“Okay,” I say.
Pamela goes on, “This farm is huge, hundreds of acres, but the outer perimeter is secure, with hired security personnel working the fence line and some surveillance cameras. I haven’t talked to the management about securing the recordings there because of our orders, but it’s up to you when you want to get them, Sally.”
I start to answer, but I’m interrupted when Brian, the male agent, shouts out, “There she is!”
I whirl around, relief running so quickly through me that I think I’m going to faint.
The First Lady’s black Morgan horse is trotting back to the parking lot from the main trail leading out.
And I kick the near front tire and curse very loudly and emphatically.
The horse is riderless.
CHAPTER 18
HER FLIGHT IS five minutes away from landing, and Tammy Doyle sits stock-still in a wide seat in first class. This wasn’t her assigned seat, but soon after the Atlanta to Dulles flight had taken off, the lead flight attendant had motioned her forward and had grabbed Tammy’s carry-on luggage from the overhead bin.
She could have been Tammy’s mom, with her brisk attitude and dyed blond hair, and after she had settled Tammy in a row by herself, she’d leaned over and whispered, “It’s always the man’s fault, but they always come after us.”
Her ears had felt warm all the way through the flight, thinking of the other passengers back there, all connected to the world via airborne Wi-Fi, and she felt sure that most of them knew her secret: the President’s lover. Mistress. Slut.
Back in Atlanta, Harrison had told her of his plans, to gently break the news to Grace about their relationship after Election Day, then to separate officially, and then quietly introduce Tammy to the White House and the world during his second term.
But now?
What will Harrison do?
The sudden thump of the plane landing jolts her, and another thought quickly gets her attention:
What is she going to do now?
It takes just a few minutes to taxi the aircraft to the gate, and her friend, the senior flight attendant, again takes control. She helps Tammy with her carry-on and blocks the aisle to give her a chance to get ahead of the exiting passengers, then squeezes her shoulder.
“I’ll pray for you,” she whispers, and Tammy just nods, unable to speak, and then quickly goes up the Jetway, her travel bag rolling along, her large black leather purse on her shoulder.
As she enters the concourse, she slips on a pair of sunglasses and a navy-blue beret, and starts walking. Here in this gated area she doesn’t see any news media, which is a relief. With the hard-ass TSA out there keeping watch, there’s no way they would allow them in without a boarding pass.
Which means they’re waiting for her at the main terminal. Her heart starts to pound, knowing she’s going to get ambushed for the second time during this long and horrible day.
With a number of other passengers, she gets on the AeroTrain that takes them to the main terminal. She sees a large Hispanic family—grandma, mom and dad, half-dozen kids—and she moves closer to them, smiling and nodding at the harried mom.
The train jerks and quickly gets them moving, and almost as quickly, they come to the end of the journey, and—
Those same damn bright lights from television cameras.
Damn it!
The Hispanic family jostles through and she slips in between them and starts walking briskly. There are shouts, questions, and other passengers are streaming off, and thank God it’s a busy day in the main terminal, for she quickly moves in and out of the crowds. Lots more questions and she ignores them all, moving along, and at one point, an insistent photographer pushes through and tries to cut in front of her, and she swings her left arm with her heavy purse and knocks him back.
Fools, she thinks. I grew up in the projects in South Boston, interned every summer on Beacon Hill, and fought and clawed my way to K Street. You think I’m really going to stop and give you a statement?
She maneuvers again, gets outside and to the taxi stands, and she gives the businessman at the head of the line two twenty-dollar bills to take his place. In a few seconds, she’s in the rear of a black Washington Flyer taxicab, seat belt fastened, now en route to her home in Arlington.
Her chest is aching, and she realizes why as she sits back.
She’s nearly forgotten to breathe.
Thankfully, the cab is driven by a man who introduces himself, says hello, and keeps his mouth shut as they exit the airport. Tammy squeezes her hands together, remembering all of Harry’s promises, including about someday flying on Air Force One during his second term, once he separated from the First Lady.
“It’s something to look forward to, I promise,” Harry had said. “You never touch your luggage. Any kind of meal you want. The gentlest, quietest flight in the world. Your own cabin with me up forward, with hundreds of movies to choose from, or live television, or anything else you want for entertainment. Damn, there are so many attendants on Air Force One I swear to God there’s one tasked just to pick up your napkin if you drop it. It’s an experience you’ll never forget, one you’re going to have, and soon. I promise!”
Now?
Now a dark, deep part of her wonders if all those promises had been empty words, not pledges. Ever since the start of their … relationship (she felt like calling it an affair cheapened it), he had followed through by protecting her, always keeping his promises about their get-togethers, and treating her … well, like a woman liked to be treated. With respect, affection, and love.
Then, back in Atlanta a few hours ago, he had abandoned her, letting the Secret Service hustle him away without seeing if she was all right in the midst of the ambushing reporters.
And—
On the opposite highway she now sees something horribly wrong at a road construction site, something not right, as a black pickup truck speeds and bounces over the dirt median, and she shouts at the driver as the truck grows large in her vision, slamming into the side of the cab, plunging her into pain and darkness.
CHAPTER 19
MY CELL PHONE starts ringing just as the First Lady’s horse trots closer, and I yell, “Somebody grab that damn horse and check it out!”
Brian Zahn is the closest agent, and he manages to get up to the horse, grab its bridle and reins without spooking it. “What am I looking for?”
Another ring from my phone. “Damn it, any blood, or signs of injury, or her freakin’ foot torn off and still in the stirrup!”
I answer before the next ring. “Grissom.”
“Hey, Sally,” comes the concerned male voice. “It’s Gil.”
I nod with satisfaction. Gil Foster, a trusted colleague of mine who works with the Secret Service’s Technical Security Division, and a man I had called earlier while we were just a few minutes away from the horse farm, siren off.
“Gil,” I say. “Tell me you have something.”
I make out a shaky sigh. “I can tell you that the First Lady’s cell phone was on and operating as of three hours ago, and based on the cell phone tower triangulation and the internal GPS transmitter, the phone was at the Westbrook Horse Farm, fifty meters to the east of the main stable.”
“Great,” I say. “That’s where I am right now. Anything else?”