Dutch and Gina: The Power of Love

by Mallory Monroe

  “The meeting you and Jed Brightman attended at Robert Rand’s estate.”

  Shelly’s heart began to palpitate. “There must be some mistake,” he began.

  “What was it about, Shelly, and I’m not asking you again?”

  Shelly attempted to smile. But it was a nervous smirk at best. “It wasn’t about anything. I mean, I meant to say what meeting are you talking about? Maybe we aren’t talking about the same thing.”

  Crader laughed. “You are the worst liar ever,” he said.

  “What is this about?” Shelly asked, looking from the president to the attorney general, a woman he always felt was on his side.

  “We know for a fact that you and the Speaker of the House of Representatives attended a meeting at the estate of industrialist Robert Rand. We know that the meeting lasted roughly fifty-three minutes. We know that no-one else attended, just you, Mr. Rand, and the Speaker.”

  “And we now want to know what that meeting was about,” Crader added. “What was that get-together about between two men who happen to be in the direct line of succession to the presidency, and the one man who has the financial wherewithal to get that succession party started.”

  Shelly again hesitated. Then attempted a different tactic. “You had me followed, Dutch? Me, the Vice President of the United States? You had some two-bit P.I. following me?”

  Dutch, however, stared at that vice president of his so icily that even Gina could feel the chill. Dutch was done. He wasn’t hearing it, he was done. Shelly, Gina knew, might as well come clean now.

  Shelly apparent knew it too. Because he leaned forward, his face now reeking of regret. “It was all just talk,” he began. “You know how Jed can get, we were meeting just to talk about it.”

  “Talk about what?” Crader asked.

  Crader’s presence, his very voice, grated on Shelly’s nerves. But he soldiered on. “We talked about some plan Jed and Robert had hatched to get rid of you,” he said to Dutch.

  “What was the plan?” Dutch asked in his best voice of cool.

  “Robert said he knew this doctor in Hong Kong who perfected one of those date rape drugs that could knock somebody out for something like fifteen minutes and erase all memory of the event itself.”

  “A date rape drug?” Gina asked, alarmed.

  “When you say the event,” Dutch said to Shelly, “you mean the rape itself?”

  Shelly reluctantly nodded. “That’s right. And you take some photos, wipe her clean, put her back where she was. In and out easily, if you get my meaning.”

  “Yes, I get your meaning. I get that you three men, one of whom is my friend, two of whom are among the highest ranking members of the U.S. government, met in the beautiful Virgin Islands and concocted a scheme to rape my wife.”

  Shelly’s heart dropped. “Oh, no, Dutch, that wasn’t what we met about. That wasn’t it at all. That was just Robert talking about this magic drug. Nobody believed him. I certainly didn’t.”

  “But that was the plan, right?” Crader asked. “To rape the First Lady?”

  “No. It was all about embarrassing the president so that he could step down.”

  “I see. So you and the Speaker met with Robert Rand in a scheme to unseat the president? You three men were planning a coup to overthrow the federal government.”

  Shelly stood in horror. “No!” he screamed at Crader. “Absolutely not! A coup? Are you joking? A coup? Seriously? I would never---”

  “That’s all, Shelly,” Dutch said as calm as Shelly was hysterical.

  Shelly looked from Crader to Dutch. “Ah. . . eh. . . Sir?”

  “That’s all. You may leave.”

  Shelly, and everybody in the room, was stunned. “I can leave? I can just leave?”

  “Yes. You can leave.”

  “But. . . Don’t you want to know, I mean, don’t you want more information?”

  “No, thank-you,” Dutch said with a smile that was so tight it almost came off as a grimace. “That’ll be all.” This time Dutch said it with finality, which Shelly knew meant that he had better quit while he was ahead.

  “Yes, sir,” Shelly said. He glanced once again at Primrose, whom he viewed as an ally, glared once again at Crader, whom he knew was his enemy, and left.

  The tension in the room quickly deflated as soon as he left.

