This 44-part series began running in WCT Nov. 8. Readers can read all the installments to date at www.windycitymediagroup.com
From the journal of John 'Jack' Quincy Adams, Chief Secret Service Special Agent in Charge, The White House. Code Name: One.
Part 36. Project Intervention Complete
Jack Adams, the Secret Service agent charged with assassinating President George W. Bush and being held for psychiatric evaluation, is telling about the night the president died.
After his nap Trailblazer and Laura went over some family paper work in his office, then took a walk and sat outside on the patio for a while and Laura made some calls to friends in Midland and Houston. After dinner they watched Desperate Housewives and Laura went to bed. The president and I went into his office.
As I had hoped, around 11:00 p.m. he leaned stretched and said, 'DP, One? I mean DDP?' And there was the grin. I prayed he wasn't going to go all nice and buddy-buddy on me. Not tonight of all nights.
'Sounds good. I'll get it.'
'I'll tag along,' he said.
Not in the script. 'That's all right, sir, I don't mind. Why don't you….'
'No, I want to. Wanna stretch my legs.'
We walked to the kitchen and I was thinking I would have to abort it for tonight. All it would take would be for him to turn around and catch me pouring something into his mug and I'd be history.
He got me the Aggies mug from the cabinet and then began looking around for his Houston Oilers mug. 'I know it's here, 'cause I had it at dinner. Maybe I took it with me when we watched Housewives.' And with that he left the room saying, 'Wait a minute, I'll be right back.'
This was a nightmare. While I was leaning on the counter feeling sorry for myself I saw his mug sitting on the kitchen table lined up with the giant Tweety Bird and Sylvester salt and pepper shakers. I swung into action. I tried to snap open the Medic Alert medallion, but it took more effort than I thought it would and also ate up precious seconds. I couldn't open it with my thumbnail so I riffled through the drawers until I found a paring knife. By then I could hear him coming; he was in the dining room talking to himself. 'I know it's here somewhere. I'm positive I left it in the kitchen. Oh, wait a minute, maybe Cookie put it in here.' Then I heard the sound of the squeaky door to the sideboard opening.
I had to be careful with the Medic Alert medallion so it wouldn't fly open and spray the stuff in my face and all over the food preparation area. Finally it popped open. Inside was a metal capsule, like a vitamin. I carefully twisted it until it separated, then poured the contents into his mug.
Next, I opened the freezer side of the fridge and got a handful of ice. He likes lots of ice. By now he had closed the sideboard door and was on his way back into the kitchen. By that time I had my mug under the ice dispenser in the freezer door and my can of DP in the other hand. 'I found it,' I said as he came through the open doorway.
'Well why didn't you say something? I been looking all over the place for it.'
'I didn't want to shout. In case Mrs. Bush is sleeping.' I walked past him carrying the two mugs and made my way back to the office, with him behind me complaining that he can never find anything around the ranch house anymore.
I set his mug down on the desk and took my place back in the leather chair near the window. The rest was simple. Quick. Easy. And surreal. I sat waiting for whatever was going to happen, and thinking that Fate had to take over now. If this was meant to be, then he would drink it down and Quincy and Abbie would have a happy life. If Fate decided to spill the DP all over the desk, then JJ would be back in the orphanage by this time next year and Abbie would probably be on her way to Canada. Jackson and Quincy had already announced that they would fight rather than flee. 'Somebody has got to take a stand,' Quincy said.
A thud brought me out of my reverie and I turned to see the mug on the floor and Trailblazer clutching his chest. His face was contorted in pain but it looked like he was laughing and there was a look of surprise in his eyes. I imagine it is the look that comes over each of us at the moment we fully realize we are dying: Oh, my God, this is it. This is all there is. I'll never get to see Paris. The car is filthy. The electric bill is going to be overdue. I'm dying. I'm dead.
And then he rolled out of the chair and onto the floor.
Krandall Kraus has published six books, including the Lambda Literary Award winner It's Never About What It's About, co-authored with his partner, Paul Borja.
Krandall Kraus has published six books, including the Lambda Literary Award winner It's Never About What It's About, co-authored with his partner, Paul Borja. He is the recipient of the 2006 Christopher Isherwood Fellowship in Fiction; his first novel, The President's Son, was a bestseller. A former consultant to the Office of the Vice President, his political thrillers are filled with White House insider details.
