Dominion

Dominion

  Copyright 2014 by Barbara Bretana

  Dedication

  To Dreamers everywhere who never give up their dreams.

  Let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, over all the earth.

  Genesis 1:26

  Chapter One

  “Have you seen this article?” the President demanded of his Secretary of Homeland Defense. He threw the paper down on the table where it nearly knocked over the china cup of Blue Jamaican coffee. Oliver Sustain looked up in surprise, the President was normally an unflappable sort, not one to give in to his emotions but he was clearly in a rage.

  Sustain picked up the Washington Post and read the screaming headlines about an offhand derogatory mark the President had made to an aide over an international figure. “How did anyone hear me?” He demanded.

  Sustain said mildly, “maybe your aide sold you out.”

  “No way in hell,” President Rickover returned. “He knows he’d be canned. And besides, I checked. He’s been incommunicado with my wife at Camp David.”

  “Cell phones and text,” Sustain shrugged.

  “No phone calls or texts went out. I checked. And this isn’t the first time, Oliver. I’ve called several other people who’ve had the same type of scenarios. Some were the only ones there, and yet someone overheard them. And don’t say they were bugged, one of them was a CIA Director, for God’s sake.”

  “Are you saying we have a spy in the White House and Langley?”

  “I don’t know what I’m saying, Oliver,” the President sighed. “I just know my supposedly private conversations or sometimes not so private.”

  “Are there any common factors, Jason?” Sustain asked. “A common place, same room, same person?”

  “No. Some occurred at home, some here in the White House, the National Museum office, the Park. One even inside the New York Stock Exchange. That one instance netted someone an advance tip on a five hundred thousand dollars stock transaction made with a thousand dollar purchase. The SEC is looking into that one.”

  Sustain looked at the paper. “Well, you didn’t have to call the Secretary of the United Nations a fat dyke bitch, Jason,” he said mildly. “Are you going to deny it?”

  “Well, there’s no proof.”

  “Unless they track down the aide and subpoena him.”

  President Rickover sighed and sat in the spindle backed chair, petting the smooth head of the golden retriever named Dusty. Almost every White House administration had an official White House dog and Dusty was Rickover’s pride and joy. A female apricot Golden retriever four years old rescued from the pound, she accompanied Rickover everywhere from jogging to trips on Air Force One. Her coat was burnished gold with feathers that Rickover kept groomed and neat by himself and he always made time for her care. She was a sweet tempered dog, well trained in obedience; fiercely protective of her master, his wife and Rickover’s two daughters.

  “What do you want me to do?” Sustain asked, reaching for his coffee. He drank, staring over the rim at the president.

  “Find out how the shit is getting out there. Morton himself is the one came to me with all these instances. He has over a hundred of them.”

  “What are you going to do about this?” He pointed to the paper.

  “Lie, lie, deny,” Rickover grinned as he reached for a cup and a bran muffin. “Besides, it’s true. She is a fat dyke bitch.”

  Sustain sighed, and finished his morning coffee before the rest of the Presidents staff entered the room to discuss the day’s events. Dusty snored, turned around twice and laid down under her master’s feet, resting her nose on her paws.

  Chapter 2

  Dad yelled up the stairs for me to get up and I rolled out of bed to struggle and wake up. Even nine hours of uninterrupted sleep hadn’t been enough; I was still logy, confused and grumpy. Padding into the bathroom, I turned on the lights and winced as it speared my eyes to the back of my brain. Squinting in the glare, I stared into the mirror seeing myself in disgust. My hair stuck up in blonde and brown spikes like the cat had clawed through it. Lines pebbled my skin where the sheets had wrinkled the flesh, one brown eye drooped, and the blue one was bloodshot, full of crusted gunk. My mouth tasted like I’d died after a raw fish-eating contest and my dark brown eyebrows were scrunched close to my eyes. I looked like I’d been dragged behind a street sweeper and smelled worse than my gym bag after a week of being forgotten in my locker.

  Twenty minutes later, I could claim to look like a new man outside, even if the inside was still half-asleep. At least my hair was combed, gelled down and tamed, my teeth brushed and my contacts in. It was a brown day; both blurry brown eyes looked back at me from my mirror.

