First Six Chapters of Sell Montana

Summer, 10 years from now

— 1 —

Bitterroot River, Montana

Cold water would help. Bullseye Magee squatted by the clear river and dipped her bandana for a quick rinse. She smiled a little as the frigid water splashed across her face, then retied the blue cotton triangle around her tan neck. Looking downstream, she gazed at Trapper Peak in the distance. That familiar mountain and the majestic lodgepole pines in the foreground allowed her to exhale. To her left, the small group that hired her to guide their trip fished, as they had before. These clients knew how to fish but were loud about it.

Bullseye—who had not been called by her given name of Laura Brennan in the forty years since middle school—watched a fly plop in the water a few yards in front of her. Within seconds a wide mouth propelled by a silvery muscle sliced the shimmering water and engulfed the lure whole. Her clients would eat well before flying back to Washington. She had earned her money by bringing them to the right spot to catch cutthroat trout, and that was a good thing. These politicians, especially the vice president of the United States, complained like toddlers who dropped their popsicles when they didn’t catch anything on these expensive outings, regardless of how bad their fly rod technique had been.

Bullseye let it roll off her back and onto the invoice, which she added up in her head as she stood and ambled toward the Secret Service agents, standing back a few yards. Her formula was simple: Start with a figure that was equal to other high-dollar wilderness guide services in remote Montana, then add a steep entertainment fee because they liked her storytelling around the campfire on crisp, cool nights, plus a surcharge for keeping her mouth shut when they talked about secret stuff. Finally, she layered on a generous aggravation fee because all these men were idiots, making her wish she could head to the house the moment they arrived. She held her own during the back-and-forth ribbing that just came natural to a group of guys when they were out in the woods. But when the jokes went too far—and they always went too far—Bullseye shut down or got mean. And mean was funny to these guys. She had kicked a lot of coffeepots in campfires while she cut down their feeble efforts to hit on her. It wasn’t her fault she was hot, and it wasn’t their fault that most of them conjured up haunting memories of her dad, but she added another zero to the invoice just because. She smiled at her own reflection in the rippling water as she walked along the river, wishing the panicked trout would spit out the VP’s hook and swim away. He had brushed against her one too many times for her liking on this trip, so she had a thought to just keep raising their invoice until they complained. It may not be fair, but she had learned as a little girl that the world worked like that sometimes.

Net hoisted waist high, Vice President Bill Fowler goaded his fishing buddy, Secretary of the Interior Alan Stubblefield. “I’ll need some help carrying all these fish. Good thing you don’t have anything to weigh you down.”

Stubblefield’s answer came in the form of a small rock, pecking the VP on the thigh before glancing off his waders. “Catch this,” trailed the warning, too late to help.

Bullseye stood chatting with the Secret Service agents. “I guess you don’t consider a friend throwing a rock a serious attempt on the veep’s life.” Then turning in the general direction of the veep, she warned, “That dirt talk might work with your Washington buddies, Mr. Vice President, but you try that here in Montana and you’re liable to catch a much bigger rock.”

The veep was in good physical shape and inhaled in front of Bullseye. He chuckled until he noticed Bullseye was serious. Just then a walnut-sized rock flew over Bullseye and pinged off his rod.

The vice president wasn’t smiling any longer after he overheard one of the Secret Service agents say, “He should have used a bigger rock.”

— 2 —

Virginia City, Montana

“You don’t see this in Malibu,” sighed Evan Morris, as his Tesla crossover parked itself on the near-empty Wallace Street, just across from the Placer Gold Café. By this, he meant that no one had bothered him for an autograph since he arrived in the tiny Montana town of Virginia City. This would be a nice change of pace for the gorgeous but seasoned actor even though, truth be told, he had not been besieged lately in Hollywood by the media or by work. Still, having a complete change of pace and meeting some real people might give him a respite from playing the same old Hollywood game.

That’s the script he had created for his decision to relocate to Montana. The truth was more depressing. His phone had not slowed—it had stopped ringing. Out of habit, Evan tapped his phone to life, but saw no calls. Not one friend from Hollywood had checked in on him in the weeks since the move, adding to the sad scene. Being famous was one thing, but that was the ego and money part. Being a part of the Malibu culture, where his opinions mattered among important people, where his presence brought credibility, was the truly affirming part. Evan tapped his phone again and remembered days when calls from studios stacked up to discuss roles, buddies who wanted to partner on deals and the honorary charity chairmanships of this and that continually floated his way—all of which had dried up over the last decade, tracking with his acting career. Being off-screen was one thing. At least his movies would live on forever, somewhere. But getting excluded and erased from the elite Malibu social scene was the devasting part for Evan, who felt like a ghost, watching friends and peers roll the party past him. He didn’t want to wither and drift into obscurity in front of fans and friends. If he could no longer contribute artistically, if he couldn’t “matter,” and if others just didn’t include him near the epicenter of Malibu society then, like an injured wolf, he wanted to leave the pack and fade away on his own terms. He slid his phone down on the passenger seat and looked out the window. Being seventyish in Malibu was ancient. It felt like he had been embalmed prematurely. Montana seventyish looked different to aging Evan Morris.

