Penny Collins laughed and stood behind the desk. “You know how un-First Lady-like I can be.” She put the cigar in the center desk drawer, straightened her dress and met him in the middle of the room. She kissed him lightly on the lips, then straightened his jacket. Because of Collins’s large nose, thin lips and short stature, he’d been dubbed the luckiest president to sit in the Oval Office. Kennedy had nothing on him. Penny put Jackie-O and Marylyn to shame. Speculation about how such an average looking man landed such a catch ranged from extortion to true love, but the truth was somewhere in between. He loved sex, and she loved money and power. They provided for each other. His looks were not an issue and hers were perfect.
“You’re off to the shops again, today?” he asked.
“Well, you won’t find me slurping eggs Benedict with a couple of old guys and some kid.” She headed for the door. “I’ll be back for our critical meeting after lunch.”
Collins smiled. Today is going to be a good day, he thought. “Love you, babe,” he said as she left the office.
“Right back at you, Mr. President,” she replied in her best, breathy Monroe impression. She straightened suddenly and smiled. “Hello, Tom.”
Austin nodded to Penny as he held the door and let her pass. He entered the office as she left and closed the door behind him.
“You’re a lucky man, Mr. President,” Austin said.
“Tell that to my bank account,” Collins said as he sat behind the desk. He opened the desk drawer, took out the cigar Penny had been holding and smelled it. “Damn perfume.” He tossed the cigar into the small trash bin next to the desk. “What’s up?”
As Austin approached the desk, Collins noticed the manila folder in his hand.
“I went over the guest list for this afternoon,” Austin said.
“And?”
“And this.” Austin opened the manila folder and pulled out a black and white photo of a thirty-something, dark eyed woman with straight black hair and a pleasant smile. “This is the family member accompanying the girl who won the essay contest.”
“What’s her name? The girl’s? Leslie or something?”
“Elizabeth.”
“Right. Elizabeth.” Collins wrote the name down on a piece of paper and slipped it into his pocket. “Go on.”
“The woman is Elizabeth’s aunt, Mia Durante.”
Austin paused.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Collins said. “Should it?”
“Not at all. But if she’d been married to her fiancé, her last name would have been Brenton.”
Collins sat up straight. “His fiancé?”
Austin shifted his weight.
“What is it?” Collins asked. “Don’t tell me there’s more.”
“She’s a reporter. Small town, but still, a reporter.”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Collins whispered. “I’ll have to cancel.”
“They’re already here. Stephanie is giving them a private tour along with the medal recipient and his brother.”
Collins pursed his lips. “Just keep her away from me. Don’t tackle her or anything. Just make sure she doesn’t raise her voice or make a scene. If she starts asking questions, conjure up some emergency to get me out of there.”
“An emergency?”
“You’ll think of something,” Collins said with a smile. His day had gone to crap in a matter of minutes, but it could still be salvaged. Austin was on the job. He’d take care of Durante if she became a problem.
5
Washington D.C.
Major Paul Byers followed the group closely, taking in faces, voices and mannerisms. It had become a habit during his time in the U.S Marine Corps. He’d spent all of 1971 and part of ’73 in the jungles of Vietnam. He became adept at learning who he could and couldn’t trust with his life by watching them, scrutinizing every move, twitch and grunt. As a result, he’d survived the war with only a few physical scars to show for it. He’d even managed to pull a few of his friends out of harm’s way. Now, thirty-seven years late, his actions during a botched raid on a Viet-Cong camp had earned him a trip to the White House. He didn’t feel he deserved a medal, let alone the Medal of Honor, but he knew that made him even more deserving in the eyes of those bestowing it. Still, it was nice to be recognized for what he gave to his country...if only they would give out a few hundred thousand more. In his mind, every man and woman involved in that mess deserved a medal.
“Welcome to the East Room,” said an enthusiastic young Asian woman after snapping closed the cell phone that had held her attention for the past minute. She’d introduced herself when the limo dropped them off at the White House main entrance—Stephanie Chang, the president’s personal aide. Seemed nice enough. Cute too. “This is the largest room in the White House. It’s used for press conferences, dinners, ceremonies. Things like that.”
