“No, Mom. He was sober.”
“Then I am thinking he has gone mad. It is the only explanation.”
John shrugged. “You won’t have to go far in this town to find someone to agree with you. His staff has been trying to talk him out of it, but you know Tom when he gets his mind set.”
“You knew? Why didn’t you tell your mother?”
“It was a secret. I got wind of it last time I was at the White House but I never thought he’d go through with it. Besides, they made me promise not to tell anyone.”
“Even your mother?”
“Even my mother.”
She had the remote in her hand and started hitting the button, stopping on each channel just long enough to catch the topic, then moving on.
“Look at this. On every channel it is the same. That is all they are talking about. In Holland this would not create such a fuss. But here…” She walked to the other side of the island and freshened her cup of coffee. She held up the pot for John but he shook his head.
“Tom expected this,” he told her. “He’s figuring— hoping—the initial ruckus will die down and people will stop emoting and begin thinking.”
“Let me tell you what I am thinking, John Vanduyne,” she said—and using his first and last name meant she was really annoyed. “I am thinking it is a good thing you are only renting this house. Because your old friend Tommy Winston is going to be chased back to Georgia very soon, along with everyone he brought with him.”
“I am thinking you could be right,” John said.
4
The inbound traffic along Massachusetts Avenue seemed heavier than usual, giving John extra time to check out what the wonderful world of talk radio had to say about Tom’s address to the nation last night. He hit scan and let his tuner skip up the dial. Almost immediately he heard Tom’s voice.
“… so we’ve been attacking the problem with the full force of all the federal government’s law enforcement agencies and all the local police departments for a quarter of a century now, and where has it gotten us? We’ve spent three-quarters of a trillion dollars, jailed hundreds of thousands of people, but have we solved the problem? No. It’s worse. Are the streets any safer now after all these hundreds of billions of dollars? No. They are not. So what’s the solution? More of the same… ?” He moved on, stopping whenever he heard an angry voice.
Which was often.
Everyone was shocked, but not everyone was enraged. Howard Stern seemed to think it was a great idea, long overdue; Imus didn’t seem to know what to think.
But the call-in shows presented a chorus of condemnation from everywhere on the political spectrum: right, left, and center.
“Tommy, Tommy,” he said softly. “What have you done?” As he crawled downtown, John’s mind tuned out the radio. His thoughts drifted back to his boyhood and all the years he had spent with the kid from the neighboring farm. From grammar school in Freemantle through Georgia State, Tommy and he had been inseparable.
The things they did… God, they were lucky to have survived.
Both were reckless, assuming like most kids that they were immortal and serious harm happened to other kids—ones who weren’t quite as smart and agile as they—but Tommy had always had more of the daredevil in him. Always Tommy who thought up the most outrageous stunts.
John remembered the time he discovered he could drive his car down the wall of the sand pit outside town. The pit’s walls looked steep and sheer, but one night when he was seeing how close he could get to the edge with his old wreck of a Chevy—a junker that was ready for the scrap heap—he got too close and the car began sliding down the incline. To his relief, the walls were soft and slowed his progress. He made it to the bottom in one piece and was able to drive out the other side. He picked up Tom and damn near scared the crap out of him by driving up to and over the edge.
Which gave Tom a wonderful idea. The next night they got Eddie Hennessy, one tough s.o.b., in the back seat and went cruising through the woods, supposedly looking for parkers to spook. While they were driving, Tom bemoaned the fact that Bonnie Littlefield had left him for another, and how miserable he was, and how he didn’t see much point in going on living. He timed his despair so that it reached its deepest point as they approached the sand pit. With a shout of “Shit! I can’t go on without her!” he wrenched the wheel to the right and went over the edge of the pit.
