by Joseph Flynn
“He is okay,” Todd said, “he has no conscious memory of us.”
“What about his subconscious?” Anderson asked.
Todd reminded them, “The CIA had me for three years and couldn’t crack me.”
Crosby said, “But this guy seems to be falling apart on his own, unless you put a streak of greed and larceny in him.”
Todd shook his head. “No, I didn’t do that. I’d better go take a look at him.”
Anderson said, “We’ll come along.”
Indiana University — Bloomington, Indiana
Sheryl Kimbrough had never liked to run, but she’d done it ever since Cassidy had first shown that it was her preferred form of exercise. There had been many a cold morning when they’d gone out to pound the pavement that Sheryl had wished Cassidy had preferred indoor swimming. That morning, though, with the first cool breath of fall in the air, she almost enjoyed running with her daughter.
She always loved being with Cassidy, had to consciously refrain from looking at her too often or too intensely. It just amazed her that she’d given birth to this beautiful young woman. The odds against it had been high. But the love of running, that had come from Cassidy’s father. The ways heredity could play out always impressed her, too.
Still, all the roadwork she’d put in with her daughter had left both of them trim and strong with fantastic resting heart rates. Running in the early morning also gave them the opportunity to tour the IU campus before most of the student body was up and about. They cruised through the Old Crescent section, past the Memorial Union, across Dunn Meadow. The school grounds were beautiful in all four seasons.
Sheryl knew of Cassidy’s desire to go to Stanford, and it was a source of pride that her daughter’s classwork in high school made reaching for an elite college a reasonable ambition, but some of Sheryl’s best years had been, and most of her heart remained, at IU. She was so happy to be home again.
“Is your Hoosier pride showing again, Mom,” Cassidy asked as they jogged side by side, “or is there some other reason for that silly grin you’re wearing?”
Sheryl looked at her daughter and broadened her smile.
“I’m just overjoyed to be in my favorite place with my favorite person.”
Without breaking stride, Cassidy gave her mother a peck on the cheek.
“Will you keep running when I’m in college?” she asked.
“I will if you’re here,” Sheryl said. “If you go off to Palo Alto, I’ll sit at home in a house dress and eat bonbons any time I’m not teaching.”
Cassidy laughed. “You will not, and besides I’m thinking about adding Georgetown to my list of college choices.”
“You want to go back to D.C.?”
“Blame it on growing up there, Dad being there and … James J. McGill.”
Sheryl cast a look at her daughter.
“You’re kidding, right, about Mr. McGill?”
Cassidy’s step faltered. “You know him?”
“I met him once, briefly, when Senator Talbert asked me to accompany him to a dinner at the White House.”
A note of both excitement and complaint entered Cassidy’s voice.
“You never told me that.”
“I did. It was three years ago. You were unimpressed.”
“Well … I was just a kid then. Barely out of middle school. Now —”
“You have a young woman’s crush on a much older man?”
Cassidy turned her face away from her mother but her blush covered her neck, too.
Keeping her eyes on the path ahead, she said, “Okay, yeah. I recognize it for what it is, something silly. But what he did, saving the White House chief of staff and then holding her while he called for help … it gave me an idea of what I should look for when the time comes.”
Sheryl nodded. “I wouldn’t object if you brought someone like Mr. McGill — only a generation younger — home someday.”
Cassidy looked at her mother and waggled her eyebrows.
“I wouldn’t either.”
Both of them laughed as they left the campus and headed for home.
“I think it says something good about President Grant that she has a husband like him.”
“Yes, it does. It says she’s a lucky woman.”
“She’s a terrific president, too. It so bums me out I’ll never get to vote for her.”
The subtext came through loud and clear to Sheryl.
She would have the opportunity to vote for Patricia Darden Grant.
Including the time it would matter most, in the Electoral College.
Never mind that her vote was pledged to the Republican nominee.
As they neared their new house, Sheryl slowed her pace, let Cassidy go on ahead and sighed.
Q Street — Washington, D.C.
Having left her job at the White House and not needing to rise early for her new job with Mather Wyman’s presidential campaign, Kira Fahey Yates was sleeping in. The curtains in her bedroom were drawn and the only light came from the clock radio. When a warm nude body slipped under the covers and cozied up to her, she purred.
“Mmm,” she said, “you feel almost as good as my husband.”
“Would you like me to send for him?”
“No, he’s off in some island paradise, no doubt consorting with native girls.”
“What does consorting involve, specifically?”
“Letting them see how gorgeous he is, charming them silly, leading them right up to the brink and then blithely stepping aside as they fall head over heels in love with him.”
“Not high heels, surely. I have it on good authority that island girls usually go about barefoot.”
“You keep a sharp eye on women’s feet, do you?”
“That’s where I start. If the pedicure passes muster, I work my way up.”
Kira pressed her bottom against the visitor.
“I start in the middle, then decide which way to look.”
“Depending on whether you’re in the mood for thighs or abs?”
“Depending on which direction the gentleman is facing.”
The visitor snuggled closer. He kissed Kira’s shoulder.
