by Laura Hayden
She remained facing away, but Kate thought she saw a single tear trickling down her friend’s face. The last time she saw Emily cry was . . . when?
The day Emily’s father was murdered. Twenty or so years ago. But then again, everyone in America had seen Emily Benton in tears that day.
The footage had made heavy rotation on every media outlet.
“Don’t make any decisions now,” Emily said in a broken voice. “Take the day off. Go play tourist. Go sleep.” She sniffed and swiped at her face. “Make it Buster’s Day Out. But whatever you do, don’t make any rash decisions. Not right now, okay?”
Kate sighed. Nothing good ever came out of hasty decisions. She swallowed hard. “Okay. I’ll sleep on it. But I am serious.”
“I know you are.”
As tempting as it was to go home, curl up with Buster, and collapse like a deflated balloon, Kate couldn’t do it. But she did want to shed her remaining tears somewhere private, so she decided that a day away from the office would be wise.
Gathering her purse and coat, she glanced at the various pictures and plaques hanging on what she called the “I love me” wall. Above her framed law school diploma hung a picture of Emily and her, with caps, gowns, colors, smiles, and assurances of rosy futures. They were young and full of themselves as well as full of detailed plans, outlining their rise to political prominence, Emily in the forefront and Kate in the background.
Such grand plans . . .
Beside that photograph hung a smaller one of the two of them, taken years later. Maturity had tempered their enthusiasm and added some new lines to their faces, but their grand goals remained the same. Kate stared at the third person, off to the side of the photograph.
Wes . . .
An insistent voice in her mind said, Call Wes. . . .
She reached for her cell phone.
John Weston Kingsbury had been a literal godsend one fateful day in August during Emily’s first year in office as governor of Virginia.
Emily’s pet project, the highway expansion bill, had passed six months prior and the new construction had already begun. The plan had been to expand one of the state highways to a six-lane toll road to alleviate traffic on the I-95 corridor. Working hand in hand with Maryland, they’d forged a consolidated program to create an alternative parallel road as a bypass, pulling traffic to the east of Washington, D.C., and its legendary Beltway congestion. To meet up with its Maryland counterpart, the last ten miles of the toll road had to be angled away from the original state highway.
Everything had progressed nicely until the state started acquiring the necessary property by eminent domain. The projected location of the toll road ran smack through the middle of a privately held “training” compound owned by a group that called themselves the New World Militia. As with antigovernment groups like that, they were none too happy about the prospects of the state taking their property under the “guise” of a highway program. Their leader firmly believed it was a conspiracy to disrupt and disband the group and its militia.
Emily wouldn’t back down.
She pushed through the land seizure. When the road crews showed up, they were met with enough guns and sufficient ammunition to overrun a small South American country.
The Feds and the military were ready to step in and claim federal jurisdiction due to the compound’s close proximity to Fort A.P. Hill, a major military training facility. But Emily managed to keep some control of the situation. She got it set up as a joint operation between state and federal officials. It was that or worry about the threat turning into a live-fire demonstration for the military trainees.
But it was Wes Kingsbury who saved the day.
Emily and Kate had met Wes at Georgetown years earlier, but time and distance had weakened the bonds of friendship and the women had both lost contact with Wes. It wasn’t until Daniel Gilroy, the leader of the New World Militia, made his armed stand in his “compound”—a four-room cabin in the woods—that Wes reappeared in their lives.
Gilroy fancied himself the group’s spiritual head as well as its military leader. No one was quite sure what religion he followed, but it seemed to consist mostly of misquoted and mangled passages from the book of Revelation. In Kate’s opinion, when somebody carrying a large and loaded gun quoted badly from any religious text, much less Revelation, that was probably a sign of looming trouble.
As soon as Wes had heard about the standoff with the NWM, he contacted Kate’s office, knowing that was a quicker route than trying to reach Emily directly at the governor’s office. When he volunteered his expertise to help with the situation, Kate learned that since they’d last met, he’d earned a doctorate in divinity in addition to his law degree and had become an expert on religious and nonreligious cults.
Wes explained to Kate that he’d spent the last four years researching the NWM and interviewing as many of the members as would talk to him. He promised that Gilroy was familiar enough with him to know he wasn’t what the militia members called a “police stooge” or a “federal sock puppet.”
Thanks to Wes’s expert guidance and the unpleasant echoes of Waco stationed in the forefront of everyone’s minds, Emily coerced the Feds into standing down. Then she proceeded to throw out most of the rules in the standard FBI negotiator’s handbook. Since no blood had been shed on either side and Gilroy seemed rather entranced with Emily’s famous family, she agreed to negotiate on behalf of the United States and to do it on the front porch of Gilroy’s cabin headquarters in full view of FBI snipers.
Not to mention CNN, Fox, and MSNBC.
News cameras cranked to maximum zoom to record the sight of the governor of Virginia and the Reverend Wes Kingsbury as they sat in rocking chairs on the cabin’s porch, sipping iced tea and calmly cutting a deal with a heavily armed cult leader. Said deal included the state’s agreement to shift the highway project a mile to the west, which meant it only clipped rather than bisected the NWM property, and instead of purchasing the land, they would trade it for a larger piece of adjacent property that was actually better suited to the group’s needs.
