Baby Carter (Baby Grand Trilogy, Book 3)

by Dina Santorelli

  “What’s your name, young man?” he asked.

  The boy appeared bashful and hid partially behind his mother, but after being prompted by a girl who looked like his older sister, he said, “Buzz.” He had a lisp, making the name sound like Buth.

  “That’s a great name,” Phillip said and was about to ask the young man if he had been named after an astronaut when a sudden blast shook the Beast, followed by fire and smoke, knocking Phillip back into his seat and sending the little boy standing on the sidewalk into the air, his miniature American flag falling from his hand.

  CHAPTER 14

  The greenhouse was located on the other side of the main log cabin, partially hidden by a large shed, which was why Jamie hadn’t noticed it when she pulled into the driveway. Its large glass panels were covered with condensation and ice, making it look like an igloo. When Bailino opened the door, a burst of moist, warm air greeted them as they stepped inside.

  “Wow!” Faith said, her eyes taking in the greenery. “Are you growing a forest in here?”

  “Not quite,” Bailino said with a smirk. “Go ahead, cupcake. Go look around. See if you can find the peppers.”

  Faith wandered off down a center aisle between two rows of crates, each one carefully segmented into equal-size boxes built from wood and labeled with Bailino’s unmistakable handwriting, even and precise. The squared, side-by-side arrangement resembled his garden back in Albany, and an image rushed into Jamie’s mind: stumbling upon the small bush of blond hair, buried in the dirt, belonging to the woman she had witnessed Bailino beat to death.

  Bailino put on his reading glasses to examine the leaves of a plant, looking less like the shovel-wielding monster she knew he still was and more like a harmless middle-aged man with a green thumb. In the years since she thought Bailino had perished in the farmhouse that night in 2014, it had become less difficult for Jamie to reconcile his Jekyll and Hyde persona. Wouldn’t anyone born into Bailino’s world, she reasoned, have been thrust into similar circumstances and forced to make similar choices? Bailino was a survivor, and, as Jamie had learned, that entailed a blurring of morality. Or was she simply making excuses for him because now he was on her side and because they were connected through the person who meant the most to her in the world?

  “You like oregano?” Bailino asked, running his fingers along the spiky, purplish flowers of a plant and pulling off a sprig. “Can’t get it out here. The Italian food is the pits.” He held it up.

  “Sure,” she said, again sticking her thoughts into a box in the corner of her mind, since they would do her no good now. “Reminds me of my mother. She put it in just about everything she made.”

  “A woman after my own heart,” Bailino said, tucking the sprig in the crease of his left arm. “They mainly grow wheat, barley, and corn here.” He ran his finger along another plant and adjusted an electronic thermostat that was suspended from the roof. “Not my cup of tea. Give me some oregano, some eggplant and zucchini, and I’m a happy man. Well, almost.”

  Jamie read the names of the various vegetables on the small placards Bailino had made. “You built this yourself?” she asked.

  Bailino nodded. “Mostly. Now and then, I hire some locals, like my paper boy. His parents don’t give him much of an allowance, if you ask me. And there’s also a veterans’ organization in town. I give them a few bucks to do some small jobs—replace a pane of glass, do a little weeding. Gives them something to do. Makes them feel useful.” He fiddled with a knob on something that looked like a radio. “They say greenhouse farming is the next big thing. Lots of technology involved. I built this about a year ago, and now spend most of my time in here.”

  “Found them!” Faith cheered. She was standing at the far end of the greenhouse, pointing to one of the crates.

  “Good girl!” Bailino called and walked over to her.

  Near the door, Lucky had made herself comfortable on a small area rug that resembled the one near the fireplace in the guesthouse, as if they were a set. Jamie gave the dog a pat on her head; Lucky’s ears flipped down in appreciation.

  Jamie wiped a small circle in the condensation of one of the glass panes of the greenhouse and pressed her face to the cold glass. Outside, the fallen snow reflected the sunlight like a mirror, making the world look bright and pristine, like a painting.

