by Andy King
My shit-eating grin won’t quit. “Votes honey, think votes. Probably win over a quarter of the men and most of the women.”
She rolls her eyes around in her head. “Guess there’s an upside.”
“Think of it as a happy ending.”
25
Cheri
Flying around the bedroom with my assistants, getting ready for the State of the Union address, I stub my toe. “Ow!”
“Let me see it, any blood?”
“No, just hurts like hell.” I limp to the closet and point. “Those black ones.”
“You sure? Your toe’s going to swell up.”
“I’m short enough as it is, I need the height. I’ve been through worse, believe me. It’ll be over in a few hours. Let’s go, chop-chop.”
My assistant’s right, the pumps make my toe hurt worse, but I can take it. Slogging through the snow with a shotgun, hunting for food at age fourteen, tends to make most things a lot less of a big deal.
Jack looks great in a tux, I’ve got to say. Actually he looks great in anything, or nothing. I’m not going to tell him that, don’t want to swell his head. He gives me his arm. We slowly descend the grand staircase in a blizzard of flashes. On one hand, telling the country that I’m engaged to a Secret Service agent eight years my junior has set off a firestorm of criticism. They’ll get over it after the baby. We’re not making that public yet. One thing at a time.
On the other hand, having a big, badass Secret Service agent/fiancé glued to my hip has its advantages. Fewer bureaucrats and heads of state are making veiled passes at me. Yesterday Jack actually growled at the Prime Minister of France. I corrected him in private, but then tore his clothes off and screwed his brains out as a reward for his valor. I smile a lot these days.
It’s late afternoon, the sky overcast, the clouds grey rubber creases. Tiny puffs like sooty bus exhaust trail into the distance. Not real picturesque, and the air is stiff with chill.
We slide into the limo, Cinderella and her prince. All I need are the wicked stepsisters, but all I have is Mom. So far I’ve managed to keep her away from the White House with bribery. That’s not going to last, as soon as she finds out she’ll finally be a grandmother.
“Nervous?” Jack says.
“A little.” I’ve confided in him that I’m not fond of public speaking. I did my time on the campaign circuit, and I did well, but speaking to Congress while millions of people are watching isn’t up there on my to-do list.
“Ever gone hunting?” I ask him.
“No. Ever surfed?”
“Hmmm. Trade lessons?”
“Deal.” We hold hands. I see many possibilities in our future.
Cruising down Pennsylvania Avenue, I consider the North Korean situation, a stalemate. As soon as I moved the Navy close, the NK launch prep ceased. They’re probably up to no good, getting two or three missiles ready, for all I know. I doubt they’ll back down, but we’re vigilant.
The limo threads its way through the roundabout, Peace Circle. We’re going to meet Mom with her new boyfriend, a banker, in the anteroom of the House chamber. I roll my eyes at the thought.
We had a heated argument, Carmel, Lenny, Jack and I, about which entrance to use. The three of them ganged up on me and demanded that I use a secure side entrance, or even, God forbid, the underground tunnel. Of course I insisted on walking through the front door. It’s not just a political statement. Franklin Roosevelt was right in his first inaugural address when he said “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself—nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror.”
I refuse to be a prisoner of fear, and I’m going to wage a full-blown campaign to convince the American people that fear is the surest way to failure.
Finally I put my foot down and yelled at them. They’re all working for me. Jack was the only one I could threaten with having to sleep on the sofa, but I’m the President, damn it!
There’s a huge mob of people cordoned off behind the Reflecting Pool nearly a quarter mile away. With the limousine’s tripled-paned, reinforced, smoked windows, I can’t even wave to them. I’ll give it a try when we disembark, but I don’t have much hope that anybody will see me. Cameras will catch my intentions, but I’ll be hustled along by a swarm of agents. Nice democracy, huh?
We pull up to the fabled steps, the huge expanse of lawn behind us empty. A hundred journalists, camera people and agents throng around the car. Heavily armed soldiers ring the perimeter, off-camera. On TV it’ll look like a crowd, but it’s all show, and everybody has been carefully screened.
