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  Fletcher hired a helicopter and Nat chartered the bank’s small jet to take them around the state during the final seven days, by which time the don’t-knows had fallen to six percent, shedding one point to each rival. By the end of the week, both men wondered if there was a shopping mall, factory, railway station, town hall, hospital or even street that they hadn’t visited, and both accepted that, in the end, it was going to be the organization on the ground that mattered. And the winner would be the one who had the best-oiled machine on election day. No one was more aware of this than Tom and Jimmy, but they couldn’t think of anything they hadn’t already done or prepared for, and could only speculate as to what might go wrong at the last minute.

  For Nat, election day was a blur of airports and main streets, as he tried to visit every city that had a runway before the polling booths closed at eight P.M. As soon as his plane touched down, he would run to the second car in the motorcade, and take off at seventy miles an hour, until he reached the city limits, where he would slow down to ten miles an hour, and start waving at anyone who showed the slightest interest. He ended up in the main street at a walking pace, and then reversed the process with a frantic dash back to the airport before taking off for the next city.

  Fletcher spent his final morning in Hartford, trying to get out his core vote before taking the helicopter to visit the most densely populated Democratic areas. Later that night, commentators even discussed who had made the better use of the last few hours. Both men landed back at Hartford’s Brainard airport a few minutes after the polls had closed.

  Normally in these situations, candidates will go to almost any lengths to avoid one another, but when the two teams crossed on the tarmac, like jousters at a fair, they headed straight toward each other.

  “Senator,” said Nat, “I will need to see you first thing in the morning as there are several changes I will require before I feel able to sign your education bill.”

  “The bill will be law by this time tomorrow,” replied Fletcher. “I intend it to be my first executive action as governor.”

  Both men became aware that their closest aides had fallen back so that they could have a private conversation, and they realized that the banter served little purpose if there was no audience to play to.

  “How’s Lucy?” asked Nat. “I hope her problem’s been sorted out.”

  “How did you know about that?” asked Fletcher.

  “One of my staff was leaked the details a couple of weeks ago. I made it clear that if the subject was raised again he would no longer be part of my team.”

  “I’m grateful,” said Fletcher, “because I still haven’t told Annie.” He paused, “Lucy spent a few days in New York with Logan Fitzgerald, and then returned home to join me on the campaign trail.”

  “I wish I’d been able to watch her grow up, like any other uncle. I would have loved to have a daughter.”

  “Most days of the week she’d happily swap me for you,” said Fletcher. “I’ve even had to raise her allowance in exchange for not continually reminding me how wonderful you are.”

  “I’ve never told you,” said Nat, “that after your intervention with that gunman who took over Miss Hudson’s class at Hartford School, Luke stuck a photograph of you up on his bedroom wall, and never took it down, so please pass on my best wishes to my niece.”

  “I will, but be warned that if you win, she’s going to postpone college for a year and apply for a job in your office as an intern, and she’s already made it clear that she won’t be available if her father is the governor.”

  “Then I look forward to her joining my team,” said Nat, as one or two aides reappeared and suggested that perhaps it was time for both of them to be moving on.

  Fletcher smiled. “How do you want to play tonight?”

  “If either of us gets a clear lead by midnight, the other will call and concede?”

  “Suits me,” said Fletcher, “I think you know my home number.”

  “I’ll be waiting for your call, Senator,” said Nat.

  The two candidates shook hands on the concourse outside the airport, and their motorcades whisked off in different directions.

  A designated team of state troopers followed both candidates home. Their orders were clear. If your man wins, you are protecting the new governor. If he loses, you take the weekend off.

  Neither team took the weekend off.

  53

  Nat switched on the radio the moment he got into the car. The early exit polls were making it clear that Bill Clinton would be taking up residence in the White House next January, and that President Bush would probably have to concede before midnight. A lifetime of public service, a year of campaigning, a day of voting, and your political career becomes a footnote in history. “That’s democracy for you,” President Bush was later heard to remark ruefully.

  Other pollsters across the country were suggesting that not only the White House, but both the Senate and Congress would be controlled by the Democrats. CBS’s anchor man, Dan Rather, was reporting a close result in several seats. “In Connecticut, for example, the gubernatorial race is too close to call, and the exit polls are unable to predict the outcome. But for now it’s over to our correspondent in Little Rock, who is outside Governor Clinton’s home.”

  Nat flicked off the radio as the little motorcade of three SUVs came to a halt outside his home. He was greeted by two television cameras, a radio reporter and a couple of journalists—how different from Arkansas, where over a hundred television cameras and countless radio and newspaper journalists waited for the first words of the president-elect. Tom was standing by the front door.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Nat as he walked past the press and into the house. “It’s too close to call. So when can we hope to hear a result involving some real voters?”

  “We’re expecting the first indicators to come through within the hour,” said Tom, “and if it’s Bristol, they usually vote Democrat.”

  “Yes, but by how much?” asked Nat as they headed toward the kitchen, to find Su Ling glued to the television, a burning smell coming from the stove.

  Fletcher stood in front of the television, watching Clinton as he waved to the crowds from the balcony of his home in Arkansas. At the same time he tried to listen to a briefing from Jimmy. When he’d first met the Arkansas governor at the Democratic convention in New York City, Fletcher hadn’t given him a prayer. To think that only last year, following America’s victory in the Gulf War, Bush had enjoyed the highest opinion poll ratings in history.

  “Clinton may be declared the winner,” said Fletcher, “but Bush sure as hell lost it.” He stared at Bill and Hillary hugging each other, as their bemused twelve-year-old daughter stood by their side. He thought about Lucy and her recent abortion, realizing it would have been front-page news if he had been running for president. He wondered how Chelsea would cope with that sort of pressure.

  Lucy came dashing into the room. “Mom and I have prepared all your favorite dishes, as it will be nothing but public functions for the next four years.” He smiled at her youthful exuberance. “Corn on the cob, spaghetti bolognese, and if you’ve won before midnight, crème brûlée.”

  “But not all together,” begged Fletcher, and, turning to Jimmy, who had rarely been off the phone since the moment he’d entered the house, he asked, “When are you expecting the first result in?”

  “Any minute now,” Jimmy replied. “Bristol prides itself on always announcing first, and we have to capture that by three to four percent if we hope to win overall.”

  “And below three percent?”

  “We’re in trouble,” Jimmy replied.

  Nat checked his watch. It was just after nine in Hartford, but the image on the screen showed voters still going to the polls in California. BREAKING NEWS was plastered across the screen. NBC was the first to declare that Clinton would be the new president of the United States. George Bush was already being labeled by the networks with the cruel epitaph “one-termer.”