“Deltoids often go unappreciated,” he said.
“Only by those who don’t know better. I like to bite them.”
The visitor brushed Kira’s hair aside and kissed the back of her neck.
She shivered. “How did you know to do that?”
“There was a note on the bedroom door.”
“Of course. The maid leaves hints for first-timers.”
“That was the only one I saw. Do I have to figure out the rest for myself?”
“Do your best, but try not to be ordinary.”
The visitor let a lock of his hair fall forward and used it to trace the length of Kira’s spine. She shuddered, rolled over and took the visitor’s face in her hands.
“Oh, it’s you, Welborn,” Kira said.
“So glad you remember me.”
“Couldn’t stay away, flyboy?”
“After hearing you’d left the White House, I thought it best to visit before you made any other life-altering decisions.”
She pulled him to her and said, “We can talk politics later.”
Sitting at the breakfast table sipping orange juice and nibbling a pain au chocolat he had brought home, Welborn asked Kira, “So you’re a … spy?”
“In effect, though that does sound overly dramatic. A snoop with portfolio might be more accurate.”
“The duties of your portfolio being to get Uncle Mather elected president.”
“Exactement,” Kira said, biting into her own French pastry.
“You do recall I work for the current and future president?”
“I’ll concede the present to you; we’ll see about the future.”
“Moving on,” Welborn said, “your current responsibilities are to vet prospective vice presidential candidates who might join your uncle on the Republican ticket?”
“Unofficially. There are rafts of lawyers, accountants and doctors to look into the obvious nooks and crannies. Do the wannabes have criminal records of any sort? Might their tax returns raise a stink? Is there a family history of kleptomania? You know, the sorts of things that are committed to writing.”
“Whereas you will deal with what exactly?” Welborn asked.
“Before pen and paper, there was an oral tradition of storytelling.”
Welborn smiled. “Ah, you’re the campaign’s gossip columnist.”
“Gossip to be shared with a select few,” Kira said.
“People often lie, you’ll remember.”
“Men especially, but I’m quite discerning about such things.”
Welborn ignored the sexist gibe.
“You do have the social standing and graces to move in the highest circles.”
Kira said, “In my case, social circles to the right of the political spectrum. Mattie said Democrats would find me suspect. I won’t be snooping on the president’s side of the aisle.”
Welborn experienced a small measure of relief.
Until Kira pointed out, “You, however, might be tainted, sleeping with the enemy.”
“I’ll tell everyone it’s just a physical thing.”
“Speaking of which, do you have to get right back to your barefoot girls?”
“They’re very patient. What do you have in mind?”
She showed him. As they were about to drift off to sleep in each other’s arms, Welborn said in a tone that was unusually serious, “I won’t ask you to give away any secrets, but just in case you overhear something that rises above and beyond political chatter —”
“You mean a matter of national security?” Kira asked.
“Mock me if you will, but if you hear anything that scares you, I’ll want to know.”
“If things get to that point, flyboy, I’ll keep you fully informed.”
She kissed him and began to doze.
Realizing just before she fell asleep that she might have missed taking her birth control pill that day.
Department of Justice Building — Washington, D.C.
Attorney General Michael Jaworsky sat behind his desk making his way through the reports that called for his immediate attention. The stack of paperwork led him to think he’d become the victim of one of history’s great curses. The original malediction was thought to be either Chinese or English. Might have been either. Curses traveled well.
May you live in interesting times, that was the wording.
The meaning was: May you experience much vexation and upheaval.
Jaworsky’s secretary buzzed and announced his first challenges of the day in two words, “They’re here.”
“Please send in Mrs. Godfrey first.”
“Mr. Williams would —”
“He can wait,” the AG said.
“Yes, sir.”
Erna Godfrey was escorted into Jaworsky’s office by a female correctional officer. Both women wore off-the-rack pantsuits, the officer’s from her closet, Erna’s courtesy of the federal government. The widow of Reverend Burke Godfrey also wore handcuffs and leg restraints.
“Please have a seat, Mrs. Godfrey,” Jaworsky said.
“Thank you, sir.”
The officer helped her into a visitor’s chair.
Jaworsky said, “Officer, please wait outside.”
The woman didn’t like that but was in no position to argue.
She did step forward, picked up a letter opener lying on the AG’s desk and handed it to him.
He nodded his thanks and put the pointed implement in a desk drawer.
Once he and Erna were alone, the AG said, “We have two matters to discuss, Mrs. Godfrey. I’d like to start with the medical report on your husband’s cause of death.”
“I was told it was a stroke,” Erna said, suspecting correctly she was about to learn more. “Benton Williams, outside, wanted to talk with me, but your people wouldn’t let him.”
“You’ll have the opportunity to speak with him, but I wanted you to hear from me first.”
Erna bobbed her head. “All right.”
“Just before the siege of Salvation’s Path began, your husband was being interviewed by a woman named Ellie Booker, a producer of television programming for WorldWide News. Ms. Booker claims she was being held prisoner by your husband. She managed to lay hands on a pistol and used it to hit your husband on the head.”