Jack gets out and holds the door open. He extends his hand and I take it. Standing tall as I can, I lean into the crisp breeze and climb a dozen steps, turn around and wave at the distant congregation. It seems so sad that we’ve come to this, separating the government from the people.
I turn back to trudge the rest of the sixty-eight steps to the Capitol building.
Suddenly Jack grips my hand.
He whirls and squints at a senior agent, fear in his eyes.
“It’s dead,” the agent says.
“The Comm network just went out, we have to go.” Jack reaches down to scoop me up.
The boom is deafening, louder than anything I’ve ever heard. Fingers of flame shoot at us. An ungodly fiery glob of orange and yellow consumes the limo and two SUVs.
We’re flung back up the steps. I’m smacked into the iron railing by the blast but only strike my butt. My ears ring, my head spins, I look around frantically for my glasses.
Jack had his back to the explosion. He’s lying face-down, arms out. Blood seeps from his neck. Smoke drifts. Screams start.
I scan for Carmel. She’s a few stairs down and off to the side behind a big block of marble. I’m relieved to see her lift her head and try to pull herself up. I yell, “Carm! Stay down!”
I look toward the top of the steps. My blood turns to ice.
Two men are coming down, only forty yards away. Wearing ski masks, they’re pointing ugly-looking automatic weapons.
My head whips around to the wreckage of the burning limo. Another masked man is jogging up the sidewalk toward us, his assault rifle leading.
An agent to my left is down. I kick off my shoes. They fly end over end in slow motion.
I’m running through the snow, high-stepping, holding a rifle, the terror of falling a red scream in my head. I’d been tracking rabbits, and almost found my prey’s lair. Suddenly I hear a growl.
The snow came early that year. Bears hadn’t hibernated yet and wolves were hungry. I don’t wait around to find out which one’s behind me. I run.
Skidding through the grey-white mess, cut off by a cliff high over a creek, there’s nowhere to go. I have to fight back.
I spot the agent’s gun, a twelve-gauge Remington 870. Close enough. I scramble to it, skinning my knees.
Rolling, I grab the shotgun. The killer at the foot of the stairs has seen me. Has he seen the gun? He starts up the steps, two at a time.
I pump the shotgun and hear a satisfying chung. In a flash I swivel and point my weapon. The recoil damn near takes my shoulder off.
My shot hits him full in the face, decapitating him. I roll back and away, swinging around to face the assassins tearing down the stairs, but I’m on the edge of a step and lose my balance. Letting gravity take me, I tumble down the stone ridges, gripping the shotgun. I stop and squint. The assailants pull up and aim.
A shot from somewhere catches one in the arm. His weapon swings away. The second one’s distracted, looking for the shooter. I scramble and swing my gun around.
It bucks against my shoulder. The muzzle blast flings death at the attackers, but I’ve missed.
Then one of them falls in a hail of bullets, his limp form jerking.
The last man standing raises his gun. His head explodes in a burst of crimson, raining splotches of purple flesh. A large caliber slug has found its mark.
The air is quiet, no sounds but the cries of the wounded. Sirens jo
in their mournful chorus.
It’s hard to force my stomach to stay still. I’ve never killed a person. I want to wretch. Hauling myself to my knees, staying low, I crawl to Jack.
When I get close I see that he’s holding his gun, his finger on the trigger. His eyes are shut.
He’s got to be alive, he’s got to be. I can’t lose him, lose another soul mate that way. I won’t.
“Medic!” I scream.
An agent rushes up, then a second. They stand over me, backs to each other, guns up. “Are you all right, Madame President?” one of them says.
“Yes, but Jack—” My stomach lurches again. “Get a doctor!”
“We’re not leaving you.”
More agents and a few soldiers cluster around. Again I yell, “Get a medic here! Agent Runyon’s dying!”
An agent kneels. “He’s got a pulse.”
Another one’s on his radio. I see an EMT van far off to the side, trying to force its way through the crowd, and hear sirens, wounded screams and first responders yelling.
