Lieutenant

by Lesli Richardson

  Carter shepherds me through my morning. We manage to sneak alone time so he can put me down in Loyalty for five desperately needed minutes before my first appearance of the afternoon. It’s a luncheon of lawmakers and other bigwigs from around the state, people focused on water quality, and we’re listening to a presentation from scientists from UF about Lake O. It’s being held at a large hotel downtown. The luncheon and presentation will be followed by a pool spray in the lobby, since there are so many lawmakers at the local, city, county, and state level in attendance.

  I haaaate fucking pool sprays. They’re barely controlled chaos, and anyone with press credentials for the event—which we usually don’t get to control, unless it’s an event we’ve put together—is able to shout out questions. Many of them are “gotcha” types of questions, even about positive topics, designed to trip me up and make me look like an idiot.

  Which, considering how I’m being pulled in so many directions right now, including personally, making me look like an idiot wouldn’t be too difficult to accomplish.

  Fortunately, they don’t have any scandals to grill me on. None that impact us in terms of they were birthed inside our administration. Today, we suspect reporters will try to get me to weigh in on a contentious special election down in Miami-Dade. It’s two Democrats duking it out after a state rep died and left the office vacant when they were the incumbent and had filed to run again, so the deadline to file to run has passed. Both candidates for the special election are leveraging accusations of malfeasance at each other.

  Not touching that with a ten-foot-pole.

  During lunch, I try not to let my mind drift, to stay focused and in the moment. I’m tempted to take my work phone out and text Carter to ask if Susa’s texted us yet or not.

  But that wouldn’t be professional, would be very risky, and would be frowned upon by my very dedicated and sadistic chief of staff.

  I mean, yes, we have very safe and vanilla code questions that are absolutely boring and don’t look suspicious. I can outright text Carter to ask if he’s heard from Susa yet, or ask him to ask Susa to call or text me.

  She’s my fucking lieutenant governor. Kind of in her job description, to have work contact with me.

  Although the sticking point comes from the fact that I know damn well she’s out of town. But it’s a…

  I think.

  Twelve-hour difference. And it’s been a while. She’s always good about texting Carter when she lands in a new city and has a connection. We specifically invested in a phone for her, personally, that would get connection all over the world. Even so, every airport now has Wi-Fi, and she can use Signal or another app to call or text Carter.

  Breathe.

  I try to focus on the luncheon and not look around to locate Carter. There aren’t any press questions allowed inside today, but there are a couple of cameramen filming, and there are cellphones all over the place. I can’t afford for anyone to catch me looking like I’m not paying attention.

  I know Carter is close by, watching and listening, observing. He never leaves me, in case something happens and I need him. If I can’t see him and need him, I fake cough, and he steps into my line of vision so I can let him know what I need. We have a set of pre-established cues. Sometimes I can just text him, but I have to be careful with that because of public access laws about my “official communications.”

  I finally survive the actual luncheon and hold back so Carter can catch up with me before heading out to the lobby for the pool spray.

  I’m given an arched eyebrow. Our silent language, Sir asking if I’m okay.

  I nod and we let the organizers direct me into position. Carter moves off to the side and is thumbing through his own phone when the organizer steps up to the mic to introduce me, the scientist who made the presentation, and a few other key dignitaries.

  I’m not really paying much attention when I hear a bunch of phone alert tones starting to go off. Including Carter’s.

  And mine, as my official phone, which is tucked in the pocket of my blazer, starts going off.

  Before I can get mine out of my pocket, two reporters, who are staring at their phones, both shout out questions at the same time.

  “Do you have any comments about Mrs. Evans’ plane disappearing?”

  “Governor Taylor, will Florida be sending any assistance in the search for Mrs. Evans’ plane?”

  I honestly have no clue what they’re talking about, and at the same time a cold, hard ball of fear congeals in my gut.

  A hand clamps down on my left arm and jerks me back. I don’t fight it, because I instinctively realize it’s Carter. I turn, and I can’t read the look on his face.

  “We have to go, Owen,” he softly says. “Now.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Carter

  Over the past years, I’ve allowed myself to be lulled into a false sense of security. I know my two pets love me and each other as much as I love them.

  Therefore, it is impossible for me to imagine any circumstance where I cannot take care of them and protect them. Even after that day at the school, where I took out the active shooter. In my mind, it was more proof that yes, I absolutely can protect my pets. Especially after all our years of careful planning.

  Until now.

  My work phone had started vibrating a couple of minutes earlier, and I’d ignored it. If I answered it every time someone called me, I’d never get anything done. I have it set right now to do not disturb mode. Only a few callers will make it through, anyway, in case of emergencies. But this time I look, and it’s Dray.

  That’s when a really bad feeling sets in.

  I answer it.

  He sounds…

  “Carter, I…” He sobs. “Susa’s plane is missing.”

  Much like that day in the school, when I heard and recognized the first gunshots, time slows and stretches, every throb of my pulse an echoing crash in my ears.

  I turn to find Owen. Dray’s still talking at me on the phone, but it’s already too late. Other phones are going off now, and I don’t make it over to Owen before two reporters start shouting questions at him about Susa’s plane going down.

