by Jan Gangsei
The busboy, who was on the other side of the room now, smirked and set his tray on an empty table. His hand dug into his pocket, fingers gripping the pack of cigarettes tucked inside. It was time. If anyone asked, he was just going on a smoke break. He headed toward the exit.
But before he got there, the sound system suddenly crackled back to life.
“Good evening.” The male voice emanating from the speaker was computer-generated and toneless. “And thank you for your attendance tonight.”
The busboy jumped as the exit doors slammed shut, the locks clicked, and the overhead lights flickered. The room was abruptly pitched into darkness, save for a slant of moonlight that filtered through the skylight. A strange hush fell over the crowd, who were unsure whether this was part of the presentation or not. They began to mumble to each other. The man’s voice returned.
“We have control of this room. Remain where you are and you will not be harmed.”
There was utter silence, followed by several screams and a mass shuffle as people raced toward the doors. Every exit was locked. Panicked guests took out their cell phones, only to discover that there was no signal. They were trapped.
The voice returned.
“We said to remain where you are. A bomb containing enough C4 to kill everyone in this room will detonate if you do not follow our instructions.”
A child’s high wail rose above the sobs of several guests. A man corralled the people around him and began to strategize the best way to storm the doors. The voice screeched back over the loudspeaker.
“And if any of you are thinking of playing hero, think again.” At that, the PATHWAY TO VICTORY image on the screen behind the podium disappeared. A live feed of the Pavilion Room streaming from the security cameras overhead took its place. “We are watching your every move.”
A woman shrieked. More muffled sobs. The busboy glanced back at his discarded tray, wobbling precariously on the edge of the table.
He had to get out of here.
He crouched low, hiding beneath an empty table, then crawled on his hands and knees to the next. The service entrance was straight ahead, a narrow shaft of light filtering through beneath the steel door. The busboy palmed the card in his pocket and moved closer. All he had to do was make it there and he’d have a shot.…
He shimmied out from under the table, making sure to stay low until he reached the door. He held the card up, hand trembling so hard he was afraid it might not work. C’mon, c’mon! He waved it again, finally hearing the telltale click of the lock. Relief washed over him as he stood up and twisted the knob.
But before he could slip out, a large hand grabbed him by the shoulder. The busboy spun around to see a pair of wild eyes staring him down.
“What do you think you’re doing?” It was Christopher Burke, slick hair disheveled, yellow sweat dampening the edges of his crisp white collar. “They said not to move. Are you trying to get us killed?” He gripped the front of the busboy’s shirt, crumpling it in his fist.
“No sir,” the busboy said. “I just need to get out of here.”
Burke glanced over his shoulder, eyes still crazed, and said in a loud whisper, “Then take me with you.”
The busboy shook his head. And with more force than he intended, he pushed the man away and dodged out the door. He heard it click shut automatically behind him as he ran down the hall, sweat trickling down the back of his neck.
On the other side of the door, Burke staggered backward, fury and disbelief mingling on his face—replaced by terror, as a loud boom sounded and the room filled with smoke.
Special Agent Billy Murawczyk couldn’t believe it.
He stood outside the interrogation room’s one-way glass, observing the girl on the other side. She sat behind a steel table in the windowless room—a cold, clinical place hidden deep inside the Secret Service’s D.C. headquarters. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, picked at her nails, and took a sip from her nearly empty water cup. She glanced intermittently at the door, squinting.
Murawczyk felt a pang of sympathy for the kid. She’d clearly been through hell, regardless of whether her story was true. Murawczyk couldn’t be sure of that yet. Sure, she looked the part—slight, with black hair, and eyes that showed some Asian heritage. But he’d seen enough leads go south in this case to approach every development with a healthy dose of skepticism.
He pushed open the door. The girl at the table looked up, momentarily blinded by the bright light streaming in from the hallway. She rubbed her eyes.
“Sorry. Hope I didn’t alarm you, miss,” Agent Murawczyk said.
“I’m fine,” she answered, placing her trembling hands in her lap.
She didn’t exactly look fine. But Murawczyk couldn’t quite put a finger on how she looked. It was a strange cross between scared, determined, and—something else he couldn’t identify. But he would. It was his job.
Murawczyk pulled out a chair and sat opposite her.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “I know you’ve had a long day, and we’re going to get you out of here as soon as possible.” She nodded and Murawczyk slid a tape recorder on the table between them. It scraped against the cool metal, making her flinch.
“I know you’ve already gone over this before,” he said. “But I just need to get your story again. For the record. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said.
Murawczyk pushed the record button. “This is Special Agent William Murawczyk, U.S. Secret Service.” He tilted his head toward the girl. “Could you please state your name, miss?”
“Addie Webster,” she said.
“Addie Webster,” Murawczyk repeated. Eight years. Eight freaking years with no sign of Adele Webster, and now this. Murawczyk sucked in a breath and ran his eyes over the wisp of a girl seated in front of him. He knew he had to choose his words carefully. If she truly was the president’s kidnapped daughter and he pushed too hard, adding trauma on top of trauma, they’d be serving Murawczyk’s head on a platter at the next state dinner. But if he let an imposter gain access to the most powerful man in the world, Murawczyk would spend the rest of his career guarding doddering former First Ladies.
