intern.”
“When former President Bush was late, you called the secretary of defense, suspecting some dastardly plot. What was it again?”
“Decided to jog another lap around the Rose Garden with Barney. His dog.”
“And if I’m not mistaken, when they first allowed female pages in the Senate, you predicted the end of the world.”
“You’ve made your point, Marjorie.” Hammond gazed out the window of his premium office in the Rayburn Building. As Senate minority leader and the official liaison with Homeland Security, he was entitled to a perk like this view of the smooth green expanse of the Capitol lawn with the Supreme Court building in the background. Beyond that he could just barely make out the Potomac as it flowed from Georgetown on the west all the way to Anacostia on the east.
There were other more tangible privileges for a man in his position. Twice as many hideaways as any other senator. The best illegal Cuban cigars, the first-cut Kentucky bourbon…and a few other perks that kept him very warm at night. He’d had a good career and he didn’t plan to see it end any time soon, thank you. Many had tried to bring him down-from LBJ to Ben Kincaid. But guess what? He was still here.
That last conversation with Marshall had troubled him, though. And now with this on top of everything else…
He ran a hand through his silver pomaded hair. “I’m still concerned, Marjorie. Particularly given-” He turned back to face her. “Call his cell phone.”
“As you wish. Oh-have you seen this?”
“Seen what?”
She handed a sealed letter to him. “Something from Marshall. Courier brought it over early this morning. Probably explains why he’s not here.”
“Hmmph. Couldn’t the man just pick up the phone?”
“He probably could, but I don’t think you’d be allowed to talk unless you knew the password. And with your memory…”
“Ha-ha.” He placed a wrinkled finger under the envelope flap, but before he had it half open, a white powder spilled onto his hands.
“What the-?” Marjorie was about to speak, but before she could, the elderly senator moved it closer to his face to get a better look-and immediately regretted it.
“Oh my God. Oh my God.”
“Robert? What is it?”
“Get out of here, Marjorie.”
“But what-”
“I said, Get out of here! Leave!” He already felt his knees buckling. His stomach knotted and his digestive tract began to cramp. “Get everyone out. The whole staff. Lock the door behind you. Seal it. And don’t let anyone in until the Capitol Police arrive.”
“But-”
“Marjorie! Do it!” His body began to shake. He realized he was going into shock. Bad memory or not, he remembered the briefing they had all been given when the white powder was found in Senator Frist’s mailroom. “Damn. Damn! ”
Marjorie fled the office. Senator Hammond crumpled to the floor. Barely thirty seconds had passed, but his organs were already beginning to liquefy. Blood seeped from his ears and his eye sockets.
Damn it, this was not how he wanted to go out. He still had work to do!
To his credit, his last thought was not of himself. He thought of Marshall, of what must have happened to him. He realized the only possible reason someone would want to kill him, here, now. He was helpless, paralyzed, as every cell in his body was systematically attacked and destroyed. He heard the pounding of heavy-booted footsteps out in the corridor, but he knew the Capitol Police would not get to him in time.
“Oklahoma City,” he whispered to the lead police officer, with his final breath. Then he closed his eyes and passed from being the most powerful Democratic senator in the country to being a helpless puddle on the carpet.
1
Ben Kincaid stood at the corner of Lincoln Boulevard, still unable to believe he was really about to meet the President of the United States. In his short time as a replacement senator he had viewed President Blake from a distance, even attended ceremonies at the White House-but an actual face-to-face meeting was something else again. Was it only yesterday he was a small-time attorney with a struggling, profitless practice and a shoddy office in downtown Tulsa? It seemed that way. The whirlwind of events that had put him in the Washington limelight still seemed unreal. And the most unreal part was that his meteoric rise to the U.S. Senate was not the most amazing, unbelievable, life-shattering thing that had happened to him recently.
He stared at the gold band on the ring finger of his left hand, incredulous.
Ben Kincaid was a married man.
Major Mike Morelli, standing just beside him, leaned toward Ben’s ear. “Still can’t believe it, huh?”
“No. I was convinced I’d be a bachelor my entire life.”
Mike did a double take. “Ben-I was talking about shaking hands with the leader of the free world.”
“Oh.”
“This is a major event.”
“Getting married is a major event.”
“Ah, the lover. ‘Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad / Made to his mistress’s eyebrow.’”
“If you’re going to start with the poetry, I’m disinviting you,” Ben said. “It’s just a big life change, that’s all. After you’ve been single so long.”
“Poor boy. ‘So we’ll go no more a-roving / So late into the night…’”
“I think I’m hearing poetry again.”
“You need to relax, Ben. People get married all the time. In fact, some people get married several times. But there’s only one president.”
Ben shrugged. “I didn’t vote for him.”
“You didn’t vote at all!”
“I voted for Christina. Till death us do part.”
Mike rolled his eyes. “You are too sappy for words.”
“I recall a time-” Ben stopped short. He remembered when Mike was in the flush of new love-with Ben’s younger sister, Julia. He and Ben had been college roommates, Mike an English major, Ben studying music, when Mike met Julia. After a whirlwind courtship, they were married, but the union didn’t last long. Julia fled to somewhere on the East Coast and neither of them had seen her in years. Happily, despite this trauma and the deep scars it left, he and Mike had remained best friends throughout the intervening years, as Ben established his law practice and Mike rose to become a senior homicide investigator with the Tulsa Police Department.
Mike glanced at him, a small sad smile flickering on his face. They’d known each other long enough that Ben didn’t have to finish the sentence.
As if he sensed the need for a mood change, Mike’s expression suddenly shifted to a broad and rather naughty grin. “Speaking of your new bride-is she still pissed?”
Ben’s neck stiffened. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”
“I’ll bet. ‘Hell hath no fury…’”
“She’s just…” Ben drew in his breath, then slowly released it. “…Grumpy.”