Well, Eddie Hennessy went into a bug-eyed panic in the back of the car. He lunged forward, reached over the front seat, and wrapped his arms around Tom’s face and neck, shouting that he didn’t want to die and screaming, “Mama! Mama!” John was laughing so hard he nearly wet himself, not realizing that Tom couldn’t see a damn thing with Eddie’s arms wrapped around his face. He lost control of the car; it slewed sideways and toppled over. Rolled three times before it came to a stop at the bottom of the pit. No seat belts on any of them, but somehow they came out with only a few scratches.
John shook his head. Yeah… lucky to be alive.
They drifted apart after college: Tom to Duke Law, John to Tufts School of Medicine. He’d finished his residency and was just starting as an internist when he got a call from Tom: “I’m thinking of running for Congress. Want to help?” Starting then, John had played a part in every one of Tom’s campaigns. The disintegration of John’s marriage coincided with the beginning of the Winston presidency. When Tom offered him a post in the Health and Human Services Agency, John jumped at the chance.
So here he was, inching through the traffic around Dupont Circle. It finally loosened up on Connecticut Avenue, but instead of heading for HHS, John continued downtown. He was due at the White House.
5
“You don’t have to be here Mac,” Paulie said as the barber fastened the plastic drape around his neck.
“I mean, I know how to get a haircut on my own.” Snake stiffened at Paulie calling him “Mac”—he should know better than to use any sort of name when there was a third party in the room. He forced himself to relax. Mac was such a common term. Could mean anything.
Probably what Ronald McDonald’s friends called him. He didn’t like it, but he guessed it was okay… just so long as Paulie didn’t call him Snake. But how could he? Only packages’ families and friends ever heard that name. To Paulie he was simply Mac. Not Mike, not MacLaglen… just plain Mac.
Snake leaned his chair back against the wall of the private cubicle and stared at Paulie Dicastro—a stocky guy of average height, thirtyish with long red hair and beard, blue eyes, and fair skin. The least Italian-looking Italian he’d ever met. Snake had booked him with one of these upscale men’s hair stylists on Connecticut Avenue because he wanted a quality job. Who the hell knew where Paulie would have ended up if the choice had been left to him?
Snake had hired him for jobs through the years. For all his whining, Paulie was a stand-up guy. He followed instructions, and that was the number-one priority. Even when things had got a little dicey with the last package, Paulie had hung in there. Poppy had been a little freaked, but it all worked out. Usually Paulie and Poppy just baby-sat the packages until the buyer came through with the ransom, but this time Paulie was going to do the actual snatch.
Thus the beard. Snake had told him two months ago to stop dyeing his hair and start letting his face grow. It looked pretty shaggy now, but the guy with the scissors would trim it up nice and neat. And tonight, after the package was safely tucked away, Paulie would shave it off. Anybody looking for a guy with a beard wouldn’t give him a second look.
Next step after the haircut was to get him into normal looking clothes. Paulie and that girl of his both had this thing for black. Look at Paulie now: black T-shirt, black leather pants, black fingerless gloves, black boots, long black coat—Paulie even dyed his hair jet black most of the time. And Poppy… she had these straight, severe bangs and shoulder-length pink-burgundy hair that looked like it had been cut with a laser; she dressed in slinky, low-cut black dresses with spider-web lace down
the arms and fishnet stockings. Even had black lipstick and fingernails. Looked like a vampire hooker. A couple of tattoos high up on her arms that Snake had never got a close look at and loads of earrings. Christ, she must have had ten in her left ear alone last time he saw her.
And if that wasn’t enough, she had a nostril ring and an eyebrow ring. Who knew where else she had a ring. Between the two of them the only thing that wasn’t black was their skin and Poppy’s hair—which probably was genuinely black when it wasn’t dyed that weird color.
Snake didn’t get it. He wouldn’t be caught dead in Paulie’s get-up. Like carrying a flashing neon sign that said Look at me! Hell with that.
“I’m footing the bill, Paulie. Just watching over my investment.”
“Yeah, but I feel like a little kid. I mean, what next? A booster seat?” Snake permitted himself a smile. Paulie was never completely happy unless he had something to whine about.
“I’m just making sure that—What’s your name again?” Snake said to the barber—oops, sorry: hair stylist.
