Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [48]
Within the span of ten seconds, Sam was on the floor, an ear-piercing alarm was shrieking like a banshee, Taft had yanked the befuddled Kowalczyk up from the couch, and the two were running out the door of Sam’s house toward their rental car.
CLASSIFIED
Secret Service Incidence Report
BBR20120101.01
Agent Ira Kowalczyk
Please disregard use of the panic button. Big Boy activated the alert accidentally. There is no security emergency. Will review panic button procedures.
TWENTY
Within a quarter of an hour, Kowalczyk had threaded their way out of Sam’s rundown suburb and onto the highway. They both exhaled in relief as the odometer launched up to sixty. Other than that, they didn’t make a sound.
After a Herculean struggle to dress his voluminous frame while sitting, Taft leaned his head against the cool glass of the window and let his thoughts drift. What had he been thinking? Granted, New Year’s Eve was the most appropriate time to act inappropriately. But last night’s behavior wasn’t in his character. Or perhaps it was; as flabbergasted and deeply mortified at his own reckless actions as he was, he felt an odd glow of—dare he think it—pride. He’d spent so much of his life trying to appease others. Appearing sober, genial, and respectable at all times was the first step at accomplishing that. And yet, as he’d learned so many times during his first life, trying to make everyone happy inevitably made them all howl for your blood. Yes, he’d been selfish last night—selfish, impulsive, and utterly oblivious to what others thought of him. But damned if it hadn’t felt good.
Strangely, though, as Taft’s thoughts wandered through a foggy, disconnected fugue of feelings and memories, one thing kept recurring: Susan. He’d spent two months in the near-daily company of a learned, compassionate, scholarly woman whose primary interest in life was, well, him. She was, frankly, the kind of woman to whom he’d always been drawn, but he could not have been less interested. And yet now he’d jumped in bed with the first floozy who’d gotten him drunk. His queasiness returned with a vengeance.
“Kowalczyk. Pull over. Now.”
Kowalczyk flashed him a livid scowl for breaking their silence, but his look softened as soon as he saw Taft’s face. A moment later, Taft let loose a geyser of vomit across the dashboard. Keeping cool, Kowalczyk edged the car to the side of the highway. As soon as the tires noisily hit the coarse asphalt of the shoulder, Taft had already flung open his door; by the time Kowalczyk pulled to a full stop, Taft had emptied the steaming contents of his stomach into the cold air.
“What,” gasped Taft, “did I eat last night?”
“Do you really want me to answer that question?” said Kowalczyk, wrinkling his nose.
Taft shot him the most offended look he could muster. “I’m serious. I don’t remember anything past the popcorn.”
“Bill, that Rob kid ran next door to Herbert’s and brought back a friggin’ wheelbarrow full of that shitty food. Hot dogs, nacho fries, Bombers. You must have sucked down your own weight in that sludge, and then some.”
Taft gaped at him and then hung his head out the open door and vomited some more. As his insides knotted up and his eyes filled with tears, he could think of only one thing: to thank all that was holy that Susan couldn’t see him right now. Or Irene, or Rachel, or Trevor. But especially Abby. Dear, sweet, angelic little Abby.
Wiping his mouth, he reached around to the back seat and into his open suitcase. He rummaged around for a moment and pulled out the good-luck charm Abby had smuggled into it. The Taft action figure. It was already grossly inaccurate; if the toy were large as life and made of flesh, it would weigh a good 75 pounds less than he did at the moment. But it was unrecognizable in