk to."

Mike let her go and laughed under his breath. Bennita was putting herself into social exile with some of her friends for political reasons, and even Mike found that to be a little silly. I guess she just sees herself as a guardian of our movement, and seeing it for the first time as a losing fight. His mind began to wander, waiting for the next clique to arrive.

RICK WAS RUNNING late. He knew it, and he was pretty sure Mike knew it. It was not his fault; The Circle was pretty articulate – verbose, even – during the initiation process. Luckily for him, since it was a leadership honorary, they had enough respect for the new recruits to not pull off any fraternity-style hazing. Still, they could have been considerate enough to not drone on like that.

It was just before midnight when Rick arrived. He felt bad when he noticed Mike had pulled out a stool and a magazine to read – clearly no one had arrived for a good while, and he was getting bored.

Rick got out of his brand-new SUV and with two chirping sounds, he locked it up. Mike stepped off his stool when he noticed the approach of his friend and colleague. He tossed the magazine on the stool, and stretched out his hand.

"Rick! Glad you can make it, man!"

"Hey, I'm happy I finally could."

"Let me guess – I was right about the whole thing."Rick said nothing. That, in of itself, told Mike everything he needed to know.

To break the apparent ice, Mike asked the obvious question: "How was the initiation?"

Rick sighed and relented to telling him something. "Good, but long. The conversations were... interesting."

"How so?"

"Well, a lot of the members there talked about possible recruits – and urged us to help out in getting the rest of the tapping class to join."

"That doesn't sound like a normal secret society to me."

"Of course not, Mike. You know that. Florida doesn't have an Ivy League school, so we have no need for the silly rituals that Yale's Skull and Bones has. But you want to know something?"

"What?"

"There was a lot of talk about getting people like you involved. You really should consider applying, regardless of what you might think about us."

"You gotta be kidding."

"Not at all. They are looking to unite the best and the brightest into a single network of friends. Just because you disagree with some of them politically doesn't mean The Circle doesn't think you'd be a good addition to the team."

"Ha!" Mike said with a huff. He turned in the direction of campus, and whispered, "It doesn't really matter anyways."

"Why? The Circle could help you become President of the Academic Council."

"Because... I accepted... Rick," he turned to face his friend again, his cheeks reddening with nervous energy. "Georgetown Law School accepted me today. I didn't want to tell anyone until I resigned from the Student Senate, but I'm leaving Gainesville."

"Wow."

"I have no regrets, and I'm not looking back. It's time to move on."

Rick didn't know what to say. He and other friends of Mike had joined a betting pool to gamble on Mike's future. The odds of Mike leaving Gainesville were easily 100 to 1. This was a shocking twist of fate.

"Mike..."

"I know, I know. So, let's get inside and have some fun – before it's too late!"

THE MUSIC, WHILE loud, had softened some since the party had begun. The bar, while stocked, had emptied some of its stores, as well. There were fewer people active on the dance floor, as groups had broken off to do some talking.

Rick patted Mike on the back and did his own splitting once inside, while Mike went straight to the bar and asked for a Heineken. It was not his favorite form of alcohol, but was the most popular form he cared for.

"Here's to the Gator Party," a familiar voice said as he showed up next to Mike at the bar.

"May she rest in peace," Mike said dryly.

"Hey, we all let her die officially," Kyle said defensively, "but we kept her going by splitting the establishment in two."

Mike turned to face his one-time mentor and glared at him. "Do you really think that's what has happened?"

"Yes, and we are on the winning side for a change."

"Kyle, if you taught me anything in my 4 years in SG and the Academic Council, it's that The Circle is relentless, plotting, and deceitful. Our goal may have been to win power, but don't you think they wanted it that way? And that some of Aimee's people wanted to use her appeal with you and the others to manipulate us into joining their elite?"

"Oh, come on, Mike, lighten up! We wanted to change things and Aimee – not Kit – is the person who'll make it happen for us."

"Well, reasonable people can disagree on this."

"Yes. And let this not ruin our Council bash, what's left of it," Kyle said hurriedly as he rushed over to Aimee's side as she listened to a group of architectural students.

Mike, for his part, drifted over to the political science group, who were in the midst of a hardly original contest – for every senator you couldn't name in alphabetical order, you downed a shot before giving the next person a chance to pick up where you left off.

He could not help but overhear that Bennita and Adam were chatting together, but he couldn't hear them because the poli-sci group was roaring with another blunder of a senator's name.

"Yes, I agree. He's too much of an idealist to be anything but disappointed in real politics," Adam said.

"So, you really think Ben Savage would be good?"

"Yeah. Cory on Boy Meets World? A likeable idealist who learns to accept his place in the world. If he's good as Cory, he'd be good to play Mike in the movie version of SG."

Bennita thought about this for a moment, and shook her head. "You know what Ben would have to learn how to act?"

"Yes. He would need to know how to be an idealist crushed by reality. Huh. Ben Savage playing a cynical bastard. Now that would be funny!" Adam said with a laugh as he dosed another mixed drink.

IT DID NOT take long for the entire room to learn of Mike's decision to attend Georgetown Law School in the fall. It shocked them all, as they suspected he would stick around for a few more years as a graduate student. He had clearly changed himself under the noses of everyone he knew, and that left their minds spinning. He had been a sort of a Don Quixote of Student Government. In one swift stroke, he seemed to be the rare addict able to quit politics cold turkey.

Cynic or not, being outside of The Circle, his life just might have gotten interesting enough to watch.

### Chapter Four

**SIXTEEN YEARS LATER...**

_It was just another one of those days in the plaza. Dozens if not hundreds of busy college students were scurrying off from class to class, pondering what outfit they'll wear later that evening at the night club, or nervously anticipating their next pop quiz in a class they avoided all semester. This was not an uncommon sight on campus, except, the plaza was now saturated with brightly colored shirts, posters, buttons, and screaming babies._

_It was campaign season on campus, and the politicians-in-training were out in full force, pushing their agendas, and struggling to win the support of their classmates for nice-sounding job titles and what precious little power their Student Government is granted by the school's administration._

_Unfortunately for the politicos, they were campaigning in the dead heat of a spring day in this southern college town. Even the skinnier, good-looking candidates struggled to avoid unsightly perspiration as they fight, rather futilely, for the attention of their fellow, self-absorbed friends and classmates. Every once in a while, though, their persistence paid off by catching the fleeting interest of a would-be voter._

_A cute little brunette popped up and down, and in so doing got a heavy-set, nerdy, sort of fellow to slow down..._

"HI! MY NAME is Dawn Jennings," the brunette said briskly as she stuck out her hand. "Did you know the Student Government elections are tomorrow?!?" Dawn Jennings asked, seeking his approval to continue the conversation.

"Well," the guy said nonchalantly as he shook her hand, "no, not really. Is it that time again? What are the party names this time?" After all, it was widely known that every election bring out new political parties, even if they have the same behind them – it was a tactic to confuse voters and to avoid the baggage of previous group's unpopularity.

"Well," she said, smiling honestly, "I am a sophomore senate candidate with the Gator Party." Dawn took off her sunglasses, exposing her sunburned face, and placed them on top of her head. "There's also the Campus party, but I don't see their candidate out here."

With a shrug, and a devilish grin, the guy said, "Alright, tell me your top prior-" just before a gush of wind caught everyone's attention. The guy's glance flew over to the Campus Party campaign desk, where its banner came undone. The banner fell on top of the hapless desk jockeys, and made a mess of their papers. A voter carrying several cups of Starbucks in her hand slid on campaign literature, sending coffee out into the crowd.

"Bwahahaha!" came out of nowhere, quite unexpectedly, but not surprisingly, given the spectacle that just occurred.

A similar, out of sight individual yelled "CUT!"

AND WITH A familiar ring, the crowd relaxed, and the film crew revealed themselves from their duck blind. The director marched right up to the source of the outburst and began yelling at the actor. The disinterested male voter, on the other hand, wiped his forehead of sweat and demanded for makeup as he made his way out to toward the film crew, stationed across the campus street near a musical auditorium.

As someone he knew walked by, he grabbed him by the elbow. "Do we really need to be "on location" to do this filming? Why can't it be all-digital?" he asked, with the earnest plea in his voice of a man clearly not accustomed to the ultra-warm climate of the South.

"I'm afraid so Roger," the man said with a laugh, "I wanted to get the full effect of the weather down here. And besides, shooting in digital would be a costly waste of special effects in a movie that requires little to none." The man then walked off, using the script in his hand as a fan to cool down his short salt-pepper beard. Even a Southerner cannot deny the uncomfortable weather.

The southerner made his way to the director, who smiled at him and said, "Mike! How's it going? What do you think of this scene so far?"

"It's going well, I think. The actor who plays Ben is sweating too much, and complains about the humidity, but like the other scenes we've done, it seems like we are keeping true to both the novel I wrote and the memories I have of this University."

"I'm glad to hear it. Let's just hope your several million readers think we are staying true to your vision, and tell all their friends," the director said as patted his old friend on the back. He raised his voice, addressing himself to the film crew in saying, "The break's over people! We've got a film to make!"

MICHAEL JEFFREY ADAMS, a man in his late thirties, moved aside, and nearly crashed into a middle-aged Italian American guy that was jogging past the plaza. Mike could have sworn he had seen that individual before, but shrugged the thought off.

As the crew resumed filming, he decided to make a beeline for the designated press tent, which was closer to the main library than the film's location. A conscientious decision, Mike thought, which turned out to be a good one. It's been hard enough to keep the cast focused without the paparazzi hounding them for gossip about me and the others working on the project.

He shook his head with a sigh, mentally preparing for the interview awaiting him. A Time magazine exclusive exposé on the "man behind the party," as they're calling Mike. Life certainly has been a whirl-wind for him in these last few months. He'd become a best-selling author, and quickly settled a movie deal. The phrase "selling like hotcakes" didn't even begin to describe it. Apparently, his story of shady deal-making on a small southern college campus resonated like nothing else could these days.

And now he's off to do an interview about this success, even though he cannot even explain it to himself, much less an eager public. After straightening himself up, wiping sweat off his brow, and running his fingers through his hair, he entered the press tent and was led to a small stage that was set up for him. He looked out at a small crowd of hot and limp looking reporters – local and national. He pointed at the first hand he saw stretched out.

"Your debut novel, 'A True Gator Party,' has already sold a staggering 2 million copies and 5 million digital downloads in the United States and the Euro-zone and you've written the screenplay. Now the movie is underway and filming right here on location in northern Florida. Where do you think this success is coming from?" inquired Time reporter Ashley Woodard, a political report more known for piercing through the daily spin of Washington.

Time made a good choice with Ashley. Maybe she'll make this media frenzy calm down and act serious, Mike thought. He said, however, "I really can't say for sure, Ashley. I believe my book speaks to a lot of the thoughts we have about Student Governments on college campuses. Campus politics can really be the darkest area of governing – it's cute like the high school version, easily dismissed for its lack of powers, and yet can be very useful and impactful, like the real thing."

After taking a sip of his favorite drink, Diet Dr. Pepper, Mike resumed his explanation. "Everyone has their suspicions about what makes these young politicians tick, and how exactly they got into their positions of authority in the first place. I wrote "A True Gator Party" to play up the common stereotypes, satirizing them, while at the same time acknowledging the well-known shadiness and darker side of things."

Without even glancing at her notes, the pretty blonde asked, "Now, isn't it true that you were the consummate insider? That you were just as involved as anyone else in what went on? You even lead one of the campaign efforts, a so-called New Democracy party?"

Lifting his eyebrows high and with a wide smile, Mike answered, "I haven't been called that in years. Of course, it is all a matter of perspective on things, Ashley. This campus was like a haunted house of mirrors. You could be an intimate member of the inner Circle and yet far removed from it at the same time. That was probably the worst possible conception about Student Government. Even those of us who knew all the rules in the playbook could be out-maneuvered by those greedy enough and ambitious enough to guide themselves to power."

Expanding his chest some and taking in all the reporters in the room, Mike continued, "In one of my more well-publicized efforts, I sought a new democracy for the silent majority on campus – those who so desperately wanted – nay, demanded – more from student leaders and never got anything different. Innovation and substance had been ignored. Safe, non-controversial, recycled old positions held sway every semester and nothing ever changed. My effort did improve the platforms ideas each side ran in the next election cycle. But, unlike my alter ego, Ben Burns, I did what I thought was right in, not what was politically safe."

"It certainly looks that way Mike," Ashley said with a sly look on her face. "You've spent years working on behalf of others wanting an advocate on Capitol Hill, only to turn around and find a members' only pin on your lapel."

"Yes, I admit that a few years back I became one of "them" – a member of Congress. But I left after my first term, Miss Woodard. I couldn't stand the stunning lack of principle and the mad, constant pandering for campaign contributions. It felt like Student Government all over again, except a lot less fun and with fewer like-minded friends to help me."

"A follow-up question," she yelled out, turning the press gathering into her own private interview, "You spent almost a long time writing this book. Did you have "ghost writers" helping you with the initial manuscript?"

"Absolutely not, Ashley! I knew if "A True Gator Party" was going to work, it'd have to be a fictional account on experiences only I felt I knew well enough to make fun of. Besides, I think hiring researchers and "ghost writers" as you call them, detracts from the fun adventure I had writing my book. The essence of the novel is about the characters, how they cope with this living thing they created, this monster of a beast; campus politics and student government ensnared all their extracurricular energy. As long as I made a fair representation of my milieu, the story takes care of the rest."

In his gaze, he included all of the reporters. With a wipe of his forehead and a sip of his drink, he continued. "But yes, it did take me quite a while to write the initial draft. I needed to find my own... my own voice, if you will, with which to write this story. It had to be authentic, without being documentary. It had to be fun, but detached. Humorous, but with an edge. I spent much of my time nailing down how I would tell the story, not what the story was, or how it would play out on the page."

"How's the filming going?" someone else asked.

"It's going great. I think my director is terrific, and the cast is taking the script to heart. Unfortunately, everything else sticks in this kind of weather, so we are having some interesting challenges to overcome."

"Why not go all-digital?"

"I've been asked that a lot, especially from much of the cast!" Mike quipped. After all, that's the natural ambiance of Florida – hot and sticky. "What I've told the actors is that I just think shooting on location gives them a better feel of how it was like to campaign under the circumstances I remember. Fortunately, much of the story is in-doors, so we will return to the studio at some point to do the rest in sound stages."

"One more question?" said the movie's publicist, Deborah Henkley, moving up the stage to stand next to Mike.

"Is it true you're thinking of doing a sequel?"

"I never say never about things like that. If I can find the time, I'd love to look into putting the same kind of novel together about my time in Congress, to help blow the doors open on a lot of the silliness that happens in downtown Washington. Yet, I also know that writing a good sequel is often hard to do. I'll only write one if I think it lives up to the standards I set for this first book and it stays true to the characters of the original story."

"Thank you all for coming, that will be all for now," Deborah insisted.

As Mike was lead off the stage, reporters continued to throw questions at him and struggled to follow him out of the press tent. Ashley stood still, watching him exit.

FINALLY, THE MEDIA chore is done for the day, he thought. Of course, the bigger press conference is tomorrow, so I'll just have to tough it out. Mike cleared his head as he returned to the plaza, eager to find out how the rest of the scene was working out. On pure reflex, he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the sweat already building on his forehead. Now I remember why I left the South, he muttered under his breath.

The crowd was dispersing. All the day players, the extras, and even the principal cast were cleaning up and packing up their things. Given that it wasn't even three o'clock in the afternoon, Mike knew instantly something was wrong, to be serious enough to shut down his aggressive director.

"Adam!" Mike said loudly, hoping to get the director's attention. It worked. The tanned, muscular guy turned on a dime, looking for the fuzzy beard attached to the voice that called to him.

"Mike?" They greeted each other with a handshake before Adam asked, "I guess you're wondering what's going on?"

"Uh, yeah. It's not like a Ruppesberger film to stop production in midday. After all, you are the one who reinvented the phrase "burning the midnight oil." What's up?" Mike asked jokingly.

"I guess I can be an old slave driver." Adam gulped down the remains of his Diet Coke and grunted. "Well, this time health concerns overrode the production team."

"What?"

"Apparently, Nicola Jackson, the girl that plays the Student Court Chief Justice, is allergic to hazelnuts."

"Hazelnuts?"

"Yup. Miss Jackson had an allergic reaction to the hazelnut coffee that someone has given her from Starbucks. She'd said she needed something to keep her alert in this heavy climate. She was in the middle of the scene where she was quizzing Ben about his political loyalties when she started having trouble breathing and then she just collapsed. It was surreal. Now she's over in the hospital getting treated. The cast, understandably, grew excited. They couldn't or wouldn't calm down so I decided to call of filming for the day. We'll resume tomorrow morning.

With a sigh of relief, Mike relaxed. "That's sensible. That will give me time to do some rewrites and prepare for the news conference."

Adam looked at his friend and thought, "This guy just doesn't know when to stop the work clock, does he?" Instead, he said, "Mike, listen to me. You're being silly to give up an afternoon off in your own hometown! Go home. Get some rest. You deserve it. And more importantly, you're going to need it for tomorrow's feeding frenzy with our favorite skilled paparazzi."

Mike shook his head. "Don't remind me..." he trailed off with a disappointed sigh. This press conference couldn't be timed any worse. All they will want to talk about are hazelnuts and a book I haven't even written yet. "The press can be vultures sometimes."

### Chapter Five

_FOR BEN, GOING back to his off-campus apartment in the suburban neighborhoods of Gainesville after a hectic day was cathartic. It was a blissful time alone, a break from activities that required him to be the extravert he wasn't – especially if the day involved the student press corps and other prying individuals._

_The apartment was his sanctuary. It was his place to regroup, his place to let go of his protective shield \- his place to vent his frustrations and avoid the distractions of his routine chores on the main floor of the student union._

_At the end of the day, Ben could be more like himself. No agendas. No stress. No secrets. Opening himself up at home was the only way he knew how to keep the two facets of his personality apart – the ambitious and knowledgeable politician-in-training and the introverted, idealistic, amateur author. If either part came in contact with the other – such as enforcing an idealistic set of morals on his politics – it usually caused him pain, disappointment, or worse._

_Some say the best leaders are conflicted like that. Others, including Ben's best friend, used to say "you only need to find the real you" by deciding what he wanted and what he needed to do to get it._

_The problem is that he was both ambitious and introverted. And there was no denying that..._

MIKE SLOWED HIS car to a full stop in the parking lot of his apartment complex. He adjusted his seat and gathered his things from the beige leather seats. After stomping onto the ground outside his vehicle, a small beep from his remote locked things up.

With a deep breath and a flick of his keys, Mike stepped over the threshold to adobe away from home – the condominium was just a part-time residence away from his Victorian townhouse in the Washington suburbs that he'd bought a few years back.

The apartment had a chaotic feel to it, despite being rather empty and its décor was more bare-bones. Papers, books, and mail were found in lumps and piles across the apartment. Yet, it feels even emptier than usual these days, Mike thought as he rummaged through the stack of mail in the foyer. At least the mail service hasn't given up on me. He dropped his briefcase and keys on the nearby sofa, and scooped up the mail that had collected.

What junk am I being sold today? Mike asked as he flipped through a couple flyers from some local businesses. He dropped down on the sofa and discarded the junk mail on the polished oak coffee table in front of him.

He pulled off his shoes before turning on the television. The large, flat plasma screen facing him came to life and was automatically turned to CNN. Mike ignored the main camera view and focused instead on the scroll of headlines at the bottom of the screen.

An ambassador from Australia proposed giving the United Nations more authority over international matters like space exploration. President Gary Schiff led his Republican challenger in a poll, 49/39 with twelve percent still undecided. The stock market soared on news of a budget forecasting a small government surplus for the first time in years. A terrorist plot against Westminster Abbey was uncovered and averted by local authorities. NASA authorized the development of a new class of space shuttles. And on and on the headlines went.

A lot is going on in the world without me being in the thick of things. That's reassuring. Hopefully the media will be too distracted with real news to stick around for too long, Mike thought. He glanced down at the rest of the mail – most of it appeared to be fan mail, as it almost always was down here in Florida. One piece caught his eye, though – it was a small, orange-tinted clasp envelope with no return address on it. He separated it from the rest, and propped his feet up on the coffee table, still holding it.

Without as much as a second thought, however, he decided that the paper mail, even this interesting one, could wait until he sorted through the electronic video and audio messages left for him. He left the envelope on his coffee table with the rest of the mail. Instead, he jumped up to his computer and accessed his email and Call Pilot software. He prioritized the messages, deleting the advertising and telemarketing ones.

He had received a couple messages from fans and former constituents, and more than a few messages from local vendors wishing him luck with the movie and requesting a visit. To gain some quick, easy, and free publicity, no doubt. Ugh. Why can't businesses operate with a better sense of personal space and social responsibility? A couple other messages were from people he didn't know, lobbyists and publishers seeking his guidance or his business.

The only message he saw that was worth looking at closer came from Eastside High School. "Michael Adams, your graduating class cordially invites you to our 20 year reunion. A reception will be held honoring you and your fellow classmates on October 13th. As you know, you will be delivering a keynote address at the reception. This is your confirmation message and a reminder. We look forward to seeing you at your reunion evening. Good day."

Wow. Mike was taken aback. With the hubbub over his movie, he nearly forgot all about the reunion, and it was now less than a month away. I haven't seen these people in almost twenty years. A lump appeared in his throat. What can I say to them? Hi, remember me? The dorky student government guy? Well, I haven't changed a bit! Except now I'm older, heavier, and I spend my time writing about dorky student government types. Meanwhile, no doubt, many of his classmates have gone on and became engineers and doctors and have probably changed a great deal since high school.

He sent a message to his D.C. office reminding his assistant Adrian about the reunion and asking for a status on the keynote speech.

He began pacing. I should have installed a thinking trail in this apartment he thought with a smile. He began rubbing his temples. This exercise, Mike has found over the years, was the best mechanism for deep thinking – much like some find in meditation, and others in typing at a computer. Now, what is the message I am trying to convey tomorrow? It doesn't matter; it's a thing for the press, nothing more than that. Should Adam do most of the talking? Sure, he's the director and everyone already knows the story I'm trying to-

BEEP. BEEP. The computer was alerting Mike to an incoming text message. The break in his train of thought forced him to notice the light rainfall that had started.

The message, which came from a "Mr. Joe Citizen," read as this: "Michael, I really think you should look in the envelope."

What?!? How did this Joe Citizen even know I had one, and had not opened it yet? "Computer, run a trace program," Mike said out loud even as he typed in the command. He then twisted around, scanning the room for possible video monitoring equipment. He didn't see any in plain sight, but that did not mean that they did not exist. Nothing behind the treadmill. Nothing next to the refrigerator. Certainly not by the computer, or in front of the bedroom. Where could it be?

The computer blurted back its results a few seconds later, leaving Mike to mutter, "The text message was routed through multiple servers. I'm going to need more sophisticated tracing software."

He made a more thorough search of his apartment. He checked all the sound equipment and lighting fixtures. Not a thing was out of the ordinary. Nothing was out of place. Nothing at all unusual to be found. God damn it, this is beyond troublesome.

Giving up on his search for the moment, Mike sat down at the sofa and grabbed the envelope. In tearing it open, he didn't notice the now-broken circular seal on the back. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of tan stock paper, with a brief, typewritten message on it. How quaint, Mike thought, for an urgent message, they took great care in preparing it for me to read.

The message stated cryptically: "Hazelnuts could set the sun for a day. What will turn the lights off permanently?"

Why is it that all my lucky breaks always cause more problems than they solve? Mike thought after tossing the letter back on the coffee table. His heart had begun thumping loudly in his chest. Mike grew certain of one thing and only one thing. Tomorrow's press gaggle will not be about him or his book. It will be about something else entirely.

### Chapter Six

_SOMETIMES, THE BIGGEST news of the day happens quite suddenly. There are some people, in fact, who believe that the dramatic value of news for the press is in direct, inverse proportion to the amount of advanced notice they had that the news was happening. This is especially true in politics. And as the politicians-in-training quickly discovered, local newspapers adhere to this principle even more rigidly than the national media outlets._

_During Ben's first year in the Student Senate, the Campus party leadership conspired to bring down the financial autonomy of the largest student organization to oppose them during the last (and upcoming) elections. But even disregarding the bravery needed to pull this off, those who rose to the Academic Council's defense were even angrier with the hidden and rushed effort that was made to ensure the bill's passage. So, they did what anyone else could – they hastily arranged themselves for a massive protest that the campus paper called a filibuster._

_The media loved the conflict, as human nature was in its most naked form in the heat of an unexpected but bitter controversy. There's nothing quite like the unplanned development to spoil a spinster's plots..._

THE UNIVERSITY'S STUDENT union building was a modern, complex structure of meeting rooms, auditoriums, offices, a food court, and even a hotel on its upper floors. Every day, a major event is going on for at least one group of students or local residents. Two floors of the building were the epicenter of most of these activities. One floor housed the meeting rooms for student organizations and the largest auditorium. The other floor supported Student Government and the student newspaper's on-campus offices.

On this day, nothing was different about the student union, except that everything was different. The building was filled with hundreds of students planning a never-before-attempted filibuster. Naturally, the crowd was alive with chatter, as organizers sought to create a continual line of one-minute speakers that went out the student government offices, across the floor, and down the stairwell.

"Ben, where are those petitions?" Eric Keppler asked. He was breaking into a casual conversation Ben was having with some members of the Student Senate.

"I believe they are downstairs with Josh."

"Alright, I'm going down to get them."

"I'll keep a look out for Matt Nadler for you."

"Thanks," Eric said. He really needed to speak with Senate President Nadler prior to the meeting, before genuine chaos broke out. He wanted to press his point that the fool-hearty bill had generated too much opposition to warrant passage.

Just as he began to skip down the stairs, he lost his footing.

Within seconds, the noise level of the crowd dropped dramatically. It became hushed. No one could believe their eyes as the actor stumbled down half a flight of stairs and crumpled into a heap on the landing. Gasps came from those on the floor below, who also witnessed Eric falling.

The fall down the stairs was not in the script. "CUT! First Aid!" quickly flew out of the mouth of the director as several members of the cast and crew stepped in to assess the situation. The crowd of extras, and film techs began chattering, the volume increasingly loud and panicky. An ambulance was called. The director quickly called Mike Adams, informing him of the unfortunate news. Filming, again, ended.

MIKE WAS IN his car on his way to the Student Union when Adam called in a panic.

"I'm in my car, Adam. What's going on?"

"I've got some bad news. There's been another accident, this one far more serious than yesterday's hazelnuts."

A knot began forming in Mike's stomach. "Yeah?"

"Jason Mills, our actor for the Eric Keppler character, took a fall down a stairwell. It's pretty serious, Mike. We've contacted Shands Hospital."

"I'm on my way. I should be there in less than five minutes."

"See you then."

THE SCENE WHEN Mike arrived at the Student Union was one of utter chaos. Most of the actors and crew on the second floor had evacuated via the elevators and alternative staircases. The movie crew was scrambling to erect a privacy wall, hoping that the press would give the medical team time to work. A serious accident had not occurred while filming a non-action-packed movie in years. Some of the most experienced veterans of the industry on hand were visibly unnerved. Fortunately, the cast and crew had chosen to film indoors today; an accident out in the open surely would have had the press running immediately to the scene.

