by Don Brown
“You okay?”
No response.
“Bobby?”
“I’m okay,” he lied.
“You’ve got a phone call.”
“Who is it?”
“Your wife. She said she couldn’t get through on your cell.”
Molly Sue had seen the article. He knew it. Or someone had called her about it. “How’d she sound?”
“Not good.”
“Tell her, uh . . .” What to say? What to do? “Tell her I’ll call her back.”
“Yes, sir.”
Like certain members of the U.S. Senate before him, including John Kerry and John McCain, Bobby Talmadge not only had married into natural beauty but also had married into a ton of money.
There was nothing wrong with marrying into an ultra-rich and powerful family, especially if all the parties were on the same page. And in this case, Molly Sue’s father, former congressman Steve Roy McGovern, had made his fortune in peanut brokerage and gone on to serve in Congress for nearly forty years, where he had chaired the powerful House Ways and Means Committee and become known as the “oldest rat in the Republican barn.”
Long before Bobby ever met Richardson DeKlerk or came under the wing of the Georgia Political Victory Fund, Congressman Steve Roy McGovern took Bobby under his wing, recognized him as a political star, basically handed him the congressional seat in Buckhead that McGovern had held over four decades, and made sure the money got spent to ensure Bobby’s success.
The payback would be to guarantee that McGovern’s only daughter and only child, Molly Sue, who was so darn gorgeous and talented that she could have won Miss Georgia even without her daddy’s money and influence, would be guaranteed the life of a high-powered political socialite wife, whether it be in Washington or as first lady of Georgia.
She inherited all of Daddy’s money when he died, prompting the Atlanta Journal-Constitution to run a feature story dubbing her as the “Richest Woman in Georgia”—and she inherited all his meanness too.
In fact, the older she got, the meaner she got. She stayed on his case constantly. Criticizing. Nagging. No matter what election he won, no matter how far he climbed in the polls, no matter what accolades were bestowed upon him, it was never enough. She was always pleased to compare him unfavorably with other men—other senators, other members of Congress, other husbands, other professionals. Doctors, lawyers, ministers—whoever. “If only you were more like so-and-so,” she would harp.
Once, he had surprised her for her forty-fifth birthday with a romantic trip to Paris. One would think the gesture would have been appreciated. And although at first she had seemed excited about it, from the moment they stepped off the plane at Charles de Gaulle Airport, she unleashed a torrent of nonstop criticism that proceeded to flow like hot lava from an angry volcano for the entire duration of their French getaway.
The five-star accommodations he arranged were not acceptable.
She complained about the taxi service.
He should have checked the weather to make sure there was no rain on the day he made reservations for their tour of Montmartre.
Like a Roman solider lashing a shirtless prisoner on the back with a skin-stripping bullwhip, her sharp tongue lashed him constantly. Night and day. Every waking minute. And she kept coming back. She would attack, starting her barrages against him about 8:00 p.m. after a couple of glasses of red wine. Then, after a brief respite while she switched to scotch, she would take a few gulps and allow herself to be worked up into another frenzy of verbal attacks. And her second barrage, usually commencing around ten o’clock, felt like salt tossed into the bloody wounds she had delivered in her first round of haranguing. Usually, in round two, she launched into an ultra-critical soliloquy about his body.
“I prefer slim, athletic men,” she would say. “Of which you are not and will never become. You need to work on your body type to make yourself more attractive.”
Granted, he expanded and contracted around the waist a bit, depending on the season of the year. And granted, he wasn’t blessed with her superfast metabolism, as few were. But no one had accused him, ever, of corpulence, except her.
Of course, to the outside world, which saw none of that, Molly Sue was the perfect southern lady, gracious and fun-loving and attuned to the social mores. Moving graciously among country club circles. Appearing for cheery photo ops at charitable events.
Her self-anointed charity, “Yes, There Is Hope,” targeted the poor, minority orphan girls of Atlanta and provided a network of volunteer tutors who were all more than willing to serve as junior ambassadors in Molly Sue’s charitable domain.
She knew all the right things to say, all the right things to do. She knew the little idioms of the richest of aristocrats and moved attractively in all kinds of social circles.
Nobody would believe him if he told them.
Because behind closed doors, the sweet, sexy, demure Episcopalian aristocrat turned into the mother of all Tasmanian devils.
Her family money and her family power had brought him from the shadows of lower-middle-class suburbia, his father having been an uneducated mill worker, and she constantly reminded him of it.
“You’d be nothing without me. I could snap my fingers and destroy you in a heartbeat if you crossed me.”
Of course, her appearances with him in public were all smiles and happy waving, and she seemed to be in active competition against him for the affection and admiration of her own followers.
His every step when they were together was like walking through a minefield. It had been that way for years and had only gotten worse with time.
His philandering had been wrong and he knew it. He had tried to stop it, but in his weakness he had failed.
But was life with a wife supposed to be this hard? Surely God hadn’t intended it to be this way. Had he? Was there no hope for him? Was he forever condemned to this internal tortured existence?
