The Divide

by J. L. Brown

Jade, Dante, and Micah sat in silence, their chairs close together in the professor’s cramped office in Rome Hall on the George Washington University campus.

  Finally, the professor removed her reading glasses. “The Bard of Avon. Shakespeare. Sonnets I, III, and VII, which you’ve probably figured out.”

  “Are those numbers or those sonnets significant?” asked Jade.

  “If the numbers are significant, it’s not because of the sonnets. Shakespeare didn’t number them.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Dante. “I remember the numbers from high school.”

  “He wrote the sonnets in the late fifteen hundreds, early sixteen hundreds,” the professor said. “They weren’t published until 1609, and it was by someone else, without Shakespeare’s knowledge. The numbers are arbitrary. No one knows the exact order in which they were written.”

  “They were circulated among his friends before publication,” Micah said.

  Bennett appraised Micah. “That accent. And he knows Shakespeare. I think I’m in love.”

  To Bennett, Micah said, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

  The professor pretended to swoon.

  Jade cleared her throat. “You were saying…”

  The professor tore her eyes away from Micah. “The sonnets were written at different times in his life, which might’ve explained the different themes: brevity of life, the transience of beauty, and the trappings of desire. Most were written about obsession and his overwhelming love for a young man, the Fair Youth. Over the centuries, there’s been much speculation about whether he was Shakespeare’s lover or if their relationship was an intense platonic friendship. Or whether they reflected the writer’s personal feelings at all. Most of his work did not. So why would the sonnets?”

  A slight head shake from Dante. “Wasn’t he married?”

  “He was married.”

  “Then why would he be writing love poems to a guy?”

  Micah winked, then blew him a kiss.

  Dante shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  It was Alaia Bennett’s turn to keep the conversation on track. “Sometimes the men during that age developed strong platonic relationships with other men. For example, artists became attached to the patrons of their work.”

  Jade pointed at the papers on the desk. “Are these sonnets related?”

  “The first seventeen focused on the brevity of life. Shakespeare argued that the way for his young friend’s beauty to live forever was for him to beget children.”

  Dante shook his head. “Why would someone want to read about that?”

  The professor stared at him. “Unfortunately, television hadn’t been invented yet. Reality TV, a distant art form of the future. Sonnets were one of the few entertainment options at the time.”

  “What if,” Jade said, “Shakespeare was thinking of his own mortality?”

  Bennett turned to her. “Excellent.”

  Jade warmed with unexpected pride as if she were back in school. It had always been about achievement with her, although she refused to explore the issue too deeply. Probably something to do with wanting her father’s approval.

  “Later,” the professor continued, “Shakespeare introduced a Rival Poet, who the Fair Youth ends up preferring.”

  “Shakespeare was one strange dude,” Dante said.

  “Didn’t the young man reject the procreation argument, starting with sonnet eighteen?” Micah asked the professor.

  “He did, but Shakespeare was consoled that the sonnets alone would preserve the young man’s beauty forever. And he was right. We’re still talking about it, analyzing it, over four hundred years later.”

  Dante looked at Micah with wonder. “Damn… where did you learn that?”

  To Dante, Jade said, “Told you.”

  Micah grinned at him. “I’m not just a pretty face.”

  “I remember something about a lady,” Jade said.

  Bennett nodded. “The remaining sonnets were written about an affair with a woman. Some scholars call her the Dark Lady. Not because she was black, mind you, but because of her hair. I call her his Dark Bae.”

  Dante sat up. “I want to hear more about her. For investigative purposes.”

  Ignoring him, the professor peered out the window overlooking F Street before turning back. “I would presume your killer is obsessed with the brevity of life.” Donning her reading glasses again, she picked up the first sonnet. “Glutton means excess.” To Jade, “Was the victim rich?”

  “Yes.”

  The professor returned her attention to the sheet of paper. “This sonnet is about selfishness, narcissism, obsession with appearance.”

  “Sounds like someone I know,” Micah said, glancing at Dante.

  To Jade, Bennett said, “Is this the best use of my tax dollars?”

  “You can request a refund,” Jade offered. “Please continue.”

  “This sonnet is also about usury,” Bennett said. “Charging exorbitant interest on money. Commercial profit. Any of that ring true with regard to your victim?”

  “He was an attractive hedge fund manager who paid a hundred million dollars to put his name on a building in New York City,” Jade said.

  “That seems to fit. Did the victim have children?”

  “Yes,” Dante said.

  The professor frowned. “Then I’m not quite seeing the connection.”

  “Maybe there isn’t one,” he said.

  They sat in silence for a moment. Jade pointed at the sonnet found on the third victim, Finn Hurley. “This one is straightforward. ‘But if thou live, remember’d not to be, / Die single, and thine image dies with thee.’ You die childless and your beauty dies with you.”

  “Correct,” Bennett said. “The line before this is ‘Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.’ The young man could only experience a ‘golden time’ in his old age through his children.”

  “This victim was a divorced woman.”

  “She won’t be having a ‘golden time,’” said Dante.

  The professor said, “Shakespeare implored his friend not to deny any woman the chance of becoming a mother and a vessel to pass on his beauty.”

