No Tour Guides in Hell:
Chapter 18
Victoria

Arlington, Virginia

Margreth was running late, as usual. When she arrived at The Isle of Paradise Spa, Victoria’s three-car entourage was parked in the fire lane. A Secret Service agent stood guard over the presidential limo, wearing standard dark glasses and a black suit. Margreth noticed a flicker of recognition as she approached.

Look at the handsome fool… a cookie cutter of every other agent, she thought. She sprinted up the pink marble steps.

They look like clones! Considering what she wanted to discuss with Victoria, that was a chilling thought. Damn, if they weren’t mirror images of each other. The very idea screams paranoia. I’m going crazy.

The receptionist was idly filing her nails. Margreth passed the woman with a flick of her silver hair and headed straight for the Tropicana salon. Agents, supposedly discreet, were stationed along the way. They looked out of place like a bunch of clowns at a funeral.

Secret Service, my ass.

She chuckled, and one of them eyed her.

That’s a laugh. Like anything in this town, it’s never a secret. Still, they kept this cloning humdoozie hidden for about thirty years. Imagine the kind of twisted cloak-and-dagger stuff that’s gone on.

One of the agents lowered his dark glasses slightly, exposing striking blue eyes.

“Howdy-do, Margreth,” he said. There was no mistaking A.J. Baldridge’s smoky baritone.

“Hello yourself,” Margreth cooed in her fake, honeyed Southern accent. “How are you, A.J.?” she purred.

She didn’t really care how he was these days, only that he’d kept his trap shut.

“Fine. Yourself?” A.J.’s voice was too familiar, but his demeanor matched her role. The others didn’t seem to notice. She tried to remember what he’d looked like naked, but it slipped away, blending with countless other wasted afternoons.

He eased the door open; she moved through the security chamber, ignoring the cameras and static from the two-way radios.

She entered the luxurious surroundings of the spa’s most private room. Victoria lay on a chaise, with hot towels covering her flawless porcelain skin. Her sleek, blonde hair was knotted at the nape of her swan-like neck. She lay in perfect Grecian profile.

“Oh Margreth,” she sighed as if she were exhausted, which was hardly likely. Victoria was known as the least active First Lady in history—at least when it came to official duties and pompous, purposeless gatherings. “I hope you’re going to entertain me with something juicy. It’s been such a boring week.”

She smiled, and like a true politician’s wife, it was tinged with the forced quality they all mastered.

“We don’t have much time,” Margreth reopened the door just a crack and peeked out.

A.J. was sitting on the chair in front of the security cameras, flipping through an issue of Life Magazine. But the magazine was upside down, and that didn’t look good. She eased the door shut. Her eyes moved to the security lens that seemed to stare straight through her.

“I’ve stumbled onto something, Victoria.” She spoke so quickly and softly that it was almost unintelligible. The words tumbled over each other like clumsy acrobats. “You’re not going to like it, and there’s no easy way to tell you. But you’re my friend, and I must try.”

Victoria didn’t bother to quiet her voice.

“Oh my, is it about my husband? Rumors are always bouncing around the Hill. This week it’s Raphia, that slutty little file clerk. She wishes. Nicholas said she drooled all over his wingtips.”

Victoria shifted the towel over her eyes to look at Margreth. “Or is it something else, Margreth? You seem jumpy.”

Margreth whispered again. The camera lens seemed to grow like a malignant appendage, a snaking spyglass watching their every move. But that was her imagination on overdrive.

“Victoria. There’s no easy way to say this. I know about your baby. I mean, where you got him from.” Margreth was stammering badly.

Victoria brushed the towel away from her face; her peaches-and-cream skin was blotchy from shock. Margreth noticed her expression, which was a mix of hostility and terror.

“What did you say?” Victoria whispered back, but her voice revealed fear.

“I said, I know about your baby. I know how you got him. Don’t worry, I’m not telling anyone. But I must warn you. I think he’s in danger.”

“Stop! Don’t say anything more.”

Victoria moved quietly around the camera, sneaking toward the door in her stocking feet. She gently pushed it open a crack and startled A.J. He was monitoring the bank of cameras and had just caught a shot of some lady’s behind covered in a sheet when he was spotted. She acted as if she hadn’t noticed.

