“What can I tell you, Whitney? I guess I’ve just always been a very un-trusting person when it comes to you.”
In an interview conducted by one of the investigators with an attending physician in the emergency room where Roger Mead had been taken, the doctor had admitted noting an especially clean slice running along the victim’s neck. It was the very lack of raggedness that had drawn his attention. The victim had been badly battered during the tumble down the steep hill. The physician’s statement was that a slashing piece of metal or shard of broken glass would have likely left a very different wound on the victim. Even so, the driver had been drunk, his car went off the road, and the man was most certainly dead. Broken neck, collapsed lungs, and all the rest. End of story.
Hoyt studied the physician’s report with an expression of casual interest then let it drop back onto his desk.
“This is all very ghoulish and boring, Chris. And I don’t mind telling you that if this is the level of conversation from you I’ve been missing all these years, I’m finding it hard to feel much regret.”
Wyeth gave the man his smile. “Oh, I’ve had a few sparkling conversations over the years.”
“My loss, then.” Hoyt indicated the papers strewn about on his desk. “Is there any point to all this?”
Wyeth answered, “I think you know there is. Of course, I don’t ever expect you to admit to it. If through some extreme fluke Roger Mead had managed to survive all of those traumas on the way down the hill, his severed jugular would have surely sealed the deal.”
He began collecting the folder and files and photographs together.
“It’s all here, Whitney. I’m not going to sit here and lay it all out for you, because I know full well you already know it. And I’m not saying your man wasn’t extremely clever. He was. Paul Jordan knows how to run an operation, no question about it. Even after he went down to the crash site to make sure that Mead had been killed, he kept his cool, didn’t he? One quick slice and then he vanishes into thin air. All so that his boss could then go ahead and begin publicly courting his new lady love. Fine stuff, Whitney. A superbly organized campaign. We’re all so proud of you and your trained monkey. He’s been quite the asset, hasn’t he? No wonder you felt comfortable sending him off to gather dirt on Andy.”
Wyeth slipped the materials back into his briefcase and clicked it closed.
“Do you know what Paul Jordan is, Whitney? I’m sure you’ve heard this term. For all his stiff-upper-lip bullshit, he’s a garbage collector. That’s all he is. He collects garbage. And then he comes here and dumps it on your desk, and the two of you pick through it to see what kind of crap you can find. Very commendable, Whitney. It’s a fine legacy. Governor. Ambassador. Garbage trawler.”
Chris Wyeth gave an almost wistful look to his long-ago comrade. He dropped his anger down a notch.
“Christ’s sake, Whit. It’s all just check and checkmate bullshit, isn’t it? Same old, same old. We’re two old wannabes fighting a stupid useless cold war right here.”
“I haven’t admitted to anything,” Hoyt said stiffly.
Wyeth picked up his briefcase. “I don’t need you to. I have a story I could tell and some documents to wave around, and that’s all I’d need. People would listen. They eat this stuff up, as you well know. Whatever legacy you think you’ve been crafting all this time, it would be gone in a single news cycle. I wouldn’t even have to prove anything. I’d only have to accuse. Beautiful thing, isn’t it?”
“You think you’re being very clever.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. You made me immune. My legacy is sealed, thanks to you. You’ve already dumped me out of office, and you can’t hurt me anymore. But I can hurt you, friend. Hurt you like the truly deluded son of a bitch you are.”
He paused. A good shooter always pauses before squeezing the trigger. A trace of a smile moved across the deposed vice president’s face.
“And listen closely. If I ever catch wind of any smut against Andy coming to the surface, or if any sort of whisperings about John Hyland start making the rounds…” Wyeth raised the briefcase and rattled it. “Your Mr. Jordan will go down for murder. And so will you. Do you know what you need to learn, Whitney? Although it’s probably too late to do you any good. You need to learn to keep your hands in your own pockets. Stop messing with other people’s lives, Governor. Mess with your own; that’s yours to screw up any old way you wish. But let other people screw up their own lives. That’s the real American way.”
Not another word was spoken. Wyeth could feel his old friend’s eyes on his back as he left the room and made his way down the hallway. Like two red lasers. Skittering about. Seeking out the soft spot.
The waitress brought Megan’s breakfast to her. Her usual. French toast with sausage. Refill on the coffee.
“Thanks, Dolly.”
Dolly came as close to touching without touching the bandage on Megan’s head as possible. “What happened to you? Your brain explode from thinking too much or something?”
The waitress knew Megan well enough to take her sneer for a smile.
“That’s as good a reason as any,” Megan said.
Dolly frowned. “Seriously. You okay?”
On the small television set next to the kitchen, a segment on a morning show was comparing ultraexpensive designer wedding dresses with identical knockoffs that come dirt cheap by comparison. A pair of sexy blond twins were modeling the two wedding dresses. The show’s hyperkinetic hostess buzzed around the models like a bee that can’t decide where to land.
Megan grunted. “Can we turn that thing off, Dolly? I’d hate to put a bullet in your TV.”