  Dante sat up. “Now you’re talking.”

  “Are you always a pig?” the professor asked him.

  “Pretty much,” Jade said.

  The two women shared a smile.

  Picking up the last sonnet, Bennett said, “Number seven. Now, this one is interesting.”

  Jade leaned forward, hands clasped, arms on her thighs. “How so?”

  “In this one, Shakespeare compares the journey of human life to the passage of the sun. Once we reach the apex, like the sun, the only direction is down.”

  “How depressing,” Micah said.

  “When you reach ‘feeble age,’ as he called it,” Bennett said, “not only your physical appearance deteriorates, but the people who used to gaze at your beauty with awe will ‘look another way.’ You will not be remembered.”

  “That is depressing,” Dante said, stroking his chin. “Not much to look forward to.”

  “That’s why,” the professor concluded, “he should bear a son. This was the first time the poet specified the gender of the child.”

  Sitting up, Jade said, “Son. S-O-N. Sun. S-U-N.”

  “The two of you would receive an A in my class,” the professor said to Jade and Micah. To Dante, “You need some work.”

  Jade turned to Dante. “Did Carr have a son?”

  He nodded.

  Alaia Bennett looked down at the sonnets again. “I wonder why the killer is only providing the last two lines?”

  “How many lines are in a sonnet?” Jade asked.

  “Fourteen,” Micah said.

  “Usually,” the professor said, “but not always. The last two lines rhyme with each other, unlike the rest of the sonnet, where the rhyme alternates in a pattern. The couplet at the end sums up the previous twelve lines.”

  “Or provides a surprise ending,�
�� Micah added.

  “Correct.”

  “The beginning of the sonnets could have been left with other victims,” Jade said.

  No one spoke for a moment as they weighed the meaning of that.

  “Professor,” Jade said, “we’ve taken up enough of your time. Is there anything else?”

  Bennett steepled her fingers. “These sonnets have something in common, which you wouldn’t know by looking at the couplet.”

  “What’s that?” asked Dante.

  “They all include the word die.”

  Dante said, “I hope he’s not planning to kill someone for each sonnet.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “How many sonnets are there?” he asked.

  Alaia Bennett said, “A hundred and fifty-four.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The White House, Washington, DC

  “Senator.”

  The bangles on Maureen McAllister’s wrists chimed as she walked toward Whitney, her hand extended. “Madam President, your invitation is an honor and a privilege.”

  “The honor is mine,” Whitney said, taking the other woman’s hand in both of hers. She gestured to one of the two matching Queen Anne chairs in the Oval Office. “Please. May I offer you something to drink?”

  “Is it too early for a martini?”

  Whitney’s mouth parted.

  Mo rushed on. “I’m just messing with you. How about some sweet tea?”

  Picking up the phone on the end table, Whitney placed the order. “The reason I asked you here, Senator—”

  “Please call me Mo.”

  “The reason why I asked you here, Mo—”

  Mo held up her hand. “I’m sorry to interrupt again, Madam President, but I do want to ask after your husband and children.”

  Whitney’s smile faltered. One thing she didn’t want to discuss with the senator—or anyone, for that matter—was her family. A butler with a gray bob entered carrying a tray with two glasses of iced tea and placed them on the coffee table. Whitney thanked her, and she left without a word.

  Whitney handed a glass to Mo. “They’re fine. And your family?”

  Mo marveled at the glass. “This is how I prefer my tea. Sweatin’. Anyhow, they’re fine, thanks for asking. My husband, Jimmy—we call him Nub—can’t stand Washington and can’t wait for my term to be over.” She leaned toward Whitney and said, sotto voce, “He doesn’t know I’m running again.” She straightened. “Our daughter’s fine. She’s in Mississippi. Last year, she married one of her classmates from LSU. They just had a baby. He’s a Cajun boy—the husband, not the baby—”

  “Uh, Mo… unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of time. Sean, my secretary, only scheduled us for 15 minutes, so I want to shift the conversation to the purpose of this meeting.”

  “Well, you asked, Madam President. I can’t help myself. There’s a difference between how you northern women and us southern women converse.”

  “Missouri isn’t in the north—”

  Mo raised and lowered her hand again. “I’m sorry I keep interrupting, Madam President, but this is important. A Yankee woman would say ‘She put on her coat and went to the store.’ Us real Southern women embellish and speak florally. We would say ‘Before she went to the store, she put on her mink coat given to her by her third husband three days before he left her.’”

  Whitney’s laugh was spontaneous and light. While in the Senate, she hadn’t worked much with Mo. Now, Whitney wished she had. “I wouldn’t want you to go against your grain. Excuse me for a moment.”

  She picked up the receiver again and pressed a button. “Sean, please clear another fifteen minutes for the Senator.”

  “But you’re meeting with—”

  “It will need to be rescheduled.” She hung up. “Where were we?”

  Mo shifted her gaze from the phone to Whitney. “We were talking about grain, which would be impossible for me to go against, as I’m sure it is for you. Now.” She patted her lap with both hands. “Why am I here?”

