by David Shobin
“Thank you all very much,” she began. “It’s a privilege to be invited to speak to such an influential organization. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to say when I agreed to address the GWA. I usually strive for originality, but this time I was at a loss. So last week, when I finally wrote my speech,” she said, holding up several typed pages, “I put together the usual things. Things like the courage and the leadership of your group.
“Things about responsibility and self-respect, and about the role of government in guaranteeing workplace and marital equality. I realized you’d heard it all before. Maybe I thought, coming from me, my remarks might carry a certain importance and respectability. As you may know, I’ve never been a big fan of humility.”
From the audience, laughter and applause.
“But today, I’m going to dispense with my prepared remarks,” she said, putting the pages aside, “to talk about something that concerns me greatly. It is very much a women’s issue, and to that extent it is entirely appropriate for our gathering today.
“Most of you have heard by now that last night, one of our country’s leading researchers was killed in cold blood. Dr. Jeremy Raskin, a physician and one of our country’s leading stem cell researchers, was kidnapped and murdered in an indescribably horrible fashion. This occurred when he left work after caring for dozens of patients. The president addressed that outrage this morning. I know I won’t be compromising the investigation of this crime by revealing that little is known at this point about the perpetrators. But I have every reason to believe that the men who did this are a disgusting bunch of ultra-right-wing reactionaries. They may call themselves patriots, but they are terrorist scum. They are lowlife. They threaten, corrupt, and pollute everything our nation stands for.”
There was a burst of applause, and a cry of “Go get ’em, Rocky!”
“Dr. Raskin did abortions. That’s no secret, and he was proud of the service he performed for his patients. But he was also a leading researcher into the use and application of fetal stem cells. I use the word ‘fetal’ advisedly, and please believe me when I say I’m aware of the different types of human stem cells. Use of fetal stem cells is not federally funded, and Dr. Raskin bore much of the financial burden himself. He was quite open and honest about it because that’s what he believed in. He had few professional secrets. He talked the talk and walked the walk of a man who, to be blunt, put his money where his mouth was.
“Would that more health care providers, regardless of their politics, were so dedicated. This country thrives on effort and enterprise and self-expression, and Dr. Raskin combined them all. Yet no matter how many people he helped, there were those who are unaccountably threatened by what he stood for. This, some say, is both the message and the price of a free society. The right to be different—to feel differently, to speak and act differently. Our courts have always protected that right, so long as it doesn’t impinge on the rights of others.
“What they have never protected, and what I find so cowardly and reprehensible, is the so-called right some groups give themselves to correct society’s wrongs. Never mind that these are wrongs in their eyes only. Sometimes they call these acts sins. Sometimes they label these events as contrary to God’s will. Whatever. The bottom line is, they alone are the arbiters of improper conduct. They alone decide what’s right and wrong, good and evil. But they have sanctimoniously moved beyond simple moral condemnation. When they took matters into their own hands, those who murdered Dr. Raskin gave themselves the right to be judge, jury, and executioner.”
Nods and whispered murmurs flowed through the crowd.
“As my former therapists told me, I have issues,” Rocky said with a half-smile that drew a knowing laugh. “I have conflicts with some of those about me. It will come as no surprise to those who’ve heard me before that I have differences with my political party. In fact, I don’t always see eye to eye with my husband. Who knows, maybe that’s one of the reasons we’ve stayed together. But whatever our disparities, we manage to resolve them without violence. We don’t always succeed, but we get an A for effort. So, we talk. Sometimes we argue, or bully, or tease. In private, we don’t always act as adult as we do in public. Your president is a strong and capable man, but I’m proud to say he has never raised a hand to me. Which is good, because I wouldn’t want to hurt him.
“Like most Americans, where we differ, we try to persuade, not impose. The fundamentally wonderful thing about our society is that we prosper without fundamentalism. Absolutes may be useful to some, but they’re the curse of a free nation. As this organization well knows, real Americans will not tolerate intolerance. We celebrate our right to be different without fearing the consequences. This is why Dr. Raskin’s murder diminishes us all. His death is everyone’s loss.
“Haven’t we had enough of this? Haven’t the narrow-minded purveyors of hate spread enough of their poison? Those of you who really know me know I support everything your organization stands for. You of all people appreciate the tragedies brought on by bigotry and prejudice. So, rather than for me to once more get behind you, this time I call for you to stand behind me. Collectively, we must say, enough! Enough hate, enough violence
The seated woman who’d whispered to the first lady now turned to the person on her other side. “She really put her foot into it this time?”
“Really? I think she’s marvelous. It takes so much courage to go out on a limb like that.”
“I’m talking about with her husband.”
Indeed, Rocky’s comments, so clearly at odds with the Administration’s policies, were a recipe for matrimonial conflict. But Rocky was no stranger to controversy. She could give as well as take, and she held her own in political debates. Some thought it a wonder that she and the president got along as well as they did. But these were the same people who didn’t understand that Rocky was her own person, one who combined femininity with intelligence and charisma.
Where it came to women in politics, Roxanne Meredith was the complete package.