“Raynoldo,” said the stylist. He had a delicate build and a delicate mustache and dark hair slicked back tight against his scalp.
“Yeah. Raynoldo. I just want to make sure Raynoldo here does it right. And that means off with the ponytail.”
“Aw, Christ!” Paulie said. “Do we really have to do that? I mean, isn’t that like goin‘ kinda far?” Snake ignored the question. The ponytail wasn’t up for discussion.
“And I want to make sure the beard looks good too,” he said. “Neat is the word. Hear that, Raynoldo? Neat.”
“Yes sir,” Raynoldo said. He gave Snake a quick, delicate smile. “Neat it will be.” Probably thinks me and Paulie’ve got a thing going, Snake thought.
“The beard I don’t care about,” Paulie said, still whining. “I mean, I only grew it for the gig. But the tail, man. Plenty of chauffeurs got ponytails. I can—” Sudden fury overcame Snake.
The goddamn jerk! He said chauffeur!
He catapulted out of his seat and pulled the scissors from Raynoldo’s fingers. He grabbed Paulie’s ponytail, yanked it taut, and snipped it off about two inches from his head.
“You talk too much, Paulie,” he said through his teeth, handing the scissors back to Raynoldo and tossing Paulie’s hair into his lap. “End of discussion.” Paulie glared at him but said nothing.
Good, Snake thought. Just so long as we know who’s boss here.
He felt the rage cool as quickly as it had flared, the way it always did. One second he was ready to kill; another second and it was as if nothing had happened.
He didn’t like the outbursts, but sometimes they served multiple purposes. Like now: He wouldn’t have to listen to any complaints from Paulie about the change of clothes waiting for him. He was going to be dressed right for the pickup this morning. Chauffeur’s livery all the way.
He glanced at his watch. Time was a-wasting.
“All right,” he said to Raynoldo. “Let’s get going. Make him nice and respectable looking, and make it quick. We’re on a schedule here.”
6
“… so let’s remove the outlaw glamour from drugs. Let’s make drugs dull, and let’s portray people who use them as dumb. One of the definitions of stupidity is the inability to learn from experience. Nothing we’ve tried has worked. It’s long past time for a change of tactics…” John twisted the knob and cut off Tom’s voice as he hit another major snag near Pennsylvania Avenue. Cars were backed up on 17th Street. When he reached Lafayette Square he saw why.
Hundreds of people were gathered on the grass, setting up tables and tents wherever they found an open patch, one even holding an impromptu prayer meeting on a nearby corner. Across the park, on the far side of the section of Pennsylvania Avenue in front of the White House that had been blocked off and turned into a pedestrian mall in 1995, he could see chanting, sign-carrying protesters marching in front of the wrought-iron fence.
The circus had arrived.
John edged his car toward the cadre of armed, grimlooking members of the Secret Service uniformed division manning the visitors gate. Twice the number he usually encountered. One started to wave him off, but then let him approach when John held his ID and pass out the window.
John knew most of the gate guards by now. This guy must have been one of the reinforcements.
As his ID and pass were being scrutinized, John said, “They didn’t waste any time, did they. Must all be early risers.” The guard grunted, “The first group showed up around ten o’clock last night.” He checked the appointment book in the gatehouse, then hurried back to the car and handed John his ID.
“Really sorry for the delay. Dr. Vanduyne,” he said. “You should have told me right off who you were.” Yeah, being the President’s personal physician did have a certain cachet.
“No problem,” John said. “I understand perfectly.” The huge gate closed behind his car, and an iron beam rose out of the pavement as a further bar to entry. John had heard it could stop a two-ton truck doing forty miles an hour.
He parked in the visitor’s area, removed his black bag from his trunk, clipped his ID badge to the breast pocket of his sport coat, and walked around to his left.
The White House—or “Crown” as the Secret Service called it.