I close my eyes. This is what I’ve wrought, it’s on me. I’ve been stubborn and selfish. The country is not ready, I fear.
My attention snaps to how cold it is. Bodies everywhere. People wailing.
An agent on his knees studies me. “You’re bleeding, ma’am. I’ll get you a stretcher when the medics arrive.”
Jack’s unconscious and bloody. I’m on the verge of hysteria.
“Agent Runyon is dying, don’t you get it?” I shriek.
Carmel hands me my shoes, then sits next to me, her arm around my shoulder. “They’re just doing their job, Cher.”
I know the Service has its priorities, I’m quite aware of their orders. Protect the President at all costs, then render protection and care to related parties, then their own and bystanders. The crowd of armed men and women has ballooned to two dozen. I bite the inside of my cheek in anger at myself.
When a stretcher finally comes, I push away the agent who’s insisting and point. “Get Runyon to the hospital right away. That’s an order!”
He seems to realize that I won’t accept care until Jack’s in an ambulance, and directs the medics to follow through. I finger the chain around my neck, Jack’s dog tags. He survived that horror.
Please, God.
The agent puts his arm around me to help me down the steps. I shrug it away and limp a step at a time toward the mass of waiting vehicles.
At the bottom of the stairs a tarp covers the body of the man I shot. I stop, staring at it.
Then I spit on it, furious.
I have an idea who sent them, and I’m in the mood for a good hanging.
26
Jack
It takes days for my depression to lift. The painkillers help, but I’m weaning myself off them as quickly as I can. It was kind of fun, watching Cheri give her State of the Union address while I was high on dope, but the next day I regretted it. I wanted to be there. Instead I was a useless casualty in a hospital bed.
The first thing she did, bless her heart, was lecture me long and hard on how I did the best I could. Nobody could have done better, she said. I finally accepted it and started to climb out of my haze.
Now I feel stronger. I lost a lot of blood, but the wound in my neck looked more dramatic than it was, I’m told. I’ve taken shrapnel before. I’m lucky like that, but I may have used up my quota. No more IEDs, I hope.
An agent pops his head in and scans around. It’s my cue to smile. Cheri bustles in, a big grin on her face for the patient. She’s determined to get me up and around using the power of positive thinking. Laying her hand on mine, she looks back toward the door.
“We need a few minutes,” she says sternly.
The agent reluctantly steps outside. They won’t let the door shut. Maybe in time they’ll relax. I heard from Carmel that Cheri, Josh Jefferson and Lenny Carlson had a knock-down, drag-out fight over security procedures, and for the first time, Cheri lost. Carm laughed when she told me, and I wouldn’t put it past Cheri to have urged Carm to tell me. All laughter is good, in her book.
Cheri gives me a wide smile. “I’ve got a secret.”
“You’ve got lots of them.”
“This one’s ours.”
I narrow my eyes and knit my brow, wishing that my mind was clearer. Then I get it. My grin is ear-to-ear.
“It’s a boy.” She throws her arms around my neck.
My heart swells, threatening to burst out of my chest. I hold her as close as I can. “I love you so much,” I choke through tears.
The beeps on my monitor speed up. A nurse marches in. “What’s going on—oh. Sorry, ma’am.”
“I told you to call me Cheri, Sarah.”
“Yes ma’am, uh Cheri…ma’am.” Sarah adjusts my pillow while peering at the monitor panel.
Cheri waits for Sarah to leave, then leans in again, her lavender and vanilla scent in the air. There’s another aroma but I can’t place it. I grin again when I realize: cake frosting.
She lowers her voice. “Josh is pretty sure he’s got the story. Well, ninety percent sure. They’re still putting together forensics, but I agree with most of it.”
“I’m all ears.”
She slips her hand under the covers. “Don’t think so.”
Lying in a warm bed all day, with nothing to do but think about all the ways I’m going to make love to my beautiful wife when I get out of here, tends to give me wood. If I’m not stiff when Cheri shows up, I certainly get in the mood quickly. I struggle to pay attention to what she’s saying.
