Whiplash

24

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Early Wednesday afternoon

Veteran lobbyist Dana Frobisher cut the huge fried shrimp and lovingly laid it on her tongue. She didn't particularly like shrimp, but it was deep-fried, beautifully spiced, and the fact was, shoe leather would taste delicious if it was fried. She savored the taste, ate another shrimp, then opened her eyes to smile at Senator David Hoffman, Chairman of the Appropriations Committee, a long-time powerhouse on the Hill. She'd met him half a dozen times over the years, but she'd never sat across a private table from him, and, wonder of wonders, at his invitation. When his head staffer, Corliss Rydle, had called her executive assistant, Jeremy Flynn, and said Senator David Hoffman wanted to ask her to lunch, she could hardly believe it. And here she was, less than a week later, eating fried shrimp with the great man. He was fit and good-looking. He didn't look as old as she knew him to be, not that it mattered since he didn't, according to Jeremy, screw around with his aides or anyone else. What mattered was the senator could give her clout and influence with a flick of his pinkie finger.

"I've never eaten at the Foggy Bottom Grill before," she said, ate another shrimp, and saluted him with her water glass. No wine at lunch, a longtime promise she'd made to herself when she'd first arrived in Washington fifteen years before. She was pleased to see he was drinking fizzy water as well, a slice of lemon perching on the edge of the glass.

Hoffman raised his glass and smiled at her. "I see you like the shrimp. I usually order the shrimp myself, astronomical fat content be damned. I figure stuffing the fat-covered shrimp in my mouth once a week isn't going to clog my arteries. I'm pleased you're enjoying it."

"Oh, yes, it's nearly a spiritual moment." She ate another shrimp, patted her mouth with her napkin, and leaned back. The time had come to go beyond pleasantries. She was through with her shrimp now, good as it was, and she was ready to hear what he had in mind. Dana gave him a lovely sweet smile, tried to keep the excitement out of her voice. "Now, if I can do anything for you, Senator, I'd like to hear it. Otherwise, I have a couple of matters of my own that might interest you-"

"Actually, it's about my wife, Nikki. You worked with her at one time, didn't you?"

He wanted to talk to her about his dead wife? What was this all about? Dana said, "Yes, and I liked her very much. It was a huge loss to all of us when she died." That sounded good, she thought, and it was the truth, at least way back then. She saw a spasm of pain cross his face. He was still grieving? She ate a bit of organic salad, and waited for him to speak. But the salad didn't taste very good, more like a TV remote with vinaigrette on it. Had he asked her to lunch for a trip down memory lane about his dead wife? Wasn't this about the advice she could provide him on the miserably low funding currently under discussion in committee for children's diseases?

"I believe you and my wife were involved in one of her favorite charities-spinal meningitis? As I recall, you were just a baby lobbyist at the time, full of passion, wanting desperately to move up in your lobbying firm. Weren't you with Patton and Associates at the time? Nikki was very impressed with the work Patton did."

Dana nodded automatically. She couldn't believe it, he'd asked her to talk about his damned wife? And her damned charities? She felt deflated, a bit angry at his deception.

Hoffman suddenly sat forward, his lunch, a small Cobb salad, untouched in front of him. "I still miss her, Dana. I suppose you could say she even speaks to me."

Speaks to him? Was he crazy?

"There was something I wanted to ask you about, something she told me about the two of you-"

Dana Frobisher heard his deep mellifluous voice, the words nearly resonating, a master's voice, she thought, but oddly, she couldn't seem to understand the words, what they meant, ah, but they were so beautiful, his voice so mesmerizing. There were two shrimp left on her plate and she forked one up, but as with the salad, she couldn't taste the delicious fried fat anymore. She stopped chewing the shrimp when she felt a hard pounding over her right eye. Oh, no, not a headache. The last thing she needed was a headache while she was sitting not two feet from one of the most powerful men in Washington. She never had headaches, but she knew this wasn't just a headache, this was something more, this was fast becoming excruciating, vicious. She closed her eyes and swallowed, felt suddenly nauseated.

"Dana?"

She opened her eyes, tried to concentrate, but she couldn't quite focus. She realized she couldn't seem to swallow, and she started to hear her own breath in her throat. She rubbed her palms over her neck, working the muscles, but everything seemed to be backing up inside her, not just her precious breath, but something black and rancid and vile. She tried to scream with the sudden terror of what was happening, something she couldn't begin to understand, but nothing came out of her mouth. She fell over onto the floor, vomit heaving out of her mouth. In another moment, she went into violent convulsions. She heard the shouts of those around her, felt hands touching her, and she saw Senator Hoffman's face over hers, a pale blur, and she heard him say over and over, "Tell me what's wrong, Dana. Talk to me. Tell me what to do."

What to do? Her stomach was ripping apart and he wanted her to tell him what to do? He was shaking her shoulders, still speaking, but now it didn't matter because her mind spasmed with horrible, unspeakable pain and then something inside her brain seemed to pop, and she didn't know she was convulsing anymore, or that foam was billowing out of her mouth.

Her heart stopped at exactly one-thirty p.m.