“Like he has time to read fiction,” I scoffed and rolled over to the corner. My recliner was waiting, electric with a pivot so I could slide out of the chair and redistribute my weight on different pressure points but I opted for the wheelchair. Decided I needed to use the restroom and instead of retracing my route to Family Quarters, opted to use the semi-public ones just down the hall from the Library.
Three out of the nine stalls were wheelchair accessible. Pushing open the stall door, I maneuvered the chair into position with Vange guarding the entrance. I shut the door and lifted myself up, pulling down my sweats and boxers with one hand, one side at a time. At least I never had to worry about a cold seat, I couldn’t feel it.
I couldn’t feel when I needed to go but I heard when I did. Sometimes, I had to sit on the throne up to a half hour before I had satisfactory results but it was better than diapers or asking for help. I could even manage the washing up part. Luckily, the White House was equipped with and was wheelchair accessible.
I finished, didn’t flush because these where sensor and did it on their own but I did look only because the visiting nurses and on-call doc checked on my bowel movements every day. I’d been warned that the dreaded constipation could actually kill me, I couldn’t feel it if I developed a blockage. All too common in Paraplegics. It was just another shitty thing I had to deal with.
I washed my hands not looking in the mirror but daydreaming until two other visitors wearing badges entered the washroom. I hurried past them towards the door and the woman held it open for the Heeler and me. She didn’t say anything but smiled.
I didn’t stop until I was back at my chair in the library and Vange settled herself at my feet with a wag of her tail. I started reading and was lost in the world of Dean Koontz as the time flew by.
Chapter 36
I was late for Dad’s appointment and didn’t make it back to the room set aside for me next to Felice’s but the one set aside for Dad with the extra bed when he wanted to stay over. In the sitting room, a fussy little man was laying out suit jackets in various colors and styles while Dad made noises instead of comments.
“You’re late,” he complained. “This is Mr. Selliers.” I apologized, saying I’d been lost in a book. The little man with the improbable blonde hair, narrow shoulders and feminine hands studied me from behind retro 50’s glasses. He wore a wide lapel blue suit, purple shirt with white cuffs and a wild tie reminiscent of a Hawaiian Luau shirt. Silk socks and hand sewn Italian designer shoes. I eyed them. Classy.
“Definitely blue,” he announced, nodded and before I could voice a protest, I was bundled into a dozen jackets until both he and Dad decided on ‘the one’. Which turned out to be four. When he measured me for the pants, I was embarrassed as my tiny white sticks were exposed.
I hadn’t seen them, didn’t look at them at all if I could help it. They looked like they belonged to an anorexic eleven year old.
“Inseam is 38”,” he announced. “Waist 32”. Chest 42”.” He seemed surprised and squeezed my biceps and shoulders. “How tall are you, Mr. De Rosier?”
“I was 6’2”,” I answered briefly. “Now, I’m four one.” That was the height I hit in the chair.
Dad said firmly, “You’re still 6-2, Dantan. Your heart is ten feet tall.”
“Too bad I can’t stand on it,” I muttered.
“The blue one will be ready on Thursday. I’ll bring it over and do the final fitting. Shirts?”
“Extra tall, his arms are long like mine, Mr. Selliers. Ties for each suit and four extra shirts. Socks and shoes. Size 9D. Laced, I think. Black leather and brown cordovan. Please send a selection of cuff links in 18 karat.”
“Excellent, Senator.”
I sat there wondering why I needed such an extensive wardrobe for, when I was perfectly happy with sweats. Jeans were too hard to pull up and zip, never mind button fly.
“By Thanksgiving,” he promised the rest. “The President told me to tell you he’s taken care of the bill, Senator,” the Gay little man smiled. “And a pleasure it was to meet you, Dantan, sir.” He shook my hand twice and departed with his stuff and staff.
“Dad, what’s going on?” I demanded but he only smiled and told me Felice was waiting in the dining room. He pushed me along where we met up with the President, Dusty and Felice. Vange was with me.
Dad sat next to me and Felice, the President on the one end and opposite the First Lady. She was a beautiful woman who stayed out of the limelight and kept busy with her charities, preferring to stay at the family ranch when she had the choice.
