The Zimmer Doctrine (Corps Justice Book 11) (9 page)

Chapter 17

Great Sale Cay

The Bahamas

August 28th, 5:44pm

Chancellor Brighton Baxter IV (known to the world as Chance Baxter) sometimes wore ear plugs to dull the sounds of the screaming. The soundproof room could contort the shrieks of a dying man. Not that they'd all been men, but the stray woman had been a rarity. His father had had a strange attraction to the Bahamian locals that peddled their wares in nearby Freeport, but to the current head of the Baxter empire such sexual proclivity had no place in the custom-made room on the northern end of his private island.

No, this was all business. It always was. If there was anything that anyone could say about Chance Baxter, it was that he was all business.

He stared at the mutilated corpse for a long moment, admiring his handiwork, and grinning back at the teeth that no longer had lips to cover them. The man had been tough and he had almost made it through the surgical precision of Baxter’s deli-thin slices off the man’s abdomen. He’d passed out after that, and it had taken two ampules of smelling salts to bring the man back to his senses.

After that Chance was like a butcher preparing a carcass. The man moaned and let out the occasional scream while Baxter hummed and carved away.

He liked to feed his local staff, and he still couldn’t believe they hadn’t realized that the delicate morsels he fed them for Sunday suppers were their fellow man. Ah, the irony of it all. Prehistoric meals for Bahamian savages. He grinned wider at the thought. Maybe a nice chimichurri sauce to go along with the man's flesh?

Baxter grabbed the hose that sat coiled in the corner, turned on the spigot, and rinsed his hands. The blood was starting to congeal, and it would make the unstrapping process a bother. Once satisfied, he walked back to the grinning corpse and undid the ankle straps, followed by the straps around the shins, then the waist strap, and on up until the last tie-down was the dead man’s head. It was the only thing that kept the body from falling over. He’d learned that trick years ago. Better to let the cadaver’s own weight do the job rather than having to heave the body in.

He moved to the nearest wall and depressed the black button that opened the hatch in the floor six inches in front of the bolted chair. The hatch door eased open revealing a hidden lagoon below. Baxter flipped a switch and LED lights lit up the water twenty feet below him. The blue space appeared empty at first and, then as if called by a silent dinner bell, the sharks came.

Baxter grabbed a piece of the dead man’s cheek from the workbench and tossed it into the void. When it hit the water there was a flurry of activity, each predator snapping at the tiny snack in a frenzy.

“Have patience, my friends. More will be along shortly.”

By the time he'd packaged a good portion of the rest of the meat and put it in an ice-filled cooler, close to one hundred sharks had gathered in the underground cave.  Baxter licked his lips in anticipation and unsnapped the only thing holding the corpse from its final resting place. Aided by the still-slick blood, it slipped down the chair, the feet going in first and the head last after a hollow smack against the corner of the portal.

Baxter watched as three sharks, one a giant hammerhead, sprang from the choppy water and pulled the body in. The billionaire looked at his watch and noted the time. It took the gathering only one minute and forty-four seconds to tear the body apart. Then he went about hosing off the room from top-to-bottom. Once every trace of blood and gore was safely in the lagoon below he stripped down naked, tossed his soiled clothes into the hole, and then hosed himself off. After giving the sharks a quick salute, Baxter closed the trap door and turned off the LED lights.

In the corner there was a towel and a clean robe in plastic wrap. He took his time dabbing his well-tanned body dry before wrapping himself in the spotless robe.

He let himself out after extinguishing the overhead lights. After the heavy door hissed closed, he pressed a button outside the hidden chamber which triggered the sanitizing showers that would complete the decontamination process. The next time he used the room it would be sterilized and fresh.

Baxter exhaled like a man who’d just climbed out after a long soothing soak in a hot tub. With the wet towel over one shoulder and the meat-packed cooler under one arm, he made his way down the dimly lit corridor that only he, master of the island, could access. When he emerged into the sunlight of the waning afternoon, there was a glass of champagne waiting. He ignored it and instead rang the tiny silver bell that sat on the same tray.

A moment later, a diminutive black man wearing a starched white suit appeared.

“Yes, Mr. Baxter?”

“George, would you please escort Dr. Nahas to my office?”

“The one on the first or third level, Mr. Baxter?”

Chance Baxter tapped his chin and then said, “Make it the third floor. I have a sudden urge to watch the sunset. Please bring up a bottle of gin.”

“Yes, Mr. Baxter.”

“Oh, and, George, would you take this cooler and deposit its contents into the deep freezer?”

“Right away, Mr. Baxter. Was it a good catch?”

The servant only knew it was meat, either something his master imported from England or something he’d caught on his frequent sailing expeditions.

“Yes, George, it was a very good catch. Thank you for asking.”

