Angels Mark (The Serena Wilcox Mysteries Dystopian Thriller Trilogy) (15 page)

“
I haven’t been in a real house in years. I’ll take you up on that offer,” Ann said.

Serena resisted the urge to squeal with glee.

19

Paul obediently followed the agents out of the house in Minnetonka.
He struggled through that first hour in a daze, not knowing how to formulate a single thought. How could he exist without Clyde? He stumbled down the sidewalk and allowed himself to be tucked into a government vehicle.

As he sank into the leather seat his heart welled up with fury and grief. The longer he sat, the more his grief was channeled into fury. President John Williams, and the previous President, pre-Big War, pre-apocalypse, had killed his brother. Paul was no sociopath, but Clyde had killed for him, and had ultimately died for him. It was the least Paul could do to avenge his brother’s death.

He knew that John would be taken care of; he’d be tried as a traitor, a terrorist. The divided nation would turn on him and curse him to the end of his days. But the former Prez? What of him? Had Kinji even put two and two together yet? Paul wasn’t so sure. And how deep was the cover-up? Would John take the Prez’s involvement with him to his grave?

The thought of him getting away with it, with Clyde’s blood on his hands, made Paul’s blood boil.
The only thing on his mind was finding the former president of what was once the United States of America.

The agents dropped him off at home. They informed him that he would be contacted shortly, to be interviewed for a criminal investigation into President John Williams’ conduct before and after the Big War. Then they left him alone, re-assigned elsewhere. Apparently no one considered broken down
wanna-be Paul to be a threat.

Paul locked the door and latched the dead-bolt. He went into the laundry room and took off his blood-drenched clothes. He hesitated, not knowing what to do. He had never done a load of laundry in his life. Where did the detergent go? Did he put it in now or after the clothes were in? Should he even bother – would the blood stains come out? He lifted the lid of the washer and, much to his surprise, saw directions for how to use the machines right there on the lid. He followed the instructions on the chart and started the washer.

Then he shuffled his way to the bathroom to take a shower. He did a double-take at his reflection in the mirror: was that Clyde’s face staring back at him? He closed his eyes; then opened them again. No, he saw his own face. He couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed. He would never see his brother’s face again: he didn’t have a single picture of Clyde, unless he counted the ones his mother had insisted their father put on the kitchen wall. He and Clyde had taken them down shortly after their parents died, but when they saw permanent silhouettes from years of nicotine stains coating the walls around the frames, they put the pictures right back up and left them there.

There were two photos on the wall: the first was from when there were three brothers, and the other was when it was down to just him and Clyde, like it remained until now. But Clyde’s death didn’t feel anything like it did when Bradley died, he told himself. Bradley had drowned, and was only a little boy, a baby really. Paul tried to recall his last memory of Bradley. Could he recall the day he died?

He remembered playing in the kiddie pool. They had toys in there, pool toys. Bradley toddled inside the house to get more toys. Paul could see it now as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. Bradley had Paul’s new electronic car he got for his birthday. It had been expensive, the best present Paul had ever gotten. Bradley was about to throw it into the pool. No! Paul grabbed the car and tried to wrestle it out of Bradley’s tight grip. Bradley clung on, working himself up into a powerful tantrum.

“Help, Clyde!” Paul yelled.

Clyde reached over the knee-high inflatable pool wall and pushed Bradley’s head under the water. He held him down until he released his grip on the car. Paul took the car, got out of the pool, and went inside to put the car on a higher shelf in his bedroom. On his way back outside, he got distracted by cartoons on TV and sat down to watch. A while later he heard their mother screaming like there was no end to the sound her lungs could make. She screamed over and over and over. Little Bradley was dead.

Paul shivered. It was the first time he fully remembered that day. Always before, he could recall that he was playing in the pool, went to watch cartoons, and then their mother was screaming because Bradley had drowned. He had completely blocked out the part about the toy car, and Clyde holding Bradley’s head under the water.

Maybe that was what had turned Clyde into a killer? Surely he hadn’t intended to drown their little brother; he was only trying to help Paul get his car back.
Poor dear baby Bradley, poor big brother Clyde.
It was down to Paul now to do right by both brothers’ memories.

After he showered and put on clean clothes Paul went directly to the computer lab. He recalled Clyde saying that the kids spent a lot of time in the lab. He hoped one of them was in there now. Sure enough, he saw the top of a boy’s head behind the rows of computer monitors.

