I Do Solemnly Swear (14 page)

Jurgen Krause walked in the front door and slammed it hard. He staggered toward Guenther and plopped on the couch next to his son, grasped his knee with a viselike grip, and dug his fingernails into the boy’s skin. Guenther fiercely chewed his lip but knew better than to make a sound.

“Where’s Derrick?”

Guenther knew all too well why he wanted his brother. It was Derrick’s turn to play Jurgen’s twisted game. Guenther couldn’t let that happen.

“I’m guessing he’s still at school.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I ain’t lyin’. He had to make up some kinda test.”

Jurgen wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve. “Then I guess you’ll have to take his place. Or you can tell me where he really is and spare yourself a whole lot of pain.”

Guenther sat silently. He guessed that, under the circumstances, his father would have an extra-special treat for him today. But he had to protect his brother.

Jurgen weaved his way to the kitchen, steadying his wobbly body with outstretched arms. He filled the plastic pitcher to the top. Two quarts of warm water. As he negotiated his way back to the living room, he held the container close to his body as if he were carrying a priceless vase. He handed the pitcher to Guenther without saying a word. Twelve-year-old Guenther knew the routine. He had to drink it all. Without leaving a drop.

He gulped more than half the pitcher quickly; the last pint was always the toughest. After two minutes, Guenther slurped the last of the water, and his stomach felt like he’d swallowed a beach ball. Jurgen snatched the pitcher away from Guenther, turned it upside down, and shook it. Three or four drops dribbled out of the opening and dripped on the carpeting.

Jurgen’s face twisted into a monster mask. “I teach you to be a man.” He grasped a handful of Guenther’s hair and violently yanked him off the couch. “When your
vater
says drink it all, he
means
drink it all!”

The first punch hammered Guenther’s left kidney, the second walloped his right. Guenther’s lungs drained of air, but he didn’t
utter a sound. Jurgen snapped Guenther’s head from side to side and repeatedly pummeled his son’s kidneys. With each punch, Guenther could feel urine squirt in his underwear. He released Guenther’s hair, and the boy collapsed to the floor.

Jurgen pointed to the wall. “Get up,
huhn
!” His father always called Guenther a chicken.

He had pounded Guenther’s kidneys before, but today, as Guenther staggered to the corner, he felt light-headed and nauseous, terrified he’d pass out. He tried not to think about what his enraged father might do if he lost consciousness. As instructed, Guenther stood in the corner of the living room, next to the black-and-white console TV. He tried to stand upright, but his lower back felt as if it were broken.

The one time Guenther miraculously managed to hold his pee for the full hour, Jurgen had hugged him and praised his son as a great
soldat
. But not today. Something was terribly wrong; his kidneys were on fire. For the first fifteen minutes, it was barely tolerable. Guenther pressed his inner thighs together and held his penis. But then the dance began. The boy’s efficient kidneys processed the excess liquid his body couldn’t absorb, and his small bladder overfilled. He doubled over in excruciating pain.

Jurgen stomped over to Guenther. He poked his index finger in Guenther’s chest.

“Maybe now you will tell me where your brother is.”

Guenther could barely speak. “At school,” he whispered.

His answer infuriated Jurgen. “You hold your pee until I tell you!”

For eight minutes, Guenther was folded in half in fierce agony. It felt like someone had shoved a garden hose inside him and turned it on full blast. When Guenther had failed in the past, his father would grab a fistful of his hair and slap Guenther’s face bloody.
He’d yell at him with violent rage, his eyes bulging monstrously, and call Guenther a
huhn
. Then that maniacal smile would cross Jurgen’s face. He’d light his Dutch Master’s cigar and puff clouds of blue smoke until the tip was as red as a brake light. He’d make Guenther lie on the couch. With one hand, Jurgen would grasp Guenther’s wrists and hold them securely. He’d puff his cigar red hot and twist the burning end into Guenther’s stomach and back. Guttural screams echoed from Guenther. But Jurgen hadn’t ended the game quickly. He’d relight the cigar again and again, until he was satisfied his son had learned a lesson about discipline. Guenther couldn’t even imagine what was coming today.

