House of Secrets - v4

by Richard Hawke

  “I’ll get it!”

  As Michelle sped into the kitchen, Christine felt the blood rushing into her face.

  “What the hell are you doing? Your daughter is still freaked out about that phone message and now you come waltzing in with some goddamn story about a girl who might not walk again?”

  “She’s going to be able to—”

  “That’s not the point! The point is, I don’t want to hear about this at the dinner table! For God’s sake, Andy, I was just trying to have a—”

  “Daddy!” Michelle was calling out from the kitchen.

  Andy’s chair was already pushing back from the table as Michelle came back into the room. “Who is it, sweetie?”

  “It’s Grandpa. He called me a poodle.”

  Andy mussed his daughter’s hair. “Well, you are a poodle.”

  He disappeared into the kitchen. Christine reached for the wine bottle and topped up her glass. The call was brief. Andy came back in from the kitchen and retook his seat without a word.

  “Well? What was it?” Christine asked. “What did he want?”

  Andy took hold of his wineglass and lifted it. He was offering a toast, though from the expression on his face it looked more as if he were about to announce the nuclear obliteration of a dozen small countries.

  “Chris Wyeth is announcing his resignation tomorrow. Effective Monday.”

  Christine froze. “We’re toasting that?”

  “Hyland wants me for VP.”

  Christine felt as though light were passing swiftly back and forth through her body. Too swiftly. Her chair skidded back from the table.

  The table swam sickeningly in front of her.

  “Great news, Andy. It’s wonderful. And so good of you to pop in and fucking share!”

  “Mommy!”

  Christine fled into her workroom. She stood in the middle of the floor, trembling with rage. Andy arrived seconds later, stepping over to her and wrapping his arms around her from behind. He brought his mouth close to her ear.

  “Honey. Shhh. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be—”

  He stopped abruptly. His attention had been hijacked by a large photograph on the far wall showing a naked man standing in a bathtub. The man was rippling with muscles and covered from head to foot with tattoos. Some sort of slick white liquid ran down his body.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Christine wormed her way free from his arms and spun around to face him. Her eyes were as red as the devil’s.

  “It’s a naked man covered with milk, what do you think it is? That’s the kind of crap I get up to while you’re off saving the fucking world!”

  Rob Smallwood went up on his toes to run out the last bit of Scotch tape, then came down from the chair and returned it to his small kitchen. The remains of his dinner were still on the table. He’d been too excited to finish it.

  Tomorrow would be two weeks since his benevolent execution of Cousin Joy. Smallwood still carried a sadness that her removal had proved necessary. But he also knew that sadness was not an excuse for not taking action.

  How different everything might have been if Cousin Joy had remained pure. If she had taken the time to listen to him as he grew older and wiser, instead of shutting him out and avoiding him the way she had, she might still be here. She might have understood what he was telling her, and she might have respected him. They could have had fun together, like they had when they were both young.

  Smallwood kept his head down as he returned to his bedroom, keeping his eyes trained on the floor as he undressed. He was humming a tune, but if anyone had asked, he would not have been able to identify it.

  Of course, there was no one to ask him. Eleven years in this apartment and there had not been a single human sound made here that Smallwood had not made himself.

  But maybe that was about to change.

  His eyes still lowered, Smallwood got into his single bed and pulled the sheet and the thin blanket up to his chin. He reached down to the floor and picked up a flashlight and turned it on. Turning off the bedside light, he trained the flashlight beam onto the wall at the foot of the bed. Only then did he allow himself to raise his eyes.

  It had required far fewer than a third of the five hundred copies he had made, but that was okay. Smallwood moved the cone of light from copy to copy. The cute little girl whispering into the ear of her evil father. Except that Smallwood had removed the father from the copies and made it look as if the little girl was whispering to her other self, who was in turn whispering to her other self, who was in turn whispering to her other self, and so on. Everywhere the flashlight landed, there she was.

