Commander in Chief
Page 42
40
FBI NEWS
Charlotte
“Mr. President, the head of the FBI, Mr. Cox, wants to see you ASAP. They found him.”
Matt’s gaze falls on Dale Coin like an axe, demanding more.
“He’s got a presentation for you,” Coin adds.
A mix of dread, fear, sorrow, and hope knot inside me as I realize what this means. “Oh my god,” I breathe. Coin is talking about President Law’s shooter.
Matt’s eyes change; they fill with a fierce sparkling.
“Let’s go.” On his feet, he marches down the hall with Dale and three other men, who are updating him on what’s going on.
He pauses midway to the stairs, then cuts the distance back to me. He looks down at me, reading in my eyes how important it is to me. To the whole country. What it will mean to have justice shine.
“Come with me,” he says.
I exhale and nod in excitement, stepping beside him as we head to the Situation Room.
Everyone watches as we enter. Matt’s gone from staring at the room to now staring at me in a completely intense manner. He stops only when everyone begins to greet him. He greets them back and tells me to sit down.
They lower the lights—and then they’re out.
The wall before us flashes, and an image of a man with a beard and light blond hair appears.
“His name is Rupert Larson,” Cox says.
Matt clenches his jaw. “Go on.”
The pain in my heart becomes a sick and fiery gnawing as I listen intently.
Matt stands and gets himself coffee, then he looks at the image, frowning very hard.
“Age fifty-three now. Wanted for rape charges and drug abuse. Grew up in the system.”
The muscle in the back of Matt’s jaw flexes relentlessly as sends me a look that tells me we need to fix that system.
“Last seen in Georgia.”
The images begin flicking on the wall, revealing the man with several different hairstyles and hair colors. We watch, silent. Sometimes Matt’s roiling dark eyes meet mine, and they look crisp and metallic, as cold as I feel.
“Suffers from paranoia and delusions. Apparently he had some beef with President Law. At first addressed letters to him commending him on what a fine job he was doing. He claimed to be able to see the future—his murder. The letters stopped for years. We found one unsent letter detailing exactly how he would die. Three gunshots. He could only get two in before Secret Service caught him. He’s been running ever since.”
Cox eyes him as Matt drains his coffee cup. He’s in control, but under the façade, I can feel the turmoil around him. He gives Cox a bleak, thick look, a look that could cause a lesser man to run and head for cover.
“How can we be sure it’s him?” he asks. Voice cold.
“The second unsent letter. A written confession—more like a gloating documentary. Signed.”
The torment that flashes for a fraction of a second in Matt’s eyes stabs me in the chest.
This is his dad’s killer. The man who took Lawrence Hamilton’s life and who’s been free for all these years. I get mad just thinking about it. As mad as I know Matt is, deep inside. His voice shows no evidence of that torment, or that anger, though, even with that lethal glimmer in his eyes. His face is a mask of stone as he meets Cox dead in the eye.
“You know what to do.”
He leads me out of the Situation Room with a hand pressed to the small of my back, and when we’re finally in his bedroom, I wrap my arms around him in impulse—feeling him pull me to him just as fiercely.
“Think they’ll get him?” I whisper.
“They better,” he hisses, his eyes fully open to me now, his face etched in pain. I grab his face as he grabs mine, kissing each other as if our lives depend on it, his kiss tasting of pain and hope, sorrow and fulfillment.
One hour after Matt was briefed, every law enforcement agent in the country has now been informed of the case—and everyone has a face, a photo, and a name of the suspect. He’s earned himself a top spot in the country’s most-wanted list and is considered extremely volatile and dangerous.
Matt meets with his mother, and they talk for over an hour. He had the FBI retrieve the scarf from the evidence files, and he gives it to her. She cries for a long time after.
It’s 2 a.m. by the time we retire for bed, Matty already asleep, and Jack, though he likes sleeping by Matty’s door to guard him, seems to sense something’s up. He pads into our room as we’re stripping for bed, and leaps onto bed with us and barks for Matt’s attention.
I pull up the covers and slip into my side, and I stroke Jack’s ears as he lies down as Matt approaches. Matt drops his lean, muscular naked body on his side of the bed and strokes his hand down Jack’s muzzle, then moves his hand to cover mine. I raise my eyes to his, and he looks at me, and I feel the look everywhere. It says all the things he is not saying.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe, uncurling my other hand to reveal that I’m holding his father’s pin. I just haven’t been able to stop holding it all day.
“I’m sorry too,” he rasps. That’s all he says.
I slip my hands around his neck, pressing a kiss to his throat as we cuddle, Jack settling with a long sigh in between our legs.
Five hours later, Matt is awakened to the news that Larson’s been captured.
