The First Lady

by James Patterson

  The President says, “She was angry. Very angry. And she asked me when I was going to get to Andrews … and she said, she said, ‘I don’t want to talk to you now, or then, or ever.’ She hung up on me, and then my follow-up calls went unanswered, and … well, you know the rest.”

  I certainly do, which included violating a good half-dozen laws, regulations, and procedures in the process. “Sir,” I ask, “do you know of any other place where she might be? Someplace that she might go to as a refuge.”

  “Our residence on Lake Erie, in Vermilion. The Erie White House, you’ll recall.”

  “I’ll alert the Secret Service detail there, but I don’t think she would have been able to leave the horse farm and get there without being noticed,” I say. “But her detail has told me that besides Camp David, she did have another place where she could be alone and relax. Does that strike a bell with you at all?”

  The President shakes his head, and I sense his frustration. “No, no, I wish I could help you … honestly, I wish I could tell you something useful.”

  I take a deep breath, decide it’s time for the Big Question. “Mr. President … did you have any indication, or suspicion, or even a suggestion … that the First Lady might be having an affair as well?”

  His eyes widen in shock, and I guess that’s my answer. “No … nothing like that, I mean …” And his voice rises. “What in hell are you suggesting? Who told you that?”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” I say. “What matters is that my source tells me that he or she overheard your wife talking to a man, expressing her love and affection.”

  “Can’t you trace that call, find out who he is?”

  “Your wife was using a burner phone, apparently secured by someone from the East Wing.”

  The President shakes his head and leans back in his study chair. “I … I can’t believe it. When could she do it? How could she do it?”

  I think if I bite my tongue any harder it will be severed in half—That’s what you did, I want to say, and that’s what my husband, Ben, did. Why are you surprised?—and thank God, I’m interrupted by my phone ringing.

  I see that it’s Scotty calling, and I say, “Sir, please excuse me, I need to take this call.”

  I get up from the chair and cross to the door, open it and step into the hallway. Luck is with me because this narrow stretch of fancy corridor with old paintings and furniture is empty.

  “Grissom,” I answer. “What’s up, Scotty?”

  A crackle and hiss of static, and the words, “—a body.”

  “Say again, Scotty? What is it?”

  His voice bellows out. “We’ve found a body! Female … at the Quinnick Falls … about three miles south of the horse farm … you better—”

  Another burst of static, and I lose the connection.

  No matter.

  I start running.

  CHAPTER 36

  IT’S NEAR DUSK, and Marsha Gray is slogging through a swampy area, near Quinnick Falls, where she’s been dispatched after getting a frantic phone call from Parker Hoyt. Supposedly the First Lady’s body has been found, and Marsha certainly hopes so, because she’s tired of hunting in the First World.

  The muck and water are up to her knees as she slowly wades through brush and saplings heading toward the sounds of engines, loud voices, and the thumping hum of a helicopter overhead.

  She gets closer, finds a dry spot near a maple tree, takes a breather. In the Third World, hunting could be as fun as trick-or-treating. Cops and security forces can be bribed to look the other way. Traffic laws were suggestions, not rules. And in most of her Third World hunting grounds, being a woman meant you were ignored, were part of the shiftless, covered background.

  Which made hunting so much fun.

  But here?

  She drops her rucksack, opens it up, and removes a pair of binoculars with high-grade optics. She leans against the trunk of the maple, starts scanning what she sees. Damn thing is, here in the First World, if a local cop or a Virginia state trooper were to trip over her, she couldn’t bribe them or persuade them to look the other way. Nope, she’d have to kill them, and that made the job just that much harder.

  All right then.

  The waterfalls look to be about thirty meters wide, with a drop of about two meters. Lots of exposed rocks, tangled limbs, and old tree trunks caught up in the water and debris. Homeland Security folks and a couple of Secret Service agents are on the far side of the river. A guy in a black wet suit and with an orange rope fastened to a harness starts carefully working his way to an area just below the falls. Marsha focuses in and sees an arm flopping back and forth from the currents, the body obscured by the swirling foam and water.

  “Bit chillier than the East Wing, eh?” she whispers, as she keeps watching.

  Another guy in a wet suit joins the agent, then slips and falls. Shouts and yells as he’s pulled to shore, and then he steps back in again.

  “That’s right,” she whispers. “Be a hero. Drown for a dead woman.”

  The progress is slow and painful to watch. Marsha shifts her spot, scans the crew, and then another Suburban bounces along the shore, lights flashing, and yep, there she is, the Queen of All She Surveys, Secret Service Agent Grissom, black coat on and red scarf flapping around.

  Grissom meets up with another Secret Service agent, and there’s discussion, and the Queen borrows a pair of binoculars, scans the area. They then go to the water’s edge. Behind them a white tent is being erected, and a generator kicks to life.

  The two men in the wet suits are at the location of the body. More ropes are deployed, securing the body in case the two heroes fall on the way back. Wouldn’t be nice to have her get loose and bounce around for another mile or two in the rapids.

  All right, then.

  The two wet-suited men make their way free, the body slumped between them. Marsha swears. Not a good view at all. Just a slumped torso. They work their way through the water, past the rocks and debris. A line of men and women are waiting for them, four holding a wire Stokes litter. Wouldn’t do to have the First Lady of the United States dragged into that examination tent like a sack of potatoes and—

  Oh, shit.

  Freeze.

  Marsha stops, no longer breathing. She is focused on Grissom, the lead Secret Service agent, and the woman is staring right at her, motionless.

  Don’t move, she thinks. Don’t breathe.

  The worst thing that can ever befall a sniper has just happened to Marsha.

  She’s been spotted.

  CHAPTER 37

  AFTER A BALLS-TO-THE-WALLS, screaming drive from the White House, I finally get to Quinnick Falls, a small park about three miles downstream from where I had found the First Lady’s note. Although it drove me crazy with impatience, I kept off the radio and the phone through the hurried drive to Virginia, not wanting anyone out there with the ears and capability to learn why I was in such a hurry.

  And to make this early evening even better, I get a phone call from my neighbor Todd Pence, with more apologies and excuses, saying another emergency from his sister means he can’t look after Amelia tonight.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  My male Secret Service driver finds an empty spot near other Suburbans and Humvees, and before the vehicle comes to a complete stop and the engine is switched off, I fling the door open and start running to the mass of men and women gathered in a small picnic area, with wooden tables that are crowded now with ropes, grappling hooks, communications equipment, and other gear.

  Scotty spots me and comes over, and I say, “What do we got?”

  Scotty nods, looking tired, a set of binoculars hanging around his neck, and he points over to the rushing water, where a man in a wet suit is starting to wade out, a bright orange rope attached to his waist. “About thirty minutes ago, a couple of kids fooling around by the edge of the falls saw a woman caught up in the rocks. Apparently drowned. Right about then a Homeland Security Humvee pulled in, as part of the search ef
fort, and they waved it down.”

  “How do they know it’s a woman?”

  Scotty looks embarrassed. “Exposed breast, Sally. The blouse is torn away and a breast is exposed … and, well, the body’s a mess. It’s been in those rocks for a while.”

  “Binoculars,” I say.

  He passes over his set without a word, and I check the turbulent waters. Something heavy, like a fifty-pound chunk of lead, seems to slide down my gullet. Through the binoculars I can see a bloated shape in the water, partially clothed, and an arm flopping around.

  I give the binoculars back to Scotty. A power generator roars on, and behind us, a white tent is being set up. Somewhere in that mess of people is Randy Anderson, the Homeland Security officer I had shanghaied to conduct this unauthorized and probably illegal search.

  “Where’s her detail?”

  “CANARY’s detail? Over there, by that big wooden sign showing the history of the falls.”