Newbie child genius Nicholas was hard at work on a private project, oblivious to Paul’s appearance until Paul said something. “Nicholas, can you find somebody for me?”

“Sure, who do you want me to find?” Nicholas pushed away from the computer station he was working on and fired up a new station.

“The President of the old United States,” said Paul.

“What?
Seriously?” Nicholas evaluated Paul, but Paul always seemed a little daft to him, how was this any different?

“Yes. Can you do it?”

“Can Linux outperform Windows?”

Paul stared blankly. “Just tell me if you can do it.”

“Yes! I can do it.”

“I’ll pay you,” said Paul. Then he remembered what Clyde said. “And order a pizza.”

Nicholas’ face lit up at the mention of food. “Veggie? Extra toppings?”

What kind of kid was this?
Veggie. What ever happened to pepperoni and sausage?
“Whatever you want. You phone it in, here’s some cash. Keep the change.” He threw a substantial wad of bills, mostly hundreds, on the table in front of him.

“Hey, Paul, that’s a lot of money. You don’t have to do that.” Nicholas studied his face. “Are you okay?”

“My brother died,” he said simply. He sat heavily into a computer chair on wheels, causing it to roll backwards. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Clyde?
No! I liked that old guy,” said Nicholas. “What happened to him, heart attack?”

“He wasn’t old. He had lots of years left,” mourned Paul.

“What happened to him then?”

“He got shot while saving my life.”

“Whoa! He’s a good big brother,” said Nicholas. “You should be proud.”

“I
am
proud. Find the president.”

Nicholas clacked at the keyboard for several minutes and then said, “I shouldn’t take your money for this.”

“Take it. I want you to find him, no matter how long it takes.”

“Done.”

“You found him already?”

“Yes, that’s why I said I shouldn’t take your money. It was too easy.”

“How did you do it?”

“I didn’t have to do anything; someone is blogging about the pre-Big-War days. She posted all of the former president’s addresses. This one says ‘until present’, so if she’s correct, he’s still there.”

“Keep the money. Buy yourself that pizza.”

“What are you going to do?
You going to go see him?”

“Yes.”

“You think he’ll let you in? He won’t call the police?”

“He won’t be calling the police.” On that note, Paul left the lab, leaving young Nicholas to wonder if
he
should call the police.

20

President John Williams seethed.
How could he have been bested by Ann Kinji? He stormed the halls, special agents scurrying to keep up with him. He spun around and glared at everyone in his path. “Stay away from me!” he snarled. He ducked into the restricted area that led to the underground maze of secret parking.

“But Mr. President!” protested Special Agent Billings, because it was his duty to do so, not because he particularly cared about the president’s well-being. In fact, he had applied for a new detail assignment and was biding his time until he could move on.

John ignored him and quickened his long angry strides. Billings kept up with him easily, being half the President’s age, and in much better physical shape. Billings signaled the team to keep up, and they too had no difficulty. The party of nine ended their manic flight only when they reached the presidential limo station. There they all stood, glancing questioningly at each other.

Billings made the decision for them: let John go alone, they’d do a convoy. He assigned his eight agents to William’s impromptu road trip and returned to the White House. There was one perk to not having a bond with the
Prez: Billings felt no twinge of guilt when he opted out of these unplanned ventures.

The limo driver opened the door for the president, and returned to his seat behind the wheel. “Just you today, Mr. President?” he asked.

“Yes, Jason.”

“Your security detail driving separately then?” he confirmed.

John grunted. He knew he couldn’t shake his own detail, but he could at least be alone in the limo. He pressed the divider button. Jason and his partner Penny were not offended, John was often prickly. Seldom was he interested in conversation. They didn’t take it personally.

In contrast, President Kinji knew all about Jason’s dreams of becoming a personal chef, or opening a café in Italy one day, or both. She knew about Penny’s dreams to become a lawyer, and that her paycheck went straight to the Dean’s office where she was attending law school, living on the cheap as she paid cash for her tuition. Yes, President Ann Kinji cared enough to listen, and she made them feel special. It is for this reason that Jason and Penny felt loyalty to her over John – it wasn’t politics
; they simply liked Ann more.

So when President John Williams requested that they drive him to the home of the former President of what-used-to-be the United States of America, they placed a call to President Kinji on her special line; the line she gave each of them if they ever got into any serious trouble. What was happening now was something they thought she should know about. Ann agreed, and thanked the pair of them for their courage.

