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Over at AARP, Paul Prescott had a bulletin board where he put up the pictures of people who either had already committed crimes against the olds or were under suspicion. That morning he added Max Leonard. Why would a guy who looked like that, and had money to boot, waste his time doing this?

When Robert Golden walked into Paul’s office and first saw the photos, he had no idea what Paul was trying to accomplish. “Why are you collecting these? Shouldn’t the FBI be doing this?”

“Hopefully they are. But it doesn’t hurt if we do it, too. I’m trying to see if there’s a pattern here. Maybe if we can understand these kinds of people, we can figure out how to stop them.”

“Well, that’s a noble thought, but I think the only pattern you’re going to find is that these people are all young. No old people are killing their own.”

“But why would someone who’s rich, like this Leonard guy, care so much about this issue?”

“Who knows? Maybe he had a grandfather who abused him.”

“So you think he hates old people because of that?”

“Listen, Paul. I think it’s great what you’re doing. You’re a smart guy, and if you can find something that ties this together, then that would be helpful, but this isn’t your job. I think all of your time should be spent trying to get Congress in line so that if Bernstein ever decides he’s going to keep his campaign promises on life extension, we’ll be there to stop it.”

“Does he even have the votes?”

“Not now. But the violence is having an effect. Did you read the editorial today from the mayor of Chicago?”

“No.”

“I printed it out. Read it. Don’t worry about catching guys or figuring out a pattern. Here is our clear and present danger.” And Golden put the editorial on Paul’s desk. It was titled, “Enough Is Enough.”

“Jesus, does the mayor know there is a revolutionary group with the same name?”

And as Paul read the editorial, it sounded as though any one of the people on his bulletin board could have written it. It said the transfer of wealth was long overdue. That it was time to give young people a break. And one line stuck with Paul because he thought it could catch on: If we don’t improve our youth’s chances for a better life, we will one day hand this country over to a generation that does not want it. Paul thought a line like that could only cause more trouble. It was time to ask a favor.

Paul knew a gay conservative writer he had once been set up with. They had had a pleasant evening but no connection. The writer had a sizable following, more so among Washington elite than regular people, but he was read widely. Paul had not spoken to him in almost a year. He appeared on the writer’s screen. “It’s Paul Prescott.”

“My God,” the writer said. “How are you?”

“Well, I’m hanging in there.”

“A lot of shit going on with your organization, huh?”

“You can say that. I wondered what you think about the violence?”

“What I think? I think all these young people should be executed. Get a fucking job and stop whining.”

“I knew it. I knew that’s what you think. Will you write about it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I understand it. I don’t like it, but I get it. Don’t you?”

Paul was silent. He couldn’t really say he didn’t understand it, but so what? There were a lot of things he understood but still wanted stopped. It was clear why all terrorists hated their targets, but that didn’t mean you didn’t try to kill them. “Are you there?” the writer asked.

“Yeah. I’m just thinking about what you said.” Paul didn’t have the energy at that moment to try to convince him. “Hey, if you don’t want to write a support piece then so be it. I just love your writing and thought you could help the cause.”

“That’s cool. Listen, keep in touch. If I change my mind, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks. Good to see you.” And Paul clicked the man’s face off his screen. The conversation made him glad they had never really connected. And anyway, Paul thought the guy wasn’t aging well.

It’s amazing how fast you can turn on someone when he disappoints you.

CHAPTER