National Burden

by C. G. Cooper

  Santos Lockwood’s body shook with the strain, eyes darting left and right, barely noticing the curious looks from the passing kitchen staff. He felt like he was about to lose control of his bowels, but it was his bladder that released, darkening first the crotch of his gray pants, a warm stream running down his left leg and into his shoe.

  “Mr. Haden, I…”

  Travis Haden gripped harder, making Lockwood flinch. “I said, what the fuck is in this envelope?”

  Lester Miles moved closer, clamping a strong hand onto Lockwood’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to let the terrified man know he was there.

  “I…I…”

  In the blink of an eye, Travis grabbed the back of Lockwood’s head and slammed the man’s face into the metal countertop, knocking the lunch tray to the side and causing half the kitchen staff to turn and look. Just as fast, Travis whipped the dazed man back up. “Lester, help me take Mr. Lockwood to my office.”

  In the wake of a shocked White House cooking staff, Travis and Miles half carried Lockwood out of the kitchen, Travis having carefully folded the mysterious package, slipping it in his pocket.

  By the time they got to the Chief of Staff’s office, they had four Secret Service agents in tow. “Stay outside. I’ll call you in if we need you.”

  The lead agent nodded uncomfortably. He knew Haden’s background, and had been there when Cal and Daniel saved the President’s life, twice, but the thought of any interrogation on White House grounds made the man uneasy. For the moment, he didn’t have a choice, not even knowing why Lockwood was being dragged to Travis’s office.

  Travis kicked his door closed as Miles sat the piss-soaked staffer on the floor, not wanting to stain anything else. Sliding the slim packet out of his pocket, Travis waved it in front of Lockwood’s face. The slam into the countertop hadn’t done any real damage, only enough to give Lockwood a just-noticeable red welt under his receding hairline. “What is this, Mr. Lockwood?”

  Santos Lockwood’s mind spun, trying to get a bearing, trying to come up with some excuse. He backed away from the crazed man who’d assaulted him minutes before, scooting himself on his rear until his back was against the wall, his head bumping against the chair railing. How had he been so stupid? He’d waited too long to lace the food, his nerves being so frazzled that the two men in the room had completely taken him by surprise. The lack of real sleep added to the constant stress applied by McKnight through thinly-veiled threats left in their shared Gmail account and calls from Tony’s anonymous phone number. Lockwood was a wreck. He knew he’d lost and it showed on his face. “I…it’s Atropa.”

  “What the hell is that?” Travis leveled, his voice showing Lockwood that he better answer correctly thereafter.

  It was Lester Miles who answered, his eyes wide. “Atropa belladonna. You might know it as deadly nightshade, Mr. Haden.”

  Travis was at a momentary loss for words. What was Lockwood even doing handling the President’s food? There were too many questions to ask, so he started with something simple. “Why?”

  Lockwood squirmed, trying to cover his wet crotch with his suit jacket. “It…it wasn’t to do any harm, it was--”

  Travis exploded. “You’re telling me that you weren’t trying to kill the President?” He was now standing over the quivering man, trying to decide if he should beat the truth out of him or…

  “It’s a special strand,” Lockwood blurted, pleading, as if the admission would make them see. “It’s not deadly. It just produces certain symptoms…”

  “Like what?”

  “Like anxiety, confusion, paranoia…”

  Travis could not believe what he was hearing. Things suddenly made sense. “How long?”

  “How long?” Lockwood squeaked.

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Off and on since a month after he got here.”

  The comment sobered and incensed both of the men staring down at him, Lester for letting it happen under his watch and Travis for the sheer audacity of the act.

  “Was this your idea or did someone put you up to it?” asked Haden.

  Lockwood looked up at Travis with eyes that spoke of pain and deceit. He couldn’t find the words. His eyes squeezed shut, trying to hold off the tears, but they came anyway, like a torrent, flowing with the power of Lockwood’s guilt and shame. The months of sneaking around. The years of being bullied and threatened by his supposed friend. All Travis and Lester could do was watch as the man melted before their eyes. They almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  “I asked you a question. Was this your idea?”

