3
Sunday was reviewing some information on a bill that was to be presented in next week's convening when Henry entered the vast study.
"I made some calls," he said. "I had a friend recommend someone to us. There's a guy in New York who's had his own experiences with grief and has recently begun to place more emphasis on helping people like us in his practice. What do you think?"
"Let's do it," Sunday said confidently, "you know I trust your judgments."
"Okay. I'll call him and make an appointment."
After Henry left, Sunday realised the words in front of her were making no sense. She had just read the same paragraph three times, and it had not yet engraved itself on her consciousness. Shutting her eyes for a moment, she felt a tight ball of anxiety clench in her stomach.
"Oh God," she whispered silently in a half-hearted prayer, "what's happening to me? Please, just give me the strength to get through these next few months. I can't fall apart now. Henry needs me. My constituents need me…" Sunday placed the documents back in the folder and filed them away. She realised she simply could not concentrate on them now, and decided maybe she ought to just relax for the rest of the afternoon.
Ever since she was in her late teens and early twenties working her way through St. Peter's Jesuit College and later Fordham Law, Sunday knew she rarely took time to simply unwind. Of course, after law school had come seven years as a public defender, after which she had won her Congressional seat. Between her various activities with Henry and her work, Sunday knew she had a very hectic and dynamic life. Which is the main reason I blame myself for losing the baby, Sunday thought sadly.
I wanted so much of everything, and I pursued what I wanted with all I had, and I accomplished everything. So why does being a mother have to be the most elusive of all? Sunday rose slowly from the swivel chair and decided to find Henry. He had just hung up the phone when she approached him, his face showing disappointment.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"The fellow in New York," Henry said, "has had some family difficulties of his own. Apparently his wife was recently hospitalized. He said he won't be taking on any new cases at this time until he can get things in order again."
"That's too bad," Sunday frowned. "We're going to really need someone flexible enough to accommodate my crazy schedule."
"I know. But he did recommend a colleague of his…name's Mark Greenberg."
"Okay, make an appointment with him, then."
"I will," Henry replied.
"And Henry…" Sunday continued, "would you consider coming out to Washington with me next week?"
"You don't want to be alone, do you?" he asked tenderly.
"I just don't want to be away from you right now," she said.
"I understand, darling. Of course I'll come."
"Thank you," she said. "Let me know when that appointment is."
"I will."
At that moment, Sims, the Britland family butler from the time Henry was ten years old entered the room.
"Sir, I thought you might wish to review the daily mail," he said, presenting his employer with a neat pile of envelopes.
"Thank you, Sims," Henry said, taking the mail from him. He sorted them, and handed Sunday the ones that bore her name, and keeping the ones that were addressed to him. Henry half smiled when he noted that one envelope was addressed to 'Mr. President Henry Parker Britland IV' written by hand in block capital letters. Probably a grade-school kid wanting to know something about the Presidency for a school project, he thought to himself.
Slipping a finger under the flap, Henry opened the letter and pulled out a single sheet of paper and began reading its contents.
After a few moments, Sunday noticed he was gripping the sheet rather tightly, a stony expression on his face.
"What is it, Henry?" she asked, with deep concern.
"This letter," he responded, voice flat and emotionless. "I must contact Des immediately, and get all our resources on this. CIA, Secret Service, FBI…"
"You're rambling, Henry. What's going on?"
Henry held up the letter for Sunday to see. "Don't touch it," he warned, "I may have already inadvertently done irreversible damage to it as a piece of potential evidence. I'm warning, you, Sunday, you're not going to like what's in here."
The letter read:
'My dearest Henry,
When are you finally going to leave that tramp you married and come to me, your one true love? I have loved you forever my darling, and you know you love me just as deeply…perhaps even more. Can't you see that terrible woman is only using you? She used her position as a member of Congress to snake her way into your life. She's nothing but a pathetic gold-digger. You deserve so much better, my love.
What is it she can give you, Henry? She can't even give you a proper heir. She killed your baby, Henry. You know that, don't you? Can't you see she doesn't really love you? I can offer you so much more, Henry. And when we're married, we'll convince Congress to let you be President again. Our love will be so strong, and we'll have beautiful children together. We'll be the most beautiful First Family there has ever been. We'll make a dynasty of Britland Presidents, as I am sure our sons will follow in their father's footsteps. Oh, Henry, it will be wonderful!'
Sunday could hardly keep from crying out in utter shock and disbelief. The letter continued, this time in a more sinister tone, as if the emotions of the writer had suddenly shifted.
'I want to be with you, Henry. Unless you leave your wife, I'll have to convince you that we belong together. I'll have to kill her to break that evil spell she's cast over you. You'll thank me for rescuing you when she's dead, Henry, you'll see. Then I'll have to kill the president, too, if he refuses to leave his post for you. Henry, we must not let anyone get in the way of our love. You'll have to convince your Secret Service detail that you're truly in love with me. I'll be coming for you soon, Henry. You must keep our plans a secret for now. Promise me we'll be together forever, Henry, because if I can't have you, then no one will.
Your most sacred and worthy love,
Gina Franklin'
"Henry, this is madness!" Sunday exclaimed. "This – woman – she's threatening Desmond, and us, as well!"
"I know. Threats against the President - and former Presidents - of this country are simply not tolerated. I'm getting Jack Collins on the line right now." Jack Collins was head of the Secret Service team in charge of Henry and Sunday's security for the past five years.
"Don't worry," Henry tried to assure Sunday, "we'll find this woman. Nothing's going to happen to anyone, I promise." She looked at him uneasily, and he wrapped his free arm around her shoulders in a comforting gesture. "Nothing's going to happen."
