by Joseph Flynn
Merriman said, “I’m counting on it.”
“Because …” You evil sonofabitch, Michaelson thought. “Because that will make me her only possible choice for vice president.”
“Exactly. What ticket could the Republicans put up that could beat Grant-Michaelson?”
The idea was staggering, but hard to argue with.
That didn’t keep Michaelson from saying, “If you were here, I’d strangle you.”
“That’s why I called,” Merriman told him. “So what do you think? Patti Grant and you in the White House. Her with just the one term left. You the natural heir. Me moving up quickly in the Senate. Has some appeal, doesn’t it?”
Michaelson did like the idea of being Patti Grant’s successor in the Oval Office.
If he couldn’t beat her, that would be the next best thing.
Give him the chance to put her accomplishments in the shade.
Get even with Merriman, too, when the time came.
“It has some appeal,” Michaelson agreed.
Captain Welborn Yates’ Office
Welborn called the Warner Brothers studio in Burbank, California at 10:00 a.m. With the time difference between the east coast and the west, that turned out to be too early. The switchboard was available, but the lawyers who protected the studio’s intellectual property rights were unavailable. The studio’s operator went the extra mile, what with Welborn calling from the White House, and told him there was a law school student working as a summer intern who usually came in early.
“That’s great,” Welborn said, “let me talk with him.”
He didn’t need any legal advice, just someone to check old files.
“Her,” the operator corrected. “Christine Peterson.”
“I stand corrected. I’d love to speak with Ms. Peterson.”
From the doorway to his office Kira’s voice asked, “You would? Who’s Ms. Peterson?”
Welborn looked at her and held a finger to his lips.
“Ms. Peterson? Yes, this is Captain Welborn Yates.” He reassured her that he really was calling from the White House … and, yes, there were some similarities between the real thing and the old TV show with Martin Sheen. “I’m glad you’re a fan of popular culture, Ms. Peterson … Yes, of course, Christine. What I’d like to know is whether Warner Brothers or anyone affiliated with the studio has ever filed a cease and desist notice on an outside party for infringing on the image of Porky Pig.”
Welborn listened for a moment.
“Yes, I think it would be best to go back to the very beginning.” He thought for a second. “If I’m underestimating the number of people who might have done that, let’s start with any infringer in the Washington to New York corridor. You’ll do that?”
Welborn listened again.
“I think I can help you out, no problem.”
He gave her his office and mobile phone numbers and hung up.
Kira asked, “Ms. Peterson would like a picture of the president … or of you?”
“Neither. She has a yen for White House M&Ms.”
Kira stepped forward. “There are really people who would infringe on Porky Pig?”
Welborn took a photocopy of the pig pin from the material Rockelle had sent him.
“Porky or not?” he asked.
Kira looked and compared the image to her memories of the cartoon character.
“Pretty close,” she said, returning the image. “Allowing for a wise guy attitude.”
“The pin is the signature of the K Street killer, the guy shooting the lobbyists.”
“That’s a crime?”
Welborn wondered what the over/under on that question would be.
Then he said, “He took several shots at Putnam Shady.”
Kira considered Putnam to be a friend.
“Sorry. But thanks for reminding me. I have to add Putnam to the wedding list.”
“You’ve invited Margaret Sweeney?”
“Yes.”
“Then he’s covered.”
“He should receive his own invitation.”
Welborn deferred. “You know best. About that.”
Kira smiled. “We’re going to be married a very long time. Possibly. And we’re going to have a lot more people at our wedding than we thought. Last minute or not, people are flying in from all over. I have to let Uncle Mather’s people know right away so we’re not caught short on anything. You’ve talked to your parents?”
“They’ll arrive tomorrow.”
Showing a hint of anxiety, she said, “I’m a little nervous about meeting them.”
“They’ll love you, probably more than me.”
That won Welborn a kiss. Kira was on her way out when Welborn stopped her.
“Wait a minute. What’s the password? I don’t want to be turned away from my own wedding.”
“It’s actually three words. I thought of you and couldn’t come up with anything more perfect.”
“I love you?” Welborn asked.
Kira answered, “O lucky man!”
GWU Hospital
Carolyn had heard McGill speak of Clare Tracy, but she’d never met her before. That didn’t keep Carolyn from embracing Clare and saying, “Thank you, thank you so much for coming to help Kenny.”
Clare didn’t just abide the hug, she returned it.
As if she knew what Carolyn was enduring, and in a way she did.
“Kenny’s still in his fishbowl, that’s what he calls his sterile room, but would you like to see him?” Carolyn asked.
“Very much.”
Carolyn took one of Clare’s arms and she, in turn, took one of McGill’s. It felt like one of the most natural things in the world to him, but it still made him uneasy. He had WorldWide News snooping on him and he didn’t want anyone to misinterpret anything.
Kenny was awake when they stepped in front of the window looking in on his room. He was sipping clear liquid through a straw. He looked much better than he had the day before and when he saw his parents he smiled broadly.
But his eyesight must have been a bit off, McGill thought.
Because when Kenny looked at Clare, he said, “Patti.”
