CHAPTER FIVE
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Edward Montgomery, stands between the Doric columns of his home, an old colonial schoolhouse along Massachusetts Avenue converted into a live-in mansion. A towering figure, he stands six feet four with wide shoulders, though age has curled them. Known for fighting in the Persian Gulf War, the Iraq War, and the War in Afghanistan, he has more decorations than any other general in America and is now in charge of the most powerful military in the world. Even at home with his youngest son, Billy, he speaks in military jargon: affirmative, negative, copy that. He expects beds to be made with crisp hospital corners, rooms to be tidy, shirts to be tucked in, and never a hat worn at the dinner table—or any other place, really, except for a baseball field. In addition, it is always yes sir, no sir, when one is spoken to. The general comes from an extraordinarily humble and religious upbringing in coal-mining Virginia where the divide between the haves and the have-nots widens every day. The military provided a way out for the general, which he credits with giving him the abundant life of service he leads today; it’s only as of the last several years that the Montgomery family has grown accustomed to power and wealth.
Several government SUVs line the semicircular driveway, blocking cameras and any passerby from seeing something that might appear suspicious. Bunny watches, hidden across the street behind the hedges of the Haitian Embassy, waiting to sneak around the side to the service entrance where Billy awaits her.
The general shakes the hands of the unknown men in black suits. They climb back in their government SUVs, and General Montgomery stands in the cold air watching as they disappear down Massachusetts Avenue, his breath visible as he exhales, his shoulders reaching toward his ears. He looks up to the bright, round moon, then turns around, steps inside the house, and slams the door behind him.
Carol, the general’s wife, sits in the kitchen nook folding laundry. On the television screen in front of her, BREAKING NEWS interrupts Fox News’s already-breaking coverage of the mass shooting. White House Chief of Staff is accused of domestic violence. No comments yet from POTUS.… scrolls across the screen.
Carol is composed, easy-breezy as she folds the next towel. She’s known for weeks this was coming, but hasn’t said a word to anyone except when discussing the matter with her husband. The general can rage, but he’s never hit Carol before. He’s hit his sons, but never Carol. Carol is still dressed in her tweed blazer, red reading glasses left atop her head of silver hair. She spends most days volunteering at the public library, helping recovering vets use the free computers and Internet. She loves a good Danielle Steel novel, but she’ll never tell you that; she keeps them hidden upstairs in the guest bedroom. A devout Catholic from a small town in Connecticut, she spent her after-school hours bagging groceries for her dad, who owned the local grocery store. Carol doesn’t fit in with the elites of Washington, nor does she care to. She can’t wait for the day her husband retires and they can move back out to Virginia, where they recently purchased a farm—an old corn-mill plantation built before the Civil War.
Hot Fox News reporter Chris Williams’s face appears: “The White House accumulates more chaos. Just in, we have a photograph of the White House chief of staff’s wife from the police report filed several weeks ago.” An image appears of the woman with no makeup on, a swollen blue and brown circle around her right eye, a split lip, and bruises around her neck.
“Jesus,” Carol says under her breath, throwing the last towel in the pile next to her. She gets up to turn the television off just as the general walks into the kitchen. He stands in the doorway. Carol turns to face him, terrified of what he is about to tell her.
“Get in, quick.” Billy ushers Bunny into the old service elevator in the basement. “Shhh.” He puts his fingers over her mouth. The elevator wobbles when he shoves the gate closed and presses the fourth-floor button.
“If this breaks down, it means we have to get married,” he whispers.
Bunny giggles and tries to put her hand up Billy’s sweatshirt. “Show it to me,” she says. Billy’s hair is light brown and tousled up at the front; he has a baseball player’s body: tall and lean. He pitches for the high school team and was MVP last year. He’ll never show it, but Billy is remarkably sensitive, given who his father is.
“Oh, now you want to see it?” Billy playfully pulls Bunny’s arms down, exerting twice the strength she has. He leans in to kiss her. The elevator abruptly stops, bobbles up and down; the door opens.
“Guess we’re not getting married,” Bunny says.
Billy pulls Bunny into his nautical-themed bedroom, trappings of a high school boy on the verge of manhood, sheltered and yearning for adventure. Bunny trails her fingers along his wooden desk. She notices an extra-large bottle of protein