“She killed Burke?”
“No, she injured him, seriously enough to require hospitalization, but he was recovering from the trauma when the stroke that killed him occurred.”
Erna frowned. “Did the one thing lead to the other?”
Jaworsky kept himself from sighing. “The truth is, no one really knows. As I said, your husband was making clear progress in recovering from his injury, and the medical examiner’s report says that your husband suffered from several risk factors for stroke: age, obesity, high blood pressure, high cholesterol and atrial fibrillation. The medical consensus is that in his later years your husband was a prime candidate for a cerebral vascular accident at any time.”
The AG opened the medical examiner’s report and placed it so Erna might read its conclusion. As she read, tears formed in her eyes. Jaworsky handed her a tissue.
“The president called me,” Erna said. “Told me Burke was gone and she was sorry everything had to come to this.”
“I’ve heard that, yes.”
“I only hope he had the time to beg the Lord’s forgiveness before he went.”
“We should all be so fortunate,” Jaworsky said. He gave Erna a moment and then asked, “Mrs. Godfrey, I need to know the extent to which you wish to cooperate with the government in prosecuting the people you’ve named as committing illegal acts against abortion providers and clinics. If you do wish to provide ongoing cooperation until the last of the prosecutions is concluded, you’ll be kept —”
“Outside of prison?” Erna asked. She shook her head. “No, I want to go back.”
Jaworsky took that to mean Mrs. Godfrey’s cooperation was at an end.
“Do you realize the fact that you’ve already helped us means you’ll be at an increased risk of danger while you’re incarcerated? That being the case, the government is obligated to offer you solitary confinement for your own protection.”
Erna said, “I have no fear of death, sir. I won’t try to kill myself again, but if I can’t start a ministry in prison and try to help other women, there won’t be much point of going on.”
Jaworsky looked closely at the woman, searching for any sign of deceit.
Finding none, he said, “I’ll have to ask you to sign a statement saying you were offered protective custody and declined it.”
“I’ll do that right now, if you let me start my ministry.”
“That will be up to the Bureau of Prisons, and I’ll need witnesses when you sign the statement. Now, I need to inform you that Mr. Williams would like to talk with you about bringing a wrongful death suit against Ms. Booker and WorldWide News. Whether you allow Mr. Williams to pursue that suit is up to you, but you should know you won’t be allowed to benefit monetarily from any judgment or settlement.”
A smile appeared on Erna’s face. “Why would I care about money?”
“There’s no reason at all, but I have to make the situation clear.”
“Mr. Williams doesn’t want to sue the government, too?”
“He said no, but I don’t believe him.”
“You’re a very honest man, Mr. Jaworsky.”
“I go to confession every Saturday with my mother, Mrs. Godfrey.”
“So you understand the comfort the clergy can bring. Maybe you could have a word with the Bureau of Prisons about my ministry. All I want to do is help poor women.”
The AG thought he’d need to speak with the president first.
“Will you reconsider helping me to prosecute the people you’ve named?” he asked.
“I
’ll pray that they see the light and sin no more.”
Jaworsky nodded. “Pray that they beg the Lord’s forgiveness, too.”
He called for Benton Williams to be admitted. With the lawyer came the correctional officer watching over Erna, the AG’s secretary and a videographer. Discussing the possibility of a federal prisoner initiating a civil suit, as Jaworsky had informed Williams earlier, was not a matter covered by attorney-client privilege.
Everyone got to hear, and in the case of the videographer, record the lawyer’s conversation with the prisoner. Erna flatly refused to become a party to any suit. Her concerns, she said, were celestial not civil.
Perhaps as a matter of pique, Benton Williams agreed to be one of the witnesses to Erna Godfrey signing the statement saying she wished to be housed among the general population in whatever correctional facility was chosen for her by the Bureau of Prisons.
Before Erna was taken away Attorney General Jaworsky told her, “I will consider your request to start a ministry, Mrs. Godfrey.”
Once he was alone again, the AG took up the next matter on his schedule.
A Super-PAC and a TV station in Mississippi, per the president’s directive, were going to be tried for fraud for running an attack ad against the president that was substantively false. A whistle-blower would also state that, contravening FEC regulations and a Supreme Court decision, the ad had been a coordinated effort between the Super-PAC and Senator Howard Hurlbert’s True South campaign.
More interesting times ahead for me, the AG thought.
The Super-PAC and True South, though, would be facing their own classic curse.
May you come to the attention of those in authority.
The Mandarin Oriental Hotel — Washington, D.C.
Hugh Collier told Sir Edbert Bickford, “I could flog you, if you like.”
The media tycoon cast a sour look at his once favorite nephew.
“In a strictly non-sexual way,” Hugh added.
Sir Edbert turned his attention back to the oversized flat screen television.
The clip of James J. McGill saving the life of Galia Mindel played on a continuous loop. As it had all day long. As it had for more days than Hugh cared to think about. Uncle would sit and watch and drink Scotch. Hugh couldn’t recall the old tripehound getting up to relieve himself.