“I wish.” Clare chuckled. “The day I look that good, I’ll sit for a portrait.”
Carolyn told her, “There is a resemblance. Your hair color and skin tones are quite close.”
Clare turned to McGill, “You care to cast a vote?”
Before McGill could be coaxed to answer, two more visitors appeared, a woman McGill didn’t know and a young girl about —
“Liesl!” Kenny called out in excitement.
The girl, McGill saw, repressed a moment of shock and painted a smile on her face. She won a great deal of favor with him for doing that, not letting his son see that he wasn’t quite who he used to be.
“Hi, Kenny,” she called back. “Everyone from school says hello.”
Introductions were made, Liesl and Mrs. Eberhardt meeting McGill and Clare, saying hello to Carolyn. A nurse showed Liesl how to use an intercom next to the room’s door so she and Kenny could talk without raising their voices and disturbing other patients. Having overheard Clare’s name, the nurse asked her if she was ready to have her blood drawn to confirm the results of the test done in New York.
Clare said she was, and turned to McGill.
“Will I need to catch a cab back to the hotel?”
He shook his head. “Either I’ll be here or I’ll have someone drive you.”
“We’ll have a chance to talk later?”
“Absolutely.”
She stepped close to McGill and kissed his cheek.
“Tell the president hello for me, and let her know I’ll vote for her whatever party she’s in.” Clare departed with the nurse.
Carolyn looked at McGill. “What did that mean?”
McGill hadn’t seen Patti’s announcement, but he’d been privy to her decision.
He told Carolyn what Patti had done.
“Oh, my,” C
arolyn said. “Everything’s changing so fast.”
Just then another nurse approached them.
“Mrs. Enquist, Mr. McGill, if you have a moment, Dr. Jones would like to see you.”
McGill and Carolyn were escorted into Dr. Jones’ office. The nurse left them alone with Kenny’s chief oncologist and closed the door behind them. The patient’s mother and father were both on edge, expecting to hear something momentous if not downright terrifying.
Dr. Jones offered drinks, but understood when they were declined.
McGill asked, “Has something gone wrong? More so than before?”
Dr. Jones shook her head. “We had to go hard with Kenny’s chemotherapy. The drugs are powerful. They have to be. Quite frankly, we don’t know how Kenny managed to stay functional so long without treatment. He must normally have a remarkably strong physical constitution. We hope to make that work in our favor now, but it also means with a more typical patient we would have gotten to him before the disease had progressed so far.”
“You’ll still be able to treat him?” Carolyn asked with a tremor in her voice.
“Yes. Finding two compatible donors in such a short time was very fortunate. That is what gives us great hope. Have you decided who you will use for Kenny, assuming our test results confirm the ones showed by Ms. Tracy’s test in New York.”
McGill and Carolyn looked at each other.
Carolyn said, “It has to be your call, Jim. Patti and Clare are both here because of you.”
McGill’s first impulse was to say Patti, but if Clare were the donor, that would allow Patti to attend to her official and political chores without interruption. It was a tough call.
Dr. Jones could see McGill’s hesitation and offered a further consideration.
“I must tell you,” the doctor said, “I’ve never seen anything like the outpouring of generosity Kenny has received. At first, I thought it was simply a byproduct of —”
“Privilege?” McGill asked. “Power?”
Now in his third year as an occupant of the White House, he had become acclimated not only to the trappings of wealth such as he’d never imagined, but also the proximity to power, the likes of which existed under no other single roof in the world.
Nonetheless, McGill had done everything he could to keep a level head.
He was just along for the ride, an ordinary guy who had gotten very lucky.
All he’d ask for when Patti left office was to keep her love and company.
“Yes, quite frankly,” Dr. Jones said. “Both of those things. But what surprised me was the genuine affection all the potential donors feel for you and the president, Mr. McGill.” Turning to Carolyn, she added, “And the love the president obviously feels for your son, Mrs. Enquist.”
Carolyn, it seemed, had moved past her feeling of insecurity.
“She’s a wonderful person. So is Clare Tracy.”
Dr. Jones steepled her fingers before her mouth for a moment as if trying to decide how to phrase what she had in mind. Finding the words, she told McGill and Carolyn. “I must tell you that Kenny’s wealth of potential donors has not gone unnoticed by others in the hospital, particularly the patients on this floor, their families and their physicians.”
“What do you mean?” McGill asked.
Dr. Jones replied, “In the words of one young patient, ‘Can I have anybody he doesn’t need?’”
“I don’t understand,” Carolyn said.
McGill did. “The other patients are looking for donors … and you’ve found some who don’t match Kenny but could help other patients?”
“Six patients in the Washington-Baltimore area,” Dr. Jones said. “One right here at GWU, the little girl who asked about Kenny’s surplus.”
This time it was Carolyn who read between the lines.
“You mean either the president or Clare Tracy would be right for her, too?”
Dr. Jones nodded. “Just so, assuming we get the same test results on Ms. Tracy.” She looked at McGill. “If the president were to donate to Kenny, do you think Ms. Tracy might donate to our other patient? Beyond that, do you think the other compatible donors would be willing to help the other children in need?”
