Brother Termite (3 page)

Giving the seam of the zipper a last tug, Mrs. Gonzales said in firm, quiet benediction, “There now,” as though she were an elderly marzipan queen sending her champion into battle.

The tension in the room evaporated; an inevitable sadness took its place. Marian took her daughter’s hand and led her to the door.

“Reen,” Angela called, flapping her fingers at him. “Reen.”

He followed a discreet step or so behind. Outside, in the wind, a blush rose on Angela’s cheeks, pink human color, from either the cold or her excitement.

Reen remained on the porch while Marian walked the child to the edge of the forest. Picking up a handful of snow, Marian packed it into a ball. Her voice drifted across the frozen yard. “Like this, kid. Here.”

Quen stood at Reen’s side. “Do you not want to be with her, too, Reen-ja?”

“Later.” After three unsuccessful tries, Reen finally managed to grasp his own meager clump of snow.

By the evergreens, Marian was bending down to Angela’s height. The wind carried Marian’s faint voice to him. “Come on. Every kid should know this. Body heat. That’s what makes the snow pack down.” Whirling, Marian threw the snowball. It sailed across the glade and, before Reen could duck, slammed into his chest, shattering into a thousand glittering pieces.

He staggered back. Quen asked anxiously, “Are you all right?”

“It didn’t hurt.” Reen brushed the snow from his uniform with his free hand. The snowball hadn’t been meant to injure. What hurt were Marian’s icy glances, her hard-packed words.

She was laughing. Reen knew enough about human children to realize that, had Angela’s mind been as human as her looks, she would have been laughing, too. Instead his serious little girl bent and, dogged as any Cousin, packed her own snowball.

“That’s a good girl,” came the shadow of Marian’s voice. “Now throw it at your daddy. Throw it hard.”

Reen stood, an easy target. He would not have moved even if his daughter had been holding a gun. Angela threw overhand as her mother had done. The snowball rolled off her fingers and dropped to the ground a couple of feet in front of her shoes.

“That’s okay, kid,” Marian was saying. “We’ll make another one. You can always make another snowball.”

Reen looked at the snow he held. When he relaxed his grip, it slipped through his fingers like sand.

“She knows a great deal about us,” Quen said.

Reen nodded.

“Will she talk?”

“No.”

In her red dress Marian was a cardinal in the trees, a holly berry among the green of the pines.

“But what if she is not so much under your control as you believe?” Quen asked, skirting the edge of indelicacy.

Reen dusted his hands. “She has revealed nothing important. The programming is working.”

But was it? Perhaps her new coldness toward him was the first symptom of rebellion. It had been years since Marian was under the power of the Loving Helpers, and time had a way of blunting things. Probably he should put her under Communal control again, to make certain, but he hadn’t the heart. No. He would stand, vulnerable and still, and accept the snowballs of her rage.

Marian, all warmth and brightness, was bending down to Angela, his gray, quiet child. She was speaking too low now for him to hear what she was saying, but Angela was staring into her mother’s face as though all the wisdom of the prophets was hidden there.

“But what if that is not enough?” Quen asked. “What if she is capable of breaking the programming?”

Reen’s heart, too, had its secret compartments. In the largest compartment lay the Community. In the next, Angela. Marian and Jeff Womack resided in their own places. But Reen knew what should be important and what should not.

“Then she will have to be killed,” he said.

AFTER LANDING
at the White House, Reen followed Marian down the ship’s ramp to the south lawn. The shouts from the reporters at the fence were a wordless cacophony, distant as Marian’s laughter across the Appalachian snow, muted as the cries of the gulls swooping in from the Potomac.

Reen noticed with relief that the boy with the Vespa and backpack had disappeared. And he saw that, near a boxwood hedge, Tali was waiting.

Reen lifted a hand in greeting. “Cousin Brother.”

Tali didn’t reply. There was something important to be discussed, Reen realized, and Tali wouldn’t talk until Marian left.

Reen took a hasty and somewhat ungracious leave of Marian. Pensively, he watched her stride across the grass to her limo parked in the circular drive.

