by Eric M Hill
“Forced by himself to kill himself? What the heck does that mean? This was on Worldnet?” Hal was trying desperately not to let the anchor of sickness in his gut drag him down. There had to be a way they could spin this.
“And,” the president said, looking somberly at his chief, “the other guard—”
Hal slapped his palm to his forehead and grunted. “Oh, don’t tell me. He’s one of the three guards who hung the predator.”
“No. I wish he was. That would at least make sense. He’s a clean-cut kid who just got out of the army. Twenty-two years old. He’s been with Washington State Penitentiary for less than a month. I doubt that he has killed a prisoner in his first month on the job.”
“What about combat?” the chief groped. “He may have…” A terrible thought collapsed his throat. He couldn’t say it. He shook his head fearfully, his eyes wide with impending disaster.
“Let’s hope it’s not that, Hal. Let’s hope this clean-cut kid has a backyard full of buried bodies. Because if this thing doesn’t know the difference between a man who fights for his country and a predator…” The president spoke softly. “God help us.”
“He’d be the only one who could help us,” said the chief.
Cuning pounded his fist on the desk and stood. “Well, I’m not waiting on God…or anyone else.” He pulled out his phone and pressed the number. He looked at Hal as he spoke. “I’ve come too far to let this guard or Anderson get in the way of me finally getting true power. I’m going to take care of both of them.”
His special assistant, Jeffrey Dean, answered. “Yes, Mr. President?”
President Cuning put the phone to his chest. “You can stay if you’d like.”
The chief of staff slowly rose. He knew Cuning was a scoundrel extraordinaire. That’s why he had chosen to mentor him and to grease the paths of power for him. The nation had been all but gone for at least twenty years. Nothing could save it now except a revolutionary change of government. That would require unsavory but necessary things to be done.
But this didn’t mean he thought it wise to be directly involved in clear felonies—especially murder. So he was grateful that the president was keeping his decades old promise to exclude him from his darkest actions.
He walked toward the door, his thoughts furiously outpacing his steps. He stopped and turned. “We’ve been together a long time, working for this very moment. No, Mr. President, I think I’ll stay.”
One side of Cuning’s face turned up into a grin. He was ecstatic that his mentor had finally taken that final step. For there would be no place in his new government for people who were half in, half out.
He spoke into the phone to the man who would’ve waited an hour for the president to speak. “The public will understand if a dead correctional officer is dead because he was also a murderer. They will not understand if a correctional officer is dead because of his military service to this country.”
“I understand, Mr. President.”
“And I think the smartest man to ever live has served his purpose.”
Jeffrey’s eyebrows came together. He blinked hard. “Mr. President, are you saying—?”
“Kill him, Jeffrey. I’m saying I want his brains splattered in a thousand directions. And I want you to take down his closest allies. Start with Chief King. And I have had it with that insolent, pompous, Bible thumping traitor of an Attorney General. He threatened me. I want this problem solved with finality.”
“The U.S. Attorney General?”
“Now what Attorney General could I possibly be speaking of, Jeffrey? Jamaica? Yes, the U.S. Attorney General.”
Silence.
The president’s voice was low and dripping with acid. “Are you…there? We’re in the last seconds of the game. Should you be on the floor, or on the bench, Jeffrey?”
Jeffrey had little conscience to burden him. He was a utility man. A ruthless, practical utility man with big ambitions. Right was whatever worked. But orchestrating the death of the United States Attorney General was not something you did because you thought that’s what the president wanted you to do.
“You want more clarity,” said Cuning. “You want to make sure you understand me.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”
“I want you to have those Austin cowboys killed, and I want you to execute protocol Justice Down. Is that clear enough?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President. It’s clear. I’ll take care of it.”
Cuning ended the call and let out a deep, satisfying breath and looked at his chief of staff. “By tomorrow this time, I’ll be the Constitution.”
“Looks that way, Mr. President.”
“You’re still going to try to make it over to Mercy tonight to see your grandson, aren’t you?”
The chief’s skin turned cold. I didn’t—
“Oh, Hal,” Cuning chuckled, “don’t go into cardiac arrest on me. I’m the president. I’m supposed to know what’s going on. Tell Benson I’m sorry for his injuries, and that his country is deeply indebted to him for his sacrifice. And, Hal, tell him I’ll come by as soon as possible to thank him in person.”
Hal smiled through the chill. “I will, Mr. President.” He left the Oval Office wondering how long the president had been having him surveilled.
Chapter 56
Mercy Veterans Hospital wasn’t a state of the art trauma and rehabilitative center in the typical sense. Yes, it was impressively advanced. It had the latest technology and the best doctors. Yes, it was impressively large. It was a mammoth complex spread across five hundred acres and punctuated by two fifty-story buildings that were connected to one another by five pedestrian tubes. Atop both buildings were helipads.
Yet, what made this facility unique in the truest sense of the word was it belonged to Dr. Anderson, and was one of his many obsessions. He couldn’t stop America’s constant wars, but he could use his money and brilliance to save and restore as many seriously and critically injured veterans as possible. The severe cutbacks the past few years in the Veterans Administration budget made his mission that much more necessary.