Mike's arrival at the Union, unlike most days, went largely unnoticed. A part of him was grateful for the unusual obscurity. The other part of him was too absorbed with the news of misfortune. SG – the movie – should never have caused this much trouble, Mike thought with a shudder as he made his way through the panicky crowd.

Mike reached Adam's side of the building as the ambulatory crew eased Jason Mills onto a stretcher. The crowd quickly split in two to let the stretcher get to the ambulance. Mike took a deep breath as the stretcher passed, gasping at the bloody cuts and bruises the actor had.

"Mike," Adam said. The crowd slowly dispersed and began talking in muted tones, attempting to regain a sense of normalcy after the shocking incident they all just witnessed.

"Don't blame yourself, Adam," Mike whispered, "It wasn't your fault." They embraced as friends do, taking comfort in the familiar.

The silence of the moment was cut with a call for Adam's attention. "Mr. Ruppesberger? Should we clean up the stairs for the next scene?" a janitor called out.

"What do you mean?" Adam asked, thinking that Jason's fall down the stairs should not have caused much damage or spilled enough blood to be an issue.

Both Adam and Mike headed up the stairs to look at what mess needed to be cleaned.

"You know – this sizeable puddle?"

"What?!?" Mike chimed incredulously.

"Yeah!" the janitor said, and pointed to something on the ground with the wooden end of his mop from the top of the stairs.

"What are you talking about?" Adam said, inching closer.

"See..." the janitor said as he stuck the mop into a thin, translucent layer of slime.

"Oh my god!" Mike gasped.

Adam turned. "Am I missing something here?"

With greater shock in his facial expression, Mike's tone turned into confidence. "Of course! Tomorrow's filming schedule!" He began tumbling down the stairs and making his way over to the film crew's material.

"Don't touch anything" Adam said to the janitor before following his friend back down the stairs. Mike was hunting for the film's schedule. "What's supposed to be on tomorrow's schedule?"

After grabbing a schedule from an abandoned chair, Mike pointed to the relevant section. "Can't you see? Tomorrow we film the scene involving an accident from the novel. Someone must have goofed and planted the slime for today's filming of that scene."

"Impossible!"

"Why?"

"Because earlier today I made explicit instructions to the crew..."

"What?"

"The film crew knew what we were to be filming. They knew all along."

"Adam, we really need to work on our communication, here!" Mike said.

"Mike, we've got a severe problem."

"What do you mean?"

"The slime must have been put there on purpose. This wasn't an accident. I think Jason was the victim of foul play. I think we should call the police."

THE COLLONADE AT the Student Union was filled with some great memories, both for those who campaigned on Election Day, and for those regular students who enjoyed the occasional fairs, carnivals, and "movies on the lawn" that happened within spitting distance of it.

In its physical appearance, the Colonnade was a shaded, outdoor strip of concrete, tables, and benches leading eastwardly into the main entrance of the Student Union and westward into the main Ticket Office and drama stage on campus. The courtyard area in front, and the steps leading onto the Colonnade, was the site of many memories for Mike.

For him, it was only fitting that the first major press conference planned for the production of his movie was held on those Colonnade steps. The only misfortune was of timing. He could not avoid the accident that occurred earlier, or the revelation that came after.

Well, the show must go on, Mike thought. He sighed as he glanced down to straighten out his tie.

Lucky for him, the press did not seem to know about the earlier event. They slowly gathered in the courtyard. Mike stood behind the large promotional poster set up as a background for the press conference. It gave him time to adjust his appearance and gather inner strength as not to lose his composure (or, more importantly, his temper) with some of the more expected questions to be thrown at him.

Mike looked around, specifically down toward the main entrance to the Student Union. It was almost one-thirty. The press conference was scheduled to begin shortly. His partner in this project, Adam, was nowhere to be found. He was probably giving some last minute instructions to the crew, or working things out with the police that have begun a forensic investigation. But the delay was disquieting. Where is Adam when I need him? He knows this conference should begin soon so that it can end even sooner. Mike began pacing anxiously, shedding the nervous energy that had already begun building inside him and swelling up his spine.

Finally! Adam came out from behind the double doors, and in so doing, he briefly revealed the police investigation and crew work going on inside the Student Union. As he made his way down the Colonnade, Mike smiled. Adam was much better at putting out the best possible spin. The press quieted, and the introductions began.

"PARAMOUNT STUDIOS IS proud to present today's press conference on behalf of "A True Gator Party," an upcoming film about the fun times of our youth and how the darkness of politics can corrupt it. Our director and screenwriter are going to give opening..."

Deborah Henkley, the studio's publicist, began her boilerplate comments about how the press conference was going to operate, and made her standard pitch about the studio, the book, and the film in production. Ashley's attention slowly drifted away. She drew in her breath as Michael and Adam emerged from behind the promotional poster. Their entrance signaled the beginning of the conference, but Ashley didn't seem to care.

Last night's rain had cooled off the entire Gainesville area. The usual September heat had dissipated. Everyone was looking more relaxed, and comfortable. Even Mike is looking better than usual, Ashley thought, before realizing how unprofessional it was to even think about him. Snap out of it, Ashley, you've got a job to do.

AS ADAM STEPPED up to the podium to give his opening statement, Mike looked out into the crowd of reporters, many of whom looked familiar. From my days on the congressional campaign trail, no doubt, he thought.

"Hello, and welcome to the only true gator party on Earth, the University of Florida. We at Paramount are proud to be hosted by the Sunshine State's flagship university. Mike's book was set here, and that's why we chose...." Adam said. His voice trailed off as Mike's attention fell on someone in the crowd.

Damn, Ashley. More radiant than ever. Mike was impressed, and more so than he was yesterday during the smaller news briefing. Must be something in this Florida autumn air. He tried shaking off his thoughts, at least for the time being. His needs should be focused on today's filming and the press conference that's going on, not some attractive reporter with long legs.

"So, overall, I think filming is going..."

And so Adam's speech went as Mike continued eyeing the crowd, which had nearly doubled in the last five minutes. Passersby were stopping or at least slowing down long enough to get a sense of what was going on. Even at UF, a large gathering of reporters, photographers, and cameramen was unusual and worth investigating even by the most jaded and apathetic of college students.

It's almost as if they are drivers slowly passing an accident. Gawking at a spectacle is a never-ending American spectator sport, which I will never understand. Mike shook his head as he heard Adam wrapping up his speech.

Here goes nothing, Mike thought as he drew in a deep breath, and prepared for whatever the press was going to throw at him.

"HI. THANK YOU Adam and Deborah for the introduction and strong praise. You know, I've not been back at UF for such an extended period of time in, uh, I guess nearly sixteen years. But I've been here on this project long enough that I'm thinkin' of taking classes again," Mike said to several polite smiles and chuckles.

"But seriously, as Adam said, once you spend a semester at UF, you never feel the same again. You fall in love with this campus, and with this city. Of course, I would not be surprised if it's something they put in the water here."

More chuckles came, sounding genuine and generous. Hopefully that'll disarm them, Mike thought in the back of his mind.

"...novel has most of its activities in the Student Union and Frat Row. And while we can replicate most of the meeting rooms and such on a sound stage, I am glad the cast and crew have accommodated my desire for a realistic portrayal of campus landmarks by filming a number of the scenes on location."

"Even in this computer-generated age of film-making, there are still too many limitations on what computers can do, and I think Adam and the rest of the cast and crew," Mike said as he lifted a hand onto Adam's shoulder, "are doing a superb job with the tools available to them and the schedule the University has provided us."

With a swirl of ice water, Mike paused in the middle of his statement. So far, so good, I suppose, he thought before diving back into his prepared text.

WHEN MIKE PAUSED, Ashley noticed that Adam's gaze had fallen to the distanced behind the crowd of the press. She quickly turned to see what he was looking at. All she saw was the growing crowd, whose conversations made the press glad Mike was speaking into a microphone.

Mike is the closest thing this town has to having a celebrity, Ashley thought, and I bet none of that has to do with his time in Congress. Politicians are a dime a dozen in Florida, but a best-selling author who makes prominent use of his hometown can be priceless to this modest college town.

Ashley's attention quickly snapped back to the podium when Deborah asked cutely, "I bet I know the answer, but are there any questions?"

THE Q&A SESSION is going too well. They're throwing only softballs, holding back on tough questions. I wonder why. Mike rubbed his left cheek, as sweat and heat conspired to make his face uncomfortably unclean. Maybe the brief break from the heat has numbed the press, he thought with a silent laugh.

"Miss Woodard?" the publicist said, allowing the Time reporter to ask her first question at the press conference. Mike straightened up to listen to her question.

"The three of you have already explained yesterday's hazelnut coffee mix-up. Now, Shands Hospital has admitted another cast member for injuries sustained this morning. Care to comment?"

She doesn't pull any punches. She must have used her female charms, hot figure, and dark eyes to get a statement from Shands. We'd asked them not to make a public announcement about anything. Shaking off an image of Ashley and surrendering to the inevitable, Mike said, "Sure, I'll comment." Adam and Deborah held their collective breath.

"Jason Mills, the actor, took a fall down the main staircase inside the Student Union. He's being check for a possible concussion and several cuts and bruises. He should be fine in a day or two. It was an accident; it wasn't his fault or the studio's; and we wish him a full and speedy recovery," Mike said, not fully confident that his comments would be the end of that story.

Ashley indeed had a follow-up. "But isn't it true that the Gainesville Police Department have begun a criminal investigation into the incident? Wouldn't that, make it more than an "accident," as you described it?"

Mike sighed. "The GPD, as you know, has been very protective of this production crew. Even more protective than the University police have been." A chuckle from the front row rippled through. "I don't blame them. They aren't ruling anything in or out at this point. They want a thorough search to be done so we can avoid any other mishaps like the ones in the last two days."

Timothy Cunningham, a Gainesville Sun reporter followed Ashley's line of questioning. It was the one question Mike fully expected. No amount of spin could escape the question and no amount of spin could help soften the answer that must follow it.

Timothy asked it quickly, but with a hint of nervousness in his voice. A fourth-generation man of the news, he understood the implication of what he was about to ask. He knew it would be the headline-maker. And he knew it was on everyone's mind, now that Ashley Woodard had blown the cover off the story.

"In light of recent events, are you going to suspend filming indefinitely?"

### Chapter Seven

_ANTHONY CAPOLLI WAS a big man on campus – literally. His trademark vehicle was a large white van. He liked to cut deals just like he cut steaks – big and bloody. And he cut those deals shamelessly in the pursuit of his goals. More importantly, however, he did so with great humor. Politics was just one form of entertainment that he relished; like any college-age driver, Anthony loved pissing off the University Police Department, or as he labeled it, the DUH-PD._

_His favorite anecdotes from college always involved a blend of those two entertaining activities – politics and the UPD. To his credit, Anthony did have, on one occasion, a very interesting night._

_The Senate President had, in the weeks leading up to the Academic Council filibuster, seen his license suspended for too many traffic tickets; everyone knew this fact and made fun of the otherwise imposing figure for it. Anthony's job that night, for his Gator party friends, was to take as many incriminating pictures as possible of the politician driving around campus. And whenever he could, Anthony would call the UPD out against him. That was the fun part, and the part that made it worth remembering._

_Mixing politics and the police is often funny. However, in more serious matters, that is a completely different story..._

DETECTIVE RICHARD MARX had a beer belly. At least, that's the only conclusion Mike could draw, after noticing relatively scrawny arms and legs jetting out from the massive ball of fat that was hanging over the belt. It probably did not help that the detective's brown-plaid sports coat and blue Oxford dress shirt were littered with what clearly were crumbs and stains. The former criminology professor had clearly spent far too long on the police department.

Letting loose his loud southern drawl, Detective Marx asked, "Dagnabbit! You boys mean tell me you messed with my crime scene?!?" he screamed.

"You sir may be some fancy Yankee gov-ment guy, but I ain't gonna hesitate to throw you in jail for messing around my job!" he said defensively and angrily at Mike. "And you, you pinko Hollywood type, don't even get me started!"

"Detective, that doesn't change anything. Facts are facts. We need this investigation to move faster than Southerners usually move in the dead of summer. Innocent lives are being threatened if this goes on any further," Mike said patiently as he squirmed nervously on his small, wooden chair.

Marx plopped down in his larger, more comfortable chair behind his cheap gun-metal desk. The only thing sweating more than he was in the cramped office was his tall glass of sweet ice tea. He took off his hat, and threw it on his desk before pulling his pocketed handkerchief from his shirt to wipe the streams of sweat from his face and neck, both of which were slightly reddened by the relentlessly burning sun.

"Well..." Marx said as he cleared his throat and sipped the tea. "You boys are in quite a pickle, eh? You say that everybody was told the filmin' schedule. You say no one would have made such a stupid mistake. And yet, you have no proof that something's happenin' to my town."

"Actually, Detective," Mike said reluctantly, "that is not entirely...accurate."

"It's not?!?" Adam said, his eyes widening and then shrewdly narrowing again.

"No, I'm afraid it's not."

WHAT COULD THIS mean? What does Mike know? Adam's thoughts began to drift. Who would take the time to go after the cast like that? The only people who even knew about our schedule for the day were the cast and crew...

Before Adam realized it, the detective and Mike had stood up and were beckoning him to follow. The door shut behind them. He followed as Mike and the detective made their way out of the police station

MIKE POPPED THE storage compartment of his vehicle. He quickly grabbed what he was looking for and returned the storage lid to its usual locked position. In his hands were the film's face-book, a directory of the cast and crew, along with quick profiles on the principal members of each.

"You might find this useful, Detective Marx," he said, handing the package over. "If I only knew what pain there was going to be the morning after I got that message, I would have told all of you much sooner."

"Excuse me for being the odd man out, boys, but ah need to visit the ex-congressman's apartment this afternoon, if it suits yall just fine," the detective said, as he noticed more doughnut crumbs and brushed them off his coat.

"What's going on? What happened?" Adam asked.

"I got a letter last night. It was really unnerving. Anyway...it might be evidence. The detective may also need to look at my apartment."

THE CARAVAN MADE its way from the police department's headquarters in a strip-mall in south-east Gainesville to the well-to-do condominiums in Gainesville's northwest corner. Mike was reminded of just how much care his hometown took in preserving nature amid the high pace of urban life and burgeoning state university.

I nearly forgot how beautiful this town is. Why was it that I left here for Washington so many years ago? Hmm... Mike thought as an alarm began beeping on his vehicle's navigation system.

They were nearly there.

"IT'S NOT MUCH, but it's a home away from home, I suppose," Mike said with a shrug, as if he needed to explain to the two visitors something about his Gainesville condo. Of course, given the Spartan use of the place, perhaps the concern was warranted, if just a bit self-conscious. There were few furnishings, almost no personal effects or pictures on the wall. The condo nearly had the look of an expensive but impersonal hotel suite.

Detective Marx and Adam hung back in the foyer area between the living room and the bedroom while Mike went off to grab the letter. "Come on, guys, make yourself at home," he said as he picked up the letter.

"You know, what's so strange about this letter is that I was given a digital message asking me to open it after I got home," Mike said.

"Do you have any idea who could have sent either message, Mike?"

"No. I just know the guy knew about the hazelnut incident, which had not yet been reported to the press," Mike said after handing the letter to the detective. All three of them settled onto the sofa and chairs in the living room.

"Hmm..."

Three low sounds – blurp, blurp, blurp – broke everyone's concentration. The detective stood as he pulled out his beeper. "The forensic people have the results for y'all. Excuse me while I step outside," Marx said.

Finally, someone can give us a better idea of who might have set up that accident. Mike thought as he followed the detective's movement. Mike's gaze fell to see Adam's ghost-white face.

"What's wrong, Adam? Are you okay?"

"It's just the thought of it all. Hopefully this will all be resolved soon and we can get back to filming after we arrest the guy who has been doing all of this."

"You know, it might just be a series of innocent pranks gone bad."

"Maybe."

"Forensic science is pretty damn impressive," Mike added. "Who do you think could have done it? How about the janitor who asked us about the clean up?"

"Nah, he's just a janitor. Why would he want to hurt anyone?"

"Why not the guy who plays Matt Nadler?"

"Nah, too predictable as a bad guy."

"I got it! Professor Clue is the murderer, in the kitchen with a butter knife!"

The two of them laughed heartily until they heard the outside door shut, and found that the detective was back from his brief conversation with the forensic team.

"What's the verdict?" Mike asked, only half interested in knowing the final truth, and the other half fearing it.

"Yall won't like to hear it."

THE DETECTIVE WAS right. Thankfully, he left them shortly after delivering the news, allowing them some time to think over the implications and debate with each other about what to do next.

"I just can't believe it, Mike!"

"Neither can I. First, hazelnut coffee triggers an allergic reaction. Then I receive a threatening letter at my home. Finally, one of our main actors trips down the stairs."

"The only real question I have, Mike, is..."

"Right. Whether to suspend filming."

IF THE DETECTIVE was tall and fat, his assistant was short and scrawny. James Madison Rover didn't like his job as the assistant to the detective, but did thoroughly enjoy the investigative work. As a little boy, he loved solving riddles, and playing with the Clue board game. Today's mystery was definitely going to be hard to solve. Who would want to hurt these people or would have the opportunity to do so? Was their goal to stop the filming?

Jimmy looked over his boss's shoulder as the two of them scanned through the film's cast and crew. The list was quite long even after ruling out the two victims.

"Ahh... I know watcha thinkin', Jimmy."

"You do, sir?"

"I know ya strategy."

"What's that?"

"This being a crime, we need to treat it as such. As in, the suspects aren't likely to be the janitors – too predictable."

"And...?"

"The victims couldn't have done it to themselves, nor could anyone that wasn't here on location."

"But sir..."

"What?"

"That doesn't eliminate anyone."

"That's right, Jimmy," as the detective rolled around, ignoring the scrolling images that were now behind him. "To solve this crime, we've got to do the unimaginable."

"What's that?"

"Consider everyone a suspect, yet no one is safe."

### Chapter Eight

_TIMING IS KEY in life, but it could be downright deadly in politics. That is why the politicians-in-training could often be found in high-speed chases rivaling the Indianapolis 500. Candidates race to file; party leaders rush to get petitions signed and approved; activists grab the last few voters on Election Day. Ben Burns and the gang found out that speed, not accuracy, was often the Holy Grail of their political lives._

_Shortly after their failed filibuster, Ben and the gang scrambled to get an initiative on the ballot that would restore funding and autonomy to the academic groups that lost it. The sun was literally setting on the last day to file their petitions. Ben was watching from the group's meeting room over the Colonnade as several of his friends and colleagues ran in with their petitions._

_"Is that all of them?" Ben asked as he organized the piles of paper and looked at the dry erase board behind him._

_"Nah, Wayne is coming back from University Avenue with the rest," someone said._

_The small cadre, including Eric Keppler and Kendra Jacobson, sat down and dropped their placards and backpacks on the ground, next to a pile of campaign items. Ben offered them drinks, and announced, "It looks like we need Wayne's petitions to get us there."_

_"We have less than ten minutes left!" Kendra exclaimed._

_Ben walked over to the window to try and get a first glimpse of Wayne as he made his way down the expansive urban meadow called the North Lawn, which was laid out in front of the Colonnade._

_Eric chimed in, "Make that seven minutes."_

_All they could do was to wait. "Did Ian lend his motorbike?"_

_"Yes, yes, calm down, Ben. I have faith in Wayne. You should, too."_

_The next six minutes were the most painful to sit through. Everyone could hear and see Wayne make his entrance – up the Colonnade in a mad dash to the Student Government office complex on the third floor._

_With a deep breath of relief, Ben said, "You cut it sorta close didn't, you?"_

_"That's what I live for," Wayne said, panting in between syllables. He walked in with the supervisor of elections in tow. She began counting off the signatures and made a gesture to collect the rest._

_"Not a moment too soon," she said with a wry grin and spun off back to her office upstairs._

_"It's days like these that I question why I do this as a hobby," Ben said._

_"Ah, Ben, you love it!" Eric said with a laugh that soon became contagious among the exhausted campaigners..._

ROGER DAVIS WAS used to fame. It took some convincing to get him to play the lead role in "A True Gator Party." He never cared for film adaptations of books, and felt his notoriety gave him the opportunity to turn down any role he didn't like, even starring ones. But after accepting the job and taking a tour of Gainesville with Michael and Adam, he became intrigued. Perhaps it was the many residents who viewed Michael as their only celebrity, which annoyed him. Or perhaps it was that the people of this college town took no bullshit, did not buy into the slick Hollywood culture, and never let life go by too quickly or too slowly.

Roger didn't mind the lines of fans seeking his autograph, even if they preferred "Ben Burns" signatures over his own. He especially did not mind it on this occasion, when the turmoil on the movie set had left him with little else to do.

He was polite and cordial to the last of the fans and well-wishers as he departed. It was cooler than the typical Florida weather, but it was still quite warm and humid. He passed the main part of campus on his way back to his hotel to refresh himself with a good night's sleep. It was still up in the air whether Michael and Adam would restart filming the next day. As he passed the university plaza, he chuckled at how it resembled a disaster area from yesterday's activities.

Vroom. The roar of an engine. He turned in the direction of the sound, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. He shook his head and resumed his leisurely stroll.

AFTER FOLLOWING ADAM back to his hotel room for a short conversation and a drink, Mike returned to his apartment. He immediately noticed that the mail had arrived, including a large envelope. He let the mail sit in the foyer area as he entered his living room to turn on the stereo, selecting something with a Latin beat. He poured himself a glass of coke and rum and stepped into the bathroom to get the sticky sweat of Florida heat off his skin. The sound of the shower running competed with the soft Latin music and the tick-tock of antique analog clocks in the condo.

AS ROGER APPROACHED the press tents on the north side of campus, he heard engine noise again. Again, he turned to try and locate where the engine noise was coming from, but failed to find anything out of place on the nearly deserted campus. Just a few students were seen knocking around a ball. He didn't see the car sitting in the shadows of one of the dorms.

MIKE DRIED HIMSELF off with a large towel and then wrapped it around his waist. He walked through the living room and stepped back into the foyer area to grab the mail. Returning to the living room, he examined an over-sized clasped envelope. It had no return address or any other identifier. Not another one! Mike thought as he dropped the mail on the floor and collapsed into the nearest chair. He sighed nervously, continuing to hold the latest envelope in his hands.

ROGER DEFINITELY HEARD the roar of the engine this time. As he passed the main library, a gray Ford sports utility vehicle with blackened windows whizzed past him, missing him by inches. What the hell?

THE LETTER WAS almost exactly like the first one. It was short, to the point, and disturbing. It read: "You can choke on nuts and live. You can always break a fall. But being run over is hard to survive." What the hell?

THE SUV SWUNG around quickly, giving Roger little time to react. He felt unsteady and frightened. He looked around in time see the car's second pass. It was more successful. Roger was slammed off his feet. The mysterious car pulled in reverse and spun away from the scene, leaving a badly injured actor lying on the road, unconscious. The victim was the only witness to the accident.

DETECTIVE MARX WAS on the phone with Mike when another call came into the police station. Jimmy answered the call on the other line, stepping out of the cramped office to give his boss some needed space.

"Detective Marx's office?"

"Jimmy? Is that you?"

"Yeah, Brad. Where are you?"

"I am at the hospital," said the policeman, "Mr. Marx wanted to know if and when anyone was admitted to the hospital and if he was part of the cast or crew of that movie they're filmin' over at the university."

"Sure. Spill the beans. He's on the line with Adams right now."

"Alright. Are you sitting for this one?"

Jimmy leaned against a wall, knowing his friend Brad wouldn't exaggerate any news he had. "Give it to me."

"It was a hit and run, Jimmy. He's in Emergency right now."

"Who is?!?"

"The guy playing Ben Burns, that's who! Roger Davis himself."

This case has just got a whole lot more serious. Jimmy shook his head. This could mean an end to the entire production. It was becoming more important than ever to find out what was going on and to stop it.

MIKE WAS NOT having a good evening. Whoever mailed those messages had something to do with the accidents that were happening. What's more, the writer was elevating the seriousness of the acts by threatening to attack a cast member. And not just any cast member, Roger! Roger was not a famous actor, and the lead in the movie.

The three most important characters in his book – Nicola Jackson, Eric Keppler, Ben Burns - and the actors who played them were either victims or about to be. At least one he could have prevented, and the last one he could have done more to get advance notice out to the police.

Vicious, premeditated crimes on this scale were rare in Gainesville. That's why he chose to come back to his alma mater to film the outside scenes. He thought it would be safe. That was no longer true.

AS CROWDS GATHERED outside Shands Hospital, and the media clambered to get the tiniest tidbit of information, Mike made his decision and told Adam. "It's the only, best way, I know to deal with this."

"I don't think so. You know this town and this film better than anyone else. We need you."

"This guy is out to get me by hurting other people involved in this project. This is the only way. You know how to reach me. Hopefully this will be all over soon."

Mike and Adam embraced briefly before Mike stepped into his vehicle, and drifted down the north side of the hill. Adam turned to face the Southside, overlooking Shands Hospital. The frenzy at the bottom of the hill was growing louder. Someone spotted him and directed the media mob towards him.

I'm the decoy in the spotlight, Adam thought as he waited for the inevitable gathering of the paparazzi.

"TICKET FOR ONE," the man in the sports coat said to the Delta Airlines employee behind the ticket counter. "For the flight about to take off."

"Of course, sir. Identification and credit card? Will you be checking any bags with us today?"

"Nope."

"Total comes to $984."

"Fine. Just get me on that plane."

"Okay." The flight attendant began typing away. The incessant tapping became a faint background noise, as the passenger listened to the nearby news monitor.

The news anchor was reporting on breaking news in the local area. From his tone, the anchor seemed utterly unprepared for the news he was reporting live to millions of Americans. "Our local correspondents have confirmed this late-breaking news from Gainesville, Florida. The lead actor for the upcoming film "A True Gator Party" has been struck, by a moving vehicle. Also, sources close to the director, and to the master-mind behind the film, have learned that the two have made a startling reversal of policy."

"Here's your ticket. Enjoy your flight, Mister," the flight attendant said.

The anchor continued unabated. "Those sources say that the previous decision to keep production going despite unexplained accidents has been reversed. Filming has been suspended, indefinitely, in an apparent attempt to help resolve a police investigation into the matter..."

The new passenger, feeling more confident now that he had ticket and carry-on in hand, made his way to the one and only gate at Gainesville's small airport. With a smile, he began thinking to himself. This just might work. Smoke the bastard out. See what his problem is.

The attendant at the gate greeted her last passenger. "Welcome aboard."

When the guy got to his seat, and turned his carry-on to its side to put in the overhead compartment, one could clearly read who owned that luggage. This flight out of town had a very special, if easily unnoticed, passenger on board.

His name was Mike Adams.

### Chapter Nine

_JOURNAL ENTRY - BEN Burns. I've been alone before. Being independent of anyone else's help is not a foreign concept for me. And yet, I've got this strange feeling in the pit of my stomach – like I have no control over my fate. This is a contradiction many people in politics face, but having to run this operation on my own is only going to make this harder._

_Nicola Jackson and Eric Keppler, colleagues and one-time allies, are key to this entire puzzle. After all, they were the ones who, despite some trust and respect, helped put me in this position of forced independence. Keeping those two honest with me will be the only way to..._

TURBLENCE BROKE MIKE's concentration. The problem was compounded by the relatively small space provided for leg room and the so-called "tray tables" airlines provide, both of which are in keeping with the illusion of quality service. Overall, even minor turbulence could turn reading on an airplane into an intolerable exercise.

