Short Story: August 8, 1974
H. Stuart Knight slipped a stake into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, flung himself from the roof of the White House, and grabbed onto the invisible wall of wards that protected it from Soviet missiles and Otherworld assassins. Inside the building, the body double of Richard Milhouse Nixon was at the “I no longer have a strong enough political base” part of his resignation speech, and would soon be at the “I would have preferred to carry through to the finish, whatever the personal agony” bit.
Meanwhile, the actual Nixon, fangs extended, chased underlings from the Situation Room to the Roosevelt Room in a blood-besotted rampage.
Personal agony, indeed.
Apparently, it was everyone else’s fault that Nixon hadn’t burned the tapes. Everyone else’s fault that he’d listened to Liddy, Erlichman, Magruder, and Mitchell in the first place. Everyone else’s mistake that John Dean hadn’t had his conscience exsanguinated like the rest of them.
And now, Knight, Director of the Secret Service and lifelong public servant, clung to an invisible film of magical nothingness sixty-eight feet above the ground. His Latin was rusty and his pronunciation atrocious, but building a seam into the impenetrable ward seemed his only hope of escape.
“Pandatur vena, prima lux, tenebrae dividantur,” he muttered, “Let a path open, first light, shadows be split.” That bit never made sense to him. The ward had no shadows, which was partly why it was a good ward. But, whatever.
Down below, Knight saw Rose Mary Woods, Nixon’s secretary, burst from the Oval Office pressing against a gaping neck wound. She made it seven steps before topppling to the ground.
Apparently, two-plus decades of loyal service weren’t enough to spare her Nixon’s ire.
“Clausis finibus, penetret aura, vincula disrupta,” whispered Knight. “At closed borders, let breath enter, chains be broken.” It had better be more than his breath that can enter. “Aditus aperiaturus—”
“That should be ‘Aditus aperiatur,’ Stu.”
Knight jerked and looked around. It was Nixon, splattered with red, perched on the edged of the balustraded parapet. “I beg your pardon?”
“You said, ‘aperiaturus.’ That’s a future passive participle. It doesn’t exist in that form. ‘Aperiatur’ is the correct third person singular passive subjunctive mood. The spell you’re casting — it won’t work.”
“I guess not, sir.”
Nixon raised an eyebrow. “’Sir?’”
“It’s unclear if this is a ‘Mr. President’ moment or a ’My Lord’ moment. ’Sir’ seemed a safe choice.”
“Very diplomatic of you, Stu.” Nixon shook his head, waggling his famous jowls. “Now, I need you to do something for me.”
“What’s that Mr. Pres—” At Nixon’s scowl, Knight corrected himself. “What’s that, My Lord?”
“Take my hand. Let me help you down from there.”
Knight had no choice. There was no escape. “Yes, My Lord.” He let Nixon swing him onto the roof.
The two stood facing each other. Nixon reached out, and Knight flinched, but the president merely straightened the seams of Knight’s suit jacket. “We’ve known each other a long time.”
“Yes, My Lord.” Knight felt sweat building, but held still.
“You saved the day when those commies attacked my motorcade in Caracas in ’58.”
“I played my part, My Lord. ”
Nixon jabbed his index finger at him. “You were a goddammed hero, Stu.”
“Thank you for saying so, My Lord.”
Knight knew what he had to do. With dozens, maybe hundreds, already dead inside, things had gone too far.
Still, he hesitated.
“Let me make one thing perfectly clear.” Nixon clasped Knight on the shoulder. “I am not a crook.”
“No, My Lord. You’re not.” Knight reached into his jacket pocket. “But you are a monster. Americans deserve better.”
With a single, swift motion, Knight slammed the stake through the president’s heart.
Nixon stared down at his chest, surprised. He looked up, hurt filling his haunted eyes.
He fell backward, arms outstretched, fingers in his famous “V” for victory gesture.
Then the Leader of the Free World burst into flames.
Knight frowned at the burning mass as it disintegrated into nothing more than a charred spot on the White House roof. He sighed, then went to find Vice President Ford, so he could be sworn in.
Thank Christ, it wasn’t a full moon.
*****
© Andrew Einspruch, 2024
Image from Wikimedia Commons, then altered a little.