Felice had two older brothers and sister, lawyers who practiced in California, well out of the political arena. I’d never met them.
Chef Proust came out of the kitchen to say hello and the Staff served us a culinary delight. Fried frog legs as an appetizer with a spicy dill cucumber dip, turtle gumbo and rack of lamb, baby purple potatoes in butter and parsley. Champagne, wine and sparkling cider made the rounds. I didn’t touch the liquor; I was still on medication that didn’t mix.
Dessert was my favorite, a beautiful three story Black Forest Cake with real whipped cream and dark chocolate. I went back for seconds and no one complained. In fact, Chef Proust brought me a third piece in a cake box to take back to my room.
Conversation went on around me and over my head but I was used to that. Eating was serious business that I took seriously, no one garnered my attention when food was in front of me.
“You keep eating like this, Danny and you’re going to get fat,” Felice warned.
“I can’t say I have hollow legs,” I said sourly, pushing my plate away. In the sudden silence, Mrs. Rickover touched Felice’s hand and hushed her.
“I suppose I can’t work it off like I used to,” I agreed. “It’s not like I can get up and run, now is it?” It came out sullen and sarcastic, just like I meant it to. I pushed back from the table, spun the chair and excused myself.
“Dantan!” Dad’s voice was a whiplash but I ignored him as I flew towards my refuge from parental anger, Felice’s comment and her mother’s pity. I’d caught the strong surface thoughts she was suppressing whenever she looked at me.
‘Such a pity. A young man stuck in that chair forever. No prospects, even if the Senator is rich. No chance of grandkids there. Felice will get tired of taking care of him. Better sooner than later. Besides, she’ll meet someone in College that’s not crippled. Too bad, he’s really good looking and wealthy. I wonder what he’s like in bed? Could Felice-, no, he’s paralyzed from the waist down. I asked but she told me to mind my own business. She did ask for birth control. I don’t like that he slept in her room all those months.’
I shut her out, behind her kind facade she was a mass of bias and contradictions. She’d die if she knew Felice and I had an active and satisfying love life. Even did it in the Lincoln Bedroom right under his nose.
“Hey, Danny, watch out!” Mark Anderson warned doing a quick two step as I barreled around the corner. “Where are you headed?”
“Rose Garden,” I called over my shoulder.
“Don’t go out without a coat, Danny! It’s in the teens!”
“I don’t care,” I muttered and slipped through the doorway that opened into the most famous Gardens in the Americas. Except maybe Busch Gardens. The roses were all dead, cut back and mulched. D.C. was even being threatened by snow. I shivered but pushed the chair through the graveled paths to the gazebo and huddled into the corner where the JFK white rose stalk was hibernating. The brass plaque under the stems told me its name.
I knew if I stayed out there too long, Dad or the President would send someone to haul me in before I could hurt myself and the drugs they had me on prevented me from giving in to despair although some days it weighed heavy on me. Especially when I thought about living the rest of my life in fear. Most of the time, I could fake it enough to keep Dad off my back.
I caught a whisper of menace and bolted upright in my chair, sent out my mind trying to trace
the thought back to its owner but there were literally thousands of people in and around the White House. Before I could zero in on it, the thoughts were gone. I tried to pick them up again but now, I was so cold, I could barely push the wheels and when I finally made it back to the French doors, it was to find them locked. My breath puffed out to reinforce how cold it was. I banged on the glass, there was no one in the room to hear me. I was too stubborn to call Dad or Felice so I headed out of the Gardens to the South Lawn knowing that the security cameras would pick me up.
Sure enough, when I reached the South entrance, Jake and Roy opened the door, dragged me inside and covered me with a heated blanket.
“Stubborn idiot,” he scolded. “Trying to give yourself frostbite? You know there’s a below wind chill out tonight? Where’s your coat?” He checked my fingers and especially my toes. Forced hot cocoa down me and personally delivered me to my room where the nurse was already prepping for my evening hygiene. I growled at Jake once I stopped shivering, slammed the bathroom door in their faces and locked it.