Mike placed a bookmark into the novel. Given recent events, he had felt compelled to re-read pieces of his own work of literature, hoping to gain a clue into what had happened back in Florida and why someone would harm his actors. Looking out of the tiny, ovular window next to him, Mike noticed the skyline of what was clearly St. Louis. Half-way there, Mike thought.

After taking a sip of his four ounce cup of apple juice, he jumped back into that novel...

_"THE NEW DEMOCRACY Party was founded on the primary principle of innovation. We're not here to rehash old debates or to pretend "Later Gator" is an issue that offers real choices to the student body. No bull – just issues. That is what we are offering to the student body. All we ask for in return is that you speak your mind. If you do that, the silent majority will speak in October and we will all win!"_

_Ben Burns was a nervous fellow, but the speech went fine. Not as good as the one given by the student celebrity that had just endorsed his fledgling effort. Yet, it worked. He'll get some good sound bites into the press, and will be able to push his primary goal – "setting student organizations free" – in the Student Senate during next week's debate over the budget._

_As much as he was alone in it, he was finally doing in SG politics what he always wanted. He was speaking with his one true voice, on a campaign that was all his own. But the people he counted on most in his previous efforts were not there with him, except Anthony Capolli. That fact kept a dark cloud over the campaign, and probably contributed to his losing the fall election in a very big way._

_But, with campaigning comes respect, and with respect comes influence – even if he remained largely ignored by the establishment he never fully trusted..._

MIKE STOPPED READING when he heard the captain indicate that the airplane was making its final approach. Mike was looking forward to this detour; it was a chance to escape from the routine of film-making. While it did mean he was going to lack the steady support of his current friends, it did give him an opportunity to reunite with some others, particularly those that he just could not, for biological reasons, give up on.

ANNE ADAMS WAS waiting for her brother in the lobby area of the Portland International Airport. Sure, it was late at night, and Simon, her aide, didn't like the idea of a City Commissioner being up this late just to see a relative arrive in town. Yet, Anne did not care. It's not every day one of my little brothers comes to visit me, and especially not the now-famous Mike.

Mike came around a corner and she instantly recognized him. He still looked the part of an off-duty politician – sports coat, Oxford blue shirt, khaki pants. His dirty blonde hair was just barely receding, and wrinkles only just now getting noticed. A messenger bag was slung over his shoulder.

The only thing about him that was unexpected should be understandable, given the circumstances of his arrival. As a former congressman working on a new film, you'd expect to see an aide or two following him, with the press further in tow. Instead, he was on his own.

MIKE FOUND ANNE waiting for him in the lobby area as expected, with her aide Simon most likely outside with the car running. Anne looked like someone still adjusting to a recent weight loss, but doing so well. Her red hair – by design, not by birth – was resting comfortably on her shoulders. Her face, with a trademark lack of makeup, revealed the usual signs of age for someone in her early 40s. Her clothes showed the careful balance of a local politician's social status and Anne's own discomfort in such stature.

With a smile, Anne's usual emotive restraint gave way to excitement in seeing her sibling arrive in her new hometown. Portland, Oregon was a familial favorite, but Anne was the only one to make it her place of residence. The toll on her, being so far from the rest of the family, shows most clearly in these kinds of instances – when one of them comes to visit her.

After hugging, they left the airport. As Mike predicted, Simon was at the curb waiting for them to get in. A few scattered flashes showed a remarkable lack of press attention. They were grateful for it – no one actually needed to know about this family reunion.

Anne and Mike were especially close siblings when they were younger – closer than either one was with their brother Paul. They had similar academic backgrounds, had clearer memories prior to their parents' divorce, and even had some of the same interests as they bucked childhood stereotypes. Their close bond held together through the rough times. And that's also why the conversation during the ride home was more of a family catching up on old times. They both knowingly waited for the comfort of home – and of mixed drinks – before either broached the topic of recent events.

ANNE's HOUSE WAS relatively modest for an aspiring politician, even by Portland's standards. Spending her late twenties as a motivational speaker and spokeswoman for the power of meditation, Anne's finances were never much of an issue for her. She kept things simple; no reason to get things too complicated. Yet, she did live in a more suburban part of town, with a white picket fence (which was a pit of irony, as she never liked that 1950s stereotype). The house was two stories tall, but neither floor had much square footage, and neither did the backyard.

Once inside, a black and white tabby greeted the trio. Anne lifted the kitten into her arms and led her brother into the living room on the right side of the house.

Simon announced his departure, but made certain to remind his boss of her schedule for the next day. "You've got a speech with the Portland Chamber of Commerce at ten, a luncheon with the congressional delegation at one, and the City Commission is in session from three to six."

"Thanks, Simon. Keep me posted."

"I will," the chubby political consultant said as he spun around and left for his own abode. Finally, the siblings were alone and in privacy.

"I know one thing," Mike said with confidence in his tired voice. "You're going to need to call Simon back."

"What for?"

"After we are done talking tonight, you may want to make a small change to your itinerary for tomorrow."

"In what way, Mike?" as she sat up in the recliner and looked more intently in the direction of the bar, where he stood pouring an amaretto sour – one of his favorites.

"By canceling everything."

MIKE WAS RIGHT, as usual. As he told her the interesting news behind the news, she considered spending the next day helping him think this through. Instead, she just let the conversation continue well into the night.

"So, let's think this through. Who would want to do you harm?" she said carefully after thinking for a moment.

"Or more accurately, who wants to harm my movie?"

"We can probably rule out those who hate you personally. Those people would be more direct in their approach. We can also rule out politics. Your career in Congress has long since been over, and this movie aims more at your time in college, not anything recent."

"Right. So what you're saying is..."

"That this mayhem is not about you at all."

"But what about the letters?"

"Some sick game. The culprit is probably just toying with you to keep you interested."

"If we use that logic, it hardly rules anything out."

"Unfortunately, Mike, that's the heart of it. My best guess is that your culprit does not want the world to see whatever is in that movie. Are there any differences between the movie and the book?"

"Aside from technical and space considerations?"

"Right."

"I don't think so. "A True Gator Party" makes fun of the absurdly tight strings the leadership honorary had on Student Government, and how campus politics was based on that. It's hardly a subject matter that would surprise or anger anyone that was involved."

"But it does go into detail about the lengths people go to in order to use campus politics to get into that honorary, all for the promise of prestige and success in the real world," Anne pointed out.

"Yeah, but who cares? This is a fictional account of what happened. No one knows who is who except those who lived it. And this was nearly twenty years ago. Any truth to the book won't disrupt the lives of those parodied because no laws were broken and our careers since then have been based on the merits of our skills, not the people we know".

"Hopefully, then, this is a sick bastard we're dealing with," Anne said half-jokingly.

"We can only hope."

THE SIBLINGS WRAPPED up their conversation shortly before Mike passed out in the guest room. When he woke, his sister had already left for the day. Ah, the memories of long-gone endless days as a politician, Mike thought as he sloshed through a milky cereal breakfast of Corn Chex.

Still in his pajamas, Mike rinsed his used dishes before making his way into the living room again. After wiping his damp hands on green-plaid pants, he turned on the television.

Another tourist trip to space was cancelled for lack of funding. The U.S. Treasury Secretary expressed support for a limited holiday on FICA taxes. An assassination attempt on an Egyptian official was unsuccessful but resulted in the suicide of the would-be assassin.

Mike was finally alert when the news monitor shifted its focus. "The headlines coming out of Washington, D.C. are as follows," a cheerful brunette said. Among other items, the Washington Metro system was weighing a fare increase to cover a budget shortfall. Politicians were whispering about plans for the budget surplus. And D.C. police were investigating a break-in to a private weapons development plant – specifically the site of a much-hyped prototype for a counter-terrorist sniper rifle.

The news in Gainesville was, as expected, still reporting the new investigation into the incidents on campus. A friend of his, from those long-gone college days, has fallen ill with food poisoning. Brenda Freddies, a staff professional with the University, was admitted into the hospital after eating at a local pizza joint. She was not alone, however; at least three other customers met the same fate.

"Enough of that," Mike said out loud to himself, and turned off the monitor. It is time to get working on why I'm here in Portland in the first place.

### Chapter Ten

_BEN BURNS LIKED to give speeches. In spite of his less-than-exciting delivery and less-than-appealing manner of dress, Ben liked getting behind the podium to deliver his message. Perhaps it was an extension of his preference for writing speeches. Perhaps it was a sign of an evolving, formerly introverted personality._

_Yet, it really was his message that annoyed his critics most, not that he participated in "public debate" so often. You see, Ben had no interest in promoting a status quo of elitism and dominance by the Greek-letter community. He had his own, optimistic vision for his campus – one that was unheard of among the short-term, self-interested officials on the third floor. This is what the elites hated, as Ben appeared all too eager to use self-promotion and this long-term vision for political gain at their expense._

_Yes, Ben liked to give speeches. It was his opportunity to stick it to the establishment in the best way he knew how. With his ideas...._

THE AVID READER closed the novel with a doggy tag marking her place. She stood into the shadows of the café and dialed a friend of hers. "Walt, it's me. I know why he's left town. I'm heading out now to intercept."

"Keep me posted," was the garbled reply.

The lady put on her sunglasses and quickly left the reading establishment, barely missing a crash into a startled waiter in the process. He won't get away so easily.

HE STARED AT himself in the full-length mirrors that lay against the wall in front of him. I never liked tuxedos, he thought. He tilted to the right and to the left, even messed with the bow-tie. "Ugh..."

"Why the long face, Mike?"

He turned around to find his sister standing behind him in her own evening gown. "The tux looks good on you. And you're going to do just fine tonight," she said in an attempt to boost his spirits.

"I guess I just have a lot on my mind lately."

"True. But tonight's supposed to be fun – at least for you. I've got to kiss up to these people. And in this ugly dress!"

A laugh. "You know you could always quit. You were the one that chose to run for mayor," he pointed out.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. So you say. I swear that Simon seems to want it more than I do."

He laughed and stepped to the side to give her some room to view her reflection. "All the more reason to let him be the candidate for a change," Mike continued as her gaze drifted off. She began fussing with the way the dress fit her form – or didn't, as she suspected.

_UNLIKE MOST PEOPLE in his position, Ben loved the annual galas. When someone important spoke at the front of the room, everyone paid attention. And everyone at least pretended to be in the best of moods. You could almost forget your troubles during one of those events..._

THE FACT THAT he knew very few in the audience made the evening bearable. But it was the dim lights, reflective glitter, and soft music that made the fund-raiser all that more enjoyable for Mike. His seat on the dais provided a clear and wide view of the dinner audience, which gave him something visual to focus on as his ears waited for his cue from the person giving him an introduction.

"A former congressman from Florida..." Stodgy Republican fat-cat on the right with a trophy wife – he probably promotes family values while having an affair on the side, Mike thought. "And a Democrat, but we won't hold that against him." Laughter came from the jolly businessmen who sat at the bar. Drinking martini's while cutting large deals, no doubt, Mike thought. "Please join me in welcoming..." A woman with a bit too much diamond-studded jewelry on her person was setting down her gin and tonic. "Our keynote speaker..." The waiters in white tuxes had paused. "Mike Adams, everybody!"

My time to say my peace, Mike thought as he took a deep breath, stood up, and with the spotlight on him, made his way to the podium..

"Thanks, Bill, for that wonderful introduction," Mike began over the polite and sporadically energetic applause. He gestured for the applause to be turned down, and the audience quickly obliged him.

"I am here tonight three thousand miles away home. I am here tonight to praise public service. I am here tonight to wholeheartedly endorse Anne Adams, my sister and a wonderful local advocate, for mayor of Portland!" That line drew loud applause from the young crowd.

"Her goals, her success, her record are something we can all be proud of. And she is definitely my kind of Republican!" More applause came out of the audience.

"Anne is what I call a "true Gator," Mike said, in an obvious hint at his best-selling novel, as he glanced to his right and smiled at his sibling. "A passionate public servant, Anne never gives up, never tires, and never surrenders. Her interest is not self-interest, it is public interest. And the political machine that tries to run this city is running scared.

"Anne's ideas are not stale, they're innovative. What's more, her ideas are not Republican, Democrat, Libertarian, or vegetarian. They simply work, and the credit for their success belongs solely to her and her tireless advocacy for the people of Portland."

Mike didn't pause as the crowd applauded. "She takes the lessons she learned at our alma mater and uses them in her daily life. She never lets anyone down by spinning a web of lies to conceal the truth; she tells it like it is. And the current mayor of Portland does not like it one bit!"

The back of the room went wild with that remark, screaming and raising campaign signs high in the air in response to what he had to say. "Anne will bring a breath of fresh air back into City Hall. She'll clean its attic and empty its closets of all the baggage Mayor Williams has packed into it over the years."

"Take it from me. I know Anne. She will never let you down. I have full confidence in her abilities, and her fate. If you help us tonight, I am certain Anne Adams will be Mayor of Portland next year, and we will all be the better for it!"

"Now, only if we had more politicians, Republican and Democrat, like her, maybe we could take this country back! Give me a hand in getting my sister elected. She's a Republican with the tools to take Portland back, and that's a great start!"

MIKE WRAPPED UP his speech and not too long after, much of the dinner audience was spreading itself out of the main hall, into the more brightly lit hallway, staircase and hotel lobby area below. He and his sister made a noticeable entrance into the lobby area by being the only people walking down the wide, central stairwell.

Flashes of light burned into their eyes as digital cameras took their pictures and transmitted them across the globe simultaneously. The press gaggle quickly formed at the bottom of the stairs, and began peppering the duo with questions.

"Hey, hey, one at a time, and we only have time for a few questions," Mike insisted with the confident will of a veteran of press management. "Now, who wants to go first?"

After the disquiet clamoring for attention, Mike called on a local reporter from The Oregonian. "Mr. Adams, how big of a role will you have in your sister's campaign for Mayor of Portland?"

Mike glanced quickly at his sister before answered the anticipated question. "It's entirely Anne's campaign. I am happy to come here as often as she'd have me, but it's only fair to let Oregonians pick their own mayor without too much outside influence. Besides, I've got my own projects right now that need attention."

A familiar face from the Washington Post was next. "Fire away, Bob."

"Do you have any comments on the news that your film has been put on hold?"

Mike chuckled a little. "Adam and Paramount have already discussed that. It's purely a precaution given the the investigation into the accidents."

"Are you saying these accidents were part of a crime?" Bob asked as a follow-up.

"No, the Gainesville police are looking into every possibility. Now, it's Anne's night. Any questions for her?"

A question about the success of the fund-raiser. "Simon tells me Mike here brought in some last minute ticket-buyers, given the press attention on his book and film. We may have raised more than $100,000 tonight." Anne was clearly beaming with the news.

A few more questions were asked on mechanics and itinerary, before Mike had the impromptu press conference broken up so he and Anne could mingle with the campaign donors that still lingered in the hotel lobby.

AS SOON AS Mike was free of the press gaggle, a fan gaggle encircled him with out-stretched copies of his book seeking autographs. The group was an eclectic bunch – a young Asian male with thick glasses, a typical sorority brunette type, an older lady, and a nerdy guy with a hodgepodge of political buttons pinned all over his jacket, include one visible pin from Anne's campaign.

He gladly signed the handful of books, even while ignoring a familiar blonde's approach. When the fans dispersed, Mike finally turned. "Ashley? What are you doing here?"

She reached into her purse, pulling out her sunglasses, and her quite stereotypical reporter's notepad. "I'm on assignment, remember?" she said with a twinkle in her eye and that damn-loveable wryly smile. "I'm working on another segment of my cover story about you."

"Oh, really?"

"You're not an easy man to keep up with."

"Don't I know it?" She laughed with him. "But, how did you know I was here?"

"Well, you've made it well-known from your book that you like to give speeches. And when I heard you bought a ticket for Portland, I checked with The Oregonian and – sure enough – your sister was conducting a fund-raiser just three days after you left Gainesville. So, I figured you had to have come up here to prepare."

Damn. She does too much of her own homework. "Well, you pretty much covered it. I guess I should be glad you're here and not the person who's out to get me back there," Mike said with a sigh, as he made his way through the crowd, shaking hands and nodding to people he recognized.

"Quite right. Gainesville has gone awry since you left, you know. And your director is struggling just to keep his cast in town."

"Well, I'm sure he'll do just fine, Ashley."

"Do you have a minute?"

"Sure. Let's go someplace quite where we can really talk," Mike said as he gestured toward the on-site restaurant off to the left of the main lobby area. She nodded, and pulled the pen out of her pad to begin taking notes.

EVEN THOUGH IT was Ashley Woodard doing another interview for her "exclusive" cover story, Mike was glad when it was over. He couldn't keep focused on her questions – and it wasn't just because she looked great with her hair twisted upward and a sparkling green gown covering her all the way down to her open-toe high heels. After all, it was getting late, and he was eager to get away from the hotel, where he was easily spotted. All he wanted was to go back and relax in the peaceful slumber of his sister's house.

The ride home with Anne was congenial but not nearly as talkative as their ride back from the airport. Both were just too tired from the long evening. They both politely thanked the limo driver as they got out. Anne made an immediate dash to the front door, while Mike hung back to watch the limo drive away.

"Mike, I think this is for you," Anne called out.

Surprised, Mike turned to see what she was referring to. After seeing it, a lump developed in his throat. Not another plain manila envelope. "How do you know it's for me?" he asked as he made his way through the yard.

"Because the sender didn't leave it in my mailbox; even my hate mail is put there. So, the sender wanted our attention, and it looks a lot like what you described of those messages back in Gainesville," she said, even as she caught on to the uneasiness of her brother's tone.

She handed it to him and opened up her place. They walked in as Mike broke the seal on the envelope. Anne sat down in her favorite recliner; Mike remained standing. He pulled out, as expected, a single sheet of paper. It was tan in color, with simple, black lettering in the center. Like the others, this message was short and sweet.

"Stopping the film and running away from me won't deter me, won't distract me, won't stop me from what I intend to do. It's time you pay."

The message was a direct threat – not a death threat, but definitely an unmistakable announcement of the antagonist's intentions. Mike's patience had run thin; a cat and mouse game was not going to be enough to lure his predator out from hiding.

"Anne, this is getting serious. I can't ignore it any longer. He's after me! And he knows enough about me to get to me all the way out here."

"And what can you do about it?"

"I need to find out who this bastard is and stop him before he does anyone else any more..."

An explosion knocked Mike off his feet. He fell down head first into the carpet, as Anne looked on in horror. She had watched as the wall adjacent to the garage had given way in a massive fire. Someone had blown up her vehicle – the very same vehicle she and Mike had ridden in just a few days ago.

Anne leapt to her feet and ran across the living room to where Mike had fallen. She grabbed him, as she tried to recall her CPR training. She could only fear for the worse. So, she pulled out her phone, even as she leaned in close to inspect her brother. Smoke was already filling the house, and faints sounds of sirens were already being heard. Still, she had to be certain.

"Mike? Mike? Are you okay?"

### Chapter Eleven

_PART OF THE fun during Campaign Week for the politicians-in-training was spying on the other side, just waiting for them to do something in violation of election laws. Even taking a photograph that implied voter bribery through food was seen as a success. But most of the time, the two sides always felt it better to keep each other off balance by having their most annoying volunteers follow the other side's best campaigners._

_Such undercover operations, never mind the typical stealing of yard signs and tearing down of posters, were at the heart of each election's festivities, and one of the many reasons why everyone was still good natured enough to enjoy beers with the enemy on Election Night as they all awaited the results._

_But it also generated an unfair amount of criticism for those who were naïve enough about their behavior. Ben was caught under fire in his last campaign by appearing to be playing both sides, even when he stood to gain nothing from the election. It was fair criticism, though, when each side's moles found Ben at both campaign events and their supposedly closed and secretive strategy meetings. Spying was a no-no, except when officially sanctioned..._

THE SOUND OF a bell, notifying him of an incoming call, disrupted his reading. He bookmarked the novel and dropped it in his lap, before answering the caller.

"Mike, here."

"How the hell ya git off taking that case away from me?" It was Detective Marx, who clearly was not happy and did not care that he was talking to someone who was still recovering from a concussion and was released from the hospital just hours ago.

"Detective, it wasn't my choice!"

"Bullshit."

"Look, the FBI saw the new note. They know Anne's garage was connected with your case. They made the call, since it crossed state lines. I'm sorry if you don't like it..."

"Don't patronize me, boy!" the Detective said before ending the conversation. Either the guy was drunk or just stupid – why else would you make a call like that? Mike thought as he adjusted his weight in the bed. But at least he's convinced me that my idea is my only option, if I am to get out of this thing alive.

ANNE'S CAMPAIGN OFFICE looked very typical. A dozen interns were frantically fetching coffee, retrieving reports, and looking busy. A handful of professional handlers were looking over-stressed. And campaign paraphernalia littered the ceiling, the walls, and the floor. She liked it that way.

While at the front doors, she turned to face her brother. "Are you sure you want to leave the comfort of all this? The FBI is offering protection, you know."

He smiled. "I'm sure it's all great, but it's clear to me now, what I must do. This guy will stop at nothing to see me ruined – either figuratively or quite physically. I need to go into hiding. And again, thank you for lending me the old vehicle."

"It isn't much, and the engine's quite loud, but it will get you where you need to go."

"I'm sure it'll be fine, sis," Mike said as he patted her on the shoulder and turned to leave her campaign office. "I just need to get out of here undetected, quite unlike last time. And, might I add, it was a stroke of genius to get the press into your conference room as a distraction."

"No problem. I figure it's time to give them some personal attention, anyways," she said with a laugh. "Good luck. And call me if you need anything."

"You can count on it."

"ALL I KNOW is he took her used car out of storage and immediately left town," the aide said.

The lady put on her sunglasses before saying, "I think I know where he's headed. The first place out of Gainesville he went to was his sister's. It seems like a logical progression that he'll visit another sibling."

"Happy hunting," the aide said.

"Thanks," she said as she pulled off in pursuit.

SEATLLE IS THE coffee capital of the world. Mike never really liked the caffeinated stuff, but he did respect their expertise in producing the addictive substance. So, despite his better judgment, once he arrived in his destination, he went in search of a local Starbucks joint. Maybe the natives know how to make it better than the franchises back home, he thought as he entered the spacious café.

Yet, what caught his eye was a wireless Internet hot-spot in the back of the main room. He made a bee-line for one of the empty desks. Once seated, he pulled out a tablet computer.

He typed the following commands: "Connect with Adams D.C. Office. Authorization Adams Michael, ΝΔΠ."

The computer responded quickly enough. "Internet use surcharge enabled. Authorization accepted. Portable computing device uplink with Adams D.C. Office is in progress."

After a few moments, the computer continued, "Uplink complete. Please state your command," the computer stated.

"Execute a search & copy protocol. Download all files dating back to the period, circa ages 18-22," Mike commanded. The execution would generate any files his D.C. office had dating back to his college days. And thanks to the miracles of digital scanning equipment, that request would be akin to collecting all of his archives for that time frame.

The noise that broke his peace was the sound of a waiter alerting him to the readiness of his coffee. He must have been mistaken, Mike thought as he twisted in his chair to look at the dark-tan, brown haired college boy trying to give him the drink.

"Excuse me?"

"The lady in the navy blue pants suit ordered this drink for you, sir."

Mike accepted the drink. Ah, café vanilla frappucino, my favorite! Who'd know in Seattle? Mike's face turned inquisitive as he looked back to the front of the establishment, until his gaze fell on the blonde in blue.

"Ashley?!?"

She inched closer to him. "Yep," she said with a killer smile.

"How the hell-"

She raised her hand in a defensive gesture. "Don't worry! My editor sent me here to report on the political conventions going on this week. It's completely unrelated. But when I saw you in here, I just found myself steering my way over."

He nodded, and said, "Well, you're definitely looking great for a journalist being shuttled all across the country these days."

She shrugged. "Well, that's what they pay me for. What brings you here to the coffee capital of the world? Surely the FBI doesn't think the attacks on you are related to someone in Seattle?"

"Funny. No, there's some business I have to take care of. It's personal."

"Oh. Mind that I-"

Beep. Beep. The computer was interrupting to let Mike know the search was complete. "Ashley, if you don't mind. Thank you for the coffee, but I really should get back to this."

"No problem. Here, have this." She handed him her business card. "In case you want to ever get in touch. On the record or off the record. Business or not. I'd really like to hear from you again, Mike."

With a wink from her right eye, she turned and left the Starbucks café, allowing Mike to resume his work at the computer. Damn, Mike thought as he tried to resume concentration on the work ahead of him.

AFTER VERIFYING THE completion of the download, Mike told the computer to now "download any other files connected with the phrases 'University of Florida' and 'leadership honorary.'" The humming resumed. With the free time, Mike pulled up an e-mail manager, and flipped through his address book.

"There!" He said softly. He had found the address he was needed. He typed it into a new message window, and the following email was sent:

TO: INCOGNITA@ALUMNI.UFL.EDU

FROM: INDIESENATOR@ALUMNI.UFL.EDU

DATE: SEPTEMBER 23

INCOGNITA, IT'S ME. BREAKING NEWS IS NO LONGER AVOIDABLE; IT'S THREATENING ALL I'VE DONE. NEED TO CONFRONT THOSE SEEKING TO DO HARM. NEED TO MEET AND TALK IN D.C. AT OUR USUAL PLACE. THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW, ONE O'CLOCK. THANKS. – AN INDIE SENATOR

After taking the time to do that, the computer was ready to accept a new command. Mike glanced at the memory gauge on his tablet. He quickly downloaded a digital face-book of alumni from UF's student government before shutting down his user session.

While taking a sip of his frappucino, Mike got up and left the café. Time to put a new face on this little adventure of mine.

PAUL ADAMS WAS a computer hacker – and a good one at that. Yet, unlike most hackers, Paul was a tall, lanky, former high school basketball star. He was also distinctive from his more politically active siblings in that he was barely a voter, and his dark, almost black hair was usually kept quite short.

He felt at home in his small office in the Xbox video game development department. As lead programmer, his hacking touch was felt on literally dozens of video games every year – mostly to fix the quirks that those with lesser experience generated, but he also worked with the big-wigs to develop new game concepts. And his influence was being felt on the still-young virtual reality market.

A strong-willed member of the Adams clan, Paul preferred his entertaining backstage success to the more stressful lives his siblings have taken on. But more importantly, Paul felt enriched in the Seattle area, and did not at all mind that his family rarely came to visit. When they did come, like today, he knew they needed his help. First, it was their office's computer network. Then, it was their Internet systems. Now, he had this little adventure for his shorter, big brother.

"From the sounds of this, you've got quite a mystery to solve. What's in it for me?"

"Paul!"

"I'm serious, Mike."

"Fine. You know what my bankroll is like. Just tell me what it takes to get this work done," Mike said in earnest as he handed over the rest of his notes over to Paul.