Letting go of Hollywood would be tough. The main street in Virginia City, Montana, looked dry and a little sleepy to Evan Morris on his first morning trip to town. He wondered if he would miss telling people he wanted to be left alone, if, in fact, he really was just left alone.

As his ostrich boots hit the dusty street in the morning sun, he noticed a couple in front of the county courthouse staring at him. He tipped his perfectly formed Stetson, to which they returned an annoyed half wave. Evan looked around and down and noticed that the only things in the entire town not covered in dust were his boots and his car. He hated sticking out. He wanted to get dirty.

Finding his way around wouldn’t be hard. Wallace Street, the main drag through Virginia City, was only a few blocks long before the scrubby hills swallowed it up again. The town was about as deep as it was wide, with a slight tilt, so there was an uphill side to the east. Evan did a quick 360 to view the tiny town and sensed a downside as well.

After spotting the sign for the Madison County Offices in the courthouse building, Evan shuffled across the street, dragging his heels to kick up some dust. The real estate agent he had used from Big Sky, an hour to the east, was similar to the people he had left behind in his California circles—very similar—and had warned him about the locals in Virginia City. Even though they were in the same county as the chic resort of Big Sky, the Virginia City Montanans were a much more “salt of the down to earth” type people, as she had called them, combining her metaphors.

And that’s what Evan wanted. Down to earth. And a ranch. That’s where a wounded wolf would hide. Not in a ski resort condo at Big Sky. Big land on the Virginia City outskirts had been his choice.

Evan had listened to news reports on iHeart over the last two days, which helped override doubts of his decision to start a new life in Montana. He sat alone on the scenic front porch of his newly renovated post-and-beam ranch house with massive, twin river-stone fireplaces and imagined parts of LA crumbling in the riots. On long drives up into the foothills of Ramshorn Peak to scan the broad valley, he slid the windows down and cranked up Sirius to hear about the looting that had spread up the coast toward Malibu and believed he’d gotten out of California just in time. Rioting and burning had ignited in the larger cities across the country but had not yet percolated on the streets and the back hills in places like Virginia City of Madison County in Montana. He felt safe and lonely at the same time.

Looking around the main street in Virginia City, he was a little nervous about meeting the locals in the county seat. As a wounded wolf, he wanted to hide from the eyes of the world, but as a new Montanan he pondered the opportunity to drop some stakes and dig in. The locals were the real deal. He didn’t know what he’d have to change to show them he was genuine.

— 3 —

Washington, DC

The sudden summer thunderstorm soothed the angry mob, whose tempers had flared earlier in the midday sun. They had thrown the first bottle at police just before noon. Three separate crowds of seven thousand to over twenty thousand churned and twisted past the Marriott and Freedom Plaza on E Street NW, the Smithsonian’s Renwick Gallery on Seventeenth Street NW, and the stores and restaurants of New York Avenue NW, converging and covering the White House on three sides. There were far too many protestors to assign individual blame for any of the violence and more difficult still to designate a leader for the insurgency. This mob, like a shoal of krill pursued by a gray whale, materialized from nowhere, without a front or an end.

Earlier in the morning—like many recent days—angry citizens from all walks of life flooded streets near the National Mall, ignited by posts on Twitter, Instagram, BuzzCutt, and Facebook. Today seemed to reach a critical mass, however, as more people than ever showed up. More “lost my job”; more “can’t feed my kids”; more “Relief?” protesters, all pleading their cases on signs and in chants.

Their illicit assembly circled the Washington Monument. No permit—no protest. No matter to the citizenry. They were vocal about The Budget Problem, as the current administration (and the previous three) referred to it, and begged for relief. Real relief this time; not just lip service. Crowds churned their way toward the White House, but small, violent spin-ups erupted, and several hotheads fired shots into the air. The drone of ambulance sirens attested to devastation beyond a few broken windows.

For the last hour, the president had been slipping from room to room in the second-floor Residence, watching the crowds swarm the streets that bordered the White House. He clenched the curtain in the West Bedroom as he watched a mob flip a car upside down on the White House side of Lafayette Square, to become an impromptu stage for angry speakers to address the enraged crowds. A team of protesters with portable Wi-Fi repeaters in backpacks spread out among the crowds, allowing the passionate orator’s inciteful words, streamed on Facebook and YouTube Live, to ripple through thousands of cell phones that combined to create an ominous, reverberating voice pulsing through the streets, which seemed to surround the White House. The president slammed the curtains shut, but then opened a small slit to spy on the horde. One angry spokesperson encouraged the mob to push toward the White House fences as she leaped off the dented Nissan Pathfinder and watched it get set ablaze to the cheers of the protesters.