“Danny, I’m going to tell your father,” she threatened. “Your behavior is unacceptable.”
“Go away, bitch!” I yelled and in the sudden silence, felt bad but not enough to open the door to come out or apologize.
I put my head between my hands and cried. Soft, quiet sobs that no one but I heard. I blamed God, I told him I hated him, I begged for a miracle and failing that, I begged him to let me die or give me the means to do it myself. I saw myself through the eyes of people like Felice’s mom, worth much less than a man with two good legs. I wished that second bullet had torn through my heart, and that the doctors had let me die on that operating table, I wished that Daniel was still alive to take back this body and let me go.
Felice came and cajoled me. I told her to go bitch to her mother and leave me alone. In the end, they picked the lock on the bathroom door and forced me to bed, giving me a shot in the ass when I fought them, smacked at their grasping hands. We were screaming and I degenerated into crying. They were tears of anger, I had a target to focus on and it overrode the sadness. Dad asked the nurse to stay with me through the night and in the morning had a doctor brought in.
Chapter 37
I was lying on the recliner with my legs spread out and covered with an afghan that had the Presidential seal on it. I think it came off Air Force One. I was awake and feeling the after effects of the shot. Grumpy, head-achy and lethargic. I wasn’t hungry, breakfast was still on the tray untouched. My secret stash of chocolate was there if I got put on bread and water. Felice hadn’t risen yet, I could hear her moving in bed next door, heard her unconscious mind seeking for me but I ignored her. It was Saturday, and she usually didn’t wake up until 10 AM.
Someone’s hand knocked on my door even though I said go away, Kenyan opened it and said good morning. The White House staff Butler was always polite, no matter the circumstances. He escorted in Doctor Anderson and a lady dressed in a severe suit of a decidedly odd color, a deep cranberry with heels that were every bit of 8 inches and shiny black patent leather shoes. Very expensive. She carried an equally expensive briefcase of soft leather.
“What do you want and who are you?” I snapped.
Kenyon said mildly. “Sir, please behave, or I’ll have to call your father.” He softly shut the doors. We stared at each other. I put the recliner’s foot down and sat up so I could hide my legs.
“This is Doctor Lena Torres, Dantan,” he said finally. “How do you feel?”
“Like you stuck a needle in my ass and drugged me without my consent,” I returned.
“I had your father’s written permission, and it was medically necessary,” Anderson said.
“I don’t need my father’s permission,” I retorted. “I’m nineteen.”
“You’re fourteen in a nineteen-year-old body, Danton. You’ve been kidnapped, abused, shot and paralyzed. Don’t you think we need to address your mental wounds as well as your physical ones?”
“So you’re a shrink?”
“I’m a psychiatrist, yes, Dantan. I treat children exposed to trauma, both mental and physical.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“You don’t have to, Dantan. You know, you look like Vange.”
“Vange–you mean my mother? How did you know my mother?”
“We went to school together. Brown. You have her eyes.”
“My mother’s dead.”
“Hit and killed by a drunk driver.”
I didn’t say anything. Anderson knew I wouldn’t move from the chair until they were both gone, I didn’t let anyone see me or my legs uncovered exposed to their pitying stares. We sat in a stoic silence which I won because I could go away for hours amusing myself in the minds of the animals. My favorite lately, was a big black Morgan/TB cross named Really? Ridden by a Washington DC police officer in the city. Four strong legs under me, lungs bursting as he trotted on the cobblestones, the air crisp and cold. It felt weird to know a man had his legs wrapped around us, but the bond between those two was a living, breathing thing that I could appreciate. Besides, it got me out of the house, the White House.
He was trotting through the Park, riding the trails keeping an eye out for vagrants and joggers; this Park had once been the site of a serial rapist and several murders, so the Sergeant took an unofficial detour to patrol once a shift before merging in the downtown square, where they stood and helped direct traffic giving directions and providing a bit more glamour to the Capitol.
Really? danced under him, pulling at the bit and the Sergeant laughed, gave him a nudge and let him canter on the path. He wanted to throw in a good-natured buck or two but was too well trained for that. By the time we reached the street corner, we were down to a sedate walk and the Sergeant patted our neck.