  “So that was it,” Crader said. “Some date rape drug!”

  “I can get tested,” Gina said, relief all over her face. “That drug is still probably in my system. I can get tested, Dutch.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Dutch said, leaned forward in his chair.

  Gina looked at him. “It won’t be necessary? What do you mean? I can get tested, they can find the drug in my system, which can be scientific evidence of what Shelly was saying, And Prim can have all three of them arrested.”

  “Right,” Prim agreed.

  “I don’t need to know anything about any date rape drug,” Dutch snapped. “I’d already worked that part out.”

  “You had?” Crader asked, surprised. “And how did you figure that so easily?”

  “I began with the fact of the matter. Gina doesn’t fuck any man but me. That’s a fact.”

  This blunt but very personal admission took Primrose by surprise. She walked over to the window, looked out.

  “And her face,” Dutch continued.

  “What about my face?” Gina asked.

  “Your eyes were always closed.”

  Crader smiled. “Hate to be the bearer of common knowledge, Dutch, but most people close their eyes when they’re having sex.”

  “Gina does too. But not when she’s doing me.”

  Gina immediately grabbed the envelope that was on Dutch’s desk, found the photographs that showed her hand on Robert’s penis. And Dutch was right. Her eyes were closed every time.

  Gina looked at her husband. “You’re right,” she said.

  Primrose walked back over to the president. “So what’s the game plan, sir?” she asked.

  “Business as usual,” Dutch said.

  Primrose stared at him. “You don’t want an arrest, sir?”

  “No,” Dutch said.

  “You mean not now,” Crader said.

  “I mean no,” Dutch said. He looked at Primrose. “Go back and attend to the affairs of my Justice Department. I’ll take care of this.”

  Primrose respected Dutch Harber above most men she knew, but she also knew there was another side to him. A more aggressive, almost vigilante side. She’d heard all of the rumors about what he did to Henry Osgood, his daughter’s former boyfriend, and what he ordered to have done to the man who assaulted his wife before they were married. She’d heard a lot of rumors about him. But she’d heard them going in, before she agreed to become his new attorney general. It would be malfeasance, she felt, if she started complaining about his tactics now.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, and went on about her business.

  When she left, Crader shook his head. “The men who would be king. That’s what their whole scheme is about. Power.”

  “That’s what it’s always about,” Dutch said.

  “Or money.”

  “No. Never about money. Money helps get power. In the end, it’s always about power. Power corrupts. And absolute power, the kind Robert is after, corrupts absolutely.”

  “So what’s the game plan?” Gina asked Dutch.

  He looked at his wife. The idea of her lying unconscious and naked in that snake’s bed, with him doing whatever he wanted to do with her unconscious body, had him reeling with rage. He, in truth, wanted to tear Robert Rand apart with his bare hands. But he knew he had to keep it together. Exploding now would help nothing.

  “For you, it’s going back to your sewing circle ladies, who have been waiting patiently for your return, and continuing on with your busy schedule.”

  “And what’s the game plan for you?” Gina asked him.

  Dutch leaned back, an expression on his face she did not recog
nize. “The game itself,” he replied.

  FOURTEEN

  The front door to the luxury apartment opened quietly and the man known around Washington as the Cameraman slipped in. He walked slowly, but deliberately through the apartment, his expensive camera in his hands. All was quiet initially. Not a sound could be heard. But as he continued walking toward the back of the residence, everything changed. The sound was at first muffled, but then as clear as crystal. The sound of the bed squeaking, the groans and the moans. The sound, the Cameraman knew so well, of sex.

  He stood outside the bedroom door, prepared his camera’s flashbulb, and waited a second to compose himself. This was a piece of cake for him, he’d done it a thousand times before. But never, not ever, at this level.

  The element of surprise had to be there. He didn’t want his subjects to simply cover up in bed, hiding their faces from the glare of his clicks. He needed them to initially think that they were under attack, which would provoke them to jump out of bed rather than hunker down, and then he would get his best pictures. He always did. And he had to, absolutely had to get the best pictures now.