As he stood in the corner, Guenther’s bladder let loose. He could feel the urine soaking his pants and hear it puddling on the wooden floor. But something unusual happened. Jurgen looked at him with a gaping stare, but he didn’t charge toward him as he’d done a dozen times before. No bloody face. No cigar twisting in his belly. Instead, his father dashed out the front door as if the house were on fire. Guenther guessed that his father was on his way to school, looking for Derrick. But then Guenther looked at the puddle forming around his sneakers. His urine was as red as beet juice.

That was the day Guenther Krause decided to kill his father. Before Jurgen Krause killed him—and his younger brother.

***

Kate heard a gentle knock on the Oval Office door, and Olivia Carter peeked inside. The svelte young woman, trim yet shapely, almost flowed into the office. Olivia was always a smart dresser, and Kate admired her perfectly tailored business suit.

“Hope you haven’t been waiting too long,” Kate said. “It’s been like Georgetown Plaza on Christmas Eve around here. Sorry I had to cancel yesterday.”

Olivia sat down and adjusted her glasses. “It’s not necessary to apologize, Madam President. I know how terribly busy you are.”

For an instant, Kate forgot why Olivia was here. Then she remembered that the young woman wanted to discuss PR strategies, which at this particular time, and all things considered, seemed appropriate. “Tell me something that will lift my spirits, Olivia. I feel as though I’ve spent the last few days with the Prince of Darkness.”

The young woman glanced past Kate and peered out the window. It looked like she was organizing her thoughts, but her eyes were distant. “I’m quite uncomfortable with what I have to say.”

“Don’t worry. The Oval Office hasn’t been bugged since the Nixon years.”

Olivia’s shoulders rolled forward, and she folded her hands on her lap. “I hear a lot of scuttlebutt, Madam President.” Her voice tightened. “Most of it I take with a grain of salt.” She pushed her hair behind her ears. “Sometimes...I don’t.”

Kate gave her a long, searching look.

“Can I ask you a direct question?” Olivia said.

Kate didn’t have time to answer.

“Are you going to resign?”

It felt like a punch in the solar plexus. Kate recalled her dream. “Why would you ask such a question?”

Olivia wiggled in the chair. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Victor Ellenwood was talking to one of his agents the other day. I picked up bits and pieces of the conversation. I heard your name and the word
resignation
.”

Kate could barely suppress her anger. “And who was Victor talking to?”

“Agent Jack Miller.”

She didn’t know him, but there were dozens of agents she’d never met. “The higher you climb the political ladder, Olivia, the greater the speculation.”

“Is it a rumor, Madam President?”

Kate’s recent conversation with Peter replayed in her mind. It now seemed obvious that Peter wasn’t the only one who wanted her out of the White House. “Do you think I’d let another
man
into the Oval Office without a fight? This is the beginning of an era.”

The sparkle returned to Olivia’s voice. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that. I believe in you, Madam President. I’m on your team one hundred and ten percent.”

Kate did not doubt Olivia’s loyalty, but at this particular moment, the young woman’s commendation was overshadowed by Kate’s fierce anger. She wanted to politely excuse herself, march into Ellenwood’s office, and wring his neck. But now was not the time.

“I’ve given your objectives careful consideration,” Olivia said, her face still beaming. “I’d like to share some strategies with you.”

“I’d love to hear them, but first, let me run something by you.” Kate paused for a long moment. “You’ve seen the headlines in the
Post
?”

Olivia nodded.

“Both Charles McDermott and William Riley have advised me to make a rebuttal statement. Any thoughts on that, Olivia?”

“The article was pure speculation, Madam President. They did not identify one credible source. My advice, let it run its course. In a few days, another sensational rumor will capture the spotlight.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not a rumor.”

Olivia didn’t look as surprised as Kate had anticipated. “Pardon my intrusion, but may I ask if you are pursuing a legal separation?”

“It’s more of an unofficial parting. Peter needs a little space, and Topeka’s where he thinks he’ll find it.”

“Then I advise you to ignore it. It’s not unusual for a president to be separated from a spouse from time to time. Eleanor Roosevelt, Mamie Eisenhower, Betty Ford—to name a few—had very active calendars. They were often separated from their husbands for extended periods. And it barely raised an eyebrow.”

Kate liked this spunky young woman. “I appreciate your honest feedback, Olivia.” Kate pondered for a few moments. “Now, tell me about your strategies.”