“Cousin Brother Firstborn,” Tali said without preamble as soon as she was out of earshot, “Jonis is missing. The Loving Helpers who were with him have been found dead.”

Reen regarded his Second Brother, by birthright the guardian of his conscience. “Where were the Loving Helpers found?”

“They were put into trash bags and placed by a newspaper stand on Constitution Avenue.”

“Such a thing has never happened before.”

“As soon as one human pattern establishes itself, another pattern supersedes it. Therefore we should not trust patterns.”

It was Tali’s right to give advice to his First Brother, but Reen also had a right to ignore it. “How were the Loving Helpers killed?”

“I thought it tasteless to ask, Reen-ja. Hopkins seemed very distressed at having to tell me, and I myself was uncomfortable hearing the news.”

Reen lifted his face to the clouds scudding across the pallid December sky. “Why should that make you uncomfortable? By now the others have all died in captivity anyway.”

“But no one is aware of our weakness, Cousin Brother.”

“The kidnappers know. Does Director Hopkins have any idea why this crime was different?”

“Hopkins believes something went wrong and the kidnappers were afraid of being seen. That is why they took Jonis and murdered the Loving Helpers. But then he understands these things better than I,” Tali said with unconvincing humility. Humility was something Reen’s Second Brother had never been very good at.

“Does he have suspects?”

Tali watched Marian’s limo nose its way through the iron gates and the barricade. “He says the CIA.”

Reen gazed after the limo as it rolled out into the E Street traffic. “Hopkins accuses the CIA of everything, Cousin Brother.”

Tali suddenly faced Reen. “You tell her too much.”

A fractious breeze shadowboxed with a bed of chrysanthemums nearby, making the heavy-headed flowers duck and weave. Only Tali, Cousin Brother Conscience, had the right to address Reen so sharply, and he exercised that right too often for Reen’s taste. “She has been implanted, Tali. She’s been under my control since she was a child.”

“Control or not, what she knows will make her hate us. Why do you insist on telling her?”

It would have been foolhardy to explain. The fact was that Reen couldn’t help himself. Time had knit them. Unravel the thread of Marian, and the weave of Reen’s life would fall apart.

“Remember, duty is to the Community, Reen-ja,” Tali said.

Reen dipped his head in acceptance of the criticism. “And I realize it is your duty to remind me.” Reen made his way to the West Wing, leaving his conscience standing in the watery sunlight by the boxwood hedge, staring after him.

The Rose Garden was littered with wet brown leaves. As he picked his way through the rosebushes, which had been cut back and bagged like corpses for the winter, Reen noticed Hopkins watching from a window. By the time he opened the French doors and entered the Oval Office, Hopkins caught up with him.

“You talk to Cole?” the director asked.

Reen took a deep breath. The Oval Office was redolent with the smells of lemon oil, peach potpourri, and old smoke from the fireplace. “Of course I have talked to Cole. You must have seen us come off the ship together.”

Reen felt crowded by everything: Marian, the threat of war, the dark undercurrents in the Congress. And he was terrified above all else of being stalked. His fear made him feel so lonely, he nearly confessed it to Hopkins.

“It’ll be all over the six-thirty news,” Hopkins complained. “Marian gets all the media attention. How do you think that makes me look? Where do you two go, anyway?”

Reen curtly changed the subject. “Tell me about Jonis.”

“Jonis? Oh, the last kidnap victim. Listen, Tali tells me Jonis was in charge of your defense. What if he talks?”

Reen thought of Marian and the flat indicting look in his Cousin Brother’s eyes. “He won’t talk.”

“If the CIA’s behind it, Jonis is going to spill his guts.”

“He won’t talk.” Reen pointedly looked away from Hopkins and at an enameled table, a state gift from India.

“You want to give me permission to search Langley?”

“No.” Reen strode out of the office, through the reception area, and to the colonnade.

“Well, okay. So don’t worry. If he doesn’t talk, we’re home free. I’ve got the thing under control.”

“If things are under control, where is Jonis?”

“He has to be with the rest of them, right? We’re trying to get them back, but solving a kidnapping is slow.”