  I decided on black jeans, long sleeved tee, and a Big Dog navy blue zip up hoodie, socks, and soft leather laced up climbing boots. I was fanatical about my shoes, I never wore sneakers, or hiking boots, steel toed or Kmart brand. My shoes were all custom-made, top-of-the-line and mail-order. It drove my Dad crazy, but I paid for them out of my earnings and he never questioned where the money came from. Of course, he never saw the bills, either. So he didn’t know to ask about the thousand-dollar price tag or the designer names. Besides, they were my feet, I liked to be comfortable, and there was nothing worse than sore feet.

  “Danny, are you up?” Dad yelled up the stairs and I could see him standing at the bottom shading his eyes as the sun blasted through the skylight from the second story Cathedral ceiling.

  “Coming, Dad,” I called back and slowly stamped down the steps as he retreated to the breakfast nook. On weekends, my Dad cooked for me, eschewing the services of the live-in housekeeper to preserve, he said, both independence and a semblance of family normalcy.

  I slipped into the nook, hoisted myself onto the kitchen stool, sliding under the counter table to poke at the plate covered with pancakes and bacon. Blueberry pancakes, maple bacon and real Vermont Maple syrup. “Wow,” I murmured. “What are we celebrating?” More calories here than he’d eaten all week.

  “Your last stock tip netted me a forty K profit,” he grinned.

  I took a big bite, and swallowed in surprise. These were good. “Dad, Yum.” I looked at him. 6’6”, 240 pounds and all in the right places. My Dad needed a diet like I needed a pierced eyebrow. Hey, that sounded cool. I stroked my right eyebrow, the one above my blue-eye.

  “No,” he waved the spatula at me. “No eyebrow piercings.”

  Disgruntled, I stared. “No, I’m not reading your mind. You just do that whenever you think about piercings or look at piercings.”

  Good. For a minute there, I thought he was reading my mind.

  “Finish your breakfast, and we’ll get going,” he ordered and I inhaled my food in minutes, while he watched in amazement. “You eat like a Marine on a three-day bender at a hot dog eating contest,” he sighed. “All right, let me do the dishes and we’ll leave.”

  It was the first three-day weekend we’d had together since my Mom died and he’d promised me a trip to the National Space Museum before its grand opening. Being Senator Michael Patrick De Rosier and a former astronaut space hero, he has to be the one doing the ribbon-cutting and getting the pre-opening tour. With me.

  His car was waiting out front. His car, not the official black SUV the size of a house or chauffeur driven limousine. No sign of any bodyguards either, just the gray four-door Kia SUV with extra headroom for Dad’s height. He might be a rich dude, but he didn’t flaunt it. Our house was a 3000 square ft. two-story in Chevy Chase, I went to public school and rode the bus. Dad drove a Kia to work, and most days, he was in his Senate office or on the floor. Not hiding in some fancy restaurant or hobnobbing with Washington lobbyists and millionaires.

  I got in and buckled up.
“How did you get away from Eastwood and Damon?” I was referring to his Secret Service dude.

  “They’re meeting us on the highway. I tried to get them to meet us at the museum, but no go. What with the Olympics and all, security is extra tight.” He checked to make sure my belt was tightened before he drove off.

  At the bottom of the small hill and past four other houses, he turned left, his eyes never still watching everything. We both did. Both of us were paranoid, some idiot drunk driver in a minivan had T-boned my Mom and killed her. I was still dealing with it even after nearly a year.

  “You invite Felice to the opening?” He asked casually, as we meandered through the neighborhood for fifteen minutes before we hit the highway and I spent the next forty-five trying to spot the Secret Service dudes. Dad asked me again sometime later about Felice.

  “Uh, yeah,” I answered, searching the parking lot for her escort. She came in a limo with her agents’ right on her heels. Looked really nice in a skintight pair of cream-colored jeans, shocking lime green blouse and a hand knit Aran sweater. Kick ass boots with heels that made her almost tall enough to reach my chin. She bounced over to the car and pulled the door opened before I could get my seat-belt unhooked.