The First Lady came up behind her husband as he peered through his surveillance slit. She slid her arms around his waist and stretched on her toes to rest her chin on his shoulder. He sighed and clasped her hands in his. His fingers caressed her wedding band and toggled the tiny diamond in the engagement ring he had placed there twenty-six years before. Success and a thriving career in politics called for an upgrade to something with more carats over the decades. He loved that she wouldn’t hear of it. Her family had hated the ring from the beginning, telling her within easy earshot of then-poor grad student Dan Crowley that it was unfitting for their family image. She defended him as “having potential.” Touching the tiny diamond made him wonder why being elected president of the greatest country in the world did not yet make him feel he had realized his full potential. Touching her tiny diamond grounded him, as did the thick smoke from burning buildings that marked the path of more protesters approaching the White House.

After absorbing signs in the crowd and hearing the president sigh, she pecked his neck and inhaled a slow sniff of his familiar flannel shirt—the favorite when stress levels were high. As they looked at the crowd, she whispered into his ear, “I can’t tell, are these Democrats or Republicans?”

The president missed the sarcasm. “It’s both. It’s everybody. The White House is under siege by her own people, fueled by pure anger and frustration.”

“I can’t say I blame them, Crowley,” Denise said. “They think they’re under siege by the White House and Congress. They voted you in, hoping you can fix this thing and the clock is ticking.” After a pause, she continued, “The name Budget Problem just doesn’t seem big enough to cover this situation, does it? It’s hard to remember how it got this bad.”

The Budget Problem had united people of varied backgrounds in common protest. Decades ago, our government started gaining debt, outrunning common sense by spending much more than it should. Spending more than we generated by revenue created an annual deficit. At the end of the budget year, those deficits, plus the money Congress borrowed from our citizens’ retirement funds, were added to the national debt. Continued spending in the ’90s, ’00s, the teens, and into the ’20s compounded the problem, and the ‘30s looked even more dire. The national debt curve was so steep it looked like a ski slope. There had been bright moments during some administrations, but Congress and most presidents found prosperity coupled to spending. In the ’20s, unemployment had fallen, then risen—helping, then hurting. Pivotal issues had new champions on both sides, and the country split even further into a house divided.

The president said, “There’s so much tension out there. The Gospel of Mark and Abraham Lincoln both mentioned the fate of a house divided and it wasn’t good.”

Trouble had amplified throughout the ’20s when government grew almost unchecked and the presidency with Congress became a testing ground for wild economic theories, promoted by all parties. Revised tax laws claimed 50 percent of the salaries of most middle-income families. Discontent grew, with some insisting the only answer was more government intervention in every area of American life. They closed loopholes and raised the rate yet again on their favorite whipping boy, the top 5 percent, which heretofore paid a huge percentage of the overall tax bill—and that 5 percent became the target only after Congress had pummeled and bled the top 2 percent, but couldn’t generate enough revenue to keep pace with the lawmakers’ benevolence. As a result, they had moved their money offshore. Punitive taxation and a lack of incentives caused industry owners to stop hiring altogether. A robust jobs market for all Americans in the early ’20s had evaporated, and a tidal wave of small businesses shuttered their doors. Corporate tax burdens increased as lucrative (some said crazy) exemptions were closed, and soon large corporations followed suit. Hardship and panic enveloped the nation.

“Rebuilding after two pandemics didn’t help. It’s almost impossible to see how our economy could have survived being turned upside down twice in a decade,” said the First Lady. “It was important that government stepped up to lend a hand to our citizens and help them have jobs to go back to, but that was money that had to come from out of the blue.”

The Covid-19 or “little pandemic,” as it was renamed once the devasting Novido-virus pandemic swarmed the planet later in the decade, was a good primer to help us understand that government could help in time of crisis, but may serve people better by getting out of the way during the recovery effort. Novido had frozen the economy through ’29 and into ’30, when the reality of widespread death matched the early grim models. The world shut down, but a thriving black market emerged as government seemed to have no answers except more layers of government.

Throughout the recoveries, the political parties tried to outgive each other as the House and the Senate doubled down on promises to make life easier for Americans, courtesy of more government programs. And promised. And promised. Getting re-elected was a strong opiate for politicians, who continued to talk change but spent dollars. Public dollars. These programs caused more division, pitting one segment of the population against another, even though both sides were well-intentioned.

