WASHINGTON, DC
CHAPTER 30
ABRAHAM LINCOLN SLEPT HERE

“Hello, Mr. President,” Blesstasia said, holding a cleaning rag in one hand and a bottle of Windex in the other.

“Oh, hi,” Nick said. “I’m sorry, I’m a little antsy today. I’m going upstairs, Blesstasia. I need socks that match, or I’ll be reading about it in Newsweek.”

“I’ll grab some. Do you want brown or black?”

“Seeing how my suit is navy, I thought that blue would work out just fine.”

Blesstasia disappeared, and Nick Blake took advantage of the lull in his schedule to drink his coffee and watch the stock chyron ticker crawl across the muted television.

There was a knock at the door. Nick ignored it. The intercom buzzed, and he ignored that as well. Finally, Jody Bones swung the door open and strode in. Aptly named, he was so thin he looked almost emaciated.

“I’m the goddamn Press Secretary. I think it’s smart to let me know what’s going on around here.”

“Pardon me, Jody. Has someone been tickling your fancy this morning?”

“The Secret Squirrels said Mrs. Blake was out until late at night. They said she sneaked in through the Staff Entrance and bypassed security.”

“She was taking some time for herself. Do you have a problem with that?”

“You might ask Blesstasia. She told Comfrey Watkins that Victoria looked like she’d been in a catfight. She was dressed like a bag lady, for Christ’s sake.”

“I didn’t know that part of the story,” Blake admitted. “I never even heard her come in.”

“Mind your house, Nick. This could unleash a scandal so big it’ll make the Clinton debacle look like a garden party.”

Another knock on the door silenced Nick’s heated reply. Claude Bacon didn’t wait for an invitation; he barged right in.

“Blake! I quit.”

“You can’t quit, you’re fired,” Nick responded. “I’m tired of every Tom, Dick, and Harry pounding in here and blasting me about every frigging thing that goes on around here. You think I’m master of my domain? Well, you think wrong.”

“Actually, this is your doing. But you’re going to undo it quickly.”

“Who do you think you are speaking to?” Nick Blake squared his shoulders. His resemblance to JFK was obvious. “Spit it out, damn it. Don’t talk in riddles because it really pisses me off, and you aren’t good at it.”

“Willson has a scandal brewing that will turn your socks inside out,” the Chief of Staff shouted.

“Wouldn’t matter if they were inside out, you stupid bastard. They’re different colors.”

The Chief of Staff and the Press Secretary looked at him as if he was from Oz.

“What the hell are you talking about? Never mind. Don’t tell me — you’re just trying to screw me up. Your future Vice President, Senator William Worthington Willson, frequents a resort that caters to all kinds of vices: gambling, women, and who knows what else.”

“I wouldn’t doubt the hanky-panky with girls, but Will has always been discreet.”

“I believe it includes sex trafficking of minors, Sir.” Claude Bacon explained. His face was as white as his hair. “It would be a media nightmare.”

“Willson? He’d better hope to hell that’s fake news.”

“I’m afraid it is factual, Sir,” Bacon said, so low that he was barely audible.

“What a mess. I already told Bob he’s out of a job. He’s been useless since he joined that Millennium Christian Crusade—off talking to trees and cave spirits. Now my future running mate is caught up in a legal mess. That won’t go over well in Ohio, boys!” He was red in the face. “What are we doing about it?”

“Nick, we’ve been friends since we were kids—I wouldn’t want to see you blindsided,” Jody said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Something’s fishy, boss. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Your wife knows something dangerous, and it could be the same thing that got Margreth Willson killed.”

“Margreth’s dead?” Nick asked. “Murdered?”

“If you’d just take your television off mute sometimes, you would have heard. She was sliced and diced by someone at the Isle of Paradise Spa. Turns out she was with your wife yesterday morning.”

“And then Victoria came home anxious to talk, and I blew her off,” the President admitted.

“Elsie Hodgeworth was acting suspiciously when we cornered her about where your wife went yesterday afternoon. Then Victoria comes in at sunrise, looking like something the cat dragged in,” Jody raised his eyebrows.

“Which only adds to my problem, boys,” Claude Bacon said. “Because I think Art Holmstead has his creepy fingers in this diabolical caper.”

“Go on,” Nick Blake said, fully engaged.

“I heard a rumor on the Hill. Seems like something’s going wrong with a top-secret DNA research project.”