  “Get them over here,” I say.

  Another wet-suited man is in the water, rope attached to his harness, and he slips and nearly falls. Scotty says, “Why?”

  “Because when the body gets to shore, I want them and … you, Scotty, I want the four of you to bring her into that tent, for examination.”

  Scotty nods. I say, “And another thing. Pass the word around. I see any camera flashes from anybody as she’s being taken away, I’ll shoot them dead, right on the spot. And I’m not kidding.”

  “I know,” Scotty says, and he walks away.

  I stand there, cold and hungry and just miserable, watching the scene unfold before me. This is not a new experience. In my years of law enforcement, I’ve seen lots of bodies recovered— from drownings like this one, from scores of traffic accidents, from burned-out apartments and trailers—but this recovery is just hammering at me. This one is going into the history books, the documentaries, the news programs, and only by the sheerest and slimmest bit of luck have we avoided having network television helicopters overhead.

  The two men are there now, working in the cold, rushing waters, using ropes to secure the body, and then the body is free. The two men work very hard to keep their footing as they come back to shore.

  Movement nearby. A metal Stokes litter is by the shore, and Scotty is there, and the three slumped and depressed members of CANARY’s detail: Pamela Smithson, the lead, with Tanya Glenn next to her, and then Brian Zahn, the young male. He appears to be weeping, and no one notices him.

  I turn back and—

  Wait.

  Hold on.

  Something just happened.

  Movement over there, on the opposite bank.

  A little flash of light.

  Gone.

  But there was definitely movement.

  But what was it?

  I stare, and stare, and part of my childhood comes back, seeing that old show, The Six Million Dollar Man, and like when I was a little girl, I wish I had that bionic eye that could zoom in.

  I now wish for a pair of binoculars, but they’re with Scotty, and I’m not going to disturb him just as the slumped-over remains are brought in. Pamela is holding up a bright-yellow sheet, and when the out-of-view body has been placed into the Stokes litter, she lowers the sheet and gently tugs it into place.

  The four of them lift up the Stokes litter and quietly—the only sound being that of the generator—the body is slowly brought into the white tent. No one commands anything, there are no orders, but every male and female agent removes his or her head covering as the body passes by.

  The little procession gets into the tent. Near the opening to the tent I see Randy Anderson, and I walk to him, running through my mind how we’re going to get the remains removed from here and brought to Bethesda Naval Hospital—no way we’re going to end up at a civilian hospital—and then there’s a shout and a scream.

  Automatically I grab for my SIG Sauer, as Tanya Glenn bursts out of the tent, crying and screaming, and then laughing and yelling at the top of her lungs:

  “It’s not her! It’s not her! It’s not the First Lady!”

  CHAPTER 38

  THERE’S CONFUSION AND a lot of movement and yelling going on over there by the tent and the people, and Marsha Gray is trying to figure out what’s going on. When Grissom had moved away from the riverbank, Marsha had slipped to another viewing position—a wet patch of ground soaking her belly—and saw the Stokes litter being brought into the white tent. The folks over there lined up on each side as the body was carried in, with covers coming off their heads and salutes being made, as if the dead woman were part of the military.

  Then about a minute ago the whole scene on the other side of the river just got tumbled up when a black woman ran out, and now she’s laughing, crying, and lifting her arms up to the darkening sky.

  Marsha whispers, “What the hell is this?”

  She slowly moves the binoculars back and forth, trying to gauge what just happened. There’s a sense of something being noticed, being released. The group over there had looked somber and tired, and Marsha sees that’s all changed. They’re relaxed, some laughing, others giving their buddies hugs and slaps on the back.

  Okay then.

  Two minutes ago, the First Lady’s body was being recovered. It was dark and quiet over there, a funeral procession, and now it’s different.

  Smiles. Laughter. Happy people.

  Grissom is now talking and gesturing with a Homeland Security guy, who’s giving it right back to her.

