Midnight. Derek Landy
than everyone else, shrewder than everyone else, and smarter than everyone else. He was a winner.
“I’m a winner,” he said to the Oval Office, but the Oval Office didn’t respond.
There was a knock on one of the doors.
“Not now!” he called out. Beyond that door was a line of people, all with demands on his time, with reports and briefings and files and folders that would clutter up his perfectly bare desk. He didn’t want to let them in. He could feel them hovering out there, full of nervous energy that would get under his skin. Even thinking about it made him uncomfortable.
Flanery stood, went to the window, stared out through the bulletproof glass. From here, he could see Secret Service agents, sworn to protect him, trained to give their lives for his.
But would they? Would they die to protect him? He narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t trust them to do what they’d sworn to do. If his time as president had taught him anything, it was that he couldn’t trust anyone.
He had enemies everywhere.
There was a knock on the other door, and, before he could order them to go away, the door opened and Wilkes slipped in.
“I’m not to be disturbed,” Flanery snapped.
“Oh,” said Wilkes, freezing in midstep. He looked around, eyes flicking to the empty desk. “What … what are you doing?”
Rage boiled. “You don’t ask me questions!” Flanery snarled.
“No, sir,” said Wilkes, immediately wilting. “Sorry, sir.”
Flanery gripped the back of his chair. “I’m thinking,” he said. “I’m planning. I’m deciding. I’m doing many things.”
“Yes, sir,” said Wilkes. “Um, I’ve received requests from a few members of staff. They really need to speak to you on some pretty urgent matters …”
It was pitiful, the way he stood there, riddled with weakness. Flanery hated weakness. He hated Wilkes.
“Have you handled the witch?” Flanery asked.
Wilkes winced. He didn’t like talking about the witch in the Oval Office. He’d even proposed they use code words. Flanery enjoyed seeing him squirm.
“She is under control, yes, sir.”
“How can we be sure she won’t refuse my orders again?”
“I, um, I made it very clear what the repercussions would be.”
“What did you say?”
“I, ah, relayed, uh, what we had discussed in—”
“Uh!” Flanery blurted. “I relayed what we had, uh, duh, duhhh … Why can’t you just answer the question, eh? Why can’t you do that? What did you tell her?”
Wilkes swallowed. “I told Magenta that if she ever disobeyed your orders again, she’d never see her family.”
“And what did she say?”
“She … she started crying, Mr President. She apologised, and said she would do as she was told in future.”
Flanery pursed his lips. “She cried, did she?”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiled. “I’d have liked to have seen that. I bet that was something to see, this high-and-mighty witch reduced to tears. Was she on her knees when she was crying?”
“Um … no, sir.”
“Next time, make sure she’s on her knees.”
“Yes, sir.”
Flanery sat behind his desk again. “I want you to call Abyssinia,” he said. “Tell her I’ve decided to move up the operation.”
Wilkes went pale. “Sir?”
Flanery pretended not to notice his shock. “The mainstream media are producing more fake polls saying I’m the most unpopular president in history. They’re turning the people against me, Wilkes.”
“The people love you, sir.”
“I know that!” Flanery snapped, his anger rising again. “But they’re being lied to. They’re being misled. We need to do something to unite the country behind me. So move up the operation.” Wilkes hesitated, and Flanery glared. “Well?”
“Mr President,” Wilkes said, “that might not be possible. The plan is … is delicate, sir. We have to get our people in place and Abyssinia has to get her people in place, and the timing has to be just right.”
“They’re calling me the most unpopular president in history, and you want me to wait on timing?”
“Sir, Abyssinia’s plan requires—”
Flanery leaped up and Wilkes flinched.
“Abyssinia’s plan?” Flanery roared. “Abyssinia’s? This is my plan! I’m the one who thought it up! I’m the genius here! She’s nothing but another witch! What do we do with witches, Wilkes? What do we do with them? We make them get on their knees and weep. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes … yes, sir.”
“And then what do we do with them?”
“I’m … I don’t know …”
“We burn ’em, Wilkes. We burn the witches.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The same goes for the freaks and weirdos and sorcerers and whatever else they’re called. They’re all gonna burn, Wilkes, and when they do the entire country will stand behind me and they’ll shout my name and they will love me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wilkes wouldn’t meet Flanery’s eyes.
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