DUTCH AND GINA: THE SINS OF THE FATHERS

by Mallory Monroe

  “Yes, sir,” Ralph said nervously, and began making contact with the agents that were in full escort of the First Lady’s body.

  Crader sat on the sofa and waited for LaLa to talk to him. She had said she understood him now, especially after what she had done, and then she sat him down to tell him what it was exactly that she had done. Only she couldn’t find the words to tell him.

  Not that he wanted to know. He didn’t. Unfair as it seemed, given what he had done, a big part of him didn’t think he could handle the thought of another man touching his wife. But he knew he had to know. He had to know if his actions drove his wife into the arms of another man.

  “I could never be in love with someone,” LaLa began, “and then allow another man to touch me. That’s what I’ve always said. That’s how I’ve always led my life. I couldn’t understand how you could have slept with another woman, or even flirted with another woman, if you truly loved me. I just couldn’t believe it was possible.”

  Crader stared at her. “But you believe it’s possible now?”

  LaLa was too ashamed to look him in the eyes. “Yes,” she said with a frown on her face.

  “What happened, La?” he asked her.

  But the agony LaLa felt almost paralyzed her.

  “Tell me,” Crader insisted. “It’s bad. I already know it’s bad.”

  That declaration, that he was already suspecting the worse, helped her to face him. She looked at him. “I was. . . home and thinking about what all I had to do today. I wasn’t expecting. . . I didn’t expect it to happen.”

  “You didn’t expect what to happen? Tell me, love. Just tell me.”

  “I never dreamed I would . . . I could . . .”

  “Who’s the guy?” Crader suddenly had to know.

  But LaLa was still too involved in her own share of the blame to even think about pointing a finger at someone else.

  “Tell me, La. Who’s the guy?”

  The door to the office of the vice president flung open so hard it bounced back from its hinges. Christian Bale, his face white as a sheet, ran in.

  Crader jumped to his feet. LaLa was dazed. Had he heard their conversation?

  “What is it?” Crader wanted to know.

  But Christian couldn’t speak. He just stood there. Then he ran to the table, grabbed the remote, and turned on the television. It didn’t matter what channel. Christian knew it was live on every channel.

  Crader and LaLa immediately looked at the television, too.

  “…has been shot,” the news anchor was in the middle of saying as soon as the TV clicked on. “I repeat, the First Lady of the United States, Regina Harber, has been severely wounded in a hail of gunfire inside her stepdaughter’s home.”

  Crader’s heart almost pounded out of his chest. LaLa placed her hand over her heart, to force herself to breathe. And Christian collapsed against the table, still unable to utter a mumbling word.

  Marcus Rance poured himself a glass of bubbly and reclined on the private jet as it steered him further and further away from his homeland. He was ready to celebrate. It had gone better than he could have ever dreamed. It was such a clean getaway that he could hardly contain his joy.

  And he had given it time. He had given it more than enough time to hit the airwaves. Now, as he relaxed, he finally clicked on the television set in front of him. And sure enough, he thought with a grin, it was breaking news.

  “Nobody can believe it,” the reporter was saying as he stood outside of the home Marcus once shared with Jade and Christian. “The blood, the carnage. According to our sources it was a horrific scene. Who could do such a thing, everyone’s asking. Who would have shot to kill the First Lady?”

  Marcus smiled turned into a frown. What was he talking about? The First Lady? Did he say the First Lady?

  “But that was exactly what somebody had done,” the reporter went on. “Authorities tell us that someone, and we believe they know who the suspect is, shot to kill Regina Harber, our First Lady, and they shot her four times.”

  The glass in Marcus’s hand dropped involuntarily, and crashed to the floor.

  The presidential motorcade arrived at the helipad to make the final leg of the journey to Bethesda Naval Hospital by chopper. Dutch and Allison were scurried out of the limo and onto the aircraft quickly, with a wall of agents on either side of them. They were seated, buckled in, and lifted away.

  Dutch lobbed his head backwards, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, as emotional exhaustion began to overtake him. He felt as if he’d aged a hundred years in a matter of minutes. And talk about blame. Just before he was ushered out, he was in a meeting where Congress was pointing a finger at him, and he was pointing a finger at them, when everybody knew both were responsible for this economic mess. But Dutch knew, painfully, that he and he alone was responsible for this mess that his wife, that his precious Gina, found herself in.

  He looked out of the window as Marine One careened across the sky on a beeline to its destination. Dutch knew he had nobody to blame but himself. He was the one who used political maneuverings to get Governor Feingold to grant Marcus Rance that pardon. He was the one who didn’t stop Jade and Christian for taking Marcus into their home. He was the one who sent his wife to that firing squad, when, he realized, that fire was supposed to be for him. But to his everlasting shame, he had sent his wife to take the bullets for him.

  When he felt that niggling feeling this morning he should have paid more attention to that. That feeling gripped him for a reason. But he ignored it. Just as he ignored the danger of life in a fishbowl for his wife and son. The day Little Walt was born should have been the day they left Washington. The day Gina was excoriated in the media, or when Walt was almost kidnapped, should have been his wake up calls. But oh no. Not the great Dutch Harber! He couldn’t let his enemies win. He couldn’t surrender to any of them. He had to see his ambitions through. And if it caused his wife to fight for her life this very day, well that was just the price of being associated with a man like him.

