"Oh my God is right, lady."
"Listen, please-"
"No, you listen. I know everything. I got dates, names, places, the whole ball of wax. Now I'm going to give you an airport to fly to. After you arrive there I've got very precise map coordinate points that'll take you where you've got to go. You just give it to your federal flyboys; they'll know what to make of it. It's mostly numbers so get some paper and write it down. Now. No room for mistakes."
Jane fumbled in her purse for pen and paper.
"All right," she said in a trembling voice.
He gave her the airport location and the additional coordinates.
"You want me to come to this place?"
"Hell no! I want you both to come."
"Both? When?"
Quarry looked at his watch. "Nine hours from now. Exactly. Not a minute before or a minute after if you want that little girl still breathing."
Jane glanced at her watch. "That's impossible. He's in town tonight, but he's flying to New York tomorrow morning to give a speech to the United Nations."
"I don't care if he's got an appointment with God. If you ain't there exactly nine hours from now, then the next time you see Willa, she won't be able to see you back. And those DNA tests I had run will be all over the media along with everything else. I got proof of it all. Spent years of my life doing nothing else. You threw us in the shit, lady, and went on with your life. Well, it's payback time now. It's Tippi's time. It's my damn time!"
"Please, please if you can just give us-"
"Here are your instructions for when you get there. And you better follow them to the letter, 'cause if you don't, or you sic the FBI on this thing, I'll know. I'll know right away. And then Willa dies. And all the truth comes out. And no second term for old Danny boy. Guaranteed!"
Tears were streaming down Jane's face.
And tears were flowing down Quarry's cheeks too, as he gazed at the two most important women in his life; both gone from him now forever. Because of the woman he was talking to right now. Because of her. And him.
"Are you listening?" he said quietly.
"Yes," she gasped.
He gave her the instructions.
She mumbled, "And if we do this, Willa goes free? And you won't… you won't tell?"
"I give you my word."
"That's all? How can I trust you? I don't even know who you are."
"You do know me."
"I… do?" she said haltingly.
"Hell yes you do. I'm your worst nightmare. And you wanta know why?" Jane didn't answer. He said, "Because you two were my worst nightmare."
"Are you her father?" Jane said in a hollow tone.
"The clock starts now," said Quarry. "So you better get a move on. It's not like you and the man can just hop in a cab. Ain't all that power just something special right now? Move as fast as a dead cow." He clicked off, threw the phone across the room, and sat back exhausted. Then he grabbed the poker, seared the end in the fire, rolled up his sleeve, and burned the last line into his arm. The mark was now complete. The pain was awful. It didn't get easier with each burn, it got worse. And yet he didn't make a sound, didn't grimace, didn't cry. He just stared at the picture of Tippi while he was doing it.
And felt nothing. Just like his little girl felt. Nothing. Because of them.
Then he quickly left the room and the fire behind. There was a lot to do before they came. The adrenaline was really flowing.
Back in Georgetown, Jane dropped the phone and raced out of the ladies' room.
The clock was indeed ticking.
CHAPTER 72
SEAN AND MICHELLE had packed up the SUV and were saying goodbye to her father and brother.
She hugged them and said, "I'll call soon, Dad. And I'll come and stay with you. We can-"
"Get to know each other again?"
"Yeah."
As they were walking to the door Frank said, "Oh, I almost forgot. A package came for Sean earlier today. I have it in the living room."
He left and came back a minute later with a small cardboard box. When Sean saw who it was from, he exclaimed, "My two-star bud came through again. More AWOL binders."
"AWOL binders?" said Bobby.
"A case we're working," explained Michelle.
They headed out to the SUV. "I'll go through the binders, Sean, while you drive. That'll save time, which we don't have a lot of."
"Thanks, Michelle," he said earnestly. "That's very nice."
"Nice has nothing to do with it. You get carsick when you read. I don't want you puking in my truck."
