What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [55]
When Parker had told him about the angel, Whitford hadn’t been surprised in the least. He had, after all, been the Vice President, and he’d made a point of reviewing all of the government’s darkest and dirtiest secrets. He knew all about who really killed Kennedy, what NASA saw on the dark side of the moon, and what kind of weird shit had gone down out in the New Mexico desert. And so there was no moment of shock, no pause for reflection to allow the new reality to sink in. No, what he’d thought was, How can I get one of those? And then he’d instructed Parker to “go out and find whatever magical crap you can get your hands on.”
And now? Well, good help is hard to find, and it’s very inconvenient when the help dies with his head in a commode.
He stabbed a meaty finger at his phone. “Withers!”
“Yes, sir?”
He glanced up and saw his secretary standing in the doorway, where she’d apparently been hovering.
The phone, unaware that Withers was actually in the room, started making an annoying beeping sound. The Governor stabbed his finger at another one of its buttons, but that just seemed to provoke it into emitting an annoying dial tone. He prodded it with a couple more finger jabs and, finally, had to use his fist to make it shut up.
Withers took a tentative step into the office. Her face was pale. “Mr. Parker, sir,” she paused, her voice a whisper, “is it true?”
Whitford sat back, impassive and toad-like, and ruminated.
“Is he – dead?” she asked.
Whitford didn’t move other than to take a slightly deeper breath. “Yes,” he said at last. Clyde Parker was indeed dead, but as inconvenient and annoying as that was, the Governor had neither the time nor the emotional capacity to waste precious minutes crying about it. “Have you figured out where the hell everyone went?”
Ms. Withers brushed her hands down the front of her long skirt, and stood erect, regaining her composure. “No, sir. Although I’m pretty sure that I saw Joseph and one of the gardeners among those naked men who were out front earlier.”
“The security guard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So my entire staff left to go streaking?”
Ms. Withers shrugged.
“That’s disgusting,” said Whitford.
“Yes, sir. It is.”
“You’re not going to get naked and run off, are you?”
Ms. Withers seemed to think about it for a moment. “No, sir.”
“Good.” Whitford resumed his toadish rumination.
Withers watched him for a moment before breaking the silence. “What would y—?”
“I need to talk to Cadmon,” he said. He lurched forward in his chair, glowering for a moment before speaking. “Get Cadmon on the phone. I need to talk to Cadmon.”
Chapter 21. Ima Eat Some BBQ, Bitches
The Governor’s Mansion was surrounded by military trucks, but something was odd. The guard stand stood empty, and the big, iron gate appeared to have gotten stuck halfway open. Bill Cadmon leaned forward from the back seat of his Town Car, peering out over the front seats at what looked, for all intents and purposes, like a deserted building.
Cadmon glanced at his driver. “Just go in, I guess.”
The car pulled up into the circular drive. Off to the side, lodged halfway into a large bush, sat a utility truck. It was tilted, with one of its front wheels dangling in the air, looking as if it had been parked by someone who’d been doing some hard partying and was anxious to get back to it. The door was open, and Cadmon peered in the open door as his driver eased past, wondering just what the heck was going on.
They pulled to a stop right in front of the Mansion. The usual porter was missing, having gone off, presumably, with the driver of the truck, so Cadmon had to open his own door. He jumped out, and with an angsty bounce in his step, mounted the few stairs to the main doorway where, again, there were no people. Odd, he thought, as he searched for a doorbell. He found the little, lighted button, and stood there ringing it