Lieutenant

by Lesli Richardson

  For once in my entire life, it’s never felt so fucking good to be so goddamned wrong about something.

  “Can I tell Benchley and Michelle?” I manage to choke out.

  “Yeah, but tell them no press.”

  “Can we fly out and join you?”

  “Not yet. I don’t know what kind of shape she’s in, or when she’ll be able to travel. I-I…I don’t even know… I mean, I have no fucking clue where they’re taking her, or where they’re taking us to meet them. I don’t want any press near her yet.”

  I have to ask it. “Are you sure it’s her?”

  “The guy insisted it’s her.”

  I still don’t want to hope. We’ve had our hopes crushed so many times already. “I’ll wait to call Benchley then.”

  “I don’t want him hearing it from the news, though, Owen. In case it fucking leaks. Go over there, right now, and talk to them. Tell them exactly what I’ve told you, and that I’ll be in contact as soon as I know more. I promise. Keep your phone charged. Personal phone.”

  I’m still struggling to process…this. “Yes, Sir. I will.”

  That’s going to be dicey, though. The press are all over me, between the re-election and now this. Well, not this, about the search for her. Every goddamned pool spray, at least two or three reporters are still asking me about her, or if there’s any progress, even though we’ve requested they limit those questions to the official daily briefing, or contact Comms directly about it.

  Once word leaks out that Susa’s alive, it’ll be infuckingsane.

  “Emphasize to him not to tell the press,” Carter adds. “No fucking FYIs, no fucking scoops, no fucking hints. He can’t call friends or other family members yet, either. Nothing. Full radio silence. I don’t know if they’ve notified all the families yet, or how many are still here. I don’t know what kind of shape she’s in. I mean, he said he’s sure it’s her, and that she’s asking for me, but I don’t know for sure, you know?”

  “Yes, Sir.” I’m still crying and suspect I will be for a while. “Please tell her I love her.”

  “You fucking bet I will, buddy. I promise, as soon as I have eyes on her, I’ll call you on your personal cell. Keep it on you.”

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you.”

  “I need to go, Owen. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Sir.”

  “Be my good boy,” he says. “Do what I tell you. Right now. Go.”

  “Yes, Sir.” I set the phone down on my desk, put my head down, and allow myself five minutes to quietly sob.

  Then I head for my private bathroom to wash my face and clean up. I’m still…in shock.

  Fuck the state, fuck the election. I want to fly there now, charter a jet, and go.

  But...

  I’m his good boy.

  And Hers.

  So I’ll do as I’m told, for now.

  I grab the bottle of eye drops from the medicine cabinet and dump in more than is recommended, hoping it’ll relieve the redness there. Dray stocked up for me, to help me look reasonably presentable.

  Only once I’m sure I can talk without crying, or looking like shit and alerting the press, I summon Dray to my office without telling him why.

  Not that it would trigger any suspicions in him for that. With Carter gone, and Susa…not here, Dray has been stepping in for Carter to help me keep the state running.

  Dray has no interest in running for office himself. Like Carter, he appreciates where the power truly flows to and from, and wants to be tapped directly into it without the aggravation of being the public face all the time. The secret lightning rod and force of nature.

  I’m standing behind my desk, looking out the window with my back to the door, when he arrives a few minutes later. I don’t turn when he closes the door behind him.

  “Governor?”

  “Lock it,” I softly say.

  “Why?”

  “Please.”

  I hear the lock softly snap, like I’ve heard it snap so many countless times when Carter or Susa want privacy with me.

  But in this case, it’s not Susa or Carter. And it’s not because we need the privacy for sex.

  When I turn, I guess I look worse than I thought, because Dray’s eyes widen.

  “Sir? Are you all right?”

  “Carter just called,” I said, bursting into tears again despite hating that I can’t be stronger. “He thinks they’ve found her alive.”

  “What?” he gasps, rushing over to me.