He had prayed for relief from her, but frankly, there had been none. So now what was he to do?
His staff tried protecting him. And Maryanne was the anti-Molly, so unassuming and shy, with a natural ability to blend into the woodwork. Molly Sue had never suspected anything between them. That’s what Bobby had loved about Maryanne. She was an opposite personality type from the overbearing socialite-debutante he had married. He found solace in her presence.
He often thought that had Molly Sue discovered the truth about Maryanne, he just might be able to survive that. It could be swept under the rug if discovered, and Maryanne would not be considered a splashy enough threat to Molly Sue’s public domain.
Not so with Marla. The photographs in the Washington Post with the leggy, glamorous model would unleash an uncontrollable firestorm from hell, a torrent of obsession, rage, and destruction from the woman he had married.
In a word, Molly Sue would not consider Maryanne the object of threatening public competition. But Marla would be more than enough to ignite a fury that would burn hot and eternal.
And to make matters worse, there loomed the specter of P.J. MacDonald, the naval officer who had been gunned down in the streets of Washington. It was only a matter of time before his office became the subject of a public investigation about the shooting.
No, he would not live the rest of his life under such dark storm clouds of uncertainty. And not only that, he would not give Molly Sue another shot at him. He had already accomplished in his life more than the majority of men could even dream about. And he would end it all on his own terms. He reached into the drawer where he kept his gun, but then changed his mind, if only for a moment.
He stood up, walked over to his office door, and locked it. This would be hard enough on Maryanne, and there was no point in risking that she might walk in on him during the act. This way, with the door locked, perhaps the Capitol police would get to him first and spare her the agony of witnessing his body sprawled upon the floor.
He turned around, walked to his desk, plopped down into his large leather chair, and pu
nched the intercom on his desk.
“Maryanne?”
“Your coffee has almost finished brewing.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “I think I’ve changed my mind. No coffee for me.” He hung up the phone.
His thoughts turned back to Molly Sue. Bobby Talmadge wasn’t sure if it was jealousy, hatred, or an unrivaled sense of self-righteousness that drove her. But he knew if he returned her call she would announce that he would hear from her lawyer. And she would hire the top bulldog in Atlanta.
Then she would tell all and make sure he would never win another election. She would demand half of all he had. No, more. She would demand, and keep demanding, all that he had for the rest of her life, even though she didn’t need it. She would do so solely for the sake of banishing him to permanent impoverishment.
Yes, that would be her only goal, to see to it that he lived the life of a cockroach.
Oh, she would go on to remarry. With her smile, her money, her looks, and her fake southern charm, she would hook herself a man. That would be for sure. And she would marry someone with either money or power. That would be a nonnegotiable prerequisite. But that wouldn’t stop her from her sick obsession with him, or with hounding the living hell out of him until he drew his last breath as an old man.
Vengeance.
Revenge.
He would not be the object of her public ire for the rest of his life.
Nor would he be the serf-lackey of the oil-and-gas lobbyist who set him up with Marla to begin with.
Nor, for that matter, would he ever go to prison.
No, he would never be able to find peace again. She wouldn’t allow that.
Never.
Ever.
He pulled out a pen and started to scribble a note on a piece of blank stationery with a royal-blue letterhead reading United States Senate.
Dear Molly Sue,
I’m sorry I wasn’t able to please you. I did try. I tried hard. But I failed. I’m sorry it had to end this way.
I wish you the best for the rest of your life and hope that you find happiness. Please tell the kids I love them.
Love always,
Bobby
He slumped back in his big leather chair and looked around at the dark mahogany walls of the plush U.S. Senate office that would be the last sight he saw on earth.
He would miss his kids, but really, they were grown and didn’t need him anymore.
Who needed him?
What good was he, at the end of the day?
Special interests owned him. The government might try to implicate him in the death of P.J. MacDonald. He had failed to shepherd a bill through Congress for his most powerful constituent, which was why he was being outed. And he had a wife who despised him.
Yes, this was the only way.
He reached down in the drawer and picked up the revolver.
“Senator?” Maryanne’s voice through the door.
He put the barrel of the gun in his mouth, and the steel was cold to his lips and his tongue.
“Bobby? Are you okay? Bobby? Why’s the door locked?”
With his thumb, he cocked the hammer into firing position.
“Bobby?” Knock-knock. “Are you okay? Please open the door!”
More knocking. Maryanne would not give up. But Maryanne could not save him. And there was nothing he could do for her. She deserved better.
Knock-knock.
“Bobby, if you don’t open now, I’m calling security!”
He took the gun out of his mouth. “I’m okay. I’ll be right there.”
“Thank God. You’re scaring me.”
“Hang on.”
He put the gun back in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
THE PENTAGON
SOUTH PARKING LOT
6:57 A.M.
Caroline swung around to the entrance of the large South Parking Lot of the Pentagon, one of four massive parking lots surrounding the building that housed the nation’s Department of Defense.
The South Lot was reserved for the general public, for visitors who could get clearance to visit the Pentagon, but mostly for commuters who caught the Pentagon Metro Station for the easy subway trip to various points into the nation’s capital.