Penny had made the call while still on the road, taking advantage of the privacy barrier that John himself had established. With a hushed voice, she got the message across, while John sat not two feet behind her head, completely oblivious that his nemesis had been tipped off about his upcoming meeting.

After quick deliberation with her team of experts, Ann instructed them to leave the phone line open, so that her team could record everything. They would easily clarify the sound, removing ambient noise, enhancing the sounds of the voices; all of it was fairly routine work for the team, no problem: if they were close enough to hear the conversation with their own ears – the phone would pick it up too. Both Jason and Penny agreed to get as close to President Williams as possible, two open lines were better than one.

Upon arrival, President Williams’ security detail stayed outside of the former president’s house, as John requested, giving him a false sense of privacy which liberated his tongue. Unbeknownst to John, the upper window of the cathedral-ceilinged home was ajar. With the acoustics of the home creating an amplifying effect, eavesdropping on the conversation between the two men was hard to avoid, and the hearing was made easier because every one of them was actively listening.

William’s security detail could hear every word that was said, and Jason and Penny were in an excellent position to record everything. Best of all, ten credible witnesses were even more valuable than the recordings; recordings that could be doctored, as surely the other side would suggest.
Ten witnesses? All of them with good clean impressive records? Much harder to dismiss.

“John, long time.”

“Not long enough.” The former president stared into John William’s blue-gray eyes; eyes that should have been deep dark pits by now, haunting him like the eyes of Scrooge’s business partner Jacob Marley. But he found no sign of remorse or regret, or even awareness. Williams was no ghost of America Past come to make him repent, he was just another old man with used-up power, same as himself.

Neither man offered his hand to the other. They squared off, sizing each other up. Both thought the other was showing his age. The years had brought each of them hairlines baring more of their foreheads, more grays in the hair that was left, and more creases weathering their faces. Both men were on a variety of medications to control high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and accelerating heart disease.

The stand-off over, John walked inside the house and shut the door. “We have to talk,” he said.

“Are we alone?”

“My detail is outside,” said John. “What, you think this is entrapment? I’m as vulnerable in this as you are – more so, as sitting president.”

The former president led the way down a marbled hallway: the house was only modest from the outside. The interior of the home was tricked out with the most expensive materials and the gaudiest displays of lighting, art, furniture, draperies, fixtures, and collectibles.

He entered the library, a room that held over two million dollars’ worth of rare books and artifacts. The library was two stories high, with the top row of books nearly aligned with the cathedral ceiling. In this room, not one, but
two
windows were ajar. The conversation between the two presidents was even easier to listen in on. The agents quietly celebrated.

“John, what do you want?” he said.

“To the point, you’re a man after my own heart.”

“Then get to it.” He settled into a chair, lit a cigar, and took a long draw. His deep red shirt, sharp, beak-like nose, and the unfortunate placement of ornamental horn-like fixtures on the back of his chair directly above his head added to the overall image of the devil himself on his throne. The rings of smoke drifted toward John like a graveside fog.

“They know about the e-mail.” John did not wait for an invitation, that he knew would not come, to sit down. He selected the chair directly across from the devil, feeling no trepidation, as he was largely unaware that he was staring into soulless eyes.

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I have people.” The former president stroked the goatee he had grown since he’d left office. It was remarkably dark, with no gray hair at all. The contrast between the nearly-white hair on his head and the jet black hair on his sallow face was startling. The grays on his head had made his hair coarse and wild – giving him the look of a madman.

“It’s all going to come crashing down. I tried to cut it off, but Kinji is running with this thing.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” John threw up his hands in disbelief. He stood up to pace the room.

“It doesn’t matter to
me
. I’m sure it matters a great deal to
you
, John.” He folded his hands across his narrow chest. He was a tall man, of an enormous stature due to having Marfan’s syndrome, a condition similar to, or possibly the same as, the disorder that Abraham Lincoln had. His arms were unusually and disproportionately long, and his overall frame was imposingly lanky. He towered above most other men. Marfan’s syndrome had also given him a weak heart, which had been rumored but never confirmed while he was in office.

“You’ll be arrested right alongside me. Your legacy will be that of a traitor.”

“I’d do it all again. We had endless deadlock, bi-partisan bickering, lobbyists in everyone’s pocket. While we were buying up weapons, kids in our own country went hungry, went homeless. Our food supply was toxic but we kept right on selling more of the poison -- while Europe banned the same stuff we served our kids for breakfast.”