Widespread public disenchantment reached a boiling point at the end of the 20s’ when the president and Congress, while addressing the Novido-virus recovery, also had to pay the bills for programs offered years earlier by their predecessors, in exchange for election. They couldn’t kick the cans any farther down the road. Free technology equity programs to equip all lower-income families with unlimited data access and mobile devices; government-assisted air-conditioning and heating for every dwelling; and staunch requirements for renewable resource reconstruction of all buildings (at a factor of eight times conventional cost); the free-ride policy (officially the “Get America Moving” program), where every American family could exercise their “right” to personal transportation, and accompanying programs for government-owned electric-car manufacturers driven by shrinking, but still powerful unions; and the massive GIP or “Guaranteed Income Program,” where every citizen (and noncitizen) received a payout from the government just for being, whether or not they worked. GIP had become known as the “Great Inflation Prod” as it added to the downward economic spiral (not to mention another baby boom). The Democrats and Republicans each had their names for these programs and others that were compassionate, expensive, and created largely to help each party win a larger constituency. Congress could be very caring when using money that didn’t exist and both parties had taken turns adding to the country’s massive debt term after term.

And while programs for individuals had to be paid, Congress also had to craft support for small business and corporate bailouts that helped more than the stockholders to prevent life as we know it from grinding to a halt.

Splat! A balloon filled with red paint smeared across the portico driveway, after being launched from somewhere deep in the crowd with an improvised slingshot of surgical tubing and duct tape. “Mr. President, please stay away from the windows,” said Kendall, the lead Secret Service agent, screaming into the room.

“It’s paint. It’s only paint. I’ll be ok, Kendall. It’s probably latex that will wash off easily.” The president leaned back toward the window, peering out through the slit in the drapery.

The attempts to take care of the masses and the programs used as leverage to keep their faithful happy had motivated a majority of the citizens to lean on their government like never before. Receiving more income by staying home, not working, was an easy choice for most. But now there wasn’t enough government money left to lean on and far too many leaned. Big corporations and small businesses were in the same boat, feeding off of stimulus program and after program, then acting surprised when Congress implemented rules and quotas that affected their industries. Things soured when they bit the hand that fed them.

All these things—some necessary, some merciful, some frivolous—when tallied, required a bulkier government structure to implement and monitor.

“So, help me understand,” the First Lady said. “What’s the difference in the debt and the deficit?”

Dan Crowley looked slyly over his shoulder at his wife. “We both know you had better grades than I did in global economics. This is a trap.”

“More like a refresher course. What are the differences?”

The president sighed and said, “The deficit is the amount of amount of money we spend every year that is over budget…”

“You mean the money we don’t really have, and that starts with the budget you proposed as President?”

“Technically, yes but Congress actually spends it and we find ways…”

“And the national debt?”

“We keep a running total of those overages…”

“The money we didn’t have every year but spent anyway,” she said.

“Yes. Sure but sometimes there are surpluses. That total is the national debt.”

“Isn’t there more? I mean, don’t we take those overages and have to pay interest every year on them? And I remember something about Congress borrowing on people’s retirement funds from social security, so there’s a cost to that right? All that gets added in the national debt total, I think.”

The president’s hands stroked the tops of his wife’s fingers, still clasped in front of him. “So, the simple diagnosis is that we spend money we don’t have and there is no sign of slowing down. You’re right. Now keep going. I’m sure you are about to point out that government has to grow larger to manage all the debt, which just compounds the problem, right?”

Unchecked growth allowed our government to gobble up an increasing percentage of GDP, like a coal-burning furnace. Governments use GDP, or Gross Domestic Product, to measure what a country is good at producing and to determine their ability to repay their debt. It consists of, well, everything. They lumped it all into four components: personal consumption, business investment, government spending, and net exports, for standard comparisons.

Conventional economic wisdom held that lenders worried about being repaid when a country incurs debt greater than their entire economic output (GDP). The World Bank said a country reached a tipping point when the debt-to-GDP ratio exceeded a threshold of 77 percent, but the US started a troubling spiral in the second quarter of 2019, when their debt-to-GDP ratio soared to 103.2 percent. A decade later, in 2028, it swelled to 178.8 percent and tripped every alarm in 2030, when the US quadrupled the World Bank warning level of 77 percent, reaching a staggering 309 percent of GDP.

“Even high school economics students know we can’t sustain this level of spending and borrowing. An unprecedented 21 percent of your annual fiscal budget will be consumed by debt service in 2030. Over one-fifth of our annual budget went toward paying the interest from past spending! We’ll never dig out of this hole.”

Dan Crowley was silent as he processed her comments and the situation through the window.

Previous administrations and other parts of government looked everywhere for answers. Overseas debt brought more intervention from China and others who secured large chunks of our country. They exercised leverage throughout the years, hampering exports and allowing cheap imports to stifle manufacturing, finally knocking the dollar out of the world standard in favor of China’s yuan. The resurgence of bitcoin and the introduction of Libra and other strong crypto and digital currencies created an alternate economy, siphoning more wealth out of America.

