Cloud Rebel (R-D #3)(54)

I know I stared at him for several moments while that germinated in my brain. "Good question," I said eventually. "I don't have an answer."

"Think I do," Bekzi murmured. "Need to see Corinne and Valegar."

"What's going on?" Dr. Farrell walked into the kitchen. "No worry," Bekzi said. "We looking at remote control device," he nodded to the pile of junk in front of me. For some reason, he didn't want to talk to Farrell about what he and I had just discussed.

That concerned me, and I was already concerned greatly about Dr. Richard Farrell.

*

Corinne

I spent the afternoon listening to people talking about the matched black horses to pull the caisson carriage at the funeral, plus the one to be used as the riderless, caparisoned horse.

It hit me then—so hard I wanted to destroy the Oval Office with the buildup of energy coursing through my body. We shouldn't even be talking about this. It shouldn't have happened. Everything the drug touched had been adversely affected.

Dearest, excuse yourself, came from Val. You must release your anger elsewhere.

I didn't excuse myself. Instead, I left a replica of myself sitting in the Oval Office while I folded space. I needed a place where I could scream my lungs out.

Neaboria was beautiful, wild and uninhabited except by plants. It bore the brunt of my anger as I shouted at people, most of whom were already dead.

For the first time, too, after I'd finished shouting where none took note, I returned to the Oval Office and replaced my mock-up with myself, with nobody the wiser.

*

Graye

I have to attend the funeral—there is no way around that. I have to pretend to mourn, too, when I feel nothing. I was forever saddled with the name Graye Sanders, when I would have preferred something else.

He says it will open doors for me. I didn't ask him which doors he meant. I feel his answer will be political in nature; therefore, I do not wish to know.

I understand he is not former President Phillips—he is only an echo of the one who was. Hal worshipped the original. Always said he was a genius. Regardless, he is dead and a shadow takes his place.

I worry that this one may not possess the genius of the original. I worry that all our deaths could come as a result.

He says not to worry—that all will be well and we will take the country back.

I wanted to tell him we already had much of it while Amelia Sanders occupied the White House. The wealthy moved and spent at our command. Armies and assassins followed our instructions. The people were oblivious. I failed to understand why this pretender thought it necessary to stand in the full light of day and open himself to possible criticism.

After all, if you make a target of yourself, someone will surely aim in your direction.

So much better to be the force behind the target, allowing them to take direct hits while you remain safe.

Yes, some would say that is cowardly.

I call it wisdom.

Hal and my assistant had taught me well.

Just get through the funeral, he said. Afterward, you may hide as much as you like. I will deal with everything past that point.

I told him that's exactly what I wanted.

"Your tea, sir," my assistant handed the cup and saucer to me. I accepted and thanked him before I drank.

*

Notes, Colonel Hunter

"Matt Michaels is on the phone," James appeared in my doorway. I'd barely seen my office in several days, yet here was another interruption.

"I'll take it," I said, lifting the receiver of my desk phone. Briefly, I wondered why he hadn't bothered to call my cell. This call could be recorded.

I learned quickly that recording it was exactly what he wanted.

"We need to get to Bethesda," he said. "They found something in the autopsy."

"What the hell?" I demanded.

"I'm telling you I just got a call, and they found something. Looks like Madam President may not have died of natural causes."

"Bloody hell," I cursed as I stood. "Fucking, bloody hell."





Chapter 12

Corinne

I told them they should let me see the body. The answer was no. At least they wouldn't have been punched in the stomach with the news that a heart-attack inducing drug had been administered to Madam President, or that fingers were now pointing at Graye Sanders, if they had.

"I think this was their plan," Matt muttered as President Granville and I walked into the meeting room at the hospital. "She only had a year left during this term, so of course they're going to put someone forward who'll promise the country whatever it takes to get elected."

"And that someone will either be a Phillips clone or someone else with a Phillips clone's hand up his ass," I huffed.

"Dearest, remain calm," Val appeared from nowhere.

"So they're looking to discredit me however they can," the President said, sitting heavily on a chair and pulling it toward the standard, rectangular, brown, faux-wood meeting table.

"It looks that way," Matt agreed. "Whether it's foreign policy or some other, domestic debacle of their creation, they'll be aiming in your direction."

"When did elections become all-out wars?" Auggie asked. "Not just political, but physical, too?"