  I grab Owen’s arm and drag him back from the reporters. I’m locked in a hell between two modes—husband, and chief of staff.

  “We have to go, Owen. Now.”

  Fortunately, I know this hotel. We’ve attended dozens of events here over the years, and I know the layout, have it memorized.

  The man who is Owen’s chief of staff breaks protocols and literally screams for the security detail to follow us as I practically drag a rightfully shocked and confused Owen out of the lobby and down a back hallway I already know from the security plans leads to an emergency exit.

  Meanwhile, the man who is Owen’s husband—and Susa’s—is feeling helpless and desperate and confused and wants nothing more than to hold Owen and promise to try to fix this.

  Except that would be a lie, because there isn’t anything right now I can fix.

  This is out of my hands, and I know the odds. I don’t know any details.

  Two of the troopers, who’d been standing along the wall near the main entrance, break into a run to follow us.

  “Carter—”

  “Owen.” I grab his shoulders and wish I could drop him onto his knees right now, but I can’t. “Susa’s plane went down.”

  I still have my phone in my hand, and Dray’s yelling at me.

  Chief of staff steps back into place, except, not really. Now an old and long-retired person steps forward, Sgt. Carter Wilson.

  “Dray,” I snap at the phone. “Casualty report.”

  “I…I don’t know. Missing. There’s…there’s storms in the area right now. They can’t send out search and rescue yet. Pilot called a mayday, a problem with an engine, and then it dropped off radar after a few minutes.

  Sgt. Wilson won’t speculate—or hope. He deals with immediate facts and turns to the head of Owen’s security detail. “I need a car fo
r me. You take the governor back to his office. We need to get him out of the hotel through the back entrance. Now. At the office, take him in the back way and straight to his office. No press, no public. No public in his office, shut down public access to the mansion, unless it’s a pre-planned event. He might want to stay at the townhouse for the next couple of days. If so, we’ll need a cordon arranged to keep the public and press away. Draymond will take over for me while I’m gone. Coordinate further scheduled movements with him.”

  I think this guy might be former military, because he immediately shifts modes, too, responding to my clipped tones. “Yes, sir.” He gets on his mic and is ordering cars be moved around, scrambling the other troopers from their current positions to join us here.

  Owen’s trying to get me to look at him, but I’m still on the phone. “Carter—”

  I place a hand on Owen’s shoulder and squeeze to silence him. “Dray, work with Julia, clear the governor’s calendar today and tomorrow. Understand?”

  Until I know what’s going on, I need to keep Owen out of the public eye until a full statement can be drafted. “Also, get with Mike at Comms. I want you to work with him. Immediate, brief statement to be issued through Comms—‘We were just made aware of the breaking news regarding Lieutenant-Governor Evans and Commissioner Drucker and her husband, and are in the process of trying to obtain more facts. Please avoid repeating speculation that has not been confirmed through official channels. We ask for the public’s patience and prayers for a good outcome while we work with local officials on the ground to get the facts. While we are also aware that Mrs. Evans and Commissioner Drucker are public officials, we ask that the public please respect their families’ privacies at this time, and refer all questions to this department.’

  “Schedule a presser for five p.m. and have Mike run it. Add that info to the statement, along with a disclaimer to please hold all questions until then. I’ll have you another statement by then. I’m sending Owen back to the office now. Do not put Owen in front of a camera right now, or they will never find your body. Tell Mike he’d damn well better be answering his work phone twenty-four/seven, if he wants to still have a job on the back side of this. He, or his deputy, better be answering his phone at all hours. No direct calls to the governor right now, unless it’s you, Andrea, Mike, or me, or his family. Tell Julia and Andrea to refer all calls and drop-ins to Mike.”

  “Got it.”

  I hang up. When I see my phone’s ringing from an Atlanta number, I instinctively know it’s the firm who arranged the trip. I’m still standing there with my hand on Owen’s shoulder, surrounded by troopers waiting on us to move, when I answer.

  “Carter Wilson.”

  The man sounds weary, exhausted, like he’s already made too many of these notifications. “Mr. Wilson, my name is—”

  “Is this about my wife Susa’s plane?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m with the—”

  “Company that put the tour on?”

  “Um, yes, sir. I’m—”

  “Fucking going to get some public condemnation from me personally when I can think straight, asshole. I’m the governor’s chief of staff. Thank you for letting it leak, because me and the governor just got side-swiped with this in front of a fucking press pool spray. Are my wife and Commissioner Drucker and her husband alive?”

  There’s a pause. “I-I have no information regarding survivors yet. They haven’t been able to—”

  “Where are we being staged?”

  I’ve thrown this guy for an obvious loop. He’s been used to shell-shocked relatives demanding more info about their loved ones, I’m sure, but not…me. “Atlanta. Hartsfield-Jackson. We’ve already got a charter on standby and leaving at five p.m. for—”

  “Text me gate and boarding info, whatever the fuck I need to get on that plane, to the following phone.” I give him my personal cell number and make him read it back. “I’d better have that info on my phone in less than five minutes. If that plane leaves Atlanta without me and I’m not dead, I will hunt you down tonight and strangle you with your own nutsac, do you understand me?”