“DNA? Like the goat thing?”

“I believe it was a lamb that was cloned, sir. They’ve been working their way up the food chain, at least according to what everyone thought. The truth is, after WWII, we started experimenting with human cloning—not here in the U.S. but in Sumatra. We funded that unholy project.”

Rumor has it that there’s an underground facility in Michigan housing some of the cloned beings. But many of them have been integrated into society.

“That’s one wild scandal, boys. Are we for it or against it?”

“I’d say we’re against it, Sir,” Bacon said firmly.

“What’s this got to do with Willson?”

“It’s possible Senator Willson’s escapades compromised this program. He’s apparently been dipping into the till, so to speak.”

“Could you be a little more specific? Dipping into what, then?” President Blake rifled through his top drawer, looking for a scrap of paper. “I’ll have to call the bastard and check all this out.”

“Apparently, Senator Willson is one of the founders of The Omega Consensus. He’s been using kids from the program to—let me put this delicately, Sir.”

“Yes, Claude. Be more specific.” A gnawing fear grew in Nick’s belly.

“He’s apparently redirecting clones for his personal use.”

“Children? Did you say children?” Nick whispered.

The Chief of Staff nodded in confirmation.

“When you say children, Claude, you don’t mean babies, right?”

“I wouldn’t want to lead you astray, Nick. I believe we should consider the possibility that your baby is a clone.”

“Impossible!” Nick boomed.

“Is it? You’re thinking Jefferson is the love child of Willson and his maid, right? But Willson’s medical report says he’s firing blanks. He had the old snip-snip procedure years ago.”

“Son of a goddamned bitch. I don’t know what to say. Can you prove any of this?”

“Not yet,” Bacon admitted. “But we’re working on it. Dan Urban’s the one who gave me a heads-up on Holmstead. He told me we ‘should watch out’. Keep the man at arm’s length.’”

“No problem there. That prick gives me the heebie-jeebies,” Nick said. “I’d better find Victoria and clear up this mystery about her adventure last night. That leaves Jefferson. What do we do about him?”

“We’ll have the best doctors available examine the child. Run some DNA studies.”

“He’s seen a passel of doctors the last two days, what with this illness he’s had,” Nick Blake said. But before he could continue, Blesstasia burst into the room.

“My God, woman,” Jody Bones shouted. “You can’t just burst into the Oval Office without knocking.”

“Ayeeeeeee. . .,” the woman clutched a pair of blue socks and waved her arms. “Ayeeeeeee.”

“Blesstasia, what is it?” Nick erupted from his chair and chased after the woman, who was already running through the butler’s pantry.

Nick was close behind her, with Jody Bones following. Claude Bacon lumbered along, regretting his extra seventy pounds. Blesstasia sped down the hallway toward the family quarters. She ran like a human windmill, swinging her arms as if to gain air traction.

Elsie Hodgeworth was in the nursery, hanging by a tether from the rail of the ornate crib. There was a gag of cotton balls erupting from her mouth and spilling onto the floor. Although she was nearly seated on the floor, she had been strangled. A pair of bandage scissors stuck out of one ear, buried all the way to the hilt.

Victoria huddled in the corner, holding Jefferson in her arms. The baby screamed, a shrill, inhuman wail so sharp it made their eardrums ring.

During the chaos, Secret Service Agent A. J. Baldridge burst into the room. He had worked the overnight shift, and his red hair stood on end like Bozo with his finger in an electric socket.

“Baldridge,” Nick ordered. “Get the police. Call the FBI, for Christ’s sake.”

“The baby,” A. J. stuttered.

“The baby’s okay, Baldridge. It’s the nurse I’m worried about. She’s all tied up like a rodeo steer.”

“The baby’s a clone, sir.” A. J. looked at little Jefferson, swaddled in white blankets, his hair redder than ever against his pale skin. “You’d better check with a place called Sanctuary. A lot of clones have come down with a rare meningitis.”

“How do you know this?” Claude Bacon yelled to be heard over the baby’s wail.

“It’s a kiss-squeak, sir,” A.J. Baldridge said. “Your baby has orangutan DNA, just like me. Listen.”

A loud, inhuman cry drowned out the baby’s squeal, which later seemed mild to those nearby. In fact, some would later say that A. J. looked almost simian as he opened his mouth and issued an inhuman call that rattled the rafters.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Sign up to receive new chapters in your email: