The Divide

by J. L. Brown

  “She has?”

  “Well… most of the time.”

  “We need a loyal guy like you at the network.”

  Chandler paused. “Have your people call my people.”

  Cole laughed. “We’ll leave it right there for today. Thank you, Chandler Fairchild. Good luck to you, young man.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brennan.”

  Cole signed off.

  Sasha turned off the radio. Whitney wiped her eyes.

  “Sounds as if you’ve got your son back,” Sasha said.

  Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major, op. 55, no. 2 trilled from Whitney’s cell phone. A ringtone she hadn’t heard in a while.

  “I need to take this, Sasha,” Whitney said.

  Her younger son was calling.

  *

  After she hung up with Chandler, she returned to the paperwork on her desk. She caught herself humming. She was happy.

  She glanced at the credenza. Sasha had left her purse.

  Whitney picked up the handset to ask Sean to retrieve it, then set it back down. She needed to stretch her legs. She could return the purse to her chief of staff’s office herself.

  As she got closer, she noticed that the black patent leather purse was open.

  She peered inside. A sheet of parchment paper.

  A familiar color.

  The texture was familiar to her touch.

  Pulling it out, she unfolded it, already knowing its contents.

  A letter addressed to her. From Landon Phillips.

  Worn from the many times she had read it.

  The same letter stolen from Whitney’s purse several months ago.

  Sasha had known all along that Landon believed he was Whitney’s son.

  Why did Sasha take the letter?

  Why hadn’t she returned it?

  What else was she keeping from Whitney?

  A heaviness overcame her. She slipped the letter back inside Sasha’s purse and picked up the phone to call Sean.

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Washington, DC

  “May I speak to Pat first?” Jade said to Max.

  “Of course,” he said.

  She waited for the wide hospital room door to close behind him. “Anything new on Barrett?”

  The other woman shook her head.

  Jade looked at Pat for a long time, then said, “‘For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds.’”

  “Ninety-four,” Pat said. “The sonnet left with Judy Porter. What of it?”

  “I think it’s a message.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I need you to run a check on someone.”

  “Sure. Who?”

  Jade put a finger to her lips. She scribbled a name and an address on a sheet of paper from a notepad on her nightstand and held it up.

  “Memorize it.”

  Pat’s eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that your friend?”

  Jade nodded.

  Pat stared at the paper and then nodded.

  Jade ripped off the piece of paper with Zoe’s name and address and handed it to Pat. “Flush it.”

  Pat did as she was asked.

  Jade thought about seeing Kyle, McClaine, and Iyanna Adey at the Seattle courthouse. There was something between them. Something involving Zoe.

  But what?

  “Look into Kyle Madison.”

  “We ran a check on her for the Robin Hood case.”

  “Do it again,” Jade said. “We missed something. And one more thing.”

  Pat looked at her, questioning.

  “There’s another person I need information on.”

  “Who?”

  “Micah.”

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  Washington, DC

  “This is unexpected,” Blake said.

  He stood in the doorway, his normally styled hair tousled. He was barefoot and dressed in a plain black T-shirt and jeans.

  “I was just visiting Jade,” Whitney said.

  “How’s she doing?”

  “You haven’t seen her?”

  “I have.”

  This pleased her. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  “Uh… sure.”

  She entered Blake’s condo, which opened to a living and dining room area. The furniture was modern, the walls gray and white. Crossing the cherry floors, she gazed out the window at the George Washington University Hospital across the street and listened to the rhythm of the city outside.

  “How convenient,” she said.

  “I could’ve walked home.”

  Behind her, he picked up papers and files from the sofa and rectangular wooden coffee table. She turned, watching him. “What are you working on?”

  “Nothing,” he said, cradling all the material in his arms. “Trying to catch up on what I missed while I was out. Please sit down. I’ll be right back.”

  He walked past her to where there were two other rooms: his bedroom and the guest room he used as an office.

  Sitting on the sofa, she admired the white marble flecked with gray that surrounded the fireplace.

  He wasn’t gone long.

  “Your fireplace is beautiful,” she said.

  “I lucked out, finding a place like this close to the White House. Would you like something to drink?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Opting to sit on a chair across from her, he crossed his legs at the ankles.

  “I can imagine the traffic jam you’re causing outside,” he said.

  “I won’t be long. I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”

  “You’ve never visited me at home before.”

  “It’s about what happened in the Rose Garden.”

  “Sorry to miss all the excitement. Do you want me to write up a statement?”

  “This has nothing to do with your job,” she said. “It’s about you.”

  “What about me?”

  “It’s time.”

  He sat up straighter. “Time?”

  “For us to tell everyone who you are.”

  “Why?”

  “It will come out eventually. We need to craft the story the way we want it to be told.”

  “Okay.” He dragged the word out, unconvinced.