But the lot also had spaces for low-level and midlevel military officers, and Caroline McCormick, who fell into the midlevel officer category, had been given a temporary parking pass there while waiting for her permanent pass to be assigned.
“Okay, I’m turning into the South Lot entrance now.” She spoke into her car’s Bluetooth to an anxious-sounding Captain Paul Kriete, who had been chatting on the phone with her for the last fifteen minutes. His voice—his strong, reassuring tone—had provided her with an unexpected level of comfort as she drove alone down the interstate and now into the Pentagon parking lot.
As she pulled into her space, she looked up and saw his cleft chin and reassuring smile, and felt a sense of peace surround her. Ever the gentleman, he reached down and opened her door, his handsome face showing a sense of relief.
“Thank God you’re okay.”
“I hope I’m okay,” she said, her mind still in a fog from having survived a shooting attempt only thirty minutes ago. She caught a whiff of his cologne as the morning breeze rushed in from over the Potomac. “In a way, it was almost like when P.J. was shot, it happened so fast.” She stepped out of the car, and he closed the door behind her and put his hand in the middle of her back.
“When P.J. was shot,” she said as he began to accompany her across the parking lot toward the south entrance of the Pentagon, “I heard a sharp popping sound. But I thought it was the sound of a car backfiring on Constitution Avenue. But when I turned around and saw P.J. lying there on the ground, bleeding, I knew I had heard the sound of a gunshot. But this time I heard nothing. He must have used a silencer.”
“Probably,” Paul said.
“But know what the scariest thing about it was?”
“Tell me.”
“I heard it whiz by my head, and I could feel the air from the bullet on my ear. That’s how close it came to my head, Paul. Less than an inch, right past my ear.”
She felt herself begin to tremble. “Give me a second, will you, please?”
The south entrance to the Pentagon was still about two hundred yards in front of them, but she had to stop walking for a second. Just to catch herself.
“You okay?” Paul asked.
“I . . . I . . .”
“Come here.”
He knew what she needed. And as he put his big, strong arms around her, she fell into his powerful and soothing embrace, and the rippling muscles of his biceps felt like protective shields around her shoulders.
What a powerful man. No wonder he had succeeded so brilliantly in command.
She didn’t even think about the dozens of military personnel walking around them, headed into the building. Nor did she think of, or even care about, the military’s prohibition against public display of affection. For a fleeting half second, the safe feeling of his protection made her forget that someone wanted her dead, or at least her worries evaporated. If only for a second.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asked.
She glanced up into his eyes, at first uncertain what he meant by the question. Then she remembered.
She stepped back, away from his embrace, a new sense of determination steeling her soul.
“Yes,” she said. “I made a vow to finish this, and I’m going to do it for P.J., and I’m going to do it because it’s the right thing to do.”
He winced. “Look. I have some friends at BUPERS”—the acronym for the Navy Personnel Command—“who owe me a favor. Or I could talk to Admiral Brewer. I’d hate it personally, but I think we should get you out of Washington awhile, until things blow over.”
Her Scotch-Irish blood started boiling in a hot cauldron. “No, sir. That is not an option. I’m a naval officer, and just like you’re called to do your duty, I’m called to do mine. A
nd right now my duty is to write a legal opinion so just maybe you’ll have a hundred thousand drones to command. Or maybe, depending on what I decide, I’ll write an opinion that will kill the whole project,” she said, feeling feisty. “Then you won’t have any drones to command.”
“I don’t care whether you kill the project or not,” he said. “I’ll just go back to sea, which is where I’d rather be anyway. I just don’t want you to get killed in the process.”
“Captain! Commander!”
Caroline looked over her left shoulder. Mark Romanov was walking toward them, his face contorted in a worried look. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Caroline spoke defiantly.
“She’s as stubborn as ever,” Paul said.
“I appreciate you gentlemen meeting me in the parking lot, but if I need bodyguards here at the Pentagon, we’re in big trouble. Anyway, I’ve got to get inside. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Okay. I’ll walk with you, if you don’t mind,” Mark said. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
“I’m sure you do.” Caroline stepped up her pace, walking again toward the south entrance.
“You guys can back off now! We’ve got it!” Mark shouted, which prompted Caroline to look over her shoulder.
“Who are you talking to?”
“Commander, meet Special Agents Carraway and Frymier.”
She turned around and saw two well-cut younger men, one a balding black guy and one a white guy with a close-cropped crew cut, maybe in their late twenties. They were wearing pinstripe suits, Ray-Ban sunglasses, and earpieces attached to squiggly wires. “This is Special Agent Carraway.”
“Ma’am,” said the black guy, nodding at her.
“And Frymier.”
“Good morning, ma’am,” said the Caucasian, his cologne smelling a bit strong in the wind.
“Special Agents Frymier and Carraway are your overnight detail watching your place. They just followed you here.”
“You were the guys who were on detail outside my house this morning?”
“Yes, ma’am. Plus, we had a couple of other agents stationed in the area also.”