Having sent Smith and Walker on prearranged duties, O’Brien got down to more important business. From an encrypted phone in a secure location, he contacted his boss. This was a need-to-know call, and neither Smith nor C.J. had that need. Nor, for that matter, did any other members of the Southern Cross. They were all cogs in a wheel, means to an end, an end about which they knew nothing. The line came alive.
“Yes, Sir, we’re all set. Walker got the weapon and it’ll be tested soon. No problems that I can see. Is the target’s schedule still the same…? Yes, Sir, I understand that. Nothing’s final until it actually goes down.”
O’Brien succinctly answered several questions from the man to whom he owed everything. They were questions about timing, finances, possible security leaks. Each of O’Brien’s replies was precise and well thought out. Yet intent though he was, he was distracted, as happened on occasion, by thoughts of who he was and what he stood for. Sometimes he himself wasn’t sure. All he did know was that, contrary to what he’d told his men, God’s will had nothing to do with it. The concept that all life was precious was merely one of Lenin’s opiates, fodder for the masses, the frontline sacrificial troops without whom nothing could be accomplished. Certainly, there were far more important things in life—things like loyalty, and direction, and accomplishment.
“He certainly does, Sir,” O’Brien concluded. “He’s primed and ready. Everything will be done in the name of Allah. Religion’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it? I’ll keep you informed of his progress. But right now, it’s looking good.”
CHAPTER 3
“You just couldn’t resist, could you?” said the president. “You just had to get your two cents in, to hell with other people! Why is every issue about you—what you think, how you feel? Where are other people in this equation? What about what the party thinks?”
“To hell with the party!” Rocky shot back. “For God’s sake, Raskin had a wife and kids! Don’t tell me the party condones what happened
to him!”
“Of course they don’t. But that’s not the point, and you know it. Why do you constantly twist things around?” He sighed. “Jesus, Rocky, why are we always having this same argument? I keep telling you, it’s your method, not your message. And where you deliver it. It’s not what you say, but how you say it. There’s….”
“I know, I know,” she interrupted. “‘There’s a time and a place for everything.’ And good wittle woman that I am,” she said, lapsing into baby talk, “I should wisten to what Daddy says.”
He shook his head. “Come on, Rocky.”
“Look, Bob, I am what I am. This is the real me. You know I’m not trying to embarrass you, the Administration, or the party. But I do have to be true to what I believe in.”
They were in the White House private residence, an entire floor with a palpable sense of power and history. The president took off his suit jacket and shrugged out of his suspenders. “Even when I wind up looking like a fool?”
Rocky walked over and kissed him on the cheek. “You don’t look like a fool, darling.”
“All right, what would you call it?”
“I call it doing what you have to do as president. I wasn’t elected like you, but we both have jobs.” She softened. “Look, you know that most of the country supports you on this.”
“Meaning what?”
“They may be sorry Dr. Raskin was killed, but he did do abortions. There’s no getting around that fact. I also don’t doubt that a lot of your supporters won’t lose any sleep over his death. And Raskin also worked with fetal stem cells derived from abortions, and most people don’t like that either, no sir. So, they’re sorry, but they’re not that sorry. You know what that’s called?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” said Meredith.
“It’s called hypocrisy.”
“Oh, please.”
“And it’s the worst kind of hypocrisy, because it involves someone’s death.
That’s all I’m saying. I know you condemned what happened, but I felt I had to go a little further. I did it for myself.”
“My point precisely. It’s always about you, isn’t it?” said the president. “What you feel and think. But what about us? Where do we fit in your crusade?’
When she saw how wounded he was, she chose her words carefully. “It’s not just about me, Bob. Or about us. It’s about what’s right. You’ve always stood for fairness and decency, and I know that deep down, you’re just as sickened by what happened as I am.”
She had him there, and he had to smile. For all his real indignation, and despite his wife’s insufferable preaching, he had indeed been revolted by what he’d seen on the videotape. And there was no evading the fact that his wife was skilled at manipulating him. He walked over and put his arms around her. “You’re right, I am. I guess I’m still teachable, huh?”
“Stick with me, big boy,” she said, kissing him lightly on the lips. “The school year’s just starting.”
“Just remember one thing. These hate groups you’re complaining about really do hate. They’re dangerous, Rocky. They’re fearless when it comes to making their point. Look at what they did to Dr. Raskin.”
“Don’t worry, darling, I’ll be careful. With you and the Secret Service to protect me, why should I worry?”
The school play had begun at six P.M. to accommodate parents on their way home from work. The turnout was larger than anticipated, and there were few available seats. From stage, Tommie kept looking expectantly at the audience. Her mother was there, looking prim and in control, occasionally venturing a modest wave. But where was her father? She was sure he knew what time the play began. Not only had she told him several times, but also he’d repeated it. He said he was looking forward to it and had set aside time on his calendar.
Tommie realized her father was very busy. After all, he was the president’s doctor—something she was very proud of—and he had many demands on his time. But he was also her biggest fan. He applauded everything she did, supporting her through good times and bad. She dearly wanted him to see her on stage, especially now that she’d regained her confidence. Her father was a man of his word; and if he said he’d attend, he’d make every effort to show up. So why, she wondered, wasn’t he there? Was something wrong?
