“We know, Madame President, and we’re very sorry,” said the oldest brother, “but people working for the Doglords often went about dressed as police, with fake badges and everything. That was one way they intimidated us into doing their bidding. Another way was…” He pointed to his grotesquely bruised and cut face; heaven alone knew what injuries were concealed beneath his tattered clothing.
Malory shook her head. “I had no idea.” She banished her reverie and addressed the brothers again. “Tell me what happened inside the Big House. How did you escape? Was the fire accidental?”
Again the oldest replied. “No, ma’am, it wasn’t an accident. The Doglords were going to kill us, see, as an example, because we’d dared to stand up to them and protect—and protect our—”
Here his countenance broke, and he covered his face with his hands. As his shoulders betrayed his silent sobs beneath the gentle hand of the middle brother, the youngest chimed in with: “The Doglords wanted to turn our sisters into prostitutes, and we wouldn’t let them. So we fought them, but there were too many. They took us to the Big House to work us over some more, for days and days. You don’t want to know what they did. Well, you can see some of it, I’m sure—still. It was terrible. They were going to kill us to-day, but Donny, there”—he pointed a nod toward the oldest—“noticed some greasy rags on the floor near where they made us kneel. He begged cigarettes for the three of us as a last request. Once our guard lit them for us, and we got to puffin’ on ’em real good, he couldn’t stand all the smoke, so he stepped out of the room for some air. We spat those things onto the papers and rags so fast they’d have made your head spin! And the trash lit up fast, too—foom!”
Donny, having regained his composure, nodded. “We used the flames to sear off our bonds.” All three brothers held up wrists bearing rope burns and scorch marks. “With all the trash laying about—everywhere you stepped, just about—it didn’t take long for the rest of the building to catch. We escaped in the confusion of the smoke and panic.”
Malory asked, “And these so-called Doglords—did you kill them?”
“We didn’t help them escape the burning building,” Donny offered.
The brothers exchanged a look before the middle one spoke: “Name’s Johnny, ma’am. Donny and Lonny have spoken the truth, but not all of it. The hand-to-God truth is that we knew which apartment was theirs, got to it while nobody was looking before the alarm got pulled, and blocked them in. From the fourteenth floor, it was either die in the fire or die from the fall. They must’ve chosen the fire.”
“So you are self-confessed murderers as well as arsonists,” said Malory.
“Ma’am,” began Johnny, “if somebody had tried to turn your sweet little sisters into sex slaves, can you please look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t have done the very same thing we did?”
The two locked gazes for a long while before Malory said, “If the truth be known, I probably would have taken similar measures under those awful circumstances. I can tell you one thing, however: to-day I have learned first-hand how deplorable are the conditions within Sanctuary, and you have my vow that I will make it right. I’m not sure how yet, but I promise this problem will get fixed permanently, and for the benefit—and betterment—of all Sanctuary residents across the nation. Furthermore, Johnny Annis, Donny Annis, and Lonny Annis, I exonerate you three of all wrongdoings in this incident. You may leave this place under no fear of arrest or prosecution, and I shall personally assist you in making arrangements for the honorable burial of your dead.” She extended her hand, and Johnny grasped it and pumped vigorously. His brothers did likewise and with no less enthusiasm.
The camera recorded every word and gesture save one: the unabashed admiration glistening in Marco Markson’s eyes.
Chapter XXXI:
Marco
AS THE BROTHERS Annis took their leave to make the final preparations for their parents and sisters, Malory turned to Marco Markson and said:
“You told me you wanted to help. What did you have in mind?”
The reporter chuckled. “I thought I might need to act as their spokesman, being as they had come to me for help, terrified out of their wits. Obviously that turned out not to be the case.”
“Indeed. Now you have a story to file. After you have done so, might you still be interested in lending a hand?”
“Of course, Madame President, whatever you require.”
“Good. Meet me outside after you’ve uploaded your story.”
