Captive-in-Chief

by Murray Mcdonald

  “I also need some… medication.” Joe felt awkward asking in front of Amy.

  Sensing the awkwardness, the doctor asked Amy, “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all,” Amy said, stepping out of the room.

  “Sorry about that,” Joe said. “It’s just, I mean—”

  “Look, I understand,” the doctor cut in. “Younger women expect more than our bodies can—”

  “I need Librium!” Joe said.

  ***

  “All sorted?” asked Amy, after the doctor left.

  “Yeah, so did I miss much?”

  “We have a new vice president.”

  “I was only out for a day, right?!?”

  Chapter 64

  Sunday had been lost to sleep. A deep and peaceful sleep. One unlike any he could remember. The doctor had obviously given him something. There was no way it was natural, Joe thought upon waking. He felt like a new man despite the scars and bumps that riddled his body. He awoke to a parcel of clothes Amy had delivered. Brand new and wrapped with a very girly bow, from fake Amy.

  His fall and subsequent hospitalization had obviously done enough to convince whoever the enemy was that Joe had not been party to the killings in New York. The window must have dropped back into place and the weapons he brought back still lying in the alleyway. Otherwise, he didn’t think Amy would be being quite so nice. There was obviously a level of guilt at play, as she was overdoing the concern. Probably relief, he suspected. If she was involved and was unwittingly harboring a killer in her own home, it wouldn’t go down well. Whatever the case, he had another lead. Although torturing a woman was a step too far.

  He dressed in his new chinos and polo, pulled on some shoes, and with Sandy by his side walked out of the hospital. Sandy stuck to his leg like glue as he walked, her eyes only occasionally leaving his as she checked their course.

  Joe stopped. “I’m fine,” he admonished her. “Stop it!”

  She continued to do the same. He paused again. “Sandy!”

  He bent down and patted her, scratching behind her ear. “I’m fine,” he whispered. She relaxed and walked as normal. Not quite sticking to his leg as she had been. It was 7.30 a.m. when they arrived back at the apartment to a flustered Amy.

  “You’re out already? I’ll make you some breakfast.”

  Joe wanted to get around the side of the house and hide the weapons.

  “That’ll be lovely, I’m going to quickly go and brush my teeth if that’s okay?”

  “Sure,” replied Amy.

  Joe rushed down, and while Amy was pre-occupied, he was relieved to see the bag in place where he had left it. He grabbed it and hid it in the apartment under the bed. If Amy was going to search the apartment, she’d have done it already, he figured. He looked into the bathroom. The toilet bowl was still cracked. Although it did look as though it would still work, he wasn’t going to give it a try, just in case. As there was no sign of blood and having been told his stitches had burst, he had to assume she had cleaned up. He looked up at the window. The lock wasn’t in place although the window was closed. He reached up and flicked the lock. His tracks were covered.

  Amy’s husband had certainly not married her for her culinary capabilities. He suffered a breakfast not fit for Sandy, thanking her constantly for her kindness. He contemplated insisting Sandy shared it with him but he wasn’t that cruel and much to Amy’s fake delight devoured every bite. With her firmly of the opinion she wasn’t harboring a killer and as she had first thought, a down on his luck Vet, Joe and Sandy headed off to work.

  A pile of towels suggested President Clay Caldwell had partaken of an early morning swim. Joe cleared them away, along with the magazine in the bottom of the towel basket. He pulled out a pencil and scanned through the pages. He spotted what he was looking for on page 15. He lightly rubbed the pencil across the page. The indentations above the lettering came to life. It had been almost forty years since they had used the code to communicate with each other. Their initial letter had used the code when they had been separated. Their letters said one thing, bland updates as to what they had been doing, the real message hidden in the code.