In the ultimate move of desperation, Congress rescinded the GIP program, yanking the guaranteed salary many leaned on, finding it impossible to cover the costs. Pouring salt in the wounds of the masses, they recommended people return to work—to jobs that no longer existed.

And the people—everyone—rebelled in different proportions. Nothing had united the citizenry like this sweeping crisis. Paying an unfair share of taxes for others incensed some. Being asked to pay any tax at all upset those who had paid none in the past. But receiving money for nothing in the GIP and having it yanked away was the final straw. The target of frustration varied as all hell broke loose in every corner of the United States: at town hall meetings, rallies, and random civic events. And now people died in riots.

Denise sniffed his flannel shirt again. “You know, you were part of the problem when you were in Congress. Do you regret those bills you helped push through? The wasteful spending?”

“Hindsight is—of course I do. But a lot of those programs did good. In the middle of campaigns, I made promises that I didn’t even think about. All politicians are guilty of the same thing. We all want to help those most in need, so it was hard to vote no on programs that fed people or helped with jobs in the short term. We ignored the long-term damage or just assumed they’ll get fixed down the road.”

Denise added for him, “And you discuss budgets in the trillions, and so a little bitty million-dollar amendment comes along, you stick it in, knowing no one even has time to read the bill. Who cares, right?” She nibbled his ear, then spoke right into it. “I’ve always heard that politicians get elected for creating jobs and growing the economy. They lose elections when unemployment and taxes increase. So, remind me, what’s the incentive for Congress to ever reduce the deficit?”

Dan Crowley realized he didn’t need to answer or agree. He never dreamed a budget crisis could lead to such widespread civil disobedience and violence in America. “Do you remember me talking about my Haiti mission project in college? I was only there for a summer, but I saw firsthand what grassroots protests look like. Three people got killed right in front of me, just for trying to improve their lives. I swore I’d never forget it.”

Denise relaxed her grip and came off her tiptoes to circle around in front of her husband, never taking her eyes off his. He loved and hated that maneuver. The intimacy excited him, but he knew she would get him to admit something already obvious but unspoken. She slid under his left arm to complete the circle and tightened her grip as he drew her closer.

“The question is, Crowley, are you ready to do what it takes to fix this mess? People are dying—not just from financial crap but from the protests about the financial crap. We could be headed into another civil war.”

“An uncivil war, I’d say.”

Spot protests had cropped up for a decade, however, the demand for the government to let go of their money sounded more threatening today. The mob was louder and closer to home—his home, at least, for the time being. Even the Rose Garden couldn’t filter the angry insults as the protests strangled the streets nearby.

And that’s when the next bottle flew over the fence toward the White House. This one was on fire.

— 4 —

Davis, California

At first it wobbled a little, then hovered in place. As promised, the flying car hung in the air like a UFO. After the programmed pause, the Hock Industries team put the noisy flying car through the paces.

As part of the final phase of certification, the AFV-22 (the unimaginative project name assigned to the twenty-second version of their Autonomous Flying Vehicle by a Hock Industries scientist) had to achieve several levels of proficiency unwitnessed over the thirty-plus years of its development. This exercise, if successful, would allow the team to take the vehicle for a real shakedown at the Yuma Proving Ground.

There had never been a successful flying car for a true urban application (Jetsons and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang notwithstanding). Twenty-five other manufacturers had prototypes that flew, but all required short runways, created too much wind to land in urban settings, or faced other limitations. The AFV-22, nicknamed the Magic Carpet, had taken off vertically with a bit of wind and noise, but vertical nonetheless. After a few wobbles, it shifted forward when louvered panels tilted behind 150 small, electric high-speed fans and zoomed ahead in a straight path. After a return trip from just a quarter mile away, the flight team shut it down right on the marked landing zone.

The FAA had assigned General Amy Starnes (US Army, retired, but still called “General” out of respect and fear by everyone, from her staff to her husband and kids) to evaluate the autonomous flying car technology and the massive infrastructure recommendation for approval by Congress. The general growled under her breath, “Gall-durn-it! They just may have figured this flying car thing out.”

“General, this could change the way everything works,” exclaimed an aide trailing one step behind.

“Flying is one thing, Son. Lots of companies do that. Flying through downtown with a thousand more of these things whizzing by is another. But this is one to keep our eye on. Our world needs this right now.”

— 5 —

Washington, DC

The Roosevelt Room in the West Wing of the White House was large for a four-person meeting. It got small fast. “I don’t care how we got in this mess,” yelled President Crowley, throwing volume one of an old Tax Code across the table, slamming it against a shelf, taking out a Civil War–era lamp on its way. The other three assembled jumped. “Let’s remember what we did wrong, but not waste time trying to place blame,” he said, calmer. “In case you haven’t noticed, this country is on the verge of falling—no, ripping itself apart unless we can figure something out. So, let’s hear your best ideas.”