John groaned. “I thought I heard enough of this rhetoric while you were on the campaign trail. You don’t really believe your own spin doctors, do you?”

“Yes, John, I do. I could see our America headed for ruin. There was no end in sight, what with our open borders and our out-of-control spending. We couldn’t make it stop. No one could agree on anything. The old boys club got bigger and bigger. We’d been reduced to distracting people with gay marriage debates so that no one would notice that our country was dying.”

“I
look at you and see someone who doesn’t fit in the old boys club.”

“Because I represent the gay community?
Is that what galls at you, John? But flaming liberal that I am, I couldn’t change a thing, not even with democrats taking the majority.”

“Then how can you blame my party? You had the majority.”

“The Republicans wouldn’t ever see reason, or they didn’t care, I’m not sure which. They’d never stop throwing money on defense, getting us further and further into debt – while lining the pockets of contractors and manufacturers, over the blood of our young men and women.”

“What do you care about them? I seem to recall that you cut their pay.”

“Everyone has to make sacrifices. You’d stand behind the Republican agenda? Shelter the richest Americans in the world while letting the poor and the middle class wither and die, sometimes literally. Our health care went from bad to worse.”

“Hey now, don’t lay all that on Republicans.”

“We are going to debate now, John? Not your strong suit, never was.”

“Big government is not the answer. How far did liberals get with all those bailouts? And don’t get me started with
Obamacare,” said John. “Whatever happened to
that
disaster?”

“Exactly.
Nothing worked. Nothing. We were never going to agree. The Republicans manipulated the ‘Christian Right’ to believe that they were their party. To keep the masses loyal, the Republicans gave them what they wanted. What did they care either way if women’s health care services were cut? Tax breaks to the wealthiest Americans? Why not, that’s who finances the party. And I have three words for you: oil, oil, oil.”

“You hated Republicans so much that you’d nuke our own country to get rid of us?”

“You feel the same about Democrats.”

“Touché,” said John.

“We both got what we wanted. And the country is the better for it. We were headed for complete economic ruin. There was no way out, and you know that. It wasn’t a recession; it was a depression that kept on depressing. There was no way out of all of that debt. We were bankrupt. Our money wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on.”

“We were headed for Communism. We were already halfway there,” said John.

“That’s where you and I disagree, but that’s water under the bridge. The country is functioning much better as a split nation, well on its way to recovery. It was time for the two ideologies to go their separate ways.”

“I knew Democrats hated us, but I must say that your malice toward Republicans is impressive,” said John.

“And you loathed us also. Nothing like common hatred as the tie that binds.”

“You are delusional if you think we’re doing better. We are
not
doing better. We are doing worse. The cost of the Big War sank us. We’re still cleaning up. People are still dying or getting sick from the nuclear fallout, the waste, the contaminated water in places we didn’t expect it to be. Talk about toxic food? We have much bigger problems than that now. You mentioned homeless kids, starving kids? What do you think happened when the Big War ended? You think the land repaired itself? You think it was a clean kill, and those who survived are just peachy? Haven’t you seen a single podcast?” John ranted.

“The way is open for strong leadership. America can heal herself.”

“With a liberal agenda of big government? Restricting freedoms until children are property of the state from birth, parental rights stripped to nothing – that is if the babies even make it to life, given that abortions are now legal even at the late stages. What’s next, killing them
after
they’re born?”

“That’s ridiculous and you know it!”

“I see we’ve made no progress, and here we are with a torn, battled country littered with nuclear fallout and death.”

“You should step aside, John.”

“What? How dare you! You think Kinji can fix this nightmare? This apocalypse? If anything,
she
should step aside. I could repair this country much faster without her interference. But why are you going down this road? Weren’t you making the point that America functions better as a split nation? Or has the truth come out: your hidden agenda was to rid the nation of Republicans!”

“Now, John, simmer down. I know you won’t ever die off. You are like cockroaches. And so are your issues. Take pro-life for example. Neither of us give two figs about what happens to these women, or if a baby is a baby in the womb. Hell, I don’t care if a baby is a baby when he’s two.
Raise them, kill them, I don’t care. But don’t tell me that God has tied my hands – at least we have statistics and results to back up our stand – your only argument is ‘God’. But we are the same at the core. We both cater to our parties: we tell them what they want to hear. You say you care about the sanctity of life. I say I care about a woman’s right to choose. The irony, or hypocrisy, is that we are both misogynistic prigs who’d sooner deny our own seed than claim it.”