  “Look, Momma!” Faith said, rushing toward her with two plump green peppers in her hands.

  “Wow, those are big,” Jamie said.

  “Look, Lucky, look!” Faith said. When the dog heard her name she jumped up and knocked over a box of clothing that was stashed near the door of the greenhouse.

  “Uh-oh,” Faith said.

  “No big deal,” Bailino said. He was walking behind Faith carrying a few more sprigs and placed them in a basket. “It’s just clothing. For charity. For Goodwill and the University of Wyoming, which offers support services to veterans with disabilities who are attending. I leave it in here so it doesn’t get wet, and this way I don’t have to be home when they pick it up. They just come in here.”

  “Oh,” Faith said with a nod.

  Jamie wasn’t sure if her daughter understood anything that Bailino had said or what the word “charity” meant, but she seemed to want them to think she did. Jamie picked up one of the shirts that had fallen on the ground.

  “This shirt still has the tags on it,” she said, folding it.

  “I don’t have much to donate, so I just buy a few things here and there and give,” Bailino said, picking up the rest and folding it neatly. “Some of these guys have nuthin’. And no one.”

  He opened the greenhouse door, and Lucky took that as her cue to run out into the snow.

  “Lucky, wait for me!” Faith called, dropping her peppers into Bailino’s basket and scampering after the dog.

  “Careful, Faith, don’t fall,” Jamie said, but in an instant her daughter came running back.

  “Don, do you know how to make angels?” Faith asked, her eyes half covered by the black cap he had given her.

  “Hmmm … I’ve made a few angels in my day.”

  “A snow angel?”

  “Not for a long time.”

  “Here, watch this.” Faith ran out again and stopped abruptly when the dog came toward her. “You sit here,” she said to Lucky, and to Jamie’s amazement the dog sat down as Faith ran a few steps more and plopped herself down in an untouched portion of the snow. She laid back and flapped her arms and legs.

  “See?” she said, her black knit cap now covering her eyes completely. “It’s easy. Don, you try.”

  “Faith,” Jamie called, “I don’t think—”

  “All right,” Bailino said. He placed the basket down on a tree stump. “Where should I make mine?”

  “Right here.” Faith patted the snow next to her.

  As Jamie closed the greenhouse door, Bailino got on his knees, flopped backward, and began flapping his arms and legs. Lucky, who couldn’t contain herself anymore, ran around them in laps, barking at them, not knowing what to make of what they were doing. After a few more flaps, they both stood up and stared down at their handiwork, and Jamie stood next to them. The weight of their bodies and the movement of their arms and legs had displaced so much snow that the dirt below was visible, making the snow angels look more like large brown butterflies.

  “I’m hungry,” Faith said. “Are you hungry?” She looked up at him.

  “I could eat,” he said.

  “Last one in is a rotten egg!” she said and made a beeline for the guesthouse, with Lucky behind her. Bailino picked up the basket.

  “You forget how much energy kids have,” he said with a smirk, but Jamie could detect that he was slightly out of breath.

  They started walking toward the guesthouse, their footsteps echoing in the quiet—the kind of isolated quiet that Jamie had learned to avoid in the past five years.

  “She likes you,” Jamie said. “And she doesn’t like many people.”

  “She’s a good kid.
Smart.” He looked at her with those dark eyes she had become accustomed to seeing on her little girl’s face. “Like her mother.”

  “I have to call the president,” Jamie said, avoiding the urge to return the compliment. She stamped her feet on the front porch of the guesthouse and then walked inside.

  “I know you do,” Bailino said, following behind. “Just keep in mind that,” he placed the basket on the table, “if he tells you that it’s safe to go back, that doesn’t mean you have to.”

  His face held that same look it did when he had first suggested in his log cabin five years before that they run off together. The notion had seemed so absurd to Jamie, like something a child might say or the suggestion of someone who truly did not understand the consequences of his actions. That was the thing that always confused Jamie about Don Bailino. In some ways, he was the smartest man she had ever met; in others, he was the most naïve.

