My King The President

by Tom Lewis

  Which meant we had to get out of here somehow. Somehow…

  “Thought you might like one of these.” I hadn’t heard Mavis come up behind me. She sat down next to me and handed me a glass. I knew it was Absolut even before I tasted it. “Thanks. You’re a real doll.”

  “And you’re a poor liar. By the way, I’m sorry about the drugs we had to give you. Frye told us you knew.”

  “It’s okay. You were only doing your job. I understand. Where’s Liz?’

  “Went to bed early. She’s still pretty wiped out. Frye also told us he’d try to bring some clothes for you both when he comes back tomorrow.”

  She laid her hand on my thigh, leaving it there just a fraction too long. “I really am sorry about your dad. We’ll do our best to find him, and we’re pretty good, you know.”

  The vague idea I’d had earlier suddenly began to take shape. It just might work. “You’re very good with a massage, too. I enjoyed the hell out of that. What would it cost me to get another one? A much slower one?”

  That sly smile I’d noticed before came back. “Are you possibly suggesting I do something just a tiny bit unprofessional, Mr. Jeb Willard?”

  “What do you think? What’s that old thing about all work and no play? That rub down you laid on me was like a double aphrodisiac! Let me ask you something. You and Barnes are two parts of a three-person team. Are you two actually, you know, like maybe a couple?”

  Mavis giggled. “Jason Barnes? And me? No way, Jose. Besides, he likes only dogs and other guys.”

  “So you two sleep in different rooms?”

  “Of course, but not at the same time. One of us has to be on watch at all times. Why?”

  “When is his on-watch shift?”

  “He’s off watch now. Comes back on at eight in the morning. What are you getting at?”

  I stood. Gave her my best smile and softly touched her cheek with the back of my hand. It was time to find out if Lucille Sweeney was as horny as I thought she was. “If you’ll loan me your passkey and check your monitors to Liz’s room around daybreak, you’ll find out.”

  I held my breath. She seemed for a minute or two to be weighing thoughts. Then, she reached into her uniform pocket and handed me the key.

  “It’s the one across from yours closest to the bathroom.” Her voice was a husky whisper.

  I took the key from her, squeezing her fingers lightly. “Thanks again for the drink. See you later.”

  I left her sitting there, went inside, upstairs, and let myself into Liz’s room, leaving the key in the outside lock. Before I slipped out of my robe and into the bed beside my naked sleeping beauty, I raised the window blinds, praying the room was on the east side of the house.

  It was, and the rising sun awakened me and lit the room enough for me to begin my debut as a porn star.

  I am not proud of my performance. I woke Liz up with kisses around her neck and ears. When she was half awake, I whispered into one of them, “This is it, Liz. We’ve got to get Mavis in here. For God’s sake, play along with me. It’s our only chance.”

  Her response was worthy of an Academy Award. The things we did to each other could have aroused a corpse, and with each kiss, each digital caress, each calculated movement, I made sure I smiled into the mirror and motioned for our hidden voyeur to join us. An unforeseen stroke of luck helped: Liz, once fully awake, really got with the program. She thought the whole scene was funny as hell, and began first to giggle, then passionately writhe and moan like a sex-starved wife. I was afraid she was going to overact her part, but when I heard the key turn in the door, my own heart rate jumped off the scale.

  Like I said, I am not real proud of what we were doing, and less proud of what I did next. I sat tall on the edge of the bed, watching Mavis, who was practically drooling; fumble nervously with the buttons of her uniform. It dropped to the floor and when she reached back to unfasten her bra, I delivered a thrown elbow to her temple so vicious it would have made my old football coach scream with delight. Mavis dropped like a sack of rice. I hoped to God I hadn’t killed her, but wasted no time yanking off her shoes, which, besides the bra, was all she’d been wearing—except for the snub-nosed 32 caliber Smith and Wesson strapped just above her left calf.

  I ripped the sheets off the bed, tore them into strips, and with Liz’s help, dumped the heavy, inert form onto the mattress, turned her over and tied and gagged her as best I could.

