The First Lady

by James Patterson

  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?”

  “At eleven sixteen a.m., it went dark.”

  “How did it go dark? Did the battery die?”

  Gil says, “Even if the battery were to die, the GPS would continue to signal. It’s powered by a radioactive source, good for a year.”

  “Then what happened?”

  Gil says, “Something happened to the phone. It was damaged or destroyed.”

  “Wait, I thought those suckers were pretty much indestructible.”

  “They are,” he says. “But if someone really wants to do something … like take a blowtorch to it or put it through an industrial-strength shredder, or break it open and dunk it in the water, then—”

  A thought comes to me. “Gil, okay, thanks, you’ve been great.”

  “Sally,” he says quickly. “I’ve got to know … when you called me, you said this was an unannounced drill, right? A security drill to see if the First Lady can be found via her cell phone.”

  “That’s right,” I say. “Just a training drill.”

  “But … well”—and he utters a nervous laugh—“the way you’re talking, well, it seems like it’s the real deal. Not a drill.”

  “Gil?”

  “Yes, Sally?”

  “Anybody asks, from your shift supervisor to a congressional committee someday, to the best of your knowledge, this was a goddamn drill.”

  I switch off. “Pamela!”

  She’s over by the horse, along with Brian and Tanya, the other agent. She looks up, and I say, “Show me that map again.”

  Pamela joins me back at the SUV, and I say, “Nearest body of water to the trails. Right now.”

  She doesn’t hesitate, traces a blue line on the map. “Here. Taccanock River. Cuts right through the property. Not much of a river … more like a wide stream.”

  “Her horse … what’s his name?”

  “Arapahoe.”

  “The trail Arapahoe came down—”

  She says, “Yeah, the trail heads up there, then runs parallel to the stream.”

  “We’re going there, right now,” I say. “Her dead phone … one of the ways to disable it is to break it open and dunk it in water.”

  “Like she fell off the horse.”

  “We go. Now.”

  I take control and make the arrangements, and to Scotty I say, “Stay here. Get Arapahoe back to the stable … but you’re our command post. And keep any press away, or curious kids, or anybody else.”

  Scotty’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t like the assignment, but he’s a good agent and will do what he’s told. I hustle the detail into the near SUV, and Brian says, “We’re driving out on the trail?”

  “We are.”

  “The owners … they won’t like it.”

  I climb into the rear. “They’ll get over it.”

  And I notice something else before closing the SUV’s door.

  All three of these agents from the First Lady’s detail have reddened eyes.

  I know why.

  They’ve been weeping over the fact that they’ve lost their protectee, the First Lady of the United States.

  The trail is barely wide enough for the SUV to pass through without branches or well-trimmed brush scraping the windows or fenders. At points, other wide trails leave from the main one, and I say, “There are no signs. How do the riders know which trail to take?”

  From the front Pamela says, “If you ride here, you know. It’s a given, like if you have to ask how much something costs, you can’t afford it … hey, Tanya, not so fast!”

  True, because even with seat belts and harnesses fastened, we’re bouncing up and down, and something from earlier puzzles me, and I say, “Hey. What’s that you said before, about CANARY riding for medical reasons? What medical reasons?”

  The SUV engine growls as we continue along the trail. Pamela shifts in her seat, looks back at me. “It’s … well, a secret, I guess. Back when the President was governor of Ohio, the First Lady, she had breast cancer. For whatever reason they kept it quiet back then … and still do.”

  “How is she now?”

  “Fine,” Brian speaks up next to me. “More than five years have passed … but horseback riding, it relaxes her, helps with her blood pressure … and other things.”

  “What other things?”

  Another moment of silence. The other agent in the detail, Tanya, works the steering wheel and keeps her eyes forward. “Because of the treatments she received, the ones that saved her life … she had early induced menopause.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “That’s right,” Tanya says with disapproval. “Her husband delayed and delayed having kids until it was too late.”

  CHAPTER 20

  THE SUV BREAKS free from the woods and now we’re in a field, the dirt-and-gravel path for the horse trail clearly visible as it shifts to the right. The drive goes on for another minute, and then Tanya hits the brakes and we slide to a halt.

  Up ahead is the body of water that Pamela Smithson calls a stream.

  The water races by at a high rate of speed, sending up waves and plumes of spray as it hurtles past exposed rocks and boulders. What she calls a stream is wide, deep, and menacing.

  We all get out and walk to the water’s edge. There are woods across on the other side and a hint of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance.

  “Hell of a stream you got there, Pamela,” I say.

