No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2)

by Mark E Becker

  Max had an ulterior motive in sending Andrew home to Michigan, and Andrew was up to the task. Leila Fox had become an un-official cabinet member to the president. He could trust her to speak her mind. Without realizing it, she had her finger on the pulse of the nation, and her observations had been correct since the first day they met during the campaign. She was the old lady who kissed him on the cheek at the end of his sound bites and campaign ads, making him blush in front of the cameras. It was a tactic that endeared Max Masterson to the voters, and she took silent pride in her contribution to his surprising landslide victory

  Leila had the ability to cut to the core of an issue, and if she saw that Max was messing up, she would inform him of that fact in her unvarnished Midwestern way. Andrew was assigned the task of gathering the thoughts and observations that Americans had about the president; to identify what he was doing wrong, and what he was doing right.

  The ride from Detroit Metropolitan Airport in Sandra’s Ford F-150 pickup was uneventful. The typically dismal Michigan winter had the appearance of a painting of a rural landscape that was done in browns and grays. The bright colors of life were reserved for summer. Andrew stared out at the fallow cornfields, with wisps of snow clinging to lifeless stalks that had remained after the harvest. It was difficult to picture the lush rows of green that would be ”knee high by the fourth of July”, as they were accustomed to saying in this part of the country, but he could trust that it would happen every year as it had always happened.

  There were some things in life that could be trusted, and things that occurred in Washington that could be predicted, but trust was an alien concept inside the beltway. There would always be the next crisis, and there would always be the critics. It was Andrew’s responsibility to sort out the issues of importance to the nation from the issues created by political enemies, and to advise Max on them. He was enlisted for that purpose. I won’t let him down. They pulled onto the road that led to the farmhouse, and he pondered the responsibility that rested on his shoulders. It weighed on his mind, but it would wait until Dad had passed. His first priority would be to care for family, and allow his father die with dignity.

  Andrew rushed in through the side door, which opened into the large country kitchen. The front door was for receiving guests, and he knew that Mom would be in her domain, preparing for guests. He gave her a warm hug.

  “How is he?”

  “Good as we can expect,” she replied quietly. “When he’s conscious, he still has a bit of the old Dad you knew, but he is not the same man. Hospice just left a few minutes ago, and he didn’t like them much. I think they’re wonderful, but when they were cleaning him up, he called the young lady a potlicker.”

  “Oh, no. What did you say?”

  “I didn’t have to say anything. I guess they get used to it. She was very kind, and told me that she had been called worse names.”

  Andrew made his way to the downstairs bedroom. It was dark in the room, but he could see his father’s white hair in the open doorway. As he walked closer, he could see the outline of the hospital bed, with its frail occupant. His once strong and powerful father was little more than skin and bones. The sight of him so still, smaller than he had imagined, made him think he was too late. A wave of panic went through him. I didn’t get to say goodbye. His vision became blurry, and he stopped to wipe the tears from his eyes. I told myself I wasn’t going to do this. Big boys don’t cry. I don’t care. He can’t see my tears.

  There was a slight movement. Dad’s chest was rising and falling slightly, his breathing so shallow that it had been undetectable. His eyes opened and he stared into his son’s worried eyes.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi, Andrew,” Dad replied, and his eyes closed. His breathing stopped, and Andrew moaned with despair.

  “He has been doing that for days now,” Mom said. She had been standing silently behind her son, assessing but not speaking. “Every time he stops breathing, I think he’s gone, and after about a minute, he starts up again. Your sister and I have been riding that roller coaster for a while now. This morning, we couldn’t get a pulse, he stopped breathing, and we were sure. Then your Aunt Lois rang the doorbell, his eyes popped open, and his heart started up strong as ever.” At that moment, Dad took three deep breaths and returned to his pattern of shallow breathing. “There he goes again. The old coot. He’s hanging in there until our 60th anniversary tomorrow, I just know it. He was always stubborn that way.” She turned, ladle in hand, and retreated to the kitchen.

