President's Girlfriend 06 - The Sins of the Fathers (32 page)

He looked
out of the window as Marine One careened across the sky on a beeline to its
destination.
 
Dutch knew he had nobody to
blame but himself.
 
He was the one who
used political maneuverings to get Governor Feingold to grant Marcus Rance that
pardon.
 
He was the one who didn’t stop
Jade
and Christian for taking Marcus into their home.
 
He was the one who sent his wife to that
firing squad, when, he realized, that fire was supposed to be for him.
 
But to his everlasting shame, he had sent his
wife to take the bullets for him.

When he felt
that niggling feeling this morning he should have paid more attention to
that.
 
That feeling gripped him for a
reason.
 
But he ignored it.
 
Just as he ignored the
danger of life in a fishbowl for his wife and son.
 
The day Little Walt was born should have been
the day they left Washington.
 
The day
Gina was excoriated in the media, or when Walt was almost kidnapped, should
have been his wake up calls.
 
But oh no.
 
Not the
great Dutch Harber!
 
He couldn’t let his
enemies win.
 
He couldn’t surrender to
any of them.
 
He had to see his ambitions
through.
 
And if it caused his wife to
fight for her life this very day, well that was just the price of being
associated with a man like him.
 

Dutch closed
his eyes again.
 

As shame washed over him.

But he
didn’t stay in that state long.
 
Because
the helicopter landed, he and Allison were ushered out, and before he knew it
he was inside Bethesda Naval Hospital running along corridor after corridor, to
get to his wife.

Jade, who,
along with Sam, were being politely but firmly detained by agents, broke free
and ran to her father.

“Oh, Daddy!”
she said as she threw her arms around him.

Dutch pulled
her back and looked at his daughter as if he was looking at a stranger.
 
But he couldn’t blame her, either.
 
His sins had been visited on her.
 
He shared the blame for the hateful, selfish,
hellish human being she’d become.

“It was
awful, Daddy!” Jade said, looking her beautiful, hazel eyes up at him.
 
“But it’ll be okay.
 
You have me and Ma.
 
We’ll take care of you.”

Dutch looked
at his gorgeous daughter, at the way she was already zeroing Gina out of the
equation, and he hated what he saw.
 
He
hated it.
 
God help him, he hated her.
 
And he pushed her away from him.

“Where’s my
wife?” he said to his escorts, and the agents, once again, hurried him to the
operating room.
 
Allison was right behind
them.

The chief of
surgery was coming out of the O.R., removing his cap, as Dutch and his
necessary entourage of agents came burrowing down the hall.

“Where is
she?” Dutch demanded to know.

“She’s being
prepped for surgery, Mr. President.”

Surgery,
Dutch thought.
 
Good Lord.
 
“I’ve got to see her,” he said, although he
seemed to be talking beyond the doctor, and looking beyond the doctor.
 
He was losing it.
 
“I’ve got to let her know that she’s going to
be all right.
 
She doesn’t like
hospitals, you see.
 
She never has.
 
She had pneumonia once, and I made her stay
overnight in a hospital, and she just hated it.
 
She never forgave me for that.”

He was
running his hand through his hair as he spoke.
 
His hair was usually perfectly manicured.
 
But now, like him, it was all over the place.

“I need to
let her know that she’s going to be all right, and that she’ll be
back
home with me and Little Walt in the morning.”

The surgeon
looked at Allison.
 
Was he for real, his
expression
said.

“Can I tell
her that, Doc?” Dutch asked.
 
“That’ll
make her feel better, you see, if you can promise me that she can come back
home to us.
 
Can I tell my wife that
she’ll be
back
home tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”
the surgeon asked, shock in his voice.
 
He understood trauma and he understood denial.
 
But the president was experiencing overflow
doses of both.

“Yes,
tomorrow,” Dutch said, knowing intellectually that he was slipping, but
determined to go down with hope.
 
“Can I
tell Gina, can I tell my wife that she’ll be
back
home
with us tomorrow?”

The chief of
surgery moved his body from side to side.
 
This was damned uncomfortable even for a man of his esteem.
 
But it had to be said.

“Mr.
President,” he said as kindly, but also as bluntly as he knew how, “it’ll be
the miracle of miracles if your wife makes it through the night.”

It felt like
a body blow.
 
And it took the president’s
breath away.

He thought
about Gina, and if he’d ever see her wonderful smile again.
 
He thought about all the plans they had for
life after the White House.
 
He thought
about her horrific cooking and her fantastic lovemaking and her beautiful
heart.
 
Her wonderful,
beautiful heart.
 
He thought about
how she drove him to Virginia, away from the politics of DC, just to give him a
moment’s rest.
 
He thought about
Gina.
 
And what life would be like
without her.

This was his
day of reckoning.

His sins had
finally caught him wanting.

He fell on
his knees.

EPILOGUE

“I’ll bet
you fifty bucks.”

