by Tom Lewis
MY KING THE PRESIDENT
Praise for This Novel
“A new and chilling novel…begins with a shocker…moves rapidly. Keeping pace with the action will keep the reader on his or her toes. The writing is crisp and the action…is non-stop. Tom Lewis has a gift for the well-turned phrase. I enjoyed this book, and I imagine you will, too. Good story!”
—Ken Gruebel, Sun Journal
“A terrific book…reads fast…taut…more twists and turns than a tornado! It is indeed a thriller and the ending is explosive. One reader told me it was the most intriguing book she'd read in a long time. I totally agree.”
—G.K.Lewis
“WOW! This thriller has the best prologue I ever read. It moves so quickly and cleverly that I had to put it down every few minutes to catch my breath.”
—Kaa Byington
Other Books by Tom Lewis
SUNDAY'S CHILD
HITLER’S JUDAS
SONS OF THEIR FATHERS
Soon to be Released
LUCIFER'S CHILDREN
ZENA'S LAW
SHORT TALES and TALL
50 YEARS TO MIDNIGHT
CHAINS
FOR LOVE OF A SPY
A NOVEL BY
Tom Lewis
McBryde Publishing
NEW BERN, NORTH CAROLINA USA
McBryde Publishing
NEW BERN, NORTH CAROLINA USA
MY KING THE PRESIDENT
Copyright © 2008 by Tom Lewis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer
who may quote brief passages in a review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead,
is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover by Bill Benners
Interior Layout by Bill Benners
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN 978-0-97-587005-1
First Printing April 30, 2008 By VP Publishing, LLC
Second Printing August, 2009 By McBryde Publishing
Printed in the United States of America
Lovingly,
For the younger Lewis bunch:
Erik and Elaine, Tony and Julie
And
Big John
Prologue
Officially, a day begins just after midnight. Most people ignore this fact, assuming a new day starts at daybreak, or when they themselves have to arise, whatever the actual time. This particular day began no differently. Later, people would refer to it in different ways; some would call it Doomsday, others Judgment Day. I would always call it Deliverance Day.
For two other men, it would be their last day.
On this morning, one of them, a man named Robert McCarty slid out of bed, glancing at the clock. He had not set the alarm the night before, knowing he couldn’t have slept anyway. After making love to his wife, he had held her close until she fell asleep. Afterwards, it had taken all his mental strength not to lie there all night crying.
He looked over his shoulder at her. She was still so beautiful. He almost wished she would wake up just long enough for him to see her eyes one last time.
But Abigail McCarty didn’t stir at all. She was used to his leaving at odd times, whether day or night, a common occurrence for wives of Secret Service men. Blinking back fresh tears, he turned away from her naked loveliness and stood. His own body was cramped from lying in the same position for so long. He held his legs straight and bent down from the waist to touch both palms on the soft carpet five times in succession, then headed for the bathroom.
He allowed the steam from the shower to totally cloud up everything instead of finishing off with his customary cold blast. No need. He was alert enough, and he didn’t want to see his face in the mirror. Not today. He didn’t want to look at himself and have to question whether he was staring at a hero or a coward. He dressed quickly, amazed at how calm his movements were. He knew it was the training, yet his self-control still surprised him.
Abby hadn’t changed her position in the queen-size bed. Robert gazed at her for another long moment before quietly unlocking, then reaching into the nightstand drawer for his weapon and shoulder holster. The clock read 4:50 A.M., its luminous digital characters blinking like captured fireflies. He sighed softly and walked to the adjoining bedroom. The twin boys were two small lumps beneath their identical Disney World blankets. He bent down and touched his lips to each one’s head, not trusting himself to do more. Then he turned and silently left the room, leaving the door ajar, knowing that if he shut it, no matter how carefully, it would still make a sound and Abby would be instantly awake. He didn’t want that kind of goodbye. He had left his goodbye deep inside her a few hours ago. He prayed, for her sake, that she would not conceive again.
Robert went through the kitchen to the garage, touching familiar things on the way. Since he knew every step from memory, turning on a light was unnecessary. Skirting Abby’s Volvo station wagon, he settled into the silver Corvette, his only other passion in this life besides his wife. No, that was not true. There was one other passion; one that dwarfed his affection for the old car, and lodged deeper in his soul than even his love for Abby and the boys. It was his honest and old-fashioned feeling of loyalty to his country.
The thing called duty.
He started the Corvette without touching the gas pedal, grunting with mild satisfaction when the powerful engine immediately purred into life. As it idled softly, he fingered the automatic garage door switch. He had always kept its cables well greased, and it opened with only minimal sound. He removed the 9mm pistol from its holster and checked its clip again, though he had done so a dozen times the night before. He slid the gun back into the worn leather that was as much a part of his everyday dress as a shirt and tie.
He backed the Corvette out of the garage, thumbed the door switch again, and headed down the empty street. At this time of morning, he knew it would take exactly twenty-nine minutes to reach his assigned parking space at the White House, another five to check in, and three more to be in his place by six, when his shift began.