Hal heard his granddaughter-in-law’s voice on the other side of the curtain as he stood in the hall just outside the hospital room. Then he heard Caroline’s infectious laughter. It filled the room. Benson said something that Hal couldn’t quite make out, but whatever it was must’ve been hilarious because Caroline couldn’t stop laughing.
How did they do that? What was there to laugh about? Was it their youth? Were they simply too young to understand the tremendous challenge that lay before them? Benson’s spine had been severed by a bullet to the neck. He was a quadriplegic! A twenty-four-year-old quadriplegic with a pregnant wife. He’d never get to play with his child. He’d never—
Hal’s head pushed back in shock against the air. Benson couldn’t speak! Hal forgot politeness and hurried into the room and snatched the curtain to the side. Benson and Caroline were surprised; Hal was stunned.
“What…? How…? Your neck?”
Caroline jumped up with a smile and yanked the curtain back across the room. “Shhh. What? A beer. How? In my purse. His neck? Well, I’ll let him tell you that one.”
Hal looked wide-eyed at the beer in his grandson’s hand.
“You look like you want some of my beer,” said Benson.
“You’re holding a beer…in your hand.”
Caroline’s eyes twinkled. “Not bad for a quadriplegic, huh?”
“Ex-quadriplegic,” said Benson, before he took a few swallows of beer.
“What happened? Did they misdiagnose you? Was your spine really severed?”
“Oh yeah. Caroline’s got an x-ray in that backpack she calls a purse. Show him the x-ray, babe.”
She bounced toward the large bag on the sofa. Hal watched her gleefully pull out what must’ve been the x-ray. She held it up high with two fingers at the edge and swung it left and right as she approached him.
Hal was fond of ridiculing marriage, but he could s
ee why his grandson was smitten with Caroline. She had the usual stuff that could get the male imagination busy and the blood flowing downward. But she had so much more. And she was always full of joy. The girl could turn a funeral into a party.
He took the x-ray and looked at it. “Your voice. You can talk. I don’t understand.”
“It’s Anderson,” said Caroline. “This place of his. They work miracles.”
“Yeah, if a Marine’s going to get shot in the neck fighting for democracy,” Benson joked, “he better hope he wakes up here.”
Fighting for democracy, thought Hal.
“At least we finally got someone in the White House who’s doing what he said he was going to do,” said Benson. “Wouldn’t make sense to take a bullet for a nation that doesn’t have enough backbone to stop the predators.”
“I’m more afraid of Cuning than I am any predator,” said Caroline. “He’s the biggest predator out there.”
“Oh, goodness,” said Benson. “I got her started. Sorry, Pop. Please forgive her. She’s a wonderful wife, but you know she’s a flaming liberal. She knows not what she says.”
Hal squeezed out a smile. “I forgive her. I have to. She’s family.”
“Let’s hope I don’t ever have to say, ‘Told you so,’” she said.
“Pop’s his number one man, babe. Everything’s under control.”
“Nothing can control that man, Benson. No offense, Pop. You know me and my conspiracy theory mind.”
“No offense taken, Caroline. That’s the beauty of America. We can disagree with the government and…” The thought sank under the weight of the coming new reality. “I’m going to make a phone call.” He decided against telling them he’d be right back. He walked a few steps down the hall and stopped. He went back to the room. “Caroline, may I use your phone?”
“Use mine,” said Benson. It’s right there on the table.”
“Thank you,” he hesitated, “but I really need to use Caroline’s.”
Caroline looked puzzled, but she handed him her phone.
Hal shocked Caroline by kissing her on the forehead—a first. “Thank you for being a great wife to Benson.” He squeezed her shoulder. “You’re a very smart person. Follow your heart.” He turned from her dumbfounded face toward his grandson. “You’re a true hero, Benson. On behalf of those in government who value democracy and our way of life, I say, thank you for your service.”
“Okay,” Benson said, wonderment in his tone.
Hal looked at the beer can. “Mind?”
“Go right ahead.”
Hal killed the rest of it and walked away.
Caroline and Benson looked at one another and said together, “Now that was weird.”
Chapter 57
Hal ate a bag of Doritos and a Snickers before fingering the numbers into the phone. He was impressed with the junk food, and glad that he had not tried this stuff until now. He’d be fifty pounds heavier had he tasted them even a year ago.
“Yes?”
“Director Fulcrum, this is—”
“Hello, Hal. White House chief of staff. How may I help you?”
About as warm a reception as I can expect from a person who despises the president, he thought. He paused. “I’m in quite a peculiar situation.”
“Are you calling on behalf of or in the service of the president?”
“No, I’m not. I’m calling because I’ve jumped into a hole that is proving to be deeper and darker than I ever could have imagined.”
And you’re just now figuring this out? the FBI director thought cynically. “Is there criminality at the bottom of this hole?”
Classic Nancy. Cutting right to the bone, he thought. “Article Two, Section Four, of the United States Constitution would concisely call it a high crime. But, Director, I’m sure you’d call it more plainly conspiracy to commit murder.”
There was brief silence.