  “Your life is about to change,” she said, noticing his discomfort. “Everything you do will be scrutinized and commented on, worse than in your role as press secretary. You’ll receive protection from the Secret Service.”

  He looked sharply at her, as if he hadn’t considered this.

  “I don’t want their protection.”

  “It’s a hassle sometimes,” she said, “but you’ll get used to it.”

  “I’m of age. I can decline it.”

  “Given what happened to me, I wouldn’t recommend that. Everyone will come after you.”

  Standing, he moved to the window behind him, gazing down at the traffic jam around Washington Circle.

  “I like my life the way it is,” he said.

  She came and stood by him, following his gaze.

  “You are my son. This is your life now.”

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  Washington, DC

  “How long?” Max said upon reentering the room after Pat had departed. He sat down in the chair next to the bed.

  “How long what?”

  “Have you been jumpy like this.”

  She started to blow him off, then looked at him. “Ever since it happened.”

  “Is there anything else that’s different?” Max asked.

  She thought about it for a moment. She was exhausted from all the visitors. “My chest hurts before it rains.”

  “Nightmares?”

  “Every night. But not about that night.”

  “About what then?”

  “My parents.”

  His brow furrowed. “What about them?”

  “I’m trying to find them.”

  The last word hung in the air. After a while, Max said, “I looked into their deaths. At the time. I met with the
local chief of police and the detective in charge of the case.” He stared into her eyes. “It was officially ruled an accident, Jade. They’re gone.”

  She was never satisfied with that conclusion. They died in a one-car accident on the Pacific Coast Highway. There were other tread marks at the scene. The police thought that it might have been a hit-and-run. The other car was never found.

  Fire had consumed her parents’ car. There were no remains. Their caskets, laid to rest in Arlington National Cemetery, were empty.

  Glancing down, she said, “I blamed myself. Believed that the accident was somehow my fault. That I could’ve prevented it.”

  “You’ve never told me that,” Max said. Then, quieter, “I miss your parents too. I’m your godfather for a reason.” A pause. “Did you know your dad was a spiritual man?”

  “We never went to church.”

  “But he read the Bible. Every day. ‘For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required.’ He believed privilege bestowed responsibility.”

  “I know,” she said. “He told me that many times.” She paused. “I want to get back to it, Max.”

  “It’s going to take some time before they’ll allow it,” he said. “Even a desk job.”

  “Can’t you pull some strings?”

  “You need to rest.”

  “Being here has given me a lot of time to think,” she said.

  “About?”

  “I’m not ready to sit behind a desk.”

  “I could’ve told you that.”

  “I miss my previous job. Being an ASAC. I miss the hunt.”

  “It’s what you were born to do.”

  “Did my father say that too?”

  Max hesitated. “Possibly.”

  “I’m glad Ethan’s back,” she said, fiddling with her hospital wristband.

  His expression changed. “So am I.”

  She wondered what that was about. “Did you have something to do with that?”

  “I don’t possess that type of pull. I should go, let you rest. When will they discharge you?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Need a ride?”

  “Zoe’s coming.” She hesitated. She wanted to tell him her suspicions about the president. About Zoe. Something made her hold back. She wasn’t sure what. Max was one of the few people in her life whom she’d always trusted.

  He’d always been there.

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “What about me?”

  “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I started writing.”

  This made Jade sit up. “Writing what?”

  “Fiction.”

  “Crime fiction?”

  “No,” he said. “A historical thriller. Set during the Shakespearean era.”

  “Can’t let all that research go to waste.”

  “That,” he said, “and it fills the hours.” Max was never one to rush to fill silences, even awkward ones. He surprised her. “We need to talk about Micah.”

  She looked at him. “What about him?”

  “The way he looks at you.” Max pushed his glasses farther up on his nose. “You shouldn’t let him be so attached.”

  Jade didn’t like anyone telling her what to do. “He works for me.”

  “All the more reason to keep it professional.”

  “We are professional,” she said. “Is there more to this? What’s going on, Max?”

  “Just take my word for it.”

  “What’ve you got against Micah?” Jade said, eyeing him with suspicion. “Isn’t he your platinum child? I thought you’d want us to be close. Your two protégés. You know something about him that I don’t?”

  He stared at her for a long while, an inner debate taking place.

  “I do.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  Max swallowed. “He’s your brother.”

  Chapter Ninety-Nine

  The White House, Washington, DC

  Whitney stepped to the podium.

  Gathered before her in the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room, the press corps sensed a major announcement forthcoming.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” she said into the microphone. “I want to share something with you. Please hold your questions until the end.

  “After the Rockefeller Center terrorist attack, Blake Haynes, who stands here before you every day speaking on my behalf, needed a blood transfusion. Without it, he would have died. Blake has a rare blood type, shared by few people. My chief of staff, Sasha Scott, led the effort to find someone with a match. It turned out I was one of those people.”

