Page 1 of Booked for Theft

ONE

The seeds Dr. Castor had planted grew.

Upon returning to work on a rather dreary Monday morning, I dealt with a flood of donation requests from a myriad of senators, representatives, and other politicians determined to improve their reputation with the public. The New York Public Library benefited from my fame, but I worried about the consequences my growing popularity among the people would create.

I had no political aspirations. Everyone understood my heart danced between the library, my fluffy goddess, and the man I would one day marry. From newspaper reports to broadcasts speculating about me, I’d been painted as a selfless servitor of the people.

Somehow, I’d become the personification of ‘for the people, by the people,’ and I didn’t appreciate it.

It would only be a matter of time before somebody came up with the idea that I might better represent ‘We the People,’ which would do more than just put me in the line of fire again.

Heaven forbid if anyone dared suggest I might ever utter ‘My Fellow Americans’ in any context.

That way led to madness and probable death. Worse, I couldn’t tell who would die. I likely topped the list, and anyone who had ever associated with me would follow in my wake.

But the seeds Dr. Castor had planted grew.

Senator Thaddens of Michigan had submitted an email requesting that I pay him a visit in his Maryland home to discuss a donation to the library with him. To make it clear he was serious, he’d given me his entire schedule for the next nine months, indicating where he would be, why he was scheduled to go there, and when he could make time for a meeting.

Among the last records included the confirmation of the next President of the United States and the inauguration.

He had given me a gold mine of information, all done under an innocent enough guise. Every meeting with President Castillo had a note indicating he, regretfully, would be unavailable. Other highlights indicated meetings with Senator Westonhaus and a few politicians I hadn’t heard of but would make a point of learning about.

One meeting, also highlighted, mentioned a date with his fellow altruists at a summit taking place in Boston in a month and a half. According to the internet, the summit brought in world leaders and other politicians to expand trade and discuss policy.

President Castillo would be in attendance, along with Senator Westonhaus and many others known to be in the pocket of our corrupted government. Several other highlights worried me. After the summit, there would be votes on key issues.

Where there should have been highlights for the campaign trail, I stared upon a void of nothingness.

Senator Westonhaus appeared in highlighted notations.

Instead of campaigning and convincing the people he should be the one addressing the nation with ‘My Fellow Americans,’ he was instead voting against them.

That much Senator Thaddens managed to convey through the use of public records.

Every meeting, every vote, and every summit matched some public announcement subtly betraying the people.

I marveled over the politician’s ability to tell me a story without drawing unwanted attention from the murderous government he served, likely against his will. I’d learned that much from Senator Westonhaus: once in, there was no way out, not without the government’s leave.

The people didn’t decide.

The government did.

As my boss had given me free rein to schedule myself as needed, I considered the senator’s email and typed out a careful reply, one that played the same game he did, hoping we might learn just a little more about why the government wanted to demolish everything the United States had once stood for. I indicated when I could be available, carefully slotting myself into the spaces he was free.

If he bit on the bait, tomorrow would be a difficult day. I would need to blitz to Maryland to meet him at his home, swift enough the government might not be able to move without drawing suspicion to themselves. With the media fixated on my return, my engagement with Bradley, and work with the library, I would be safe, at least for a while.

The government would not be able to stop the storm of reporting should I join those disappearing under mysterious circumstances. Too many focused on my heroics, the lives I had saved, and the bullet I had become acquainted with during the attack few knew the true purpose behind.

Senator Westonhaus still lived, and as far as any of us could tell, the government believed Senator Maybelle’s murderers had been behind my kidnapping.

The true killers had not done anything to change the government’s belief. Then there was the issue of the odd news reports flitting in and out of public awareness, speculating the murderers had kidnapped me, erased my memories, and tortured me. According to the media, the killers had twisted ethics, ethics that barred them from doing harm to anyone other than political hopefuls. The media had run wild with those stories in the week after my return to society.

I hadn’t corrected them.

However, some strange truths had also surfaced.

Everyone injured had benefited in some fashion from an anonymous benefactor.