The Director contemplated who was covered under Article Two, Section Four. Her heart raced. “Who exactly do you believe is involved in conspiracy to commit murder?” she asked, hoping foolishly that Cuning’s number one snake was ready to bite his boss in the butt.
“Director, I would not put my neck on the chopping block for a hunch. I was in the Oval Office with the president of the United States when he gave an order over the phone for Dr. Anderson and Chief King in Austin to be killed. Their lives are in immediate danger.”
Director Fulcrum had always believed Cuning to be a dangerous combination of politician, gangster, and would-be king. But he had also proven to be part magician. For although there was unmistakable evidence that bad things happened to those who crossed him, it was all circumstantial. Now the White House chief of staff was providing firsthand testimony that Cuning was indeed a murderer. She salivated.
“Would you—?”
“There’s more,” interrupted Hal. “He’s put out a contract on the Attorney General.”
Director Fulcrum shook her mind and steadied herself before sitting down. “The Attorney General?”
“Your boss. Yes.”
More silence.
“Director Fulcrum, I’m using someone else’s phone, but that doesn’t mean too much when you control sixteen intelligence agencies. I’m being surveilled. Don’t be surprised if this call is cut short.”
“Where are you? We need to get you to a safe place.” And I need details! she thought.
“And if I told you, and we are being surveilled, wouldn’t it all boil down to who gets here first? You or them? Look, I would love to testify, but I’m not going to live long enough to testify. And even if by some miracle I did, it would all come down to my word versus his.”
“We can protect you,” said Fulcrum, hardly believing her own words.
Hal ignored her empty promise. “The president spoke to someone on the phone named Jeffrey. I think this is Jeffrey Dean. He’s the one making it all happen.”
“Hal, I need more. We need to talk.”
“You already know anything else I can tell you. He wants to be America’s first dictator, and he’ll do anything to make this happen.”
“Hal, let’s—”
The line went dead.
Chapter 58
Hal placed the phone on the cafeteria table and rubbed his eyes. And I helped put him there, he thought. The turkey had given the farmer an ax in preparation for the Thanksgiving meal. His mind wandered through hazy jungles of brutal honesty. He steered clear, however, of the quicksand of self-condemnation. Self-condemnation at this point would have been hypocritical and self-serving. It was too little too late to feign innocence.
Yet, he was genuinely remorseful. Remorseful for the dire situation that had made the mad gamble necessary. History had repeatedly proven that if one person or group of persons achieves absolute power, tyranny will follow. But every path of political reality and national survival had unfortunately led to Cuning. The only way to save the national farm, so to speak, had been to put the ax in Cuning’s hand and hope to God that he swung it only at the enemy.
The real enemy.
The predators.
Yes, he’d have to do what was necessary to neutralize those who valued the civil rights of predators over the natural rights of everyone else not to be robbed, raped, or murdered. But that did not include killing the good guys. Cuning didn’t even have absolute power yet, and already he had put a contract on the head of the U.S. Attorney General and on Dr. Anderson, the most brilliant man to ever live. A man who had done so much for the nation and world. And the man who had somehow saved his grandson from a life of total paralysis. Who was next?
Caroline’s phone rang.
Hal opened his eyes and looked down at the phone. Question answered. He suddenly felt exceedingly tired and emotionally worn out. He let out a heavy breath, as though it was his last. “Hello, Mr. President.”
“Hal,” said Cuning, like a disappointed father. He inhaled deeply and thrust the air out with a grunt. “I don’t know what to sa
y.”
You’ll think of something, thought Hal.
“We’re on the one yard line…about to punch it in for the win.”
“Against whom?” asked Hal.
“Whom?” Pause. “Ahhh, An-der-son. I never wanted to let my mind go there. We’ve been together so long. Worked so hard to get to this point. But it did. I guess it’s not altogether unreasonable for a man to develop a soft spot in his heart for the man who gave his grandson back his limbs.”
Hal said nothing.
“I can see how something like that could cause you to fumble the ball. I do. I really do.”
“But I didn’t fumble the ball, Mr. President. I offered it to the other team.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“So what happens now? How much time do I have?”
“Not a lot. Like you said, it’s your word versus mine. But America’s at a critical place. It can hardly stand that kind of inflammatory accusation when Congress is on the verge of going my way.”
“Are they here? Are they going to kill me here at the hospital?” Hal was resigned to his death. He deserved it. Not for contacting the FBI, but for all the good people who would die once the man he mentored got the power he lusted after. Yet, for some reason, the thought of being killed in the hospital where his family was, and possibly being seen a bloody mess by them, was unacceptable. He began contemplating the unlikely scenario of escaping the hospital alive.
“I suspect that you want this transaction to take place somewhere other than the hospital,” said Cuning.
Hal’s eyes widened, then narrowed in anger at Cuning’s intrusion into his thoughts. “I must admit that I was wondering of the possibility of my fumble being recovered somewhere other than here.”
“Hmm, I’m not all-powerful just yet, Hal. And you’re now one of two men in the world who can keep me from my goal. So I can scarcely take the chance of you hooking up with Saint Nancy and the FBI. But I must confess there is a more useful way to recover the fumble. A way that meets both of our needs.”