The criminal’s face is on the front page of every newspaper across the country. America rejoices. Though it only reopens the wound, for the memory becomes fresh for Matthew and his mother. I head with him and little Matt to the cemetery, three dozen white roses in our hands that we set on President Law Hamilton’s grave.
“Rest in peace, Dad,” Matt says, leaving his roses after I set down mine. He raps his knuckles to the headstone, and a tear slips out of the corner of my eye.
Matt Jr. steps up, setting his right in between ours. “West in peace, Gwandpapa.”
He raps his knuckles like his dad did, and I part laugh, part sob.
Matt smiles over Matty’s action, his eyes full of love for his son as he rumples his hair, scoops him up, and we head back to the motorcade. Matt quiet but at peace. The only one who can’t hold back the tears for my husband is me.
41
IMMEASURABLY
Charlotte
This fall, the primaries for the main parties have begun with much pomp, and I’ve watched on television, curious about which final contenders among the multiple options will win the nomination this time. I know that Matthew’s grandfather came to have a chat with him about him running as a Democrat or Republican this time around.
“I respectfully declined,” he told the press when rumors of the meeting started making the rounds.
I wonder today when he’ll announce his intention to run for reelection.
“Why do they all want to be Dad?”
“Hmm?”
I glance at Matthew Jr., the most adorable two-year-old you could ever know, with a head of dark hair, a toothy grin¸ and a Dennis-the-Menace attitude.
“They all want to be pwesident.” He frowns menacingly.
“Yes, because the president gets to make the important calls,” I tell him as we walk outside in the gardens.
“I want my dad to be pwesident,” he states simply.
“Yes, he is the pwesident.”
“I don’t want to leave home.” His voice cracks, and I stroke the top of his head. Has he overheard someone talk?
“Home is where we are all together, no matter where that is,” I assure him.
But my son’s words follow me throughout the day. I think about what it would be like to start fresh. A part of me finds it relieving, to be able to have a bit more privacy, but a part of me is not ready to leave here yet—and I’m certain that my husband is too motivated, too dedicated, and too passionate about his job to be ready to leave.
Plus, this house has been our home for three years.
I know the chief usher so well, I’ve hosted birthday parties for him and went to his son’s christening. I know that he handles over a hundred employees, looks out for Matt’s and my schedules, runs everything efficiently, and is the head of the household staff and in charge of all the daily operations. Tom makes sure our lives run smoothly, and they do.
FBI NEWS
Charlotte
“Mr. President, the head of the FBI, Mr. Cox, wants to see you ASAP. They found him.”
Matt’s gaze falls on Dale Coin like an axe, demanding more.
“He’s got a presentation for you,” Coin adds.
A mix of dread, fear, sorrow, and hope knot inside me as I realize what this means. “Oh my god,” I breathe. Coin is talking about President Law’s shooter.
Matt’s eyes change; they fill with a fierce sparkling.
“Let’s go.” On his feet, he marches down the hall with Dale and three other men, who are updating him on what’s going on.
He pauses midway to the stairs, then cuts the distance back to me. He looks down at me, reading in my eyes how important it is to me. To the whole country. What it will mean to have justice shine.
“Come with me,” he says.
I exhale and nod in excitement, stepping beside him as we head to the Situation Room.
Everyone watches as we enter. Matt’s gone from staring at the room to now staring at me in a completely intense manner. He stops only when everyone begins to greet him. He greets them back and tells me to sit down.
They lower the lights—and then they’re out.
The wall before us flashes, and an image of a man with a beard and light blond hair appears.
“His name is Rupert Larson,” Cox says.
Matt clenches his jaw. “Go on.”
The pain in my heart becomes a sick and fiery gnawing as I listen intently.
Matt stands and gets himself coffee, then he looks at the image, frowning very hard.
“Age fifty-three now. Wanted for rape charges and drug abuse. Grew up in the system.”
The muscle in the back of Matt’s jaw flexes relentlessly as sends me a look that tells me we need to fix that system.
“Last seen in Georgia.”
The images begin flicking on the wall, revealing the man with several different hairstyles and hair colors. We watch, silent. Sometimes Matt’s roiling dark eyes meet mine, and they look crisp and metallic, as cold as I feel.
“Suffers from paranoia and delusions. Apparently he had some beef with President Law. At first addressed letters to him commending him on what a fine job he was doing. He claimed to be able to see the future—his murder. The letters stopped for years. We found one unsent letter detailing exactly how he would die. Three gunshots. He could only get two in before Secret Service caught him. He’s been running ever since.”
Cox eyes him as Matt drains his coffee cup. He’s in control, but under the façade, I can feel the turmoil around him. He gives Cox a bleak, thick look, a look that could cause a lesser man to run and head for cover.