“If solving a crime goes slowly, things are not under control.” They entered the main building at nearly a trot. Reen passed the White House pantry where a dark-suited member of the kitchen staff looked at him curiously.

“We’re talking to witnesses. That’s all we can do for the moment.”

In the elevator vestibule Reen paused.

“Where are you going?” Hopkins asked.

The nice thing about the FBI director was that he wore pleasingly dark suits and somber ties. But there were times Reen wished he could replace him. The White House chief tired of the man’s inane questions. “Upstairs.”

“To see Womack?”

“Is there anyone else upstairs I might want to see?”

“No.”

“Then it is obvious I plan to visit the President.” The elevator arrived. As Reen stepped into the car, Hopkins put his hand to the door.

“He’s losing it bad. He’s hired another medium. Did you know that? And his whipping it out in front of the whole NSC ...”

Reen moved to the back of the small paneled elevator. “The President acts senile, but I know better. Get your hand off the door.”

The director shook his head. “Our collective butts are in a sling, and he’s not doing a damned thing about it. If Womack had any sense left, he would have signed that tariff bill this morning instead of pissing on it.”

“Did you ever stop to think at what point the President upset the meeting? He planned the interruption. Get your hand off the door.”

Hopkins pulled his hand away. “He
planned
that? What are you talking about?”

Reen hit the button. “He tells me he’s on strike.”

JEFF WOMACK
HAD
had made the oval room on the second floor his study, and through his terms in office he had succeeded in changing its decor to one designed to make Reen’s visits torturous and brief.

In the crowded, eclectic room, fleur-de-lis wallpaper did battle with Early American and Santa Fe; and Womack sat in a maple rocking chair, an afghan tucked around his sweat-suited legs. At a heavy table in front of him was a Domino’s box containing the messy, aromatic remains of a pizza. Womack’s long, lushly wrinkled face was lowered, his chin tucked to his chest. Pink scalp shone through his thinning white hair. He was regarding the floor with dull interest.

“Jeff?” Reen said.

The head snapped up. The brown eyes narrowed slyly. “Hi there, termite. Grab yourself some pizza.”

Reen glanced into the box. The pizza was a thick-crusted combination: sausage, green pepper, and black olives scattered at random over the cheese. Reen preferred the dishes that the White House kitchen prepared: asparagus in rows with a neat stripe of hollandaise; circles of scalloped potatoes, all the same size. “No, thank you.”

“So how’d I do this morning?”

Reen walked to the President’s side. “You annoyed me.”

Womack’s smile brightened. “Which bothered you more? The pissing or the drooling? I’ve been practicing, see?” He opened his mouth. A glistening thread of moisture dropped from his lips.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Ask away.” Womack wiped the spittle with his sleeve. Reen took a deep breath. “Does menopause affect women’s ability to deal with logic?”

Womack gave him a sharp look. “Knotty problem.”

Reen steeled himself for the answer. All morning he had been haunted by Marian’s puzzling anger. He had always believed she was intelligent, but females, after all, were females. Perhaps her intelligence was as much of a house of cards as his own.

“Where’d you pick up that idea?”

“Bill Hopkins.”

“Hah!” The President lifted a forefinger. “I guessed as much.”

Whipping off the afghan, Womack stood, then shuffled quickly to the bar. The President was a tall, frail gnome of a man who, when the mood hit him, could move with alarming speed. He took a cigarette from a crushed pack on the fireplace mantel and lit it, leaning gracefully against the wall.

“I wish you wouldn’t smoke.”

“Why? You can grow me another set of lungs like you usually do.” Womack opened a cabinet, took out a fifth of Wild Turkey, and poured himself a drink. “Grow me another heart,” he said grumpily into the glass, “so I can outlive another vice president.”

Shifting uncomfortably on his feet, Reen asked, “And as to my question?”

“Hopkins is after Marian Cole again, right? He’s jealous. Good. Keep ‘em guessing. Just be careful not to show too much favoritism to Marian. If Hopkins discovers you’re in love with her, he’ll use that as ammunition.”

