“All right,” I tell them both. “Keep at it. I’m going to work matters on this end.”
When I’m done I see the bright-yellow school bus grumbling its way to us in the thick morning traffic. Amelia stands there, looking small, her brightly colored knapsack almost as large as she is. Ben had given her a quick kiss and awkward hug a few minutes earlier before quickly strolling away, shoulders hunched over.
“Hey, hon,” I say, “what’s up?”
“You don’t have to be so mean.”
“Amelia …”
Her head snaps right to my direction. “Daddy came over last night because I was scared! And he helped clean the dishes. And make breakfast. And you weren’t nice to him at all …”
“But Amelia …”
“He came out of your bedroom this morning,” she says. “That means he still loves you, Mommy. Don’t you see? If you stop being so mean to him, we can move back to our real home, and you don’t have to get a divorce and it can all go back to the way things were.”
Her bus comes to a stop, and I note a black Suburban up the way that’s my ride this morning.
“It’s … more complicated than that, honey. And we’re not getting back together. I’m sorry.”
The door to the bus swings open, and she’s now bawling. “If you were nice to him, he’d take us back! He’d take us back, I know he would! We can all be together again!”
“Honey …”
She jumps off the sidewalk, goes up the steps into the school bus, her knapsack bouncing on her little back, and she turns and in a high-pitched voice that always cuts me, no matter how much of a tough mom I think I am, she calls out, “If you weren’t so mean, we’d still be a family! Why do you have to be so mean?”
The door whispers shut. Amelia goes to a seat. The times I’ve waited with her at the bus stop, she’s always turned and waved out the window at me.
Not this morning.
The bus lurches forward into the traffic, and the Suburban stops. I open the door and climb in, and I say to the young driver, “Not a word to me or I’ll toss you out and drive myself.”
Even with his sharp dress and clean-cut looks, he appears scared.
Good.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
I fasten my seat belt. “Those were two words. Don’t let it happen again.”
And then we’re off.
CHAPTER 32
PARKER HOYT HAS been at his desk for three hours already this morning, working the phones, soothing scared senators and representatives, bucking up important donors, all the while waiting and waiting to see if the First Lady is going to be found today. The news is still grim from Atlanta, but there’s a hopeful tone in some of the commentary, about the President coming forth yesterday and admitting his mistakes. And the bulk of the coverage and opinion pieces share the same thread: the President’s campaign has received a serious blow, but there’s still time to recover, especially if the First Lady comes forward and offers some forgiveness.
But there are also questions … where is the First Lady?
Parker rubs at the back of his neck. Publicly, she’s in seclusion. Privately … about a half-dozen people know her real status, and in DC, that number will start growing in the next few hours until he finds that bitch, either dead or alive.
At this point, Parker doesn’t particularly care.
His phone rings, and his secretary says, “Special Agent Grissom to see you,” and he says, “Right away, send her in.”
The door opens and Agent Grissom comes in, and she looks awful. Eyes bleary, hair a mess, skin blotchy, and it looks like she’s wearing the same plain outfit from yesterday. A nasty part of Parker quickly wonders how in the world she managed to find a husband and to have a child … and also thinks, well, she found a husband, but she sure didn’t find a way to keep him.
“Sit down,” he says, but she’s already descending into a chair when he says, “Why are you here?”
Grissom says, “I have a capable crew out searching the river. And I’ve got other work to do in town.”
“Anything new to report?”
“Not a thing,” she says. “The horse came back riderless. Nobody at the stables saw anything unusual. There’s only one road in and out of the farm. Surveillance tapes were reviewed and she didn’t sneak out.”
“And the note and the panic button?”
“Still in our possession, and I got a call a while ago from our forensics outfit,” she says. “It was legit. Does the President know?”
“He does,” Parker says. “The Homeland Security unit still out there?”
“They are.”
“The cover story about a lost canoeist still holding?”
“It is, so far … but I don’t know for how long.”
Parker brushes away a speck of dust on his otherwise clean desk. “How did you get that unit out there on such short notice?”
“Appealed to their better nature,” Grissom said, voice snappy, and Parker decides not to press the point.
He says, “What did you say earlier, about other work to do? What the hell does that mean?”
Grissom says, “It means the President’s wife is still missing. There are search teams in the area where she was last seen. Having me out there supervising won’t accomplish a damn thing. Talking to people back here can help.”
“What people?”
“The President’s lead protective agent, for one.”
“And who else?”
Grissom says, “I need to talk to the President. Privately.”
Parker shakes his head. “Impossible.”
“Then make it possible, and this morning,” Grissom says. “Right now, there are no leads. None. Zero. And I need to ask some questions, poke around to see what comes up.”
“She might be dead,” Parker says. “That note … I thought it looked like a suicide note.”
“Perhaps, but I’m leaving all options open.”
“You think she might be faking a suicide?”
Grissom says, “Like I said, I’m leaving all options open. And I need to see the President, as soon as possible.”
“Agent Grissom …”
“Make it happen, Mr. Hoyt,” Grissom says. “The best way for a successful resolution, and a quick one, is to run this down like any other criminal investigation. Which means I get to talk to people. And that’s going to include me talking to the husband of a missing woman. When a wife goes missing, the husband needs to be interviewed. Like any other case.”
Parker says, “This isn’t any other case, you know that.”
Grissom stands up. “You can keep on thinking that, Mr. Hoyt, but I can’t afford to do so. Otherwise she’ll never be found.”
After she’s gone, Parker picks up his phone, reluctantly calls one of the two numbers he’s been using since this mess started.
Again, the phone is answered by his contact; again, from the ambient noise, he can tell the person is outside.
There’s no hesitation on the other end of the phone. “Don’t ever call me again, all right? I’ll call if I have any information, and right now, I don’t.”