“A.J., can you grab me a skinny latte.”

As she closed the door, she turned toward Margreth.

“Alright, talk fast. He won’t be long.”

“I understand the adoption problems and why you accepted William’s offer. The Vice Presidency in exchange for a baby.”

Victoria was trying to deny it, but Margreth interrupted her.

“No, don’t waste time. Your baby’s in danger. There’s a crisis. I wanted you to know. As soon as I found . . .”

Agent Baldridge entered the room holding a single latte. He studied Margreth, unsure if his gaze was lingering on their passionate past or if he was watching her for signs of high treason. She was sharing classified information like hors d’oeuvres at a cocktail party, after all. It was difficult to read him.

Victoria took the drink and waved him away.

This could be dangerous, Margreth realized. For a moment, she felt light-headed. Am I going to faint?”

Victoria’s voice snapped her back to reality.

“Seems crowded in here, A.J. Why don’t you turn one of those blasted TVs on to a rerun of The Fugitive or something?”

“Mrs. Blake, the President just called.” A.J. puffed up like a blowfish at the verbal slap. “He says the baby has a fever again.”

“Leave us for a moment. Amuse that trollop of a receptionist with some card tricks. Pull a rabbit out of your pants or something. I hear you’re pretty good with your hands.” At this, A.J. blushed.

“Charming,” she added. “I’ll be ready to go in . . .” she checked her watch. “Five minutes.”

The agent reluctantly backed away, but not before shooting a dangerous glance at Margreth, as if they’d never shared that secret embrace. When he was out of earshot, Victoria confronted her.

“Okay, you know about the job deal. Next election, Nicholas will appoint William as the new Vice. What kind of danger could that pose for little Jefferson?”

Once again, Margreth whispered, though she was sure that if they wanted, the agents could hear everything — maybe even her thoughts.

“Victoria, the baby isn’t really a person. Well, he’s a person, but not a real one. Oh dear, I’m trying to be so careful of your feelings.”

“What in the world are you droning on about, Margreth? Of course he’s a person. What a horrible, nasty thing to say!”

“I don’t know where to start. Victoria, do you know where your baby came from?” As Margreth tried to piece together the puzzle, it was clear Victoria didn’t realize any pieces were missing.

“Sure, it was Gloria’s baby. Nicholas told me so.”

“My Gloria? Our maid?”

“The one and only. She was pregnant with an out-of-wedlock baby. I didn’t want to tell you this, but Nick said it was William’s.”

Margreth was visibly stunned.

“I’m sorry if that hurts you,” Victoria said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to be so blunt. I understand how you feel, especially since he’s your husband and all. And without children of your own—I truly am sorry, dear.”

Margreth was briefly speechless.

“You know the issues we’d face with traditional adoption. Our age. Our lifestyle. Agencies wouldn’t even consider us for an infant, no matter if Nick was the President or the dogcatcher. Forty-eight is just too old. With Gilda away at college, the house felt so empty. I just needed someone to care for.”

“Victoria, Gloria didn’t have a baby! She was never pregnant. That’s a bunch of crap. William’s affairs are happening, but he’s had no accidents.”

“What?” Victoria frowned.

“He may have flirted a bit with Gloria. I wouldn’t put it past him. But he had a vasectomy years ago. Then, he had some radiation treatments for prostate cancer last year. Dried up those little swimmers like fossils in the Green River. So, it’s just impossible.”

Victoria, stunned, studied Margreth for signs of deception, like a facial tic that might reveal the lie.

“Then whose was it? Whose baby do I have?”

“I’m trying to tell you. It’s complicated.” Margreth began her story. “It all started many years ago, apparently, in Sumatra.”

“Suma what? Where on God’s green earth is that?” Victoria shouted.

“It’s some remote place in the West Indies, I think. Hell’s bells, I don’t know. But they’ve been cloning children there. Jefferson is a clone, and he’s not fully human. They used DNA from some primate, a monkey or something. Now there’s a crisis. The clones are getting sick and dying.”