  He banged once, loudly, and then slung the door open. And there he was, Jed Brightman, the Speaker of the House of Representatives and the number two man in the line of presidential succession, naked and on top of a girl, banging her. As soon as the door flew open, Brightman did as all those other men in his position often did and jumped from the bed, his nakedness exactly what the photographer ordered.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Brightman asked as the camera clicked and clicked and clicked. The young girl, who sat up astounded, pulling the covers around her bare chest, was photographed initially, when Brightman was on top of her, when Brightman jumped off of her, exposing her, but only just then.

  This was all about Jed.

  “What are you doing?” the speaker yelled. “Where’s security? Get the hell out of my home!”

  “Just a minute, please,” the Cameraman said as if he was simply doing his job, the clicking continuing. He already had a couple dozen photos and counting.

  “I’ll give you a minute all right,” the speaker said, flustered, and picked up the telephone that sat on his nightstand.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a very familiar voice said and Brightman, astonished, turned to the sound.

  “Dutch?” he said, quickly hanging back up the phone. His face filled with alarm, concern, and, ultimately, anguish. “What’s going on here?”

  Dutch wore a baseball cap, jeans and a jersey. He looked, for all practical purposes, like a well-built, albeit gorgeously appointed, everyman.

  “Hello, Jed,” he said as he entered. “Put on a robe. You’re showing far more than I care to see.”

  It was only then did Brightman look down, see that he was completely naked, his penis, in fact, still wet. He grabbed his pants that had been discarded on the floor, and slipped them on.

  “What is this about?”

  The Cameraman stopped clicking when the president walked in. The young girl, like Jed, immediately recognized who had walked in. Dutch smiled at her.

  “Hello, sweetheart.”

  “You’re. . . you’re the president,” the young lady said.

  “This is a friend of mine,” Dutch said, motioning to the Cameraman. “I need you to go with him.”

  The young lady, who was undoubtedly a young prostitute since Brightman favored those kind the most, got out of bed, unashamed of her nakedness, and followed the Cameraman out of the room. Dutch, however, stopped her.

  “Come here,” he said. He grabbed Brightman’s dress shirt that had been tossed on the floor, and put it around her. “Where are your clothes?” he asked.

  “In the living room,” she said. “We started in there.”

  The mere idea of it disgusted Dutch. “Put them on,” he said to her.

  She grinned, undoubtedly because the president had placed a shirt on her, and then followed the Cameraman out of the room.

  “He’ll probably fuck her too,” Brightman said of the Cameraman. “Why are you sending her with him?”

  Dutch ignored the pervert and sat in the chair in the spacious bedroom. “Lovely,” he said, looking around.

  “I didn’t know she was underage, all right?” Brightman immediately said.

  Dutch looked at him. “Who said she was?”

  Brightman was at first thrown. And then he caught himself. “She’s seventeen and you know it!” he yelled.

  “Fifteen, but who’s counting?” Dutch countered, unable to shield his contempt for the man.

  Brightman looked worn, defeated. He sat on the edge of his bed, his sagging breasts and rolled belly making him look more like the Pillsbury doughboy than some sex machine stud he was known to be around town. “What do you want?”

  “You will resign,” Dutch began.

  “Resign?” Brightman responded angrily.

  “You will resign at exactly noon tomorrow. And you will resign not only from the Speakership,” Dutch went on, “but from Congress altogether.”

  Brightman was astounded. “You can’t be serious!” he proclaimed.

  “Okay,” Dutch said mildly. “Don’t resign. And tomorrow morning my attorney general will take a look at those photographs and have you in jail tomorrow night. Resigning from Congress will be the least of your concerns, because that’ll happen too.”

  Brightman stared at Dutch. “If you release my photos to Prim, we’ll release your wife’s photos to the media,” he warned.

  Dutch fought hard to contain himself. “And then you’ll be dead,” Dutch said, his face revealing nothing but seriousness.

