Aftermath

34

Auden Travis behaved as though requests to find space for strangers on government vehicles came every day.

“Cap what?” he said. He was bending over a thick folder, a compilation of computer listings, typewritten pages, and handwritten notes. “I can’t find it.”

“Catoctin Mountain Park.” Art looked over Auden’s shoulder. “It’s north of here. I can show you on a map.”

“That wouldn’t help. All the transportation information is in terms of highway numbers. I need to know those. Unless he promised you a helicopter?”

The power of the presidency — and the temptation to lay false claim to it. “No. We have to ride on whatever’s going. But the roads are easy once you get outside Washington. North on Interstate 270 as far as Frederick, then Route 15 north heading toward Harrisburg. We only need a ride as far as Thurmont. We can walk to Catoctin from there.”

“Harrisburg is good. State capital, sure to be something going that way. Here, this ought to do it.” Travis looked up at Art and grimaced. “Provided you don’t mind riding in the back of a cement truck.”

“It’s better than the way I came down. When?”

“Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock. That’s the best I can do.”

“What will we do today?”

“Anything you like. I wouldn’t recommend going too far because of the weather.”

“It’s marvelous outside.”

“It won’t be.” Travis opened another folder and showed it to Art. “See the map? Hurricane Gertrude hit Cape Hatteras last night. The seventh hurricane since February 9, and it’s not even the season. The forecasts say we’ll get the tail of it later today — pretty bad wind and rain. If I were you I wouldn’t go out at all.”

“What about food?” Art was already hungry.

“You can eat in the cafeteria in the Old Executive Office Building. Get there through the underground passage. The food’s not great, because it’s from the national reserves. Tonight I’ll find a place for you in the East Wing.”

“We’ll sleep in the White House?”

“That’s right. For free.” Travis smiled at Art. “I won’t tell you how much some people have paid for the privilege.” The multiline unit at his right hand began to buzz. “Anything else? Then check with me later for the room.”

They were clearly dismissed. They wandered off into the White House interior, staring at everything. No one stopped them, no one took much notice. The only person who said anything was a short man in a check suit, who gasped, “Excuse me, I’m late” as he dashed past them.

“Oh, my fur and whiskers,” Dana said. And when Art stared at her, “Don’t mind me, I’m in a giddy mood. It looks like security checks apply only for entry and exit. The question is, if we go outside will we be able to get back in?”

They were on the second floor, and their wandering had brought them to a big window with dusty sunlight streaming through. Art walked to it and ran a finger down one of the panes. It left a streak.

“My dear, it’s so hard to get good help these days.

Even if you’re President.” Art was feeling giddy, too, if that was the word for it. He had slept wonderfully last night, he didn’t have an ache or a pain anywhere in his body, and he would be in a real bed again tonight. He gestured outside. “Look at that. Auden Travis was right, and I was wrong.”

They were facing south. On the right Art could see the east end of the Reflecting Pool, dazzling in the sun as its shallow waters broke into whitecaps. Straight ahead was the Monument, its solid bulk able to withstand the strongest wind. Far beyond, a dark line of clouds crept westward along the horizon. And much closer, within the White House grounds, trees bent and swirled and shivered.

It was pleasant to watch, and to know that you were snug inside; until Dana said softly, “I wonder where Seth is? I wonder where he and Dr. Grisly will spend tonight.”

Art hoped for Seth’s sake that it would be somewhere comfortable — and nowhere near Catoctin Mountain Park. His friends there were tough, and they were wily; but Ed O’Donnell and Joe Vanetti would be no match for Seth Parsigian and Oliver Guest.

He and Dana turned from the window view, with its first signs of approaching Hurricane Gertrude. The mood had changed. Dana’s question had depressed both of them, and without speaking they headed down to the lower level. Art asked a guard how to reach the tunnel to the Old Executive Office Building. It must have been a standard question because the woman rattled off directions without thinking.

Though it was long past a normal lunchtime, the cafeteria was crowded. They walked by the long service counter, examining the choice of food.

“Auden Travis must be a lot pickier than I am,” Dana said. “This all looks good except the pastry. But the ambience. I guess they don’t want people staying too long when they have work to do.”

The place was like a dungeon, plain gray walls and ceiling, dull black floor and tables, gunmetal chairs.

They loaded their trays, paid — a surprise to Art; he had somehow imagined that a White House cafeteria would be free — and searched for an empty table.

There was none to be found. They were forced to sit with another couple: Scott and Jenna Fredden, according to the name tags on their government badges. The pair ate steadily and spoke not one word to Art and Dana or to each other. Art and Dana followed their example, until finally the two stood up — in unison — and left.

“Charming,” Dana said when they had gone. “What do you think? Man and wife, or brother and sister?” She was not expecting an answer because she continued, “I’ll tell you something odd. I’ve known you for three years. But until this morning, I never knew you had that scar on your belly.”