The play was in the fourth of its five acts, with not much time remaining. Across stage, Michael and Heather exchanged lines. Tommie wondered what her father would have thought of the young man who so completely filled her thoughts. Then again, she wasn’t sure she could trust his opinion, for her father rarely had an unkind word to say about anyone. Still, maybe she could tell from his expression. If he showed up. Tommie cast one last wistful look at the auditorium entrance and sighed. Alas. She rolled her wheelchair up to her next stage mark.
The show must go on.
There was an ageless quality to cell reproduction—so inexorable, so like the constant tides. It had been thus since time immemorial. Life went on without regard for the conditions around it. Filled with promise, the immutable process had the richness of a tropical sea.
Inside the incubator, all was quiet. Noise could not penetrate the heat-and-sound- impeding baffles. Insulated from their surroundings, the culture plates were evenly stacked, row on row. In the petri dishes, the cells formed a single layer on the jelled media. Ever so slowly, hour after hour, the chromosomes emerged from their resting phase to line up on their spindles. There they replicated, then separated, pulling apart evenly at the equatorial plane to form identical daughter cells.
The atmosphere was warm, dark, and fertile, perfect for growth. The oxygen and carbon dioxide levels were kept constant, as was the humidity. In this lush, primordial stew, the basic units of human life slowly simmered.
CHAPTER 4
Bethesda, Maryland
October, 2005
He saw the blood even before he heard the noise.
By seven p.m., Dr. Jon Townsend had left the medical center and was heading north on the Rockville Pike toward the Capitol Beltway. It was already dark, although rush hour traffic had considerably subsided. Townsend had worked late that day, but he thought he’d still be able to make it to his daughter’s school play, which began at seven-thirty.
Rockville Pike was a three-lane highway. He was in the center lane when it happened, twenty feet behind and to the right of a Chevy Suburban.
Everything occurred in a split second. The Suburban was a large, heavy vehicle, but it abruptly spun at a right angle in the road, turning directly in front of him.
Townsend reacted reflexively, wrenching his wheel to the right and veering out of the way. As he careened past the Chevy, a heavy crimson stain splattered his windshield. It was then that his mind registered the horrifying screech of twisting metal. At the same instant, a large, blurry object rocketed over his hood and shot off to the right.
His mind couldn’t absorb everything at once. He understood that there had been a severe collision, a there-but-for-the-grace-of-God impact that narrowly missed him. Heart pounding, he steered his vehicle to the far side of the intersection, stopped, and got out. He never considered himself particularly skilled in medical crises, whose frantic, urgent nature could overwhelm him. He preferred to leave emergency medicine to those more emotionally equipped to deal with it. So, for a moment, he simply stood and looked back at the accident scene, trying to comprehend what had just happened.
It looked like a small sedan had, for some reason, gone through a red light at the Pike’s intersection with West Cedar Lane. It broadsided the Suburban. The outcome was as predictable as the devastation. The huge Suburban was more than twice the weight of the sedan, which had been accordioned. Despite the darkness, Dr. Townsend had the impression that the sedan’s driver was pinned behind its twisted steering wheel. As Jon’s trained mind clicked into gear, he somehow overcame his fears and began jogging toward the wreck.
He hadn’t seen this degree of mayhem since Vietnam. Yet however frightened he might be, he would
never forget the ABCs of emergency management—airway, breathing, and circulation. He knew there would be several people injured, perhaps seriously. It would boil down to a question of triage, of assisting the critically injured first. But as he dashed ahead, something caught his eye at the side of the road. Something moving.
More precisely, it was twitching. It vaguely occurred to him that this was the object that had hurtled past his windshield. His pace lessened, and he turned in that direction. As he did, a passing vehicle slowed, and its passenger window opened. The teenage boy sitting there took one look at what lay beside the road and started to vomit. The woman driving never stopped completely. As she continued past Townsend, she simply looked at him, open-mouthed and ashen.
“Call 911!” he shouted as he ran past.
The car sped away without reply.
Other vehicles drew near and stopped. Their nervous drivers were mere spectators who offered no assistance. Reaching the curb, Townsend gazed downward. One look convinced him that he wouldn’t need help anyway.
Lying there was a man, or what was left of a man. The twitching had ceased. The man had gone through the sedan’s windshield, which he now wore like a grotesque collar. He couldn’t have been wearing his seatbelt. When the collision occurred, he must have been ejected from his seat and thrown headfirst into the windshield. Upon impact, the sedan’s entire windshield had come loose, but only once the man’s head was impaled.
Now, the fractured windshield was down around the victim’s shoulders like macabre epaulets. Where his skull penetrated, the glass had been jagged enough to sever the head down to the vertebrae. Both carotid arteries were cut in half. It was no wonder Townsend’s car had been splattered with blood when the man flew past. Undoubtedly unconscious right after the collision, the victim had quickly succumbed to massive hemorrhage and traumatic impact. He died rather quickly. Realizing this, Townsend turned around and ran back across the Pike.