  Leila Fox liked to talk as she stirred the spaghetti sauce. “I got to worrying about you two when the lights went out at the inaugural. I thought the TV was on the blink again and called the cable company. They told me that there was some explosion in Washington, but that you were OK. I think they just told me that to get me to calm down. They didn’t know any more about what happened than the Man in the Moon.” She banged the spoon on the rim of the pot, and turned to the task of checking on the loaf of sourdough bread in the oven.

  Andrew stood too close for her liking, an intrusion into her exclusive domain. “Get out of my kitchen. I don’t need you to stand there gawking. Go out and do something.” Andrew knew that if he had done the same as a child, she would have ordered him to go outside and play. He ignored her and retreated behind the breakfast bar, where he had sat on a stool and conversed with her from the time he could talk.

  “Max is worried that he is messing up at being president, Mom.”

  Leila stopped in mid-stir and placed the spoon on the counter. She turned to face her son with a look of solemn concern. “I don’t know much about politics. I worry about him too.” She paused and bowed her head, and it looked as if she was praying. Tears filled her eyes. “I loved your father. He was the only man I ever kissed… that is until Max Masterson came along…” She blushed with the memory of a kiss on the cheek. “I tried every day to do my best, to please him and to care for our family. It’s the only thing I know how to do. I can only see life through my eyes, and how our Max is responsible for caring for all of us. I worry about Max Masterson as much as I do you and your sister.”

  “Mom, he values your opinions. He trusts you without question,” Andrew said in a soft voice.

  “Sometimes I stop to think, how that every day we are making memories. I think about that, and I wonder whether I have made enough happy memories for my own children,” said Leila. I feel sure that if families would be conscious of the fact that everything they do or say may one day be a memory, there would be less quarreling.” She shifted from the pot holding the sauce to monitor the progress of the noodles that boiled in the big pot in the back. It was an intense process, cooking. “”You know, fewer harsh words.” She stirred and shifted again.

  Grabbing the handle to the oven door, she stooped, and in the same motion, acquired an oven mitt on her right hand. After a moment of assessment, the bread was brown enough, and was swiped from the oven in a move so expert that Andrew felt an urge to applaud. When Mom was stressed or distressed, she cooked. It didn’t matter whether there were enough mouths to feed; she cooked, and if they didn’t eat it, the product of her therapy was distributed to the lucky families down the road.

  “The serious conversations in my life are conducted in the kitchen. It’s better that way, with the aromas and the comfort food to take the edge off of the seriousness. There’s too much seriousness in the world,” Leila explained.

  “You know, your Max got off to a bad start. Did they ever catch those terrorists? He needs to catch them. If he doesn’t, they’ll think they got away with it, and they’ll do it again,” she counseled.

  “I’ll tell him when I get back,” Andrew replied.

  Why didn’t I think of that?

  u

  CHAPTER 59

  T

  he next three weeks were a roller coaster of emotion that engulfed and consumed. Dad slipped in an out of the coma in a regular pattern. His breathing would stop for a full minute and then he wo
uld take three gasping breaths, followed

  by another minute of shallow breathing. Sometimes, he would be conscious, but mostly he hovered in the twilight state between life and death. Several times a day, his pulse became so weak that Andrew, Sandy and Leila would gather at his bedside, certain that death had finally arrived. Then, like a cruel trick, the three breaths would bring Dad back from the brink.

  “I don’t know why it has to take so long,” Mom muttered. “I’m not worried about your father. We had sixty good years together, and I will miss him, but we said our goodbyes long ago.” She held his hand and squeezed, hoping that her husband would squeeze back. A sign, any glimpse of recognition, was all she needed. It had been days since Dad had been able to swallow, and he had begun refusing food and water. It was just a matter of time, but the lingering of it, that inevitability, was agonizing.