“No reason why you should. I’ve got plenty more. You probably have some, too.”

“Me? I’m a regular road map. But I don’t think I’d inflict myself on the President of the United States. You’ve got nerve.”

“He didn’t seem to mind.”

“It’s his job to be diplomatic. Do you know what upset me most when I learned that I had cancer? I’ll give you a hint, it wasn’t the prospect of dying.”

“If you’re anything like me, I bet it was this.” Art held up his fork. “See, I do this without thinking about it. My body is completely under my control. Talk, sing, dance. I could catch a ball or button a shirt. Then one day those things became irrelevant. I learned there was a whole lower level of activity going on inside me. Not only couldn’t I control it, I didn’t even know about it. I only found out what it was doing when it started to hurt.”

“Exactly.” Dana was staring at the fork, still upheld between Art’s thumb and forefinger. “Until I got cancer I hardly knew that I had individual cells. Cells were weird little crawly things I’d studied in school, amoebas and junk like that. And chromosomes, I never gave them a thought. But all of a sudden, a test showed that there were these bits of me, and they copied themselves. My own cells were out of control, they were going to keep making copies until they killed me. The first time I saw a blowup picture of one of my own cancer cells, I wanted to scream, ’What are you doing, you stupid bastard? You’re me, don’t you know that? You’re the same as I am, my own flesh. You shouldn’t be trying to kill me.’ “

Dana paused and looked around to see if anyone else was listening. They were. Three people at a nearby table got up and left. She took a deep breath. “Sorry. Do I sound crazy?”

“Not to me you don’t.” Art put down the fork. “I didn’t have a big reaction when I received my diagnosis of cancer. My moment came later, when I was accepted into the telomod therapy program and told how it was supposed to work. I was pretty far gone, down to eighty-five pounds and in a whole lot of pain. So I didn’t understand most of the details. But when they dripped the telomerase inhibitor into me through an IV, I knew the idea was to stop the cancer cells rebuilding the bits at the end of their chromosomes. I knew it was going to be hard on me, too. My own fast-dividing cells would be hit, and I was going to be red-raw ulcers all the way from my mouth to my ass. I didn’t care. I lay on the Institute cot, and I watched that drip go in, and I said, ’Suck on that, you fuckers. You’re not me anymore, you’re traitors. Either you win, or I do; but it won’t be both.’ “

It was his turn to look around. The cafeteria was still fairly full, but nearby tables were conspicuously empty.

Dana picked up her tray. “Come on. I find this fascinating, and so do you. But Lazarus Club members are in the minority here. We should go.”

“In a minute. Take my tray, would you.” Art hurried back toward the cafeteria entrance. When he returned a couple of minutes later he was holding half a dozen wrapped packets. “Just sandwiches. But I thought if the weather gets too bad to go out, and this place closes . . .”

“Smart thinking.” Dana stared at the packages. “You know what would go really well with them? Beer. I’m dying for a beer. You don’t suppose—”

“Not a chance. You’re in a government building.”

“I know. But I’ll bet the White House—”

“That might be different. You heard Saul Steinmetz. Rank has its privileges.”

“Why don’t we go back, find out from Auden Travis where we’ll be sleeping—”

“And see what else we can get out of him? Great idea. You want to go right now?”

“If you’re done interrupting my sentences.” Dana helped herself to a big handful of napkins and handed them to Art to take along with the sandwiches. “On the way, let’s see if we can reach the outside and get back in without going through a guard post. I’d like to take a firsthand look at the weather. People are saying that we’re at the tail end of Supernova Alpha, that the worst is over. I’m not sure I believe it. Even if we are, a scorpion has its sting in its tail.”

It was hardly necessary to go outside. Art and Dana stood under the shelter of an arched doorway on the west end of the White House. Even with partial shelter, the wind ripped at their clothes.

Two men in Air Force uniforms came out and stood next to them. Dana asked, “Do you know what time it is?”

The shorter officer turned to her. “Sixteen hundred hours, going on midnight. Four o’clock. Did you ever see it so dark so early?”

“I bet we’ll get to Andrews just in time to be told all flights are grounded,” the other man said.

“Better that than fly in this.” The short officer turned up his collar. “Well, as my grandmother always said, worse things happen at sea. Come on, the longer we wait the wetter we’ll get.” He ducked his head and moved out to receive the full force of the wind. His companion gave a theatrical groan and followed.

Art grabbed Dana’s arm as a stronger buffet threatened to knock her over. “It’s ridiculous to think of going outside when the weather’s like this. Let’s find Auden Travis and see where we’ll be sleeping.”

“All right.” Dana allowed herself to be steered back inside. “But don’t forget beer. Unless he comes through with that, I’m ready to brave the storm.”