“A hundred
and you’re on.”

“A hundred?
 
On our salary?
 
Fifty, man, fifty.”

“Can I get
in on this deal?” a third reporter chimed in.
 
They were in the Brady Press Room inside the White House.
 
An aide had already alerted the jam-packed
media that the president would come out first to make a statement, and then the
press secretary would continue with his normal daily briefing.
 
Speculation about just what the president was
going to say filled the crowded room.

“What’s the
bet, anyway?” the third reporter asked.

“Carl here
says the president will announce that there’s been an agreement with House
Republicans on the debt ceiling compromise.
 
But I say the president is coming to announce that they tracked down
Marcus Rance.”

“But they
haven’t tracked down Marcus Rance,” the third reporter reminded him.

“How do you
know?”

“Because it would have leaked by now.
 
It hasn’t leaked because it hasn’t happened.”

“Ladies and
gentlemen,” the intercom announcer blared, “the President of the United
States.”

The
reporters rose to their feet as the president entered the room from the back,
and made his way up to the front.
 
He was
dressed in his usual expensive, tailored suit, but something was off this time.
 
It wasn’t its usual pristine elegance, but
looked almost rumpled.
 
The suave,
debonair Dutch Harber, in fact, looked a little rumpled too, as if he’d been
through hell and back again.
 
Which, every reporter in the room would have to acknowledge, was
factually accurate.

It had been
nearly a month after that fateful day, and it was Dutch’s first day officially
back on the job.
 
The American people had
been patient with their president, allowing him time to get his act
together,
and Crader McKenzie had been holding down the fort
just fine.
 
But the press was growing
antsy.
 
They wanted Dutch.
 
They wanted to hear from their president
again.
 
Now, nearly a month later, he was
finally obliging them.
 
And they all came
ready, as usual, to devour him.

Although
Dutch had a prepared statement, he knew almost instantly that he wasn’t going
to use it.
 
He stood alone behind the
podium, and stared out at the hundreds of questioning eyes that were staring
back at him.

“I had a
prepared speech that I was going to come out here and give to you,” he
began.
 
“I was going to talk about the
wonderful American people and how honored I have been to serve this
nation.
 
I was going to praise the media,
for your hard-hitting journalism, and my fellow politicians for their
commitment to their constituencies back home.
 
I was going to come out here and lay it on thick.
 
I wanted to be positive, you see.
 
I wanted to move forward on a positive
note.
 
But in order to do so I would have
to
lie
my head off, and I’m not going to do that.”

The
reporters in the room could sense combat.
 
The old feisty Dutch Harber, they believed, was about to roar.

Dutch,
however, was determined to keep it brief and get out of there.
 
“The American people,” he continued, “have
been sold a bill of goods here in Washington.
 
We have told them that all they have to do is work hard and play by the
rules and that pot of gold is waiting for them, too.
 
And I don’t fault the politicians for selling
that snake oil.
 
I don’t even fault the
media for allowing us to sell it.
 
I
fault the American people for buying it.
 
Year in and year out.
 
From both parties.
 
Time and time again.
 
That’s why nothing gets done in
Washington.
 
Because
it’s easier to sell the snake oil.
 
It’s easier to convince people that you have all the answers when you
don’t even know what the questions are.”

Dutch hesitated.
 
The reporters stared at him.
 
“But if the American people would have
stopped this nonsense, and held us accountable, then things could have gotten
done.
 
But there’s no
accountability.
 
They’re elections.
 
But all we do is crown the guy with the best
campaign ads or the one promising to come to Washington to obstruct the
president’s agenda.
 
To
do, in essence, absolutely nothing.”

Dutch paused
again.
 
And then he continued.
 
“I hate this place,” he said.
 
“I hate it with a passion.
 
I don’t dislike it, I hate it.
 
I hate what I’ve become in this place, and I
hate what I’ve allowed to happen in this place.”
 
Another pause, this one
palpable.
 
“Effective
immediately,” he said to amazement from a crowd that didn’t see this coming,
“I’m resigning as President of the United States.”

The gasps of
shock went out like thunderbolts in the room.

“Those of
you who will be disappointed by my decision,” Dutch went on, “I’m apologize for
disappointing you.
 
But I can’t do this
anymore.
 
I can’t do it.
 
I can’t slap another back or kiss another
baby or pretend I’m actually doing
good
when all I’m
doing is holding a spot until the next spot holder comes along.
 
But what happened to my wife was a game
changer.
 
What happened to my wife was
beyond enough.
 
I can’t put a positive
spin on that kind of evil.
 
I’m out of
here.
 
Some will cry, some will rejoice,
I don’t give a damn.
 
I’m out of here.”

And Dutch
Harber walked out of the Brady Press Room for the very last time.
 
There was silence.
 
Shocking silence.
 
And then the White House correspondents and
the rest of the media, mainstream and backroom, went haywire.