Bobby smiled. "Now that's my little sister."
They drove off and headed through town toward the highway. Michelle opened the box and took out the first binder.
"It's a good thing your brother lives here. He can keep your dad company."
"I plan on keeping him company too. If this has shown me anything, you can take nothing for granted. Here today, gone tomorrow."
"I'll stop for some coffee before we hit the interstate," said Sean. "It seems like we always start these trips late at night."
"Make mine a double."
Sean got the coffee and they headed north.
Michelle went through five more binders and then stretched her arms.
"You want me to take over? I can hold the puke in," he said.
"No, I'll keep going. But if we don't find something here, then what?"
"Just pray you do find something in that stack because there is no then what."
Sean checked the clock on the dashboard and then pulled out his phone and pecked in a number.
"Who you calling?"
"Chuck Waters. Want to get an update. Maybe he's got a lead he'll share."
"Right. And I'm going to try out for Dancing with the Stars."
The FBI agent picked up on the second ring. Sean and he talked for a few minutes and then Sean clicked off.
"Anything new?" asked Michelle.
"Jane got the letter in the post office box, and Waters confiscated it."
"What did it say?"
"Something about a ten-million-dollar ransom. Only Waters thinks she pulled a fast one and fed them a fake letter."
"Why does he think that?"
"Things in this letter didn't match the one that was sent with the bowl and spoon. Different typewriters, for instance. And he said there was something funky about the postmark."
"Why would she pull a switch?"
"She's got a vested interest in this case, Michelle. From what Betack found with the second letter, this thing is personal to Jane Cox. She didn't want anyone else to read this last letter."
"You don't think Willa is her kid, do you? Maybe she was fooling around on the president before he was the president? Got pregnant and handed it off to her brother and his wife?"
"I might think that except about twelve years or so ago I saw Jane Cox and she wasn't pregnant."
"About twelve or so years ago?"
"I mean I saw her off and on during that period of time. She couldn't be Willa's mom unless they're lying about the girl's age."
Michelle shook her head and continued reading. A half hour later she yelled out, "Turn the car around!"
Sean nearly ran the truck into a Jersey wall. "What is it?"
"Turn the car around."
"Why?"
"We need to head south."
Sean put on his turn signal and started to edge to the right lane. "Why south?"
She scanned the pages of the binder she was holding, speaking rapidly. "Three AWOLs from the same address in Alabama, but they all had different last names. Kurt Stevens, Carlos Rivera, and Daryl Quarry. They were supposed to report to their base and be shipped out to Iraq, only they never showed up. MPs went to check it out. Place called Atlee, like an old plantation. Father Sam Quarry, Vietnam vet, owns it. MPs couldn't find any trace of them."
"Okay, they're Army deserters and it's one of the states on the isotopic probable list, but that's not conclusive, M
ichelle."
"They interviewed Sam Quarry, a Ruth Ann Macon, and her son, Gabriel. And a guy named Eugene."
"Again, so what, Michelle?"
"Gotta love the Army's attention to detail. The report says that Eugene identified himself to the MPs as a member of the Koasati Indian tribe."
Sean squealed across all lanes, horns blaring at him, and took the next exit. Two minutes later they were on a slingshot path to Alabama.
CHAPTER 73
THERE IS probably no more formal, preplanned space for sale in the world than the Oval Office. Who was allowed into the room, from the prime minister of a relatively unimportant country, to a large compaign donor, could take days if not weeks of wrangling behind the scenes. Simply an invitation to the Oval Office for folks not routinely engaged in business with the man must be fought for with equal parts ferocity and delicacy. Once you gained entry to the hallowed space, the treatment you received-a handshake, a pat on the back, a signed photo as opposed to merely the picture-was all in the details. And in the negotiations. The Oval Office was not an environment that encouraged spontaneity. The Secret Service in particular frowned on anything approaching unplanned movements.