George smiled and took the cooler. Baxter smiled back and grabbed the glass of champagne as his house manager left the room.

Yes, after all that work it would be good to watch the sunset. He did not care much whether Dr. Nahas would enjoy it. They did have business to discuss. More importantly, how would they deal with the act of sabotage he’d just uncovered?

Chapter 18

The White House

August 28th, 6:38pm

Bob Lundgren barked another order into the phone. “And make sure you get it right this time.”

Despite his outward appearance, the White House Press Secretary was finally beginning to feel a sense of control returning to his life. It had been a hectic two days, and even more so since the president had left him to play the part of roving fireman. Through the haze, the view was clearing.

Bob Lundgren rarely admitted his faults or bad decisions. It was what pseudo-celebrities had to do, either act confident or move out of the way. There was always some new schmuck looking to take your place. He’d done the rounds as a local news anchor, then moved up to the B-team on prime time, but he’d hit the proverbial glass ceiling. The chosen few were solidly entrenched, and despite a brilliant record as both a live host and an investigative journalist, Bob Lundgren’s upward trajectory ground to a halt.

That was until an old friend looking to get some publicity for his first congressional appointment contacted Lundgren and asked for his opinion. To his friend’s delight and to Lundgren’s surprise the effort had been both enjoyable and painless. Add in the sizable consultancy fee and Lundgren was hooked.

First, he juggled his full-time news gig while helping politicians, businessmen and corporations craft media blitzes that made the Old Spice advertisements look like they were created by amateurs. But when the retainers and bonuses coming in quadrupled the size of the salary from his day job, Lundgren left journalism. He never looked back. For close to ten years, he’d continued to charm clients and hit grand slams for hefty bonuses. He’d become the darling of political hopefuls, charitable organizations and forward-thinking billionaires. He was the big fish and he’d loved it.

But, as is the way with successful overachievers, Lundgren got bored. Every deal felt the same, and every client started to sound like a whiny child. He had enough money to retire comfortably, and he could have walked away from it all. Then the president had called. The two men were rock stars in their respective worlds. They were both good looking and often graced the covers of magazines; they were young and hard-working men.

Lundgren liked Brandon Zimmer and apparently the feeling was mutual. The president had just taken over after his predecessor’s abrupt departure and the previous press secretary had just handed in his resignation.

“I’d love for you to come aboard, Bob. I really think together we could accomplish great things,” the president had said.

Despite the pay and the prospect of long hours, Lundgren yearned for the challenge. It took him all of ten minutes to say yes. He was in Washington within a week, and started work a day after his relocation.

That seemed liked ages ago, and if you’d asked him a day earlier, Lundgren might have called it a mistake. But now things were becoming clear. What at first seemed like a naive and spur-of-the-moment decision, now coalesced in the press secretary’s sharp mind into a cunning, calculated move made by the president.

Zimmer had the world on its heels. Now that the shock had worn off, the teams were settling in for the long game. Leaders who at first had railed at him and his staff over the phone were now calling, not to apologize outright, but to check on the president’s progress, respectfully.

The president was right. Something had to be done, and in one swift move he’d called out the entire world. Some might see it as rash and stupid, but Lundgren now saw the brilliance behind the plan. Like a swaggering Teddy Roosevelt shaking his big stick at the world, Zimmer had put everyone on notice. If it could be done with trillion-dollar corporations, why couldn’t it be done in politics and diplomacy? If anything, they were all branches protruding from the same tree trunk. Human nature rarely differed. Most people were worried about only one thing - themselves. If the president could flip the status quo like Lincoln, FDR, or maybe even like JFK had…

Bob Lundgren grinned for the first time in two days. Already he was imagining the sweeping headlines, the throngs of supporters waiting to hear Zimmer’s every word, and the countries lining up to be at the top of the new pecking order. They could build the new Camelot and enjoy a resurgent love for the White House like the Brits had done with their monarchy.

We could do it
, Lundgren thought.
We could go down in history
.

And without another glance towards the ringing phone, Bob Lundgren grabbed a notepad and started writing. He’d tasted the Kool-Aid and he really liked it.

+++

Marge Haines poked through the last box of Travis’s things. It had been sitting in the White House residence for months. Brandon had kept it there, waiting for one of Travis’s friends to come get his personal effects. She’d just been too busy or at least that’s what she’d told herself.

There were pictures including one of Travis with his arm wrapped around Cal, who was wearing Marine Corps fatigues. It had been taken at Camp Lejeune just after Cal received the Navy Cross from the commanding general of the Second Marine Division.