  I fished the key out of Mavis’ uniform pocket and handed the uniform to my nude, wide-eyed co-star. “Put this on along with her shoes, and wait here. I have to take care of Barnes.”

  “Be careful,” she said. “And hurry.”

  I strapped the gun around my own calf, put my robe back on, and left the room, gulping deep breaths, close to hyperventilating. I made my way downstairs, helped myself to a glass of water, made a pot of coffee, then sat down at the kitchen table to wait.

  Barnes came in less than five minutes later, headed straight for the coffee pot, poured himself a cup and said, “Sleep okay?”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak out loud. Just nodded, rubbing my eyes.

  Barnes took a sip or two more. “Have you seen Mavis?”

  I didn’t wait any longer. Barnes dropped the cup of hot coffee on the table when I pointed the gun at his face, cocked its hammer, and in the calmest voice I could muster, said, “Where’s your weapon?”

  His eyes moved down. Left. “Shoulder holster.”

  “Keep your hands on the table, Barnes, and your eyes straight ahead. I don’t want to shoot you, but by God, I will.” I moved around behind him, reached under his jacket and removed the automatic. “Okay. Here’s what you’re going to do. In slow motion. Take all your clothes off. Now.”

  Jason Barnes couldn’t see behind him. Good thing, because he would have known I was more scared than he was. He slowly stood, removed his jacket, pants, shirt, and all the rest before he spoke. “You know you’ll never get away with this, Willard. What you’re doing is a big time felony.”

  “I’ll chance it. The shoes and socks, too, if you don’t mind.”

  While he was doing that, I asked him where the dogs were. He told me they were outside. I made him lie down on his stomach on the floor while I searched his pockets for the whistle. I laid his gun down in the sink behind me, found the whistle in his left trousers pocket, then told him to stand up.

  “If you try anything dicey with those dogs, I swear to Christ I’ll put a bullet in you before they run two steps. I want you to repeat that same trick you did yesterday. Put them in the shed.”

  I handed him the whistle, and motioned for him to go out the back door.

  I don’t know whether or not I would have actually carried out my threat. Though I was a reasonably good shot with both rifle and handgun, I had never in my life so much as pointed one at another human being, let alone fired at anyone, but Jason Barnes couldn’t have known that, and didn’t test me. In two minutes he and the dogs were locked in the shed, and I had the whistle in my hand.

  I ran back inside, upstairs to my own room, retrieved my wallet from the night stand, then crossed the hall and let myself back into Liz’s room. Showed my partner a thumbs-up. Liz looked considerably better in the white uniform than had its previous owner, who was breathing okay, but still unconscious. “The shoes fit?”

  “About a size too big, but they’ll do.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  I made sure I locked the door, and downstairs, I dressed in all Barnes’ clothing except for his boxer shorts. His shoes pinched a little, but I could live with that. I reached into the sink, picked up his pistol, and smiled at Liz. “We’re outa here.”

  “Where’s Barnes?”

  “In the shed with the dogs. Come on, we can’t waste a minute.”

  We ran. South.

  And reached the woods, which were immediately thick with undergrowth. I threw the whistle, the room key, and both guns away, and tried to keep my bearings, not an easy thing to do whe
n I could no longer see the sun. But I remembered that moss grows on the north side of trees, and felt we were making good progress generally south. I had no idea when Frye was due back at the farm house, but I knew it wouldn’t take him long to come after us, this time with bloodhounds, not Dobermans. And, he wouldn’t be in any mood to make nice if he caught us. I pushed Liz, and punished myself. We had to keep going, no matter how tired we became. I prayed, with each painful step, that we were still heading south. I had no watch, but through the overhead branches, I could see an intermittent sun, which climbed ever higher. I kept to the right of it. We kept going, through every kind of brush and scrub, which tore at our faces, hands and arms. I was grateful we didn’t run into any swampy areas, and even more grateful for a small clearing which we emerged into; actually a broad swipe that had been cleared for east to west power line towers, maybe fifty yards wide.

  “Can we please rest here for a few minutes, Jeb?” Liz begged, panting. “I’m exhausted.”