"Hmm..." Paul said as he rubbed his stubby chin. "Let's see here. You're asking me to basically hack into the mainframe of the federal government. Alter some records, and then graft some of this," he gestured at Mike's notes, "onto other records. Let's also not forget that we need to do this without leaving even so much as an electronic footprint."

"Is that a bit much?"

"Nah. It'll be fun!"

"If you don't mind, I have that appointment."

"Oh, yeah, that professional cleaning you need."

Mike protested, "It's not cleaning!"

"Sure, call it what you will. But you're getting cleaned up. You look too politician-like for your own good, so this will be an improvement. Now, get going and leave me to the computer and my Diet Coke," Paul said as he turned to face his main monitor. And even without another sound from Mike, a flurry of typing began. Paul was well on his way to accomplishing his task, and his brother was only a blur outside the corner of his brother's eyes when he left the dimly lit office.

WALT CALLED HIS assistant. She was in a Seattle suburb – waiting for further instructions. "Hey, it's me," he told her when she promptly answered his beckoning.

"Go ahead, Walt."

"We ran a trace program. Michael Adams was accessing his main office database when you saw him chatting near a Starbucks computer. Good work. But we also learned he had sent an email message to someone code-named "incognita" who is based in D.C. Fly to D.C. and identify this individual. Do what it takes to accomplish your overall goals."

"I understand. I'm on my way."

IT WAS A BLISSFULLY cool day when she reached the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. A native of the District, she was used to these touristy sites, but never got tired of them all the same. Tall for her gender, and surprisingly well-built for her occupation (medical engineer), she was a physical force to reckon with. Yet, she had the nicest and most easy-going personality he knew. That was certainly was a refreshing change for someone in her mid-40s.

She sat down on the steps, out in front of the memorial. She looked out at the reflecting pool just long enough to remember that she needed to check the time. She pulled out her phone, nodded, and returned it to its rightful place in her purse. I hope nothing happened to him.

The Memorial was largely deserted – it was a nice day, during lunch hour, and out of tourist season. She adjusted the banana straps on her denim dress and sighed. Walking up behind her, a guy in a flannel shirt and baseball cap snickered under his breath. Easy for the taking, he thought. Now what do I do to startle her? It didn't take long for him to think of a solution to his dilemma.

"Bennita?" he said out loud.

She certainly was startled. She heard footsteps behind her, so she stood up, grabbed the ledge of the steps, and turned to face her would-be pocket-picker. She squinted. He had curly black hair, sunglasses, and the looks of a small tattoo just above his cheap watch. Bennita could not believe her eyes. "It can't be."

"A genuine indie, at your service."

"Mike!" She laughed and smiled all at once. Her friend had arrived on time, but definitely not in the manner she expected. "You look like you walked by a teenage ghetto shop and it threw up a clearance outfit on you."

"As you might guess, it's a long story."

She began making her way down the steps with Mike. "Then I guess you better get started."

### Chapter Twelve

_THE MAIN POINT of contention among many politicians-in-training, at least on the surface, was the old question – who should rule the school, geeks or Greeks? At Ben's university, they called the dichotomy Greeks versus independents. Ben was used to this split, and had accepted it. He watched with dismay as both groups splintered and blurred the lines._

_In his senior year, after a disastrous run as leader of the opposition party, he watched in horror as a band of older independents were hanging their hats. They weren't giving up the fight; they were selling out for a hallow victory. That is, with one exception. An African-American engineer went "incognito" in protest, and instantly became a close friend and confidant as Ben battled his conscience and participated in the "most gut-wrenching political campaign" of his life._

_That friend of his was affectionately and forever-more known as "the guardian of the independents." Her strong ethics and political idealism kept the spirit alive, long past graduation day...._

BENNITA JONES WAS comfortable in the two-seater vehicle. The hum of engine was a routine sound to her, and the GPS system did all the real work of driving. That freed her up to talk with her Anglo friend – even if she felt like he should not be wearing the almost-ghetto "threads" as a disguise.

"...and that's pretty much when I decided to put on this get-up. It seemed fitting, given that my little brother took the effort to give me an alter-ego to use that wouldn't be easily traced by whoever it is that has been following me since I left Gainesville," Mike explained, as he took off his sunglasses, revealing his eyes. His eyes were concealed by subtle contact lenses that changed his pupils from a shade of blue to more of a hazel color.

The sound of an approaching vehicle caught their attention, although it simply whizzed past them in the lane on their left; they were already on the Capital Beltway, heading toward Maryland.

"Mike, I never would have thought you would be on somebody else's hit list. You seemed so eager to be liked by everyone in college," Bennita admitted.

"Well, I had my share of critics."

"But you're suggesting you had critics that would care enough, 20 years later, to go after you both professionally and physically? Come on, no one cares enough about Student Government to go that far. During college maybe, but not now," she insisted.

"It's hard to believe, but the facts are in. Someone wants me to pay for the production of that film. It wasn't enough to get the movie postponed. This person wants me harmed."

"Hmmm...."

"Alright, Bennita, take this exit into College Park. I've put myself into a hotel here under a pseudonym."

She looked at him oddly. "You won't even go back to your home or office?"

"It's too risky. This antagonist has certainly booby-trapped those places by now."

"True," was all she could manage as she drove her vehicle into College Park. As she did, she could have sworn she saw a dark vehicle behind them make a sudden swerve into the exit ramp, as if it didn't expect to make the turn.

"Weird."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Someone must be a sleep at the steering wheel back there."

"It's the hotel closest to the college campus. A Marriott, I think." Hopefully, everything's alright back in Gainesville. The FBI has put protection on the principal cast and crew, and running around silly trying to find me. And my sister and my brother won't say a word because neither of them really knows where I went. Mike smiled; he was playing a good joke on law enforcement – and as long as he could help solve this mystery for them, he did not mind one bit.

"WALT, I AM following the vehicle registered under her name. She was not too smart to register her vehicle with the same email address. Anyways, they are in College Park, Maryland. I'm in pursuit, and I'll keep you informed," the lady in sunglasses said into her phone, as she kept one hand in touch with the steering computer.

"Be sure not to be spotted by any witnesses," a garbled voice said in reply.

"Of course not," she said before tossing the phone in the passenger seat.

AS THEY WERE getting out of Bennita's vehicle, Mike spotted the aforementioned dark vehicle pulling into the parking lot of the Marriott. "Look! You're right. We ARE being followed," he said.

"Let's get inside," Bennita said.

They made their way inside the hotel lobby. A quick scan of the large square room showed a number of oversized sofas and chairs, but nowhere that served as a good hiding spot. Mike gestured toward the elevators, and the two of them made a quick dash down that corridor, just as a lady with sunglasses made her entrance into the hotel lobby.

Mike kept pushing the "up" button, not knowing that the stalker had thrown a silent fit and decided to ask a bellhop for some help locating her target. Finally, the elevator opened, and just in the nick of time – the bellhop pointed down the corridor to where the two of them had just stood. The lady scurried off in pursuit, but just barely missed the elevator.

They both breathed a sigh of relief when they got off on the 11th floor and made it into Mike's temporary lodging. Mike dropped his keys on the nightstand, and flopped down on the bed. Bennita chose to sit down in a chair next to the window. When they had stopped breathing heavily, Mike flipped on the television – and saw the news leads from D.C. and Gainesville.

"Politicians in Congress continued to quibble over how to spend the national surplus today in dueling news conferences. The Stock Market took a dive as investors pocketed their recent gains. 'Friends II', a sequel to the popular sitcom, has been green-lighted, with cast members selected from the families of the original 'Friends' cast. And in D.C., police have increased security around local weapons stores, research plants, and depositories, as investigations lead into dead-ends as who might have been involved in the recent heist of high-tech weaponry. Back in Gainesville, the recovering victims of food poisoning have reached a quick out-of-court settlement with the restaurant they acquired the illness from – with one, Brenda Freddies, saying she was grateful to put this past her, as she excused herself and went to a restroom."

That is some pretty lame news headlines, Mike thought, but he felt it was good to hear some good news for a change coming from someone he knew. It certainly could have been worse, given my luck lately.

A strange, piercing sound caught both of them by surprise, however, just before some smoke began appearing outside the hotel window. Bennita leaned over to get a look, and grew angry.

"That's my car!"

"What?!?" Mike raced over. Sure enough, the very same vehicle they had been sitting in just a half hour before was engulfed in flames. "Bennita, we can't stay here," he said as he went for his things and stuffed them back in his pockets. He also made sure to put his sunglasses back on.

"Come on, Bennita, let's go!"

"Where? My car is gone!!!!"

"I've got a rental in the south parking lot."

Reluctantly, she peeled herself from the window and fled the room. They used the elevator to get down into the basement, and used the back service entrance to get to the southern parking lot.

As they got in and Mike was powering up the vehicle, he hazarded a guess about their predicament. "My only guess is that I wasn't the one being followed."

"How can you say that?!? I'm not the one receiving death threats, here! You know, I've taken great care to remain "incognita" ever since I left college – I didn't want anything more to do with politics, and those silly elites from back home. And look what you've done? You've put me on their hit list!"

"Would you please calm down?" He paused, waiting and hoping for an obvious sign that she had complied with his request. "Just remember, I've been known as Frank Levitz since I left Seattle. And they could have only found you through the fact that I sent you that email the other day. Now, think for a moment. Have you registered for anything that connected your identity with that alumni email account?"

She slumped in her seat. After glancing at the picturesque scenery they were leaving behind. "There's certainly one thing. That car. God damn it. They found me with that? Whoever hates you, Mike, has good intelligence resources at their disposal. You must've really pissed someone off to get us into all this trouble."

"Tell me about it. We're making a stop at the University of Maryland, here in College Park. I need access to the Internet – and it can't be from some place obvious like either of ours' home or office."

"You think they've bugged my stuff?" she asked with disbelief.

Mike did not hesitate to give his answer. "Bennita, if they had the time to blow up your car, they've had the time to bug your house."

"SIR, I'VE LOST them. Neither Michael Adams nor Bennita Jones took a room in the hotel, nor did any of their credit accounts get used in taking one. And after her car was destroyed, she didn't come out and wait for the police or the insurance company, as we expected. Too many people were watching the blaze to notice if anyone left the hotel that didn't look out of the ordinary," the lady in sunglasses said into a microphone as she glanced into a mirror.

Walt replied, "And the security cams?"

"The cameras caught nothing. All I could see from them were several routine rentals coming and going. None of them in either person's registry," she said as she applied some blonde dye to the browning roots of her otherwise bottle-blonde appearance.

"So you're at an impasse?"

"Basically I am."

"Alright, then. Stay in town and watch out for any electronic sightings of this Bennita Jones character. She's a close friend of his and not to be trusted for that very reason."

"Yes, sir."

ONE THING THAT Mike had always liked about the University of Maryland's College Park campus was the way it was built. If there ever existed a stereotypical American university campus, UM at College Park is pretty darn close to resembling it. Expansive courtyards, and beautiful architecture filled the landscape; the massive parking lots did little to hide the charm. Even the newer buildings were in keeping with the old, almost colonial style of the buildings.

I still feel a pang of guilt for not considering coming here for college, Mike thought as he drove Bennita through the main campus and into a parking lot next to the main computer lab. But at least I live close enough to come and visit.

Even during nice weather such as today's, getting to the computer lab was a chore, but at least there were plenty of people around to cloak the duo in anonymity. And as luck would have it, there were enough computer desks available to let them select one off in a corner away from public view. While the computer was loading, Mike pulled his tablet out of the right pocket of his jeans. And he couldn't help but think: I can't believe I'm wearing jeans again! I really like this disguise!

He shook off the distraction and plugged his tablet up for a direct link with the computer. He then turned to explain what he was about to do, for Bennita's benefit.

"I'm going to have the computer run a substantive content analysis of my manuscript using the most common descriptors, and run that against a character map I wrote to guide me through the process of writing "A True Gator Party."

She looked slightly confused. "What, if anything, will that accomplish?"

"If successful, I will have created a list of people that I may have, in their view, mocked or placed in a negative light in the fictional portrayals of their characters. It's a stretch, but if this person is mad at me-"

"Mad enough to try and kill you," Bennita interjected.

"Right, if this person wants to do that, and seems to be responding to the success of this book and the new movie being produced, it has to be because of what I may have done in the fictional story linked with his or her character. Or in the way I presented the group he was affiliated with. But honestly, this guy acts like a loner, someone intensely upset with my success, so it must be a personal thing."

Mike began the analysis he just described, even as he listened to what she had to say. "Definitely makes sense, and you can rule out a lot of the people right off the bat for that reason alone. You didn't make fun of a lot of people in this book of yours; you mostly attacked the lengths people go to in order to get ahead on campus. Not exactly a novel concept or one particular to our alma mater."

"Duh. That's why I can't understand why anyone would go this far."

While they were waiting, Mike decided to check his messages. Thank you, Paul, Mike thought as he toggled through the boring or the junk mail. Smartly, Paul had set up all of Mike's messages to be forwarded to a message box set up for 'Frank', and placed a firewall up to prevent any outsiders from tracking where those messages were sent. It was a relatively simple procedure, really.

The only messages that caught Mike's attention were one from Adam Ruppesberger, who reported the expected – the FBI had few leads, and were now focusing on protection for the principals, and trying to track Mike down for his own good. The other message, from his sister Anne, was more of a stream-of-consciousness rant about the insurance settlement for her garage, a non-too-pleasant complaint about her premium, and a happy report about the free media for her campaign.

Flashing lights on the computer notified them when the procedure was complete. It took far less time than either of them expected, in part because the traits normally associated with personal attacks were few and far in between in the manuscript. Yet, it did organize the list of characters based on being presented positively or negatively. Mike retrieved his tablet from its temporary docking port.

"Alright, we've got the list. Time we talk about strategy," Bennita said, confident that her old friend would seek her guidance. Mike rose and began to leave the lab. Bennita scrambled to keep up. "Mike? Did you hear me? Let's talk about this together."

"I don't think that'd be such a good idea. You've been through enough as it is."

"Mike, you saw what those people did to my car. For what it's worth, I am no longer able to hide behind a hospital job. This may be a personal fight with you, but your antagonist has also caught my attention. I'm in this for the long haul."

"Are you sure?" he said as he turned to face her in the middle of a small courtyard outside the lab and in the middle of three other classroom buildings. The afternoon sun was already showing signs of fading into dusk.

"Did I just pee on your leg and tell you it's raining? Of course I'm sure. I'll do this, but I'm doing it for you – not for me, for you. And you clearly need all the help you can get, if you are to succeed. It's time we catch this guy."

### Chapter Thirteen

_JOURNAL ENTRY - BEN Burns. They say college is the best time in your life. Perhaps they're right. The people I meet here in the next few years will either stay with me for the rest of my days, or at least stay in my memories. It's hard to believe any of these people will mean more to me than my high school buddies, but I guess that'll be proven with time._

_Speaking of interesting people, these Student Government types are much more interesting than I expected. They actually engulf their passions into this stuff. During an interview today, I overheard several of them talk angrily about their opponents, the ones that use a leadership honorary to dominate campus politics. It's this shared disgust for that elite that seems to bind all these folks together, even though they are a varied bunch. Only time will tell, though, if these people, in the pursuit of power and prestige, turn on each other..._

PAUL ADAMS HEARD a beep from his computer and closed the book before finishing that beginning chapter. As he took his feet off the corner of his desk, he could not help but think critically about his brother's successful book. Now I remember why I politely bought the book, but never read it. Too many self-absorbed elitists; and my brother is no better for befriending them. He turned to the monitor and accepted the results of the latest computer test....

_BEN BURNS AND Anthony Capolli were good friends. In many ways, they made a good political team. Ben was the idealist; Anthony was the deal-maker. In one little-known incident, they almost conspired to put Ben up as a candidate for student body president. Their idea was that of a decoy. Ben's plain ambition would be fused with his claims for a "vision" of governing to create mischief as a third force in the election. Once a runoff was made necessary, the duo would become kingmakers._

_Their plan was not to be. It didn't fit well with the strategies the opposing sides put forward and Ben had yet to make his mark with a strong electoral win for Student Senate. So, the idea was shelved and never seriously revisited. Yet, the fact it happened showed that when he was compelled, Ben would consult with his friends on a daring strategy to resolve perceived conflicts..._

THEY WERE IN a non-descript diner in the middle of nowhere. The guy at the booth, pulled the sunglasses from his flannel pocket. Before hiding his hazel eyes, he asked his female companion one last time. "Are we clear on this?"

The African American let loose a chuckle that revealed her raspy voice. "Of course. It's pretty simple, if you ask me. Let's just hope it works."

"And don't forget. Our best guess is that this person is enflamed by what's in this," the guy said as he patted a paperback novel that rested on the table. "Use it as a guide, but trust your own memories of Florida's past as the truth that will solve this mystery," he pointed out.

"I will. And give my regards to that old building when you get there," she said.

"Don't forget, Bennita. That building is graced by your permanent presence there."

"But don't remind me of that fact!"

He gave a wryly smile as he got up to leave the diner. "Oh, and Mike?" He turned to face his life-long friend. She insisted in a way that reflected honest concern to "Be careful." He and pushed open the glass doors.

ADAM RUPPESBERGER WAS not often a patient man. The situation in Gainesville had gotten out of hand since Mike Adams had made his discreet exit about a week ago. The press gaggle had turned into an angry swarm, as what once was a quaint effort at a political film has turned into a national investigation. Fans turned from appreciative to inquisitive, blaming Adam for Mike's disappearance. FBI-assigned bodyguards shrouded a once-brilliantly-open set on campus with a bit of a mystery, full of secrets not unlike the Student Union the film is set in. And the unplanned hiatus of production did not help matters for the actors and crew with projects lined up after this one.

So, the easy-going former fraternity brother was beginning to lose his patience with those around him. That is why he finally relented and chose to give this speech, to quiet the whiny crowds. Yet, allowing the Student Government to host his event forced Adam to revisit a part of his life that he had out-grown a long time ago. Indeed, of Mike's circle of friends in campus politics, Adam was one of the first to admit his feelings and make a hasty exit out of politics. He did not know it, but Adam's decision played a role in Mike's eventual departure as well.

They even moved the usual meeting place for the Student Government to accommodate an expectedly large guest audience. It was an auditorium with a raised, semi-circular stage, and seating that was remarkably level all the way to the back end. Unfortunately, the acoustics of the room made even normal speaking echo in a way that simultaneous conversations easily turned cacophonous. As the SG members filed through the front to pick up papers, a loud and obnoxious audience from the press and local community had filled the back of the auditorium. Several faces were notable to Adam, including a hunky college guy with brown hair and blonde highlights; a very fat Asian couple; and a middle-aged guy with black curls, covered up by a baseball cap, and a plaid shirt.

The student presiding officer asked for silence as he gaveled the meeting into order. "Please calm down, especially those members of the press here today," he said with a confident delivery uncommon for a college student. A couple flashes of light showed that photographs were being taken of this event.

The student leader continued virtually without pause. "For the convenience of all of us concerned, I am allowing our guest speaker tonight to jump to the front of the agenda. Many of you know him. He was an alumnus at this University, and even a successful veteran of this organization. After graduating, he left the state and found his true love – film. He is currently working on a joint production with a fellow Gator alumnus. Perhaps you have heard of it? It's an adaptation of the best-seller "A True Gator Party." Please welcome to the podium Mr. Adam Ruppesberger!"

The student leader let his hands drift from the gavel long enough to join in the applauding. Adam walked up the short steps to the stage, and stood at a podium to the left of the table set up for the presiding officer. He gestured with both hands, hoping to calm down the fans and to slow down the flash photography. "Thank you, please..." he said.

"I'm not here to make a long soliloquy. Nor am I here to have a press conference on Student Government's time. I am here tonight to address some of the rumors, questions, and concerns that have developed in the last week," he said in a way that hushed the crowd.

"My current project with Mike Adams will continue. We have a movie, a great story really, to tell to the world, and we won't let any punk prankster stop us," he said to cheers and applauds from the student section of the audience. "I think it is a damn shame that anyone would go so low as to threaten some young actors for working on a project that one disagrees with. I also think it's disgraceful for that same perpetrator to follow Mike to his sister's house and attack him there."

"When did we become a country that crushes dissent with violent opposition, rather than the power of ideas? If you dislike our movie, provide your alternative point of view. Being able to do that is what made this country great three centuries ago, and keeps us going on today. All this person has done is to attract the attention of the federal investigators, and it is only a matter of time before he is brought to justice!" Adam said as calmly as possible.

The speech went on for a few minutes longer, and touched on other matters of little consequence in the grand scheme of things. After he concluded, the presiding officer declared a recess, and many – particularly the press - followed Adam into the hallway and lobby area just outside of the auditorium. Maybe this will get us some positive publicity, after all, Adam thought.

The crowd that surrounded him was mostly students seeking autographs on everything from scripts of his previous works to paperbacks of the Adams novel to even t-shirts. The press didn't feel hampered by the youthful appetite for celebrity sightings.

One of the local reporters, Timothy Cunningham, fired off the first question of the very short Q&A session. "Why did you do this speech? And as a follow-up, what made you choose this venue?" Adam continued to sign things as this conversation began.

"Well, Tim," – Adam was on a first-name basis with this guy by now – "I just got fed up with the persistent rumors and the, uh, the sense of doom, okay, that clouded this project since Mike travelled to Portland. As for the venue, I didn't want to, you know, give up an opportunity to visit a familiar part of my college days, while giving a speech that was about those years."

Another reporter began his line of questioning when the guy in the baseball cap broke through the circle to hand Adam a sheet of paper. The guy told him, in a gruff voice, to read it. The paper was a print-out from Mike's movie script – a scene involving the Ben Burns character that wasn't even printed yet for the cast and crew. It also included a blue scribble that read: "Fame and shame are as one in this hall. Meet me there in twenty minutes."

Adam glanced up in the direction that the guy went, but he was already gone. Adams quickly became convinced that, in all likelihood, Mike Adams had been in an auditorium full of reporters, fans, and FBI guys, and had not been noticed or given an ounce of attention as he left. If only we were all that lucky, Adam thought with amazement as he ignored the other reporters and made an effort to leave the building.

THE HALL OF Fame used to be a hallway of fame. Once located on one side of the infamous Third Floor of the Student Union, row after row of pictures were hung in recognition of past student body presidents and other recipients of the prestigious honor of being in the Hall of Fame. Fairly recently, in response to the growing demand and growing population of pictures, the UF Historical Society sponsored a fund-raising drive to create a literal Hall of Fame – a single-room, free-standing building devoted to the memories of those alumni who graced the room with their pictorial presence every day. Occasionally, the curators of the space would showcase a particular individual; this month's spotlight was, as expected, Michael Adams – whose fame during in school was for his encyclopedic knowledge of SG policy, which is now eclipsed by his ability to spoof his experiences.

Some students and alumni jokingly call this the room where fame and shame meet because many that got into the Hall of Fame got in through less-than-stellar methods. For example, there is at least one former student body president, depicted in Mike's novel, who gained several advanced degrees as she waited everyone else out to gain the top spot in campus politics – rather than getting a jump start on her career.

When Adam got there that night, the moon-lit reflections off the nearby lake were making a great visual from within, given that most of the walls were actually large windows with views of the Lake. He easily spotted his reason for being there – Mike was leaning against the rail looking into the second-floor display room where the Hall spotlights various alumni.

"What's up, Mike?" he asked, peering around the door as he walked up the stairs and stepped into the display room.

"I was that obvious?" Mike said, trying to sound aloof.

"Not at all! I only guessed it might be you because of the paper you used to deliver the note. Your disguise worked well, but how did you return to Gainesville undetected by the authorities – who are still looking for you, by the way?"

"I must not have told you my little brother is a computer programmer. He gave me the opportunity to shift identities momentarily."

"How long does this work?"

Mike turned to face his old friend. "Well, the fake identity will probably expire when the feds conduct their weekly network sweep, which my brother said happens in a few days. The costume, however, can work as long as I can stand it," he said with a smile.

"And what brings you here, other than to see me speak?"

"Heh. I'm here to take my life back."

"You're going to confront this guy?"

"Yeah, as soon as we can identify who he is."

"We?"

"Adam, this might come as a shock to you, but even a former congressman cannot do everything on his own. I've thoroughly pissed off a Gator alumni to the point that he or she chased Bennita down and blew up her car."

"He did what?"

"It's true. I was talking with her when it happened. The line must be drawn here. Not any further. But if I am going to draw him out into the open, I'll need your help. Especially since you are an expert in tiny cameras..."

BENNITA JONES WAS being as polite as she could with Aimee Jackson. Aimee was a bottle-blond Jewish woman who was quite at home being a district attorney in southern Florida. She was near her home, the weather was nice, and she was making a difference. She's even had a chance to dabble in politics, although she fell short in a bid for the state Senate three years ago. The last thing she wanted to hear was that a guy in her past wanted to know if she held a grudge.

"Oh, please. I liked Mike. I honestly felt he did what he had to do, and I respect him for it. I don't think the novel was too inaccurate. I mean, I did earn several advanced degrees while studying at UF...."

BEING BACK ON the third floor of the Student Union gave Mike's stomach butterflies. Not because he thought he'd be spotted – his disguise was still working better than he could hope for – but because too many bittersweet memories were had on this infamous floor.

This all changed when he saw the Student Senate office. It was well-lit by the mid-morning sunshine, and was humming with active computer use. Sitting behind the front desk was a sight for sore eyes – Brenda Freddies.

Brenda is the secretary of the Student Senate, a job she has held for more than twenty years – and you could tell. Every wrinkle, each gray hair had a story to tell of misdeeds, silliness, and corruption among the students that came and went through that office. They confided in her – for as many secrets as she let slip through her lips, there were many more that she kept hidden.

Her longevity and the willingness of student leaders to tell their secrets to her made what she knew indispensable to the task at hand. It also didn't hurt that she arrived before just about anyone else to the third floor and thus Mike could escape too much attention by making his visit then.

It took her a second, but she saw right through his disguise. "What can I do for you, Mike?"

"Actually, Brenda, I'm here for a favor."

"Okay," she said with a laugh that revealed her toothy grin.

"You're not going to like it."

"So? What else is new?"

"I need to find out who holds a grudge against me."

"You think I can help you identify this stalker of yours? It's entirely possible, although you are crazy if you think my memory will be the only thing you need to search."

"Why is that?"

She took a deep breath. "The answers you seek will be found there," she pointed toward the offices of the infamous leadership honorary that dictates, behind closed doors, much of what goes on in Student Government.

"How can you be certain?" Mike asked earnestly.

"You can't just dig into your novel for the source of that threat that has emerged. You have to dig into this University's past, for all its shady dealings, corrupt practices, and worthwhile endeavors. Once you truly understand your history here you will understand what the present has in store for you."

He shook his head. "I was afraid you were going to say something cryptic."