McGill asked, “Are Carolyn and I among those potential donors?”
Dr. Jones shook her head. “No, I’m sorry.”
“I’ll talk with my wife and Clare,” McGill told the doctor. “Maybe the two of them together.” He turned to Carolyn. “Do you have any preference?”
She shook her head. “All I want is for Kenny to get well, him and as many other kids as possible.”
McGill told Dr. Jones, “If you’ll give me the names of the other people who can help, I’ll see that they get the word.”
The doctor smiled. “Thank you. Please do so as soon as you can. Kenny and the others will need their procedures soon. Within the next forty-eight hours would be best.”
Carolyn took McGill’s hand. He nodded.
“Is there anything else?” Carolyn asked, hoping there wasn’t.
But Dr. Jones nodded.
“Kenny told us he had a visitor early this morning.”
“A visitor?” McGill asked.
“Another patient,” the doctor said. “Kenny said he wore surgical scrubs and a mask, but he recognized the visitor. He said the man stood at his bedside.”
“But I thought Kenny couldn’t have anyone but medical staff in his room,” Carolyn said.
“He can’t and he didn’t. The nursing staff is very protective of its patients. I was assured that no unauthorized person entered Kenny’s room.”
“But Kenny thought someone had,” McGill said.
“Yes. He thought Congressman Zachary Garner came to see him.”
“Who?” Carolyn asked.
“Congressman Garner represents a district in Virginia. He’s a cancer patient here at the hospital. He is like Kenny only more so. Incredibly strong and tough. He should have been confined to a bed by his pain long ago, but he takes his meds and goes about his business. For a little while longer, at least. He first met Kenny in the VIP lounge, and then he did visit Kenny’s room before he started his chemo.”
“And Kenny thought he was at his bedside this morning?” Carolyn said.
“Yes. The peculiar thing is, Congressman Garner was in the hospital at the time. Not on this floor but at the pharmacy … and in the chapel. Kenny said talking with the congressman made him stronger, gave him hope. And his vital signs are much improved, within the limits of his condition.”
“So what do you think, doctor?” McGill asked.
The oncologist offered a small wistful smile.
“I think I have gone to school for more than half my life, I read the literature of my specialty daily, and Kenny’s experience is just one more thing for which I have no answer.”
WorldWide News Washington Bureau
Hugh Collier had evicted the bureau chief from his own office for the duration of his stay in town. He sat in silence, sorting through the implications of Patricia Grant’s defection from the Republican party. Seated opposite him was Ellie Booker, very glad now that Hugh had taken the phone out of her hand as she was about to call Sir Edbert Bickford.
Hugh’s decision to go with the president’s announcement was the right one.
Lobbyists getting killed was a terrific tabloid story.
But Patti Grant bailing on the GOP was bigger news by far.
Ellie would have looked like a fool if she had somehow prevailed and WorldWide News had gone with the K Street Killer story. Hugh had grinned and told her the best boob job in the world wouldn’t have saved her career. She wouldn’t have gotten to do the weekend weather in Wyndham.
“Where?” Ellie asked.
“Think Podunk, Aussie style,” Collier told her.
She did and shuddered … but she remained a firm believer in recycling.
The president’s story was going to blow everything else out of the water for who knew how many news cycles. It migh
t run for as long as a week.
The pundits would be debating long and loud who had been hurt more, the president or her former party. Spinners on each side would be working overtime. If the first female president in U.S. history failed to win a second term, after what she’d just done, she’d be labeled a failure and would set back the prospects of another woman winning the White House for decades. On the other hand, if she won another term, defeating whomever the Republicans might nominate, that might be the end of the GOP as a major political party. Were that to happen, Patricia Darden Grant would be recognized as one the most significant presidents ever.
With all the mad chattering that would ensue, there would be only one way for Ellie to get the sort of attention her K Street Killer story deserved: She had to find a way to connect it to the president’s decision. But how …
Hugh saw the look come over Ellie’s face.
He smiled and said, “You’ve just had a deliciously wicked thought.”
“Maybe,” she replied. She popped open her laptop, pulled up her police blotter file and scrolled through that week’s entries. She didn’t have to go far before finding what she wanted.
“Come on, love,” Hugh said, “give me a tickle.”
“You do like the K Street Killer story, right?”
She’d given him the outline before he’d shelved it.
“Yes. Most days it would be a winner.”
“Well, how about this,” Ellie asked. “A police report filed says this past Monday shortly before midnight a townhouse on Florida Avenue was hit by fourteen rounds of nine millimeter ammunition. The property’s owner was at home, sitting in his living room, and barely managed to avoid being killed.”
“Another good story,” Hugh said, “for another time.”
Ellie shook her head.
“The property owner is Putnam Shady.”
Hugh grinned. “Sounds like a name Dickens might have conjured.”
“What’s important about Mr. Shady’s name is I know it from my investigation of James J. McGill.”
Now, Hugh’s eyes brightened. “He’s connected to McGill?”
“He’s Margaret Sweeney’s landlord. She lives in the basement apartment of his townhouse. Mr. Shady is also a lobbyist.”