  Felice Rickover leaned in and her long, dark air tickled my face as she smiled at me with those big, incredibly green eyes. “Hey, Downtown. Miss me?” She kissed me on the lips and Dad made hooting sounds from the front seat.

  “That’s one way to get my vote, Lisi,” Dad grinned.

  “Hah,” she retorted, pulling me out. “As if I’d vote for a Democrat.”

  Dad slithered out, “you’re not old enough to vote. Besides, I plan on bribing you away from your Dad.”

  The two agents met up with Dad and escorted us into the brand-new state-of-the-art National Space and Air Museum. Built of concrete and glass, it was designed by I. M. Pei and as cool outside, as in. Had everything from the Wright Brothers original plane to the last shuttle that retired. There weren’t any reporters around waiting for the grand opening, which was tomorrow and with the ribbon-cutting ceremony. Today, the Director named Mark Hansen was going to give me, Dad and Felice a guided tour. He greeted Dad with a handshake and Felice and I with a smile and nod.

  “Mister De Rosier, Ms. Rickover, shall we enter?”

  Oh yeah. Did I forget to mention my girlfriend was the President’s daughter?

  Chapter 3

  “Well, Downtown,” she mumbled over cheeseburger and fries. We were sitting in a booth at Denny’s surrounded by the four agents and Dad. I’d wanted to sit by ourselves, but knew that wouldn’t happen. I had learned to deal with the realities of being a Senator’s son and boyfriend of the President’s daughter.

  Had I been to the White House? A few times. There was enough for me. Plus, after watching White House Down, I was glad to stay away.

  We babbled about the planes, the Saturn rocket, and the actual console of the Enterprise where we were able to go inside and work the toggle switches and buttons. Sit in the pilot seat and pretend to know what it was like to fly one.

  Felice ate like I did, not an ounce of extra fat on her body. She ran track at school. And yes, she did go to a private learning institution, even though that was a constant argument with her Dad and the Secret Service. She said it could be worse, she could have been home schooled. I rolled my eyes at that; home schooled in the White House didn’t really count.

  I stole her French fries and dipped one in ketchup. I’d already polished off my burger, fries and a chocolate milkshake and was working on hers. She slapped me.

  “Get your own, Downtown,” she grumped. So Dad ordered onion rings and I ate those, too.

  “Downtown?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. His eyes were blue, his hair a dark blonde. I got my eyes and my looks from Mom, he often told me, my height and blue eye from him.

  Oh, my name is Dantan Townsley De Rosier, hence the nickname ‘Downtown’. I got the Townsley from Mom, named for my weird, lovable and eccentric great uncle. He had the weird eyes–one blue and one brown, like Mom. Said he was psychic, too. On the morning my Mom was murdered by the drunk driver, he tried to call her, warned her about the blue minivan and T-bone from his nursing home, but the staff who caught him wandering in the RN’s office thought he was babbling about supper as if T-bones were on the menu for toothless old farts. His words, not mine. Dad and I visited Uncle Town nearly every week. Even if he did give me the creeps.

  “Where to after this?” Dad questioned. “Is this an official date? You need to borrow the car?”

  I slugged him. I’d just turned fourteen and no matter how I begged, he wanted me to wait to get my learner’s permit. Even though Matt Damon [real name Jake James], offered to take me to the FBI closed driving course and teach me where agents learned real defensive driving.

  I could understand Dad being cautious after Mom and truth is, I was a bit scared myself. I’d seen and read the statistics for teenage drivers and fatal accidents. Last thing I wanted was to put my Dad through that again. “It’s seven thirty, Dad. You have an early day tomorrow. Don’t you need to get in early?”

  He rolled his eyes at the grinning agents and Felice. “It’s almost past my bedtime,” he whispered to her. “Do you think if I beg, he’ll let me stay up another hour?”

  “What are you doing tomorrow, Danny?” She asked finishing her last fry and looking for an onion ring, but I’d eaten them all.

  “Pig,” she added.

  “Look who’s talking. Those jeans look tight,” I said staring at her chest.

  She slugged me. “I weigh exactly 125,” she retorted. “And I can still outrun and out leap you.”

  “But I can out shoot you,” I sneered. “Out eat, out track and outlast you. And I’m smarter, too.” I never let her forget my PSAT scores were higher than hers.

