Jerry Burke had been born to do the job, just like Chester Burke before him. Of course, Jordan had been born to do it, too. Did either of them ever wonder if they were up to the task? They may have had fewer reasons for self-doubt: most of the times they ran for re-election, they ran unopposed.
Jordan’s phone vibrated. Beto telling him to get a move on.
He smoothed his hair, straightened his collar, and re-tucked his uniform shirt so the white T-shirt underneath wouldn’t show on camera.
Hopefully, his face would be every bit as convincing as his forebears.
TWENTY-EIGHT
CARA
It may be tempting to try and help wildlife displaced by fires but keep your distance. They are desperate and dangerous.
—@maderaanimalservices
Cara remained as quiet as Fisk all morning, afraid to say anything both because of the assault rifle strapped to his chest and the way he intently scanned for threats every time they neared an exposed rise or open ground.
But when they paused in a protected, shady area so Fisk could examine Maybelline’s hoof, she decided to speak up. If his plans were anything like she’d been imagining, she had to at least try to plead her case.
“Fisk,” she said, as he crouched by the donkey. “I know you said you don’t really care, but I need you to know that I didn’t do what they say I did.”
The goat—Lucretia—tugged a bramble off a bush and chewed it, looking at Cara skeptically.
“I was on a glamping trip with my husband?—”
Fisk’s laugh cut her off. “Glamping?”
“Luxury camping,” she said, wincing at the defensiveness in her voice, but glad she had piqued his interest.
“Ruth and Joanie, did you hear that?” Fisk asked the two sheep. To Cara, he said, “These ladies are show-quality California Reds and they’re used to luxury treatment: fresh hay, a mucked stall, and only the best dewormer. Glamping would be right up their alley.”
“Ha.”
Fisk had finished with Maybelline and they set off. “So your husband liked glamping, too?”
“Karl was a plastic surgeon.”
“Naturally,” Fisk said with a chuckle.
“He worked hard, way too hard, and was always antsy to get outdoors. Because I was an influencer”—which had to sound as ridiculous to him as glamping, but she couldn’t hold back anything now—“I was able to arrange an all-expenses-paid weekend getaway for us by agreeing to promote the resort and the activities they offered. He was more than game.”
“What kinds of activities are we talking about?”
“Knife throwing, wood splitting, horseback riding, zip-lining. That sort of thing.”
“Sounds fun enough,” he said, nodding.
“Honestly, I was much more interested in the fancy tent, gourmet meals, and chilled champagne. Plus quality alone time with my husband.”
“A little practice at outdoor activities might have come in handy in your current situation.”
“If only the weekend had gotten that far.” She almost couldn’t finish the sentence.
They hiked in silence, broken by the occasional grunt of an animal and crunching footsteps.
Cara had relived and recounted the story so many times and it never got easier. She told him anyway.
“Jesus,” Fisk said.