“Thank you, Miss Webster. Or do you prefer Addie?”
“Addie’s fine,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Okay, Addie. I’d like to ask you a few questions today,” Murawczyk said.
“Sure, okay,” she said with a small sigh. “But I’ve already told you guys everything I know. I’m not sure what else I could possibly say.”
“Understood,” Agent Murawczyk said. “I know you’ve been here a long time, and I apologize for that. But I’m sure you also understand that we need to take every precaution when it comes to safeguarding the president. And his family, of course.”
“Where do you want me to start?” the girl said.
“Let’s start with the present and work our way back,” he said. “First, tell me how you ended up at the Flying J this afternoon.”
She nodded. “David and Helene needed to go into town for supplies,” she began.
Murawczyk interrupted. “Those are the names of the people who took you?”
“Yes,” the girl said. “Those may not be their real names, though. I’m not sure. They always made us call them Mother and Father.”
“Made who call them Mother and Father?” Murawczyk said.
“Me,” she said. “And the other kids in the house.”
“There were other children? How many?”
“Three,” the girl said.
“And were these David and Helene’s own children?” Murawczyk said.
“I think so,” she replied. “They treated them that way. At least, I was the only one they kept isolated.” She shuddered.
“Okay, let’s continue,” Murawczyk said. “So you went into town for supplies. When was that?”
“Early this morning,” the girl said. “They only go in once or twice a year, and usually don’t bring us along. But something had gotten them
all freaked-out today and they didn’t want to leave us home. Something about the government coming to get them, and take us all away. They get like that a lot. Paranoid about stuff. When we got into town, they went into this big feed and grain store and told us to stay in the car. They told the oldest kid to watch us and not open the door for anyone.”
She paused and took a shuddering breath.
“Are you okay to continue?”
She nodded. “So we were sitting there when this big blue car pulled up in front of the store. Real official-looking. Then two men in suits stepped out and went inside. I realized this was my chance. I convinced the kids that Mother and Father were right—the government had shown up, and they were in the store to arrest them, and they’d be coming for us next. I told them we had to run. They believed me. But when we got out, I ran the other way. I spotted an eighteen-wheeler in the store’s delivery area. The back was open, so I hid inside. When it stopped again, I was in Pennsylvania.”
“Where the police found you,” Murawczyk said.
“Yes.”
“Okay. Tell me a little more about David and Helene. Any idea where they were holding you? Or why?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure where we started out—we were only there for a couple of months. But later we were on a big compound, somewhere in West Virginia, I think. It was in the middle of nowhere, lots of mountains around it. They didn’t get any mail. And they didn’t keep license plates on their cars—said it was an illegal tax. Mother and Father—I mean, David and Helene—they, like, never went anywhere. They homeschooled us, raised their own food, used solar panels for electricity. Lived totally off the grid. They said the government was evil and they had to be prepared when society collapsed. We weren’t even allowed to watch television. Just some old VHS tapes.”
Murawczyk shook his head. There were some real nut jobs in the world, everywhere you turned. Like a damn hydra’s head. Chop one off, and two more popped up in its place.
“So do you have any idea what they wanted with you?” Murawczyk said. This is where the story seemed weak. What the hell would these people be doing with Adele Webster, and why hadn’t they tried to ransom her, or something, after all this time?
“They were part of some group,” she said. “Something called Judgment Day? I don’t know what their plans were, but once they had me, apparently they realized they were in over their heads. I overheard them…” The girl paused, her voice cracking.
“We can take a break if you like,” Murawczyk said.
“No,” she said. She took a sip of water. “They had me locked by myself in a room for probably two months in the beginning. I kind of lost track of time. But one day, I overheard them talking to someone else. The other person told them they had to kill me. I was a liability. So…” She took another sip, then coughed a little, like the water had gone down the wrong way. “So when they came to my room later, I was sure I was going to die.” The girl looked at the floor, a closed expression on her face. “But they didn’t do it. I don’t know why. Later, I heard them tell whoever they’d talked to that I was dead. After that, we moved to the compound. They never seemed to communicate with anyone else again.”
Agent Murawczyk flipped through his notepad. Everything she said was exactly on point with what she’d already told the other investigators. Which either meant she was telling the truth, or she was the one of the most skilled liars Murawczyk had ever met. And he’d met his share.
“Are we done?” she asked.
“Just a couple more questions,” Murawczyk said. “Can you tell me a little more about the day you were taken from the governor’s residence?”
She nodded, her eyes roving around the room as she thought back. “I was playing with my friend Darrow,” the girl said. “And I went to go outside.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, I was alone.”
“And then what happened?”
“I never made it,” she said. “Someone grabbed me before I got to the door and put something over my mouth. That’s all I remember. I think I must have been drugged. When I woke up, I was in a small house somewhere, locked in a bedroom.”
Just then, Agent Murawczyk’s earpiece buzzed.
“He’s here,” a voice on the other end said.
Murawczyk spoke into his headset.
“Okay, thanks. Send him right in.”