  I allowed her only a couple minutes, and then hauled her to her feet, afraid that if I sat down once, I wouldn’t get up again. “We have to keep moving, Liz. Come on. You can make it.”

  The punishment continued. On and on. Liz was too tired to complain any more. The brush became even thicker, but I kept thrashing through it, dragging Liz behind me. I looked up. The sun was practically over our heads now, and I was sweating like a Charleston dock laborer. Then, before I realized what was happening, I pushed through some bushes, tripped, and fell head first into a wide, stinking ditch, Liz tumbling in on top of me. The foot of stagnant water in it was tepid, and it took superhuman effort to climb the steep bank on the opposite side. Pulling Liz up took the rest of my remaining energy. I had none left in reserve. My head was reeling. I felt like I was going to faint. Thought I was seeing a mirage at first. Shook my head. Blinked. But it was no mirage. It was a chain link fence!

  I wanted to shout, “We made it, Liz. It’s the fence around the airstrip.” But I didn’t have enough strength to talk. I leaned back against the cool, galvanized metal, not caring if it was electrified or not. It wasn’t, and I wanted to laugh. I looked at Liz, stretched out prone on her back. She had lost one shoe, and the formerly starched white uniform was now in dirty tatters. Her long hair was a tangled mess. Her face was filthy and bleeding slightly from several new cuts and scratches. I knew I looked no better. What was worse, my feet were hurting like hell. Barnes’ shoes, maybe a full size too small, had cramped my toes into fire-tipped nubs. I pulled them off and tossed them into the ditch.

  I turned, hooked my fingers on the wire joins and pulled myself up to a more or less standing position. The grass on the other side of the ten foot-high fence was mowed, and I could see a small hanger and office building maybe a quarter mile to our left. I searched for a voice. Found a hoarse croak. “Liz. Look, it’s the airstrip. All we have to do is follow the fence. That way…”

  Where we got the physical wherewithal to make it to the small cinderblock office of Abernethy Aviation I’ll never know, nor will I ever know how I summoned the mental equivalent to remember that Barnes’ FBI credentials were still in his inside jacket pocket. My own billfold, which contained nearly two thousand untouched dollars, was in the hip pocket of his pants, which I had to hold up with my bleeding hands. Anyway, we did, and I did, and also conjured from somewhere deep inside me enough grit and wit to show both to the bewildered mechanic we found loafing inside the hangar between two Cessnas. “FBI, mister. I’m Special Agent Barnes, and this is my partner, agent Zinman. We just got away from some real bad people and need to rent that pickup out front. National emergency. Do you have a map of the area?”

  The middle-aged mechanic’s open mouth was so dry he couldn’t have made spit. His eyes were like red-veined blue plates, but he stammered, “Yessir. In the office.”

  His hands shook as he spread the atlas out on the counter.

  “Show me exactly where your airstrip is located,” I commanded.

  He picked up a pencil and used it as a pointer. “Right here.”

  I grunted with some satisfaction. I had been wrong in my guess that the safe house was north of Washington, but correct in figuring Frye wouldn’t have wanted to have to drive too far from his headquarters. We were half a mile west of the town of Salisbury, on Maryland’s eastern shore. Highway 50 would take us north and west, through Cambridge, Easton, and Annapolis. From there, it was only a short drive to the Capitol.

  “Is there gas in your pickup?”

  “Yessir. N-near ’bout a full tank.”

  I extracted five hundred-dollar bills and laid them on the counter. “You can pick it up at the bus station in Cambridge. I’d wait until tomorrow to do it, though. Where’s the keys?”

  He gave them to me. “Can’t I go with you?” he pleaded.

  “Sorry, no.”

  “I ain’t gonna get killed by no terrorists, am I?”

  “Not if you stay away from this office or the hangar. I’d suggest you hide as far away from here as you can get. Run east, and don’t show your face no matter who follows us here. You have any quarters in that cash register?”

  He had a half dozen, which he gladly handed over. “Now, go, and good luck,” I said. The last we saw of him he was running down the runway fast as his coverall-restricted banty legs could carry him.