  Dutch closed his eyes again.

  As shame washed over him.

  But he didn’t stay in that state long. Because the helicopter landed, he and Allison were ushered out, and before he knew it he was inside Bethesda Naval Hospital running along corridor after corridor, to get to his wife.

  Jade, who, along with Sam, were being politely but firmly detained by agents, broke free and ran to her father.

  “Oh, Daddy!” she said as she threw her arms around him.

  Dutch pulled her back and looked at his daughter as if he was looking at a stranger. But he couldn’t blame her, either. His sins had been visited on her. He shared the blame for the hateful, selfish, hellish human being she’d become.

  “It was awful, Daddy!” Jade said, looking her beautiful, hazel eyes up at him. “But it’ll be okay. You have me and Ma. We’ll take care of you.”

  Dutch looked at his gorgeous daughter, at the way she was already zeroing Gina out of the equation, and he hated what he saw. He hated it. God help him, he hated her. And he pushed her away from him.

  “Where’s my wife?” he said to his escorts, and the agents, once again, hurried him to the operating room. Allison was right behind them.

  The chief of surgery was coming out of the O.R., removing his cap, as Dutch and his necessary entourage of agents came burrowing down the hall.

  “Where is she?” Dutch demanded to know.

  “She’s being prepped for surgery, Mr. President.”

  Surgery, Dutch thought. Good Lord. “I’ve got to see her,” he said, although he seemed to be talking beyond the doctor, and looking beyond the doctor. He was losing it. “I’ve got to let her know that she’s going to be all right. She doesn’t like hospitals, you see. She never has. She had pneumonia once, and I made her stay overnight in a hospital, and she just hated it. She never forgave me for that.”

  He was running his hand through his hair as he spoke. His hair was usually perfectly manicured. B
ut now, like him, it was all over the place.

  “I need to let her know that she’s going to be all right, and that she’ll be back home with me and Little Walt in the morning.”

  The surgeon looked at Allison. Was he for real, his expression said.

  “Can I tell her that, Doc?” Dutch asked. “That’ll make her feel better, you see, if you can promise me that she can come back home to us. Can I tell my wife that she’ll be back home tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” the surgeon asked, shock in his voice. He understood trauma and he understood denial. But the president was experiencing overflow doses of both.

  “Yes, tomorrow,” Dutch said, knowing intellectually that he was slipping, but determined to go down with hope. “Can I tell Gina, can I tell my wife that she’ll be back home with us tomorrow?”

  The chief of surgery moved his body from side to side. This was damned uncomfortable even for a man of his esteem. But it had to be said.

  “Mr. President,” he said as kindly, but also as bluntly as he knew how, “it’ll be the miracle of miracles if your wife makes it through the night.”

  It felt like a body blow. And it took the president’s breath away.

  He thought about Gina, and if he’d ever see her wonderful smile again. He thought about all the plans they had for life after the White House. He thought about her horrific cooking and her fantastic lovemaking and her beautiful heart. Her wonderful, beautiful heart. He thought about how she drove him to Virginia, away from the politics of DC, just to give him a moment’s rest. He thought about Gina. And what life would be like without her.

  This was his day of reckoning.

  His sins had finally caught him wanting.

  He fell on his knees.

  EPILOGUE

  “I’ll bet you fifty bucks.”

  “A hundred and you’re on.”

  “A hundred? On our salary? Fifty, man, fifty.”

  “Can I get in on this deal?” a third reporter chimed in. They were in the Brady Press Room inside the White House. An aide had already alerted the jam-packed media that the president would come out first to make a statement, and then the press secretary would continue with his normal daily briefing. Speculation about just what the president was going to say filled the crowded room.

  “What’s the bet, anyway?” the third reporter asked.

  “Carl here says the president will announce that there’s been an agreement with House Republicans on the debt ceiling compromise. But I say the president is coming to announce that they tracked down Marcus Rance.”

  “But they haven’t tracked down Marcus Rance,” the third reporter reminded him.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it would have leaked by now. It hasn’t leaked because it hasn’t happened.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the intercom announcer blared, “the President of the United States.”

  The reporters rose to their feet as the president entered the room from the back, and made his way up to the front. He was dressed in his usual expensive, tailored suit, but something was off this time. It wasn’t its usual pristine elegance, but looked almost rumpled. The suave, debonair Dutch Harber, in fact, looked a little rumpled too, as if he’d been through hell and back again. Which, every reporter in the room would have to acknowledge, was factually accurate.

  It had been nearly a month after that fateful day, and it was Dutch’s first day officially back on the job. The American people had been patient with their president, allowing him time to get his act together, and Crader McKenzie had been holding down the fort just fine. But the press was growing antsy. They wanted Dutch. They wanted to hear from their president again. Now, nearly a month later, he was finally obliging them. And they all came ready, as usual, to devour him.