It was late, but Dan Cox was knocking out a few of these obligatory requests before he left in the morning for his UN address. He had been briefed on who these people were; mostly elite campaign supporters who'd opened their checkbooks and, more importantly, induced lots of their rich friends to do the same.
They came in one by one, and the president went into automatic greeting mode. Shake hand, nod, smile, pat back, say a few words, and accept the groveling thanks in return. For some particularly heavy hitters, deftly pointed out by his team of aides who hovered everywhere like the guardian vultures they were, the president would pick up some national treasure off his desk and talk to them about it. A lucky few even received a small memento. And these happy folks left believing that they had registered a personal connection with the man. That some brilliant thing they had said had precipitated the world leader giving them a signed presidential golf ball, or box of presidential cuff links, or pens that had the seal on it, all of which the White House kept by the ton for just such occasions.
This carefully planned process was ripped savagely apart when the door to the Oval Office was flung open, no mean task since it was quite a heavy door.
Dan Cox looked up to see his wife standing there-no, rather, teetering there in her high heels, stylish dress, her coat trailing behind her, her eyes wild and unfocused, her normally perfect hair in disarray. Right next to her were two anxious-looking Secret Service agents. The conflicted looks on their faces were clear. Despite the unofficial policy allowing the First Lady to enter the Oval Office mostly when she wanted to, on this occasion they obviously hadn't known whether to let her in or tackle the woman.
"Jane?" the astonished president said as he dropped a golf ball he was about to hand to a real estate developer from Ohio who had raised a truckload of money for Cox's campaign.
"Dan!" she exclaimed breathlessly. And she was indeed out of breath since she'd run all the way from where the limo had dropped her off and the White House has a pretty large footprint.
"My God, what is it? Are you ill?"
She took a step forward. So did the agents, as they delicately moved in front of her. They might have thought she actually had become ill, or had been doused with some poisonous substance and they were duty-bound not to let it infect the leader of the free world.
"We need to talk. Now!"
"I'm just finishing up here." He glanced at the man who had retrieved the golf ball from the floor. Smiling, Cox said, "Been a long day for everybody." He took back the ball. "Let me just sign that for you…" Usually terrific with names, the interrupted president had just had a very human brain fart.
Jay, his "body man," sprang forward to remedy this. "As we discussed, Mr. President, Wally Garrett here has raised more money for your reelection campaign in the Cincinnati area than anyone else, sir."
"Well, Wally, I really appreciate-"
What the president really appreciated would never be known because Jane had shot forward, grabbed the golf ball from her husband's hand, and flung it across the room, where it struck a portrait of Thomas Jefferson, one of Dan Cox's personal heroes, leaving old Tom with a gouge where his left eye had been.
The Secret Service agents rushed forward, but Dan held up his hand, stopping them in their tracks. He nodded at his aides and Garrett was rushed from the room without his coveted golf ball. However, no politician who had achieved the position Dan Cox had, ever left anything to happenstance or let a donor go away unhappy. The Ohio man would receive a signed photo of the president, and VIP tickets to an upcoming event, with the understanding that what he'd just seen would never be made public.
Dan Cox reached out to his wife. "Jane, what the hell is-"
"Not here, upstairs. I don't trust this room."
She glared at the agents and aides, turned and rushed from the room as fast as she had entered it. The aides and agents looked from her to the president as soon as the thick door had slammed behind her. No one dared to speak. There was no thought that any of them had about what they had just seen that they would ever voluntarily verbalize in front of their boss.
Cox stood there for a few moments. Any politician who'd reached the level that he had, had truly seen it all. And handled it all. Yet even for the veteran Dan Cox, this was a new situation.
"I guess I better go see what she wants," he finally said. The sea of bodies parted and the president headed out.
Larry Foster, his protection detail chief who had been called while this had been going on, appeared and said, "Mr. President, do you want us to accompany you…?" The strain was evident in the veteran agent's face as he struggled to finish his thought in the most judicious way possible. "All the way, sir?"