  Smallwood flicked the flashlight over to the other wall, the one with the window that looked out onto nothing. He ran the beam around in swift circles then stilled it. One hundred twenty-seven copies of Cousin Joy, aged nine, leaping from the front porch of the house on Shelter Island. Frozen in midair. Her little skirt lifting, and that wonderful look on her face. It didn’t make a difference where the flashlight beam landed, it always landed on Cousin Joy. And now she had a new friend.

  Vice President Christopher Wyeth went before the cameras at eleven thirty on Thursday morning to announce his pending resignation. His demeanor was remarkably loose, all things considered. As he entered the White House briefing room, he joked with a number of the assembled journalists.

  “If anyone here needs a second for tennis anytime in the near future, I believe I’m going to be extremely available.”

  Wyeth’s wife, Laura, and their two grown sons had been positioned in front of the American flag behind the podium. As Wyeth fussed with his notes, he glanced up into the glare of the television camera lights and lowered his reading glasses to the tip of his nose.

  “Does anyone here by any chance happen to have a dagger? These occasions often seem to call for one.”

  The laughter was understandably nervous. Laura Wyeth looked as if she were ready to break into little pieces. The two sons maintained respectable poker faces.

  The vice president cleared his throat.

  “I’d like to begin by asking anyone here who has never made a poor judgment in their life to please identify yourself and leave the room.” He paused, arching an eyebrow as he swept the room with his eyes. “Right. I just wanted to confirm that we’re all human. So, let’s get down to it.”

  Once more he cleared his throat and fiddled with his reading glasses. He half-turned to give a bucking-up smile to his wife, then faced forward again and proceeded.

  “From the perspective of absolute truth, which is often a far cry from the reality of how we actually conduct our business here on the planet, the act of governing should be a humbling endeavor. Choosing to shoulder the responsibility of looking after the welfare of one’s fellow citizens is not a noble choice. Or perhaps I should say it ought not be considered a noble choice by the one who takes it on. In a perfect world…”

  Wyeth paused, allowing his gaze to meander about the room.

  “In a perfect world, there would be no place for a sense of loftiness or entitlement in those who steer their lives in the direction of public service. But maybe you’ve noticed we don’t live in a perfect world. Even so, I want to take this opportunity to tell you that over the course of my thirty-seven years as a public servant, I have never felt entitled to the various positions I have held in government. I hope I have never been made to feel lofty by the powers I have acquired along the way.”

  The vice president paused again, allowing himself once more to swim through the sea of faces. When he resumed, his eyes were fixed on the bank of TV cameras in the rear of the room. He rose slightly on his toes, pitching ever so slightly forward on the podium.

  “Today I am announcing that, due to forces that I can only characterize as pathetically petty, you are losing an imperfect but nonetheless devoted public servant.”

  A general murmur rose up in the briefing room. An army of Black-Berries were already at work. Behind the vice presid
ent, Laura Wyeth lowered her head. The son nearest her sought her hand and gave it a squeeze. The face that rose was damp with tears.

  But Chris Wyeth had the look of a man who was just getting started. He adjusted his glasses and glanced down at his notes.

  “Of course I’m bitter. Let’s not be silly about it. I stand before you delivering my political eulogy. I made some classic poor judgments in my early career, and here they are, decades later, extinguishing my flames. There’s no deflecting here. It’s my turn to pay a dear price for a few foolish acts of hubris committed in my younger, hungrier political days. I know as well as anyone else, that’s how the game is played. I assure you that nothing I may have done in the past in any way compromised my service to the people who had entrusted me with my responsibilities, and I assure you that nothing in my past stood any chance of harming my abilities to serve my president and my fellow citizens as vice president of this great country. But individuals come and go. I am sure that the world will keep spinning and that this country will keep doing what it does best with or without the participation of the man who stands before you.”

  He paused, allowing his gaze to travel the room.

  “But here is what I want you to consider. You were the ones who voted me into this office, but you are not the ones who are voting me out. Let it be clear, I am not blaming President Hyland. John Hyland is a good man. An honorable public servant who has earned your trust and who will do his very best to re-earn that trust every day he is in office. He is still your president. Score one for you.”