  The story spills out of me. “Can you call Michelle, please? Make sure they’re home, don’t say why. Lie, if you have to. Then, if they are home, please handle getting the detail ready to get me out of here. Back entrance. Tell them I need to leave, now, and can’t be seen leaving.”

  He looks…stunned. Like I feel. “Sure, yeah, of course, Governor.”

  I grab his arm. “No press. No leaks. Carter was emphatic about that. We’re not sure it’s her, not really. But I can’t have her parents hearing a rumor from the news.”

  He hugs me tightly, a soft sob escaping him. I hug him back, sympathizing completely.

  “Shit, we need to get ourselves together or people will think that she’s dead,” he says.

  “I know.” A choked laugh burps free from me. “She’s gonna fucking kill us if we fall apart now.”

  “I know, right?” Dray pulls away, sniffling, and grabs a tissue from the box on my desk. “May I use your bathroom, sir?”

  “Yeah, of course. Eye drops are in the medicine cabinet.”

  He laughs. “Thanks.”

  A few minutes later, the state troopers have cleared the back corridor and stairs, and I’m running, not even bothering to put my jacket on. For once, my detail is having to hoof it to keep up with me.

  Dray’s close on my heels, his laptop and planner in hand, and juggling three different phones, including my official one. I’ve got a death grip on my personal cell, my charger cord shoved in my pants pocket.

  Two minutes later, we’re in the back seat of a black Tahoe and speeding through Tallahassee streets.

  Benchley’s well-protected house, sitting fenced-in on five acres, the house itself nestled within a thick surrounding border of trees, and with a long driveway behind a locked gate, will provide us a modicum of privacy. Since I’ve made a point of stopping by at least three times a week since this nightmare began, hopefully anyone staking them out won’t think anything of it. Michelle already has the front door open when Dray and I rush in past her.

  “Owen, what’s going on?” she asks.

  “Where’s Benchley?” I only want to tell this once, and feel myself already starting to cry again.

  Her face goes white. “They found her body?” she whispers.

  “Benchley?” I roar, heading toward the room he uses as his home office.

  Dray drapes an arm around Michelle and herds her along with us. Benchley is standing, heading for his office door, when I rush through it.

  “Carter just called me.” I completely lose it as I relate as verbatim as I can what Carter told me. Michelle goes to her husband, their arms wrapped around each other and looking more frail than I can ever remember.

  Dray’s holding me now as I finish choking it out. “No press. He was emphatic about that. No press, no leaks. Radio silence until he says otherwise.”

  Benchley is nodding, his eyes wide, crying as hard as his wife now is. “When can we leave? I’ll charter a jet.”

  “I don’t know. As soon as Carter tells me. I don’t even know where we’d meet them yet, or when.”

  “Fuck when, I want to fly over there now,” Benchley insists.

  “We can’t,” I insist. Maybe it’s selfish of me, and I don’t fucking care, but I want to hug her and put eyes on her before Benchley and Michelle do.

  Fuck it. She’s my wife. Maybe not in name, or publicly, but I want this thing. This one damn thing.

  They can hog her for as long as they want after, but I need to hold her first. Because i
t’ll probably be the only moment I get to have alone with her for weeks and weeks, considering the press coverage, the campaign—all of that.

  I need to know she’s alive, and I need to tell my Ma’am how much I love her.

  “Like I said,” I continue, “I don’t even know where we’d be going. Carter didn’t understand what the guy said about location. I got the impression they’re flying them to wherever it is.”

  “My passport isn’t current,” Michelle sadly says, saving me further argument. “I meant to renew it and totally forgot. It expired last month.” I know damn well Benchley won’t travel overseas without her.

  “Well, we need to find out where they’ll arrive in the States,” he says. “We’ll charter a flight for them, if we have to. We’ll catch a jet out there. All of us.”

  This I don’t argue with. I doubt they can fly straight through to Florida from overseas. Most likely, they’ll touch down in LA or Dallas first. Or maybe Hawaii. I don’t know.

  But, again, any plans made right now are nothing more than what-ifs, everything contingent upon when she actually comes home.

  If it’s truly her.