  I hang up on him and we start moving again, with me now holding on to Owen’s upper arm, both to keep him moving and to keep me upright.

  I’m afraid if I stop moving for too long, I’ll collapse, right here, in tears.

  But Sarge’s in charge to keep me vertical, for now.

  Just inside the emergency exit, I stop Owen and make him look at me. “Dray’s going to take over for me.”

  “But I need to go with you! I—”

  “Dray’s going to take over for me,” I slowly repeat. “Dray is in charge. You have to stay here, for now. You have to run the state. When I have news, then I’ll fly you out. Dray will tell you when you can comment publicly.” All I want to do right now is pull him into my arms, hug him, and cry, and I can’t.

  Cannot.

  Because if I do that, I’ll cease to function for a while, and that’s a luxury I do not have.

  I pull Owen behind a column to block us from possible public view and grab his face in my hands. “Be strong for me, boy,” I whisper. “Please. Be strong for Her.”

  He looks shell-shocked, and I know the feeling. But he nods, giving me the long, slow blink that’s our silent cue.

  Yes, Sir.

  I remember his personal cell is in my pocket. When I look, I see it’s got several missed calls on it, too. Dammit.

  I hand it to him, pressing his hands around it as I look into his eyes. “Be my good boy,” I silently mouth. “Love you.”

  He nods and silently mouths, “Love you, too.”

  “No public statement from you yet,” I add aloud. “Let Dray handle that. Refer everyone to Comms. I already told Dray.”

  I don’t know how much of my conversation with Dray that Owen processed, but now I’m simultaneously feeling relieved, and feeling ashamed for that same relief, that I didn’t send Dray and Gregory with Susa. This would be a tragedy compounded.

  It also means I still have a trusted deputy to leave behind with my boy.

  I send Owen with the security detail, one trooper staying behind with me while they’re scrambling a couple of county deputies to drive lead and chase cars to go with us.

  My personal phone is ringing.

  Benchley.

  He never calls me. Ever. I can count on both hands with fingers to spare the number of times he’s called me over the past twenty years I’ve been married to his daughter, and all those previous times specifically had to do with campaign topics for Owen or Susa.

  I answer. “I just found out,” I say by way of greeting. “I have to get up to Hartsfield-Jackson. Now. Detail will run me home first to pack and get my passport.”

  He sounds choked, emotional. “I’ll call and have a plane ready for you. Same company I always use, Hooper Hathaway Flight. Troopers should know the back entrance to their hangar. They’ll be ready to go wheels-up when you arrive.”

  That nearly sends me over the edge into a crying jag, that we’ve banded together now, that he’s supporting me without hesitation. “Thank you. I’ll call you back when I’m en route.”

  He hangs up first.

  The remaining trooper is waiting on me. “We ready?” I ask.

  He nods. “Yes, Mr. Wilson.”

  I bite back Sarge’s urge to correct him for the wrong title and follow him out the door.

  * * * *

  The FHP security detail runs lights and sirens to race me home first. We’re still en route there when the details about the charter waiting for me in Atlanta hit my personal cell phone. I was scrolling through news feeds that are blowing up with mostly repetitive and scant information about the missing flight. Technically, the flight is classified as missing and overdue, not crashed.

  There is no land around its last reported position, and several news sites have already helpfully created graphics using the reported flight info to show its path and flight altitude.

  Sarge is alre
ady grim, while the husband and Master don’t want to speculate, and the chief of staff breathes through the fear clenching my gut.

  I scramble and pack in under five minutes, remembering my chargers and the power converters because I have no clue where we’re going or what we’ll be doing. I also grab my personal laptop, and ask one of the troopers have someone deliver my work laptop and charger to the Tallahassee airport.

  My work laptop—and the charter plane—is waiting for me and ready to depart for Atlanta when I arrive at the Tallahassee airport. I now know that the charter plane awaiting myself and other frantic family members from nearby states will ship us all to LAX, and from there an even larger, full-sized charter jet will carry us to Manila, and then from there…

  I don’t know.

  Neither does the company. The initial plan is to stage us in Manila, unless further information comes to light.

  I feel like shit that I didn’t take the time to see if Connie and Mike have family in Tallahassee who could’ve taken the jet up with me, so I text Dray from my personal cell to coordinate with Benchley about transporting them on a charter to LAX, if necessary, if they can’t make it to Atlanta.

  And that, if I have to, I will personally reimburse Benchley later.

  Dray responds with a thumbs-up emoji.

  The State Department is already involved, as is the FAA, NTSB, FBI, Homeland Security, and other federal alphabet soup groups. The fact that there are literally several states in the Southeast now scrambling to figure out their line of succession for having both a missing governor and a missing lieutenant governor is…staggering.

  Fuck. Me.

  No one knows yet if this was an act of terrorism—because with that many state officials on board, it’s a valid concern—or a mechanical failure of some sort.

  I pray it’s not terrorism, because Sarge knows their already low odds of survival go way down, if it is.