by Joseph Flynn
It started with a shot of a burned out car on the campus of Indiana University. The young female reporter informed her audience that three teenagers had been in the car when it crashed into a parked truck and burst into flames. All three young people had been seriously burned but all of them were alive thanks to the heroic efforts of Terry Pickford and Cassidy Kimbrough who pulled them from the burning wreck.
Pickford had suffered second degree burns on his face, hands, arms and shoulders. Kimbrough had suffered first and second degree burns on her hands and arms. The three passengers in the car had suffered second and third degree burns over more than fifty percent of their bodies.
All the burn victims were being treated at the Burn Center of Wishard Hospital in Indianapolis. The video came to an end and the president looked at Aggie.
“Cassidy Kimbrough is Sheryl Kimbrough’s daughter?”
As with any first-rate politician, Patricia Darden Grant had an extraordinary recall of people and their names.
“Yes, Madam President.”
The president put a hand to her mouth as she absorbed the shock, horror and pain the victims and their families in Indiana must be feeling.
She said to Aggie, “Please have Edwina set up calls for me. Start with the families of the young people in the car, then Terry Pickford’s family, then Sheryl Kimbrough. Cassidy, too, if she’s up to it. I’ll finish with Senator Talbert. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Aggie.”
“I thought you should know, Madam President.”
Aggie went to relay her instructions to Edwina Byington.
Proud that the president had her call priorities right.
Reserve Drive — Dublin, Ohio
Mather Wyman welcomed Senator Daniel Crockett into his home. The two men took their ease in Wyman’s home office, sitting in facing wing chairs. Crockett had a measure of the Tennessee sipping whiskey the vice president had offered him. Wyman contented himself with sparkling water and a slice of lime.
The vice president asked, “So how is New Mexico at this time of year?”
“Surprisingly chilly at night, but then I haven’t spent much time there. I forgot how high up in the mountains Santa Fe is,” Crockett said.
“Governor Fuentes’ hospitality was warm, I hope.”
Crockett took a sip of his drink. “It was, up to a point. She’s interested, but she hasn’t committed.”
“She has other opportunities?”
“She was very open about that. Rosalinda Fuentes has been keeping a sharp eye on Patti Grant. She thinks if the president does a good job, not even a great one, in a second term, the country might be open to putting another woman in the White House. If the president should have a disappointing second term, however, Governor Fuentes is sure the next president would be a man, an ‘old white guy’ to restore a sense of comfort.”
Wyman said, “So she isn’t interested in the old white guy from Ohio this time around.”
“No, that’s not the case. She has great admiration for the way you handled your tenure as acting president.”
“So we can trust that she won’t turn up on the True South ticket?” Wyman asked.
Crockett laughed. “The thought would never cross Howard Hurlbert’s mind.”
“So what are Governor Fuentes’ concerns?”
“That you are too identified with the Grant administration. She liked what she saw when you were running things, but she feels you’ve got to show the country more of who you are.”
Wyman kept a feeling of acute irony off his face.
“That will happen soon. The Iowa caucus, diminished though its importance is, is next week, and I leave for Des Moines tomorrow,” he said.
“I trust you’ve lined up your donors and surrogates.”
“I have,” Wyman told him, “and I’m happy with the results.”
Crockett finished his drink, got up and poured another tot.
He looked at Wyman and said, “There’s one thing you could do, going into the primaries, to show the country you are your own man.”
Wyman felt a chill as he guessed where Crockett was heading.
Still, he pushed the senator to say it by asking, “What’s that?”
“Mr. Vice President, you should resign from office. Effective immediately.”
The House on Gentleman Road — Ottawa, Illinois
Damon Todd sat in the kitchen reading the Washington Post on his iPad. There had been no mention of the vandalism at James J. McGill’s house in Evanston. The same had been true in the Chicago Tribune and the New York Times. Wanting to be thorough, Todd had also checked CNN, Google News and WWN online. He’d saved the Post for last, thinking if any paper would have news concerning the president’s husband, it would be the Washington paper.
It had been over a week now, and he was disappointed to find no mention of the incident.
He’d thought a broken window, even at McGill’s house, wouldn’t rate top of the news coverage. So he’d searched the depths of the news sites and still had found nothing. He decided to click on every link on the site before he conceded that the cops had kept the story out of the media.
He even looked at the Post’s Celebritology blog, thinking the way fame was measured these days a presidential spouse’s petty annoyances must qualify as news in some way. He didn’t find any reference to McGill, but what he happened upon made the blood drain from his face.
Some time later, he didn’t know if it had been minutes or hours, he heard a door open and Anderson say, “Look at that. Doc died where he sat. We could leave the windows open and he’d keep right where he is all winter.”
“He’s got that iPad of his in his hands,” Crosby said. “Maybe we should see if there’s something on it that did him in.”
The day’s temperature was below freezing, and Todd thought with the door open he could well freeze in place if he didn’t start moving. He began with his eyes, looking over at the two rogue agents. Crosby had his Vietnam tomahawks in hand.