“Sure thing.” The waitress crossed to the television set and switched it off. Megan winced a smile. She took a grateful sip of her coffee and closed her eyes.
The little girl was safe. Michelle Foster was back with her mother and father, shaken by all that she had been put through, naturally, but by all early indications capable of moving past it. Of course, time would tell. If in about twenty years from now somebody started picking off museum security guards… not so good.
But for now she seemed fine. The little girl had given the detective a huge hug around the neck just the day before when Megan had dropped by the Fosters’ apartment at Senator Foster’s insistence so that the family could thank her personally for her part in the rescue. After the hug, the sweet little girl had burst into tears.
The girl was safe, and the kidnapper was in custody. Such a collection of charges were being filed against Robert Smallwood, Megan figured the man would be dead of old age before all the sentences had even been passed. The media were all over the story, of course, and Malcolm Bell was pleased. He had caught up with Megan at the precinct house soon after her return from the Fosters’ apartment.
“I’m just curious how this ‘hero’ business sits with you, Detective?”
Megan’s response was terse and immediate. “It doesn’t. I guess it sells papers, but that’s not the business I’m in.”
Bell said, “There’s nothing wrong with a little shine on your badge now and then. It’s good for the morale.”
Megan looked slowly around the tiny restaurant. She’d always liked the fit of the place. Some years back, in fact, when she had been on forced leave from the department, Megan had even carried a few of Dolly’s shifts, to give the waitress a little more time with her son. Megan picked up her fork. The French toast and sausage looked good. The coffee was freshly brewed. The inane yabbering of the morning show was now turned off, and the restaurant was blissfully quiet. The forecast was calling for highs in the low seventies, cooling air being pumped in from the Great Lakes. Big smiling sun. Clouds like popcorn. An open day stretched in front of her, and her brother was having her over for dinner that night. Track it up, down, and sideways, and all was pretty damn right with the world.
So why did Megan Lamb just want to cry?
The stream of well-wishers into Senator Foster’s office resemb
led Free Pie Day at the State Fair. The senator’s key assistants, Greg and Linda, shuttled visitors between the front office and Foster’s private office continuously.
“Representative Heidt is here to see you, Senator.”
“Senator Dulev would like a word.”
“Sir? Chairman Riechers is hoping you could give him a minute.”
Several of the visitors took Senator Foster in a full embrace. In some cases, there were tears. Some even brought a copy of his book with them, hoping that he would be willing to autograph it for them. To a person, the visitors expressed heartfelt relief and joy over the safe return of his daughter. Only a few displayed the crassness of bringing up their intention to introduce new crime legislation as a result of the Foster family’s recent ordeal. The senator from New York handled these potentially awkward moments with his customary aplomb. Today, of all days, he was not going to be knocked off his game.
The closest Andy Foster came to missing his stride was about forty minutes before the swearing-in ceremony, when a bulldog of a man, accompanied by a pale nervous woman, appeared at the office door pushing a ruby red wheelchair in which sat Lindsay Packard, Senator Foster’s former intern. Her left leg was elevated and bound up in a plastic cast. Lindsay introduced the senator to her parents, and both she and her mother blushed as Tom Packard sputtered his apologies for his behavior over the phone with the senator the evening of Lindsay’s accident.
“I… we’re both fathers,” Packard said. “We’ve each got our little girls. I just… I guess it’s easy to overreact.”
Senator Foster assured the man there were no hard feelings. At Lindsay’s request — she was a bit embarrassed about asking — the senator posed for a photograph with the family. Andy parked himself behind the wheelchair, flanked by Tom Packard and his wife, and smiled broadly for the camera. He gave his former intern a peck on the cheek before she and her parents trundled off.
At a quarter to eleven, Christine appeared. She was wearing a brand-new outfit she had picked up shopping with her mother. She kissed her husband lingeringly on the cheek.
Andy asked, “Where’s Michelle?”
“She and Emily are with Lillian. I left them in the rotunda. The girls are trying to get the statues to speak.”
“Please,” Andy said. “There’s enough yabbering around this place as it is. The last thing we need are the mighty ones weighing in.”
Andy turned to his aides. “That’s it for visitors, Linda. Tell them happy hour’s over.”
He escorted his lovely wife into his private office and closed the door behind them.
Christine stood with her arms crossed and her chin dipped slightly, considering the framed photograph on the wall. Out the window, the crowds both on and around the front steps of the Capitol appeared highly restive and excited.
“I suppose you could turn this one into a dartboard.”
The photograph she was referring to had been taken seventeen years before, when Andy had made his first run for statewide office. Then ambassador to Great Britain Hoyt had been back in the country for the annual meeting of the U.N. General Assembly and had taken time out to make a campaign appearance with his daughter’s boyfriend. Christine had taken the photograph of “her two men” at a rally in the Bronx. Both the candidate and the ambassador had donned Yankees caps for the occasion, and Christine’s photograph captured them at a moment when they’d been glancing at each other, both clearly exhilarated by the moment.