There was also a picture of her and Travis that had been taken either by Top or Gaucho on their trip to Paris. Neither she nor Travis were looking at the camera, but instead they were looking at each other intently. They were seated at a small table with matching glasses of wine between them. Her chest tightened at the memory. It was the first time they’d admitted their feelings to one another. Just steps away from the Louvre, they'd made love in a penthouse Travis arranged for them at the last minute. Their relationship had never been perfect and their busy careers hadn’t helped. Marge didn’t regret the time spent in their on-again, off-again romance. The only thing she did regret was not telling him how she really felt about him. However, those feelings were buried so deep she was scarcely aware of them.

Staring at the picture of the two of them, she realized that her lifelong need to compartmentalize her life and to succeed in a professional capacity where few women dared to tread possibly had cost her the man she loved. And, she had never told him that she loved him, that she wanted him, and that she might have given it all up just for him. But that was over now. She’d worked long hours to cover her grief, to shield herself from the pain.

But something had happened on the trip to South Carolina. She’d seen Cal, who’d run away in search of answers and now seemed to be on the mend. She’d seen Top and Gaucho, always optimistic, always pressing forward and pulling the rest of them along for the ride. And she’d seen the stoic ones like Daniel and Dr. Higgins, always present and always vigilant. And finally, she’d seen President Brandon Zimmer, the leader of the free world and arguably the most powerful man in the world. And what had he done? He’d put aside the job and joined in the merriment to celebrate Travis's life until the early morning hours in genuine happiness.

Marge felt unsettled, like some part of her perfectly-orchestrated life was coming unhinged. Not in a bad way, but in a way that felt foreign and new to her. She was so used to feeling grounded and sure about her decisions. Even the decision to ask Cal to leave SSI hadn’t been difficult. It had been right for both SSI and Cal.

But now things felt different, uncertain, like the ground beneath her feet was shifting slowly and her feet were trying to figure out the pattern of movement.

Marge took one last look at the picture and placed it in her briefcase. There was one more visit to make before heading back to Nashville. The sands continued shifting as she went to say goodbye.

+++

The president looked up from his reading when Marge came into the small office located next to the master bedroom. She looked tired. He understood. He’d felt the same way after looking through Travis’s things.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“It wasn’t easy.”

“I know.”

“The pictures were the hardest.”

“Yeah,” Brandon answered, remembering that some of the pictures had been of Marge and Travis. “You okay?”

Marge nodded and shifted her briefcase from one hand to the other. She looked like she was thinking and he didn’t want to interrupt, but the words came out before he could stop them.

“I miss him.”

“Me too,” Marge replied, her normally cool eyes welling with tears.

“I’m glad Cal invited us to Charleston. I feel like we got to say goodbye the right way.”

“He would have liked it,” she said, dabbing a corner of her eye with the back of her hand.

Brandon willed himself not to get emotional. It was past time for that. Instead, he changed the subject.

“Do you head back tonight?”

“I do.”

“Do you need a ride?”

Marge started to shake her head and then stopped. Her faced changed, like she’d just come to some realization. Rather than interrupt her thoughts, he waited. Finally her eyes focused on him, her face the steady calm that had earned her the moniker,“The Hammer”.

“You’ve really made a mess of things, haven’t you?”

For a moment he was too stunned to reply. Then he noticed the smile on Marge’s face.

Brandon chuckled. “I guess I have.”

“Do you mind if I give you some unsolicited advice?” Marge asked, taking a step closer, like she was approaching the judge’s bench.

“You know I don’t.”

Marge nodded slowly. “Well, if you ask me, I think it’s
about
time you find yourself a new Chief of Staff.”

Brandon couldn’t help but reciprocate Marge’s smile now. What just moments earlier might have seemed macabre, given that they’d been talking about Travis, now felt like the old days when the SSI team and then Congressman Zimmer could say anything to each other.

“I’d like to put my name in for consideration,” Marge said, not taking her eyes off the president. “I’d be happy to provide you with references, if you need them.”

She said it in her lawyer voice, the one Brandon knew she’d used for years to tear opposing counsels into pieces. He couldn’t help but laugh as he rose from his chair.

“Ms. Haines, I don’t think that will be necessary. Consider yourself hired.”

They stared at each other for a long spell until Marge held out her hand. Brandon looked down at it, ignored it, and wrapped her in a warm embrace. “It’s about time we came to our senses,” Brandon whispered as his new Chief of Staff returned the hug. Things were changing now; he could feel it. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together. The team was down a man but it was far from depleted. It was time to come back strong, and this time they would do it together. No man or woman left behind. It felt right; it felt good. How better to take on the world than with the best of friends at your side?

Brandon held Marge at arm’s length, thanking the heavens for this wonderful gift. He said, “Things are going to be different now, much different.”

Marge grinned and replied, “I’m ready whenever you are, Mr. President.”