### Chapter Fourteen

_THE POLITICIANS-IN-TRAINING FELT compelled to blur the lines of friendship and politics. If you were a personal friend, you were expected to be politically loyal to one another. And it worked the other way. If you were adversaries, you could not be friends. This caused a lot of heartache as elections neared, when scores of politicos were forced to choose sides that strained friendships and – in a few minor cases, ended intimate relationships._

_Ben always liked to think he was an exception to the rule. Yet, that was not to be. In his final campaign, a friend of his was running for student body president with the Campus Party; another, closer friend was joining the Gator Party ticket on the number two spot. Ben was torn. Eventually, he joined the Gator team, but that was not the end of it. Many of his younger friends were on the Campus side, and he had more fun chatting with them. Yet, because of the moles on both sides, he was accused of spying. And even when he sat near the Campus party presidential candidate during an ethics hearing, and engaged in conversation with him, Ben was given a true grilling by the other side._

_He did not need that kind of grief. These were all his friends, to one degree or another, and he saw their hypersensitive loyalty test as an unneeded element of campaigning, but a true sign of where his friendships stood. That incident crystallized everything for him, and reminded him of why he will soon give it all up..._

AS MIKE ADAMS remembered him, Kyle Schiff knew how to handle people. For that reason, he loved his job as a hospital administrator. It gave him real power to help deliver life-preserving care to those who needed it most; he was making a real difference in people's lives. It was a feeling he had not enjoyed even as an advocate in the battle to defeat AIDS, and only truly felt once before, as a teacher shortly after graduate school in Florida.

When he got the message from Mike that he wanted to meet, he was unsure of how to react. While in college, they had a unique and contradictory working relationship. Kyle was the charismatic leader; Michael was his behind-the-scenes policy wonk. As Mike tried asserting himself as a student leader, Kyle was reluctant in his support, but also reluctant to explain why. Yet, they remained good friends throughout, and, as many would attest to, their way of working together functioned better than most partnerships.

Kyle didn't care for Mike's new book simply because the character clearly but loosely based on him put too much emphasis on his flamboyant personality and willingness to act abrasively with authority figures. That did not stop him from agreeing to talk with this former college friend all the same.

"Hey, Mike," Kyle said, greeting him in a hectic public entrance to the hospital in Orlando. "Let me show you around, and make our way to my office to chat."

"Alright," Mike said softly. At least very few people will recognize me here in Orlando, he thought.

They began walking through the lobby area that doubled as a spacious arboretum, and tried their best to ignore the very loud rustlings of hospital patients and guests. An occasional doctor or resident acknowledged Kyle as they walked by. An assistant stopped him long enough to grab a signature before scurrying away. They turned a corner, and there was Kyle's office, appropriately marked in the center with his name and job title.

"Okay, Mike, what's going on?" Kyle said in an uncharacteristic desire to get to the point quickly. He wanted this confrontation with his past over with.

"Well, no doubt you've seen the news."

"Yeah, you and Adam are hitting it off," he said with a roll of his eyes.

"It's just for the movie," Mike said defensively, knowing full well the history Kyle and Adam shared in college, and Kyle's disappointment that marked their graduations. "But it's more than that."

"Of course. You're on somebody's hit list."

"Right. Brenda thinks-"

Kyle perked up and changed his attitude at hearing about the old professional secretary. "You spoke to Brenda?"

"What else could I do? It's clear whoever wants to do me harm has a connection with what was said in the book. And Brenda thinks it has something to do with that leadership honorary you and I never really liked."

"Are you suggesting a network of current and former student leaders in Florida are being used to undermine a film that makes light of their activities? Come on, Mike, even those people aren't self-absorbed enough to do something like that."

"They did that sort of thing while in college. How different would it be to blackmail someone in "real-life," especially when they know where to strike? But the question I had was whether you knew anything about this?"

With a sigh, Kyle crossed his legs, and said, "Please, Mike. You of all people should know I have a problem with confrontations. It's just unneeded stress, and I can't deal with it very well. Besides, I like what I am doing now. I have no reason to see any of that change."

"I can see that."

"Mike, your real problem is not going to be finding out whether this leadership honorary has the time, resources, and motive to engage in these attacks. It's pretty clear they do. What you have to worry about is what they will try to do to you if you get too close."

"You can't be serious."

"You better hope I'm not. Remember, they chased fraudulent drivers, spied on their own members, and did everything in their power to shut down the extracurricular careers of those who opposed them. If – and this is a big if – they are willing to engage in activities outside of college, there may be no limits to what they will try to do."

Mike shook his head, disbelieving in what Kyle was saying. Kyle may not still trust me, but he seems certain that Brenda's instincts are correct. This can't be good. Mike did not know what to make of it, but it was unusual that Kyle trusted Brenda's point of view that readily.

BENNITA JONES DID not know George Avelli very well. His rise to prominence in Student Government occurred almost concurrently with Bennita's decision to disappear into her work at Shands to finish her doctorate. Their political lives were thus on very different planes of existence, which is fitting, because their goals were very different. She sought power to implement her ideals; he sought power to gain notoriety and self-importance.

Her few memories of him suggested a very strange little guy. An Italian-American, his catholic upbringing made him very interested in union politics, but also made him conservative on social issues like abortion. His trademark look included very short (but not quite crew-cut) hair, and over-sized Henley shirts. He was at one point a strong proponent of the politicians-in-training that composed the leadership honorary, but left when they failed to deliver on several promises.

He earned Mike's trust very quickly, and within months joined Mike in his short-lived New Democracy Party effort. They remained political allies for a while, until Mike abandoned campus politics all together to make a move to Georgetown University. They rarely kept in touch since.

Bennita was meeting with him, although he did not know it, because he showed up on Mike's list. Like Kyle, Mike had exaggerated a character's personality flaws that mimicked George's own issues. They were meeting at the gift shop within their alma mater's Museum of Natural History.

Based on what she remembered, George was easy to spot amidst the crowd that was filing out of the lecture hall of the museum. She waved her hand in the air, and energetically tried getting his attention. She did.

"George, right?" she said over the voices of those around them.

"Yep. It's been a long time, Bennita."

"Well, we've all been busy since college."

"I suppose."

"Then what have you been up to?"

"I've got a job with the School of Natural Environment, here. I help conduct computer tests involving everything from communication equipment to sophisticated pH testers. Anything we can do to study jungle life, basically," he said with a detached indifference.

"Well, that doesn't sound too far from what I do. I still work with hospitals and their radiological equipment. Anything we can do to study radiation, and the like,"

"Right."

"Anyways," Bennita said as she gestured a suggestion of moving away from the increasingly packed gift shop. As they walked, Bennita continued. "I do have a reason to talk other than just this reunion we're having."

"It's not about Mike's situation," he said hesitantly, with a noticeable pang of sadness in his voice. George wore his feelings on his sleeve, and that made upsetting situations hard to deal with for him.

"I'm afraid it is."

"Is he in any danger? Why isn't the FBI helping to protect him?"

"Mike thinks he is in so much danger that he had eluded the FBI in an effort to lead an independent investigation into this mess. What I wanted to know is if you knew anyone who would want to do this to him?"

"Oh gosh, I don't know. If we're talking strictly people from college, I really can't think of any. Sure, he made plenty of enemies with those in the leadership honorary, but he also gained their respect. And his book is such a parody of life on campus that I really can't see how anyone would take it so seriously. I mean, even people like me have lives built around something completely different than politics, and we could care less if he gets rich off it. I'm just a little mad that he didn't consult any of us on it," he said flatly.

Bennita nodded as she began stepping down a flight of stairs with George. He seemed to dismiss the whole notion of this incident a little too easily. He practically shrugged off its importance, despite the threats involved. She could not help but wonder why that was. It left a nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach.

ADAM RUPPESBERGER REMEMBERED having a strong sense of respect for David Snyder, even though at the time he shared a popular skepticism about David's involvement in campus politics. Many saw David as an ambitious Jewish kid whose rise to power came not from taking over an existing organization (such as the Jewish student union) or some policy expertise, but creating a whole new organization from scratch with dubious intentions. That's not to disrespect his philanthropic endeavors; David now professionally runs a national charity called Buddies Forever that promotes volunteerism in pediatric and geriatric hospitals. It's just that some saw his efforts to promote the group as also a way to promote himself.

Of course, David would simply answer his critics by pointing out that people believed in what he was doing and joined him in accomplishing those goals. Very few are lucky to build an organization from the ground up and then use its popularity for general good use.

When Adam asked to meet with him, David at first suspected that Adam was changing his mind and wanted to help the organization with a sizeable influx of good Hollywood money. That is why, when Adam arrived at BF's national headquarters in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, he was disappointed by the more modest $250 donation.

"Now that we have the re-introductions over with, what is on your mind, Adam? Surely you are not here to discuss your current project with Mike."

Adam shifted in his chair as he looked across David's desk. "Actually, I am."

"Why is that? Wait, let me guess. You guys are trying to play detectives and solve a whodunit mystery before the bad guy does more harm," he said, exuding confidence before running a hand over his wide, toothy grin.

"Exactly. If you could find fault with Mike's book, what would it be?"

"You mean, aside from the fact that one of his characters was a well-known volunteer that became successful in campus politics, much like I did?"

"Was that a problem for you?"

"You certainly picked the wrong place to start your investigation. Sure, it was not a flattering parody, but I've heard worse over the last 15 years. So what if I ended up joining that leadership honorary after he left? I also never pursued a lot of things you guys thought I would. I have no idea who would take time out of their life to play pranks on him, but I am too busy running this organization to do anything like that. As a matter of fact, I only skimmed his book, and I am not sure, frankly, whether I'll watch the movie. I just don't have the time," David insisted.

Adam made a mental note of the subtle anger David Snyder expressed over the parody of himself, and his attempt to dismiss this investigation. Even with all his doubts about David's alibi and professed lack of a motive, he just could not see the professional philanthropist as a would-be killer. To counter that theory, Adam thought, Maybe he had someone working with him as an accomplice.

MIKE WAS IN his car, fresh off his conversation with Kyle, trying to apply his costume once again. I can see how this is could get old very quickly, he thought as he struggled to put his black curls back on.

The sound from his phone indicated he had not one, but two incoming calls. He checked the clock and said out loud, "Right on time," just before he pressed the button that brought up both callers as a conference call.

"Alright, it's unsafe to keep this going long," Mike pointed out to his two allies, Adam and Bennita, who were both in vehicles fresh off their interviews. "So, we all know the rendezvous point. And I trust we all will have plenty to confer about when we get there."

"Indeed," Adam said in agreement.

"Let's just hope it is all worth it, Mike," Bennita cautioned.

Mike did not hesitate to state what seemed to be the obvious. "If not, then we are in a lot of trouble."

### Chapter Fifteen

_IN THE COURSE of political events at the University, some incidents that gather press attention confirm the worst in the politicians-in-training that dominated Student Government._

_Both sides of the campaign to save the Academic Council's budgeting authority engaged in hyperbole and silly stunts to highlight the flaws in electing the other side. Despite the high volume of negativism, it actually turned out to be the most genuinely competitive election in a long time with the highest turnout of actual votes cast in almost a decade._

_The reason for the unusual outcome was an incident that occurred on the third floor one fairly routine day. Ben, Eric, and Wayne were conducting official business for the Academic Council when they noticed an unusual piece of mail. Inside a manila envelope, someone left one black rose and a copy of what looked like a Student Senate bill._

_"My God, look at this!" Wayne exclaimed, as Ben and Eric struggled to get a glimpse of what the bill proposed to do. It proposed eliminating the Academic Council. Scribbled in the margins with red letters was the phrase "Continue campaigning and this will be passed."_

_Someone was willing and confident in their ability to try and destroy a large student organization in the name of defeating a political opponent. Truly scary stuff for college students to do to one another, Ben had thought at the time. Unfortunately, in time, Ben would learn that Wayne and Eric had actually planted the threat of terrorism to their organization in a bid to gain press attention and make their opponents look bad – simply because it was a believable possibility._

_Who would have thought a Student Government election could result in something like that? Apparently, even the idealist underdogs could be underhanded when they needed to be..._

MIKE STOPPED READING out loud for the benefit of his partners-in-justice, and closed the novel as he waited for their thoughts on the subject he just rose in reading that excerpt from his own novel.

"Well, there are two possibilities. One, that either Kyle Schiff or William Ose are replaying their old games," Adam suggested.

"Or," Bennita interrupted, "someone else wants us to think so."

"Right. Will did not make my list because I did not use him as the basis for any meaningful character in the novel, much less make fun of that character, outside of what I just read. I don't think an error of omission would drive anyone to commit heinous crimes such as the ones we are dealing with."

"But he did make an effort to get into the leadership honorary, and you did reveal a truthful and nasty secret of his in here. We have to tread lightly," Adam pointed out.

Mike turned to Bennita. "Alright, then. I think it'd be best all the same if we talked with him. You know him better than we do, Bennita. Seek him out; I think he is a congressional staffer now."

"And what will you be doing?"

"The last few people on my list haven't been productive. Adam and I are going to go through what's left of the list to screen out unlikely adversaries. I think we'll find Will is not our suspect, but hopefully the would-be killer is on this list."

"Agreed," she said as they all rose from their meeting place, and went their separate ways. Time to reach out and touch someone, Bennita said as she began making the arrangements for a flight back to D.C.

WILL OSE WAS a cunning, calculating sort of individual. Back in college, he quit as a pledge to an influential fraternity when his ethics stopped him from accepting a well-plotted career path at the University. Instead, he began working with the Academic Council and its subsidiaries to build an alternative power base. He used them in a bid to split the establishment, and kept it split until an acceptable leader, Aimee Jackson, was elected student body president. He even postponed leaving Gainesville until completing a law degree in order to see his plan through.

After making "a killing" as a lawyer who lawfully manipulated federal statutes, a few years back he took a pay cut in order to be a part of the team that wrote federal statutes. He now works for a very influential subcommittee chairman in the U.S. House. Therefore, when Bennita Jones called, while he was thrilled to hear a friend from college calling him out of the blue, he did not know what to expect, and tried not to pin down an ideal time for the two of them to chat. Somehow, though, they made it work by having her catch him as he was leaving a committee hearing and was walking back to the office to prep for another meeting he had shortly thereafter.

His 3-piece suit and leather briefcase was hardly unusual, although his slicked back hair was something new. Bennita was not sure if she liked it, but she was glad to see him nonetheless. "Will!"

The two of them hugged before he asked, "How are you doing?"

"Good, good. And you?"

"No complaints. We just had a very productive hearing in there about the future of space-flight and the need to commercialize some touristy visitors to it. The future is now, and I like what I see."

"Did you like what you saw in Mike's new book?"

He scowled at the thought, especially since his old friend didn't waste any time reminiscing. "I don't know what you mean. Should I be happy for him in that he's got Adam working on a movie version and that he's made more from that than either of us could hope for in a lifetime?"

"That's hardly what I meant by that," she said.

"Oh, you mean did I like the book itself. I will say I was a little hurt that he did not ask for my help when he won a surprise seat in Congress a few years back. And I am a little surprised that his book did little to mention the influence of law students on campus politics."

"Is that all though?"

"Oh, Bennita, if I wanted to do him harm, I would not be nearly as cowardly as that idiot who sends threatening letters and runs over actors. I would slap him with a lawsuit so fast his head would spin. And in that way, I would make him pay for getting rich off the lives of his so-called college friends," Will said with some uncharacteristic anger.

"Well, that's reassuring," she said with a bit of sarcasm.

"Trust me, he made enough enemies both in college and with this book for his obvious contempt for the way things are done in politics that I would not need to make such an overt attempt to undercut this new project he's got going. I'd be more worried that Kyle's jealousy over Adam's involvement in the project would cause problems."

They made it around the final bend of the mundane building toward his congressional office before he continued, "We all know, however, what can happen when someone begins to relive their past; they can get obsessed," Will said. They were now in front of the door to his office, and he spun to look at his former friend directly. "Bennita, it was great to see you again. But you've got the wrong guy. I have little motive, too much at risk, and quite frankly little interest in seeing that smug face lost on the world," he said before he darted into the cramped room, leaving Bennita there standing in the middle of the hallway as several giggling interns ran in the opposite direction to fetch their Member's lunch.

He should have known better than try to lead us down another path in a bid for misdirection. She shook her head. I'd never thought Will could even fathom such an act, but then, why try to blame a friend of yours unless you are guilty and trying to shift the blame? She began walking toward the security checkpoint at the end of the hall.

Behind her, Will stuck his head out of the office door to watch her moving away from him; he was on the phone talking, but just wanted to make sure she knew her way out.

"I COPY THAT, Walt. I am getting into position now," the lady in sunglasses said as she leaned down into a convenient spot on the roof of a multi-level shopping center adjacent to the building where Bennita lived.

"Now, remember, she left Capitol Hill a few minutes ago. That gives you a window of maybe twenty minutes to accomplish your current goal, remove the evidence from the scene, and wait for her to return," Walt said in between signal outages.

After ending the conversation with him, she put two gloves on that happened to match her black outfit and hat. Next, she opened the box beside her and reached inside.

BENNITA'S FAVORITE PLACE to sit, drink coffee, and read the newspapers was at the Cosi on the corner opposite of where she lived in D.C. Her block was a relatively quiet, almost deserted part of town – especially during mid-day. This made it an ideal place for rest and relaxation, when she got the chance to do so.

For her reading pleasure, several newspapers and magazines were laid out in front of her. Her steaming cup of coffee was also resting off to the right side of the table. The first news item she picked up was this week's edition of Time Magazine.

Inside its red borders and below the title lettering was an interesting pose by Mike Adams, positing a triumphant individual standing large over a few cartoon-like scenes of his alma mater, vote-buying, and placard-waving parades. The headline read: "Party Patrol in the Swamp", with a sub-heading of fine print that read "How a Former Insider Took Aim at His Colleagues."

She flipped to the cover article, and began skimming the words Ashley Woodard had written about him after her two "exclusive" sit-down interviews. A lot of this expose was already well-known, but there were some insightful lines here and there. Among them:

"Despite being the only member of his circle of friends to make it as far as an unlikely term in Congress, Michael Adams seems to contradict himself (and Ben Burns) in the writing of his best-selling novel. Like his alter-ego, he gave a speech at the end of his Student Government career declaring "no regrets" over his time spent there. And yet, he returns to his past and makes fun of it, as if he had regrets over the worst of it, and wanting to recapture the spirit of the better of those times."

She also wrote on the investigations into incidents on the set of filming his movie: "With no leads and miniscule clues to work with, federal investigators are doing their best to help crack a case that threatens to permanently shut down plans by Mike and his college friend, Adam Ruppesberger, to make a movie out of the better-written parts of the book. Several incidents, including the bombing of his sister's garage, have led these investigators to suspect that whoever wants harm done to him has a very passionate, personal reason to do so; as if making fun of college would expose too much truth about their own lives to allow it to make it to the silver screen."

Two beeps from her phone pulled Bennita's attention away from the magazine article. Mike was calling at the pre-arranged time.

"Hey, Bennita. Did Will have anything enlightening to share?"

She cleared her throat in disapproval. "No. He sounds like all the rest of them. They have plenty of reasons to not like you, but they all plead that they lack the interest or time to act on their hate. Will is only different because he tried to pin the whole thing on a fit of jealousy by Kyle for your working with Adam."

"I actually wondered about that myself, but Kyle did not seem eager to confront me about the whole thing, which is true to his nature. I doubt even a severe mood swing could bring him to such a sweeping conspiracy." Bennita leaned back in her chair until her head rest against the window of the coffee shop.

"Now," Mike continued, "I have been looking through this list and have some very promising leads..."

The window began vibrating, as if the decibel level outside had reached unprecedented levels. She then heard a strong, piercing sound that sounded like gunfire. She looked toward the source of the sound, and saw the windows to her apartment breaking. "Mike, I gotta go!" she said in a rush as she clicked the monitor off and bolted out the door of the Cosi.

When she came around the corner entrance of Cosi, she saw her apartment was on fire, surely an electrical one caused by a stray bullet. She dropped to her knees in despair. "My home?!?" she cried out in a mix of anger and sadness, just as something clicked insider her. She began running toward her apartment building, for there was just one thing clear. Mike's antagonist would be at the scene of the crime. Maybe, just this once, she would have enough luck left to place this guy under citizen's arrest.

But Bennita could not find him or her. No one suspicious was found at or leaving the scene. The few people she could find were bystanders watching the fire burn, no one with evidence to bury. She glanced up at the street light on the opposite side of the street. At least that tiny camera caught everything on tape, Bennita thought with relief at Adam's little miracle.

THE FIRE CREWS and police came just as swiftly as the press. You see, the press keep police scanners in their news bureaus just in case they can scoop any breaking stories about crime in the area.

This time, however, Bennita saw the media as a welcome distraction from her dramatic loss. That is why she allowed a gaggle of them to surround her and begin pelting her with questions about the incident.

"Can you describe it?" one youthful reporter said, eagerly waiting to press his pencil against the notepad in front of him.

"The gunfire was powerful enough to rattle the windows at the Cosi," she said as she pointed in the direction of the coffee place. "That's all I know."

Someone stepped forward; she was a figure that seemed familiar, but Bennita couldn't figure out until the lady dressed in a black business outfit spoke. "Ashley Woodard, Time Magazine. Do you think this incident has anything to do with the incidents in Portland and Gainesville over Mike Adams and his new novel?"

Startled a little, Bennita did not know where to begin. "Well, Ashley, that's tough to say. Unlike Mike and his actors, I have no connection with his novel or his movie. So, I really don't know why anyone would come after me, except that I am one of his friends. And I think that's a pretty lame excuse to go on. I honestly hope it was just a gas leak that sparked an explosion. Either way, I guess I have paperwork to fill out..." she trailed off; hoping her brush off would break off the question.

"But isn't it true that Mike has initiated an independent investigation and begun speaking to select individuals from his college days in hopes of finding this criminal? I've got confirmed reports of his sighting down at an Orlando hospital speaking to an administrator there. And there are rumors that even Adam Ruppesberger was scheduled to visit a philanthropist in Fort Lauderdale-"

"Ashley, Mike is doing the only human thing possible for him to do. Being attacked, he is aggressively trying to pursue his antagonist by gathering as much information as he can on the people he knew best in college. I'm sure if Mike wants to speak with you about, he will contact you. Now if you excuse me, I really do have insurance papers to fill out," Bennita said as she broke through the circle of reporters and headed in the direction of the police.

Ashley hung back as the other local reporters stampeded after Bennita, hoping to get one last statement for the record from the newly identified victim in these waves of attacks. She knows more than she is letting on, Ashley thought as she pulled out her phone and dialed Joe Walters, Time's Editor-In-Chief.

As she waited for the connection, Ashley stuffed her notepad into her purse, next to her favorite black gloves and matching hat. "Joe, I think I have a lead on this story," she finally said.

"Good. You have a deadline, go get me the news."

### Chapter Sixteen

_DAWN JENNINGS FOUND out the hard way that, on occasion, the best place to hide for a well-known politician-in-training is in full view of the public. When Ben had allowed her to campaign to him, before the spectacle of her party's table collapsing in a heap of mess, she had no idea who he was or what he was doing there. She just assumed he was another anonymous individual roaming the Plaza, and rightfully so because she would end up talking to several dozen more voters that afternoon._

_Still, when he walked Dawn back to the Gator Party booth, he shocked her by casually talking with Nicola Jackson, the presidential candidate. "What?" Nicola has responded, "You don't know who this guy is? He's a current senator supporting us,"_

_It was perhaps that scene, more than any other, which crystallized things for Ben. Despite his best efforts, and occasional press attention, he was still a virtual unknown on campus. In some ways, knowing that was comforting to Ben; in others, it was a disheartening reminder of the futility in being involved in Student Government..._

IT HAD BEEN more than three weeks since the episode began, and Mike was getting frustrated. His best lead in the investigation, his list of possibly disgruntled former colleagues, had been exhausted with no clear suspect, or even solid clues to build upon. He was now less than a week away from his high school reunion with the cloud of doom lurking behind every corner. At a standstill and spending more time in Gainesville, he even relented to a duo of FBI agents keeping a guard on him as the official investigation also ran into dead-ends. While this involved giving up his disguise and coming out of hiding, at least he could take comfort in knowing there were professionals present to prevent bodily harm to happen to him.

What really kept Mike up at night was not this failure to identify who it was that was after him. Rather, he was uneasy about the lack of any new threats or incidents since the dramatic explosion that took Bennita's apartment from her. Between them, Adam and Mike ensured that she had a place in which to recover and – more importantly – file her insurance claim. After that, nothing else had happened to give them any clues as to "whodunit", as the old board game put it. Not knowing what would happen next bothered him more than the immediacy the threat had imposed on him earlier.

So, he did his best to stay calm within the safety of his apartment. When that failed, and it did on a daily basis, he would travel over to the University campus for some fresh air and hopefully some relaxation.

He would occasionally be spotted at a picnic bench, hunched over a number of legal pads and his trusty tablet computer. Fans would interrupt him politely for an autograph – anywhere would be good enough for some, although others would reach into their backpacks and grab anything from the recent Time magazine article to a promotional poster for the movie.

This particular day was like any other. He sat at a picnic bench on the north lawn, underneath a large oak tree that certainly was older than most of the buildings on campus. This weekend venture was actually quite peaceful; none of the usual fans to disturb him. Nonetheless, the slightest bit of unusual sound distracted him.

In fact, he almost had a panic attack when he heard the loud, low hum of a jet airplane drifting overhead on a routine flight. His fears were justified, of course. The surveillance equipment Adam installed across the street from Bennita's apartment (something he also did at Mike's house) revealed the use of a sniper rifle. Unfortunately, the footage was unable to capture the identity of the assailant, or even provide positive proof that it was one of those well-publicized high-tech weapons recently stolen from an armory near D.C., as Mike and Bennita suspected.

I wish this guy would show himself already, Mike said frustratingly as he struggled to put the finishing touches on his reunion speech.

Being out in the open of a deserted urban meadow was too much for Mike, so he decided to move indoors. For good measure, he headed up to the fourth floor of the Student Union, which was the sight of some of the most exclusive dining rooms on campus. He always liked the gourmet buffet, and luckily the restaurant had changed little in twenty years.

It wasn't the pleasant atmosphere or the constantly busy customers, or even the food, that Mike loved the most. The restaurant offered a rare balcony that revealed one of the most visually stunning vantage points in northern Florida. After being shown to his table, and having ordered his beverage, he stepped out onto that balcony.

From there, he was able to catch a proverbial bird's eye view of campus's high points, including the Century Tower in the middle of campus to the stadium on its northern side and Shands Hospital on its southern side. Even some high-rise dormitories made it into view. He took a deep breath of genuine relaxation before heading back inside.

He picked up the plate left at his table and made a straight shot toward the northwest corner of the restaurant (from the point of view of the balcony), where the buffet stood. His determined steps, apparently, were much too fast for this southern culture, because he immediately crashed into a short blonde, sending her to the floor. She went spinning as she fell, leaving her face to the ground while laying at his feet, only a few inches away from the shattered remnants of his plate.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I wasn't looking!" he tried to explain, as he helped lift her off the ground through her one out-stretched hand. She flipped her mop of hair to one side, revealing her identity.

In so doing, she also figured out who had sent her reeling. His concerned expression turned to surprise when he blurted out, "Ashley? What the hell are you doing here?!?"

She began brushing herself off, and peeling shattered china out of her hair. The two of them then stepped back to Mike's table to give the waiters an opportunity to clean the mess they just made. His body language once they were seated suggested impatience, so she finally gave in and offered to ameliorate his stress over this encounter.