  Based on the Francis Bacon cipher, they had made some alterations, certain that their parents would be aware of the code. The first two letters followed the standard code, thereafter the code would change dependent on the first two letters. An “A” and “E” for example would be 1 and 5. “A” being the first letter and “E” being the fifth. Subtracting one from the other would give -4, therefore the code would be moved four letters backward. It was far more complex than required, their parents had no idea they were communicating anything other than the message sent at face value. However, they were teenage boys who had found out how to use a secret code. The only problem for Joe was that he wasn’t a teenager anymore and was going to have to remember the code. While it took him a few minutes, like riding a bike, it came back to him. Each five blocks of text referred to a letter. An indent was a “B” the * no mark. He scrolled across the magazine page, the first five block of text had two indents above them, letter 3 and 5, the second block of five, only one letter 5. “F” and “B”, therefore the code for that day 6 – 2, he had to move the rest of the message forward four. What would read as an “A” would in fact be an “E.”

  A=***** B=****B C=***B* D=***BB E=**B** F=**B*B G=**BB* H=**BBB I=*B*** J=*B**B K=*B*B* L=*B*BB M=*BB** N=*BB*B O=*BBB* P=*BBBB Q=B**** R=B***B S=B**B* T=B**BB U=B*B** V=B*B*B W=B*BB* X=B*BBB Y=BB*** Z=BB**B

  Joe deciphered the message, it was Clay’s leads: the Baldwins, the secretary of defense, the attorney general, and the chairman of the joint chiefs. He had highlighted the Baldwins as top of the list given their move to take power over the weekend.

  Joe sat wondering exactly how he was supposed to do anything with any of the leads, which were some of the most powerful and well protected men in the country. He extracted a magazine from the lounge area and pushed a number of subtle indentations into the page, his response explaining he had got nowhere over the weekend. He kept it short. Clay was not going to have the luxury of time to decipher a long message like Joe. He checked the page. The indents were there although only with a keen eye would you even notice them, and even then you’d probably think somebody had been bouncing something up and down on the page.

  Joe stuffed the magazine Clay had left in his pocket, he’d dispose of it in a public bin later. In the meantime he needed to find out more about Senator Vic Baldwin who, according to Clay, was a prime suspect. Fortunately, he was probably the least guarded of the five.

  Unbeknownst to Clay, Joe also had his own far simpler lead. Amy. He just had to work out how to play it without exposing himself.

  Chapter 65

  Lose the chip. He was fed up hearing those three words.

  “Daryl, lose the chip and go find a story people give a shit about!”

  By ‘people’ his editor was referring to white people, because Daryl was certain the rest of the population would more than ‘give a shit’ about the story he had to write. He was still a junior reporter on one of New York’s major dailies and had little influence. Even so, the evidence and detail he had compiled over the previous six months was overwhelming. The events of the previous week had only proven his story even further, and still his editor refused to take him seriously.

  Lose the chip and move on. How could he move on? It was only a chip when you took it out of proportion, something Daryl was most definitely not guilty of.

  Unbeknownst to his newspaper, he had posted a blog under an assumed name. Stories had filtered in over the previous few months, one or two a week. Unsurprisingly, the numbers had spiked the previous week, calming down after the two nights of unrest. However, that morning, the number of stories had skyrocketed.

  He replaced the handset and reread the notes of the latest injustices. He had heard similar stories recently. A young man with no criminal history, high school grades beyond those required, and who had passed the physical r
equirement with ease had been rejected. His friend boasting poorer grades, a misdemeanor, and who had struggled to reach the minimum physical requirements had been accepted. They lived on the same street, went to the same school. Their fathers worked in the same factory. Yet the poorer candidate succeeded while the other was declined. The only difference, the color of their skin.

  He had numerous examples over the last few months but again, the examples were increasing. It wasn’t only new recruits. The same organization was making redundancies in line with a significant work force reduction. Examples of colored candidates being disproportionately affected were significant. In fact, in no instance where a reduction was to be made was he aware of a white candidate being chosen. It was always the colored candidate, whether they be black, Hispanic, or Asian, the criteria for selection favored the white candidates. Yes, he had agreed white people were being made redundant, because the numbers involved in the redundancy meant they physically had to be. However, almost to a man and woman, the white redundancies were offered another position almost immediately, unlike everyone else.