  Conclusion?

  The First Lady is still missing.

  That’s not her body that was just brought in.

  Damn.

  She slips out her iPhone, slides the earpiece in, starts sliding the phone’s screen and working the numbers.

  No answer.

  Where the hell is Parker Hoyt?

  The crowd over there is starting to disperse. Two Humvees have started up and left the scene.

  “Well, this sucks,” she whispers.

  What now?

  What now is that something is going to change. Right now she’s been a bird dog, following tips and orders from Parker Hoyt. Okay, that’s the job. She’s a big girl and can do what it takes.

  She sees Grissom and the Homeland Security guy still talking, looking animated, whatever. If Marsha had been on the other side of the river, she could key in on what’s being discussed, planned, where this so-called search would go next.

  So Marsha knows what needs to be done, what she earlier had decided to do.

  Time to slip away and get to Grissom’s home, surveil the crap out of it, leave a little listening souvenir behind, and maybe—if things go well—do the same to Grissom’s vehicle.

  Still …

  Let’s make one more try to get ahold of her boss.

  Once more, her fingers work away on the iPhone.

  Still no answer.

  Where the hell is Parker Hoyt?

  CHAPTER 39

  ONCE I GET Tanya calmed the hell down, I say, “How do you know it’s not her?”

  Tanya wipes away tears from her eyes, but she’s still smiling widely. “Her teeth! That poor woman … her face was beat up but you could see her teeth … and there’s a lot of bridgework back there! It’s not the First Lady! She’s got perfect teeth.”

  I feel whipsawed, like a roller-coaster ride I’m on has suddenly jolted to a stop before the final steep descent.

  “Are you sure?”

  Pamela Smithson and Brian Zahn both come out of the tent, and based on the smiles on their faces, I know it’s true. The poor drowned and battered woman in that tent is not Grace Fuller Tucker.

  Pamela says, “Tanya’s right … CANARY has perfect teeth. That woman in there … she’s had a lot of work done in her mouth.”

  Well, what now? I turn away from everyone, grab my phone, make a call to Parker Hoyt. The phone rings and rings … and there’s no answer.

  What the hell? Based on his expression back at the White House when I told him abou
t the recovered body, I was sure he’d still be in his office, pacing back and forth, waiting for this call.

  But no answer.

  “Sally?”

  I turn and it’s Randy Anderson from Homeland Security, formerly of the Secret Service, and one tired hombre. His jumpsuit is splattered with mud and water, and he needs a shave.

  He says, “Sally … that’s it. We’re packing up.”

  “But … you’ll start again tomorrow, won’t you?”

  A firm shake of the head. “Not a chance,” he says, and as he explains what’s going on, I hate to admit it, but my old friend is right. Randy gestures to the Humvees, the tent, the men and women searching, and he says, “This … for a day I could pretend it was an unannounced drill, helping search for a mythical lost canoeist. The second day, Sally, I was putting my head on the chopping block … a one-day drill extending into two? Okay, I could make it work. A two-day drill was pushing it. I’m sorry. A three-day search is impossible.”

  Randy nods in the direction of the tent. “This is going to sound grim, but finding that poor dead woman is a blessing. It’ll mean a round of nice publicity for the department, having an unannounced drill end with something special, and it’ll get me a reprieve from management. Do you see what I mean?”

  I hate his words, but I do know what he means. “Sure, Randy, I know.”

  Even in his exhausted state, he smiles. “Sorry, Sally. I really wanted to help you …”

  “You did, no worries,” I say.

  “But CANARY …”

  I nod, shove my cold hands into my coat pockets. “Randy, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Sally …”

  “Randy, this had nothing to do with the First Lady, and you know it. You … your Homeland Security unit was doing an unannounced drill along this river, and members of the First Lady’s off-duty detail were assigned by me to provide assistance and to give them additional training in working with Homeland Security on short notice.”