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  THE TRACKER

  A Novel by

  Chad Zunker

  THE TRACKER

  Copyright © 2015 by Chad Zunker

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author.

  Cover art by Mike Woodard

  Edited by Crystal Watanabe

  Formatted by Polgarus Studio

  www.chadzunker.com

  Give feedback on the book at:

  [email protected]

  facebook.com/chadzunkerauthor

  To Katie, my wife,

  For your devotion to me in this journey

  To Nancy, my mother,

  For two decades of support and prayer

  To Anna, Madison, and Lexi, my daughters,

  The inspiration behind my dreams

  ONE

  Saturday, 1:18 a.m.

  Boerne, Texas

  2 days, 22 hours, 42 minutes to Election Day

  The cheap motel room ceiling was stained. Like muddy yellow clouds.

  A smoker’s room. I’m not a smoker. But I’d have lit up just about anything if it would have calmed me down. My heart felt like it was going to explode. I stared at the ceiling. I should have been asleep. It was one twenty on a Friday night. In Boerne, Texas, of all places. The motel bed was comfortable enough, but every limb of my body felt rigid. I was unable to relax. Unable to breathe easy. Unable to slow my mind down. The room temperature was a pleasant seventy degrees, and yet beads of sweat dripped down my neck onto the hard pillow. There was no noise from other motel rooms. No wild teenager party down the walkway. No loud snores from a traveling salesman next door. Just the unsteady rattle of an old air conditioner in the ceiling, the squeak of rusty pipes in distant walls. But I could hear the clear banging of my own heartbeat in my eardrums.

  Twenty-five. A few months away from grinding out a degree from Georgetown Law, finding a decent job, and finally making a real living after a lifetime of getting my butt kicked over and over again, in and out of foster homes, having to prove how tough I was every six months. Finally I would put the years of living on the streets behind me. But now I was going to have a heart attack in a filthy motel room in the middle of nowhere.

  I thought about my mom, tried to catch my breath and calm down.

  I told myself everything would be okay. I was having a hard time believing it.

  I’d made two phone calls. One to my boss. He was on his way.

  The other call was to the only calming presence I’d ever had in my life. She didn’t answer. She hadn’t answered in more than five months. I didn’t leave a voicemail.

  I checked my phone again. The text from my boss was from eighty-six minutes ago. Eighty-six of the longest minutes of my life. What was taking him so long?

  Stay put. On my way. Don't say a word to anyone until we talk!

  The drive west from Austin proper to Boerne could be done in an hour and fifteen minutes. Maybe a few more if you got caught behind an eighteen-wheeler on one of countless, lonely one-lane country roads. Rick knew this was urgent. I’d texted him back twice already. Where are you? Hello? No reply. Cell phone signals sucked out here in the Texas hill country.

  I pushed myself up onto my elbows. Two lamps were on in the room. One in the corner. One on the nightstand. The cheap kind you'd find at Walmart for thirty bucks. The blinds were cracked, so I would be able to spot headlights in the parking lot. Nothing. I stared across the room into the mirror above the flimsy dresser, surprised I couldn’t see my heart flitting up and down under my shirt. I was still fully dressed. Blue jeans, dark blue flannel button down, old gray Nike running shoes. Common law school student attire. Crap I wore every day to class. But I’d been skipping classes for three weeks for this job to earn some quick cash, a little for rent and books, and everything else to help with my mom’s escalating medical bills, trying to beat the cancer somehow. I wasn't sure there was enough money in this job to win that battle.

  Leukemia sucked.

  I wouldn’t really call it a job. I was what you call a political tracker.

  My job was to follow our opponent from small town to small town on the campaign trail and video record every word that came out of his mouth every single time he stepped into public. And sometimes in private. I had no business card. Nothing that said Samuel W. Callahan, Political Tracker, Esq. And I doubt there was ever a job posting. But there were others like me hiding in the crowds of every political contest going on around the country right now. Eager young law students or government majors looking to make a name for themselves in their own political party, jockeying for position, already climbing the powerful and influential DC political ladder.

  In my opinion, both sides of the political fence sucked. Otherwise there wouldn’t be thousands of kids who, like me, had been lost in a broken and crooked foster care system and were getting abused in every city in America. I was only out for a buck. The only politician I cared anything about at the moment was Benjamin Franklin, simply because his pretty old face was plastered on hundred dollar bills. And I hoped to have a very nice roll of them in my back pocket when this deal was all over in four days.

  My apathy toward any specific political party didn’t change the fact that I was still good at what I do. My street skills translated well. I knew how to blend into a crowd, stay under the radar. I had quick hands, quick feet, and an even quicker mind. But there was more to it than that. I had something extra. A special gift. Something that even I couldn’t fully understand. My mind seemed to work differently than others. I could oftentimes see things before they even happened. Like an anticipation reflex. My mind allowed me to view events differently, almost in slow motion, especially in really stressful situations. I had the odd ability to look around corners — not like a freaky super hero or anything — but like I had memorized Google Maps. I could visualize a full escape route within seconds. I’m not really sure why. I’d never been to a doctor about it. Never had a CAT scan done on my brain. I figured that maybe my mom had been on a serious acid trip when she was pregnant with me and some wires got crossed.

