David Morrell - The Covenant Of The Flame

'This is Bill Craig. I'm not home right now, but if you'll leave your name and…'

Shit! She'd forgotten the time. He'd be in the office now. She jabbed the disconnect lever and pressed more buttons, this time for…

'Missing Persons,' a raspy voice said.

'Lieutenant Craig.' Tess struggled not to hyperventilate.

'He's out of the office. But if I can be of help, I'm sure-'

Tess slammed down the phone.

No! I need Craig! The only man I can trust is Craig!

'Tess?'

Spinning, Tess faced Mrs Caudill, who'd nervously emerged from the dining room.

'Did you talk to the - ?

'Police? You bet! They want me downtown right now. I hate to impose, Mrs Caudill, but if you've got a car I can…'

'My home and my cars are yours. Use my husband's car. I've kept it licensed and maintained. On the slim chance that I'd ever be brave enough to resist my memories and drive it.'

'What kind of car did he…?'

'A Porsche nine-eleven. It's got plenty of… what do the kids say?… guts.'

'Just like your husband, Mrs Caudill.'

'Believe it, Tess. Take the car. Use it. My husband would have liked that. Plenty of guts. Because I've got a feeling that your problems are worse than I imagine. And terrible problems need…'

'Guts?' Tess raised her arms. 'Your intuition's on target, Mrs Caudill. I do have problems. Beyond belief. I don't have much time. Not to be rude, but quickly, the keys. Where are the keys?'

Maintaining his composure but braced for a confrontation, Vice President Alan Gerrard stepped past the metal detector and the Secret Service guards in the White House corridor, their features remaining stolid as he entered the Oval Office. Since Gerrard had been chosen – to the nation's astonishment – as the president's running mate in the election three years ago, Gerrard had been invited to the Oval Office only eight times. His few visits accounted for his renewed surprise that the office was so much smaller than it looked on TV.

Outsiders might have been puzzled by the vice president's lack of access to the president. But Gerrard understood too well. After all, he'd been chosen as a running mate not because of any skills but merely because of three coincidental, pragmatic, political reasons.

One, he'd been a senator from Florida, and that southern connection balanced the president's northern connection as a former senator from Illinois.

Two, Gerrard was forty – fifteen years younger than the president – and Gerrard's handsome, movie-star features made him appealing (so the president's demographic advisers claimed) to young voters, especially women.

Three, and probably most important, Gerrard had a reputation for being compliant, not causing trouble, following the Republican party line, and hence he wouldn't be a rival to the president, who already anticipated the next election and didn't want anyone upstaging his take-charge personality.

But no matter how much the campaigning president's logic had made sense in theory, its practical effects had almost been disastrous. The public, the media, and political analysts had not merely been surprised by the president's choice; they'd been appalled.

'Gerrard knows more about tennis than he does about politics. He's more at home at a country club than he is in the Senate. He's got so much money he thinks everyone drives a Mercedes. He's never made a decision about anything without asking advice from all of his contacts, including his gardener. God gave him great looks, then went for a walk, and forgot to add brains.'

And on, and on.

Republican leaders had begged the future president to reconsider his choice for a running mate. Fearful, Gerrard had heard strong rumors that the president had almost relented but had finally concluded that to change his mind would make him look indecisive, a poor way to start an election campaign. So the president had kept Gerrard on the ticket but had distanced himself as much as diplomatically possible from his running mate, sending Gerrard to make speeches in the least important, least populated districts, exiling Gerrard to the boonies, in effect making him disappear from the voters' minds.

Due to several factors – the weak Democratic opposition and the president's strong connection with the previous revered administration – Gerrard's side had won the election, and the president had immediately distanced himself even more from Gerrard, using him as the token White House representative at the blandest of social functions, then sending him on innocuous goodwill missions around the globe. Lately, columnists had taken to calling Gerrard 'the invisible man'.

At least until four days ago.

Oh, yes, indeed.

Four days ago.

That was when Gerrard had become very visible and exercised his limited authority, shocking every political theorist in the country.

As Gerrard shut the door behind him, he noticed that the Oval Office was empty except for the president, Clifford Garth, who sat behind his wide polished desk in his high-backed bulletproof chair in front of a bulletproof window that overlooked the White House lawn.

The president was fifty-five, taller than he looked on TV, trim from the two miles he swam every day in the pool in the White House basement. He was narrow-faced, which sometimes gave his mouth an unfortunate pinched expression. He had authoritative dark eyebrows that contrasted effectively with a distinguished touch of gray in his neatly cut, short hair. His skin was normally tanned, from daily exposure to a sun lamp, but today the president's cheeks were vividly scarlet. His eyes – which as a rule displayed a calm, controlled, reassuring thoughtfulness – bulged and blazed with fierce emotion.

'Yes, Mr President? You wanted to see me?' Gerrard asked.

'See you? Damned right I want to see you.' The president stood with force. 'I waited as long as… I'd have told you to get here four days ago, but I needed that much time to control myself! Never mind the political liability. I didn't want to get arrested.'

Gerrard shook his head. 'I don't understand. Arrested, sir?'

'For murder.' Garth raised a rigid arm and gestured in a frenzy toward the ceiling, moving his index finger from left to right. 'Imagine the headline. Imagine my satisfaction. "President loses his mind, attacks vice president, throws the bastard across the desk in the Oval Office, and strangles the son of a bitch, making his tongue stick out." You dumb…! What the hell did you think you were doing? Just for fun, did you decide to pretend you had power? You stupid…!'

'Yes, I understand. I assume you're referring to the vote on the Senate's clean-air bill,' Gerrard said.

'My God, I'm stunned! I didn't know you had it in you! You've suddenly become a genius! You read my mind, Gerrard! You're right that's what I'm referring to! The Senate's clean-air bill!'

'Mr President, if we can discuss this calmly.'

' Calmly ? This is as calm as I get when I'm… You dimwit asshole. In case you've had a memory lapse, I'll remind you! I'm the president. Not you! Now I haven't found out – yet! – how the opposition managed to sway enough of our senators to vote against us, but I guarantee – you can bet your future and your children's future – I will! But what gives me a shrieking headache…' The president shuddered. 'What I haven't found out… and what keeps me awake all night… and what makes me want to drive a pen through your heart… is why you turned against me! I almost dumped you three years ago! You ought to be grateful! I gave you a cushy job! No responsibilities! Just coast and go to banquets, try not to get too drunk, and when your Barbie-doll wife's not around, you've got the chance to screw any Republican groupie who's got big enough tits and knows how to keep her mouth shut, except when it's around your dick! So why didn't you know enough to keep your mouth shut? For God's sake, Gerrard, the vote on the clean-air bill was tied! Since you've gone simple on me, I'll remind you! The vice president's job is to break the tie, which means he votes for administration policy! But you voted against me! You broke the tie in the opposition's favor!'