Andy was at the window, his hands in his pockets. On the Capitol steps, a large American flag was being unfurled. He pulled his attention away from the activity and considered the photograph. What was striking about the image was the commonality of the two men’s expressions.
“It’s depressing to think that the final judgment on a person’s entire life is going to be based on his absolute worst moments.”
Christine turned from the photograph. “That depends on who is doing the judging, don’t you think?”
“I’m thinking about history’s judgment.”
“I’m sorry, I just don’t find that so important.”
Andy asked, “Is that because we won’t be around to hear it?”
“Not at all. It’s because what you’re calling history is really just another snapshot, don’t you think?” She indicated the photograph. “It’s like this. That’s history, it took place. It happened to be a good moment. Then along came the next moments, and the ones after that. And in this case, a lot of those weren’t so good. So which history is being judged?”
“I can’t pretend that’s a different Whitney,” Andy said. “I’ve tried.”
“Why does it have to be a different anything?” She tapped her finger against the photograph. “It’s a good moment.”
“A good moment of a bad man.”
Christine wasn’t having it. “I’m fatigued with bad. Flawed. He’s deeply flawed. Last time I checked, there was a lot of that going around.”
Andy pulled his hands from his pockets and placed them lightly on his wife’s shoulders.
“I am so sorry, Chrissie. I am so, so, so sorry.”
Christine’s reply was barely above a whisper. “I know you are.”
“I’m never going to ask you to forgive me.”
“I think that’s a smart plan.”
Andy gave her shoulders a squeeze. “You’re an angel. I mean it.”
Christine reached out and ran her hand down her husband’s tie, smoothing it against his shirt. “Well, that’s sweet of you to say. I’ll tell you what, though. We should let history decide that one.”
“I thought you just said—”
She silenced him, placing her fingers on his lips. Her eyes played over his face. “I say a lot of things, Andy. Most of it happens to be brilliant, of course, but not all of it. You’ll just have to sort through it yourself.”
Andy always felt he was good at reading his wife’s expressions, but Christine had managed to find one he’d never seen before. It was a kaleidoscope. On the steps outside, the flag was waving furiously. The general movement was decidedly in the direction of the doors at the top.
“We’d better get going,” Christine said. “I’d hate to miss democracy in action.”
Christine sat with her mother and the two girls in an area in the gallery reserved for special guests. Michelle and Emily were fidgety. Christine and Lillian took turns patting the girls on the leg and hushing them. They might as well have been urging tadpoles to stop swimming.
The chief justice of the Supreme Court delivered the oath of office. Seated in the front row was President Hyland, along with his wife and their three children. It had been at Hyland’s urging that the ceremony was being conducted in the Senate chamber and not in a more intimate setting at the White House. His new vice president was a product of the Senate. The people with whom he had worked were all gathered here. It was here he would preside as president of the Senate. The country was going to be handed a vice president who had not been offered up to them in the election, and Hyland wanted the matter handled as openly and publicly as possible. He had informed his new political partner that after the swearing-in he wanted to hear a podium-pounding, roll-up-the-sleeves-and-get-to-the-people’s-work barn burner of a speech.
“We’re rebooting this administration,” Hyland had said to him in their brief meeting. “Not to disparage Chris Wyeth, by any means, but I want them to like you more. For the one day at least, it is a popularity contest. So damn it, be popular.”
“I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter: So help me God.”
Senator Mitchell Cutler of Colorado lowered his right hand. The chief justice caught it on the way down and gave it a vigorous shake
.
“Congratulations, Mr. Vice President. Good luck, sir.”
The chamber erupted into applause and cheers. Cutler’s wife turned to her husband, and the two embraced. President Hyland was on his feet, and in no time so was every single person in the room.
“Where’s Daddy?”
Michelle looked up at her mother. Her own view of the main floor was hopelessly interrupted by the big people all around her.
Christine was clapping vigorously. “He’s down there, honey. I can’t see him right now, but he’s there.”
Her hands came together over and over. The huge smile refused to leave her face. She had no control over it, any more than she did the tears that flowed freely down over her cheeks.
Christine sat near the Reflecting Pool with her camera, watching as Michelle and Emily played a game nearby with ice-cream cones. The idea of the game was to swap the cones back and forth as swiftly as possible, slurping a speed-bite from each cone before passing it right back. Christine knew full well where the game would lead. And it did. Within thirty seconds, one of the cones failed to complete a clean handoff, and down it went, landing on the pavement, ice-cream side down.
The girls thought it was the funniest thing in the entire universe.
The steps of the Lincoln Memorial were dotted with tourists. From deep in the marble shadow, the gaze of the sixteenth president of the United States directed itself past the steps, past the Reflecting Pool and the Mall, ostensibly off into an endless future of possibilities for freedom, harmony, peace, happiness. Or something along those lines.
Christine focused her camera on the two laughing children, their faces a picture of pure delight. She didn’t shoot. A strong breeze kicked up and was moving along the water of the Reflecting Pool, turning its ripples back on themselves. Christine lowered her camera. By the time the breeze reached her, her eyes had closed. A serene expression graced her face.
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