The long room featured a large oriental rug with vibrant reds and blues—very royal—which were cut into sections by long streams of light shining through eleven tall windows. Two extravagant crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling and a lone grand piano occupied the far corner.
“Will Mr. Byers get his medal here?” the little girl asked.
Paul smiled. Elizabeth Durante. She had short-cut blond hair and a smile that melted his heart. Innocence personified, yet incredibly aware and social. They met in the limo and hit it off right away, swapping first grade horror stories, his involving long walks through the snow, hers involving iPods and cell phones. She knew more about the medal that would soon be hung around his neck than he did. Smart kid.
“Oh, no,” Chang said as she moved to the center of the room. “Because the press was not invited, this will be a private and casual affair. We’ll be doing the medal ceremony in the Oval Office just after brunch.”
Elizabeth’s eyes grew wide as she whispered, “Wow.” The woman holding her hand, Mia Durante, her aunt, frowned. Paul had yet to figure her out. There was something about her. She looked intelligent and nice enough, but her eyes revealed something brewing just below the surface...concealed, but barely contained.
“After brunch?” Mia asked. “I thought the ceremony was before brunch.”
“Change of plans, I’m afraid. That was the president’s chief of security who called a minute ago.”
“Do you know why?” Mia asked.
Chang shrugged. “Beats me. But what Tom says, goes. Oh, Tom Austin is chief of security. Secret Service. Harmless, really. Unless you mess with the President, of course. From what I’ve heard, he can be a pit bull when he needs to be.”
As Chang led them to a painting and began explaining its detailed past, Paul watched Mia. She bit her lower lip, rubbed her hands on her pants and tapped her foot ever so slightly. She either felt incredibly nervous about being at the White House and meeting the president or something was up. Never one to beat around the bush, he stepped toward her, intent on discovering the truth.
Before he got to her a hand clapped his shoulder. “What’d I miss?”
Paul turned and faced his brother, Mark, whose eyes darted around the room like a mischievous child in a room full of fireworks. The white ring around his collar, signifying his place in the priesthood, seemed to be the only thing holding him back. Then it failed to do even that. Mark made a beeline for the piano while Chang continued her dissertation about the painting, having never seen Mark return from the bathroom or witnessing his sprint to the piano. Paul stood his ground, not wanting to appear as a co-conspirator during the debacle that was sure to ensue...
Now.
The piano roared to life as Mark’s fingers flew over the keys, pounding out the notes of Amazing Grace. Paul shook his head with a smile. It sounded great, first because Mark was an accomplished pianist, and second because Mark had refrained from singing. But the reaction from Chang was instant horror.
“Mr. Byers!” she shouted, walking to the piano as fast as she could. “Mr. Byers, please!” The rest of her exhortations became drowned by the echo of notes
flowing through the large East Room.
Mark mouthed, “What?” He had no intention of stopping to listen. And Elizabeth’s dancing at the center of the room only encouraged him to play with more passion. Mia, however, remained unfazed by the music, Chang’s urgent pleas, and her niece dancing like a wounded flamingo at the center of the largest room in the White House.
Paul tapped Mia’s shoulder, causing her to flinch. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You feeling okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Of course...” She looked him in the eyes. “Why?”
Paul smiled his best grandfatherly smile. He wanted to put her at ease. “You seem a little nervous is all.”
Mia looked at the floor and traced the Oriental rug’s pattern with the toe of her high heel. “Just ants in my pants.”
“About meeting the president?”
“You could say that.”
“What else could I say?”
“This an interrogation?”
“Hey, I didn’t vote for the guy,” Paul said, then pretended to zip his lips. “My lips are sealed.”
Mia continued staring at the floor, clearly uncomfortable. Paul decided not to press the woman. He watched Elizabeth dance around the room, kicking legs wildly and swaying arms to Mark’s piano playing. “She’s something else. Your niece.”