  This unique ability used to really freak out my street gang as a teenager. It also made me the best thief in the bunch. When I was eleven, it meant easily stealing wallets in crowded bus terminals. Or purses from oblivious women in grocery stores. In and out within seconds. Never even close to being caught. Not even with security cameras. By the time I was fourteen and living on the streets full-time, it meant jacking expensive cars from gas stations in affluent Denver neighborhoods when unsuspecting victims thought they had two minutes to rush inside with the car running and grab a Snickers and a Diet Coke. You had to have a certain temperament and skillset to ease behind the steering wheel of a Mercedes sedan, unnoticed from only twenty feet away, and calmly drive out of a parking lot.

  I’d put that life behind me after a brief juvie stint, straightened up my act, finished my GED, and smoked my SATs. Got a perfect score on the math section. That got me accepted into the University of Colorado. Started putting together consecutive semesters with a 4.0 GPA. No more hustling. No more scams. I had no desire to live on the streets again, so I went clean. Basically. If you don’t count the time I snagged a classmate’s credit card from his wallet freshman year and had forty large pizzas delivered to our government class. Or the unapproved joy ride junior year in the dean of students’ new Camaro. To me,
it was more borrowing than stealing. I put the car back completely unnoticed.

  Josh, my old roommate at CU, was a government major who had gone on to work at a powerful lobbyist firm in Washington, DC. He was doing well and making a name for himself. He called me a month ago, said he needed someone like me for a few weeks; they were in a pinch, had one of their guys back out mid-campaign, could really make it worth my while. He knew about my mom, knew things had gone from bad to worse, knew we really needed the money.

  Quick cash. Easy job. Three weeks. In and out. Those were his exact words.

  I wish I’d never answered the call from Josh.

  Where was Rick already?

  Being a tracker was mostly mind-numbing, tedious work. The role had become more prominent nearly a decade ago when George Allen, the popular incumbent senator out of Virginia, lost in a stunning upset after calling a guy just like me, a young campaign tracker of Indian American descent, a Macaca, right there on the tracker’s video camera. The video went viral, and Allen’s campaign collapsed under the weight of it. One word. Caught on video. Viewed a million times on YouTube.

  Tens of millions of dollars have been poured into tracker organizations with very generic patriotic names like America Cares, the American Right, and Bridges Over America, which was the name of my group. After all, no legitimate politician’s campaign would employ their own trackers. Too sleazy, right? So I just worked for an organization with certain political leanings. I didn’t care. Just pay me in cash when I’m done.

  The campaign was for a coveted seat in the U.S. Congress from the 21st District of Texas, a territory that covered parts of Austin on down to San Antonio and then hundreds of small towns to the west. Like Boerne. Population 10,471. Pleasantville, America. My so-called campaign target, who I guess was technically supposed to be my opponent, was in a heated battle with the popular incumbent, and he’d been hitting several towns a day with his rally cry for change and reform, and government accountability. He’d held a rally for a few hundred locals on the steps of the Kendall County courthouse a few hours ago, followed by a barbeque on the vast lawn. It was the same in each small town. Empty promises. Charming smiles. One-line political zingers. Fake rally cries. Planted audience clapping. Kissing babies. Hugging old folks. And flashing those perfect pearly white choppers for any camera in sight.

  In most years, my campaign target would not have had a chance in this district. The incumbent, Congressman Leonard Mitchell, had held the seat for more than a decade. But this was not most years. And my target was no ordinary politician. Lucas McCallister. Thirty-five. Good-looking. Charismatic. Beautiful wife with Texas roots. Two precious elementary-aged kids: one boy and one girl, of course. Harvard Law grad. Currently held the position of Texas County Land Commissioner. A rising star with the perfect lineage. Lucas McCallister was the only son of John McCallister, current U.S. Senator from Virginia, and the man who had nearly won his party’s presidential candidacy last round. Lucas McCallister’s grandfather had also been a U.S. Senator from North Carolina. Lucas was part of a powerful and distinguished political legacy.

  It was clear there were extraordinary stakes for District 21. It was not just about representing the good people of Texas. Lucas McCallister was being groomed for the presidency. His party had him on a ten-year track for the White House. He was their number one draft pick, and they were being very strategic about his steps along the path. This was the first big test. McCallister had been planted specifically in this district in Texas to take down Leonard Mitchell, who had been a very powerful and vocal thorn in the side of the opposing party for the past decade. This was a heavyweight battle. They wanted Mitchell out. And they chose Lucas McCallister to be the one to throw the knockout punch.

