TORMENT (4 page)

Some of the weight that had settled on Mia over the past few weeks lifted as she watched Liz squirm in her seat, doing her best to contain some kind of surprise. While Liz wasn’t her own, she was as close as Mia would ever get. She and Matt had talked kids on several occasions. Apprehensive at first, he came around after she began describing what their kids might be like and who they could become. But it wasn’t to be. Even if Matt were still around, doctors had long ago pronounced her infertile.

“C’mon Lizard, spill the beans.”

Liz giggled and shook her head, but after just a few moments of an old-school stare down, she cracked. She dug into her backpack and pulled out a business size envelope. A nice one, with a shiny blue return address she couldn’t make out.

“Did the president tell you where Uncle Matt is?” Liz
asked,
her grin widening.

Mia’s stomach dropped. The question caught her off guard. “Why? No...”

“Did you talk to him on the phone?”

“No, Liz.” Mia’s frustration was growing despite Liz’s continued excitement. “It’s not that simple. You can’t just talk to —.” Her memory kicked in.
It couldn’t be...

Liz let out a giggle. “I can.”

With that, Liz handed the envelope over. Mia glanced at the return address and nearly dropped the envelope. It read:

The White House

Washington, D.C. 20500

202-456-1414

“I won,” Liz said. “I won a contest.”

Mia didn’t bother asking which contest. She knew exactly what this letter regarded. She opened the envelope and read the one-page letter inside.

Dear Elizabeth,

Thank you for your inspiring essay on “What it means to receive the Medal of Honor.” Out of nearly two hundred thousand entries from around the country, we have chosen yours as the best, for your honesty, above average writing skill, and evident research. I would like you and one family member to attend a private Medal of Honor ceremony next week, where I will be giving the award to Major Paul Byers. It would mean a lot to all of us if you would attend. A duplicate letter has been sent to your mother at home. Please call to confirm. Thank you very much for entering the contest and I look forward to meeting you for breakfast next week.

Sincerely,

President Robert Collins

A hand-written note read, “Hope you like Eggs Benedict!” and was followed by the president’s signature.

Mia stared at the letter, rereading it. She felt sure Margo would let her go with Liz. She doubted being confronted by the fiancé of a man Russia accused of being an assassin would be well received by the president, especially over Eggs Benedict, but she’d get no better chance to find out the truth.

Liz unbuckled and leaned over the front seat. “Did I do
good
?”

Mia kissed her hard on the cheek. “You did amazing.”

“There’s just one problem,” Liz said, her smile turning quizzical. “I didn’t write anything for this contest. I like writing. And I’m smart, thank you very much. But they sent a copy of my essay along with that letter and I definitely didn’t write it. It was too...”

“Insightful?”

“Exactly.”
Liz leaned over the front seat and turned her head toward Mia, her eyes wide with mock suspicion. “So, Auntie Mia, who writes for the newspaper, who do
you
think
wrote it?
Hmm?”

Mia smiled wide. She had indeed written the short essay, doing her best to keep the language as simple, and believable, as possible while making a statement that would be profound for a seven-year-old. The odds of it working were slim. Thousands of kids had entered. But like Liz knew, only one of them was actually a reporter, and a damn good writer. She took Liz’s hand, locking their pinkies. “Can we keep this a secret?”

“Can I have a hundred dollars?”

“How about a Friendly’s sundae on Saturday?”

Liz raised a thoughtful eyebrow and then said, “I’ll take a Friendly’s sundae right now.”

“Done,” Mia said, squeezing Liz’s pinkie. She showed all smiles on the outside—Liz would keep her secret—but her insides felt like she’d just sucked down a pint of spoiled milk. The odds of her confronting the president about Matt in person defied logic and felt supernatural, like fate, or God. Too bad she didn’t believe in either.

4

Washington D.C.

Robert Collins walked through the lobby of the White House West Wing and entered the main hallway. Though his freshly pressed suit
itched
his skin, he made no move to scratch. He believed the president should be prim and proper at all times. In private, he’d scratch his ass raw, but even a single pair of eyes was enough to make him straighten up, speak deeply and ignore any personal irritations. His hair, graying on the sides, but still black on top, matched his black and white suit, chosen specifically for this morning’s medal ceremony and brunch. The press hadn’t been invited, but a staff photographer would document the moment and send the pictures out with a press release. If the press came, they’d only ask questions about the Russian debacle. It wouldn’t be long before some other kind of controversy or tragedy overshadowed the hullabaloo started by the Russians. The airplane crash helped, but with every crash around the world being front page news since 9-11, it wouldn’t hold interest for long. “Let it blow over,” he’d told his staff, “then welcome the vultures back.”

Four Secret Service officers, three men and one woman, followed close behind Collins. They had been handpicked to watch his back and if need be, take a bullet for him. Tom Austin, the senior agent of the four, was an outstanding agent with a squeaky clean appearance and a record as polished as his now bald head. Collins had heard that the man had some strange hobbies outside of the job—surreal art and painting—but that didn’t matter to Collins. Tom was the best Secret Service agent on the job.