"Hey, Gainesville grows on you. My editor gave me some time off and I decided to spend it here, since he wants me here to witness your reunion speech next week anyway. It's not my fault this restaurant is filled to capacity and you don't watch where you are going before you crash into people," she said with an attitude clearly justified, in her opinion, by the physical and verbal bruising he seemed destined to inflict on her.

"Let me see if my memory is still clear about this. You first interviewed me shortly before the attacks on my cast began. You then participated in the press conference that preceded the first threatening message. You followed me to Portland despite my best efforts to keep my departure under wraps. You were then in Seattle-"

"Hey! That was completely coincidental. I had no way of knowing you would end up there. As for Portland, I had a job to-"

A raised hand foreshadowed Mike's decision to interrupt her. "Let me finish, ok?"

"Fine," she said, lifting her hands in surrender to his wishes.

"I saw you in Seattle, and you happened on the scene of Bennita's apartment. Now you crash into me here, just days before my reunion speech. How the hell are you managing to end up everywhere I am at when something big happens to me?"

"If it made you happy, I would declare my undying love for you and admit to being a stalker. But that's just not the case. Believe it or not, Mike, you are the news man of the hour. No one cares about budget surpluses, political polls, or even space flight. Readers are utterly fascinated by your trials and tribulations as you try to out-spin the political establishment of college campuses everywhere. And it's my job to follow the news, wherever it goes."

"That sounds awfully convenient, if you ask me."

"Mike, call me a suspect, I don't care. I have no motive, and you know it. If you can't accept it, then I will have to leave," she said as she rose to her feet. "Now, if you allow me to end this paranoid interrogation prematurely, I have to check in with my editor now."

His lips parted, but before he could utter another word, she stormed out of the restaurant. Even if she has a weird ability to keep track of my movements, god damn, she's hot when she's angry, Mike thought with a shudder. He rose once more, but this time was more careful about his trek over to the buffet line.

Needless to say, Mike found it extremely difficult to eat after speaking with that spit-fire reporter. He left the restaurant and the Student Union on an empty but disinterested stomach. It took everything in his power to drag his feet (and by extension the rest of his body) across campus to his car in the alumni parking lot.

A fairly modest structure, at 2 stories, the Lombardi Alumni Parking Lot was convenient for most alumni, as it exited across from both major libraries and collection facilities. For this reason, the parking lot was fairly busy, even on (or especially because of it being) the weekend.

When Mike finally reached his car on the second level, it felt like a sight for sore eyes. It quickly became a sore sight for eyes, however. Plastered against the side window to his twin-seat vehicle was another manila envelope.

Unlike previous incidents, he did not get nervous or face a panic attack. He felt a sense of relief. Finally, the bastard shows himself, Mike thought as he reached for the envelope. He pressed the FBI "panic" button, alerting his watchers to step out of their shadows, lest any mysterious figures wished to do him harm. And then he tore the seal and ripped the envelope open. Again, the black letters stood out nicely against the tan backdrop of the stock paper. It read as follows:

NO ONE IS SAFE. NO GATOR, NO RAM, NO ALUMNI OF THE OLD INDEPENDENTS SCHOOL. IT'S TIME FOR SOMEONE NEW ON CAMPUS. HOW'S THAT FOR A LEAD?

All Mike could think about in response was the anger had faded from this guys threats. Now he's toying with me.

And finally, one of his guards, Brandon Lee came running, with his pistol drawn from its holster. "Mike, you're not safe here!" he said as he scanned the area for any possible blind spots from which a sniper might fire.

"Why? What's with the gun, Brandon?"

"Mark," Brandon tried to explain as he dragged Mike by the arm, "is dead. My partner is dead. We have to get out of here."

Mike was dumb-founded, but gave in to his guard's demands. As they ran off, Mike pulled out his tablet and typed a message to Bennita and Adam, one that will certainly get their attention for its brevity and sense of confidence.

"We need to implement plan Adams Beta. There's one guard down. But I believe I know who the stalker is."

### Chapter Seventeen

_ELECTION NIGHT IS a ritualistic reunion unique to the political world. Ben's favorite time of the campaign is Election Night, and not just because it marks the end of the campaigning or that all he and his friends can do now is wait for the results to be announced. Once campaigning was over, the tradition among the politicians-in-training included everyone gathering in a Tortilla Grill restaurant that was large enough to fit them all, and hang out together as friends, even if they had bitterly fought the campaign that just ended._

_These guys and girls, as Ben watched on, always and quite humorously fell into a drunken stupor as they celebrated (or squelched) their feelings, before and after the announcement. One vilified individual, after the infamous filibuster to protect the Academic Council, even came to Election Night sporting the horns of the Devil._

_Essentially, Election Night was a way for all concerned to put the campaign behind them and reunite their fractured establishment, or restore friendships. But in an interesting twist, to protest some the debate-stifling practices of the establishment, Ben's New Democracy Party once broke with tradition and failed to arrive at the usual meeting place. It caused quite a stir and actually generated the most news out of an otherwise predictable Election Night. And all it took was some early planning, a determined effort to stick it to his opponents, and support from his allies..._

IF YOU ASKED Mike twenty years ago, he would laugh at the prospect of showing up at his high school reunion in a limo. His working-class upbringing made such success a difficult picture in his head. Yet, here he was, and while this situation would normally result in deep relaxation and satisfaction, Mike was too busy to notice.

"Uplink complete," his tablet intoned. Mike double-checked the computer; sure enough, all 4 surveillance cameras were set up at their prearranged locations. The computer then verified their battery level. Seeing this person on tape will be better than a confession, he thought.

"Mike," Bennita whispered from her mouthpiece inside the reunion hall, "I've set up the scanners in the main hall and outside the main entrances and exits. Your computer should be able to detect any abnormal metal." This, of course, should give them a clear indication of whether and where the high-tech rifle is being used.

The FBI has already cleared the area of any conventional threats that may have been planted inside the building in the days and weeks leading up to the reunion. So, it was all left to Adam, who would keep a close eye on those camera feeds throughout the night and report anything suspicious to Bennita, who'd keep herself busy but inconspicuous.

Mike chuckled to himself. I never thought I'd bring two dates to my reunion. It's just kind of sad that riding home with them won't mean the same thing for me as it would for everyone else here.

STEPPING OUT OF the limo was easy, thanks to his driver's help. As soon as Mike's head peeked out from behind the window, however, the flashing lights of cameras snapping pictures came fast and furiously. Aside from the fans littering the frontlines of the crowd and the happy applause of the adults, Mike had to contend with an already audible echo of music from the main hall, and an ever-present press gaggle.

"Mike! Mike!" pleaded one reporter.

"Mr. Adams!" tried another as Mike made his way up the red carpet.

"Sir!" A third reporter failed to get his attention.

"Can we get a statement from you?"

Mike turned to see who it was. Seeing her again is...intoxicating, Mike thought, but chose to act like he didn't see Ashley. Instead, he set his eyes down on the skinny Timothy Cunningham, who was leaning over the ropes and getting uncomfortable from it. Mike stepped toward Timothy, allowing a couple of doctor-types to pass by while trying to ignore the spectacle.

"It's been twenty years, Tim. Some of these people I last saw during Graduation Day. I really look forward to seeing them again, and I hope, aside from that, we have an uneventful evening," he said over the noise of the crowd.

Timothy looked up from his notes and instantly asked, "Are we going to get advance copies of your speech?"

Mike laughed heartily. "I'm already here, aren't I?" His face then gave off an unusually evil grin. "Besides, I haven't even had a chance to finish writing it yet!"

The press went berserk over this, but he allowed himself to leave it at that, giving that group of chirpy rumor-grinders something to chew on while he went inside.

MIKE COULDN'T QUITE call it a "blast from the past," but the view from within the reunion hall certainly brought back memories. The old yearbook staff had decorated the hallway leading up to the main auditorium with blown-up pictures from the yearbook (of course) and from those sent in by the alumni in the past few weeks.

In one photo, a couple friends were dressed in drag – with Mike off to one corner in the scene with a facial expression that clearly effused great amusement over the sight. Ah, the silly video in English class. Wasn't I dressed in drag too, at some point in the making of that video?

A couple others were humorous in an ironic sort of way, such as photographs of couples kissing who, shortly after the photograph was taken, went through messy break-ups. Some group photos even caught Mike's unfortunate experimentation with hair dyes – shortly before highlights became fashionable again.

Mike's steady pace through the building lead him to the table set up in front of the auditorium. Some pimple-infested teenager handed Mike a name tag, but before he could protest that the kid didn't know who he was, Mike saw it. A poster was resting on an easel that displayed the program, and on this poster was a small photo of Mike and the line explaining he was the keynote speaker. Damn, my fame can't be forgotten even here at my reunion, he thought in slight disappointment.

The entrance to the reunion was complete with double wooden doors that easily surpassed nine feet tall, and had elaborate handles at stomach-level for opening them. The music had become a subdued whisper as live music was replaced with "easy listening" CDs. There was little to hear from the other side of the entrance except the conversations being held by his former peers.

With a deep breath, Mike reached out and opened both doors at once.

"INCOGNITA, THE PATRIOT is set to sign the Declaration of Independence," Adam said into his microphone, as he and his accomplices in this little endeavor switched to use of coded language, lest anyone be eavesdropping.

"Got that. I'll look out for John Hancock," was the reply.

With that, Adam Ruppesberger sat back in his chair and turned his attention to the other camera screens. He reached for his coffee. He muttered to himself, "This high school surely pulled out all of the stops to honor this graduating class of Mike's."

"WALT, THE CHILD has entered the sandbox," the blonde lady said into her cell phone as she waited outside of the reunion hall. "Should I bother joining the party now?"

"It will be less noticeable than if you didn't. Don't blow your cover, and remember your cue. I will contact you again in three hours. I expect a successful mission. It's time that Mike pays for his misplaced priorities and wasted idealism."

"Gotcha. At least we already know what the headlines will say tomorrow."

"Right. As if I care about the media. I care for results!"

JOEL MICHAELS WAS a Jewish nemesis for Mike through much of their high school years, although they patched things up during their senior year when Mike mellowed out his attitude and sought a better reputation. They lost touch almost instantly despite sharing the same major in college because Joel opted for Harvard for an undergrad education and Mike opted to stay in town for his.

The two of them did meet briefly nearly ten years later, when Joel participated in a fund-raiser for Mike's nascent yet successful one-time bid for Congress. Otherwise, seeing Joel at the reunion was the first time they had spoken at length in almost twenty years. Joel was now a successful lawyer who served the state legislatures in Boston and in Tallahassee, while occasionally acting as a consultant for DC-based lobbyists seeking to run grassroots and Astroturf campaigns. He was married with one kid in high school herself and had a townhouse in Boston.

This time, Mike insisted that they keep in touch.

BRANDON LEE WAS in constant contact with Adam. This was needed because Brandon and Bennita worked to reinforce and clarify what Adam was seeing through the surveillance cameras. Brandon was prepared to use every ounce of muscle he had developed in his athletic body. However, he was praying with the rest of them that nothing would happen tonight that would cause any more pain and suffering over what was, in his view, a pretty trivial thing. He still couldn't believe anyone would go through this much trouble just to protest a film that made fun of Student Government or a book that was, essentially, a striking indictment of unnecessary campus elites.

Nevertheless, he enjoyed this assignment. If for no other reason than that it was a big, public event that would have lots of witnesses and make it difficult for the culprit to knock someone off without getting caught.

"Paul Revere is checking in," Brandon said softly into his hidden microphone.

"The sky is clear," Adam replied.

"Where is he?" he said to no answer.

UNBEKNOWNST TO TINA Johnson, Mike had feelings for her back in high school. Eyeing the wedding band, he decided to keep that fact buried when he walked up to her and began a conversation.

"Tina!"

"Mike," was Tina's characteristically unenthusiastic response.

"I'm glad you can make it," he offered.

"It's our reunion. You might have the surprise best-seller in our class, but that's not something I care about. You will always be a politician in my book," the diminutive, dark-skinned woman said.

"I'm not about to start defending myself like it's high school all over again, Va-" he began uttering an old nickname based on a Star Trek character, but was stopped by a quick gesture that suggested disapproval for even the attempt.

With a huff, the professional author made a bee-line for a circle of closer friends. Even after twenty years, Tina has not changed.

ASHLEY WOODARD WAS not a happy reporter. Her technique was no longer working on him. Her prize-winning method of getting her subjects to open up in interviews was trust, humor, and genuine warmth – while still knowing enough about the subject to pierce through jargon and spin. Yet, Mike's paranoid delusions had broken that bond of trust, despite any emotional connection that their earlier encounters had generated.

I know I can really get at the heart of him, if he just let me, Ashley thought as she entered the reunion hall. She took a slow and widening glance across the room, and noticed it had an outer-loop of space on the second floor allowing its inhabitants to look down into the center of the hall. She had to check out that view.

After all, the keynote speech was going to be given at any moment now....

A TALL, SCRAWNY, old man made it to the center of the stage at the front of the reunion hall. He lightly tapped his champagne glass into a microphone to get the crowd's attention. Shawn Walton was, by all accounts, a strange educator. When Mike and his high school friends were coming through the principal's school, he was practically obsessed with the classic film "Rudy," which told the heroic true story of an underdog finally fulfilling his dreams through hard work.

"Quiet, please," he pleaded with the crowd. The crowd cooperated. "I want to welcome all of you to your 20th Anniversary Reunion at Eastside High School!" he said in his squawk-like voice. The alumni applauded; some hoop-and-hollered in celebration. "As you know, despite a certain class clown," he said to some knowing laughs and a good-natured pat on the back of the obvious target of the joke, "you were my favorite graduating class. And I am happy to have this one as my final reunion party as principal of Eastside High," he said to patronizing cries of despair.

"I am also extremely happy to introduce to you your reunion's keynote speaker. He's a member of your graduating class. He's an alumnus of Georgetown Law. He's a former congressman. And – and! – He has recently written a best-selling novel that is about to be made into a feature film. I want all of you to join with me in welcome to the stage our very own "Rudy," Mr. Michael Adams!" he said as he turned to the side and began clapping.

When Mike emerged from stage left, the crowd immediately burst into applause, which was received with a great big smile of acknowledgement from the speaker. He immediately began waving for them to stop. "Please, stop!" he requested.

As they finally began quieting down, Mike drew in a big breath. He was unsure of what his classmates would think. But more importantly, he never really did get around to writing his speech. So he was even unsure of what he was about to say. Ah the thrill of public speaking, he thought before plunging into the biggest moment of his life – the chance for redemption for the good reputation he had lacked in high school.

"When we graduated all that time ago," Mike began, "we were called the promise. The great promise of a generation. From their high hopes and great expectations, our teachers, our families, our neighbors all figured we had what it takes to succeed. Friends, I am here tonight, on this very special of occasions, to declare firmly and boldly, that we have delivered on that promise."

Loud clapping and chirping accompanied that remark, with a bunch of people in their thirties proudly accepting the praise, and waiting for more. So far, so good, Mike thought....

"SO FAR, SO good," Bennita said to Adam.

"Yep. No signs of any disturbance. And he's delivering a killer speech."

"Did you help him with that?" she asked the former literature major.

"Actually, I think much of it is ad-libbed. This whole situation had kept him distracted from writing a speech," he said in utter amazement.

"God, if he wrote speeches like that in college..."

"I don't know, Bennita. He gave us all hell with the message, even if the messenger had flaws. Alright, keep your eyes peeled. If this person is going to take aim, it's going to be when Mike's under a spotlight and up on a stage away from everyone else."

"IT'S BEEN A CHALLENGE, but we have risen to the occasion. Over the last twenty years, many of us have proven that we can handle any challenge put to us. And I am confident, as we continue on the path to leadership across this country, that we will deliver once again on the promise we made back at Eastside, and which we are renewing here today. Thank you and good night."

And with that, Mike concluded his remarks. He hung back politely as he received a standing ovation from the audience of his peers. After a few seconds standing on stage, he made a break for the steps, to get back among the tables, engaging his classmates in conversation.

BRANDON LEE WAS now definitely agitated. Anytime would-be killers miss their obvious opportunities, it usually means they are aiming to outwit their victims. "Adam, be extra vigilant. John Hancock is nowhere to be found, which means he's probably right under our noses," he said as he strolled through the second level area, passing by numerous, boring one-on-one conversations. He continued to keep his gaze down in the center of the ground floor, where Mike stood – shaking hands, laughing, and finally enjoying himself.

THE BLONDE WAS definitely impressed with her weapon of choice. The rifle, which had the best silencer and scope ever made, not only needed not worry about walls, but could be easily concealed over the live band that was playing as the reunion's entertainment. The loud procession section of the jazz band was particularly useful in masking the rifle's louder components.

She pulled it up so the scope was in front of her right eye. The skylight would do wonders for her little stunt here. Without a second thought, she released the safety on the weapon. Now is my chance to end this thing right here, right now, she thought with confidence as she checked the barrel of the gun....

BENNITA WAS DIRECTLY behind Mike, sitting at a table quietly have a conversation with a lonely, forgotten Eastside High professional who had volunteered to help out at the reunion. It was an interesting conversation, but her attention was more focused on her crystal glass. She loved to play around with crystal, trying to get a cool combination of tone and rhythm out of a series of glasses. I wonder if I could play Twinkle, Twinkle on these things, she thought with a chuckle....

MIKE SHOOK HANDS with an old classmate of his, a Christy Anderson who happens to be a T.V. anchorwoman for a Jacksonville television station. Nice woman, Mike thought. It's a shame I never really got to know her in high school. His gaze quickly fell on the table in front of him, however. On it, in a conspicuous place, was a manila envelope. "Adam," he whispered, "I've got another envelope in front of me."

"Take it. This probably means your stalker chickened out of the ordeal," Adam replied in quick order.

"Alright," Mike said as he stepped forward abruptly and reached out for the blank envelope. He pulled out the letter, but quickly discovered it was not quite like the others. The paper upon which was typed the anonymous message was light turquoise in color.

The "whirl, whirl, whirl" sound of crystal being played was slowly getting irritating, but it was the crash of that crystal while Mike was reading that caught his attention. Mike turned, and found a shocked Bennita sitting in front of the shattered remains of her musical instruments.

Brandon Lee blurted into Mike's ears, "I believe your culprit is on the roof. And that one was either a warning shot or a miss. Get out of the area. I'm heading after him."

All Mike could do is to take a quick glance at Bennita before stepping calmly toward the staircase. Bennita followed his lead....

SEVERAL PEOPLE SAW Mike and Bennita run up the stairs, copying a route that an athletically built individual had just made. Naturally smelling gossipy news in the works, a small crowd made a break for the stairs, led by the quick-acting members of the media....

WHEN MIKE AND Bennita finally got up on the roof, they were joined by Adam, who was out of breath from the sprint he made from his undisclosed location. They all saw Brandon struggling to keep the culprit down on the ground, face-first.

The individual was clearly feminine, based on the longer curls and obviously bottle-blonde appearance. Mike inched up to Brandon and the culprit as Brandon's new partner raced up to help him. Mike was not surprised by the sight, but still could not believe his eyes.

"Ashley?!?"

The culprit squirmed, but refused to answer. Instead, a loud reply came from behind him. He turned and saw a crowd had formed at the top of the stairwell. "Yes?"

"What?!?" Mike said as he did a double-take. "But I could have sworn...."

"That I was your possible suspect? Please, Mike. I can get a story without resorting to being the one to create the news," she said assertively, with her hands placed on her hips for good measure.

She walked up to him, just as the FBI agents pulled the suspect up onto her own two feet, but with her hands cuffed behind her back. "Well, Ashley, you got to admit that there's a remarkable resemblance."

The FBI agents then broke through the crowd to lead the weapons thief away for questioning. Murmurs and quiet conversations began peppering through the crowd. Mike may have started the night off with a bang, but someone else had stolen the show for these people.

Bennita chimed in to the discussion. "Perhaps there's too strong of a resemblance, Mike. Maybe this culprit, whoever she is, wanted Ashley to be blamed for everything that has happened to you."

Adam reached out and placed his hand on Mike's shoulder. "There's a more pressing issue, however. Did she, or will she confess?"

Bennita nodded, and asked to no one in particular, "Was she working alone?"

Adam then remembered what Mike had said before this incident started. Perhaps the answer to all their questions would be found in that envelope Mike was still carrying.

"What did the message say this time?"

### Chapter Eighteen

_SHARING THE WRITTEN word is a practice older than modern politics. Yet, as Ben Burns once found out, it may not always be a good practice to uphold, especially when it concerns the press._

_When Ben's New Democracy Party campaign was being launched during his senior year, he had leaked to the campus media a copy of his campaign platform. True to his nature as a policy wonk, Ben gave an extensive packet to the press, including a cover letter that amounted to a stump speech. In it, he declared the previous lobbying efforts by Student Government on "student issues" were "an utter failure. They have had their chance to lead. It's now our turn."_

_The swift backlash from the SG establishment was remarkable in that it exposed a raw nerve on the issues Ben raised. Even Senate President Nick Atlee felt compelled to make a public speech denouncing a "campaign of negativity" about the past. It was a personal insult to Nick; he was the former SG lobbyist that contributed most of the energy and passion to those lost causes._

_The NDP's campaign platform, then, provided a key lesson for Ben in his dealings with Student Government leaders, who the premier leadership honorary on campus. Ego sensitivity proved to be a pre-requisite for campus leadership, especially when security over someone's future was at stake..._

BENNITA, ADAM, AND even Ashley peered over Mike's shoulder as he opened and read the blue-tinged envelope once more. The distinct, yet mysterious message read as follows:

"The one you are seeking is not the one you are looking for. After all, being independent can sometimes mean being dependent on a different sort of people. Do not despair; while this puzzle is not anywhere near solved, you will find that the solution will have been here all along."

The group struggled to make sense of the note. While it provided some answers, it posed a lot more questions.

Adam was the first to postulate a theory. "I think this message is pretty clear," Adam said.

"What are you thinking?" Bennita asked.

"Well, first, this blonde sharp-shooter was behind the weapon's theft. She was also responsible for the numerous violent attacks we've been witnessing. But this message answers your question, Bennita. She was not working alone. If we are to believe this message, she is only one member of the conspiracy."

Mike nodded. "This thing isn't over, people."

DETECTIVE RICHARD MARX wiped his brow with a handkerchief before tossing it to his assistant Jimmy. The damp cloth broke Jimmy's stare, watching in awe in the corner as the FBI agent, Brandon Lee, worked the suspect.

"I don't believe you. What were you doing at the Eastside reunion?"

The blonde suspect mumbled her repetitive reply.

"I can't hear you!"

The interrogation continued with none of the dramatic flair that Jimmy had hoped.

YET IT SUITED Mike just fine. Using the see-through mirror in the adjoining room, Mike watched as his would-be assassin weathered the storm of questions, mounting pressure, and lack of any end in sight. Bennita spoke up, ending the silence of their viewing room.

"Any progress on clues from that new message?"

"All the FBI has figured is that it means she isn't working alone. That's why they are interrogating her. But I don't think she's going to budge any. Meanwhile, I've cross-referenced our previously determined list with references to an "independent.""

"Why that word?"

"I believe whoever sent this most recent message was sending us a secondary message with that word," Mike said as he turned to face her.

The expression on her face quickly changed, as she caught on. "After all, being independent can sometimes mean being dependent on a different sort of people," she repeated from memory.

"Exactly. This message was intended to help us complete our search, to get to "the end of this puzzle.""

"So? What did the search result?"

"There are only a few people that were possibly insulted by a character in my book, as we both know. But that list shrinks so small I can count with the fingers of a single hand, those who were, at some point or another, one of us."

"One of us?"

"Bennita, you are the guardian of independents, as we so fondly called you back then. We need you, now more than ever. One of our own has turned against us."

"THIS IS JANE Danziger, at the CNN news desk. We have some Breaking News for you. Police officials in Gainesville, Florida, have confirmed reports that a local reunion reception, attended by author Mike Adams, was attacked last night. And they have apprehended a young woman believed to be responsible for the incident, as well as many others connected with a stolen piece of weapons technology. Sources close to the investigation are not commenting, but it appears that the investigation is on-going. Here is what Mike Adams had to say."

"It's a great sense of relief for my family and all my wonderful, supporting friends and fans to know we are moving forward with this investigation," Mike said as he made his way down the steps of the Police Department.

"But doesn't this resolve the investigation?" asked a random reporter.

"We have reason to believe that this woman could not steal that weapon by herself. So the FBI and the local police are taking every precaution to ensure my safety, and indeed the security of all Gainesville residents. Now, if you excuse me, I have errands to take care of," Mike said as he struggled to wade through the gaggle of reporters and photographs.

"I'M SORRY, MRS. Jones, Mr. Schiff is unavailable."

"Where is he? I must speak to him immediately!"

"Sister, don't you take that tone with me."

"Then you won't like me when I'm angry. Get me in touch with Kyle this instance!" Bennita roared in frustration. That was enough to shake the little Caribbean girl out of her seat and off to one side of the office. I should try that more often, Bennita said with a grin, which was quickly replaced – she could have sworn Kyle's office was to the right of the secretary's desk, so why did the young twit head to the left?

"I'm sorry, Miss, but I'd lose my job if I interrupted Mr. Schiff's day with a visit from you."

The turnaround shocked Bennita. "From me, or from any-" and as abruptly as the conversation began, the receptionist ended it. Damn.

NOW, SURELY WILL Ose will talk to me, Bennita thought as she searched for his phone number, even if it is about this situation with Mike. She felt this way, not just because their previous conversation went so well, but also because many saw Will as the guy who tried the hardest to teach Mike how to campaign. So, perhaps he could provide some comforting news about this killer they found.

"I'm sorry!" the perky, 18-year-old staff assistant said as she greeted Bennita's digital image from the front desk of Congressman Jeff Smith's office. "Our LD is out to lunch with a long-time supporter of our Member. Can you call back another time?"

Bennita pounded her fist on the desk. "No!"

"Well, can you leave a message?"

"No, no message," she grunted before clicking the conversation to an end. Why is everyone out to lunch today? She looked at the very sunny day that enticed her to come out to the balcony for a quick look.

"NO ONE WAS available to talk, Mike." Bennita dropped down in the empty chair at the police station.

"What about Roberts?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "Who? No, he's a Greek. He couldn't be the independent we're after."

"Really." Mike had completely forgotten one of his better college friends was a Greek. "What about Gates?"

"No, Mike, he pledged Delta Chi just after you left."

"Well. That really only leaves one more person to try and reach on our newer, abridged list. Good thing he still lives and works in Gainesville. And if that yields nothing, we can always go back and persist with the ones we already missed."

Brandon Lee spoke up from his corner. "All the same, Mike, I think it's time you let us professionals step in. There's no way to tell what these guys could do if they actually saw you face-to-face, given what they have done from far away."

"Perhaps you're right, Brandon. There you go. Have at him," Mike said, handing the FBI agent the last sheet of paper from his stack. On it was the name of the possible suspect, and his local address.

"Alright. But first things first. Let's see if this name sparks anything with our thief over here," he said as he got up and made his way out the door.

THE NEWEST SUSPECT was supposedly on his day off. So, Brandon took two members from the local S.W.A.T. team to surround the house the guy lived in. It was a small building, but it had a garage and enough yard space to encircle the place. Even the front patio was larger than it should have been given it was a simple one-story house, perhaps no more than 1,000 square feet. Painted a pumpkin-orange, it was a charming little place.