  Lockwood shook his head emphatically. “No. I could never do it.”

  The sobbing continued making it impossible for him to speak. Travis asked again, this time more forcefully. “Who made you do it?”

  The sobs turned into full blown body heaves, Lockwood’s chin repeatedly hitting his chest, the back of his head banging into the wall. Just as Travis bent closer to smack the man out of his hysteria, the office door swung open. Travis whirled around angrily, on instinct grabbing for where his sidearm usually sat holstered, but it wasn’t there. It was the four agents who he’d posted outside, weapons drawn at the sound of the wailing man sitting with his back against the wall.

  “Mr. Haden, please back away from Mr. Lockwood,” ordered the lead agent.

  Travis was incredulous. “I asked you to come with me, remember? I’ve got this under control.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, the United States Secret Service is tasked with the safety and security of--”

  “Cut the horseshit,” Travis snapped, “Someone is manipulating this man into poisoning the President of the United States. Do you want me to ask how in the hell that happened under your watch?”

  The agent stepped closer, his partners mimicking his move, coming farther into the small room. “Sir, I promise you that we will get to the bottom of this. Please let us do our jobs.”

  Travis wanted to scream at the men from the top of lungs. On two occasions his men, the operators of Stokes Security International, had saved the asses of the Secret Service. He’d been thanked personally by the head of the President’s security detail and the director of the Secret Service himself. How the fuck were they trying to say he couldn’t handle a guy like Lockwood? The tension remained as he took a few breaths, pushing his temper down, knowing that he was too close to finding out who was behind Lockwood’s actions. “Fine, just let me ask him one more question.”

  The agent shook his head once. “I’m sorry, sir, we’ll take him to interrogation and get any information you need. We’re happy to keep you in the loop.”

  It was Lester Miles who broke the stalemate, recognizing the determination on both sides. The last thing anyone needed was to have a feud boil over mere feet from the Oval Office. “Mr. Haden, I know how you feel. I’m right there with you. I let it happen, but I trust these guys to do what’s needed. They’ve done it before. They’ll do it now.”

  Travis’s glare never left the men with their weapons drawn, now respectfully aimed down forty-five degrees to the ground. He knew he should’ve beat the truth out of Lockwood when they’d been in the kitchen, but the stares from the cooks had stayed his hand.

  With a final huff, Travis answered. “Take him, but let me know. And I want it recorded.”

  The agent nodded, holstering his weapon, his companions following suit. In a rush of practiced skill, the four men had the piss and now shit-stained Lockwood, still convulsing with tears, dangling in their combined grasps, each man putting their steel hold on one of his appendages. Lockwood showed no signs of understanding what was happening, not resisting at all.

  Once the agents and Lockwood were gone, Travis shut the door and sighed. “How the hell did this happen?” he asked more to himself than to Miles.

  “I don’t know, sir, but I’d like to officially give you my resignation.”

  Travis looked up from his thoughts. “What?”

  “This
was my fault, sir. I’ll have one of the other butlers take over my duties and stick around as long as you need me for the investigation.”

  “What are you talking about, Lester? This wasn’t your fault.”

  Miles shook his head sadly. “Yes, sir, it is. I’m the one that allowed Santos Lockwood to get his hands where they shouldn’t have been. It’s my fault.”

  Travis appreciated the former Marine’s sense of responsibility, his unyielding honor, but he couldn’t let the man torpedo his own career because of the actions of another.

  “Lester, if you even mention resigning again, I’ll have my cousin and Top Trent pay you a visit in the middle of the night.”

  Despite the gravity of the situation, Miles grinned. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Hey, don’t thank me yet. This may be just the tip of the iceberg. In a couple days you might be wishing I let you quit.”

