“Thank God.” David squeezed Vanessa’s hand and pressed it to his lips, then bent down and kissed her softly. Her lips were no warmer and no more responsive than those of a mannequin.
The doctor excused himself, leaving the three of them alone. Before Clete had an opportunity to launch an attack, David went on the offensive. “I’ll have Dex Leopold’s ass for this.”
Clete said, “Before you get too involved with somebody else’s ass, I suggest you start thinking about covering your own.”
David feigned surprise. “What do you mean?”
There was a knock at the door. Spencer Martin walked in.
Vanessa drew a quick breath, showing more animation than she had up to this point. Clete said, “Well, well. The bad penny has finally come around again.”
Spence seemed impervious to the insult. He looked past Clete to speak to Vanessa. “I’m glad to hear that you’re on the mend.” Then to David, he said, “Dalton Neely is having a difficult time convincing the media that Mrs. Merritt’s prognosis is positive. I think you should address them yourself, sir, and assure the nation that the First Lady will soon be back in commission.”
“That’s a good idea,” David agreed. “Clete, why don’t you come with me? Your presence there will underscore the good news.”
Clete looked down at Vanessa. “Is that okay with you, sweetheart? Do you mind being left alone?”
“I’m not alone any longer, Daddy,” she said softly.
“You’re surely not.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead. When he straightened, he swept his arm toward the door. “After you, Mr. President.”
David didn’t like the senator’s complacency. Not at all. He liked even less the pure loathing with which his wife looked at him. Nevertheless, he told her goodbye, promised that he would return for another visit later in the day, and kissed her hand tenderly before releasing it.
* * *
From the beginning, David Merritt had been a hands-on president, eager to press the flesh of the people who had elected him. His friendliness challenged the men sworn to protect him. Today was no exception.
To the dismay of the Secret Service, the impromptu press conference was held on the ground floor of the hospital, with media and hospital personnel crowding against the nylon rope that provided a tenuous barricade.
A harried Dalton Neely gratefully stood aside for the President, whose arrival had whipped the media into a frenzy. He was immediately bombarded with shouted questions. He held up his hands for quiet. When the clamor subsided, he announced that he and Senator Armbruster had just come from Mrs. Merritt’s room.
“We’ve both spoken with her. She’s lucid, she’s doing well, and she’s in very good spirits. Senator Armbruster and I have every confidence in the care she’s receiving from this excellent staff of doctors, nurses, and medical technicians.”
It was amazing to Clete that David could handle himself with such aplomb, no matter what the situation. Objectively, he could stand back and admire the president he’d cultivated almost singlehandedly. But he’d also created a monster. And, like in Mary Shelley’s classic story, it fell to the creator to destroy his creation.
The President dodged a question about Dr. George Allan by saying that Dr. Allan was presently unavailable. To questions about Mrs. Merritt’s so-called kidnapping from Tabor House, he answered that he would have no comment until he’d been fully briefed on the incident. “Reports have been conflicting,” he said.
Then he begged their understanding for the brevity of the press conference, thanked them profusely for their concern, and made his way toward the exit. Clete declined to answer the questions flung at him, but he did ask David for a lift to his house.
David was nonplussed by the request, but he consented and informed the chauffeur that they would be making the unscheduled stop before returning to the White House.
“Take another one,” Clete said brusquely to Spence when he tried to join them in the President’s limo.
Spence looked to David for instruction. “Please, Spence,” he said. Clete could tell that Spence didn’t like it, but he went along to save face.
“When did he resurface?” Clete asked as the motorcade filed out of the hospital parking lot.
“When you made up that ridiculous story about a… what was it? A ‘delicate personal matter’?”
“Something to that effect.” Clete chuckled. “Frankly, I regret that Bondurant didn’t kill the son of a bitch when he had a chance.”
“Is that why you asked me for a ride? So you could once again give me your unsolicited negative opinion of my adviser?”
“No. What I have to say is much more important than him.”
“Out with it, Clete. You’ve been dropping juicy little hints that I’m on the brink of doom and only you can save me.”
“Actually, that’s not too far off the mark, David. I’m the only thing standing between you and a shit hole so deep you’ll never find bottom.”