Brandon knocked on the front door with his left hand. A warrant rested in his right hand. He knocked a second time, but found that it came open fairly easily. He gestured to his teammates to make their moves. He did the same; he walked right on in.

MIKE WAS TYPING away on his computer, trying to put some words down on proverbial paper. The Gainesville Sun was offering him an opportunity to write an article about his experiences, and he at least wanted to humor them by considering how he might go about doing so.

The computer chirped, alerting him to an incoming message. He pressed the appropriate button to bring up that screen. An obscure user had written the following:

"Your FBI buddy is too slow. He will soon rejoin his partner."

On the bottom of that instant message, a blinking set of digits sat in the center, which turned out to be hard for Mike to read. That is, until he saw a 20 turn into a 19, which turned into an 18....

BRANDON WAS TIPTOEING through the kitchen when his phone vibrated. He fumbled for the phone, and saw it was a text message. But a loud crash distracted him. If it weren't for the explosion that followed, he might have had a chance to read Mike's warning....

BENNITA TOOK IT upon herself to visit the suspect's supervisor. Matthew Wallace was an older, grandfather type professorial character, complete with the long gray beard.

"Thank you, Dean Wallace," she said in accepting a cup of tea.

"Not a problem at all," he said with a faded British accent. "Please sit," he said as he took his own cup of Earl Grey around to the other side of the desk. "What is it that is on your mind?"

"Dean, I'd be wasting your time if I didn't cut to heart of the matter directly. There is an issue of highest importance. One of your employees may have conspired to protect, at any cost, some of this University's most darkest secrets."

"Oh?"

"And I need to stop him."

"DETECTIVE, WE KNOW her accomplice, and we think we know where he might be," Mike said into his phone and in between gasps of air as he and Bennita hurried their way through the maze of the police parking lot. "We're on our way in right now," he answered, despite not hearing the question.

As luck would have it, the Detective was waiting for them when they pushed through the front doors. "You Yankees think yall smarter than them feds?"

"Yes," Mike answered confident as he slammed a crumbled sheet of paper down on the front desk. "My true stalker is as good as found."

The obese detective skeptically picked up the note, and peered at its contents. "I hope you're right," he said before turning to the receptionist and began rattling off instructions.

THIS WAS JIMMY'S first major field operation. His adrenaline was pumping in his veins, and the butterflies were fluttering in his stomach. The three vehicles made their approach in an undercover fashion – no sirens blazing, no lights flashing – yet Jimmy could not help but let his excitement shine through.

"Naw, Jimmah, ya know how ta fire a gun, right?"

"Yes, Detective Marx."

"Good. If ya keep up ya silly behaving..."

"Yeah?"

"Don't be 'fraid to use it on yaself."

THE LARGE WAREHOUSE they arrived at functioned as a greenhouse next to the Natural History museum on campus. Unlike last time, the policemen ignored all pretense of stealth and barraged through the front door.

Detective Marx called out. "Show yaself."

"Why?" the suspect said as a shot went wild off into their direction. The detective's deputies sent some bullets off in reply as the detective and Jimmy ducked.

"Because it's all ova. You've lost."

Jimmy jumped up and squatted back down. "I think I saw where he's at."

"Who says? You're the ones trespassing my property!" the suspect said as another shot rang out.

"Detective, he's getting a better aim with each shot," a deputy observed as another shot knocked over a nearby potted plant, illustrating his point.

"Detective, I can do this!" Jimmy insisted.

"No heroics, Jimmah."

"You know me."

"That's what I'm talkin' 'bout," he said as he reached out to stop his assistant from leaping into the air in the direction of the suspect.

The suspect saw him coming. With the gun in his left hand, he kept the other policemen at bay with a sudden spray of bullets, shattering a tulip nursery behind them. With the gun in his right hand, he kept a focused eye on his incoming target.

"It's just you and me," Jimmy yelled out as he squatted back behind some rosebushes.

"Then show yourself," came back the reply, which was punctuated by a round of bullets that tore up Jimmy's shield.

"Alright," Jimmy said.

What Detective Marx and the suspect did not know about Jimmy, however, was that he was once an avid member of National Rifle Association. So, Jimmy felt confident that, upon coming up from behind these bushes, he'd able to quickly obtain a clear shot and take it against this violent suspect.

He was wrong.

He could not anticipate the suspect's reflexes – with two guns. Three bullets rang out simultaneously. Less than a second later, Jimmy's shot grazed the suspect's left collarbone. Meanwhile, one of the other bullets landed on the lower-right-hand corner of Jimmy's torso. The other bullet struck north of his lungs. Both fell back, and onto the ground in response to the shooting.

And before the suspect could get back up on his feet, two deputies had him surrounded, facing down the barrel of two pistols. Jimmy, on the other hand, was not so lucky.

While the torso shot was blocked by his body armor, the other bullet had dug deep into Jimmy's throat. A pool of dark-red blood had already swelled up underneath the young detective's body. The detective knelt down next to him. Jimmy tried raising his arms to grab his boss's hands for help, but he felt a rush of coldness, and his arms became weighted like anvils. He tilted his head to cough, but could not even muster the energy to eject the blood swelling up inside.

He died on the greenhouse floor that day.

### Chapter Nineteen

_EVEN UNDER STUDENT Government's loose definition of competence, there is a limit. Every once in a while, someone's inept handling of a controversy could generate its own controversy, worthy of front-page treatment in the campus newspapers._

_Gary Smith, a member of the Greek establishment, was not a stranger to the task of leading the Student Senate down a path it did not want to go. His views on the budget and election law were either ahead of his time, and too academically smart for the politically pragmatic bunch on the third floor of the student union. Even so, every now and then he would lead a segment of the Senate down a path that few before him would have ever dared, even among the so-called "independents."_

_One night, after repeated incidents of apparent incompetence from the supervisor of elections, he caused a firestorm by calling for the Supervisor's impeachment. The "I-word" was almost unheard of in SG, but the well-documented failings by this particular official had reached critical mass, and a majority of senators were widely predicted willing to vote "aye" on his removal._

_The startling turn in the political landscape had brought back the adrenaline in a tired Ben Burns. "Tonight reminds me of why I got into campus politics," he exclaimed to a local reporter as he sought to regroup with like-minded senators in a room adjacent to the Senate chambers._

_Eventually, Ben would forge a compromise resolution that admonished the Supervisor's poor judgment and required paper ballots only for that election. It was a rare defeat for the establishment._

_One individual that attended the Student Senate meeting remarked on the disorder by comparing the establishment's inability to "control" their members with the now-characteristic lack of unity present in the independent camp. Except the independents were prone to bitterer, more personal parting of ways..._

MIKE WAS SURPRISED by his own ability to stay calm once news got to him that the local police were able to apprehend the one individual who had eluded them all. And like the ominous message said, the identity of the antagonist was certainly something that had, in retrospect, appeared to be in front of him all along. That is why he desperately wanted to confront his aggressor but relented to having a lawyer do it for him.

The Gainesville Police Department's holding cells were less than perfectly maintained. A gun-metal gray paint job on the walls was clearly chipped and peeling, which was made even less appealing with the dirty, grainy texture added to them over the years. Even the toilet bowls, most metallic, were rusting from lack of proper attention.

Robert F. Graham was followed by a guard as he walked down to his meeting room at the jail. The cell they had the suspect in was at the end of the hall, last one on the left. A newly installed security camera kept close watch on what Time Magazine called in its most recent edition "The Mystery Gator of the Swamp".

Sixteen years were clearly not kind to this suspect's soul or physical presence. He was no less skinny – or any more muscular – than he was in college, even with a gut born of good eating, not alcohol. Yet, his complexion had turned ghost-white. Splotches of blackness amounted to bags under his eyes. And wrinkles had begun forming where years of evident anger had built up in his face.

"You thought you could get away with it, eh?" Graham asked, while not necessarily expecting an answer from the individual.

"I don't know what you are talking about. All I did back there was to defend myself and my garden from hostile trespassers. It was an accident – nothing more, nothing less. And I certainly don't have to defend my actions to you or any other dried-up has-been," he said as he tried turning around to avoid the lawyer.

"You don't have any room to put up this charade with me. We've got a full confession from a Miss Blake Watson, who is convinced you are the one. The one that hired her. The one that stole the rifle. The one that got her to stalk Mr. Adams everywhere he went. The one that had Ms. Jones terrorized anytime she got close to figuring you out."

The suspect was silent. With his back turned, his facial expression was not seen either by the visitor or the security cameras. Nor was it clear from his body language if there were any changes to his facial expression.

"Clearly, your job afforded you access to the kind of equipment needed to carry out this little operation of yours. But why? Why did you turn against your friends, everything you worked for here in Gainesville, and your life since then? That is the one piece of the puzzle I have yet to figure out."

The suspect refused to turn around anymore to face the onslaught of questioning. Robert wrapped up his confrontation with one last spoken thought, "Well, at least you have learned to control your emotions better than you did in college."

Robert turned to leave, but noticed out of the corner of his eye that the suspect had lifted his hand to wipe what had to be tears that had come streaming down his face.

MIKE WAS PRIVATELY glad to be making his way back out of that hole in the ground that functioned as a courthouse. And that opinion did not change when the quick flash of digital photography alerted him to the presence of a gaggle of reporters – his very own paparazzi.

The reporters immediately pelted him with new questions, but Mike stopped long enough to throw up an arm and say, "I'm not taking any questions now. You will have to wait for this afternoon's press conference."

"But..." a reporter insisted.

"Can you at least comment..." another simultaneously tried asking.

"NO. Like I said, join me at 3pm. You will get your answers then, and only then," Mike said as he pushed through the crowd to get to his vehicle. His vehicle, parked along the curb of the parking lot, had Bennita in the driver's seat, waiting to make the getaway on his signal. He nodded, and they took off, away from the galloping reporters.

"WHAT DID HE say?" Bennita asked once they were clear of the parking lot and onto a somewhat quiet road.

Over the hum of the engine, Mike shook his head and said, "Nothing. The district attorney said he insisted the incident at that greenhouse was simply self-defense."

"Like that's believable."

"Right. Well, at least we have that confession from Miss Watson. That basically makes this an open and shut case."

"We can only hope so," she said as she made the vehicle take a sharp turn to the left.

DEBORAH HENKLEY AND Adam Ruppesberger were there. Detective Richard Marx, dressed in a black suit, was also there. But Mike was the center of attention.

After Deborah did her publicist duties by thanking the reporters and other audience members for attending the conference, which was being held in the University Plaza, she stepped back and allowed Mike to take over her place behind the podium and in front of all the cameras.

"Thank you all for coming." A few digital photos were taken.

"I have a number of announcements to make, and then the group of us will field some of your questions. Hopefully we can all be done here quickly enough to salvage the rest of this autumn afternoon."

Mike paused, and took a sip from the glass of the ice water that sat in front of him. He continued with: "First, Paramount has given us the green light to resume filming of A True Gator Party."

This piece of news confirmed the press's suspicions. Nonetheless, he stated for the public record what everyone at the press conference now knew.

"We firmly believe that we have squelched the tragic controversy that has gripped this town, not to mention my closest family and friends. As Detective Marx can verify, the Gainesville Police Department now has in custody two individuals believed to be responsible for these heinous acts of terror. As we speak, members of the FBI and GPD are working to schedule a speedy trial, which will put this torrid affair behind us all."

After a deep breath, he calmly said, "I am grateful for all the help I had in the investigation, and I look forward to bringing these individuals to justice. And in the interest of time, I will just open the floor for any questions you no doubt have over these late-breaking developments."

Instantly a dozen hands shot up, each seeking to get their question answered first. Mike called on Timothy Cunningham, from the Gainesville Sun. Timothy asked, "Gainesville has been rocked with news yesterday of an arson that burned down a house off of Archer Road while at least one FBI agent was inside. Do you have any reason to believe that the arson was connected with your case, Mr. Adams?"

"Actually, FBI agents do handle more than one case at any given mo-"

"But, Mr. Adams, the FBI agent in question is the same individual solely assigned to protect you while the investigation is on-going."

"Timothy, I see no need to add to any such speculation."

The next reporter was from The Tallahassee Democrat, an important newspaper for state-wide news. "Mr. Adams, is it true that you were aided in your investigation by several mysterious messages left anonymously at opportune instances? If so, have you discovered the identity of those who wrote them?"

"It is true that the main suspect appears to have written several threatening messages that corroborated our suspicions from literally day one of this investigation. And it's also true that the main suspect is now in custody. So that should answer your questions."

A lady in dark sunglasses and a big, red hat offered the next inquiry. She lifted her sunglasses off her face as she asked him, "Are you going to incorporate any part of this investigation into the film version of your book? Are you thinking of writing a sequel based on your experiences in the last month?"

"Ah, it's good to see you still working this story, Ms. Woodard. To answer your questions, Ashley, my answers are no and no. The suspect involved played a very minor role in the book version, and I am not about to inflate his importance by altering the script used for the film. I am also confident that there are many people involved in this incident that will want to write their own memoirs, so I don't anticipate creating even a fictional account of these experiences. Right now, all my energies are being focused on getting this film finished on schedule. Any talk of sequels or memoirs is purely speculative and premature at this point."

Looking quite satisfied with himself for that response, Mike glanced out into the gaggle of reporters and asked quite simply, "Any more questions?"

RICK ROBERTS WAITED for the press conference to break apart before moving from his seat. His athletic build, along a slightly short frame, was still tanned from many-a-vacation under the Florida sun. A member of the Florida state Senate, Rick has known Mike Adams for nearly seventeen years, when they shared a year together in their University Student Government.

Like Mike, Rick allowed himself to ease out of SG, to focus on other avenues for remaining a student leader. To many people's surprise, he used his charisma to find a place on the Academic Council, and to leadership of the Student Bar Association. While also a member of the Greek system and an inductee into the controversial leadership honorary, he also used his own merits and abilities to get through college life.

After he went to Law School and left Student Government for good, Rick became a passionate advocate for those that lack such an advocate. Nine years ago, people in his hometown of Lake City, Florida, urged him to run for the state Senate against an out-of-touch incumbent. He won.

While his accomplishments to date have been numerous and helpful to his constituents, Rick almost felt his work today was far more important. He was to turn the tables on his old SG buddy. So, once all the press people departed on to their separate ways, he finally had his chance to pull Mike aside for a private conversation.

"Mike!" he exclaimed as he stepped onto the stage where Mike was, chatting with Adam about nothing in particular.

"Yes?" Mike asked earnestly, not sure what to expect from a random request for his time. When he turned, however, he instantly recognized him. "Rick! Wow, it's been a long time!"

After shaking hands, Rick asked, "Can we talk alone?"

"Sure," Mike said willingly and began following Rick off to an obscure corner of the University plaza. "What's going on?"

"As much as I would like to chit-chat, I know we are all busy today, so let me just bypass all that," Rick pleaded.

"Okay," Mike allowed with a hard swallow.

Rick reached into a deep pocket of his khaki pants, and handed Mike a sheet of paper. With a wide smile, Rick said, "Look, man! That is some good news."

The sheet of paper had the results of a recent poll commissioned by Rick's law firm. While some of the results made it clear this had been a general poll, there was one question that was circled in red that caught his attention:

15A) IF THE ELECTION FOR THE U.S. SENATE WAS HELD TODAY, WOULD YOU VOTE FOR THE REPUBLICAN, JACK WILSON, OR DEMOCRAT MIKE ADAMS?

WILSON (R) – 46%ADAMS (D) – 32%

15B) JACK WILSON, THE REPUBLICAN, HAS BEEN IN THE SENATE FOR 11 YEARS NOW, AND IS CHAIRMAN OF THE VETERANS AFFAIRS COMMITTEE. MIKE ADAMS, THE DEMOCRAT, IS A FORMER CONGRESSMAN, AND A BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF A PARODY ON CAMPUS STUDENT GOVERNMENTS. KNOWING THIS, WHO WOULD YOU VOTE FOR IF THE ELECTION WAS HELD TODAY?

WILSON (R) – 42%ADAMS (D) – 40%

After reading the poll, Mike looked up at Rick. "What are you trying to say?"

Rick gave that grin again, and insisted, "Oh, you know what this means. You should run. You have urged everyone else you know to run – you even got your Republican sister to run for Mayor of Portland. It's time you get back on the ballot."

"Oh, I don't know. I have too enemies, and I've got this film to work on. And I left the U.S. House for a reason – I didn't like the political games and the fund-raising. Man, the fund-raising! I couldn't ask for a job that I might do half-heartedly."

"Just promise me one thing, then."

"What's that?"

"That you'll think about it."

"Maybe. Ask me again some other time."

And with that, for the first time in a long time, Rick was left in defeat. He had failed, miserably in his quest.

Rick called out to Mike as he was slowly walking back to Adam, Bennita, and the others that waited for him. Rick said, "Politics is in your blood. You can't escape it!"

And he thought, No matter how much you deny it.

### Chapter Twenty

_BEN HAD ONLY heard rumors about the only Student Government official to be put on actual trial for his behavior during campaign season. This official was responsible for displaying false and misleading documents across campaign about the opposition's presidential candidate._

_The threat of a trial had sped up his timetable for becoming Student Body President, and may have in fact contributed to the struggle for change that happened while Ben was involved in campus politics._

_Fortunately for Ben, that trial of the century occurred before his time, and allowed him to witness a much more conciliatory campaign style. This, of course, allowed the Establishment to reunite, but also extended the life cycle of everyone's careers, forcing them into Law School, graduate school and even multiple degrees in order to get what they really wanted – a feeling of power and importance._

_But some politicians-in-training were a bit impatient for that. Their drive for political power sent them off doing things they never thought possible, and left bitter proverbial after-tastes in the mouths of their older, now former friends...._

GAINESVILLE'S NEWLY RENOVATED Court House was nothing like how Mike remembered it. In the intervening years since his college days, the Court House had been greatly enlarged, with many more meeting rooms and computer workstations. As a "victim" in the legal sense, Mike was asked to sit in a "green room" of sorts away from the main theater. Fortunately for him, a closed-circuit video feed provided him with the next best thing to being there.

The courtroom, where the trial was being held, was filled with pine-colored wood, befitting the Florida setting. Otherwise, it appeared just as any courtroom did. The audience, minimal for this particular trial, was relegated to the back of the room. The jury sat off to one side – the side closest to the witness stand. The prosecution and defense sat at tables just in front of the audience, and the judge sat, mirror-like, across from them.

Mike was too nervous to watch. Even so, the trial became background noise that was all too loud to ignore. It was just too important to ignore. His sense of justice compelled him to pay attention to that background noise.

"ALL RISE!" the bailiff instructed. "Judge Winston Hornesberry III, presiding."

An imposing figure emerged from his office behind the courtroom. The judge clearly let himself "go" in all those hours sitting on the job, but it was his height – easily over 6 feet tall – that made his physical presence so intimidating for defendants and lawyers alike. Added to that, his demeanor suggested a no-nonsense sort of individual. Perhaps this is because Winston, at nearly 50 years old, is still a bachelor. Or, rather, the cause and effect is reversed. Either way, both lawyers knew they could not play their usual tricks with this judge, which made the defense team clearly nervous.

After sitting down in his big chair, he cleared his throat right into his microphone. He then spoke slowly, in a southern drawl. It only compounded his image, which is the way Winston preferred it.

"In this matter, the United States versus George Avelli, how does the defense plead?"

THE LAWYERS ARGUING the case could not be more different. In style, in substance, and in appearance, the choices were pretty stark. The artist painting pictures of the trial had a field day during opening arguments.

The prosecutor was one of the best district attorneys available. Third in his class at the University's Law School, he looked the part of a sleek urban lawyer – except he's on the government payroll, not a corporate retainer. Still, Robert F. Graham wore clearly from the Armani line, and was proud of it. His hair was greased up and styled for show. His silver Rolex hung nicely off his left wrist. His silk tie was similarly elegant. He spoke articulately and intelligently, and pulled no punches in his argumentation.

On the other hand, Larry Jenkins was the embodiment of a scuffed country lawyer. Complete with a bow tie, cheaply made striped blazer, and a pocket watch, Larry let his nervousness interfere with his gestures. To make matters worse, his southern "twang" made it difficult for some of the more urban jury members to understand what he was saying. That being said, he was clearly intelligent and did have a few tricks up his sleeve; it's just that they'd come as a shock when he used them.

Most people in the room were glad when the opening arguments were finished. It meant a lunch break, which was then followed by presenting evidence and not rhetoric. The lawyers themselves were happy because it meant they could rest their overworked jaws.

"JUDGE HORNESBERRY, THE prosecution calls Michael Adams as its first witness," Robert said confidently, even though he could predict the pandemonium that would ensue with that announcement.

The judge quickly saw it too, and before the crowd could pop the noise level up a notch, he banged his gavel twice. "Order, order in the court!" he demanded and swiftly received. "Bailiff, bring in the witness."

Without any help, both large doors leading to the hallway outside swung up, revealing the witness. Mike cautiously made his way through the middle of the crowd. His entrance still caused a stir, but the judge's preemptive order kept much of the raucous to a series of whispers.

After being sworn in to testify before the court, Mike settled into the witness stand, and watched as the prosecutor perused its notes for a few seconds. Finally, Robert glanced up at Mike and approached him.

"For the record, what is your name and occupation?"

"Michael Adams. I am currently president of Adams Consultants, which is based in D.C. I am also producer and consultant for the Paramount Pictures film production of "A True Gator Party," based on the book I wrote with the same name."

"What is your relationship with the defendant?"

"George and I were close friends during my senior year at the University of Florida. We have rarely spoken since."

"Why is that?"

"I guess it'd be the same excuse any two former college friends have. We lost touch after I graduated and moved most of my things up to D.C. for Law School."

"Can you elaborate on that?"

"Well, once I gave up my extracurricular activities, there was little George and I had in common. I chose to keep in touch with those friends that I had things in common with."

"What did you and the defendant have in common?"

"We were both members of the Student Government at UF. We shared a lot of the same goals, and worked together on an election campaign. We were part of a small band of dissidents within the SG establishment."

"And you said you lost that commonality with him?"

"Well, once I left UF I swore off campus politics. I was going to Law School up in D.C., where I could participate in the real thing. I no longer had an appetite for the amateur sport that is Student Government."

"Jumping ahead a bit," Robert said as Mike took a tiny sip of ice water. "You wrote this book called "A True Gator Party," Robert noted. He reached back onto his table and held up a paperback copy of the novel. "Your honor, I note that this is Prosecution's Exhibit A."

"So noted," the judge said with a huff.

"What's this book about, Mr. Adams?" Robert asked.

"It's something of a parody."

"A parody of what?"

"Student Government politics."

"What made you choose that topic? After all, you began writing your book even before your single term in Congress."

"Right. Well, I always found it fascinating that so many people were involved in an organization and took it quite seriously, despite its lack of genuine power and influence. And I decided I wanted to explore some of the humor I witnessed back at Florida. The best way to look at obsessive, humorous people was to make fiction out of my Student Government experience."

"But not everyone enjoyed your satire."

"Well, no. It was a bittersweet parody. Some people saw the worst in themselves in the characters I developed for this book. But not too many people, because it sold very well."

A small chuckle in the audience broke an otherwise orderly silence. The lawyer tried to ignore the commotion.

"Indeed. So well that you have a major studio turning it into a Hollywood movie right now. But production has had its problems, correct?" Robert asked as he took a moment to flip through his legal pad, which was chocked full of scribbled notes.

"Well, not too long after we began filming on location here in Gainesville, a few well-publicized incidents took place involving our principal actors."

"Can you briefly describe each one, for the record?"

"Well, one actor fell sick with an allergic reaction to hazel nuts. Another slipped and fell down some stairs. And our lead was a victim of a hit-and-run. All 3 were playing the main characters of the film."

"Yet that wasn't all that happened during filming?"

"No. I began receiving by anonymous mail several disturbing messages that seemed to be predicting danger ahead."

"Your honor, those messages have been recovered and placed into the record as Exhibit B," Robert said professionally. He then leaned in closely to Mike. "If they predicted danger, why didn't you contact anyone to warn them of what was about to happen?"

"In most cases, I was given literally minutes notice. It was very unfortunate; we even suspended filming after the third incident."

"And that is when you flew off to Portland?"

"Yes. I had planned an event with my sister's mayoral campaign, and felt that I could use the departure. But shortly thereafter, the incidents began following me. First, my sister's garage. Then a friend's car and apartment in D.C. It quickly became clear the person behind the production accidents was after me. The messages even grew personal –bitter in their angst against me."

"How did you come to identify the defendant as the culprit in this incident?" Robert asked.

"Ya honor, I object to this line of questioning!" Larry said, bolting from his chair. "It's misleading to have subjective opinion represented as fact."

"Sustained," Winston said. He tilted his large head to turn toward Robert. "Rephrase your question."

"Fine," Robert said with a shrug. "Mike, what makes you think the defendant is guilty?"

"Well, I originally suspected a reporter friend of mine, Ashley Woodard, because she seemed to be following me wherever I went. But it was too big of a coincidence, and I saw her at the reunion at the same time the FBI had tracked down the suspect in a linked case. That same night, I was given another message that noted that the suspect was an "independent" – which is the nickname my band of dissidents at UF called ourselves. And that fit George's description, as I remembered him. My suspicions were confirmed when I found out his house had been blown up and he had shot and killed a police officer."

"Thank you. No further questions, your honor."

"It's your witness, Mr. Jenkins," the judge said.

"Now, Mr. Adams, ain't it a bit odd that you are relying on a bunch of notes for your accusations against my client?"

"Some might think so." Mike then turned to look at the jury. "But most criminology studies out there show that a premeditated serial attacker can leave unhelpful clues to try and prove how much he has out-smarted the police. And once I became convinced I had made a serious enemy with my book, it was only a matter of time before the pieces of the puzzle were put in place."

"Come now, Mr. Adams! It's easy to build a puzzle when you're making the pieces from scratch! Do you really think my client is capable of doing what you are alleging?"

A sigh. "I never thought it was possible. He was a congenial, sensitive guy in college. It is definitely heartbreaking to me to see this change in him."

Larry was clearly pleased. He just hooked himself a winning counter-argument, from the prosecution's own witness! "Is it not possible that my client is only guilty of self-defense against hostile police, despite whatever grudge he held against you?"

"As a trained lawyer, sure, I'll concede your point," Mike said as a few gasps from the audience were uttered. "If – and this is a big if – George is innocent of the conspiracy to do me and my film harm, then sure, he's only guilty of what happened at his green house."

"No further questions, your honor."

"Mr. Adams, you may step down. This court will recess for a short bathroom break. These proceedings will resume in fifteen minutes." Winston banged the gavel twice in the middle of an otherwise silent courtroom.

MIKE SAT BACK on the sofa in the green room. It was the third day of the trial. Most of the second day was the prosecution questioning other witnesses. Adam Ruppesberger was the star witness for that day, much to Adam's own chagrin. Yet, who could forget his comment about acting? "I know acting. This guy's messages were not an act. He is pissed off at Mike. I just don't know why," he had said against pressure from the defense to suggest otherwise.

Today, however, was the heart of the prosecution's non-technical, non-expert witness testimony. In exchange for a lighter sentence – conspiracy to commit murder, instead of the countless acts of property damage and the supposed killing of an FBI agent – Blake was going to testify today against her former boss.