  He gathered his papers, planning to take another run at the story at the midday briefing. It was there for the taking, nobody had picked up on it. If they waited much longer, official numbers would be published and they’d have missed the chance to break the story.

  He waited patiently; there was a lot to discuss at their briefing. New laws, a new vice president, speaker and president pro tempore. All merited long discussions about articles and background on each of them. Finally the editor asked for any other business. Three hands shot up, including his own. The editor worked from left to right, Daryl was furthest to the right. He felt sure if he’d be on the left the editor would have gone the other way.

  “I’m getting a lot of calls about the school districts, major changes are under way. Superintendents are being replaced and there’s talk of a significant rezoning under way. My sources are telling me this is big, a lot of people are going to be affected, a lot of kids are going to have to move schools as a result,” said the reporter furthest from Daryl.

  “Okay, keep an eye on it and let’s see where it goes. We’ve heard major changes before and it’s amounted to little more than disgruntled employees having a moan.”

  The editor pointed to the next reporter who had had their hand up.

  “I’m hearing there was a major meeting over the weekend with the biggest healthcare insurers. It’s all very secretive but the suggestion is that some deal has been struck between them all.”

  “If there has been, I’m sure we’ll hear about it soon enough.”

  He pointed to Daryl, although before he could speak the previous reporter continued.

  “There were two other attendees, the secretary of Health and Human Services and the secretary for Veteran Affairs.”

  “And your point?”

  “In total, the attendees probably account for over 90% of all healthcare provision in the US. If they’ve struck a deal?”

  “If, let’s see where it goes over the next few days,” said the editor, pointing to Daryl. “Okay, Daryl, what’s up?” he sighed.

  “I’m being flooded with examples of minority discrimination. The numbers are escalating dramatically and nobody’s talking about it, the media’s ignoring it. This is a massive story.”

  “Daryl, you’ve run this past me already. I think given what’s happened over the last week it’s hardly a major story.”

  “It’s exactly because of what’s happened over the last week that it is a major story,” he argued. “Do you know why we’re not talking about it? Why nothing’s happening? Why over the last few days the numbers have increased? Because the voices who would have spoken out are in detention centers, incarcerated as terrorists for doing nothing more than exercising their right to protest.”

  “Daryl, every person incarcerated was done so for violent behavior, the video evidence was checked on each detainee.”

  “So we’ve been told,” said Daryl angrily. “Has anyone noticed anything about the FPS?”

  The room remained quiet, whether they had or hadn’t or just didn’t want to get between Daryl and the editor wasn’t clear.

  “Nobody?” prompted Daryl. “They’re almost entirely made up of redundant military service men and women,” continued Daryl, “those same redundancies I’ve been keeping track of.”

  A number of shrugs went around the room, they were struggling to see his point.

  “The vast majority of redundancies— and I mean the vast majority of military redundancies— are black servicemen and women, well over 70%, despite only making up 17% of military numbers.”

  Shrugs continued.

  “Any one of you seen a black FPS officer?”

  It was as though he had flicked a switch and turned on their ability to see. Recognition flagged around the room like a wave. For the previous few days since the riots, a number of pieces had run both on TV and in print media introducing Americans to their newest protectors. Video footage and photographs of the FPS in training showed thousands of officers, all of whom, the reporters hadn’t noticed until Daryl pointed it out, were white.

  “Add that to the fact that qualified black candidates aren’t being accepted into the military and we’re in serious danger of having an all white military force,” Daryl concluded to his fellow reporters.

  The editor nodded. “Okay, Daryl, put something together. Let’s aim for Thursday.”

  Daryl smiled, finally he had proven it wasn’t a chip!