  “I saw your interview about Paul Sampson’s troubles.”

  “One of his troubles. Trying to be someone he isn’t. Messing around with Cole Brennan.” Mo shook her head. “Senator Sampson also drinks like a fish who hasn’t seen water for five days.”

  Whitney raised her own hand before Mo continued embellishing and speaking florally. “Be that as it may, I think we may be able to help each other.”

  Mo sipped her tea. “I didn’t know I was in need of help.”

  “This is Washington. We all need help occasionally.”

  “I’ll bite. How can we help each other?”

  Setting her glass down on the table, Whitney crossed her legs. “Your party leadership is in a precarious position. With Sampson out, that only leaves Hampton.”

  Mo made a noise. “Don’t get me started about him. I know we’re running out of time, but Lord, that man boils my water and chaps my ass.”

  Whitney leaned forward. “We need someone to lead your party into the next decade. A decade of almost certain turmoil and change.”

  “I wasn’t aware of your concern for my party. I do say that warms my heart.”

  “Mo, we live in turbulent times. Geopolitical issues. Terrorism. The economy. Income inequality. Gun violence. Climate change. Women’s rights. The list goes on. I need to be able to work with someone from across the aisle. To effect real change.”

  “You and I don’t agree on a lot of these issues.”

  “But we agree on whether they exist. Which is a start. I don’t think our positions are all that far apart. Our nation faces significant problems. Unless we work with people we disagree with, our country will be unable to govern itself. ‘Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much.’”

  “Helen Keller?”

  Whitney nodded. “What do you say, Mo?”

  “People always say ‘Thank God for Mississippi,’ but not as a compliment. They’re grateful their state doesn’t take the lowest ranking in every goddamn survey.” Senator Maureen “Mo” McAllister took a final sip of her sweet tea and set her glass down next to Whitney’s. “I always knew it would take our state and us women to save this damn country.” She stood, holding out her hand. “Where would you like to start?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Washington, DC

  Her warning to Dante about leaks was for naught.

  “This just in. WTOP has learned that the murders of three wealthy and prominent individuals may be connected.”

  Jade turned up the volume on the car radio.

  “Sebastian Scofield, founder and managing director of Scofield Asset Management and a New York philanthropist; Jared Carr Jr., co-CEO of Carr Holdings, Inc. and founder and CEO of conservative Super PAC Freedom of America; and Finn Hurley, CEO of cybersecurity firm Hurley Technologies in Crystal City, Virginia, all died of multiple stab wounds. Three similar murders in three different cities: New York, Chicago, and Arlington.”

  So far, so good.

  “But what connects these murders isn’t the victims’ wealth. Or their method of death. No. What connects them is that the killer left a calling card: sonnets by William Shakespeare. We’ll talk more about the Shakespeare Killer after the break.”

  Jade slammed her hand on the dashboard. “Goddamn it!”

  She lowered the radio’s volume and pressed a button, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel while she waited for Dante to pick up.

  “Yes?” his voice drawled over her car’s speakers.

  “Who leaked?” she asked. “You or Micah?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s on the news. They’re calling him the Shakespeare Killer.”

  “Damn! It didn’t come from me. Micah?” He hesitated. “Or you.”

  Jade let the accusation slide. Was it Micah? Pat only knew about one sonnet. And Jade trusted Pat. Over the years they’d worked together, she’d proven her discretion.

  “The professor?” she asked
, doubtful.

  “I wouldn’t think so, but I’ll ask her.”

  “Set up the task force. We’ll need to come up with an action plan quickly before hysteria ensues.”

  “And before the copycat killers come out of the woodwork.”

  “That too.”

  She hung up and pressed another button.

  “Yes, boss?” Micah answered.

  “You’ve been hanging around Dante too long.”

  “Why do you—?”

  “Never mind. Did you talk to anyone in the media about the Shakespeare case?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Someone did.”

  “Wasn’t me. But…”

  “What?”

  “Barringer asked for an update. But he’s your boss. He wouldn’t say anything to them… would he?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The White House, Washington, DC

  “Raise a stink,” Sasha said. “That’s what I’d do.”

  On their way to the Cabinet Room, Sasha had stopped Whitney in the hallway outside of the Oval Office.

  After three decades of stagnant growth, Japan had come roaring back. One of its major tech houses developed a significant breakthrough in artificial intelligence, resulting in less need for humans in economic production. Given the country’s demographic crisis—a population shrinking at an alarming rate—the discovery was auspicious. Recently, Japan had joined the BRICS alliance: Brazil, Russia, India, China, and South America.

  It was now JBRICS.

  The rising sun had risen again.

  Meanwhile, China had solved its debt problems, and its GDP growth was returning to double digits. And Russia had awakened from its hibernation, the black bear now a political force.

  China, Japan, and Russia were increasingly considered the “Big Three.”

  This morning, the Netherlands, which experienced one of the lowest income inequality rates in the world at 12.4 percent, announced that it would be hosting a summit in three months’ time to share the secrets of its success with the invited countries. Japan, China, and Russia were to give keynote addresses. The US was invited, but Whitney hadn’t been asked to speak.