“Thank you. I’ll be more careful,” Reen said, queasily contemplating the chaos inside the pizza box. “Should I also be careful not to show my love for you?”

Womack scowled. “Do me a favor. You
like
me, okay? You’re
fond
of me. You’d like to go
bowling
with me. But let’s not have a kid together like you and Marian.”

As though Womack had taken a swing at his face, Reen flinched. “You know?”

Womack tapped a finger against the side of his patrician nose. “I make it my business to know things. My old political enemies used to call me a snake. But snakes, you know, they see all the dirt. Don’t pay attention to what Hopkins says about Marian. Hopkins is jerking your chain.”

Reen wondered how Womack had learned about Angela.

A too-talkative Cousin? Or was he simply guessing? The President was superb at speculation.

“Listen, I’m still on strike, mind you,” Womack said, “but about that meeting–I thought a little free advice might be in order.” He studied the level in the glass before he lifted it to his mouth.

“Yes?”

“Get rid of Krupner. He’s going to fold under pressure. Anyone who cries in the middle of an NSC meeting . . . give me a break.”

Reen moved to the windows and looked past the Truman balcony’s folding chairs to the Jefferson Memorial, a white marble pimple on the chin of the Ellipse. “The Germans want him.”

“The Germans want a German. Tell them the problem. They’ll replace him. If you want my advice, take it. If you don’t, fuck you. By the way, I’m low on booze.”

A spot of color near the White House fence drew Reen’s attention. That color. That jolly grape-Kool-Aid dot of color. The purple Vespa was back.

“Termite? You listening? My world’s crumbling, don’t you hear? My liquor’s almost gone, and all you can do is stare out the window.”

Reen tore his gaze from the scooter and the watchful, motionless figure beside it. “All right. I’ll send Thural up. You can tell him what you need.”

“Yeah, Thural or Jonis. I like old Jonis. Thural, he just gets one of the Secret Service guys to do it. Jonis is
creative.
There’s this bum–I guess the hell
that’s
insensitive–okay, a street person. Okay? A homeless son of a bitch. Old Jonis meets him at the fence, hands him enough money to get me and the bum a bottle. Scratches both itches at the same time, Jonis says.” Womack lifted his glass. “Great guy, Jonis.”

“Jonis has been kidnapped.”

The glass paused at Womack’s lips.

“Who is the homeless person?” Reen asked.

“Never saw him. Don’t know his name.” Womack stared bleakly into the fireplace, then threw the remains of his cigarette onto the burning logs. “Poor Jonis. Think you’ll get him back alive?”

“If he is not back within three days, we may consider him dead.”

The President’s intent eyes flicked to Reen. “Why three days especially?”

Reen dodged the questioning look. “Did Jonis have other connections we were not aware of?”

“Oo!” The President clapped a hand to his head. “Oo! I wanted to show you something!” Womack rummaged around in the bar’s cabinet. “Shit. Where’d I put it?” Turning away from the bar, he scanned the room.

“What?”

“Something I found in the West Wing.” In four rapid, arthritic strides he was at his knotty pine desk. Sliding open the top drawer, he brought out a folded piece of paper.

With one arm Womack swept the Domino’s box from the Santa Fe table and onto the floor, sending the remains of the pizza tumbling facedown onto the carpet. He opened the paper carefully. On the white page rested a yellowish translucent cone.

Reen cringed.

“Know what it is?” Womack asked.

“Of course I know what it is.”

“Is it yours?”

Reen stiffened. “No! When I shed a claw sheath, I shed it in private. Then I dispose of it, just as any Cousin should.”

“Pick it up. Take a real good look at it.”

“No. And stop playing with it. You don’t know where that’s been.” But he had already caught sight of what Womack wanted him to see. A raised line ran down the cone’s center: the adolescent ridge. There were no more young Cousins, and only one thing left had a claw like that.

“You see?” Womack asked. “How’d
that
get into the White House?”

“It dropped off. The Taskmaster didn’t notice–”

“Don’t be a dunce! I found it while I was crawling around under the furniture in the West Wing, like I told you. And no one brings Loving Helpers into the building.”

