“I understand why this is happening,” she said to the empty house around her. “I think I always have and just didn’t want to admit it. It’s because of the button box. I was only a stupid kid, but I took and I took and I took. And now it’s the box’s turn.”
In October 2020, with mail-in voting underway and physical voting sites opening their doors in just under three weeks, Gwendy Peterson and Paul Magowan met at the Bangor Civic Center for a long-anticipated televised debate. For ninety minutes, the incumbent Senator was rude, arrogant, and condescending, the same behavior that had gotten him elected just four years earlier. His challenger was humble, well spoken, and polite. Except for one fleeting moment in her closing remarks, when she turned to face her opponent and said, “And as for my late husband, you sir, may try your very best to disparage his good name and reputation, but you know and I know and every person sitting in this auditorium and watching from home on television knows, that you, Senator Magowan, are not enough of a man to shine Ryan Brown’s shoes or wash the sweat out of his dirty jock strap.”
The majority of the audience in attendance roared their approval and rewarded Gwendy with a standing ovation as she walked off the debate stage. When the new poll numbers came out early the next morning, Magowan’s lead had shrunk to a paltry three points.
But even with such impressive results, Gwendy knew it would take a miracle to overcome a three percent deficit in as many weeks. There were no more debates on the docket, and after the public drubbing he’d taken, little chance that Magowan would agree to add one. Word on the street was that he planned to lay low for the rest of the campaign and lick his wounds until election night when he would resurface and take the stage to accept a surprisingly narrow victory. Gwendy had events planned for every day leading up to the election—sometimes two or three in the same twelve hour block—but even taken as a whole, she knew it wasn’t enough to move the needle three percentage points. They were simply running out of time.
Gwendy believed there was only one sure-fire way to guarantee a miracle, and it was sitting on a shelf inside her garage at home in Castle Rock. Over the course of the next two weeks—usually while tossing and turning in one hotel bed or another; after awhile, they all looked and smelled the same—there were at least half a dozen instances where she convinced herself that pulling out the button box was the right thing to do. Presto! Push the red button and make Paul Magowan disappear like a rabbit in a magician’s hat! But each time, her conscience and Richard Farris’s words of warning stopped her: You must resist. Don’t touch the button box or even take it out of the canvas bag unless absolutely necessary. Every time you do it will get more of a hold on you.
And then, on the Thursday night before Election Day, Gwendy got her miracle.
Like most of his longtime GOP counterparts, Paul Magowan’s bread and butter constituency was made up of Pro-Life, Pro-Religion, Pro-Build-The-Wall, loud and proud NRA members. As a proclaimed Christian and father of five, he spoke often and passionately of his abhorrence of the ungodly and downright evil practice of abortion. He called the doctors that performed such procedures “soulless butchers” and “devils in blood-smeared white coats.”
On that Thursday evening word leaked to the national press that a front page article in the next morning’s edition of the Portland Press-Herald would be outlining in great detail and providing written documentation that proved Paul Magowan had not only had a year long dalliance with a young woman from his local church, but that he’d also paid—using illegal campaign funds, no less—for her to abort their unborn child.
Magowan’s campaign immediately scheduled a late night news conference to try to get ahead of the story. But it was too late. The ball had already dropped—right on top of Magowan’s arrogant and hypocritical bald head—and started rolling downhill. Fast.
When the final votes were tallied a few days later, New York Times bestselling author Gwendy Peterson became Senator Elect of the great state of Maine. She won by a margin of four points, which meant that thousands of full-time residents had still punched their ticket for Paul Magowan.
Life in America, Gwendy thought when she contemplated all those Magowan votes. Life in pandemic America.
20
GWENDY SWIPES TO THE CONTROL screen on her iPad, taps VIDEO LINK, and a blank picture-in-picture display opens in the upper right hand corner. She hits the REVERSE IMAGE icon and the top of her head appears in the small window. Adjusting the angle, she gives one final tap, and her smiling face fills the entire screen.
“Got it,” she says with no small measure of pride.
Gwendy’s long gray hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail and there are circles of bright color in her cheeks. Her blue eyes are clear and alert. She looks much younger than her sixty-four years and feels it, too.
“There you are.” Kathy Lundgren floats down into view. “Ready for your close-up, Mrs. Peterson?”
Gwendy extends her hand. “Of course, I am, darling,” she says in a haughty tone. Kathy laughs and feigns kissing the Senator’s hand.
Kathy was worried about Gwendy earlier—when she first told her the news about the fire, the Senator had appeared lost, almost in a daze—but now that she’s down here face-to-face, she finds that she can’t stop staring at her. “My goodness, a couple hours of rest did wonders for you. You look and sound terrific.”
“That and a strategic touch or two of make-up.” Only Gwendy didn’t bring much on this trip. Why would she? She’s about as low maintenance as they come.
“Well, whatever it is, send some my way, why don’t you.” Adesh Patel glides past Kathy on his way to his flight chair. She gives him a friendly nod and looks back at Gwendy. “A little less than five minutes til go.”
Gwendy adjusts the straps on her flight seat and wiggles her hips until she’s comfortable. She glances up at the overhead monitors and then down at her iPad. Licking her lips, she tastes a hint of chocolate on the back of her tongue. She instantly feels the thump-thump-thump of her heart beginning to race beneath her jumpsuit.
The tiny piece of chocolate had been in the shape of an ostrich. When she’d pulled open the drawstring of the canvas bag and slid out the button box, she’d been amazed at how heavy it felt in her hands, despite their weightless environment. Much heavier than she remembered, and somehow significantly heavier than when she was carrying it around inside the reinforced steel case. She knew that made little sense—no sense at all, in fact—but didn’t spend much time thinking about it. All things were possible when it came to the button box.
Her decision had already been made by the time she’d punched in the seven-digit code and opened the small white case marked CLASSIFIED MATERIAL, so there was little hesitation once the moment came. She lifted the box onto her lap, reached down and pulled the lever on the left side, the one closest to the red button. And then she’d thought: If you’re monitoring this, Farris, you can kiss my bony white ass.
The narrow wooden shelf slid soundlessly open from the center of the box. She picked up the chocolate ostrich and popped it into her mouth, barely taking the time to appreciate its fine detail. Closing her eyes, she allowed it to melt on her tongue, savoring the familiar burst of exotic flavor. Once the chocolate was gone, she immediately thought about pulling the lever a second time but fought back the temptation. She knew she was already pressing her luck.