Todd knew that Crosby and Anderson had been out practicing with the unusual weapons. A little thing like cold weather didn’t deter them. They also practiced knife fighting, light cuts allowed, no deep slashing or stabbing.
They’d also practiced these skills with Todd. He proved surprisingly good at throwing the tomahawks, but had less of a stomach for the knife work. On the other hand, being younger than Crosby and Anderson and more dedicated to his strength training, he was in better physical condition than the other two.
Anderson’s comment on that had been, “Strong is good. Quick and ruthless are much better. You’ll never kill a badass by showing him how many chin-ups you can do.”
“Push-ups either,” Crosby added.
Now, the senior CIA fugitive stepped over to Todd, extended his hand and asked, “You mind?”
Todd let Crosby take the tablet computer.
He read from the screen, “Chana Lochlan and Graham Keough attend Kennedy Center gala. Story says Ms. Lochlan was once known as ‘the most fabulous face on television.’”
Anderson had to see that, and took the iPad. “Still looks fine to me,” he said. “And Mr. Keough is a Silicon Valley multimillionaire.”
“A very handsome couple,” Crosby said.
Todd snatched the computer back from Anderson.
Crosby and Anderson sat at the kitchen table with Todd, stared at him.
“Reacting like that tells us all we need to know, Doc,” Anderson said.
“You once had it bad for Ms. Lochlan,” Crosby made clear.
“You ever get some of that, Doc?” Anderson asked.
Crosby said, “Of course, he did. Only question is, how did he get it?”
Anderson feigned shock. “You mean, Arn, did Doc hypnotize a poor girl to have his way with her?”
“I’m sure he did, with some poor girl. Think how tempting that would be. He’s going to give some little sweetheart the kind of life she could only dream of, it’s only fair he takes a taste for his time a
nd effort.”
Anderson nodded, certain that was the way things had been.
“That was some racket you had going, Doc.”
Crosby said, “Another thing to think about is whether Ms. Lochlan is our new friend’s all-time heartthrob. Because if she is, you know what that might mean.”
Anderson gestured to Todd. “Come on, Doc, play along. What do you think Arn means?”
Barely moving his lips, Todd replied, “McGill is using her as bait. The same way he did with Lydell Martin.”
“Very good,” Crosby said.
“Play it out a little more for us, Doc. What else does it mean?”
“That I’ve been looking for Chana since we broke out, but I haven’t been able to find her until now.”
“Sort of underlines that McGill is behind all this, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Todd says.
Crosby continued the thread. “No way McGill doesn’t give you credit for being smart enough to see that, but he knows you won’t be able to help yourself. You’ll go after her anyway.”
“The story says Graham Keough is your girl’s husband,” Anderson said in quiet voice, “so you’ll have to get rid of him. He’s kind of a mild, peaceful looking guy. You might be able to handle him by yourself. Or you could ask Arn and me to dispose of him. We’d be —”
Both of Damon Todd’s hands shot out and he grabbed the two Vietnam tomahawks that lay on the kitchen table. For a second, fear flashed in the eyes of both former CIA men.
Todd saw it, but took no joy from it.
He stalked outside holding the two weapons.
Crosby looked at his friend, both of them knowing they’d just had a very close call.
“Olin, we’d better be a little more careful around that guy.”
“Yeah, I think he could use some therapy.”
Wishard Hospital Burn Center — Indianapolis, Indiana
Cassidy Kimbrough lay asleep in a private room when the call came through. Her mother, Sheryl, sat in the chair next to her daughter’s bed, dozing. The room was filled with mylar balloons, stuffed animals, flowers and cards expressing admiration and wishes for quick healing. Sheryl grabbed the phone before it could ring a second time.
She was pissed. The phone had rung incessantly after Cassidy had been brought into the room. Media outlets from across the country and around the world wanted to talk with Cassidy. The former press secretary to a United States senator was who they got. She told them tersely that her daughter was not available for comment. She was just beginning to heal from a serious physical and emotional trauma. They should respect her needs, goddamnit!
Fucking reporters, Sheryl thought.
She’d gone to the hospital’s CEO and wrung a promise out of him that the only phone call that would be put through to Cassidy’s room would be from her father.
So, Sheryl thought as she picked up the receiver, it had better be Blake on the line.
It wasn’t. In a very gentle voice, Edwina Byington asked, “Am I speaking with Ms. Sheryl Kimbrough?”
The motherly tone disarmed Sheryl. “Yes.”
Edwina said, “The president of the United States would like to know if this is a suitable time for you and your daughter to take a call.”
“Mom?” Cassidy said, groggy from sleep and her pain meds, “Is that Dad?”
Sheryl said into the phone, “Can you hold for just a moment?”
“Of course,” Edwina told her.
Sheryl said to her daughter, “No, honey, it’s —”
Tears welled in Cassidy’s eyes. “It’s not one of the others?”
Cassidy had made every doctor and nurse she’d met in the hospital promise to keep her informed about the status of the other burn victims with whom she’d arrived.
“No news on that front,” Sheryl told her.
“Another reporter?” Cassidy asked with a moan.
“Not that either. It’s the president calling.”