  From the corner of his eye, Wyeth saw his press secretary engaged in a heated argument of whispers with a member of the president’s executive inner circle. Wyeth had not cautioned his press secretary concerning the scope of his remarks, and the president’s man was furious.

  Wyeth continued.

  “But even John Hyland is also only as human as you and I. And although you will hear from many quarters over the coming days and weeks that the system worked, I would counsel the citizens of this country to ask precisely who did it best work for? If you are truly concerned about the state of your republic, then alleged decades-old kickbacks and arm-twistings by a resigning vice president should be the least of your worries. They’re certainly the least of mine. As I prepare to join you as a private citizen, I advise you: Upgrade your worries, people. Thank you.”

  Wyeth collected the pages of his statement and squared them off with a few taps against the podium.

  “And good luck.”

  Whitney Hoyt threw the remote across the room, but it fell short of the television screen.

  “That double-talking low-life bastard!”

  Paul Jordan rose from the couch and retrieved the remote. “I take it you’re going to pass on the commentaries?”

  Hoyt was red in the face. “That son of a bitch. Have you ever heard such a load of crap in your life?”

  Jordan tried again. “Do you want to—”

  “Hell, no! Turn the damn thing off. If there is even half a God, that’s the last time I’ll ever have to see that son-of-a-bitch double-talker. Fine public servant my ass, trying to rile up the country like that on your way out. What the hell are people supposed to make of that nonsense? Doesn’t the man have the simple decency to resign with dignity instead of shooting his fool mouth off?”

  Jordan turned the television off. He shared a look with Jenny Hoyt, who had watched Wyeth’s speech while seated on an ottoman. Jenny pivoted toward her husband.

  “Whitney, I’m going to say something that might upset you.”

  Hoyt snapped. “It couldn’t be any worse than the crap we just heard!”

  Jordan took a step toward his boss. “Perhaps you should listen to your wife.”

  Hoyt eyed his personal secretary with a withering disdain. “Thank you for that advice, Paul. I’m so fortunate to have a voice of reason on my payroll.”

  After fifteen years as Hoyt’s assistant, Jordan knew well the boundaries of his employer’s tolerance. He knew there was an inch or so yet remaining.

  “Your reaction to this is not especially startling,” Jordan said plainly. “Speaking from my side, I’d like to hear Jenny’s take.”

  Sulking, Hoyt turned to his wife. “Go ahead, Jen. Mr. James Bond is fascinated to hear what you have to say.”

  “You’re simply too close to the situation,” Jenny said. “There’s too much history between you and Chris. Everyone knows that.”

  “Everyone knows it, so what is the point in your repeating it?”

  “I’m sorry, dear,” Jenny continued, “but in my opinion, what Chris just said was one of the most courageous political speeches I have ever heard.”

  Hoyt scrambled to his feet. He skirted the coffee table, moving quickly over to where his wife was seated.

  Jordan started forward. “Whitney!”

  Jenny rose up calmly from the ottoman. Hoyt moved forward, getting his chin to within an inch of his wife’s. His watery eyes were livid.

  “I don’t ever want to hear you say something like that again. Is that clear?”

  Jenny Hoyt held her ground. There had never been any issue of physical violence in her nine years of marriage to Whitney. Still, she had rarely seen her husband so enraged. She responded to Hoyt in a cool tone. “For goodness’ sake, this is what you wanted. Chris Wyeth is gone. His career is over, Whitney.”

  The flames remained in Hoyt’s eyes. He was so angry his body was trembling.

  Jordan came closer. “Whitney, she’s right. Let the man have his final hurrah. What were you expecting? Tears?”

  Jenny took her husband’s freckled hand in hers and squeezed it lightly. “You did this, sweetheart. You pulled the levers. Whit, you did this to be happy. Can’t you be happy?”

  Generally speaking, for a man his age Whitney Hoyt was terrifically fit. But at certain times in their life together, it would hit Jenny Hoyt just how old her husband actually was. After all, the years did have the man by the throat, and sometimes their grip showed itself.