He gave a short bow and hastened away.
We removed our media sideshow from the hospital halls—much to the collective relief of the medical personnel—to join the larger circus on the grounds. By this time all manner of broadcast vehicles, receiver dishes, and other equipment had appeared, along with a considerable crowd, not one in a hundred holding press passes. The instant Malory appeared on the threshold, the volley of questions began:
“Madame President, who were those men and what’s their relationship to you? Why did you exonerate them?”
“Madame President, what are your plans for Sanctuary?”
“Madame President, why did you visit Sanctuary—the first President ever to do so since its inception?”
“Madame President, what’s your opinion on how Congress is handling the Obamacare legislation overhaul? What’s the timetable for closing the trade deficit? Balancing the budget? Colonizing Mars?” This salvo had been launched by reporters hoping to catch Malory in a chatty mood. She ignored them and said:
“The American people deserve to see how much their President cares for their situations, no matter how dire. I chose to visit Sanctuary over the protests of my security staff because I had heard—but had never seen, nor had any President before me—how badly the situation had deteriorated from decades of underfunding and, frankly, neglect. I did not create the problem that is Sanctuary, but I shoulder full responsibility for solving it. I shall disclose my plans to you all at the public memorial service to be held on the Mall on Friday for the Annis family and all those who perished in Sanctuary to-day.” By this time Marco had finished his errand and, at Malory’s beckoning, mounted the steps to join us. “This event will be free and open to the public, Sanctuary residents included. The committee making all the arrangements will be co-chaired by my former Campaign Boss and owner of the London Knights baseball team, Morganna Hanks, and Washington Times reporter Marco Markson.”
Marco blanched to the point I thought he might faint. I propped him with an emergency restorative spell. I did not blanch; monarchs are forbidden this luxury under Rule Four. The only actions we are permitted in such circumstances are smiling and waving, which I did, employing that savior of the royal arm, the micro-wave, along with its indispensable face-saving companion, the micro-smile.
Waiting for us beside Cavalry One was Senator Dan Dowley of Delaware, poster boy for the archetypical fat-cat career RepuDem politician, who had spent no insignificant amount of time eyeing Malory’s job. He had done his level best to unseat her in the primaries the year before,—and probably would now be occupying the Oval Office if not for my influencing Congress to pass the presidential third-term legislation so Malory could run again. The fact that she had defeated Dowley by an enormous landslide to win the nomination was no small source of satisfaction to Malory and me, and no small source of irritation to Senator Dowley. He said, oozing charm but with his dagger-gaze aimed at Malory:
“I see you’ve drummed up a bit of press for yourself to-day, Madame President. Congratulations. Your approval rating has climbed clear up to twenty-three.”
She did not dignify the insult with a response; in point of fact, her rating now stood at seventy-three, a staffer had informed her within my hearing after the media event had concluded. Instead she favored Senator Dowley with a beatific smile and said:
“All the public is invited to the memorial, even the esteemed senator from Delaware. He is welcome to the podium during the event, too.”
His
eyebrows would have disappeared had he been sporting any hair with which to hide them. As it was, they looked like wooly-bear caterpillars traversing a flesh-colored bowling ball while foretelling the worst winter in human memory. “Ah, that is most kind of the President. Don’t think I won’t.”
Her smile turned cryptic. “Senator Dowley, I am counting on it.” She refused to elaborate and ascended into the bowels of her dragon named Cavalry One without further comment, leaving the Esteemed Senator resembling a carp, his lips opening and closing and opening and closing in his confusion. Finally he gathered his dignity about him like a threadbare cloak, marshaled his staff, and stalked off.
I realized in that moment that I had rubbed off on Malory at last and could not have felt any prouder of her. And I could scarcely wait for the memorial and whatever plans she was intending to reveal at that time—even though Marco and I had been charged to move heaven, earth, and hell to bring this event to fruition in a mere three days.