  I ripped his phone out, and Liz and I got in his old Ford F-150, which smelled nearly as bad as we did. But thank God, it started right away, and ran fine. We stopped at the first gas station that had a public phone booth, where Liz needed only two of the quarters to make the phone call.

  Three and a half anxious hours later, smiling through his tears, Father Tim Flaherty and the young priest I’d met before picked us up a block north of the bus station in Annapolis. I fell asleep in the back seat of Monsignor Ralph’s car, with Liz’s matted head on my shoulder, listening to the old priest softly humming Amazing Grace. It was by far the most beautiful rendition I had ever heard.

  Chapter 15

  I have always had a great wonderment and a solid appreciation for the organization and vast power of the Catholic Church, but would never have thought of becoming any active part of it. Nothing in my personal makeup or background could have ever led me to dream of being even so much as a miniscule cog in that great, grinding wheel. Yet, as I looked myself over in the mirror, I had to admit I made a rather decent looking priest! With a freshly trimmed beard and shaved head, the face looking back at me certainly wasn’t my own, and wearing Monsignor Ralph Curtis’ collar and clothes, I had the glib thought that with only a little play acting, I could walk down any street and be taken for an authentic member of the Catholic clergy.

  My looks were as far removed from Jebediah Willard as I could get, which was exactly what Father Tim had suggested. Moreover, Liz had undergone a mutation of her own. Sister Agnes, the Mother Superior of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, without her habit, could have easily passed for an aging lady wrestler. She seemed proud of the number she had done on the lovely young woman who now looked like just another of the plain-faced, silent figures who glided about the convent like shadows of shadows. Liz was unhappy to have had her own hair cut short, but after a day or two, had become more or less comfortable in her new costume. The scratches and bruises on her skin were fading rapidly, and the face now framed in white was one people might see as serene instead of beautiful—a remarkable transition.

  I was further surprised at how fast both of us were recovering our strength and energy. My memory of how we had gotten to the Mother House (tucked neatly into the heavily wooded southern outskirts of Alexandria) remained only a hazy blur; a dimly lit stage scene furtively enacted in slow motion behind a scrim curtain. I could only guess at how long and vehemently Sister Agnes had protested and argued before giving in to Tim Flaherty regarding our sanctuary. That Liz herself was Catholic probably had helped, plus the fact that Father Tim had no doubt told his female counterpart the simple truth about us. In any event, after two days
and nights of rest and good food, we were now priest and nun; I with Monsignor Ralph’s clothes, shoes, and wallet, including driver’s license, credit cards, and family photos. Now bald, it was uncanny how much I actually looked like him! Liz had also been furnished with proper evidence of her own new persona—a printed card that told any who might ask that she was Sister Corrine, a member of an order who didn’t talk. All she had to do was “Drop her eyes and smile shyly,” Father Tim said. “What’s next?” he asked us. “You can both stay here for a while if you wish.”

  “Liz can,” I said, “But I have to borrow Ralph’s car and run back up to Washington. I should be back tonight.”

  “I won’t ask where you’re going,” Father Tim said, frowning. “Ralph can stay here for one more day, but you can drop me off at my church if you don’t mind. I can’t afford to be gone any longer. At least one of us needs to mind the store.”

  Not a word of conversation passed between us until I dropped him off at the corner of Tyne and Flanagan. “Will you be all right?” he said at last.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll stop back here on the way back to the convent.”

  He nodded, turned and stepped toward his church, and I headed for the address I had looked up the night before.

  The small, one-story stucco house looked like every other one in the crammed neighborhood. Only the shutters were different. It was easy to read the house numbers from the street, so I parked Ralph’s ancient Ford Contour at the curb, glanced around, and satisfied that there was no one in sight this early in the morning, I walked up to the front door with confidence. There was no bell or knocker, so I rapped a few times on the glass pane of the door. It opened within seconds, and I looked down at the pretty, thin face that looked so much like her dead father’s I almost lost it. “Hi. I’m Father Curtis,” I managed. “Is your mother at home?”

  “Yeth, thir. Jutht a minute,” she said, giving me a gapped-tooth grin. She turned and ran back inside, yelling loudly, “Mo—om, there’th a man at the door.”