  “The rains we had last week … the runoff … who knew …”

  I bite my tongue, thinking, You and your detail should have known, and then I get back to work. “All right. Brian and Tanya … go upstream, see if you can find a place to ford, get across, and start walking downstream. Pamela and I will work this side … and let’s make it quick. If she fell off, she’s probably injured, and we don’t have much time before it gets dark and cold.”

  Brian and Tanya do as they’re told, and I move downstr
eam with Pamela, the detail leader, and think to myself, This isn’t right; we should have a full-scale search going on here, this isn’t right …

  And I remember.

  Orders.

  I say, “You three … you seem pretty dedicated to CANARY.”

  “Absolutely. She’s different,” Pamela says. “Doesn’t want to accumulate power, doesn’t want to save the world, doesn’t care how much anybody weighs … but children—that’s always been her focus, ever since Inauguration Day.”

  “That’s why she comes here?”

  “And other places too,” Pamela says. “The press only sees a portion of what she does. From the start, she didn’t want a big detail. Jackie Kennedy … she made do with three, and Mrs. Tucker, that’s exactly what she wanted. Three, to keep it quiet and relatively unobtrusive. And lots of times, when the President is traveling, she goes out to area shelters or soup kitchens, or foster homes, and volunteers or makes donations, or just … listens. She’s a great listener.”

  A shout. I look over, and Brian and Tanya are on the other side of the rushing water—they wave, then keep on searching. Their pants are soaked up above their knees.

  “What else?” I ask.

  “She takes care of her detail, I can tell you that,” Pamela says, eyes to the ground and to the stream, just like me. “Any holiday-related trips—like Thanksgiving or Christmas— always happen a week later so we can spend that time with our families. And the letters she gets … lots of letters, asking for help, asking for cash. And she answers every one of them, most of the time enclosing a check or money order. Ever see that in the news?”

  “No,” I say.

  “And look where that gets her,” Pamela says. “She’s out helping kids and moms, face-to-face, and her husband is screwing some bimbo.”

  I say, “That particular bimbo is an executive at one of the biggest lobbying firms on K Street. She didn’t get that job because of her cup size. So let’s not blame her right away, okay?”

  Pamela doesn’t reply. I don’t care. We continue, scanning, looking at the field, at the stream, at the banks of the stream, a constant to-and-fro.

  I say, “Besides being tossed by the horse, do you think she’s run off? Or hiding? Or anything else?”

  “No,” Pamela says. Then she looks at me and says, “Some scarf.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “My daughter made it.”

  “She’s good.”

  “I know.”

  Her talking is now distracting me and I want to tell her to shut up, but I see something fluttering in the water, like a leaf, a white leaf, like—

  I hold up my right arm. “Stop.”

  Pamela stops and I stare, wanting to make out what’s caught my eye.

  White. Jammed up against the rocks. About three feet into the stream.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “Don’t know,” I say.

  Across the stream the other two members of the detail are still working. Good. If this turns out to be nothing, why delay them?

  I step forward and look closer.

  Seems to be a bit of trash, or a piece of paper.

  Well?

  “I’m going in,” I say.

  “Don’t fall.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  I slip off my shoes and wince as I get into the strong, cold water. The fast-moving current tugs and pulls at me, and I’m barely up to my soaked knees. I take one step, then another, and on the third step I meet up with one slippery rock and nearly fall in. Only by some serious windmilling of my arms and tilting back and forth do I get to stay up.

  Close now, only a few more inches.

  There.

  A sheet of white paper, that’s all, battered and torn by the quick water, jammed up against an exposed rock.

  I gently peel it free, reverse course, and head back to the bank. Pamela extends a hand and helps me up.

  “What is it?”

  I don’t say anything because I don’t know anything.

  I’m starting to shiver from the cold, and I kneel down on the muddy dirt and grass, do my best to gently unpeel the soggy piece of paper. The thick red wool scarf lovingly knitted by my Amelia flips over and hits the mud, and with a quick reflex, I toss it back over my shoulder.

  “Holy crap,” Pamela says.

  I recognize the stationery.

  At the top is a stylized drawing of the White House, and below that is the imprinted phrase FROM THE OFFICE OF THE FIRST LADY.

  And just below that, in a clear and crisp cursive handwriting, is this:

  My dear ones, after the events of today, I just can’t take it anymore. It’s clear that …

  The rest of the message is a mess of blue ink, where the water has washed away the writing.

  Kneeling down next to me, Pamela murmurs, “Sweet Jesus, a suicide note?”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” I say sharply. “Focus on what we have, which is bad enough.”

  I look to the rushing waters.

  “A missing First Lady.”

  CHAPTER 21

  A CONCERNED MALE voice saying, “Missy? Missy? Are you all right, missy?”