Chapter XXXII:
Dowley’s Humiliation
BETWEEN MARCO’S CONTACTS and knowledge of the region, my magical resources, and Malory’s staff and extra-deep pockets, we forged an effort worthy of Our Lord Himself. He had to feed only five thousand; we were expecting upward of a million.
We engaged every available catering company in the area and dozens more from adjacent states, barbecue being the theme. Within thirty-six hours, the Mall had sprouted hundreds of charcoal smokers, forcing Congress to declare a mini-recess because they could not concentrate on business while distracted by the pervasive aroma of roasting meats—not that Congress ever got much accomplished on a good day as a general rule without my influence; but it provided them a convenient excuse. We rounded up every portajohn in captivity and went hunting in the field for more,—and we fenced off the Lincoln Memorial, Reflecting Pool, and Washington Monument as a precaution. We planted thousands of trash cans of every size, shape, and description. We ordered the three closest fire stations to be on high alert and notified several others, as well as the hospitals. We drafted a platoon of physicians and medics to examine Sanctuary residents beforehand and to be available on the venue grounds. We mobilized extra shuttles, airborne as well as ground crawlers, to improve traffic flow; a futile hope, as anyone familiar with DC commuting knows, but award us points for trying. We trucked in amusement rides. We—specifically Marco, possessing more knowledge of such matters—hired several musical bands to perform throughout the day. After hearing them practice the day before the memorial, I was not certain they were any better than my unlamented court musicians, but everyone else seemed pleased with Marco’s choices, and I had no better to offer, so I let the matter drop without loss of life or limb. Malory ordered the local National Guard units to supplement the park police patrols—including the aforementioned memorial, pool, and monument—and to man the security checkpoints. I established spells to ensure perfect weather conditions.
We did not arrange to offer free beer. Those who desired that particular libation could buy a ticket to the Federals game (versus the Montana Monarchs, and if you do not know by now which team to whom I would lend my cheers, then shame on you for not paying attention) scheduled to start later that evening. We desired to be generous but not stupid.
On the morning of the memorial, Malory ordered Sanctuary’s solid-steel gates to be dismantled and trucked off for recycling. Even though she had not yet announced her plans for the district and its residents, the gates’ removal demonstrated there would be no going back. After salivating over the same enticing smells that had derailed Congress for two days, the Sanctuary denizens streamed en masse toward the Mall to claim their free feast; not one person strayed to make mischief elsewhere. That reason had loomed large in selecting barbecue as the menu’s centerpiece—the tactic had worked to precision in my castle, whence I appropriated the idea.
Thus, literally as well as figuratively, the stage was set.
The only weather spell I needed to employ, as it happened—being of its own accord a fine, cloudless day in late June with a high temperature that behaved itself for once and did not creep over the ninety-degree mark—was to dial down the humidity to ensure that eighty-eight degrees did not feel like a hundred and eight. That was the theory. In practice, a million people jostled together in such close proximity made the temperature feel as if it were two hundred and sixteen. The water stations we had established throughout the venue were well attended and required refilling several times before the day’s festivities had concluded.
“Festivities” is a relative term. Malory being a politician, and politicians being beings who lack the genetic coding to resist the opportunity to address a million constituents in person, established a schedule of events that began with emotional tributes to the Annis family and the other victims of Sanctuary’s fires and riots, and then alternated between a band set and a political speech, with Malory’s husband Ambrose given the honor of making the tribute speech and introducing the other speakers, and reserving for herself the final speech; in between paraded the rankest—I mean highest-ranking—senators and representatives, mostly Malory’s allies. The end result, to the surprise of no one, was that people engorged themselves on the copious—if not sumptuous by the standards of my court kitchen—free fare, enjoying their favorite music and chatting among themselves while the politicians rambled ad nauseam about the grand and glorious Things they were accomplishing for The Great State (or Commonwealth) of Great-State-or-Commonwealth-Name and for This Great Nation, bald-faced lies every one, and everyone knew it, because Congressfolk excel at speaking but are not so keen on doing; but no one seemed to mind—or care.