Meaning beyond the door to their private quarters, which was typically taboo for the security detail to cross, unless asked.
Cox seemed to consider this for a moment before saying, "Uh, no that won't be necessary, Larry." As he walked out, he added over his shoulder, "But stay close. Um, just in case Jane needs anything."
"Absolutely, Mr. President. We can be in there in seconds."
Cox headed upstairs to confront his wife. The Secret Service team followed and stood a few feet beyond the portal to their private quarters, listening for anything that would indicate the president was in jeopardy in any way. No doubt each of them was wondering the same thing. They were duty-bound to protect the president from all danger. They had been trained to sacrifice their own lives so that single life could continue.
Yet what they had not been exactly prepared for was a situation that might be materializing a few feet away right now. What if the danger the president was in was coming from his wife?
Could they use deadly force if necessary? Could they even kill her to save him? That was not really spelled out in the Secret Service manual, but each agent was thinking the answer to that was probably "yes."
This had happened once before if presidential lore was to be believed. Warren G. Harding had been president and he and his mistress had been found out by Mrs. Harding. They had taken refuge in a closet in the White House and the angry First Lady had attempted to chop down the door, allegedly with a fireman's ax. The Secret Service had to delicately relieve her of the weapon and Harding had survived. However, he had succumbed later in a San Francisco hotel room under mysterious circumstances while still president. Some thought the missus had finally gotten her revenge through a poisoned dish served to her husband. That had never been proved because Mrs. Harding had not allowed an autopsy, and had ordered her husband's body quickly embalmed. It was a fine example of a cheated-on wife's sheer will topping the desires of an entire nation.
Fire axes were no longer kept in the White House. And while there was a small kitchen in the private quarters, the First Lady never really did any of the cooking anymore. Or if she did, it was fa
r from certain that any president who knew how Harding had died would actually eat it.
Larry Foster racked his brain, trying to remember if there were any letter openers in the personal quarters that could be used as a weapon. A heavy lamp that could crack a presidential skull? A poker from the fireplace that could end that supreme life on his watch? Foster thought he could feel the ulcer actually forming in his belly as he stood in the hall contemplating the end of his career. Though it was far from warm inside the White House, sweat stains appeared under Foster's armpits and trickles of the stuff rose on his forehead. He and his team inched closer as their collective heart rates spiked.
Each of the agents could envision the next day's headlines in six-inch-high letters:
SECRET SERVICE KILLS FIRST LADY TO SAVE PRESIDENT.
There were half a dozen heavily armed agents poised in the hallway to take action if necessary. And all six of their asses clenched with nearly this very same thought at nearly the very same time.
Twenty anxious minutes later Larry Foster's phone rang. It was the man.
"Yes sir?" he said quickly.
He listened intently, his features finally dissolving into confusion. But he was the president so Foster only had one thing to say.
"Right away, sir."
He clicked off and looked at his second in command. "Bruce, call Andrews and get a bird ready."
"You mean AF-One?"
"Any plane the president rides on is Air Force One."
"But I mean-"
"I know what you meant," snapped Foster. "No, we're not taking the 747. See if one of the support planes is available. The 757 maybe, no insignias."
"Wolfman is taking an unmarked 757 to New York?" Bruce said, looking astonished.
Foster said grimly, "We're heading somewhere, but I don't think it's New York."
"But we haven't sent an advance team anywhere else."
"We're going stealth, like we do to Iraq and Afghanistan."
"But we still advance-team it. It takes a week of logistics minimum for the man to make a trip."
"Tell me something I don't know, Bruce. Thing is, we don't have a week. We've got a few hours and I don't even know where the hell we're going. So call Andrews and get me a ride. And I'm going to get on the horn to the director and see how the hell I'm supposed to handle this. Because let me tell you, I've seen a lot over the years, but this is new territory for me."
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