  +++

  Southampton, New York

  Daniel was driving the Mercedes SUV Martindale had leant them for the trip. Luckily the roads were mostly cleared of snow from the previous weeks’ storms. There were still plenty of heaping walls of the asphalt-stained white stuff piled along their path, but the warmer weather was beginning the long awaited melt, sending streams running along the winding roadway.

  Leo Martindale’s mansion, while huge and impressive in all its stately glory, the view of the Atlantic worth millions alone, was a dead end. Whoever had helped Martindale keep the murder quiet also did a very thorough clean-up job. You could barely make out the edges of where the man’s blood had pooled on the brick-paved garage interior.

  “What do you guys think? What do we tell Leo?” asked Cal.

  “We tell him the truth, that it might be better to have the authorities look into it,” suggested Daniel, reiterating the point he’d made minutes after inspecting the property’s grounds. There was no sign of forced entry or tampering. No noticeable paths to and from the ten-car garage.

  “Did you get anything from Neil?” Trent asked.

  “No. He said the company network looks clean, nothing suspicious in the surveillance footage. I told him to keep looking.”

  They continued down the road, most residents still opting to stay home, leaving the thoroughfares mostly clear. Out of habit, Daniel swept his gaze between the three mirrors, always looking for a tail. As they neared a yellow light, the matte black Cadillac Escalade behind them, its rims the same color and texture as the body, juked left, pulled around them, and sped through the red light. Daniel tried to see inside the passing SUV, but the windows were tinted deeply, probably illegally.

  They stopped at the red light at a T intersection, each man doing his own analysis into Martindale’s case. There were times to spit out crazy hypotheses, but this wasn’t one of them. Something deep was going on and not one of them could come up with a motive. Why go after Martindale’s company? Sure, there was the thought that whoever was behind the security chief’s murder had gotten pissed that the billionaire was sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, but why murder his employees? It didn’t make sense and that pissed Cal off.

  The stoplight turned green and Daniel quickly got their speed back up to just five MPH over the speed limit. The view really was incredible on Meadow Lane; the wide open Shinnecock Bay to the left and sprawling estates on the right. Daniel could see workers diligently moving around the huge homes, plowing and cleaning, probably an endless job with the untold millions running through the posh town.

  He had to stop again as a cable service van pulled out of the next drive, taking its time, the driver looking like he’d dropped his phone. Daniel slowed as they approached the idling vehicle, the driver and passenger now out of the van searching for something on the ground.

  “What are they looking for?” asked Trent, straining to see.

  Daniel went to shake his head, when suddenly the hair on the back of his neck pricked up. He turned to the right too late. A black SUV, a Cadillac emblem proudly displayed on the grill, barreled their way, much closer than it should have been. Daniel threw the Mercedes in reverse, gunning the gas.

  “Hold on!”

  Tires spinning against the wet pavement, it felt to all three Marines that they were moving in slow motion, the coming vehicle inching closer, now running off the drive and through the brush lining the road. The impact took their breath away, the airbags deploying in response. Instead of backwards, they were moving sideways, away from the road and into the bay.

  Chapter 33

  The White House

  2:25 p.m., March 7th

  Travis couldn’t stop pacing. Pretty soon he’d wear a path on his beige carpet, still avoiding the stain where Santos Lockwood had lost control of his bodily functions. He’d instructed Lester Miles to deliver a new plate of food to the President and keep the tainted tray for the investigation. Travis hadn’t told Zimmer yet, wanting final confirmation from the Secret Service first.

  His desk phone rang shrilly and he rushed to pick it up. “Haden.”

  “Sir, it’s Agent Venti.”

  “Did you find out?”

  “Sir, there was a…a situation.”

  Travis tried to control his breathing and his temper. “What happened?”

  “Mr. Lockwood went into cardiac arrest as we were escorting him to the interrogation room. We did everything we could to revive him, but it looks like his heart gave out.”