  “I worry about you and your sister. I’ll be fine. You need to go get some work done. I’ll watch him for awhile. Now go. Try to get some rest.”

  “All we can do is try to make him as comfortable as possible,” Andrew replied. Her words didn’t require an answer, but he felt helpless. “I haven’t slept for days. I try to get things done over the phone, and the White House staff is covering for me, but I can’t focus. I can do virtual meetings by computer, but it’s like being strapped to a desk as I watch a flurry of activity around me. Mom, I need to call Max.” He left the bedroom before the flood of grief overwhelmed him. He retreated to his own room, and sobbed quietly before placing the call.

  He was amazed when Max answered after one ring. His image appeared on the screen. He was seated at his desk at the Oval Office, his right hand placed on an ornate leather-bound book.

  “I have been anxious to hear from you,” Max said, dispensing with the formality of a hello.

  “Well, I have been riding a roller coaster I can’t get off,” Andrew replied.

  “Your grieving is just beginning. It takes awhile to get over. When he passes, it will seem unbearable, but it must be; it tears piece after piece away. In the end, you are laid bare to your emotions, your soul. We all go through it, but dying is the end result of living. You will survive this. It’s a purging, and hopefully, a replenishing.”

  Andrew was silent, absorbing the wisdom. He had seen the deep concern on Max’s face when he broke the news about Dad, and the same expression had returned. It was a focus that he had never seen in another human being; a form of non-verbal empathy that Max seemed to instill in everyone around him. At that moment, he needed that strength.

  “How are things inside the Beltway?” He needed to change the subject before the tears returned.

  “Oh, crazy as ever. It’s crisis of the day time over here, but things are settling down. I’m sending the vice-president to the UN to make some damn fool speech to the Security Council about how we handled the inaugural event. She likes to make speeches.”

  “She does indeed. I’ll bet that she had it written before you sent her to New York,” Andrew said, relieved that he could take his mind off of the realities of life and death for the moment. “Are they putting Washington back to normal?”

  “Washington DC has never been normal, will never be normal, but we are recovering in record time. They even got most of the cars towed from the Congressional Parking Garage, and insurance adjusters are prowling around adding up the damage. We’ll be fine, for the time being. We are tracking down the perpetrators, and Sinclair will be briefing me at 1:00. As much as I hate to do this, I will need you to draft a statement to the American people that…”

  “ANDREW!” Mom shrieked.

  CHAPTER 60

  T

  hree days later, Dad’s funeral was held, and the weather matched the mood. It was gray and misty and miserable, with wind that seemed to crawl inside the solemn dress clothes and coats of the mourners. It was a good turnout for such

  weather. Joseph Fox had lived out his life in the same small town in the house where he was born, and the duty of attending was mandatory. The weather was irrelevant.

  Leila had been raised in Marshall, Michigan too, first noticing her future husband in the sixth grade. She stood at the graveside and scanned the faces of the crowd as the minister of their church spoke. When he had concluded, she turned and spotted two unfamiliar faces. An elderly couple in dark clothes stood at the back under an old maple tree, her arm in his.

  “Andrew, go up there and find out who they are. I may be old, but I swear I have never laid eyes on those people before.” Andrew followed her gaze and saw them. The man smiled, and something about his face was familiar. His curiosity had been piqued, too. He made his way through the mourners, who were intent on conveying their condolences. With his focus elsewhere, they moved toward Leila to do the same. Finally free, he walked up to the couple. “You have my profound sympathy,” the old man said, and

  extended his hand. His movements were fluid and quick, not the labored and slow efforts of an elderly person. Although the man’s face was wrinkled and worn, his eyes were clear, a piercing green that Andrew had seen many times before.

  “We thought we would pay our respects, and while we’re up here, we thought we would give you a hand picking out your next girlfriend,” said the man in a familiar voice. The woman giggled softly, holding her hand over her mouth.

  “Max?”

  “Rachel?”