Olivia opened her briefcase, shuffled her notes, and nervously adjusted her glasses.

“Many of your roadblocks are much the same as they were for President Rodgers. But your gender, unfortunately, adds a little twist. Congress is the central problem. As an Independent, you do not have the clout or the political leverage to achieve nonpartisan support. Your most powerful tool is virtually useless. If you veto a bill, Madam President, it will probably sail through Congress anyway. Those you introduce are going to be killed.”

This was not a revelation to Kate, of course, but she hoped that Olivia had discovered an innovative way around conventional politics. “You’re painting a grim picture, Olivia.”

“It gets worse. You probably weren’t aware of this, but President Rodgers postponed introducing your Healing of America bills with good reason. He was terrified he’d be publicly humiliated. He’d been forewarned that the bills would die in record time.”

Kate recalled Walter Owens’s arrogant warning. “I wasn’t aware of that.” Why hadn’t David been honest with her?

“President Rodgers didn’t want to tell you because he hoped he’d find a way to influence Congress through the back door. Unfortunately, fate got in the way.”

“Is there an upside?” Kate asked.

Olivia’s eyes looked like a child’s on Christmas morning. “If it weren’t for your popularity with women voters, David Rodgers never would have been elected president.
You
won the election.” Olivia searched her notes. “Recent polls indicate that you have an amazing sixty-seven percent approval rating among women and thirty-nine percent with men. These voters represent the back door you’re looking for, Madam President.”

“I don’t think I follow you.”

“How do you feel voters would react to the Healing of America bills?”

“Any with a grain of common sense would recognize the overall benefits to the country.”

“Perhaps it’s time for you to do what FDR did. Directly appeal to the people who elected you. Expose their oppressors. Tell your voters that a stubborn, myopic Congress refuses to consider legislation that can dramatically affect the social and economic posture of the country and improve their quality of life. Encourage them to write to their representatives. There’s strength in numbers, and your strength can come from the voters.”

“What you’re saying makes sense from an idealistic perspective, but wouldn’t I alienate Congress even more?”

“Take off the gloves, Madam President. Go a few rounds with bare knuckles. Show these pompous asses what you’re made of.”

Kate reflected on her suggestion for a long time. Was the young strategist correct? Perhaps so, but there remained an
unspoken roadblock. Was Kate persuasive and evocative enough to arouse and activate apathetic Americans? Could she stand toe-to-toe with Congress and win over voters?

Kate glanced at her watch. Her hurried schedule forced her to cut their meeting short. “I really hate to rush you off, but I’ve got another meeting in five minutes. Albert Cranston’s going to detail the security plan for my Georgetown lecture next week.”

“Georgetown
University
?” Olivia almost shouted.

“You sound surprised.”

“It’s one of the most conservative universities on the East Coast.” Olivia smiled. “But I guess when you’re the president—regardless of your agenda—speaking engagements are abundant.”

“At first, I turned them down. But Vice President Owens is an alumnus, so I figured it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to keep my VP happy.”

***

Charles McDermott found a rare few minutes of quiet time, so he loosened his tie and sprawled out on the leather sofa in his office. He couldn’t stop thinking about the historic events over the last few weeks and the first time he’d met David Rodgers.

McDermott had been amazed when David Rodgers had announced his candidacy for president as an Independent. But he wasn’t shocked when Rodgers contacted him. Harvard had never produced a political strategist like McDermott. A long list of successful politicians could attest to his credentials. He remembered the evening David Rodgers had won the presidency.

It was November 5, at ten forty-eight p.m., eastern standard time, when ABC News projected that David Joel Rodgers would be the next president of the United States. The penthouse apartment on the sixteenth floor of the Ritz-Carlton rocked with celebration. Champagne corks popped as if it were midnight on
New Year’s Eve. David Rodgers embraced and kissed his wife, Elizabeth, then he congratulated Kate and Peter Miles. McDermott was standing by the window, melancholy, absorbed with private thoughts. There was a drawback to winning an election, especially when the odds were beyond computation. For Charles McDermott, the high was like a phenomenal orgasm. When it was over, though, a haunting fear that he’d never again achieve such an intense fulfillment haunted his thoughts. Winning the presidential election as an Independent—a benchmark in history—eclipsed any hope of greater euphoria. What the hell would McDermott do now to one-up this event?