  And who knows the when, because I’m sure there’s going to be a hospital stay in her future.

  I don’t plan to stay much longer. In fact, I’m about ready to have Dray signal to the security detail that we’re going to leave when my personal cell rings.

  It’s Carter.

  I answer. “Carter, Dray and I are with Michelle, and Benchley, at their home. You’re on speakerphone.” That means, hopefully, he’ll remember to watch what he says.

  He sounds choked up. “They’re flying us to the capital city in Brunei, then driving us to the nearby port where the boat’s going to dock, unless the boat gets there first and they take them to the hospital. If so, they’ll take us straight there. It’s…it’s her. I’m sure it’s her. They showed me a crappy cell phone pic the boat’s crew sent, but it’s her.”

  “Where the fuck is Brunei?” Benchley asks.

  “Borneo.” We hear a ragged laugh. “There will be shipwreck jokes later, once we get her home. Fucking Borneo.”

  I want to drop to my knees in Devotion.

  I want to start sobbing with relief.

  I settle for closing my eyes and rubbing my forehead with my left hand, my phone tightly clutched in my right. “Connie?” I ask, because we need to know.

  We already know about Mike.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “The crew told authorities two women, but the picture I saw only showed her. I guess there are a lot of typhoons in the area and their connection isn’t good. The military doesn’t want to risk picking them with a chopper and getting them hurt. It’s a huge commercial fishing vessel, not some little dive boat, so they didn’t want to risk trying to transfer them to a military vessel. They dropped two medics and medical supplies by helo to the fishing vessel. They’re dehydrated and starving, but they’re alive. I don’t know anything beyond that.”

  Thank god for Dray. When Benchley’s knees give out, he’s there, helping get him into a chair.

  I’m damn sure not worth any help. I’d been standing there with my eyes closed. Dray’s already got him by the time I register Michelle’s panicked gasp when Benchley starts to collapse.

  “What happened?” Carter asks.

  “Benchley’s not—”

  “I’m fine!” the man barks. “Don’t you dare fucking call 911.” He jabs his finger at Dray, who already has his phone out. “I want to be on a fucking plane right now!”

  “Stay there,” Carter says, sounding stern. “I need to let doctors evaluate her first. If you want to be helpful, find me the best hospital close to where she will be. Do I let them take her to Manila, or get her stabilized and fly her to Honolulu, or back to Singapore, or Australia, or where? I don’t know anything about this region. If you really want to help her, find that out for me.”

  Dray’s now tapping info into his phone. “Brunei?” he asks.

  “Indonesia region, yeah. These fuckers are going to pay for whatever it takes to transport her, so I don’t care where it is as long as it’s reasonably close.”

  “Fly her back here to fucking Florida, Carter,” Benchley orders.

  “Well, obviously. But if she needs to spend a week or two in a hospital, or longer, and she’s stable enough to transport first, I want to transport her to the best place.”

  “On it,” Dray says, his thumbs flying over his phone. “Give me an hour.”

  “You can have about four, at least. Meanwhile, prepare to clear Owen’s schedule to fly him out here. Don’t say anything to anyone yet, just start planning the logistics. Owen, make sure you have your passport.”

  “Yes, Sir.” I can’t help it, it’s automatic, and hopefully everyone is so frazzled right now it’ll pass unnoticed by Benchley and Michelle.

  “Okay, I need to go. I’ll call you all back once I’m there. No press.”

  Then, he’s gone.

  Dray and I hug each other as we cry, and I don’t give a fucking shit if Benchley Evans is watching me cry.

  She’s alive.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Susa

  I fucking hate boats.

  Did I mention that?

  It doesn’t matter that it’s a big fucking boat, I’m getting massively seasick again.

  It’s bad enough I’m starving and dehydrated and I’m so sunburned I feel like a piece of beef jerky. Trying to keep anything down in the stormy seas is nearly impossible, even though this vessel is so big that its motions feel more like a gently rocking hammock than what we endured in the life raft while being tossed around in the storm.