Robert looked at the dashboard clock. 5:15. Still dark. Very little traffic. There hadn’t been much traffic in Washington this year, vehicular or otherwise. He thought about the handwritten note he’d given Father Tim, hoping he hadn’t placed his priest in jeopardy. Aside from Abby, Father Tim Flaherty was the only person on earth he had complete faith in. Well, it was too late now to worry about that. There could be no second-guessing. He’d have to trust. The few lines of the message he’d written to his old college team mate burned across his mind like a laser beam, but he banished them from his brain and concentrated on his driving.
And his mission.
He glanced at the clock once more. On time.
Secret Service agent Robert McHale McCarty easily made his 6:00 shift, and, at 6:21, opened the door he was guarding, took three quick steps inside the Madison room, drew the Walther one final time and fired two bullets into the head of his father-in-law, the President of the United States.
Chapter 1
I hate funerals. They give me lasting feelings of helplessness. Standing hatless in the late September rain, I told myself, Jeb Willard, this is the last time. The last one. I felt safe making such a stupid prediction because the only one I knew I would be absolutely forced to attend in the future would be my father’s, and Cal Willard would probably live forever. Outlive me for sure, the stubborn old hack.
Besides, as funerals go, this one was a disaster. Worse than any I had
ever attended. Even my mother’s. But I had been only a five year-old then, and didn’t know how to be miserable. Only scared and bewildered. Exactly the way Abby’s twins looked now. I couldn’t see behind her black veil, but it was breaking my heart to imagine what she had to be going through, and I gradually became aware of something besides rain running down my cheeks. This was rapidly turning into the worst labor of love I’d done in a long time, and believe you me, that’s exactly how I thought of it. A labor of love.
I gritted my teeth, wishing I were home, or at least somewhere else. I hadn’t been back in Washington forty-eight hours yet, but found myself already missing my smug, Carolina-sunny privacy aboard LAST WORD, or maybe having an afternoon beer over the chessboard with Cal at Tyson’s Bait Shop.
The weather here was rotten. The whole atmosphere was rotten, and no one else seemed to be reacting to it any better than I was. How the hell are you supposed to act at the funeral of an old friend who had shot the President twice in cold blood, then swallowed the hot barrel and pulled the trigger again? When I surreptitiously looked up from the toes of my soaked shoes, I could tell the other people were obviously feeling pretty much the same emotions; those pitifully few who were stoically paying their last respects to Mac McCarty. My writer’s mind fished for a word to fit the scene. After a minute it came to me. . .
Ignominy.
I ground my teeth again. It might have helped if I had known more of the others, all standing like motionless wet crows in a plowed field, but I recognized only two faces in the small crowd, a few polite steps apart from Abby and the boys; the priest, and Special Agent Frye. At first I felt instantaneous resentment at Thurmond Frye’s presence there, but quickly surmised the FBI wasn’t about to let Abby McCarty out of their sight for a moment, even to bury her husband. There were probably one or two more agents waiting in the discreet dryness of their unmarked car.
Ignominy.
What was worse than the dank surroundings and the small knot of Mac’s old Chelsea friends was the absence of those who could have (make that should have) been there and weren’t. Nowhere to be seen was the former first lady, Abby’s mother, nor was there one man there who looked as though he might have been a Secret Service agent. I had counted fewer than thirty shoe-tops altogether.
A couple of men had been foresighted enough to bring umbrellas. Bright stripes and patterns over the bowed heads of their women provided the only, incongruous, color against black of dress, white of face, and gray of day. Most, like myself, were bareheaded, including the thin old priest, whose wisps of cotton hair strung down into his face like the way frayed threads of a storm-beaten flag clings to its wet pole.
Ignominy. The word wouldn’t let go of me. The priest must have been thinking of the same word, or some professional simile. What could he be thinking now of his church’s ridiculous rules about consecrated ground? Why could Robert McCarty not be buried in Chelsea, next to his parents? A Catholic murderer could be forgiven his deadly sin and be buried properly, and even with some dignity, but a suicide could not.
What could Father Tim Flaherty be thinking, not to be allowed to say a word at this sham of a service? We were standing in a shabby indigent cemetery miles from his own parish. What effect were the perfunctory words (uttered in a monotone dreary as the rain by a Unitarian mercenary) be having on this old man who had performed rites of baptism, confirmation, and marriage for the man in the closed coffin? He was standing there bawling unashamedly, holding the hand of a gorgeous young woman who looked vaguely familiar. I couldn’t place her, though, and dropped my eyes back down to my Wingtips. Why, Mac? Why did you do it? Doesn’t make sense. You were no murderer.
Lost in those confused thoughts, I almost didn’t hear the final flat cliché the Unitarian hired gun used to close the service. “…dust to dust… Amen.” Suddenly, I was shuffling along with the rest, who had formed the sheep line filing past the widow, mumbling soft condolences. “Abby, I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks for being here, Jeb.” Her voice was a whispered croak.