Too bad I don't have any popcorn, Mike said with a laugh. Either way, he was going to be listening intently to her testimony.

"FOR THE RECORD, what is your name and occupation?" Robert said from behind the prosecution's desk.

"My name is Blake Watson, and I have been a freelance security and threat assessment consultant."

"That is, until recently, right?" Robert began moving closer to the witness stand.

"That's correct."

"Can you explain why?"

"I was recently hired to conduct espionage and other activities for an individual who felt he could not do them himself."

"Why is that?"

"He was worried he would be identified by his target and summarily arrested."

"Who was your employer?"

"He called himself Walt. At least that was the name he asked me to call him during any contacts we had over cellular phones."

"So it wasn't his real name?" Robert asked while pretending to act surprised by this revelation.

"No. He had a fascination with a Walt Whitman quotation that seemed to fit his needs for this activity," Blake said. She then shook her head. "I don't remember what quote exactly, but I do remember it was a Whitman saying."

"Your honor," Robert said as he jogged back to his desk and picked up a sheet of paper. "This is Exhibit H. We found it in the defendant's green house the day after his arrest. It's a normal sized paper, tan in color, with the following quotation printed in black across the center of the page: "The past – the dark unfathomed retrospect! The teeming gulf – the sleepers and the shadows! The past! The infinite greatness of the past! For what is the present after all but a growth out of the past?"

"Ms. Watson, is this the quotation in question?"

"Yes! Yes, it is! He seemed obsessed with something about his past. He never explained what that was to me, but he explained it had something to do with Mike Adams. And my primary goal was to interfere with anything Mr. Adams was doing that involved that new movie of his."

"Did you have to wear any kind of disguise?"

"Actually, all he wanted me to do was to wear some sunglasses and keep my hair kind of blonde. I could wear just about anything I wanted, as long as I looked inconspicuous."

"Why blonde hair?"

"Quite simple. With it, I would look a lot like some of the reporters trying to chase down Mike for a quote on whatever was the breaking news of the moment."

"Such as Ms. Ashley Woodard?"

"Exactly."

Robert stepped back, giving Blake a chance to see the whole courtroom from her vantage point. "I only have one last question for you. Is your boss, Walt, in the court room today?"

"Yes." She pointed at George Avelli. "That's him!"

ROBERT GRAHAM TOOK an unprecedented step with his choice for his last witness. Having taken testimony from Mike Adams, Mike's friends and colleagues, some actors involved in the film, and even George's accomplice, there was only one more person left to call on to highlight the prosecution's case against the defendant.

"Your honor, if it pleases the Court, the prosecution will now call on, as our last remaining witness, Mr. George Avelli himself!"

The resultant noise from the crowd could be described as chaotic surprise. Even pandemonium. Yet, even that would be an understatement.

"PLEASE STATE FOR the record your name and current occupation."

"My name is George Avelli. I am a researcher with the University's School of Natural Environment."

"You mean that you tend to the greenhouse."

"No," he said with a shiver of fear in his facial expression. "I do a lot of odd jobs with the School. I help them conduct tests on a lot of their new equipment. I just use the greenhouse as the place for many of those tests."

"You've been with the University quite a long time."

"Yeah. Most of my time since college."

"What else have you done prior to your current occupation?"

"I worked with the Dean of Students office, and I worked in the Division of Housing. But I spent most of my time within the NRE school," George said earnestly.

"Would you say you are happy with the way your career turned out?" Robert was hoping to ease his witness into the line of fire.

"I did okay."

"Just okay?"

"It could have been better. Others had it better."

"Like Mike Adams?"

"Do you mean, am I jealous of him?"

"Are you?"

"Who shouldn't be? The guy is arrogant and a poor public speaker who has managed to turn his boring-ass life story into a best-selling story – all while saying, basically, "go to h-e-double-hockey-sticks" to the rest of us."

"Could you tell the Court how you saw your relationship with Mr. Adams, while both of you were in college?" Robert said, keeping his distance.

"He was the public voice behind the New Democracy Party. But I founded it, gave it all of its candidates. I was responsible for keeping the independent spirit alive. He just kept his ego growing."

"But you guys were close at one point."

"Sure, we were friends. We fought the same, lonely fight, when all Mike's other friends deserted him. Only he deserted me when I needed his help the most."

"Are you saying you felt hurt and angry when he graduated and moved on?"

"Well, not exactly. It finally put me as the leading, credible voice of those not in the Student Government system. I was powerful, more powerful than Mike ever thought he was."

"But that's not how your colleagues at UF described you. Your honor, Exhibit L. The campus paper described you as the "most overrated, self-centered SG official in history to be denied admittance into the leadership honorary known as The Circle." Robert began inching back toward the witness stand. "Now tell me, did you like being called that?"

"No! Who does?" A welt of tears began forming.

Robert inched closer. "And that you were driven to bouts of anger and rage?"

"Of course!"

Ever closer now, Robert asked, "And you were willing to do anything to get the respect you felt you deserved?"

"All anyone wants is respect!"

Robert was now leaning on the rail just in front of the witness stand. "And the leadership honorary denied you that hard-earned respect."

"Despite everything I did for them."

"Why?" Robert asked softly, peering into George's eyes.

"Because," George growled, causing a jurist to gasp. "The bastard killed my chances!"

"Who did that to you?" Robert asked softly.

"He black-balled me!"

"Who?" Another whisper.

"MIKE!" George let out a blood-curdling scream.

"Mike."

"YES!"

"Why?"

"The establishment hated him. They hated his annoying ability to use their own laws against them. They blockaded anyone tied to him from getting in to The Circle."

"But why was this honorary so important to you?"

"Don't you know? Once you're in, you're set for life. My career, my family, my friends. All would be taken care of, if I had access to that kind of network of people to call on for help. And he denied it for me! All because he didn't know when to quit his idealism!" George's growls were beginning to grate his teeth together.

"You were willing to do anything – anything – to get in?" Robert repeated his question.

"Yes," George said as he curled into a ball in his seat, lowering his volume significantly as he did so.

"What happened after you were denied admission?"

Speaking softly again, George said, "I spent a year looking for jobs. Any decent job would do. No one would have me. Until I came back to the University as a receptionist for the Dean of Students."

"But that wasn't the end of it, was it?"

The room had seemingly shrunk in size. It was only the two of them now. Robert and George, having a conversation about life. And that made things easier for George. The entire room was watching in a hushed anticipation.

"No. I struggled to get every promotion I could, to make my life better. But I kept being passed over for someone who was recognized in college as someone important. I kept being denied the life I deserved just because of the leadership honorary."

"Okay."

"I finally got a job with the NRE School. That was about the time Mike's book first came out – before he became famous."

"And that anger came boiling over again?"

"I couldn't stand it. The guy who had everything going for him since he left here was now making millions off the misery of others. He did nothing to help The Circle and yet he turned out as well as they did. Others who had the audacity to fight for what they believed in, or against those they didn't trust. In his book, he made fun of them. He made fun of ME."

With a gritted of his teeth and a fierce grab hold of the railing on the witness stand, George continued. "I couldn't stand it any longer. I knew when he made that deal with Paramount, that it was just too much. My past had haunted me all my life. And now someone else was becoming successful off it. He had to be stopped. He could not be allowed to life off my misery any longer. It just wasn't fair. It wasn't right. I could just see his smug face as he told his amusing anecdotes. The ungrateful tone in his voice."

"And that's when you decided to see him dead. You hired Blake to do your bidding. And you sought to avenge your past."

"YES! Are you happy now! YES!!!" he said with a low growl. "What more could anyone else expect from me? It wasn't enough he went off to Georgetown when I needed him; he then used me and every memory he had of me and his friends. He was not the guy I knew in college. He needed to pay for the corruption he now favored. And only then, would he pay for the sins he committed here."

Speaking quite calmly, but certainly quietly and cautiously as well, Robert spoke in a new direction. "Your honor, I have no further use for this witness."

George wiped away some of his tears, but couldn't fight the new ones coming, for he finally remembered where he was, and discovered the implications of what he had just done. In a bout of anger, he had confessed to everything. The slick urban lawyer was clearly proud with himself, but others weren't so happy. Robert had broken the poor guy. And the silence that hung in the atmosphere of the room was not going to break for anyone, or anything.

But it didn't change the facts of this case. And that was certainly not a good thing for the country lawyer. In what had to be record time, the jury returned a verdict later that day.

George Avelli was guilty as charged, on all accounts.

### Chapter Twenty One

_THE END OF a campaign is only the beginning of the work in politics. This is especially true on college campuses. For example, it usually meant the launch of a new kind of campaign – to grab a seat of power in the Senate leadership._

_Don Daley was a typical politician-in-training, although his long-term sight was on a much bigger prize. For now, however, he was focused on becoming President of the Student Senate, succeeding Nick Atlee. Using his friendship with Ben Burns, he made Ben a tempting offer – fairer exercise of the appointment process to make qualified people the likely winners of the posts in exchange for Ben's support for Senate President. He also insisted that friendship would trump politics, now that Ben's place was in a very lonely Senate minority._

_This deal was crucial. The Senate majority, no longer fearing a serious independent candidate, allowed the establishment to put up 2 different candidates, and became split down the middle. When the vote happened, the small minority's bloc of votes, all of which went to Don's candidacy, helped to generate a snowball effect further down the roll call of senators. The minority had thus broken the logjam in the majority and gave Don the Senate presidency._

_After showing his leadership style in the Senate, with barely a break to breathe, his supporters began pushing Don to run for Student Body President._

_Some call this a "permanent campaign" – but others, Ben included, simply describe this as "politics gone Domino", as one campaign begets another. The work of a politician, then, is never truly over..._

FOR ONCE, MIKE did not mind the flashes of photographs being taken. It was a sunny day and he had no reason to eschew fame. At least he didn't any longer.

Mike was genuinely beaming, as he stepped down to the podium set up at the bottom of the courthouse steps. Unusually cheerful at his side, Adam and Bennita were clearly enjoying themselves at least as much as Mike was.

With a smile all but foreign to him lately, Mike tapped the microphone, and popped the first question (for a change). "Is this thing on?"

The reporters that gathered weren't exactly expecting him to comment, since they have gotten used to the phrase "no comment" from Mike and his associates over the last few weeks. They had to scramble for their place in front of the podium; but also, and more importantly, they had to locate their note pads.

"Hold on!" someone said from behind Mike.

It was Ashley, running late. Mike smiled. Finally, she has a flaw that I didn't conjure up myself. She managed to get into the press crowd, with high heels on undamaged by her mad dash to avoid being scooped.

"First things first. I feel that justice has prevailed today. As much as I am dismayed that any friend of mine can be driven to this level of madness, I am glad to see this horrific episode put behind us. And I believe I speak for all of us to say I am glad the government can still deliver top notch representation for the American people!" Mike said to forced applause from those standing behind him.

"Despite what some would have you believe, America is a wonderful country. But it demands a lot of you. It asks that you tolerate success and help those less fortunate, even when you are struggling to make it yourself. But only in America can you be truly freed from your past to determine your own future," Mike said to more applause, although it was unexpected and volunteered this time.

"Just for the record, production on the film – as far as my talented director is telling me," Mike said with a nod in Adam's direction, "is going great. We are still on schedule for a summer release, and I look forward to a great piece of Hollywood magic."

"As for me, the events of the past few months have led me to one unalterable conclusion. My faith in the American system has never been stronger. Many people faithfully pursued a single goal, and were vindicated for it. For the first time in a long time, I am invigorated by the power that the fight for change can bring."

With a short breath, Mike continued. "The time is ripe for a great change to sweep across America. And in that vein, I have decided on a course of action that will please my publisher. I will in fact begin work on a sequel to 'A True Gator Party.' Hopefully, with it, I will blow apart the stereotypes of those who live and work in Washington."

Adam Ruppesberger, standing next to Rick Roberts behind their mutual friend, leaned over and whispered to Rick, "I don't know."

Rick turned to look at him. "What?"

"I just can't believe George could afford to be the sole force behind this little adventure. There's more to this story that someone's not telling us."

Adams was finishing his remarks then and opened things up for a few questions. The clamor from the media for attention to their questions was unprecedented. A Court TV reporter offered the first question. "Do you expect an appeal?"

"That is a question for the federal prosecutor, but I for one think George's mid-testimony confession pretty much negates any such appeal. All he can hope for is a lenient sentencing judge."

"Will the film crew stay in Gainesville for the duration?" Timothy Cunningham asked next.

"We still have some scenes to shoot, so yeah. Gainesville has been a great place to work in again, and the cooperation we've been getting from the University is just phenomenal," Adam said from behind Mike.

Mike looked over his shoulder to view his friend, and smiled. "I totally agree. I would highly recommend Alachua County for any film crew thinking of filming on location."

"Is there any chance of you returning to politics?"

Mike did not even have to look in the direction of that question, for he knew it had to have come from only one member of the news media. "Ashley, that's a good question. But right now, I cannot see any circumstance, any election, and any incentive that would entice me from my current projects. My sister Anne is the one with an active political career."

"In a follow-up?" Ashley insisted.

"Okay," Mike said with a sigh.

"There was a poll released recently that suggested you would be tough to beat in a Congressional race, and may even win a statewide race for Senate. Wouldn't you be a good candidate to deliver, and I quote, 'a great change to sweep America'? Especially since your 'faith in America has never been stronger'?"

"Ashley, really, I'm flattered, but my time at the ballot box has long since been over. I had my fun in college, and I won a surprise victory to the U.S. House once. But that's it. It's time for this guy to get out of the spotlight and back behind the scenes where he belongs."

Mike stepped away from the podium. "Now, if you excuse me, I have a movie to make," he said as he made a mad-dash to his waiting taxicab. That didn't stop the reporters from teasing out more questions, fleetingly seeking answers.

BENNITA WAS GLAD to make it back to her hotel. As much as it looked like Mike was positively glowing from the jury verdict, Bennita was just glad for it to be all over. I am finally able to sleep at night, she thought as she stepped up to the hotel lobby's front desk.

A polite, flamboyant young man place one hand on his hips and asked, "And what can I do for you today, girlfriend?"

"Any messages for Bennita Jones?"

"What room number?"

"Nine twenty seven."

He turned to look at the wall filled with mailboxes. Sure enough, box 927 had a couple things inside its slot. "Here you go."

"Thanks," she said as she headed for the elevators.

One message was from her parents – they had called and asked about the trial. Hopefully I'll remember to return their call later today, Bennita thought as she stepped onto a waiting elevator.

The other envelope, however, was another matter entirely. It had no clear markings on the outside, meaning someone had hand-delivered it. It was a white envelope, and a message on a bluish card stock paper.

She began getting nervous, thinking she may have gotten one of the messages Mike had been getting. Calm down, Bennita, the guy's in jail and couldn't possibly put this in your box.

Sure enough, she was right. The message was one she had been getting for quite a while, although the tack of hand-delivering it to her hotel room was something new. Will this Radiologists Association stop asking me to take this job?

The elevator, now full, closed in front of her.

ASHLEY WOODARD WAS waiting for him later that day. The humming of his vehicle stopped before he got up and noticed he had a visitor. Ashley was still dressed like she was at the press conference, but she had something in her hands.

"A peace offering?" she suggested.

Mike took the cup of Starbucks coffee. Vanilla frappucino, Mike noted. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," she insisted, as she stepped out of his way and moved her hands down to the front pockets of her denim jeans.

Mike used his free hand to pat her on the shoulder of her blue blouse. "Then, why don't you come in?" he asked, gesturing to the now-open door, leading to the foyer area of his condo.

"Thank you," she said as she took the few cautious steps over the threshold and into his apartment.

"What brings you here, other than giving me my favorite cup of coffee?"

She turned to face. With that magical smile of hers, she softly spoke. "No hidden agendas. No interviews. Completely off the record."

He stepped ever so closer. "Business or pleasure?"

She refused to say, toying with him.

"I know where we can easily see the sunset," he offered.

"That'd be great." She said before flipping her hair and turning back toward the parking lot.

Mike dropped everything he had onto the nearby table and followed her out the door. Damn.

And the two of them threw caution to the wind. Mike gave chase after her, only to be met with an even faster sprint away from him. Soon enough, the parking lot was a distant memory, and Lake Alice loomed larger in their field of vision. But neither of them stopped running.

Free of their history, free of the politics, free of work. At last, the two of them could finally be honest to one another.

### Chapter Twenty Two

_BEN WAS ONCE alone. He was often the single dissenter, especially on budgetary matters. Yet, he finally found an opportunity where his single vote mattered, and it gave him a chance to express himself in a way few thought possible._

_When the Student Government establishment broke in two over Don Daley's rise to the Senate Presidency, Ben found himself on the Appointments Committee. This was a pretty powerful posting in of itself, since the group often worked collectively to reward their friends with vacant Senate seats. However, as it all too often happens in any government, politics seeped into the activities of the Appointments Committee. Soon enough, votes were breaking down on pretty reliable dividing lines. Daley and his allies shared one half of the committee; his opponents comprised the other half._

_This situation left Ben in the middle, as the decisive factor in whose side won. It was here Ben's voice found expression. He was also no longer truly alone..._

"THANKS, JOHN. I am on the red carpet here in Hollywood as we await the premiere of the new Paramount movie, 'A True Gator Party,' based on the book of the same name. The studio has pulled out all the stops with this one, John. It's a true gator party down here, complete with life-sized statutes in front of the theatre," the reporter said as she pointed to a green sculpture of the swampy beast.

"When will we get to see some celebs?" he asked her.

"Well, they should start arriving any moment now. They are just trying to be fashionably late for the party."

"Of course. Thanks Allison."

The reporter posed for a few seconds before hearing, "And we're clear," from her cameraman. Not more than ten feet away, another journalism duo was just starting the same report she had made. It's going to be a long night, Allison thought as she returned to her chosen spot along the ropes.

A WHITE LIMO pulled up, and the fans went berserk. The driver came around the vehicle and opened the door for his passengers. Out came some guy in an expensive Armani suit, with a matching yet subtle green tie. A young lady also popped out, dressed in a sparkling blue number from Dana Karen's line.

The reporters were the next group to go crazy. "Mr. Adams!" shouted one. "Who's the lady with you tonight?"

Mike grabbed his companion's hand, and smiled at her. He then turned to the shouting reporters. "Her name is Ashley Woodard. I am grateful for her company tonight."

As the couple made their way down the red carpet, the movie's soundtrack began playing on the loudspeakers. And with a popping sound, Mike glanced up near the roof of the movie theater. A bunch of orange and blue confetti, intermixed with some silver pieces, tumbled down from above him. A giggle came out of Mike, followed by an ear-to-ear grin. He lifted his hands up high, turned around, and began thanking the fans. And the flash photography did not bother him this time.

"Mike," Ashley cautioned, "you're a ham out here."

"I don't know why, but I love it," he whispered.

AN USHER OPENED the doors for Mike and Ashley. When they got inside, Mike made a bee-line for his director.

"Who's the lady friend, Mike?" Adam asked.

"You remember Ashley Woodard, don't you?"

"Oh yes, sure, I do," Adam said as his face lit up with acknowledgement. "Good evening, Ashley."

"You too. I look forward to seeing the finished project."

"You will not be disappointed," Mike said, hugging Adam from the side. "Adam is a great director to work with. He certainly knows what he is doing when he gets behind a camera."

"Now," Adam said modestly, "it kind of helps that I knew the subject matter, and witnessed some old fashioned Student Government silliness first hand during production."

"Oh, Adam, don't get me started!"

"You know, Mike, I have a secret," Ashley said.

Mike turned to her, clearly interested. "What's that?"

"I was a member of Chi Omega sorority in college."

"Yeah, I remember you telling me that."

"Well, what I didn't tell you was that I coordinated SG activities for the sorority."

"Really?!?"

"Sure. It was my civic duty. Now my civic duty is to keep you guys in line," Ashley said as she needled his stomach playfully. Mike laughed in return, and Adam smiled at the joke.

Mike flipped his wrist to reveal a watch, and peered at its face. "Well, we should head inside if we are going to actually watch the film we spent so much energy on."

"You're right," Adam said. "Right this way." He led them into the main theater, even as Mike caught a glimpse of some members of the media were finally working their way inside.

WHEN THE CREDITS finished rolling, Bennita joined the audience in clapping. And perhaps in a fortunate way, a steamroller effect ensued when a couple of ardent fans gave it a standing ovation and turned in the direction of Mike's balcony. Soon enough, pretty much the entire audience was giving the film a standing ovation – Bennita included.

She was clearly happy for her friends. They had done the near impossible. They had created that which was only talked about. SG the Movie had turned its many obstacles away and finally became a success.

This movie, she thought, mirrored Mike. It was the underdog that wouldn't take the wrong answer from conventional wisdom. It up-rooted everything we knew about the subject matter and generated renewed interest in the motives of those involved in politics.

She smiled. As she left the theater with the rest of the audience, she made a mental note to get in touch with Mike and Adam before the night is over. She was "incognita" no longer.

MIKE, ADAM, AND Ashley all sat as the audience left the theatre. Finally breaking the silence with a gratifying sigh of relief, Mike commented, "I still don't understand why you aren't a bigger name in Hollywood."

"Oh, Mike, it's all politics down here. I just don't kiss up to the big-wigs just for the sake of doing so. Never have, and I never will. But thank you all the same."

"Let's go, Mikey. We've got a hungry press to feed," Ashley insisted.

"Okay," he said, rising out of his chair. He embraced Adam one last time. "Now, I don't care if there is a movie to make or not. Let's not lose in touch this time."

"Not a problem at all, Mike."

Ashley wrapped an arm around one of Mike's as they headed out of the balcony and down the stairs that took them into the lobby area. The press was clearly waiting for them. For once, no one was able to tell who was more nervous about the questions to come – Mike, or his date.

Mike cleared his throat, before brushing off the easiest and most predictable question of them all. "I think you guys could tell what my reaction would be. This is a great end-result to months of hard work. Not just by the crew, the writers, and the editors. But even the actors had weathered some bizarre confluences of events to get their jobs done. I am proud of everyone that put together this adaptation."

As Mike began taking questions, an usher came up and delivered in Ashley's hands an envelope that was directed for Mike's viewing only. She nodded, and gave him a tip for his trouble. Her hand holding the small manila envelope dropped to her side.

"...and that's where I got the inspiration for some of the casting calls for the movie, but I have to give credit where credit is due. Adam helped me pick a great casting director, who certainly has an eye out for the best talent in Hollywood," Mike was saying when Ashley resumed paying attention.

"How's the sequel coming?" a reporter asked.

Mike professed innocence, but noted, "It's taking longer than I thought. Right now, though, I only have plans to make a sequel in print, not necessarily to make a second film. After all, I don't think you can catch lightening in a bottle more than once. Why risk it?"

Some reporters nodded. "Now, are you and Ms. Woodard an item?"

"I know the tabloids have called us something or other, but I will leave that question to be answered by Ashley herself. She calls the shots in that department," Mike said with a laugh.

Ashley was only partially amused. Still, she did allow, "I am definitely enjoying his company. But our off-the-record relationship will have to stay that way, even for reporters. You will have to accept that, and take it as you will."

"Back on the subject of your ongoing projects, is it not true you are in talks with some of the best-paid lobbyists to take over your consulting business as your managing director?" a reporter from the D.C.-based Roll Call asked.

"In a word, yes. With the PR work necessary for this film, and the original book, not to mention trying to write its sequel, I just don't have the time like I used to for politics. I really want that DC shop to continue, so I am trying to hire someone to run it for me."

"Last question!" Ashley pepped out.

"You heard the lady," Mike said.

The last one came from a Hollywood trade paper. "Roger Davis, the star of this film, is on record as saying he'd love to work on another Ruppesberger-Adams project. Several other actors have expressed disappointment that there are no current plans in the work for a future project. What will it take for the two of you to team up again?"

"I think it would not be that difficult to see Adam and I working on something in the future. We made a great team in college, and I am certain that, should this film be successful, that we will have set a standard for what our teamwork can do for Hollywood. There's a great abundance of material to work with when it comes to political silliness and college hijinks. While I don't want to make a sequel to 'A True Gator Party,' if a good concept came across our desks, or a decent script was pitched, I think you could definitely see us together again."

"Thank you, everyone!" Ashley said as she began tugging Mike along.

Mike followed Ashley into their waiting limo. The driver closed their door, walked back to his seat, and whisked them away from the still-falling confetti. Mike pulled down his tie, letting himself loose after an exciting evening.

The two of them picked up a glass of Champagne. As Mike was taking his first sip, Ashley pulled an envelope out of her purse. "This was delivered by an usher while you were talking, Mike."

It was a manila envelope. Mike shrugged off the first thought that came to him, knowing that his antagonist was long-since put in prison, and this only could be a practical joke, or something completely benign – like a telephone message.

He took the envelope from her. It was unopened. He asked her, "Why didn't you peek at it?"

"The usher said it was for your eyes only."

"That's odd."

"True, but it's your privacy all the same."

"Thanks," Mike said as he broke the seal.

The envelope had an all-too-familiar tan color, but Mike was still not convinced it was anything more than a joke. Sure enough, the text was black, but that didn't mean anything. He finally took the time to read the message. The had-to-be-a-joke message read as follows: "Your success to date is nothing more than a kid learning how to light a match. Putting George Avelli away was like playing with fire. But it will soon burn you. The college ties you thought you knew are over. You have no idea what you have begun, but mark our words – once this is over, you will regret ever getting on our bad side."

Mike sank in his seat, giving Ashley a reason to be concerned. "What is it?" she pleaded with him.

Mike's nerves came roaring back. Joke or not, this sounded like a serious threat. And of course, "they" were right. Everything has changed since college. Except now he had a familiar-yet-funny feeling in the pit of his stomach.

And this time, he had someone to share this with. Someone who immediately recognized what he was feeling. Despite all he had been through, and all he had written, his past was not at rest. Ashley saw this, and knew what needed to be done.

If anyone could cause "a great change to sweep across" his heart, she'd be the one to do it.

### THE END

### Afterword for the 2013 Edition

I was very much like Ben Burns and Mike Adams – my college days were marked by political intrigue among the most obsessed and partisan people I've ever met. As the years tumble by, I can safely say that the actors involved in those struggles at the University of Florida may change, but the issues and conflicts change very little.

Reunion at University Avenue was my first attempt to record for posterity a fictional account of the drama that happens among self-obsessed politicians, at all levels but especially during their formative years. I wrote the first draft of the novel in the summer of 2003. This re-release of the novel under a new publisher essentially celebrates ten years of Mike Adams being a character in my stories.

Two other novels have followed, as Mike's story continues through campaign adventures (The Proxy Senator) and navigating the corridors of official Washington (Confirmation).

### About the Author

Kenneth Kerns is an author, screenwriter, manager, number-cruncher, gamer, and nerd-herder. Ken has a master's degree in political management from the George Washington University and is currently a manager and trainer at the UMWA Health & Retirement Funds.

He lives in the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area and can be reached on Twitter (@kenkerns).

### Mike Adams books by Kenneth Kerns

Reunion at University Avenue

The Proxy Senator

Confirmation

The Stepford Student (a short story)

The Young Mike Adams

### Other books by Kenneth Kerns

From Maverick to Statesman