Mia smiled and nodded.
“You have any kids?” Paul asked. He caught his breath when Mia froze. That touched a nerve.
Mia turned to him, her eyes already wet and ready to spill over and her bottom lip displaying the slightest of quivers.
Paul’s heart went out to the woman. He knew suffering when he saw it. He patted her back and said, “Hey now, it’ll be okay. You don’t need to talk to me.”
To his surprise she leaned on his shoulder. Then she sniffed, wiped her eyes and stood up straight. “I need to talk to someone or I’ll burst.”
Paul nodded and waited.
“I was supposed to get married later this year.” Paul listened though he had no idea where her story would go. Mia took a deep breath and finished, “My fiancé’s name was Matthew Brenton.”
“Brenton...” Paul blinked. “Matthew Brenton? The sniper?”
“He’s not a sniper,” Mia whispered. “He’s a truck driver.”
Paul had no reason not to believe her, and the statements made by the U.S. government supported her claim. “Hey, you didn’t write Elizabeth’s essay now, did you? That’d be a pretty sneaky way to get an audience,” he said with a smile.
Mia chuckled, then took a deep breath, letting her body relax. She crossed her arms over her blue blouse, and said, “I just want to find out what happened to Matt.”
“They’re not telling you anything?”
Mia shook her head. “Not a peep.”
“Have you contacted the media?”
“I’m a reporter.”
“Oh.” Paul shook his head. He loved his country. Would have died for his country. But things like this—railroading a soldier’s family—soon to be or not—for no good reason other to maintain appearances, really got under his skin. When he got back from Vietnam and some of his friends were still fighting, he’d listen to the stories of their frustrated wives, just wanting to know that their husbands were still alive. But they didn’t have to listen to their husbands’ tortured voices betraying their country in an audio recording. “Was that really him? The recording?”
Mia nodded.
Paul shook his head. “So you’re here to ask about your fiancé?”
“Not that it will do any good,” Mia said. “I doubt he’ll listen to me. Probably have me escorted away is more likely.”
“If he doesn’t listen to you, maybe he’ll listen to a Medal of Honor recipient?”
Mia smiled. “Thanks...and if he doesn’t?”
“Well then,” Paul said with a smile, “Miss Reporter, we’ll have quite the story to tell.”
Mark’s booming rendition of Amazing Grace ended with a resounding cheer from Elizabeth and a sigh of relief from Chang, who looked at her watch and announced, “They’ll be waiting for us in the dining room now. Please, follow me.” She waited for Mark to stand and then hurried for the door.
Paul extended his elbow to Mia. “Been a long time since I had a pretty girl to escort to dinner...or brunch.”
Mia smiled and linked her arm in his. He grinned and said, “Let’s give ’em hell.”
6
Washington D.C.
Mia followed the group, keeping an eye on Elizabeth as she talked up a storm, asking Mark how he learned to play the piano. Paul followed close behind them. With his hands clasped behind his back, straight posture and immaculate military uniform, the man shouted, “war hero.” Perhaps with him on her side she really would find out something about Matt?
Chang stopped in front of a pair of cherry red doors. “This is the Family Dining Room where we’ll be having brunch. It’s used primarily for smaller functions like today. The State Dining Room is where larger functions are held.” Her cell phone blurted the Star Trek theme song. Stifling a look of embarrassment, she flipped it open, pressed it to her ear and listened. “Okay,” she said, then snapped the phone shut. “Sorry, I’m a bit of a Trekkie.”
Mark held his hand up separating his index and middle fingers from his ring and pinkie fingers. “Live long and prosper.”
Chang smiled. “Just for that I’ll forget the piano incident.”
Mark smiled.
“Just don’t do it again, okay?”
Mark brought his fingers together. “Scout’s honor.”
Paul nudged him. “They teach hand signs at the archdiocese now?”
“I can do gang signs, too.”