He couldn’t see them, but he was sure the White House SWAT team was positioned on the roof. He was more aware than ever of the infrared sensors, electric eyes, audio monitors, pressure sensors, and video cameras monitoring his every step, feeding everything to W-16, the Secret Service command post under the Oval Office.
He tried to forget all that, tried to appreciate the setting.
The South Lawn was greening up, the trees were starting to bud, and the Washington Monument loomed over the scene like a monolithic guardian. The cherry trees were in bloom along the Potomac—he made a mental note to take Katie and Nana for a ride along the basin this weekend. Washington was a wonderful place to be in the spring. Although this spring might be different…
John quickened his pace. Good thing he’d had this appointment set up in advance. He was concerned about Tom’s blood pressure. Hairy enough to be the first line of medical defense for the leader of the free world, but when he was also your oldest friend…
At the ground-level doorway between the two stairways that framed the South Portico, another uniformed agent checked his ID. This was unusual. Most times he simply breezed in.
He entered the State Floor and bore left through the diplomatic reception area into the warren of executive offices in the west wing. In the hall he spotted a familiar and unhappy face.
“Hey, Bob,” John said. “I’m looking for the boss.” Robert Decker, Supervisory Special Agent, Secret Service, was a veteran of that exclusive club, the presidential detail. Today he looked harried and hassled. His gray suit was uncharacteristically rumpled, as if he’d been wearing it all night. John noted his tired eyes. Maybe he had.
Decker jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Down in the exec offices.”
“Anything wrong. Doc?” John shrugged. “Just doing his monthly blood pressure.”
“Do me a favor and give him a checkup from the neck up while you’re at it, will you?”
“All this getting you worried?”
“We’re already getting category-three death threats. I’ve canceled all tours and that’s earning me a ton of flack. Talk to him, will you?”
“I don’t see what I can do. He can’t exactly take it back.”
“Sure he can. He can go back on the tube tonight and say that he never said those things. It was his evil twin.” John waited for Decker to smile… and waited…
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“Look at this face,” Decker said grimly. “Is this the face of someone who’s kidding?”
“That bad, huh?”
“Worse,” Decker said, then walked off.
John continued down the hall. He stopped by the small, dungeonlike clinic tha
t shared this ground-floor corner with the White House physician’s office to offer a courtesy hello to Jeff Stein, the young doc who manned the clinic. Jeff could have taken Tom’s blood pressure every day if need be, but the President preferred his old buddy. And John didn’t mind. It was a way of keeping in touch with Tom, of piercing the wall of “splendid isolation” that was inexorably rising around him.
A blond nurse whose name John forgot sat at a desk, doing a crossword puzzle.
“Where’s Dr. Stein?”
She moved a folder over the puzzle, hiding it. John imagined things could get pretty slow in a little clinic like this.
“He went for some coffee, Dr. Vanduyne. Can I help you?”
“No. Just letting him know I’m here. Maybe I’ll catch him later.” He continued on toward the door with the presidential seal and pushed through.
The executive offices, normally a calm, well-ordered complex, were jumping with frenzied activity: aides and secretaries hustling back and forth, shouting across the rooms and between the offices, phones ringing off the hook.
Not at all a party atmosphere. Grim expressions on everyone. And the grimmest was on the face of the small, compact curly-haired, middle-aged woman approaching John right now: Stephanie Harris, White House Press Secretary.
“You’re here to sign the commitment papers, right?” she said.
She’d be upbeat and four-square behind her boss when she faced the cameras later, but not now.
“Nope. Just the usual blood pressure check.”
She stuck out her arm. “You want blood pressure? Check mine. It’s got to be a record.”
“Think you can top Bob Decker’s?”
“Definitely! He thinks this is a security nightmare? It’s nothing compared to the PR catastrophe! The phones have not stopped, not for an instant. Do you know how many calls we get on an average day? Forty-eight thousand. We’ve had that many already since midnight, most angry as hell. The damn fax machines have run out of paper so many times we’ve stopped refilling them. Beat Decker’s? I can double it!”
F Paul Wilson - Novel 04 Page 2