  The only thing Travis could do was grip the edge of his desk until his knuckles went white with the press.

  “Sir, are you still there?”

  Travis wanted to bite the man’s head off, tell him what an idiot he’d been for not listening. Now their only witness was dead, their link lost forever.

  “Yes, I’m here. Did he tell you anything before he passed?”

  This time it was the agent’s turn to pause. “Um, no, sir. He was pretty out of it.”

  “I assume you’re having an autopsy done?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please let me know what you find out.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Travis hung up the phone. It was time to tell the President.

  +++

  Southampton, New York

  The Mercedes landed in the recently frozen bay upside down, its occupants struggling to extract themselves from the seat belts. Cal calmly slid the double-edged blade from his wrist holster and through his strapping, careful to keep one hand on the ceiling so he didn’t come crashing down. “You guys okay?”

  “I’m okay,” said Daniel, already searching for the best way out.

  “I’m a little banged up, but I’ll be fine,” said Trent, straining to get his seat belt unlocked from under the deployed side and front airbags.

  Freezing cold water rushed in through the crushed right panel of the vehicle, seeming to flow faster as the car settled. They’d already hit the bottom, which luckily wasn’t too far down. Cal and Daniel were now crouched on the ceiling trying to gauge the easiest escape route. A moment later Trent, the side of his face bloodied from the collision, his right eye already closed, worked to get upright.

  “The electronics already went out. I think we’ll have to kick out a window.” As usual, Daniel’s voice was calm. He’d been through much worse before. It was situations like this that made Cal always glad to have the even-tempered sniper at his side.

  “Okay. I say we go through one of these back windows. Top, you think you can get through it?”

  Trent grunted as he tried to turn around, his oversized frame packed neatly into the passenger side seat. “I think so, just give me a second.”

  Cal turned sideways in his seat, facing the window. Needing all the leverage he could get, Cal gripped driver’s seat with one hand and wedged his other into the back seat. He readied himself for the double kick, water already up to his knees. “You guys ready?”

  Both men nodded.

  “Okay. On three. One. Two. Three.”

  Cal pulled with his arms and kicked as hard as he could wit
h his legs, forcing the power through his feet. The window folded out and cracked along the bottom edge, which was now the top. Freezing water gushed in, the hole not yet big enough for them to climb through. “One more.” Cal braced himself again, crashing against the broken window, willing his entire body to spear through the portal. His effort paid off, but not before the entire vehicle filled with the bone-chilling contents of Shinnecock Bay.

  +++

  Travis pushed into the Oval Office, tie loosened and his coat tucked under his arm. President Zimmer looked up from his lunch. “What took you so long? I thought you were bringing our lunches.”

  Throwing his suit coat on the red patterned couch, Travis walked to one of the chairs in front of the President’s desk and flopped down. “We have a problem.”

  “Another one?”

  Travis nodded. “You know that guy Lockwood, the one who had his fingers bit off by a shark?”

  “Yeah. Santos Lockwood, right?”

  Travis nodded again. He didn’t want to alarm his boss, but he had to tell the truth. “It looks like he was lacing your food with some kind of additive.”

  Zimmer put down his fork slowly. “What do you mean?”

  “He said it was a synthesized strain of the deadly nightshade plant.”

  “Poisonous?”

  “It is in its natural form, but this looks to be a milder mix. I’ve got a call in to a professor over at Johns Hopkins. My people say that if anyone can give us an accurate reading it’s him.”

  The president sat back in his chair, his heart racing. “What about Lockwood? Do we have him in custody?”

  Travis knew this was the part that Zimmer wasn’t going to like. “We had him in custody. In fact, I was the one interrogating him.”

  “What did he say? Why did he do it? Wait. Did you say we had him in custody?”

  “Technically we still do, but now it’s just his body.”

  Zimmer’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t…”

  Travis almost laughed. “No! We didn’t kill him. The guy had a heart attack when the Secret Service took him down for interrogation.”