As part of the deal, Gilroy agreed to surrender to the local authorities if no one else at the compound was held responsible for following his orders. He also promised to provide restitution for the two local and three state police vehicles that his supporters had hit with stray gunfire. The only fluid shed in this particular debacle had come from the radiators of two of the cruisers. It was a blood-free end to the crisis.
But the scene that caught the attention and earned the admiration of the American public was of Virginia governor Emily Benton, sans makeup and dressed in jeans and a University of Virginia T-shirt, accepting Gilroy’s sidearm as a measure of his faith in her. Like an expert, she pulled the clip and ejected the round in the chamber, then put the gun in her waistband and escorted Gilroy off the property, his hands behind his head.
It was a dream photo op, and a good chunk of the world tuned in to watch live.
Emily Benton as Wyatt Earp, bringing order to the wild frontier.
In Kate’s estimation, that was the day the Oval Office truly became an attainable goal for Emily. It was also one of the reasons that she knew Emily would be a great president. Any person who could pull that off was ready to negotiate on a worldwide stage.
Even when Emily’s detractors complained that she’d caved to an armed terrorist by agreeing to his demands, she managed to keep her cool. She won the debate by pointing out that while the negotiations had progressed and Gilroy was distracted, most of his so-called supporters had flown the coop, scattering to the winds. Without a leader, they were nothing more than widely dispersed, aimless malcontents. The tense situation had practically evaporated without a shadow of trouble.
More importantly, the militia members remained unorganized, undirected, and unimportant, an assortment of outsiders scattered across a large landscape instead of concentrated in one place and causing trouble. The Feds’ methods in similar standoffs in both Waco and Ru
by Ridge had made martyrs and revitalized movements that had lasting reverberations—including a blasted federal building in Oklahoma City.
But Emily’s methods had brought peace and prosperity in only a few hours.
The press had a second heyday a week or so after the standoff when, with Kate’s encouragement, Emily and Wes went out on their first date. After the Nick fiasco, Emily had retreated from the idea of any relationship. But it was obvious to Kate that Wes was everything Nick hadn’t been—responsible where Nick had been negligent, mature where Nick had been juvenile.
Loyal where Nick had been unfaithful.
But after Nick, Emily wanted no strings, and Wes Kingsbury firmly believed in family ties. They drifted from the beginnings of an intimate relationship to a friendship that was better for both of them in the long run. Wes had since married and had a child. And now he was the unofficial religious adviser for the campaign. He was just the shoulder Kate needed to lean on.
He sounded chipper as always when he answered the phone. “Kingsbury, at your service.” There was road noise in the background.
“Wes, it’s Kate Rosen. Got a minute?”
“Always for you. I’d ask how things are, but judging by what I’ve seen of the news, I suspect I know. How are you holding up?”
“Well enough.” She couldn’t help but hesitate; asking for help didn’t come easy. “Uh . . . you have any time to talk? Like soon?” Like now?
“Hang on.” The background noise changed from loud to soft.
Guilt flooded her again, though this time of a less terrifying variety than the kind she’d been burdened with all morning. “I didn’t get you in the car, did I?”
“Nope, not at all. I just finished doing a breakfast seminar for some folks in the State Department. How’s Emily?”
“How do you think?”
“I’d bet she’s holding it together nicely, as usual,” Wes said.
“I guess you could say that. I’m afraid I’m the one who needs some counsel.”
“Legal or religious?”
“Probably both. Can we meet somewhere? Maybe today? If you’re not busy, that is . . .”
“Not at all. You have perfect timing. I’m standing here at the Foggy Bottom Metro station and I don’t have another appointment until two. I can get to M Central in about fifteen minutes.”
“I was thinking of meeting someplace else.” Kate’s voice threatened to break. “Anyplace else but here.”
“Oh, man. Is it that bad?”
“Yeah,” she managed to say without sniffing.
“Okay, how about halfway in between? There’s a Starbucks at the Crystal City Metro station. What say I meet you there?”
“Great.”
“If I get there before you do, you want your regular? That cinnamon thingy?”
“Sure, thanks. And if I get there before you, grande black, right?”
“Yep.”
It was a brisk four-block walk in the cold and wet to the King Street Metro station and a nine-minute ride on the blue line to the Crystal City. As she entered Starbucks, she heard Wes call her name. He’d commandeered a table in the corner and already had her favorite caffeine ready for her arrival.
Wes stood as she approached, helped her with her coat, and held her chair as she sat. He allowed her to get settled and take a few sips of her coffee before he spoke. “So tell me what happened.”
Kate launched into her tale, keeping her voice low. She told him everything she could, sparing nothing except the names of the people involved. Rule one of public meetings: Don’t be overheard. Rule two: Don’t use full names in case you fail to obey rule one. Rule three: Don’t bawl like a baby in public. That one was tough for Kate to follow today.
The only thing she left out of the story she told Wes was that Carmen del Rio had been her source. Not even Emily knew that.