  “Momma, look, Charlie’s daddy is on TV,” Faith said, pointing the remote control at the television.

  Jamie stepped closer to the set, which was tuned to CNN and showing what looked like cell phone footage of President Grand, hidden behind Secret Service agents, sitting in what Jamie recognized as The Beast. A headline popped off the screen:

  Attempted Assassination

  “Oh my God,” Jamie said.

  “What does it say, Momma?” Faith asked, looking concerned, but before Jamie could answer, an explosion knocked the video upward amid screams and shouts.

  Bailino quickly grabbed the remote control and changed the station to Nickelodeon. He placed it on the coffee table.

  “What’s going on?” Jamie asked as Faith hurried toward her and grabbed hold of her legs.

  “I don’t know,” Bailino said, as the high-pitched machine-gun laugh of SpongeBob SquarePants filled the room. “But what I do know is that, whatever it is, you’re staying with me.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Katherine held the compress to Phillip’s head as Secret Service agents hurried through doorways and congregated around the large marble-topped island in the White House kitchen, which was covered in electronics, paperwork, and several opened bags of potato chips.

  “I’m fine, Katherine,” Phillip said. “It’s just a bump.”

  “You are not leaving this House again,” she said, pressing harder into the wound.

  It took a lot to rattle Katherine Grand, but Phillip could tell this second assassination attempt had perhaps done more damage to his wife than it had to him. He gently took her hand away and placed the compress on the kitchen counter. “I’m all right. Really,” he said.

  She tilted her head up, her expression soft and worried, her veneer of unflappability compromised. He caressed her face, but she pushed his hands away. “I don’t think you’re understanding what is happening here, Phillip.” She crossed her arms, the softness vanishing. “The one time, in our home, our private area, was alarming enough, but it appears this isn’t a one-off. Whoever is doing this … is …” She took a breath. “This person isn’t going to stop.”

  “I know—I do—but this is not the time to panic, Katherine,” Phillip said in a calm voice that surprised even him. It had been a long time, not since his military days, that he had been so close to a blast, but a steeliness had come over him as if by muscle memory. “We will find whoever is behind this. We will.”

  Katherine seemed unconvinced. More agents filled the kitchen, and she moved closer to him and whispered into his ear. “We have been compromised,” she said.

  Phillip nodded and sat on a stool at the counter. Only a select number of people knew of the day’s visit to Walter Reed—both at the hospital and on his staff—including just about every person standing, right at that moment, in the White House kitchen. Phillip needed to speak with Agent Wilcox, but Brandon had been unable to reach him. Until then, he and Katherine would just have to maintain a united front and keep their eyes and ears open.

  Collins appeared at the west entryway, looking flustered, but Phillip waved him away for the time being. He would deal with the press later. He leaned over the counter to check on Charlotte and Philly, who were coloring with their grandmother at a small kitchenette table. Philly was dutifully trying to stay within the lines, but his daughter seemed distracted. She was watching the men and women come and go, and kept glancing at Agent Brandon Fuller, who was talking on his phone a few feet away. Phillip knew Brandon wanted him to return to the Emergency Operations Center with his family as a preventative measure, but Phillip wouldn’t hear of it. He didn’t want to bring the children down there again. He wanted to keep things as normal as possible, but he was beginning to see that that would be an implausibility.

  Dr. Stapleton, who had put her hair up in a ponytail since she had examined Phillip a few minutes before, returned with medication. “Take this if you feel any pain, and let me know immediately if you begin to experience any dizziness,” she said, placing the tiny bottles on the kitchen counter. “I still think you need a more thorough examination.”

  “So do I,” Katherine said, digging her hands further into her crossed arms.

  “I’m fine.” Phillip stood up and immediately felt dizzy, but he kept that to himself. “I’ve had worse.” He shook the doctor’s hand.

  Dr. Stapleton gave him a short, disapproving look, but left the kitchen without another word, passing by Collins, who appeared again at the entryway. Phillip shook his head, and Collins disappeared once more.