“How can we be sure it’s him?” he asks. Voice cold.
“The second unsent letter. A written confession—more like a gloating documentary. Signed.”
The torment that flashes for a fraction of a second in Matt’s eyes stabs me in the chest.
This is his dad’s killer. The man who took Lawrence Hamilton’s life and who’s been free for all these years. I get mad just thinking about it. As mad as I know Matt is, deep inside. His voice shows no evidence of that torment, or that anger, though, even with that lethal glimmer in his eyes. His face is a mask of stone as he meets Cox dead in the eye.
“You know what to do.”
He leads me out of the Situation Room with a hand pressed to the small of my back, and when we’re finally in his bedroom, I wrap my arms around him in impulse—feeling him pull me to him just as fiercely.
“Think they’ll get him?” I whisper.
“They better,” he hisses, his eyes fully open to me now, his face etched in pain. I grab his face as he grabs mine, kissing each other as if our lives depend on it, his kiss tasting of pain and hope, sorrow and fulfillment.
One hour after Matt was briefed, every law enforcement agent in the country has now been informed of the case—and everyone has a face, a photo, and a name of the suspect. He’s earned himself a top spot in the country’s most-wanted list and is considered extremely volatile and dangerous.
Matt meets with his mother, and they talk for over an hour. He had the FBI retrieve the scarf from the evidence files, and he gives it to her. She cries for a long time after.
It’s 2 a.m. by the time we retire for bed, Matty already asleep, and Jack, though he likes sleeping by Matty’s door to guard him, seems to sense something’s up. He pads into our room as we’re stripping for bed, and leaps onto bed with us and barks for Matt’s attention.
I pull up the covers and slip into my side, and I stroke Jack’s ears as he lies down as Matt approaches. Matt drops his lean, muscular naked body on his side of the bed and strokes his hand down Jack’s muzzle, then moves his hand to cover mine. I raise my eyes to his, and he looks at me, and I feel the look everywhere. It says all the things he is not saying.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe, uncurling my other hand to reveal that I’m holding his father’s pin. I just haven’t been able to stop holding it all day.
“I’m sorry too,” he rasps. That’s all he says.
I slip my hands around his neck, pressing a kiss to his throat as we cuddle, Jack settling with a long sigh in between our legs.
Five hours later, Matt is awakened to the news that Larson’s been captured.
The criminal’s face is on the front page of every newspaper across the country. America rejoices. Though it only reopens the wound, for the memory becomes fresh for Matthew and his mother. I head with him and little Matt to the cemetery, three dozen white roses in our hands that we set on President Law Hamilton’s grave.
“Rest in peace, Dad,” Matt says, leaving his roses after I set down mine. He raps his knuckles to the headstone, and a tear slips out of the corner of my eye.
Matt Jr. steps up, setting his right in between ours. “West in peace, Gwandpapa.”
He raps his knuckles like his dad did, and I part laugh, part sob.
Matt smiles over Matty’s action, his eyes full of love for his son as he rumples his hair, scoops him up, and we head back to the motorcade. Matt quiet but at peace. The only one who can’t hold back the tears for my husband is me.
41
IMMEASURABLY
Charlotte
This fall, the primaries for the main parties have begun with much pomp, and I’ve watched on television, curious about which final contenders among the multiple options will win the nomination this time. I know that Matthew’s grandfather came to have a chat with him about him running as a Democrat or Republican this time around.
“I respectfully declined,” he told the press when rumors of the meeting started making the rounds.
I wonder today when he’ll announce his intention to run for reelection.
“Why do they all want to be Dad?”
“Hmm?”
I glance at Matthew Jr., the most adorable two-year-old you could ever know, with a head of dark hair, a toothy grin¸ and a Dennis-the-Menace attitude.
“They all want to be pwesident.” He frowns menacingly.
“Yes, because the president gets to make the important calls,” I tell him as we walk outside in the gardens.
“I want my dad to be pwesident,” he states simply.
“Yes, he is the pwesident.”
“I don’t want to leave home.” His voice cracks, and I stroke the top of his head. Has he overheard someone talk?
“Home is where we are all together, no matter where that is,” I assure him.
But my son’s words follow me throughout the day. I think about what it would be like to start fresh. A part of me finds it relieving, to be able to have a bit more privacy, but a part of me is not ready to leave here yet—and I’m certain that my husband is too motivated, too dedicated, and too passionate about his job to be ready to leave.
Plus, this house has been our home for three years.
I know the chief usher so well, I’ve hosted birthday parties for him and went to his son’s christening. I know that he handles over a hundred employees, looks out for Matt’s and my schedules, runs everything efficiently, and is the head of the household staff and in charge of all the daily operations. Tom makes sure our lives run smoothly, and they do.