Collins strode past the vice president’s office, glancing in. The office, as expected, was empty. A hunting trip called the VP north to Maine. He’d missed out on the Russian fiasco, but called in to brag about the black bear he’d taken. “Maybe a brown bear is next in our sights, eh?” he’d joked. Russia hadn’t been a bear since the collapse of the Soviet Union. Mother Russia was hardly more than a cub now.

 Passing the chief-of-staff’s office, Collins saw the man hard at work. He gave a quick wave and rounded the corner. Next
came
rows of smaller offices on either side of the hallway, leading toward the Oval Office. He avoided the glances of the men and women working in those offices. He knew what they were thinking, and their probing eyes would only spoil what was sure to be a pleasant morning and a delicious brunch. The White House cook staff made amazing hollandaise sauce. He kept his eyes trained straight ahead. Any acknowledgement of the staffers in the offices to either side might bring on a barrage of questions about Russia he didn’t feel like answering, to them, or the press.

The truth of the matter was that Collins did not take the Russian claims or threat seriously. Not in the least bit. Russians perfected the art of geopolitical grandstanding long ago. Several other concerns held higher spots on his priority list.
Bills to be vetoed.
Lobbyists to treat to dinner.
Medals to award.
Hell, his golf swing had him more concerned. He didn’t need to get into a public, celebrity style, name calling squabble with a has-been superpower. They could shout until they were red in the face, nothing more. It was a waste of time. Their own silence proved that. If they had any real case at all, they’d still be holding press conferences, or harassing the U.N.

Collins smiled as he passed between the dining room adjacent to the Oval Office and the Roosevelt Room. Someone in the Russian military was no doubt being deported to Siberia for such a tactical blunder. What their angle was, he had no idea, but it turned out to be a major league screw up.
Thank God I’ve got smarter people than that on my payroll
, Collins thought, as he opened the door to the Oval Office and stepped inside. He left the four Secret Service officers in the hall where they would take up their normal positions.

He closed the door behind him and smiled. A woman sitting in his executive chair had her long legs up on his desk. Her skirt rode up to her thigh and carried his eyes over the rest of her body, up to her blue eyes and smiling face. She held up a cigar. “Found an old stash of cigars deep in the desk. Think Clinton wants them back or should we have some fun?”

Collins laughed. “Not very First Lady-like of you, dear.”

Penny Collins laughed and stood behind the desk. “You know how un-First Lady-like I can be.” She put the cigar in the center desk drawer, straightened her dress and met him in the middle of the room. She kissed him lightly on the lips,
then
straightened his jacket. Because of Collins’s large nose, thin lips and short stature, he’d been dubbed the luckiest president to sit in the Oval Office. Kennedy had nothing on him. Penny put Jackie-O and Marylyn to shame. Speculation about how such an average looking man landed such a catch ranged from extortion to true love, but the truth was somewhere in between. He loved sex, and she loved money and power. They provided for each other. His looks were not an issue and hers were perfect.

“You’re off to the shops again, today?” he asked.

“Well, you won’t find me slurping eggs Benedict with a couple of old guys and some kid.” She headed for the door. “I’ll be back for our
critical meeting
after lunch.”

Collins smiled.
Today
is
going to be a good day
, he thought. “Love you, babe,” he said as she left the office.

“Right back at you, Mr. President,” she replied in her best, breathy Monroe impression. She straightened suddenly and smiled. “Hello, Tom.”

Austin nodded to Penny as he held the door and let her pass. He entered the office as she left and closed the door behind him.

“You’re a lucky man, Mr. President,” Austin said.

“Tell that to my bank account,” Collins said as he sat behind the desk. He opened the desk drawer, took out the cigar Penny had been holding and smelled it. “Damn perfume.” He tossed the cigar into the small trash bin next to the desk. “What’s up?”

As Austin approached the desk, Collins noticed the manila folder in his hand.

“I went over the guest list for this afternoon,” Austin said.

“And?”

“And this.”
Austin opened the manila folder and pulled out a black and white photo of a thirty-something, dark eyed woman with straight black hair and a pleasant smile. “This is the family member accompanying the girl who won the essay contest.”

“What’s her name?
The girl’s?
Leslie or something?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Right.
Elizabeth.” Collins wrote the name down on a piece of paper and slipped it into his pocket. “Go on.”

“The woman is Elizabeth’s aunt, Mia Durante.”

Austin paused.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Collins said. “Should it?”

“Not at all.
But if she’d been married to her fiancé, her last name would have been Brenton.”

Collins sat up straight.
“His
fiancé
?”

Austin shifted his weight.

“What is it?” Collins asked. “Don’t tell me there’s more.”

“She’s a reporter.
Small town, but still, a reporter.”