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Where was Frank? And the other agents? With my limited vision, I couldn’t locate them.
I fingered the knife hidden in the folds of my dress. The enemy burqa suddenly became my confidant, hiding my secret. What was the double-talk they loved to spout in political circles? Ah, yes, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
Izaan glared at Chief Justice Steman, then surveyed the crowd who’d come to celebrate. They’d voted for him but were now puzzled into silence.
The shadow of a new beard dusted his cheeks and chin. The audience’s confusion morphed into outrage. Distorted, angry faces stared at us. Shouts echoed around me. I knew what I needed to do.
My gaze followed the justice’s questioning glance as it darted over the faces of the other dignitaries. Many looked as stu
“Raise your right hand,” the chief justice said.
Izaan obeyed.
He’d raised that hand to me countless times. Every time he did so, my body absorbed another punishing blow. Now the country would take his beating. Unless-
He reverently rested his left hand on the Quran, presenting me a perfect target.
“Repeat after me,” the chief justice said.
I flashed back to the countless times he’d repeated his message to woo the American people and me. The hypnotic song of the snake charmer.
“I do solemnly swear,” the chief justice said.
I moved in a bit closer to Izaan as he repeated the words.
“That I will faithfully execute-”
Pain arched through my skull from the depths behind my eyes to the base of my neck. My legs quivered. Nausea rolled over me.
“-the office of president of the United States -”
The crowd pressed in.
Were they straining to hear Izaan’s every word? Were they threatening the ceremony? Did they sense my intent?
I couldn’t tell.
“-and will to the best of my ability-”
“-preserve-”
“-protect-”
“-and defend-”
“-the Constitution of the United States of America.”
I withdrew the knife from the folds of the burqa. A slice of midday light glinted off the blade. I thrust it between Izaan’s ribs, aiming deep, twisting hard. He arched toward me, mouth gaping. His fingers reached for the knife protruding from his side. Blood oozed into the fabric of his dark suit.
I braced myself for the impact of the Secret Service agents’ bullets.
A woman screamed.
The body twisted. Knees buckled.
He crumpled to the floor.
A shoulder plowed into me. My chin cracked against the cold marble floor.
“Don’t hurt her,” a man gasped. “She’s my patient.”
Air whooshed from my lungs. Searing pain soared through my head. Shrill wails descended upon me. My hands were yanked behind my back and handcuffs snapped over my wrists.
The screaming continued.
“Got a stabbing at Union Station,” I heard a man say. “Need an ambulance.”
A radio squawked. “Man down in the main terminal. Ground level. I repeat. Man down.”
“She’s wearing a burlap sack over her head.”
The uniformed officer removed the burqa from my head and shoulders.
I stared at the burlap sack in his hand. Bold print declared, Pioneer Brand, Idaho Potatoes, 100 lbs. “That’s not a burqa,” I said as confusion engulfed me.
I glanced around. Trains? Union Station?
A second cop walked over. “The victim was talking to that nun over there. Looks like this woman,” he said, pointing at me, “knocked the nun down, then stabbed the guy.”
“What’s your name?” I was asked.
The first cop lifted me to my feet. “Do you know your name?”
I said nothing.
“Sylvia?” I heard a voice call out.
Frank shuffled toward us.
“She lives across the street with me at the homeless shelter.” Frank tugged at his unwashed beard. A tattered herringbone overcoat snugged tight around his rotund middle. “She just got out of the nuthouse.”
“Liar.” I spun toward him. “Why are you saying that?”
Frank continued, “We were in the shelter, watching the inauguration on television. President Bekkar was taking the oath. Then Sylvia ran out.”
“According to the victim’s ID, he’s Dr. Truman North,” one of the cops said. “Psychiatrist.”
My mind reeled. No, no, no-not Dr. North. President Bekkar. Couldn’t they see?
“He’s her doctor,” Frank said. “I told him she stopped taking her medicine.”
“North refuses to go to the hospital,” the other policeman said, “without talking to his patient first.”
I squinted at the officer. “Dr. North’s here?”
He nodded and walked me over to a gurney. I stared down into North’s blue eyes and said, “I’m a hero. I killed the Islamo-fascist president.”
“No, Sylvia.” North paused to catch his breath. “You didn’t kill the president.” Racking coughs overcame him. “You stabbed me.”
“No, I-”
“We’ve got to go,” a paramedic said.
“You stabbed me,” North said again. His eyes rolled back in his head as his jaw went slack.
“No.” I shook my head. “I would never do that. I-”
Paramedics rushed North’s gurney toward the ambulance. Blood seeped through the blanket that covered him.
My God, what did I do?
Drip…drip…drip.
It’s almost four years later now. Dr. North made me see that I didn’t kill any president. Instead, delusional, I stabbed North. I understand what happened-my break with reality-and I’m all better.
Gray clouds coat the sky with a steady drizzle, and I listen to the relentless drip…drip…drip of rain off the nearby eaves.
Fu
I stand at the rope line waiting for President Izaan Bekkar to swing through his campaign stop in Fairfield, Virginia. Television vans line the street awaiting his arrival. A petite blond in a short skirt and matching jacket advances to the rope line and thrusts her microphone in front of the man next to me.
“After a controversial presidency, President Izaan Bekkar is determined to run for a second term. Sir, how did you feel four years ago when President Bekkar revealed he was a Muslim?”
“Being a Muslim didn’t bother me,” the man says. “Man has a right to his own religion, so long as it doesn’t get forced on anybody.”
“President Bekkar has said that if he wins, he’ll be sworn in on the Quran. Does that bother you?”
“No. Why should it? He’s been a damn good president.”
I step away, fearing the reporter will approach me. Fools. Every one of them is too stupid to be afraid. They don’t understand agendas. I understand. I see the truth.
I also know habit.
I’ve watched footage from all of Bekkar’s campaign stops. He always starts on the left, shaking hands with his supporters as he moves right. I chose this spot well. He’ll come directly to me. He’ll like my burqa.
I wore it for him.
Beneath it, I grip the knife.