  Brightman’s heart skipped a beat. Because he knew Dutch Harber. He knew how ruthless he could be. He knew he never bluffed.

  “Prison or resignation,” Dutch said, “or death,” he added, since Brightman took him there. “The choice is yours.”

  Brightman began shaking his head. He could not believe this turn of events. But he knew the jig was up. Dutch Harber didn’t come knocking at your door unless there were no reprieves. He grabbed the pack of cigarettes on his nightstand, lit one, and then took a puff, exhaling it high into the air.

  He crossed his legs. “And what exactly,” he said, “will be the reason for my shocking and sudden resignation?”

  “Insanity of course,” Dutch said without hesitation.

  Brightman frowned. “Insanity? Why the hell should I claim insanity?”

  “Because you have definitely lost your mind,” Dutch said angrily, “if you were thinking for even a second that I was going to let assholes like you, Rand, and Shelly, rape my wife, decimate her good name in public, and there be no retribution.”

  Brightman stared at Dutch. And as quickly as Dutch said it, he understood it. He could hardly believe how they didn’t understand it all along. And he shook his head. What in the world, he thought, were they thinking?

  Then he took another drag on his cigarette. Because he thought it far too late.

  “Why?” he asked Dutch. “Why no arrest?”

  “Because I want to keep this hanging over you like a festering cancer; like the sword of Damocles over your head. You so much as think about touching another minor; if you so much as think about releasing any photos of my wife that turns up anywhere in this world, you will be destroyed. Right now, I want to take away the one thing you most want, and that’s power. The rest will come. If you mess up.”

  As Dutch moved to leave, another man, whom Brightman didn’t recognize, came into the bedroom. Brightman frowned and looked at Dutch.

  “He stays with you until you make your announcement tomorrow. Then you’re free,” Dutch said, and left.

  Brightman looked at the strongman that now, essentially, held him captive, and then puffed repeatedly on his cigarette.

  “Free,” he said with a sarcastic snort.

  And then tears began to come.

  The banging on the door of the modest Virginia home woke the vice
president and his wife, Erin, with a start. They had refused to take up residency on the grounds of the Naval Observatory, a perk of the vice presidency, and opted to remain in their own home, a home they owned for twenty years, and that was also under secret service protection. What Shelly didn’t understand, as he got out of bed and put on his robe and slippers, was why the agents didn’t just give him a call, rather than all of these dramatics.

  But that was the level of disrespect they all displayed toward him, Shelly thought bitterly as he made his way down the stairs and to the front door. That was why he slung open that door, ready to give those agents a piece of his mind. Who did they think they were disturbing him, the vice president, that way? When he saw the president standing at that door, however, he quickly changed his tune.

  “Dutch?” he said smilingly, trying his best to shield his alarm. Dutch Harber at his door couldn’t possibly be good news.

  “May I come in?” Dutch asked.

  “Yes, of course,” Shelly said nervously. When Dutch just stood there, Shelly realized his blunder and stepped aside to allow him passage in. He looked around, saw that the Secret Service agents that were supposed to be on guard, were on guard, and then closed the door behind his boss.

  The two men stood toe to toe in the home.

  “How are you, Shell?”

  “I’m good.”

  “And Erin?”

  “She’s good too. Trying to get some sleep. Thanks for asking.”

  Dutch stared at Shelly. He wasn’t a bad man, just a foolish one. One that could easily be led by strong men like Jed, like Robert, like Dutch himself. Then Dutch sighed. He made a deal with the devil when he originally put Shelly on the ticket as his VP. It was all strategic then. But he didn’t realize just how profoundly a mistake that selection was until during their reelection campaign, when Shelly attempted to bait racists for votes. But by then the bumper stickers were printed, the convention logo bearing both their names was set, it would have been political suicide to replace the sitting vice president at that time. Now, however, Dutch wished he would have replaced him anyway.

  “Were you asleep too? It’s early. It’s just past eight.” Dutch said this as he began moving around and looking around the home.