“I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Please.”
Feeling Thurmond Frye’s cold eye on me during that brief exchange, I put out my hand. “Good to see you again, Frye.”
“Been a while.” Minimal words. Hint of a smile. Neutral handshake. Same old ice man. I hadn’t seen him since Mexico, but he hadn’t changed a bit, except that the coat he had on and the suit beneath it was of much better quality. He must have gotten a promotion. “Didn’t know you were in Washington, now,” I added. “We’ll have to have a drink sometime.”
“Sure, Jeb.”
I moved away. The crowd was dispersing, fading into the rain like fishing boats in fog. I felt a tug on my sleeve. “You have a car, Mr. Willard?”
I turned to the old priest. “A rental, Father. Why? You need a lift?”
“I’d appreciate a ride back to my church.”
“Be glad to.” I didn’t ask him how he’d gotten there. I took his arm. Pointed. “It’s over there.”
Call it writer’s habit or whatever; I felt the need to fix the scene in my memory-bank, so I took one last glance back as we trudged away from the cemetery. The coverall-clad grave-digging crew had materialized and was already at work shoveling mud into Mac’s grave.
What a way to go. I’ll never forget it…
I had not forgotten the way to the grungy Irish neighborhood of Chelsea, nor to the equally drab church where I’d been only once before—for Mac’s wedding to Abby. During the drive, around most of Washington, the windshield wipers made the only sound. Father Flaherty said not one single word. Sharing his grief, I kept my own mouth shut, though I wanted to ask him about the girl who had stood beside him at the funeral. When we reached St. Michaels’ parking lot, he surprised me. “Come in, son. I have to tell you something.”
Wondering why he couldn’t tell me while still in the car, I got out and followed him inside. He led me straight to the confessional box, opened the door and said, “Have a seat.” It was a command, not a suggestion.
I had never been inside one before. Bemused, thinking of a dozen old B movies I had seen, I sat in the near darkness and waited. Momentarily, I heard the door on the opposite side close, and the lattice-like screen slide back part way. I didn’t know exactly what to say, and for a fleeting moment, was tempted to blurt out “Forgive me, Father” but I repressed that silly urge, knowing the old man had some good reason for putting me in there. “I’m not Catholic, Father Flaherty. You didn’t have to—”
“Be quiet, please. This place is probably still safe. Read this.”
Through the crack in the thin partition, he passed me a single sheet of ordinary typing paper. “Here, use this.” Now the hand held a cheap cigarette lighter. It took three or four tries before it worked. Ignoring the sudden acrid smell, I held it close to the paper and read:
Jeb,
There was a deep conspiracy. I couldn’t prove anything, but you might. Start with the saint who saw the turning wheel. End with Old Sarge. Also, please look after Liz.
Nice catch in the State game. Bird dog blue, left, on two.
Mac
Astonished, I read the note twice, then a third time before taking my thumb off the lighter. The voice on the other side came back. “Did you read it all?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Have you memorized it? Word for word?”
“Yes.”
“Then pass it back to me. The lighter, too.”
I complied, and turned toward the connecting panel as I saw the flame flicker again, then flash, instantly realizing he was burning the note. It didn’t take long, and then I heard him stomping on the ashes. A couple of minutes went by before he said, “You remember where Sean Reilly’s place is?”
“Two blocks down the street, isn’t it?”
“Right you are. Meet me there in one hour. You can find your way out by yourself, can’t you?”
I could and did.
And drove
around Washington suburbs for an hour in the drizzle. When did Mac give him that note? During a confession? It was no phony, either. It was from Mac, all right. No one else could have known the UNC playbook call for that touchdown pass he threw me to beat the Wolfpack that Saturday a hundred years ago. What kind of “deep conspiracy” could he have meant? One thing was certain. Father Tim Flaherty knew something about Mac’s last few days on earth. Maybe a lot more.
Something in the back of my brain sent up a red flag. Told me to walk away from this. Go home, Jeb. Let the FBI find out about any conspiracy. Your days as an investigative reporter are long over. You’ve been away from the Washington scene for years. Be sensible for once. It’s not your problem. But that note was Mac McCarty’s request. Possibly his last request. You don’t turn your back on an old friend. Never have. Not even a dead one. Not even if he shot the President. Won’t hurt to talk to the priest. Just a little talk, Jeb. Nothing more. Nothing less. No harm- no foul.
I spotted him at a back booth at Reilly’s Bar and Grill. Letting my eyes adjust to the bright interior light, I took off my raincoat and casually ran the olfactory gauntlet of pungent hamburger grease and stale cigar smoke, passing by only a handful of customers bent over their beers and arguments. Father Flaherty either hadn’t touched the glass of red wine on the table before him, or he’d ordered a refill. He was staring into the glass, toying with the stem, and I thought he hadn’t noticed my approach until he raised his head to signal both the bartender and me. “Sit. What’ll you be drinking, Mr. Jeb Willard?”