“Send who in?” she said. “My father? Am I finally going home?”
“No,” Murawczyk began. “It’s…”
Suddenly the door banged open. A man in a white lab coat strode inside, black case tucked under his arm. He nodded at Agent Murawczyk and pulled up a chair right next to the girl, scraping the metal legs loudly across the cement floor. A bead of sweat sprang up on her forehead and rolled down her cheek. She didn’t even bother to wipe it away.
It was the first time Murawczyk had seen her truly unsettled. It was a risk, but he decided to let her just stay that way for a minute. If she was hiding something, now was his chance to get her to crack.
“Dr. Oliver,” the man next to her said, extending a hand.
“Adele Webster,” the girl answered, voice breaking.
“Yes, Adele Webster. That’s what I hear.”
Dr. Oliver set the case on the table and flipped it open, exposing a row of syringes, vials, and blue rubber tourniquets. He pulled out a long needle and held it directly in front of his face. The girl recoiled, folding her knees under her chin and wrapping her arms tightly around her legs. She started to shake uncontrollably.
“What are you doing?” she said, voice quivering. “Please—no. I’ll tell you anything, you don’t have to—” She looked pleadingly at Agent Murawczyk. “Please, stop him,” she begged.
“It’s okay,” Murawczyk said, placing his hand on her arm. “He’s not going to hurt you.”
The girl unwrapped her arms and slowly slid her feet back to the floor. But her legs still trembled, and her eyelids fluttered a bit too quickly. “What is that? Truth serum? I swear I’m telling you the truth.”
Murawczyk didn’t answer. He just let the girl’s words hang there for a moment. Most people couldn’t resist the urge to fill the silence. He’d caught more people in lies by just saying nothing.
But this girl was different. She simply stared at Murawczyk with big, unflinching eyes.
“It’s not truth serum,” Murawczyk said, and watched the girl’s shoulders relax. “We just need to draw some blood. It’s for a DNA test.”
Dr. Oliver nodded. “Right arm, please.”
Without speaking, she stretched her arm across the table, palm up. In one quick motion, Dr. Oliver tied a tourniquet around her bicep, tore open an alcohol pad, and swabbed her inner elbow.
“Make a fist,” he said.
The girl did as instructed and the blue vein bulged. As Dr. Oliver leaned forward with the needle, she looked across the room at her reflection in the two-way mirror. Agent Murawczyk watched carefully as the two girls regarded each other. Con artist versus victim. Truth-teller versus gifted liar. But which was it?
On the other side of the glass, President Mark Webster was watching, too. He leaned forward, flanked by a pair of Secret Service agents, and searched the girl’s green eyes. She blinked a few times and bit her lip. For a moment, the president could have sworn she was staring right at him, silently pleading for his help. Just like Addie had used to at the dinner table when she was a little girl and didn’t want to eat her peas.
The agent to President Webster’s left reached a hand to his earpiece. His eyebrows pushed together. He tapped the president’s shoulder.
“Mr. President, sir,” he said urgently. “You’re needed in the Situation Room. There’s been an attack on the Reagan Building.”
“An attack?” The agent nodded, and President Webster quickly gathered his things. As he left the room, he turned one last time to look at the girl. She quickly looked away and pinched her eyes shut as the needle penetrated her pale skin, sucking out a stream of t
hick, crimson blood.
And with it, the truth.
The busboy heard the explosion, but didn’t stop running. There was nothing he could do. He barreled down a set of stairs to the main level of the building and raced out the back exit on 14th Street. He could hear the wail of sirens getting closer. Police. Firefighters. Probably FBI and Secret Service. The busboy didn’t want to be anywhere nearby when they showed up. He could still see the horrified look on that guy’s face when he’d closed the door on him, and he wasn’t exactly proud of his actions. He hadn’t expected something to actually blow up.
He sucked in a breath and hurried out onto the sidewalk. A dark sedan was parked on the street nearby. As the busboy started walking, its headlights flicked on, startling him. The car pulled out. The busboy turned down a side street and the sedan turned, too, moving slowly and deliberately behind him. The cool night air stabbed at his lungs as he struggled to breathe. Was it following him?
He could see Pennsylvania Avenue up ahead. If he could make it there, he could get to the Metro. He started to regret leaving the event room the way he had. Their instructions had been clear. Remain where you are.
The busboy broke into a sprint, dodging down Pennsylvania Avenue, the car still on his tail. Sweat trickled down the side of his face and into his eyes. He needed somewhere to hide. A pedestrian walkway led to the Woodrow Wilson Plaza. He ran down it and tucked himself behind a huge archway, breathing heavily, and counted to a hundred. He peeked back at the street and watched as the car rolled slowly past and disappeared into traffic.
Not waiting a beat, the busboy threw his name tag to the ground and ran straight to the Federal Triangle Metro station. He didn’t slow down until he’d collapsed into a seat on the Orange Line headed east. Catching his breath, he leaned back and rolled up his sleeves, exposing the tattoo on his forearm he’d worked so hard to keep hidden all night—the three heads, fangs bared; the jagged tail snaking all the way to his elbow.