  “By ten points. You spelled your name right for that. Any who, Dad’s going to the farm to get some fishing and riding in. Want to come?”

  “He’s hiding from his bigmouth faux pas?”

  She flushed red, having heard about his unfortunate words. “He said he didn’t say that,” she defended.

  “My Dad said that the Easter Bunny’s real, too,” I returned. “I stopped believing that when I was eight.”

  “Really?” Dad inquired. “And how come I put a five dollar bill under your pillow for the last tooth you lost on Friday?”

  I flushed, and said, “Tips for the dentist.”

  “Speaking of which, you have a dental appointment on Monday at 11 AM. Ms. Penny will get you out of class and take you.” Ms. Penny was Dad’s secretary and stood in for errands where a full-fledged agent wasn’t quite needed.

  “I can take myself, Dad. The office is only four blocks from school.”

  “No,” he said sharply. I knew he meant it. It wasn’t the best neighborhood between school and the strip-mall where the dental clinic was.

  “Okay,” I agreed quietly. “Tomorrow, I’m going to the park and practice shooting. Tournament’s coming up, and I’m stale.”

  I was enrolled in archery class and wanted to try out for triathlon, archery, target shooting and running sometime in the near future.

  “You guys done?” Dad asked, standing up and the other agents flanked him. The waitress brought the check, Dad handed over his American Express and left her five dollar tip. He never paid more than 25%, he said waitresses deserved to be rewarded for their service, but not to make him feel magnanimous. Out in the parking lot, Felice gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek before she was hustled away into the big limo and we got into the Kia. I sighed. Dad waited until I was seat belted in.

  “You like her, Danny?”

  “A lot. She’s smart, pretty and fun. Likes to read, and do the same things as me. Likes animals. You know she wants to be a vet?”

  “I take it you don’t mean a war vet?”

  “Daaad,” I sighed. “A veterinarian. Why can’t we have a dog, Dad?”

  “We tried, Danny,
” he said softly. “When you were young, several times. It made you sick. Your Mom wanted you to have a pet, too. We both loved dogs. It killed her to give Clipper up when you got ill at seven. That was the last time we tried.”

  “No one else’s pets bother me. I can be around Dusty all day and I’m fine.”

  “Outside. Not in the house,” he pointed out.

  “What is it; do I have asthma or something?”

  “No, Dantan. Worse than that. You passed out and were in a coma for days. We had to take you to Crowley Trauma to a Specialist. Four times.”

  I rubbed my forehead and squeezed the temples, as a sudden headache accompanied by nausea hit me. “Dad, pull over,” I managed and he stared at me in the rear view mirror.

  “What’s wrong, Danny?” He asked sharply, putting on his right blinker. “You’re green!”

  He pulled to a stop and unlocked the doors. I headed for the grass along the wood line as his escort pulled over to park behind, hurrying up to Dad with their hands on their hips. I leaned over and puked as Dad kept his distance. One thing he hated was the smell of vomit.

  Voices babbled in my head. I saw pictures of a man putting together a rifle and a fat tortoiseshell cat was watching him from the table covered with a purple-flowered plastic tablecloth in a large dining room wainscoted walls and an overhead five-bladed fan light. Three windows and a door covered with paisley drapes in the picture window opened into the narrow kitchen, a window frame sized opening but no glass. The floor was carpeted and on top that was one of those braided rugs in green.

  A small pendulum clock ticked on one wall between the windows and on the other was a really nice pencil drawing of a red setter.

  The man was in his 30s with a bland generic face, blue eyes and dark hair. You’d look at him twice and not see him. He was not tall, but it was hard to judge his height sitting in the Captain’s chair at the table. There were four other chairs around the table, each one different. A portable phone lay at his right side near the cat that purring away.

  I was seeing it all through the eyes of the cat, could hear and smell what the cat did.

  “Danny?” Dad’s voice came from far away and I vaguely felt someone’s arms around me.

  “Gonna get that bastard with one shot,” I said, echoing the man in front of me. “Oh yeah, President Jason Rickover’s gonna be splattered all across the front of the Museum of Space and Science.”