And the Yankee Sir Boss had the grand audacity to label my caste “useless.” If he could see his own country to-day, and the duly elected and sworn rulers thereof, he would learn an entirely new definition of the word.
As the afternoon waned, the food and beverage stations emptied, and the portajohns filled—though the crowd had not dissipated by as much as one infant—and it became Senator Dowley’s turn to speak. I took special care not to display any outward signs of nervousness, such displays being prohibited under queenship Rules One and Four, though inwardly I allowed myself the luxury to cringe. A chance glance at Malory told me she was exerting similar self-control, and who knew better than she the political damage Dowley had inflicted upon her, especially as the most recent contest for the RepuDem Presidential nomination had drawn to its verbally bloody close? Why she had chosen to gift him this opportunity to undercut her publicly yet again, I could not fathom—nor could I deter her from her course; recall, if you will, that ass-herd of which I earlier wrote. Those animals have nothing whatsoever on this formidable woman.
After Ambrose introduced Dowley as “the esteemed senior senator from Delaware,” the man ascended to the podium with studied languor, smiling and nodding in response to the polite smattering of applause. He thanked his introducer, Malory as the event’s host, Marco and me as the organizers, and then cast a warm mantle of thanks over the million-strong crowd as if tucking them in on a winter’s night. More polite applause.
“For it is clear to me, my friends, by your presence here that you care deeply about the tragedy that befell Sanctuary earlier this week, and you care just as deeply about the survivors’ futures.” Another lie; the people had come for the free food and drink and entertainment, or as an excuse to call in “sick” to their workplaces for a day—and any folks who might protest this assessment to my face are only fooling themselves.
This amounted to most of the crowd, to judge by the much louder applause that soon gave rise to chants of “Sanctuary!” and “Hell-o, it must go!”
Dowley let the crowd go on in this fashion for several minutes. Finally he held up both hands, which quieted them a decibel or two, and said:
“I agree. Sanctuary is a failed solution to a perennial thorny problem, and it must go, but it will take considerable funds and resources. And what has your President chosen to do in respo
nse? Spend millions of your hard-earned dollars to throw this huge party as a PR stunt to boost her flagging image—”
“No!”
That was me, fuming,—and standing in flagrant violation of the queenship rules. I did not care. What was the Royal Rules Committee going to do about it? Haunt me?
Dowley glared at me. “Have you something to add, Ms. Hanks?”
“Indeed I do, Senator.” I flounced to the podium and pitched my voice for the crowd without relying upon the amplifying device. Such technological wonders are known to cease operations without warning at the most inopportune moment—usually attributed to some ancient and ever so busy man named Murphy, though I have never met him, and I know of no one else who has—and I was not about to take chances. “Senator Dowley is mistaken on two important counts. Number one, the cost of this event did not number in the ‘millions’ of dollars as he claims. The final amount, thanks to the generous donations of many caterers and bands”—I permitted the crowd a few moments’ unrestricted cheering—“came to one million, four hundred thirty-two thousand, eight hundred sixty-four dollars and forty-two cents.”
“Ms. Hanks,” purred Senator Dowley, “surely you’ve forgotten to factor in wages for the day’s work provided by police, fire-fighters, physicians, military, and other service personnel. That ought to push the cost well over the three-million-dollar mark.”
“I have not forgotten, Senator. These valuable people would have received the same wage regardless of whether they had performed their duties here at the Mall, or inside an office building or hospital, or at some emergency site, or even had they chosen to take a personal day off to come here instead. Therefore, it is specious to include their wages as part of an objection to the cost of this event.”
That deflated him a notch or two, I noted with pleasure. When I would have continued, Malory rose. I yielded the podium to her. She thanked me and said:
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