  The press started to murmur.

  She plowed on. “I donated my blood to him.” She turned to the wings and motioned to him. “Come out here, Blake.”

  He came and stood next to her, smiling bashfully at his colleagues.

  “When are you coming back to work, Blake?” shouted a male reporter. “We miss you!”

  “I bet,” Blake said.

  Whitney held up a hand. “Please. During this process, our DNA was tested.” The murmurs were getting louder. She glanced at the empty chair where Judy used to sit, her colleagues still leaving it vacant in her honor. “It was confirmed that Blake Haynes is not only a valuable member of the White House staff, but he is also my biological son.

  “And now,” she said, “I’d like to bring out his brother and sister.”

  Chandler and Emma joined them on stage. She placed her arms around Blake’s and Emma’s waists. Chandler stood on the other side of Blake, his arm around his brother’s shoulders.

  They’d met their new brother at dinner the night before. They’d listened as Blake told them about his upbringing. He listened as Chandler and Emma told him how much it sucked to be the president’s children.

  “Where’s your husband?” shouted Mike from ABC News.

  Whitney gave a wry smile. “I’ll leave that for another press conference. Thank you, everyone. I hope I’ve answered all your questions.”

  Every reporter’s hand was raised, all of them shouting questions at her.

  Whitney looked at her three children.

  And laughed.

  *

  Sasha crossed the Oval Office and handed Whitney some papers. “It’s good to see you happy.”

  Whitney hadn’t forgotten Sasha’s betrayal, but she believed that it was best to keep her friends close and her enemies closer. Her frenemies, even more so.

  “I am happy,” Whitney said.

  Sasha cocked her head. “It’s not awkward?”

  “A little. For all of us. Chandler and Blake are attending a Nationals game tonight.” Whitney held up the papers. “Anything important? I want to spend some time with Emma before she heads back to school.”

  Sasha shook her hand. “It can wait. Have a good night, Madam President.”

  “You too, Sasha.”

  Sasha left.

  Whitney retrieved her purse from her desk, leaving her briefcase on the credenza.

  No work tonight.

  Her phone rang. “Yes, Sean.”

  “Secretary Salcedo is here.”

  Whitney frowned. The secretary of homeland security didn’t usually drop by unannounced.

  “Send her in. And get Sasha back here, will you?”

  “Will do.”

  The secretary entered a few moments later, followed by Sasha.

  Salcedo stopped a few paces from her. Glancing at the purse in Whitney’s hand, she said, “Madam President, sorry to disturb you. It’s about the Rockefeller Center bombing.”

  “Someone claimed responsibility?”

  “There’s been an arrest.”

  Whitney laid her purse on her desk and returned to her seat. “That’s excellent.”

  “I hadn’t heard,” Sasha said. “Who?”

  “Isaiah and Jeremiah Johnson, ages twenty-four and twenty, respectively. They’re brothers.”

  Whitney’s mouth parted in surprise. “American
?”

  Salcedo nodded. “Members of a white nationalist organization with a grudge against the cable network.”

  “My God!” Whitney said.

  “Terrorism knows no color,” said Sasha.

  “The FBI director is on his way.”

  “What do we know?” asked Whitney.

  “FBI Counterterrorism traced significant payments to their personal bank accounts.”

  “Any idea who was behind it?”

  Salcedo hesitated. “We believe that it was the Carr brothers. The FBI office in Chicago is en route to pick up Jason Carr.”

  Whitney’s mind raced as she tried to absorb what she had just learned. “Any connection with the Shakespeare Killer?”

  “We’re not sure,” Salcedo said, “but there’s more. The brothers received financial backing from another party. We don’t know for sure if the Carrs were cognizant of the other funding source.”

  “Who was it?”

  Salcedo’s stare didn’t waver. “Russia.”

  The bear never forgets.

  Whitney picked up the phone to say goodbye to her daughter.

  Epilogue

  Washington, DC

  “Nice digs,” he said as she let him into the Ritz-Carlton suite in Georgetown.

  “My home away from home for the moment. Charming earring. What is it, a star?”

  “It’s a tree. How is she?”

  “She’s going to be fine. She knows you’re here?”

  “No. I was asked to check on the situation. Jade would think it was odd if I visited her.”

  “Are you hungry?” She waved a hand toward the dining room. “We can have something brought in. Or eat downstairs.”

  “I’m not sure if being seen together here is a good idea,” he said.

  “You’re right. I believe that Jade’s already suspicious. We can order in.”

  “I’m not that hungry.”

  She gestured to the living room. “Well, then, have a seat.”

  “I’ll stand, thanks. I’ve been sitting for five hours.”

  “It is a long flight.” She moved to a beige chair by the unlit fireplace. “I’ll sit, if you don’t mind.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “I see that Collins stopped tweeting.”

  “The silly little activist served his purpose.”