Louise drew her arms tight against her chest, gripping opposite elbows. “John, does it have to happen?”
Trent wrote once that “doubters are not followers. Instead they favor proximity to the bold, for it is with them that they find nourishment for their weakness. Doubters need visionaries to justify their existence. The lion is a visionary. The grizzly is a visionary. The slug is a doubter. Doubters are prey.” Do not feed the doubter, John recalled Trent proposing. It was better to let the behavior starve.
“So many people are dead already,” Louise said, her voice having a surprising edge to it. “Do more have to die?”
“Toby will make the call tonight, then he’ll be back,” John said to the forest. Sparks of light flashed off the ice-covered trees as rays of sun began to crest the horizon.
“John, think about this,” Louise implored. She stepped closer, even though she could see her husband’s fist ball at his side. “How many more?”
“Make sure you make a big dinner. I’m sure he’ll be hungry.”
“John… Don’t do this. Stop it. You can stop it.”
“Don’t let a doubter become a challenger. Challengers are parasites that infect he who allows them quarter.”
“Please, John.” He was so young, so strong, with such powerful convictions, such grand ideas, such determination. How could she not have fallen in love with him then? So long ago. Now she understood the reality of it all. Her reality. One did not love John Barrish. One either hated him or respected him. Louise knew now that she was unique among those groupings. She was a creature of two selves. She did not love him. Infatuation at one time, maybe. Starry-eyed adoration. But never love. Respect, yes. Fear, most definitely. “Don’t make our sons like you. Don’t.”
John unclenched his fists and slid them into the pockets of his jeans. “Steak. We have some steaks left. Toby and Stanley both like steak.”
“John!”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “They’re my sons! They’re nothing like you! They never have been, they never will be!”
Her eyes were glistening, her cheeks red. Neither were from the cold. “Please!”
Now he turned his whole body and faced her, just looking, not lifting a hand, not making a move. It was a posture he had mastered against more worthy doubters. This one, like the others, would not become a challenger. “One other thing, Louise: if you say anything, do anything, even think anything that crosses me in front of the boys, I’ll kill you.”
Her body didn’t move an inch, but internally she cowered, hunching down into the smallest fetal position she could imagine, hands shielding her face from the monster that stood over her like a giant. The monster looked down upon her, then walked past. It could have stepped on her if it wanted.
It might still, she knew.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” Felicia Griggs said to her husband as they were escorted to the upper level of the House chamber.
“I’m in a suit,” Darren said. “Believe it.”
“I can’t get him in a suit even for church,” Felicia joked, looking back to Anne.
“I can’t get mine out of his,” Anne responded, realizing from the shocked look on her newest friend’s face that there was too much interpretation possible in that statement. “You know what I mean.”
“I know,” Felicia said.
“There was a lot of security outside,” Felicia commented. “There were soldiers on the roof of the Supreme Court building.”
“Just a few,” Darren reminded her, though he had noticed, too.
“Art promised it was safe,” Anne assured them. Of course he was miles away watching the whole thing as the guest of some government bigwigs. Well, they were guests of the biggest bigwig, Anne knew.
The House usher stopped and motioned a left to the guests of the president. “This way. To the second row on the right. You’ll be behind the first lady.”
Felicia froze momentarily, as did Anne. Collectively they thought, The First Lady!
“Come on,” Darren prodded. He led them down the steps, past the half-filled rows to the seats indicated by the usher. It was still early, and the House chamber was only sparsely populated, but more legislators were entering every minute.
“Do you think there’s someone selling peanuts?” Anne asked.
Felicia giggled at the joke and looked toward the podium where the president would be speaking. They were above and to the left of that spot, one of the choicest seats for the yearly event. It was where those whom the president had chosen for special recognition of some sort sat, along with the first family.
“Do you think she’ll bring the baby?” Felicia inquired.
“Not if he yells like he did at that speech the president gave last summer,” Darren answered.
“The child has lungs,” Anne commented.
“I think he’s cute,” Felicia said in defense of the little boy. She squeezed her husband’s hand as thoughts of another little boy filled her head. Darren, not surprisingly, squeezed back.
He shouldn’t have been surprised, but Art Jefferson was when Secretary of State James Coventry met him in the foyer with a long-neck hanging lazily in one hand.
“Jefferson. Good to see you.” Coventry shook the agent’s hand and took his overcoat. It was dry outside, but cold and breezy. “Did the guard dogs give you any trouble?”
Art noticed the smile attached to the inquiry, but doubted that the two Secret Service agents who’d given him the once-over out front would appreciate the secretary’s characterization. “Just doing their job, sir.”
“I know. Come on in.” Coventry led the evening’s final arrival into the main area of the foyer. A long, sweeping staircase curved up to the left, forming an arch over the passageway to the back of the house. To the right was a parlor, and beyond it a dining room. To the left, through twin doors that were open, was the secretary’s study, and the gathering.
“This is a nice house, sir,” Art commented. Nice, big. It was definitely beyond his means, but soon there would be another set of means to add to his. And he would have to start looking for a new place. Correction, he caught himself…they would be looking.
“Thanks,” Coventry answered, bringing Art into the study. Bud DiContino and Gordon Jones stood to greet him. “You know this fella.”
“Mr. Director.” There was no way around the formality, Art knew. Mister this, mister that. All evening.
“Glad you could make it, Jefferson,” Jones said.
“And you’ve met Bud DiContino.”
“Yes. A couple years back.”
“Good to see you again,” Bud said, shaking the agent’s hand.
“Have a seat, Jefferson,” Coventry offered. “Take your jacket off. You want a beer?”
Oh, wonderful! He was being told to get comfortable and have a brew in front of the director! Art could see it was a loose-tie and rolled-up sleeves night, but he had a gun on his hip — although Jones did, too, and his Smith & Wesson was there for all to see.
“Relax, Jefferson,” Jones suggested with an amused smile. “Consider it a night off.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Beer?” Coventry asked again as Art hung his jacket with the others.
“Do you have any nonalcoholic stuff?”
“One light-light coming up.”
Art took a seat next to the national security adviser on one of the room’s two couches. Two chairs completed the U around the coffee table, and at the far end, built into a large display case that held some of the secretary’s memorabilia, was a good-sized TV.
“I wish you were in D.C. under better circumstances,” Bud commented.