“We have to raise taxes again,” offered VP Bill Fowler, arriving late the previous night from his fishing trip out West. Raising taxes was the default position of every administration, despite party, and the only quick answer.

“No!” Crowley yelled again, seeking volume two of the Code that contained eleven times more words than the Bible. “Don’t you know what those protests are about? People have had enough. And it’s not just here. There are protests in Phoenix, Chicago . . .” He snapped his fingers, looking for help to fill in the blanks.

“Phoenix, Chicago, LA, New York, what’s left of Detroit, Twin Cities, Miami, Atlanta . . . and lots of smaller cities. There’re online effigy-burnings, ‘hate-fests’ on Facebook, and a massive demonstration in San Antonio this morning,” rifled off Secretary of Commerce Wayne Redmond, scrolling through his phone.

“We need drastic answers,” pleaded the president, with empty hands outstretched. “Answers that are bigger than anything we’ve discussed before. Something to produce incredible revenue, and I mean in short order. And to make it harder, we need to raise revenue, while we cut taxes. If we don’t deliver relief to the people right away, we’ll lose this country.”

“We should hire Randy’s think tank full of white guys,” offered Chief of Staff Graham Blair as he straightened the perfect knot on his R. Hanauer cobalt Carlisle bow tie. His knack for breaking the tension was legendary. In intimate circles, he sometimes called the president “white guy,” who in turn referred to him as “black guy,” a long-standing routine from one of their first visits to a Washington Insider interview, where a commentator had identified them as such over a mic thought to be turned off. They had been close friends for years, through local, state, and national campaigns. The two were always together but found it funny that a commentator couldn’t tell them apart, except for color. Crowley had been out front as the affable candidate; Blair behind the scenes as the pensive strategist, the handler. Crowley’s attire was usually disheveled, in need of attention; Blair, impeccable in a suit and bow tie and five inches shorter than candidate Crowley. Blair had shaved his head since high school, while Crowley had longish locks for a white candidate. Both had stunning intellects and yet, some commentator could only see “black and white” and got caught saying it.

Blair often provided the politically savvy angle for a discussion, giving the president perspective and freedom to think beyond the expected. Blair pursued the Beltway solution and said, “His think tank helped create some wild scenarios for healthcare back in the teens. They might inspire some fresh thinking.”

“No, no,” the president countered, expanding the sloppy knot on his “Caffeine Molecule” tie, a Christmas present from his son that he was only allowed to wear on internal days in the Oval Office. “This is too big for one company to handle, and we don’t have time for a big study. Our country’s—and our—butts depend on coming up with something revolutionary.”

After staring off at the ceiling, the president said, “We need to get a bunch of smart folks—maybe thirty or forty and lock them in a room so we can suss out every scenario—stuff we never dreamed. There has to be a solution.”

Blair said, “We’ll put together a list of recommendations and try to expedite this thing. I’ll speak to some senators who still want to rub elbows with the White House. I think a good target is to have the first meeting by the end of the month.”

“Three o’clock,” said the president, ignoring Blair. He turned and looked at the astonished faces around the table. “Three o’clock today. Each of you grab three or five people and get them ready to head to Camp David to work awhile. We are going to make a run at this, even if we sequester ourselves for a week—me included. I want to meet some smart, creative folks—so let’s reach outside the normal group of butt-kissers. We have to save this country.”

“But, Mr. Pres—”

“And don’t tell these folks what’s going on. Just tell them that a matter of utmost security to the United States is at hand, and we need their help. This has to be a secret—I mean a real secret—not one of those DC secrets where you tell everyone you tell that it’s confidential. No press—hear me, everyone? No press. We have to keep this quiet until we come up with some answers. The country can’t think we’re grasping at straws . . . even if we are. Blair will coordinate. See you at Camp David in”—he glanced at his watch—“five and a half hours.”

He flew out of the room over a chorus of “buts” and “can’ts.”

— 6 —

Virginia City, Montana

“Well, here comes ole what’s his name,” said Bullseye Magee, peeking through the dented metal blinds of the Madison County Courthouse. The dusty blinds weren’t original to the 1875 construction but must have been added soon after. She said, between bites of an apple that slid off the blade of her fishing knife, “Oh, and would you look at those shiny new boots? I bet they’re fresh from Brooks Fifth Avenue.” She smiled at her own joke, since her rancher friends Hitch Jenkins and County Commissioner Morris Evans didn’t track with her humor.

“Who’s his name?” Morris Evans poked from behind the Madison County News app on his iPad.

“That rich Hollywood actor guy, that’s who. The one that bought the Tucker ’n Bachman ranches.” To herself, she said, “Dang, he’s a looker. That’s quite a bumper on the back of that chassis.” Turning to the guys, she added, “Shoot, you oughta know his name better’n anyone else, Morris.”