Cassidy’s eyes went wide. She’d lost her eyebrows in her efforts to help Terry Pickford save the others. Her face was bright red, as if she’d been out in the sun far too long. Both of her hands were bandaged from using them to extinguish the flames in one of the victim’s hair.
There were the usual worries about shock and infection.
Still, there was no question Cassidy had suffered less than anyone else involved.
“Let me talk to her, Mom. Please.”
Sheryl said into the phone, “My daughter would like to speak with the president now.”
She held the phone up to Cassidy’s ear. Patricia Darden Grant came on the line; Sheryl could hear the president’s voice but not distinguish her words. Sheryl had no trouble seeing the effect the call had on her daughter. Cassidy’s poor wounded face filled with joy — and then tears.
“Oh, no, Madam President. I wasn’t the brave one. I just helped Terry. Somebody had to.”
Cassidy’s tears continued to flow as she listened to the president’s response.
“That’s good, that’s good. Yes. We’ll be there for each other, especially Terry. Thank you so much for this call. I’d love to meet you sometime. I’m just bummed I won’t be old enough to vote for you.”
Cassidy listened to the president speak for a moment and then laughed.
You didn’t hear much of that in the burn ward, Sheryl thought. Whatever the president had said to inspire her daughter’s joy, Sheryl was deeply grateful to her.
“You will?” Cassidy asked. “That is so cool. Yes, I will. Goodbye.”
“Call’s over?” Sheryl asked.
Cassidy nodded and her mother put the phone receiver down.
“The president told me to say hello to you.”
“She’s a very nice person. You can’t imagine how many things she has to do. Taking the time to call you was something special.”
“She called all of us, Mom. Well, the parents of the others. The president said it will be very important for all of us to continue to support each other. Especially the kids who were in the car. They’re going to have the hardest time of all.”
Cassidy’s chin started to quiver as she thought about that.
Sheryl tried to distract her daughter.
“What was so cool that the president said?”
Nudging her sadness aside, Cassidy said, “The president told me I should call her and let her know how I’m doing. She said the next time you and I are in Washington to let her know and we’ll have lunch at the White House. How cool is that?”
“Very,” Sheryl said. “And what was it that made you laugh?”
“The president said she could probably find a friend in Congress to introduce a bill that would lower the voting age just for me, but she didn’t think the Republicans would let it pass.”
“I believe there’s one of those evil people in the room right now,” Sheryl said.
“You’re never evil, Mom.” Cassidy leaned forward and puckered her lips.
Sheryl kissed Cassidy, glad beyond words that she hadn’t lost her.
“You know what the best thing was?” Cassidy asked.
“What?”
“The president called me last. She called all the others first, tried to help them feel better because they need it more. That was the right thing to do.”
“Yes, it was.”
Cassidy let her eyes close, a smile on her face, and drifted back off to sleep.
Sheryl looked at her. She had wondered, at first, if the president’s call had been just a political gesture. She had worked for Senator Charles Talbert, who had sponsored legislation with former Congresswoman Grant. Smart politicians never overlooked an opportunity to do a good turn for a colleague, even one who’d soon be retiring.
But as far as Sheryl knew none of the other burn victims’ families had any political connections, and as Cassidy had said the president had called those suffering the most first. That had been the right thing to do. Of course, Patti Grant had also been a bone marrow donor for her stepson
Kenny McGill not all that long ago. Doing that might have cost the president her life.
Sheryl sat back in her chair, closing her eyes.
Once again, she ran the nature of the president’s call past a former reporter’s skeptical view of life. Came up with only an act of kindness that had helped her daughter.
No bull-puckey at all.
Galia Mindel’s Office — The White House
Everybody knew that the main reason there was a vice president was to have a warm body ready to step up if anything bad ever happened to the president. What people didn’t think about nearly as often was that the president or, more often, her top staff people also had to think about who would fill the vice president’s slot if he went down. You didn’t just draw up a shopping list after the fact.
Not after the Spiro Agnew debacle anyway.
Richard Nixon’s vice president — Agnew — resigned after he pled nolo contendere, no contest, to a charge of not reporting more than twenty-nine thousand dollars in income. The quid pro quo for what amounted to a sweetheart deal was that Spiro had to quit his job. Otherwise he’d be charged with accepting bribes in three public offices: Baltimore County Executive, Governor of Maryland and Vice President of the United States.
Agnew was replaced by the minority leader of the House of Representatives, Gerald R. Ford, who, after Nixon resigned in disgrace, went on to become the nation’s only president who’d never been elected to either that post or the vice presidency. Ford chose as his vice president Nelson Rockefeller, a liberal Republican. Conservatives all across the country prayed that Ford didn’t break his neck in one of the stumbles for which he became famous.
Ford survived his twenty-nine months in office and conservatives became more convinced than ever that God was on their side.
Galia Mindel’s list of preferred candidates to replace Mather Wyman ran ten deep, but that didn’t keep her from feeling a chill when Wyman stepped into her office unannounced. She knew that such a surprise appearance could portend only one thing.
“You’re quitting, aren’t you?” she asked Wyman.