  The men in the launch who rescued us didn’t speak a word of English, and I didn’t fucking care, because apparently “starving, crying woman” translates into well into any language.

  Lucky me.

  I have to be carried, and I even remembered to grab my purse.

  They get us all into the launch. I reach for George and they let me lie there with my head in his lap. Connie leans against his other side, and like that we all start crying as Allen and Collin lean on each other where they’re sitting on the other side of the launch.

  They also recover Lisa’s body.

  George holds on to me so I don’t roll around. I really need to remember to tell Carter to send him a bottle of something good to drink for taking care of me and not letting me give up.

  Somehow, I don’t think either of my men are going to mind or feel jealous.

  I do, however, feel sad for George, that he’ll now have to process his grief. At least he’s got three kids to focus on, and they’ll need him, I’m sure.

  They transport us back to their huge-ass fishing vessel. I mean, this ain’t no goddamned USS Minnow, this is a fucking ship. One that looks even bigger than the ones I’ve seen on Deadliest Catch. I don’t know what kind of fish they catch, but I don’t care, either.

  Honestly? They could be clubbing baby seals with Flipper at this point, and serving them in blue whale soup in a shark fin bowl, and I wouldn’t give a flying fuck, as long as they plucked our asses off that goddamned rock.

  I’d even settle for a crab boat.

  The captain’s English, while passible, isn’t great. He tells us the military—whose, I have no clue—is flying out a medic team they’ll drop to us. There is another storm approaching, and they’re afraid that if they try to transfer us to a helicopter, or to another vessel, bad things could happen.

  Sorry, I’ve been in one plane crash, and technically shipwrecked. I’d rather not add a helicopter crash to round out the hat trick.

  The medics eventually arrive. Meanwhile, the others can sip water and electrolyte solutions and keep it down, but I can’t. I’m puking again.

  I can tell from the medics’ tones and concerned expressions that they are more worried about my condition than they are the other four. I can’t understand the medics. I don’t know what they’re speaking. It’s defi
nitely not Spanish, so I’m pretty well fucked. The vessel captain’s English isn’t very good when it comes to medical terminology. The others have IVs, too, but the medics have a hard time getting one started in me, at first. They finally get one started, and they pump fluids and medications into me through it. They bring me ice chips to suck, but the cold is too painful in my parched mouth.

  Someone thinks to wet a clean wash cloth, and I can suck on that. We’re told we have to be very careful not to drink or eat too much right now, because it could literally kill us. Something pings my mind, and I remember reading about that once, a long time ago, but then again, maybe not. My brain is pretty well scrambled at this point.

  A barely used tube of lip balm is scrounged from somewhere, and Connie and I are bogarting it, even though we do allow George, Allen, and Collin to use it.

  Maybe I died and this is Hell?

  Over the next twelve hours or so, they question us, get our names, realize who we are and where we came from, and I beg for someone to please tell Carter and Owen I’m alive. My stomach eventually settles. Whatever they’re pumping into my IV is making me sleepy. They’ve got all five of us crammed in a very small and primitive sick bay space that reminds me of an old fifties TV show set.

  They’ve helped us change into used but clean plain T-shirts and sweat pants, but I want a damn shower, I want to wash my hair.

  I want to shave my fucking legs and armpits and the kitty, and fuck anyone who says that isn’t very feminist of me.

  I want the comforts of home, dammit. Barring that, I want to at least feel human again.

  Meanwhile, I’ll just lie here, since I can’t even fucking walk.

  I also want to talk to Carter and Owen, but I fuck if I can remember Carter’s cell number right now, or Owen’s. I’m lucky I can remember my own date of birth and Social Security number.

  Honestly?

  I literally thought I was dead. I’m certain after another day on the island that I would have been. I’m still not sure I’m going to make it right now, if I’m not too far gone already. Maybe I even would have started drinking sea water like Lisa did.

  I know they took her body somewhere else on the ship. I feel badly for her family and hope I don’t have to face them any time soon. I can’t yet.