Hitch Jenkins leaned over from his regular chair in the corner and looked out of the window nearest to the door. “Yep, you should know his name, Morris.”

“Bullseye, you’re the gal who takes the vice president and all them muckety-mucks fishing and hunting. I don’t care to know them folks,” said Morris.

“Those are politicians, not celebrities; and, believe me, there’s a big difference, but I’m telling you, Morris Evans, this is one celebrity name you should remember,” added Bullseye.

Morris Evans leaned forward just in time to see has-been-leading-man and action-movie-hero Evan Morris flatten his nose as he tried to push the door clearly marked “Pull.”

“Hey, fellas . . . ma’am. You should get that door fixed,” joked Evan Morris, to a semisilent reaction as he stepped up to the worn wooden countertop. He pushed aside the jellybean holder/World’s Greatest Golfer paperweight to make room for his elbows. “How we doin’ today?”

“OK,” said Hitch Jenkins over his glasses and under his cap. “You?”

Morris Evans watched from his chair behind the desk and harrumphed, “I’d be better if people read the Pull sign.”

Evan laughed, then said, “I’m just getting settled up on my new ranch . . .”

Bullseye felt him pause for a “Welcome to town” or a question about which ranch he had bought. The three locals just glared.

“I just bought the old Tucker and Bachman places . . .”

Bullseye knew how this little tug of war worked: in equal parts, her two friends stayed silent, and the new guy squirmed and continued to offer more details, thinking something might spark a conversation. She had seen these painful exchanges play out with other people who moved to the area. There was a slight mistrust of anyone moving to the sparser areas of Montana by the locals, which was amplified for anyone of celebrity status. Her group had taken it on themselves to front the vetting process with newcomers, in hopes of cultivating appreciation for becoming a Montanan, or at least chafing a little as part of the entry ceremony.

“ . . . and I wondered if I need a permit or an environmental impact study to drill a well and cut some trees,” Evan finally finished.

“Don’t need one for cutting timber if it’s just for your house or barn, but there’s some paperwork for drilling the well,” Morris said as if he had pressing county business. His wooden chair groaned as he leaned back and plucked a copy of form mt-e9907 from a credenza stacked high with various papers and pamphlets.

Evan looked around, as if the paparazzi may swarm, then pulled out some tiny, foldable reading glasses to help investigate the form. “Hmmm . . . last name first . . . Morris, Evan.”

“Yep?” said Morris Evans, now back behind the tablet.

“Excuse me?” said Evan Morris.

“I thought you called me,” said the commissioner.

“I was just reading the form as I filled it out. I said, ‘Morris, Evan.’”

“I know—that’s my name.”

“Your name is Evan Morris too?” said the actor.

“Naw, it’s Morris Evans. That is what you said,” bellowed the commissioner, holding up the nameplate from his desk, sounding more perturbed.

“I was reading the form—it says, ‘last name first.’ I’m Evan Morris,” he said, offering a friendly handshake. “That’s interesting that we have the same name.”

The commissioner leaned over his desk to the counter, tentatively accepting the handshake. “Too bad you got it in the wrong order.”

Evan continued begging a welcome. “It’s so beautiful up here. This land has more than its share of stars at night.”

“We got a few more stars than we need in the daytime too,” mumbled Morris. Bullseye laughed at first and then tried to cover it with a cough. Hitch reeled her in with a disapproving stare and stepped in as referee.

“Don’t you pay him no never mind, Mr. Morris. Our Morris is as crusty as they come and wears his County Commissionership like a halo. I’m Hitch Jenkins and over there is our friend Bullseye Magee. I’m sure she’s laughing because she just thought of some new scam to separate a group of tourists from their money.”

“Hey now!” protested Bullseye, almost enough to stand.

“You all live here in Virginia City?”

“Bullseye has a nice spread outside town and is a hunting and fishing guide, and she also owns the old Lame Horse Creek tourist trap over in Idaho. If you got twenty dollars, she can help you dig for gems in her mine shaft, spend the night in a real authentic ghost town . . .”

Morris Evans put his tablet down and piled on, “Which features all new fresh ghosts since she just built this old ghost town six years ago.”

Bullseye rose to defend herself. “OK, that’s enough. You fellers have hung out with me long enough to know that’s just not true.”

Hitch and Morris recoiled, obviously not expecting a fight.

Bullseye let a sliver of a smile slip into the corner of her mouth as she sliced off another section of apple. “Now, you know that if you want to dig for a world famous Bitterroot Valley sapphire or sleep in the haunted hotel room practically certified as the spot occupied by Lewis and Clark and Sacagawea . . . it will cost a lot more than twenty bucks!”

Hitch said, “And now you know the real Bullseye Magee, Mr. Morris.”

“What they won’t tell you, Mr. Morris is that I have discovered a few sapphires and even some genuine diamonds on my place on the border in Idaho. And when I find a few bigger ones, it’ll shut them up for keeps.”