  With significantly more media coverage than other congressional campaigns in the country, it made it much easier for me to blend into the crowd. But harder for me to catch my target off guard. Lucas McCallister was already a seasoned pro who rarely slipped up in public. Sure, we’d caught him stretching the truth here and there, exaggerating numbers to make a point, incorrectly quoting famous philosophers or key scripture from the Bible, and even tripping over a sidewalk curb and scraping his knee. But nothing that was going to erase his sudden three-points-and-climbing lead.

  I again swallowed the knot in my throat. Nothing until tonight.

  I pushed off the bed, walked to the front window, cracked the dusty blinds with a finger.

  I was on the first floor of a two-story motel. Not one of the major chains. Most likely the cheapest in town. A mom and pop deal where a pimple-faced nephew ate Cheetos behind the front check-in desk. I was being paid a daily travel stipend with this gig, so it was up to me to save money where I could on food and lodging, which meant cheap gas station sandwiches most days and staying overnight in dumps like this one. But I’d slept in much worse. Park benches. Under bridges. Concrete steps outside of churches. This was plush coming from that world.

  My ‘96 black Ford Explorer with balding tires was parked right in front of my room door. My ride had over 213,000 miles on it. It sputtered for five seconds each time I turned the ignition before eventually coughing to a start. It was on its last legs two years ago. I hoped it could somehow make it back to DC.

  The orange Chevy truck that was here when I arrived was still parked three spots down. Same with the red Honda Accord with the two dents on the front next to it. And the white Toyota minivan beyond that. But there was a new car in the parking lot that surprised me. A dark gray Oldsmobile sedan. Parked in the second row facing the building on the edge of the lot, next to an open pasture that led to the woods. I was certain it wasn’t sitting there when I arrived. Maybe I was wrong. But I think I would have noticed headlights as it pulled in. I squinted, thought I noticed movement inside. It was dark and the parking lot was not well lit. My eyes narrowed even more. Then I saw a wisp of smoke leak out the window. Cigarette. Someone was sitting in that car, smoking.

  A flash of new headlights suddenly splashed across the window.

  Rick Jackson. My boss. Speeding into the parking lot in his blue Altima. He jerked the car into a spot right next to my Explorer, quickly got out. I unchained the door and let him inside.

  “Where the hell you been?” I asked, chaining and locking the door behind us.

  He dumped his bag on the bed. “Sorry. Phone died or I would’ve called. I got ten minutes out of town, realized I didn’t have my laptop, and had to double back.”

  “I’ve been going nuts here.” I checked the blinds again, studied the Oldsmobile.

  Rick was thirty-five, skinny, black hair, pale skin, solid black glasses. Tan Dockers and a white button down. A nerd, but a decent guy. He was trying to grow a goatee, going after the tough guy image. But it just looked desperate. He’d been doing this tracker thing for eight years. He was good. Really good. Not so much at the slip-in-and-out-of-crowds-unnoticed thing. Not like me. Rick was clumsy. But he was a genius at analyzing data quickly and pulling out anything that could be damaging to the campaign. Rick would catch things I’d flat out missed. Even while being up close and personal. I would upload my videos and logs to our server every night, and I was always surprised when Rick found valuable nuggets by six the next morning. The guy had no life. No one in politics had a life. Especially during election season.

  Our organization would feed the info to political blogs and news hotspots, send out some tweets, and by the time said politician had showered and shaved to face the cameras, they’d have to spend their whole morning clarifying or backtracking the misstep rather than pushing forward their own message. It would dominate the day. And each day not focused on their own agenda was a day lost on the campaign trail. Rick had developed a solid reputation and was feared by most opposing politicians.

  “Let’s see it,” Rick said.

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket.

  “You didn’t use the camera?” He glared at me as if I’d slapped his grandma.

  I shook my head.
As a tracker, it was critical that we captured video footage ready-made for television, because there was always a chance that our video would be cut and spliced and made into a commercial within hours in an effort to crush the opposition. And we needed the audience to see every last wrinkle on the politician’s face when he put his big foot in his even bigger mouth.

  “I had no time. My camera was here in the motel room. I was done for the day. I was out at a bar when the text came in.”

  “And you have no idea who sent the text?”

  “Not a clue.”

  Rick unpacked his laptop on the bed. He powered it up.

  “Have you uploaded the video yet?” Rick asked.

  “I haven’t done a thing but sit here sweating, man.”

  “Okay. Let me have it.”

  “You sure you want to see it?”

  He didn’t flinch. “You’re damned straight.”

  I tapped a few times on my phone screen, loaded the video, and handed it to Rick. It was five minutes and twenty-seven seconds long. I’d watched it a half dozen times already, still not able to comprehend the magnitude of it all. Rick held my phone in his bony fingers like it was so fragile that it might break if he squeezed it too hard. He pressed the screen.

  The video on my phone began to play. I hovered close to Rick.

  My heart felt jittery again.

  This suddenly felt very real. Another human being was watching what I’d just witnessed.

  A man killing a woman. And not just any man.

  TWO

  Friday, 11:32 p.m.