  “There’s a cute one over there,” Max teased.

  “How? When? Why didn’t you tell me?” Andrew was flabbergasted, and struggled to contain his excitement.

  “Did you know that there are military jets that hold more than one person, and can get from there to here in under an hour? I suppose you flew commercial,” Max replied, ignoring the questions.

  “Yeah, and it’s a blast to fly,” said Rachel, smiling. “Top speed of 2500 miles an hour. I plan to see what she can do when we fly back together.”

  Their disguises were perfect. The only aspects of their appearance that had not changed was their eyes. They didn’t wear wigs, but their hats had a gray-haired fringe that concealed their locks. The transformation from youth to old-age was amazing.

  When Andrew had recovered from the shock, he returned to Leila’s side. “Who are they?” she inquired. “Don’t worry Mom, you know them. I invited them to dinner, and they will be staying with us tonight. You are in for a pleasant surprise.”

  CHAPTER 61

  Map of Manhattan

  T

  he hotel suite was ornate, with baroque scrollwork and gold accents. The enormous bed weighed over 300 pounds. Its latex mattress promised to provide a pampered sleep to Vice-President Scarlett Conroy, who had traveled to New York for a meeting as Chair of the United Nations Security Committee. The room was a perk of her position, assigned by President Max Masterson as a duty that she would be expected to perform during their term. She didn’t mind. In fact, she relished the responsibility.

  Scarlett was not only the vice-president. She also held the office of the position of the United States’ ambassador to the United Nations. It was an honorary post, but it cemented the world’s image of the United States. In addition to Max, she was the face of her country, and contrary to tradition, this vice-president would be busy.

  Her day entailed attending long meetings, some of which exceeded three hours. It was capped by her address to the UN Security Council, a report of how the United States had coped with its first experience with large-scale domestic terrorism. She felt inadequate in that closed-door meeting, and she knew why; all they had been able to do was to avoid panic and return the nation’s capitol to the status quo.

  They couldn’t prevent something that they couldn’t predict, and prevention was the key. Eliminating the threat was the only way, and they had danced around that subject all day without resolution. Her time in New York had involved twelve hours of private meetings that involved intense discussion on matters that none of them had any power to control, and she was exhausted and frustrated.

  She looke
d out over the New York skyline from the penthouse suite and surveyed the panorama as the sun set low, creating that moment of suspension that is neither night or day. It was difficult just to imagine the sheer size of the 22 million residents of the great city. That didn’t include the commuters who entered Manhattan by train, car, and bus each day. She began to see lights inside of the buildings below, exaggerating the vastness of her view.

  Savoring the end of a long day, she backed away from the floor to ceiling windows and walked across the plush carpet to the bathroom. As she walked, she kicked off her pumps and stripped out of her stylish politician dress, leaving a trail of discarded clothing and underwear behind her. By the time she triggered the automatic lights of the bathroom, she was fully nude except for her jewelry. Pausing to examine her form in the mirror, she assessed her figure. “Not bad for a politician,” she thought, and turned to face the black marble jacuzzi tub of the opulent room. “A bubble bath before dinner will be just the thing to relax me,” she surmised, and bent forward to start the flow of hot water.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she detected movement on the black surface of the large vanity, and turned to focus on the bowl of the sink near her head. At eye level, a large, black, hairy spider darted forward and she fell back, hitting the floor with a startled gasp. She hated spiders. From her vulnerable angle on the floor, she couldn’t see where the spider had gone, and for a sweaty heart-pounding moment, she feared that that it had jumped in her hair.

  She back-pedaled on her hands in a crab walk until she was as far as she could travel without bumping her head, and began running her hands furiously through her long auburn tresses. She stopped, imagined that she could feel something moving, and did it again. Once she was satisfied that the spider wasn’t lurking on top of her head, she slowly rolled to her knees and stood. She scanned the black marble for the whereabouts of her tormentor.