Morris Evans shot back, “Diamond flakes, you mean. You’d have to glue a few of those together just to see them without reading glasses.”

“They’re there, fellas—I can smell ’em,” added Bullseye, as she tilted her head back like she was savoring a diamond aroma at that very moment.

“And what exactly does a diamond smell like, Bullseye?” asked Hitch.

Bullseye rolled her head sideways to face Hitch. “Like money, boys. Like husbands lined up with hands full of hunnerds, just waiting to shove it in my pockets.”

“So, diamond mining is your full-time occupation, Bullseye?”

“No,” interrupted Morris. “To be fair, when Bullseye ain’t mining money from unsuspecting tourists in her sapphire operation, she makes a real living as a wilderness guide for those high-dollar political types from Warshington. And she’s pretty good at it. She had the vice president of the whole United States out last week. He’s a regular of hers.”

“If I can help that poor man catch a fish, I can help anyone,” said Bullseye.

After a short laugh, Evan said, “So you cater your hunting and fishing trips to the stars, Ms. Magee?”

She slipped the slice of apple off her knife blade and spoke while she chewed, “Everybody calls me Bullseye, and naw, there’s always a camera nearby when you star types come sniffing around. The politicians think it’s cute that a woman spearheads a guiding service, and those old guys think I’m hot, which helps, but it’s privacy that I offer my clients. Those politicians and big corporate types are always trying to hide something—I’m not talking about nothing major illegal, don’t get the wrong idea, Mr. Morris, but if they want to stretch the bighorn season by a day or so while they talk about something secret, and it’s private land, who says that’s a problem?”

“I understand, Bullseye, and please, call me Evan,” he said, tipping his hat again. “So, the mining and ghost town stuff is just a hobby. Is that around here?”

Bullseye smiled and shifted her weight, tipping her hand that there was more of a backstory required in her answer. “Well, it’s somewhere between a hobby and a total pain in the butt. I inherited it a while back from a worthless uncle that wanted to make certain he left as big a stain on the rest of my life as he did when I was a little girl. So, I make OK money with the guiding service, and I got more land to hunt on from my uncle. Either way, it keeps me from having to work on my ranch, which is a whole nother story, Evan. Someday we’ll line up some shots, and I’ll tell you about that.”

“Well, how about that? I just moved to town, and I already have a drinking date,” Evan Morris boasted as he turned back to his form.

Bullseye watched him lean over the counter to write. Evan was on the seasoned side of extremely good looking—she remembered seeing him on those old magazine covers. He was older and weathered a bit, but the years had been kind. He had a Malibu weathering that textured and defined a person; not a Montana winter-after-winter-work-in-the-cold weathering that chiseled and broke a man. She liked the Malibu weathering to look at but had been around enough famous people to see through their thin veneer. Like a trout at noon, she wasn’t easy to catch.

“OK, Mr. Backwards-Name-with-the-Stars, we need to finish up so we can get to lunch,” said Morris Evans. The others rose to leave.

“Nice to meet you all. I hope to see you around,” offered Evan as his last first chance at connecting.

“You planning on putting up any fences?” asked Morris.

Evan took off his glasses and stammered for a second, looking to give the answer he wanted to hear. “Well . . . I . . . you bet. As soon as I get horses or cows, I’ll make sure they get penned in.”

“Told you,” said Morris to Bullseye and Hitch. “All of you Hollywooders swoop in and buy up these big ranches all around the county. Most of you hardly even stay here more than a few weeks out of the year, but you think the first thing you have to do is put up fencing. We like these open spaces. Besides, you got enough land that your horses will wear out before they ever find the edge of your place.”

“Well, that’s good advice. I guess I won’t be fencing then. Thanks for the tip,” surrendered Evan Morris. “And by the way, I’m not just out here for a few weeks. I’m hoping to ride into the sunset years on my ranch here.”

“Well, I’ve heard that before. I hope you find your way around all right. I’ll let you know when the drilling application is approved,” directed Commissioner Evans. “It just has to clear the County Board.”

Evan paused, then said, “Well, back in Malibu I could get things fast-tracked by the codes department in about a month because of my connections. Is that possible here? I know it’s asking a lot.”

“Oh, Son, this ain’t Malibu, and we don’t care about that status stuff. The County Board is just Hitch, Bullseye, ’n me, so we’ll kick it around over lunch and you can pick up the approved permit this afternoon. But it’s Meatloaf Monday over at the Placer Café, so don’t expect anything before two p.m.”

Over her shoulder, Bullseye offered, “Sorry for the rush, Evan, but there is some risk of missing out on a slab of meatloaf if you don’t get to the Placer in time.”

The ex-Hollywooder slid out of the courthouse behind the trio and had just defrosted from the cold reception when he ran smack into April Lear.