3 Thank God it's Monday
Page 13
Harold looked slightly embarrassed. He coughed.
“It is fine, ma’am. I understand,” he said as he stood.
“You don’t have to leave on my account,” Catherine pouted.
“Don’t worry. Harold and I will be meeting tonight with the Joint Chiefs. Long night ahead. Come back in an hour or so, Harold. We can pick up where we left off.”
“Yes sir. I will be just down the hall,” he explained. Gabriel watched him as he left.
Catherine passed him and sat down on the edge of the Resolute desk, her ankles crossed, her plate held in one hand, her fork in the other.
“Hungry? Come here Gabriel and I will feed you,” she said sulkily.
He sighed.
“We need to talk, Catherine.”
“I like pillow talk. We do so little of it lately. Come up to our room and we can end this evening in each other’s arms.”
He shook his head.
“I have a duty to do.”
“You are right. You have a duty to satisfy your wife,” she said with a teasing smile.
He smacked his lips, not knowing what to say. Sometimes Catherine was like this. He had found it endearing most times. Her timing was not always convenient.
She put the plate down on the desk. When she turned, she noted the file.
“What’s this?” She asked. She flipped it open.
“Nothing,” he barked, reaching for the folder. “Something Harold and I were discussing,” he blurted.
She arched her eyebrows as he snapped it from her hands.
He put it behind his back as she hopped down from the desk and pressed her body against his.
“You keep a lot secrets, Mr. President,” she said.
Her eyes were rimmed with red. She had been crying.
“I have to, dear. Even from you,” he said, taking a step backward.
She shook her head.
“Not anymore,” she said.
He saw the pistol in her hand too late. At first, his mind was reminded of the toy guns he bought for Jake when he was kid. Little black pistols that shot yellow foam pellets. The gun in his wife’s hand was shiny like that. Plastic.
Then he heard the report and saw the flash from the barrel. He felt something rip into his chest, then his arm, then his neck. Bang, bang, bang.
Those yellow foam pellets hurt, but nothing like this, he thought. He dropped the folder to the carpet.
He looked at his wife. Catherine’s mouth was pulled back, a rictus of glee and triumph. He reached up and felt the blood on his shirt. Gabriel stared at the blood on his hand.
The blood of a President, he thought. The blood of a hypocrite. He could faintly hear someone shouting outside the Oval Office door.
Catherine was crying and laughing. She pulled the trigger once more and he fell to his knees. His legs could not support him anymore. He blinked. He thought he heard Catherine scream, “Vi veri veniversum vivus vici!”
He could not tell, though. The door opened and men poured in, guns at the ready, eyes wide in disbelief.
His last thought was: I was right. Gabriel Scott Vine, 46th President, would not live to see the 47th President take office. And, I will never see my son again.
THE END
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Acknowledgements
This series continues to delight me as I write it. I hope you are enjoying it as well. This story would not be possible if not for a handful of dedicated and inspiring folks. First, my wife and first editor who pushes me to get better all time. I am a better writer today because of her. Also, my fine beta readers and fans, Braden King, Becky Sisson, Raychel Duwe, Isaac Michael, and Eden Michael. You guys rock! I appreciate your input and advice. Your assistance and input is immensely powerful. Also to my great encouragers: my Mom & Dad, my sisters Angie and Sheri, my brother Steven, and my friend and undercover agent, Kim Smith.
The cover is a compilation of a photo of Kimberly by Danielle Culbert of Jude Photography, LLC and iStockphoto File #20163506, copyright 2012 by shayes17 (Steven Hayes). I want to thank Amy Hudkins and Seth Michael again for the assistance with the cover. Thanks, guys, for pointing out my obvious weaknesses. Perhaps someday I can afford to pay you two to design my covers for me.
If there exists any errors, omissions, confusion, plot holes, or terrible writing, these folks above are not to blame. If, however, you find this story engaging, exciting, interesting, fun, or amazing, then please give them credit.
About The Author
Robert Michael is a writer and commercial roofing sales director. His love for books, family, and God fill his time and his spirit. He enjoys reading, writing, sports, fishing, and gaming. He lives in Broken Arrow with his wife and four children.
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THANK GOD IT’S MONDAY by Robert Michael
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