  Tammy Doyle opens her eyes, winces. The right side of her head is throbbing. The passenger-side door is open. Her cabdriver unbuckles her seat belt, gently helps her out as she steps onto the dirt and—

  Chaos. Complete and utter chaos.

  The taxicab she was in is halfway off the highway, facing the wrong way. The trunk is smashed in and nearly torn off. Broken taillight glass and bits of metal are scattered across the asphalt, on top of skid marks. There are also tire tracks in the dirt median where the pickup truck had raced across. Traffic is slowing down on both sides of the highway, three lanes westbound and three eastbound.

  She jumps when the cabdriver touches her shoulder, offers her an open bottle of Poland Spring water. Tammy takes a deep swig, and the driver is smiling. “Lucky me, lucky us, eh? Back home, I was in the ENDF and—”

  Tammy shakily says, “What’s the ENDF?”

  “Ah, yes, the Ethiopian National Defense Force … drove … what you call … armored vehicle.” He laughs, motions with his hands. “For two years, I fought in the desert against the rebels— you know when you see armored vehicle appear suddenly out of a sandstorm … learn to swerve … I see this madman coming at us … I swerve!”

  There’s bleeding from his left temple, and Tammy says, “Hey, you’re hurt.”

  “Ah, nothing,” he says, taking out a handkerchief and holding it to his head. “But my cab … my poor cab …”

  Sirens are off in the distance, and the slow-moving traffic starts to make room for the approaching police cruisers and emergency vehicles. Her driver leans into the open door of the cab, removes his cell phone, and starts talking rapidly, and a dim part of Tammy recalls that Ethiopians speak Amharic, a Semitic language, and he gets off the phone and says, “My cousin Jamal … he will be here shortly … he will take you home . . .”

  Tammy leans against the cab, takes another swallow of water, and realizes her legs are quivering hard.

  Home seems very far away.

  The Virginia State Police troopers who arrive take a brief statement from Tammy—they seem much more interested in her driver—and as another cab rolls to a stop and the first driver races over to talk to his cousin, she says to the near trooper, “Where’s the truck?”

  “The one that hit you?” he says, looking down at his clipboard, filling out a form. “No idea. Seems to have swung back on the highway … bet the driver was either drunk or texting, lost control for a moment. He’ll be caught, I promise you that … you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”

  “No, I just want to go home.”

  The large trooper says, “I can see why. This was lucky for all of you.”

  Lucky. That’s a word that doesn’t make sense to her.

  The drive home is quick, and Tammy is sure she’s still in shock at how close she came to being seriously injured … or ev
en killed … if her Ethiopian cabdriver hadn’t moved so quickly. Good Lord.

  And something he had said … it’s nagging her. She doesn’t know why.

  Tammy looks at the expensive homes and developments in this part of Arlington and once again feels quiet pride that she’s made it this far, and she wants to go home, dump her laundry by the washing machine, relax, and think about what tomorrow will be like at her K Street lobbying firm, Pearson, Pearson, and Price, but Tammy knows she hasn’t gotten this far by being weak or scared or—

  Her new cabdriver, Jamal, slows down, turns his head back. “Miss?”

  She looks up, about to ask what’s wrong, and then she doesn’t have to say a word.

  There’s a mob of press out in front of the gate leading into her condo complex, five satellite trucks with their dishes up, photographers, reporters with hand mikes and—

  A burly man with a tan vest holding a large camera spots the slowing cab, points, and then the scramble starts, the mad rush, and Jamal slows down and—

  “Move!” she shouts, fumbling in her purse for the key card that will open the sliding gate.

  Jamal slows down, jerks forward as camera flashes light up the cab’s interior. She turns her head away from the mob and the shouts start, blurring into just one constant mess of words, yells, questions, taunts, and demands.

  The cab goes forward, stops again, and Tammy gets a hand into her purse, finds a twenty-dollar bill, and she shoves the bill over Jamal’s shoulder. It falls next to him on the seat, and she says, “Another twenty … just get me through the gate!”

  A sharp turn to the left and there’s a black wrought-iron gate with a key-card reader in a center median. A bronze sign with raised lettering says ARLINGTON ACRES in the center of the gate, along with NO TRESPASSING VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

  “Pull up, pull up,” she says, as she lowers the window. Microphones are shoved in her direction, like spears or daggers, and she flashes her key card at the reader.

  The gate doesn’t move.

  She moves closer, tries one more time.

  Success.

  The gate slides to the left and she sits back, still keeping her head away from the flashes, the microphones, the yells and shouts, and then Jamal mutters something and the Washington Flyer cab slowly moves through.