Just across the intersection was the bank, a rare coin store, and a jewelry shop with customers coming and going. Two men stood outside the bank and caught his attention, as did the third man waiting at the curb in an idling van.
“Central,” he spoke into his collar mike. “Any silent alarms reported in from Chase on Constitution?”
“No, MP-12. What have you got?” The dispatcher’s voice asked even as the lookouts saw him standing there on the sidewalk like the Cavalry coming to the rescue. He steered the black gelding across the street and they panicked. The driver hit the gas and aimed his 2 tons of metal at horse and rider.
I took over Really?’s mind, controlling his body, ignoring his rider’s frantic sawing on the reins. Turned my half ton body and hit the van on the rear end, sending it crashing into a parked car where it teetered and fell over onto its side. The driver wasn’t wearing a seat belt and hit the windshield. Dead or unconscious.
Now, I heard guns going off, and felt bullets whizzing by. The two outside were shooting at the cop and missing both of us. I dropped to my knees and shook, clearly indicating he was to dismount. He did, hiding behind a van with his weapon drawn. Checked myself. No bullet holes in smooth, black hide, just a sore shoulder where I’d made impact with the van.
He was calling it in. Sirens came from all over. In the bank, I sensed another mind and dropped most of my awareness out of Really? into the seeing-eye dog of a customer huddled on the floor asking in bewilderment what was going on.
Eight tellers, eight gunmen in suits and face masks quietly robbing the drawers and the vault, which was wide open. The terrified bank guard lay face down under the muzzle of an AK assault rifle.
“Police coming,” one reported in a calm tone. The two outside bolted inside, voices frantic as they related their getaway vehicle was toast. I didn’t know what to do, there were too many of them, and if I tried, they just shoot me and the hostages. Frantic, I vacillated between the horse and the black lab.
Finally, I forced myself awake, and split into three places at the same time. I felt nauseous and very weak, splintered.
Anderson and the shrink were slapping my face, taking my blood pressure and
preparing to shoot me with something to wake me up.
“Danny.”
“Get Jake,” I rasped. “My Dad, hurry. It’s important.”
“Your father is on the Senate floor,” he said. “Danny, you had another spell. I want you to go to Walter Reed.”
“No! Get Jake. Or Mitchell Gaines,” I struggled to get out of the chair, but I felt like a fish in an inch of water. “Please, Doctor Anderson! There are people’s lives at stake!”
To humor me, he sent for Jake to come as quick as he could. I told him the situation and in minutes, he had the DC police on the line relaying the information as I saw it through the black Labrador’s eyes. Which gave the police snipers a clear advantage.
“Twenty-three hostages,” I counted. “Including Rosie. The dog.”
I check outside, the Sergeant had approached the bank close enough to observe the front doors but not see it. Really? was ground tied to the sidewalk out of the line of fire. I hesitated, knowing what I intended to do might kill me, and most likely Really?. His own consciousness told me he was a trained police horse and it was his duty to go as his officer pointed him, to die in battle, such as his kind had done for ages.
I’ll protect you as best I can, I vowed and he gave me control. I bolted forward vaguely hearing the Sergeant shout as he tried to grab my flailing rains. Behind me, emergency vehicles bracketed both ends of the street.
I hit the glass front of the bank, and exploded through it, legs tucked under me, neck and head curled close to my body to make as small a target as I could. Missed the bodies of the hostages because I was also in Rosie and saw them in groups huddled together out of the way. The thieves might have been expecting gas grenades or flash bangs, but the sight of a 1500 pound riderless horse through the front lobby stunned them long enough for me to charge the nearest one, and tear the gun from their hand, kick three more hard enough to fracture, legs, chest and head, and stomp two more into red hamburger.
Then, the snipers took over as the rest of them fired. The feel of bullets punching into me was a massive shock. I felt my awareness retreat as the pain overwhelmed both horse and human mind. Falling shook the lobby floor and screaming, I pulled back just before the last one fired a bullet into Really?’s brain.