“Yes, yes. This is all very interesting–”

“It’s a
mystery,”
Womack said, a gleam in his eye.

Reen lowered his gaze. “Congress is insisting that you choose a vice president.” When he glanced up, he was astonished to see dread shadow Womack’s gaunt face.

“There is only so much that regeneration can do. One day you
will
die, Jeff, and we will be unable to stop it.” They had been friends for Womack’s entire term, fifty-one long years. Never would Reen know another human so well. Despite his special relationship with Marian Cole, never would he love a human so perfectly.

“You said Congress wanted me to. How do
you
feel about it?”

Reen fought the upwelling of resentment in his chest, hoping that Womack, who sensed things so well, would not suspect that he chafed under the congressional pressure. “Something could happen to you.”

Again those brown eyes picked him apart. “Could it?”

“I hear you have hired another medium.”

“Marian tell you? Or Hopkins?”

Reen raised his head.

“Ah,” Womack said with the heartfelt satisfaction of a glutton sitting down before a seven-course meal. “So it was Hopkins. It doesn’t matter much, though, termite. As many mediums as I hire, as much as they tell me about the other side, the thought of dying still scares me.” He laughed. “It scares me to death.”

With his claw and forefinger Reen plucked the sleeve of Womack’s velour sweat suit. “The mediums are frauds. No one can call up spirits that way. Besides, the Appropriations Committee threatens to make your expenditures public.”

“What? Ted Long behind this? That bastard doesn’t scare me. The press is saying I’m senile. The gossip inside the Beltway is I’m dead. So what? I haven’t stepped outside this room in three months, and my approval rating’s eighty-seven percent. Now
that’s
what I call presidential. Let Ted Long shove
that
Harris poll up his ass.”

“Jeff, please. What if war breaks out? Can’t you just sign the bill and have it over with? Must I bring Loving Helpers here to force you?”

Womack yanked his sleeve from Reen’s grasp. His jaws were clenched, his words strangled, his gaze terrified. “Let go of me, you little gray shit!” He lumbered to the rocking chair and sat. “Christ, what a mess. What a bunch of goddamned bad karma. I’m the guy who handed the Earth to you fuckers. Then you stab me in the back.”

A chill fury seized Reen by the nape of the neck. “You’ve never forgiven me for pressuring you to appoint Hopkins. Well, my Brother wanted Hopkins, and it has always been easier for me not to displease Tali. I give you back your own advice: Grow up, Jeff. This is politics.”

For a breathless moment the two glared at each other. Reen was aware of the sickly, jailhouse pallor of the President’s face, the distinctive garlic and tomato odor of the pizza. Then Womack’s expression softened. “Hey. Consider this a learning experience. If you get in over your head . . . well, I have plans. I have agendas. You’ll see.”

“I hate your agendas.” Reen’s shoulders slumped as if the weight of the planet had descended on him.

From the rocking chair a contemplative, wry silence. “Don’t trust me, do you?”

“You taught me every lie, every trick. How can I help but not trust you?” Reen’s voice trembled with the conflict of emotions he felt for the man. Womack had been one of Reen’s longest-running trials–the cost, Reen had always figured, of victory. And yet, for all their arguments, he loved him, loved him with the same despairing love he felt for Marian Cole.

“You know, when push comes to shove, termite, you won’t have the heart to get rid of me. But your Brother will.”

Reen walked hastily out of the room. In the vestibule of the elevator he punched the button hard with his claw. He wanted to get away from Womack, but he wasn’t sure what drove him: anger at Womack or fear of the truth.

“Hey, termite,” Womack called.

Reen peeked around the corner. The President was framed in the doorway of his study, the pizza at his feet, a monarch amid the ruins of his kingdom. “Okay, so you don’t believe in mediums. But you believe in spirits, right? I mean, we picked this spiritualism up from you guys. You’re not just jerking me around?”

The elevator opened with a rumble and shush. “Of course there are spirits.” Reen stepped into the car and let it take him down to safety, away from the torment in Jeff Womack’s eyes.