  Across the room, Brandon placed his phone on the clip of his belt, smiled at Charlotte, who was still watching him, and crossed the room toward Phillip and Katherine.

  “This is what we know,” he said. “It was a similar device to what we found in the private residence—not exactly the same, as the perpetrators were not limited to whatever found objects they could piece together in the White House. But they were similar, in ways I’d rather not go into now, and we believe made by the same individual or individuals.”

  “How did it get there?” Katherine asked.

  “We don’t know the answer yet,” Brandon said. “It appears to have been hidden in a child’s backpack near the crowd of onlookers. Security camera footage at the gate and on the street are being examined now.”

  “A child’s backpack?” Katherine asked.

  Brandon nodded.

  “Hadn’t the route been cleared?” Phillip asked.

  “Yes, Mr. President, both by local PD and Secret Service. As I said, we’ll know more when we watch the footage—a command center has been established at the site—but I have a strong sense that the perpetrator was either on or near the scene during detonation.”

  “You think the person was there?” Katherine asked.

  “It’s a hunch, but yes,” Brandon said. “This would have allowed him or her to place the IED at the last minute, perhaps just moments before the president arrived. Whoever that was may have been standing on the sidewalk with the others.”

  Phillip thought of the people who had lined up to greet him, the innocent families waving and smiling. He couldn’t remember seeing anyone suspicious, although he had focused only on the little boy. The boy! “Tell me about the injuries, Brandon. Were there any casualties?” he asked.

  Brandon hesitated, and Phillip’s heart sank.

  “Several spectators,” Brandon said. “The ones closest to the backpack.”

  “What about the little boy?” he asked.

  “What little boy?” Katherine asked.

  “I stopped to talk to a little boy …” Phillip remembered the towheaded young man’s round cheeks and bashful eyes. “We were cleared to go through, but he looked so full of pride standing there …”

  “The doctors say he’s going to make it. He’s cut up and bruised from the shrapnel, and may have fractured his leg as, I believe, others had fallen upon him. Again, most of the injuries of the people near him on the sidewalk were minor, since they were far enough away from the point of detonation.”

  “And the others?”
Phillip asked. “My men?” Following the blast, it had been pandemonium. He had had the sensation of his car speeding, he and Clark bouncing around the vehicle’s interior like pinballs. Agent Summers must have had the sense to turn around and get them back to the White House. Phillip looked around the room. Nearly all of the Secret Service agents who had escorted him to Walter Reed were there. “Where is Agent Summers?”

  “Agent Summers is all right,” Brandon said. “He’s on his way back to the command center. Again, most of the agents were far enough from the blast not to sustain critical injury. Just some bumps and bruises. But …” Brandon rocked slightly, looking down at his toes. “Those closer to the gate weren’t so lucky. The agents seated in the first car of the motorcade were hurt badly. One was critically injured.”

  “How critically?” Katherine asked.

  “Frankly, we don’t know if Agent Chodat, who was driving, is going to make it through the night. And a Walter Reed security guard sustained grave injuries. He was declared dead at the scene.”

  Phillip’s eyes met Katherine’s. Not since Mark Nurberg, when Charlotte had been abducted more than five years ago, had a member of law enforcement or security been killed while trying to protect Phillip and his family.

  “Frankly, Mr. President,” Brandon said, “had you not stopped to talk with that little boy, your vehicle would have been positioned exactly in the same spot as Agent Chodat’s.”

  Katherine reached for Phillip’s arm as that familiar feeling of vulnerability crept back under his skin. A chance decision had changed his destiny. His head began to throb. “Have you gotten through to Agent Wilcox yet?” he asked.

  “Not yet, but he must have seen the news,” Brandon said. “I’m sure I’ll hear from him as soon as he is able.”

  Collins, looking white as a ghost, appeared at the entrance to the kitchen again. This time, Phillip waved him in. “What is it, Collins?” he asked.

  “Mr. President …” Collins hurried toward the counter and placed his tablet on the kitchen island. “The press has been all over this and is demanding a statement from the White House. The phones won’t stop ringing …”