  Although Dutch had a prepared statement, he knew almost instantly that he wasn’t going to use it. He stood alone behind the podium, and stared out at the hundreds of questioning eyes that were staring back at him.

  “I had a prepared speech that I was going to come out here and give to you,” he began. “I was going to talk about the wonderful American people and how honored I have been to serve this nation. I was going to praise the media, for your hard-hitting journalism, and my fellow politicians for their commitment to their constituencies back home. I was going to come out here and lay it on thick. I wanted to be positive, you see. I wanted to move forward on a positive note. But in order to do so I would have to lie my head off, and I’m not going to do that.”

  The reporters in the room could sense combat. The old feisty Dutch Harber, they believed, was about to roar.

  Dutch, however, was determined to keep it brief and get out of there. “The American people,” he continued, “have been sold a bill of goods here in Washington. We have told them that all they have to do is work hard and play by the rules and that pot of gold is waiting for them, too. And I don’t fault the politicians for selling that snake oil. I don’t even fault the media for allowing us to sell it. I fault the American people for buying it. Year in and year out. From both parties. Time and time again. That’s why nothing gets done in Washington. Because it’s easier to sell the snake oil. It’s easier to convince people that you have all the answers when you don’t even know what the questions are.”

  Dutch hesitated. The reporters stared at him. “But if the American people would have stopped this nonsense, and held us accountable, then things could have gotten done. But there’s no accountability. They’re elections. But all we do is crown the guy with the best campaign ads or the one promising to come to Washington to obstruct the president’s agenda. To do, in essence, absolutely nothing.”

  Dutch paused again. And then he continued. “I hate this place,” he said. “I hate it with a passion. I don’t dislike it, I hate it. I hate what I’ve become in this place, and I hate what I’ve allowed to happen in this place.” Another pause, this one palpable. “Effective immediately,” he said to amazement from a crowd that didn’t see this coming, “I’m resigning as President of the United States.”

  The gasps of shock went out like thunderbolts in the room.

  “Those of you who will be disappointed by my decision,” Dutch went on, “I’m apologize for disappointing you. But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do it. I can’t slap another back or kiss another baby or pretend I’m actually doing good when all I’m doing is holding a spot until the next spot holder comes along. But what happened to my wife was a game changer. What happened to my wife was beyond enough. I can’t put a positive spin on that kind of evil. I’m out of here. Some will cry, some will rejoice, I don’t give a damn. I’m out of here.”

  And Dutch Harber walked out of the Brady Press Room for the very last time. There was silence. Shocking silence. And then the White House correspondents and the rest of the media, mainstream and backroom, went haywire.

  There was no entourage of aides and other staffers waiting for Dutch outside the press room. Just LaLa, at his request.

  “It’s done?” she asked.

  “It’s done,” he said. Then he put his arm around her and they began that slow trek down the corridors of power. For Dutch it would be his last walk this way.

  “How do you feel?” she asked him.

  Dutch didn’t have to think about it. “Relieved,” he said.

  “It’s been a tough road sometimes, Dutch, but you handled it all beautifully. Especially after what they did to Gina.”

  Dutch’s heart squeezed at the mention of her name. “If it wasn’t for you and Cray I don’t know what I would have done. And Sam was a big help, too.”

  “She surprised me. She’s not as oddball as people think when you really get down to it. But that daughter of yours, now that’s another story.”

  “I know. She’s with Sam now. But I don’t know how long that’ll last.”

  “For her to tell that reporter that Gina got what she deserved was a crying shame. I never thought Jade could be like that.”

  Dutch knew
she harbored resentment against Gina, but he, too, never dreamed it had been that severe. Besides, he still wasn’t at all certain that she didn’t have a hand in what happened to Gina. That was why he hadn’t spoken to his daughter since the tragedy. And wasn’t sure when he could again.

  “At least she’s with her mother,” LaLa said. “She can handle her.”

  It was the monster Sam created, with an assist from him, so she understood her. He wasn’t so sure, however, if she could still handle her. She’d crossed the line when she made that public statement about Gina. He could never cut her off entirely, and maybe, in time, they could reestablish a relationship. But not now.

  “Oh, well,” Dutch said, as they continued their slow walk. “Life goes on.”

  “Yes, indeed. Many of the reporters were expecting you to announce that Marcus Rance had been found, if you can believe that.”

  “That would have made my day.”

  “Mine too, Dutch. Then maybe we could find out the whole truth. Why would he target his own sister when she was the only person who believed in him? And he could tell us if he acted alone.”

  “He’d better hope the government finds him first, is all I have to say about it. Because if my men find him, and I have a team of them searching too, he won’t have time to say much of anything.”

  LaLa laughed, certain that Dutch was kidding. Dutch, however, didn’t crack a smile.

  They were about to turn the corner that would lead them toward the South Portico. Dutch pulled LaLa back.

  “Before I take my leave and say goodbye to the others, I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me, Loretta. I don’t think I could have made it without you.”

  LaLa smiled. She touched the side of Dutch’s handsome, but worn, face. This man had gone through so much. He deserved some peace now.