Wes listened intently, nodding or inserting the appropriate sympathetic sounds in all the right places. After she finished, he sat back in his chair and took a sip of his coffee. “So let me get this straight. You feel guilty because your friend went against your advice, and instead of waiting for the situation to rectify itself, she jumped the gun and set up a chain of events that resulted in this morning’s headlines.”
“Not just guilty. In the wrong. Soiled and torn. And devastated by it.”
“So,” he said, “you blame yourself for the results of an action that you counseled against in the first place.”
“The situation does sound a bit different when you put it in those terms,” Kate admitted. That was one of the reasons she’d sought his guidance; Wes had a way of cutting through all the unnecessary details and getting to the real meat of a situation or problem.
He shot her his famous lazy West Texas smile. “Of course it does.” He leaned forward. “There’s been a tragedy here, but I don’t think you had any way of knowing what was to come. Life’s like that, which is why I think there’s more going on here. What’s your real problem, Kate?”
She stared across the room, her eyes focused on nothing in particular. In for a penny . . . “You know our friend. When things go bad, she always trots out her infamous ‘No one got hurt, no blood, no broken bones’ motto. But this time, someone did get hurt. An innocent bystander. I know what our friend is capable of. She can do just about anything she sets her mind to. When she’s pulling miracles out of a tough political standoff with the legislature over funding for Medicaid, that’s a good thing. When she unleashes the nuclear option and a woman dies, it’s a bad thing. I knew what she could do. I never should have put the weapon in her hands. God forgive me, I made what happened possible.”
Wes studied her face, and she fought the urge to turn away from his interest.
“A woman died?”
“Yeah. His wife. Suicide.”
“I’m not aware of anything beyond the death of the man’s political career. I take it this news item hasn’t been released to the general public yet?”
“Not yet, but it won’t be long. By the evening news, if not earlier.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “That suicide? We drove the woman to it. If we’d left well enough alone, given him some time and his dignity, he would have stepped out of the picture. With or without his endorsement, we would still be ahead of the game and his wife would still be alive.”
Wes reached over and put his hand on top of Kate’s. “I’m so sorry.”
She fought to keep control. “Thanks.”
“But you keep saying ‘we.’ Were you part of any decision to leak the info to anyone else besides the man himself?”
“No, but—”
He raised his hand to cut her off. “‘No’ is sufficient. So tell me, why is any of this your fault? Tell me exactly what you did wrong.”
Kate started and stopped several explanations but couldn’t quite bring herself to say anything aloud. How could it not have been her fault? She thought about it; then she knew.
“I broke the Golden Rule. I did unto another what I wouldn’t want done unto me. I dug up dirt on an enemy. And my actions had severe consequences. It makes me question everything about my life—right down to the way I earn my living.”
He leaned forward and covered her hands with his. “I’ll tell you what I think. You’re in a business that practically eats its young. And you’ve just found out that there are prices you’re not willing to pay in order to stay in it. Is that right?”
“Pretty much.”
Wes sighed. “There are two sides to your issue. As part of your job, you went looking for proof of political corruption. You found it. Then by accident, you found proof of moral corruption as well. You know how I feel about politics. I’m not sure I could live with spending my days digging up dirt on political rivals, even though I know it’s part of what politicians like to call ‘business as usual.’ But here’s the important part to remember when you’re trying to analyze your conscience: You didn’t set the guy up. You didn’t prey on any of his weaknesses. You didn’t do
anything to tempt or lead him astray. All you did was find the dirt he’d created on his own.”
He squeezed her hand with obvious affection. “Your instincts were right, Kate, to present him with the evidence and let him determine what to do on his own. You gave our friend excellent advice, but she didn’t choose to follow it. So tell me, exactly why is any of this your fault? And as far as that goes, wouldn’t things be a lot worse if you weren’t around to give our friend advice on a regular basis?”
“Yeah.”
“So isn’t that your answer?” Wes asked. “You stay because our friend needs you. Is it enough?”
“I don’t know.” Kate rubbed at the pain in her forehead, but it didn’t go away.
It was the lifelong story of her relationship with Emily.
Emily wanted things done, and Kate stayed behind the scenes and tried to make sure they were done right. Emily worked the public arena and bulldozed her way to success. Kate made sure that success did not bring with it unfortunate consequences. But sometimes Emily wasn’t content to point and order and instead took it upon herself to act, ignoring the counsel of those around her.
This time, the situation had played out Emily’s way, not Kate’s.
And Wes understood the root of the problem without a word from her, perhaps because he’d been in that same place himself more than once—trying to give Emily what she wanted and avoiding any unfortunate fallout.
His hand tightened on Kate’s. “Don’t kick yourself when others make a bad decision despite your good advice. If you’re telling yourself that you should have known better than to hand her something like that, then stop. It was reasonable to expect that she would respect and follow your recommendations. She usually does listen to you. No one could have anticipated she would go off half-cocked like this. Not you, not me, and certainly not anybody else. Not even our friend.”
Kate toyed with her coffee. It was totally unappetizing at the moment. “The fact that she didn’t listen to me is moot. The problem now is that someone will eventually trace the information back to me, and that will lead to her, of course. When that happens, the excrement will hit the fan.”