  President Hyland’s meeting with Senator Andrew Foster in the Oval Office was not on the schedule that was made available daily to members of the press. Officially, Hyland was in the White House gym, looking after the little pair of love handles that had attached themselves to him since his inauguration in January.

  The two men were at the seating area, drinking tea. The teapot was a Royal Patrician Antique Rose Chintz six-cup teapot, exceedingly delicate and feminine-looking and, according to Hyland, the very pot from which Franklin Delano Roosevelt had taken his tea for most of his three-plus terms in office.

  “Nothing to fear but fear itself,” Hyland remarked after giving Senator Foster the provenance of the teapot. “That man delivered some killer lines. I just love that one.” He recited the phrase again. “It’s so true. There is no fear except when you cop to it. It’s brilliant. If any of my speechwriters ever delivers a gem like that one to me, I’ll fall to my knees.”

  Andy wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to the president. He wondered if perhaps Hyland had spotted something in his eyes. Fear was Andy’s constant companion these days; it was piggybacking everywhere he went. It had risen with him that morning in New York when he’d slipped out of bed before sunrise, and it had stayed with him on the early shuttle down to the capital. It had managed to slip past the elaborate White House security with the ease of light. Hyland’s delight in the phrase eluded him. I have much to fear, Andy thought, and he imagined sliding the three photographs of himself and Joy Resnick onto the president’s desk and asking the chief executive, How about these? Pretty fucking frightening, wouldn’t you say?

  Hyland held his Royal Patrician teacup in both hands, as if he was warming them. Andy was somewhat unnerved by his gaze; the man looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “I’d like to clear away the Whitney issue first thing, if I may,” Hyland said.

  Andy shifted in his chair. “Whitney?”

  “In truth, there’s ve
ry little to discuss,” Hyland said. “Except that I do want to make it clear to you, Andy, that you are here because I want you here. Whitney Hoyt did not choose you to replace Chris Wyeth. I did. Of course, we both know that the governor is delighted with the choice.”

  Andy agreed. “I imagine it won’t make him unhappy.”

  “I’m assuming Whitney told you about our meeting?”

  “No,” Andy said. “He didn’t say anything to me.”

  “Well, we met.” A small laugh escaped Hyland. “Whitney summoned me, is more like it. Grand Caesar that he thinks he is. The bastard had the goods on Wyeth. This whole kickback garbage. He’d had that information tucked in his pocket all along, I’m positive. Stupid and completely foolish stuff, of course. Chris basically said as much in his statement this morning. Simple greed and stupidity. How many eons do you suppose it is going to take before the best and the brightest finally stop also being the stupidest? For some ungodly reason, we keep thinking, ‘I’m the one who’s going to get away with it. I’m the special one.’”

  Andy felt ill. How dare he be sitting here with the president of the United States discussing his own imminent ascension?

  Hyland continued. “I assume you saw what else Chris did this morning? His little twist of the knife?”

  “I guess you could say he told America to watch out for the Whitney Hoyts of this world.”

  “Exactly! Beware the pissing contests.”

  Andy looked across the coffee table at John Hyland. Even though Andy’s own political position in a Chris Wyeth presidency would have been superb, privately he had been glad when Hyland had prevailed in the primaries. He liked the man. He thought Hyland was the right man for the job at the right time in history. The fact that Andy was sitting in the Oval Office sipping tea with the president and discussing the strategies for presenting himself to the country as Hyland’s new vice president was astounding. He wanted this job. History seemed to be flinging a lot of horseshoes helter-skelter right now, and Andy was watching his own spinning through the air in achingly slow motion, right toward the golden pole. If he could somehow manage over the next few days to turn his nightmare to dust, it was completely possible that his horseshoe could come down with a resounding clang. A classic ringer. He wanted this opportunity. He wanted to contribute palpably to the new president’s vision. He’d wanted to discuss this with Christine the night before, after receiving the official invitation, but their discussion had devolved swiftly. Andy could never have imagined the severity with which his and Christine’s visions diverged. It was as if the two were inhabiting completely separate worlds.