Mia’s nervousness grew with each second they stood in front of the dining room doors. She’d only known about the possibility of meeting the president for a short time, not even a full week, but the intensity of worry and anxiety over the impending encounter consumed all her thoughts.
Mark twisted his fingers into a W. “West Coast!”
Mia cleared her throat. “Can we...” She motioned to the door, afraid her quivering voice might reveal her tension.
A quick jerk of the door handle was Chang’s reply, as her smile disappeared. “Of course.” She entered the room and stood next to a long oval table that reflected the sunlight streaming in through two large windows surrounded by golden drapes. Likewise, the walls of the room shone bright yellow. The whole scene gave the impression of being inside an egg yolk, which was strangely fitting given the steaming plates of eggs Benedict being set on the table by a hurried wait staff.
Mia entered the room last and saw the president standing at the other side of the table. His wide eyes and wider smile seemed genuine, but the president was known for being a charmer.
Chang introduced them one by one to Collins. Mark shook his hand and said, “It’s an honor, Mr. President.”
Paul saluted and the president followed suit. The president shook his hand with both hands, two peas in a pod.
“Great to finally meet you, Paul,” Collins said. “I’m really looking forward to today.”
Paul nodded. “Likewise, sir.”
Mia’s stomach twisted. Would Paul really back her up in the face of his Commander-in-Chief? Or would he be a good soldier and keep his mouth shut, obey orders and all that?
Collins knelt down in front of Elizabeth. “And you must be our essayist?”
“I can probably write better than you,” Elizabeth said with her eyebrows and chin raised high. Then she smiled. “But I really want to be an astronaut.”
Collins laughed. “Well, if you apply yourself and study hard, I’m sure you’ll be whatever you want to be.”
“Can I go to the moon?”
“By the time you’re ready, we’ll be going to Mars.”
Elizabeth’s eyes opened like blooming flowers. Collins smiled and stood, moving to Mia. He
held out his hand.
Mia took it and shook. “Mr. President.”
Mia nearly threw up on the man. She felt positive she couldn’t eat anything, let alone make it through brunch without passing out from anxiety, so she decided to get things over with fast. He wouldn’t be rude to someone he’d just met, would he? She put on her reporter face and opened her mouth.
“Later,” Collins said.
Mia blinked. “What?”
“We’ll talk later,” he said in a whisper. “No need to talk about...your issues...in front of all these people. We’ll talk later, in private. I promise.”
Mia couldn’t believe it. She just stood there shaking his hand. He’d cleared the air, just like that, diffusing her tension like an emotional bomb squad. He knew who she was and seemed unfazed by it. Could it really be that easy? She glanced at Paul. He raised his eyebrows and gave a slight shrug as though to say, “why not?”
“Okay,” she said.
Collins headed back to the head of the table and motioned everyone to sit down. During the next hour of small talk, eggs, bacon, home fries and gobs of hollandaise sauce, Mia felt herself relaxing. She couldn’t think of a reason the president should react badly to her presence. She just wanted to know where her fiancé was and what they were doing to get him back. The only possible conflict might come if they were, in fact, doing nothing. But if that proved true, Collins would realize it and wouldn’t want to talk to her at all.
Unless that’s why he asked for a private meeting? So no one would hear her shouting. Or maybe he’d suddenly be whisked away, avoiding any sort of meeting at all? Mia’s nervousness began to claw its way back to the surface. Then Paul came to her rescue, playing devil’s advocate.
“Sir, I’ve been meaning to ask you about the man accused of being an assassin...”
Mia could only guess that Paul had avoided using Matt’s name for Elizabeth’s sake. The man had tact to spare.
Collins glanced at Mia, then back to Paul, clearly trying to find a connection between the two. “Yes?”
“It’s obviously not true, and I understand the need for a media blackout. There’s no need to indulge a Russian ruse, but I can’t help wondering about the soldier. Is anything being done to bring him home? I’m sure his family must be worried sick.”
TORMENT - A Novel of Dark Horror Page 3