The Election by Jerome Teel

of grand oak trees. Other species of trees stood like sentinels along the beginning section of the hole, and the green, 525 yards ahead, was protected by several deep sand traps. Floral trees and shrubbery flanked the rear of the tee box and likewise behind the green. As he addressed his teed golf ball, Jake scanned down the fairway to a narrow landing that was bathed in early-morning sunlight. That’s where I need to land it .
    High school and collegiate baseball had developed a very natural, fluid swinging motion that helped Jake carry a single-digit handicap. He swung his new driver—one he’d purchased after watching a late-night infomercial that promised greater distance and better accuracy—and heard the ping of solid contact with the ball. Looking up, he watched the ball sail at least 240 yards down the middle of the fairway. It landed and rolled another twenty or thirty yards before it stopped.
    I might have a go at the green in two today.
    Jake twirled the club in his hands as he descended the small embankment back to the waiting golf cart. “This club was the best thousand bucks I’ve ever spent,” he boasted to his playing companion, Steve Herndon.
    â€œNice shot, you lucky dog,” Steve commented as Jake sat in the driver’s seat of the cart. “Now if only you could putt,” he jabbed.
    Jake’s wireless phone rang as the golf cart rolled away from the tee box. He glanced at the number on the caller ID. The call was coming from his office.
    â€œThis better be an emergency,” Jake declared to Steve when he pushed the button to receive the call.
    It was Madge. “Jesse Thompson’s dead,” she blurted.
    Jake inhaled. His thoughts ran wild. “What do you mean Jesse Thompson is dead? I just spoke to him yesterday, and he was fine.”
    â€œI was just told he was shot this morning at his farm on Old Medina Road,” she replied. “The sheriff’s department is calling it a homicide. The rumor I hear is that the entire back half of Mr. Thompson’s head was blown off. It’s so horrible, I don’t even want to think about it.”
    â€œDo they have any suspects?” Jake asked. He hoped she’d say no, but he had this awful feeling…
    â€œThey’ve arrested Jed McClellan,” Madge explained. “He’s being held at the criminal justice complex.”
    Jake felt like a heavyweight boxer had punched him in the stomach. Jesse Thompson was dead. Did Jed really kill him?
    Jake remembered his conversation with Jed from the previous afternoon. Jed was angry, but Jake convinced himself that the man was rational. So he hadn’t followed through on his gut instinct to call the authorities.
    But what if Jed wasn’t rational? He was, after all, desperate, and desperate men did irrational things.
    Had Jake been blind to the obvious? Was he unwittingly part of the plot to harm—even kill—Jesse Thompson? How could he have been so stupid?
    â€œI’ll get a quick shower at the clubhouse,” Jake told Madge. “I’ll be in the office in about thirty minutes.”
    There would be other times to play golf. This matter was too important to wait.
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    Naval Observatory, residence of the Vice President, Washington DC
    Vice President Burke and his entourage left San Francisco just after six o’clock Pacific time Tuesday evening, arriving in Washington at 3:00 a.m. eastern time Wednesday. The primaries were grueling, but they didn’t hold a candle to the endurance test associated with the general-election campaign. Sleep—particularly sleep in his own bed—was a precious commodity. When he finally got to bed at 3:45, he left instructions that he was not to be awakened. No appearances were scheduled until that evening, in Baltimore, only fifty minutes away. There was no need to get up early.
    It wasn’t long before Ed was dead to the world.
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    â€œMr. Vice President,”