National Burden (17 page)

The Vice President’s quarters were in orderly chaos. Movers and staffers dodged each other as they ran to and fro, some placing antique furniture in areas appointed by Southgate, others coming and going with tasks delegated by the new Vice President. To a visitor it might have looked like a mess, but Southgate was like a veteran conductor, each piece of his orchestra within a flick of his switch or a point of his finger. It was how he liked things and he would never change.

“What’s the status on the list of the candidates for the Secretary of Commerce?” Southgate asked, taking notes on a yellow lined legal pad as he’d done for decades.

“We’ve got the backgrounds done on half of the list and the other should be done within the hour,” answered one of his underlings.

“And you made sure it was exactly who I told you to put on the list?”

“Yes, sir.” The harried staffer had wondered about the candidates who seemed to be pretty scattered across the spectrum of liberals and conservatives, something he hadn’t witnessed during his time with his boss in the Senate.

“Good. Any word from the President?”

“Yes, sir,” barked another staffer over the din of hammering as the contractors installed the multitude of pictures being brought from Southgate’s former home.

“And?” asked Southgate, slightly annoyed, whether at the answer or the hammering no one could tell.

“He said he’d like for you to start thinking about nominees for attorney general.”

Southgate winced. The current attorney general was a friend, a close friend in fact. It had been Southgate who had proffered the man’s name to the last president. But it didn’t matter. He knew his place. It was a hard pill to swallow, but he was obeying his marching orders from the president and taking an unbiased look at prospective candidates. “Very well, I’ll have you a list by the end of the day,” he answered, already jotting down candidates he thought might be suitable to Zimmer, the stronger the better.

“Sir, can I ask you a question?” asked one of Southgate’s senior aides, a matronly woman who’d been with him for over ten years.

“What is it, Helen?”

Helen hesitated, the others looking at her like she was about to make the biggest mistake of her life. Gulping, she asked, “Sir, we were just wondering why the sudden change? I mean, a lot of these names we’re researching now were on your, well, let’s just say a couple days ago they weren’t on your nice list.”

Southgate’s hand paused in mid pencil stroke. The gathered men and women held their breaths, having all been present for their fair share of Southgate’s infamous outbursts. Slowly, his head rose, a strange thin smile spreading as he focused on Helen.

“I will say this only once, ladies and gentlemen. I am now the Vice President of the United States. I take orders, and may I say willingly, from the President of the United States. If any of you have a problem with that, I suggest you hand in your resignation by the end of the day.”

No one said a word. No one moved.

Southgate nodded, and then looked back down at his notes. “Good. Now, where were we?”

+++

The White House

President Zimmer looked up from his desk, trying to focus on the ever-present Travis Haden sitting hunched over the piled-high coffee table, another fresh cup of coffee throwing a thin plume of steam into the air. “Is it hot in here?”

Travis looked up. “I’m okay. You want me to turn the air up? I can kill the fire too.”

Zimmer wiped his brow with a cotton handkerchief embroidered with the presidential seal. “Maybe. I think I’m coming down with something.”

“Want me to call the doctor?”

Shaking his head as he loosened his tie, Zimmer said, “No. I think I’ll go for a walk, get some fresh air.”

“Want me to come with you?”

Zimmer stood, maybe a little too quickly, because he had to grab the desk to steady himself. He took a shaky breath.

Travis was up and on his way over, concern marked clearly on his face. “Are you okay?”

The President nodded and waved his advisor away with a wan smile. “I’m fine, probably just hungry. Can you check on lunch while I take a quick walk?”

Studying his boss with the practiced eye of someone who’d seen all manner of ailments from malaria to smallpox, Travis asked, “Are you sure you’re okay? You lost a good bit of your color a second ago.”

Zimmer chuckled. “What are you my mom now? Seriously, I’m fine. Should’ve had more breakfast and less caffeine.” Now looking steady, Zimmer moved to the door. “Make sure they put an extra helping of pecan pie on my plate. I think I deserve it.”

Travis waited for his boss to go then left out of the side door, opting to run down to the kitchen instead of call. It might be the only chance he’d have to get any exercise today, a thought that bothered him as he walked past the silent Secret Service agents.

The White House kitchen was a bustle of activity as Travis entered, deftly dodging a chef wheeling in a cart of flour. “Sorry, Mr. Haden.”

“No problem. My fault.”

Travis looked around for the butler, Lester Miles, one of the only faces he knew. Miles was in the corner, stacking silver domes neatly after wiping them each down with the care of mother tending to her newborn. Travis headed that way, careful to stay out of the heaviest lanes of traffic.

“Hey, Lester.”

The former Marine looked up. “Good afternoon, Mr. Haden. Can I get you something?”

“I called down for the president’s lunch a few minutes ago. Hadn’t seen it so I thought I’d take a walk and grab it myself.”

Miles looked annoyed. “I gave your lunch to Mr. Lockwood after handing it to the taster. He said he was headed to the Oval Office to deliver some paperwork and offered to help.” Miles looked around the kitchen, soon spotting Santos Lockwood in the opposite corner, facing the opposite direction. “There he is over there.”

Travis had met the staffer on more than one occasion, although he hadn’t remembered the man’s name. Lester and Travis headed to where Lockwood was now bent over, maybe picking something up from the floor. By the time they got to him, he was once again standing and looked to be adjusting the tray holding the president’s lunch. Travis noticed the beads of sweat on the hair at the base of Lockwood’s neck, his collar partially soaked.

The White House butler tapped Lockwood gently on the shoulder. Lockwood jumped, turning and fumbling with something in his bad hand, the one with the missing fingers, the story of the shark attack already having run its course through the staff grapevine. The item fell to the floor. Travis bent to pick it up, an apology already on the tip of his tongue. Just as his hand reached to grab the tiny paper packet, it looked like an old-fashioned medicine pouch from a pharmacy, Lockwood said, “Oh, I’ve got that.”

With his foot he slid it over and swiftly picked it up. Before he could stand all the way up, Travis’s hand clamped down on Lockwood’s wrist, immobilizing the man’s arm. He stared at the small white packet for a moment, and then, ever so slowly, raised his gaze to meet the wide-eyed terror in Lockwood’s eyes. “You want to tell me just what in the hell this is?”

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?”