  ***

  The editor closed his door and picked up the phone. “We’ve got a problem,” he said, giving Daryl’s name and details. “For God’s sake make sure it’s dealt with soon. He can’t write that article. And make sure you get rid of that blog, Racial Injustice dot com, or whatever it’s called, the one he thinks we don’t know about.”

  Chapter 66

  Throughout the day, all Joe could think about was how he was going to get to five of the most powerful men in the land without being exposed or imprisoned. The more he thought, the more he realized it simply wasn’t viable. Amy was his lead. She was the key. She wasn’t a ditzy blonde, of that he was sure. Her anger and the way she had shouted were obviously signs of panic. Two people in New York were dead and she was panicking because Joe was nowhere to be seen. She assumed, correctly, that Joe was the killer, although she had to know about the two deaths and she’d only know about them if she was involved.

  With everything they could possibly need to do done by 3.00 p.m., Joe called it a day. He and Sandy walked home to the apartment. He’d have a good three hours to snoop around before Amy got back. With any luck, a window or door to the main house would be unlocked. Two cars sat in front of the house on his return, a limo and a sedan. They had obviously just arrived. The occupants of the sedan had stepped out of their car and were opening the rear door of the limo.

  Sandy rushed ahead, her tail wagging, and singled out one of the men from the sedan, sitting by his side waiting for a pat. The man ignored her, he had a job to do, helping a man from the back of the car. He was huge and needed a lot of help.

  “Your dog?” asked the man as he struggled to assist the fat man from the car.

  Joe nodded, offering a hand of help. The fat man was almost falling back into the car, despite two strong guys helping him. Finally they had him out and standing on his own two feet. He was easily four hundred pounds, and none of it good weight, all fat.

  The man who Sandy had single out received a pat from him. “Lovely dog, smart breed.”

  You have no idea, thought Joe. He had his new lead. Sandy knew him, which meant he’d been one of the guys rushing to Amy’s aid on Saturday.

  “You must be Joe,” said the fat man.

  “Hmm, yeah,” said Joe.

  “Lloyd Klein, Amy’s husband,” he said, reaching out to shake Joe’s hand.

  Joe wanted to laugh, Amy weighed a hundred pounds, was a nine every day of the week and with a little effort, a
ten. This guy was grotesquely fat and not a cute-faced fat. He was ugly fat.

  “Nice to meet you, Lloyd, you’ve got a beautiful wife. I can’t thank you enough for the kindness you’ve both shown me.”

  The two guys relaxed at how Joe had handled the situation. Lloyd was obviously a big deal and from the palatial home, seriously rich. Although given Amy’s looks, Joe hadn’t needed to see the house to know Lloyd was rich. He thought of a line he’d heard somewhere, he couldn’t remember where but it summed the situation up perfectly: So, what first attracted you to your multi-millionaire husband?

  “So you guys work for Lloyd?” asked Joe as they appeared back after helping Lloyd into the house.

  “Sort of, and thanks for being cool about him being Amy’s husband. You wouldn’t believe some of the reactions.”

  Joe smiled knowingly. “I have a fair idea. I mean seriously, he’s a big guy but Jesus that ugly stick bashed him every which way.”

  “Still pulled the babe though. I’m Clyde by the way.”

  “And I’m Hank.”

  “Nice to meet you guys. I think my dog’s got a crush on Hank,” said Joe, pointing to Sandy sitting next to him.

  “She is lovely. Sandy you say?”

  Joe nodded. “So we’ll being seen you guys around while Lloyd’s here?”

  “Only me,” Hank replied. “Clyde here’s off on his travels for a few days.”

  “Well, I’m sure we’ll be seeing you,” said Joe with a wave, leading Sandy down to the apartment, rewarding her with a big pat. She had saved him having to deal with Amy. The more he thought about questioning Amy, the more uncomfortable it made him feel. He didn’t have the stomach for hitting and hurting women.

  He popped his Librium and a pint of water, planning his next move. Hank was the key. He just had to work out how he was going to use it.

  Chapter 67