“You have lost your mind,” Victoria accused. “My baby, a monkey? Have you seen him? He’s a perfect little boy.”

“Torrie, it’s true. I found all the classified papers. They cloned people to use for. . .”

There was loud knocking. When they didn’t respond, A.J. peeked in and saw the women facing off in some kind of emotional showdown.

“Everything okay in here?” A.J. frowned.

“Of course, you idiot. Quit interrupting,” Victoria snapped.

“Excuse me, ma’am. You said five minutes. The car’s ready. We better go. Word is the baby’s not doing so well.” He stepped back to answer a squealing radio call. It was only a brief pause.

“Listen, we’ll get together soon. You come to the White House for tea,” then to A.J.’s consternation, Victoria whispered into Margreth’s ear, her hand shielding her words.

“I’ll find us a spot to meet where no one can eavesdrop. These Secret Service guys are like a case of hemorrhoids. I just can’t seem to get rid of them.”

Agent Baldridge was getting restless, which in Secret Service style showed as little twitches and grunts that the public wouldn’t notice. Victoria packed up her things.

“I’ve got more to tell you, Victoria. And I need to know, does Jefferson have a headache?” Margreth ventured this, knowing she had stepped into a minefield.

“He’s just a baby, you silly twit. How would he tell me?” But doubt nagged at her conscious thought. “Still, he does have a fever. But there’s no time now, sweetie—please forget about that twit thing. I’m a bitch. I’ve got to see what’s wrong with Jefferson.”

Victoria headed down the hall with A.J. at her side. She hesitated and looked back at Margreth, who was nervously wringing her hands.

Victoria mouthed the words. “Four o’clock today.”

Margreth read her lips and nodded.

“So, we’ll get together next week,” Victoria said loudly. Accustomed to the façade of politics, she tried to sound bright and cheery. But she winked conspiratorially at Margreth.

Margreth’s words sounded truthful. If there was anything she could do to help Jefferson fight his infection, she’d do it. Absolutely anything.

Victoria thought there was something fishy about the whole deal as she was hurried to the parking lot. She remembered how Nick dodged her questions when she asked to meet the baby’s mother. Clone?

She did say the word clone, didn’t she? William had a vasectomy and radiation therapy, to boot. And Jefferson’s hair is such a brilliant golden red. Gloria’s hair isn’t red, and neither is Willson’s. But the whole Secret Service seems to be a pack of carrot tops.

Margreth hurried to catch up, seized Victoria’s graceful hands, and looked her directly in the eye.

“Be careful. I mean, with Jefferson. Have the pediatrician check him thoroughly.” The look A.J. gave her was withering, and she reluctantly backed away. The car sped away from the curb, leaving Margreth to wonder if she had done the right thing.

It’s too late to second-guess now. Anyway, what can they do, exterminate me? Jake Barnes’ voice still echoed in her mind, warning her of the danger she’d brought upon herself.

No use crying over spilt milk, my mother always said. Anyway, it’s only right to warn Torrie, I mean. Just think of it, a monkey baby. Whatever will she do?

With the First Lady gone to check on her baby’s emergency, Margreth wandered back into the salon and signed herself in as she would on any ordinary day. Surprisingly, she was escorted back to the Tropicana Salon, usually reserved for much more important guests than Margreth Willson. It was a long wait until four o’clock. Her schedule at the spa would fill the quiet time.

I don’t think Victoria believes me. I might as well have called Jefferson a Martian’s spawn. It’s just too far-fetched.

The attendant appeared after what felt like an eternity. He started the ritual by cleansing Margreth’s skin. She expected the scent of cucumbers and almonds almost before they were applied like wet putty. Lying under a poultice and steaming hot towels, she explained herself to the beautician’s assistant.

“I’m just completely exhausted. A quick nap and I’ll feel like myself again. Problems, always problems. It’s a long story, all about hired help, you know. I simply can’t find decent staff. If only they could all be like Digby. What a treasure. He’s a truly hard worker. What in the world would I do . . .?

A second anonymous attendant began her pedicure, grasping her foot rather roughly, she thought.

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