“Congressman Alston, the Speaker of the House, the one Carm and I call White, is an old blueblood from Alabama. His brother has ties to several white supremacist groups. Bill McCracken’s from Nevada, from a clan that’s in that circle, too. The FBI cleared McCracken of the plot that MacElvain instigated, but he had his own conspiracy going through White, uh Alston.”
A tear drips from a corner of her eye. She looks down. “In the attack that took Morrie, the assholes were gunning for me, too, of course. That’s been known for some time, sub rosa. Alston was investigated back then, covertly. He’s next in line after the Vice President. Who knows, he might have been planning to bump off McCracken.”
She dabs the corner of her eye with a finger. “They could never connect anything to him. The FBI and Secret Service were overwhelmed back then.”
Taking a tissue from the nightstand she blows her nose, then exhales a huge sigh. “I guess the conspirators decided the only way to get me was a suicide mission.”
“Did you find out how they got the limo?”
“Laser-guided rocket. Another airborne attack, like the first one.”
She grits her teeth. “Lenny Carlson said the gunmen were a Service agent, a cop and a Special Forces soldier. We’re hoping it never becomes public and the official version of domestic terrorists sticks. The cover-up’s a longshot, though.”
“McCracken and Alston have been taken into custody?”
“Tonight, when they’re asleep. It seems that Alston’s put together some offshore funding. He might run.”
“What about McCracken?”
Cheri’s smile is bittersweet. “His wife would never let him run. She’s the Queen B in her circle, here in D.C.”
I wonder about that. It’s Josh’s worry, though.
Then I remember. “You know, I have a lot of time to think, lying here. Something’s been bothering me. You told me, last week sometime?” I look at the ceiling. “You said you were first tipped off to MacElvain’s intentions by a report you saw. Four hundred thousand troops were being requisitioned?”
Her eyes light up. “Oh, yeah.”
“Well, you said you thought it was unlikely that the conspirators would have let it reach you. You also thought it had to be real. What’s up with that?”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think, too, lying awake at night, wondering how you are, honey.” She puts her hand on mine again, eyes twinkling. “Turns out To
m Shelby’s granddaughter works in the Defense Department at the Pentagon. She’s several levels below MacElvain, but high enough to realize how unusual the requisition was. She asked her grandfather for guidance. He’s a cagey old guy, said put it under my nose, let me figure it out.”
Cheri throws out a hand. “He’s a hunter, too. He knew I couldn’t resist.”
Again I go silent. What if she hadn’t dug into it?
She seems to read my mind. “He said he would’ve told me in a day or two, and you know, I believe him. Anyway, it worked out.”
Just like that, I think. I love her self-confidence. She pulls the chair forward and puts her arms around my neck, snuggling.
“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“How’s your strength?”
“I feel pretty good.”
“Excellent.” She jumps up and strolls to the door.
A hushed conversation takes place, Cheri insistent and the agent equally insistent. She closes the door and sashays back to my bed, her grey-green eyes flashing.
“We get twenty minutes, his family gets a private White House tour. A win-win.” Her expression is definitely evil.
She pulls back the covers and gazes into my eyes, licking her lips, long and slow. She lifts my gown. “Just lie back. I want to do this,” she says in a dreamy voice.
“But—”
“No buts, soldier. You saved my life. It’s the least I can do.”
“Huh?”
“The shot you got off on the stairs hit that gunman in the arm, threw him off.”
She tilts her head adorably, with a cat-ate-the-canary grin. “Now be still, mister. I don’t want to have to make it an order.” Bending down, she whispers, “I’ll get every last drop. It’s mine.”
I close my eyes at the touch of her lips. My groan is like distant thunder.
Epilogue
Cheri
Nearly Three Years Later…
God, I’m glad that’s over. I switch off the TV, set down my glasses and roll on my other side, spooning with my mate. It looks like my legacy will live on, tattered and torn, for better or worse. The election’s over and the good guys won again. Well, the majority of the country agreed that prejudice has no place in who lives in the White House. For now. Things could change in the future.
