First Family (2 page)

For the record, she bowled a ninety-seven without gutter bumpers while wearing patriotic red, white, and blue bowling shoes. She clamped her shoulder-length brown hair back into a ponytail and carried out the cake herself. She led the singing of “Happy Birthday” for her niece, Willa Dutton. Willa was small for her age, with dark hair. She was a bit shy but immensely bright and wonderfully engaging when one got to know her. Though she would never admit it publicly of course, Willa was Jane’s favorite niece.

The First Lady didn’t eat any cake; Jane was watching her figure since the rest of the country, and indeed the world, was too. She’d put on a few pounds since entering the White House. And a few pounds after that on the hell-on-a-plane they called the reelection campaign her husband was currently engaged in. She was five-eight in flats, tall enough that her clothes hung well on her. Her husband was an inch shy of six feet and thus she never wore heels high enough to make him look shorter by comparison. Perception did matter and people liked their leaders taller and more robust than the rest of the population.

Her face was in decent shape, she thought, as she snatched a look in a mirror. It held the marks and creases of a woman who’d given birth multiple times and endured many political races. No human being could emerge unblemished after that. Whatever frailty you possessed the other side would find and stick a crowbar in to lever every useful scrap out. The press still referred to her as attractive. Some went out on a limb and described her as possessing movie-star good looks. Maybe once, she knew, but not anymore. She was definitely in the “character actress” stage of her career now. Still, she had progressed a long way from the days when firm cheekbones and a firmer backside were high on her list of priorities.

As the party continued, Jane would occasionally glance out the window as serious-looking Marines marched by on patrol, weapons at the ready. The Secret Service had of course traveled up here with her, but the Navy officially ran Camp David. Thus all personnel,
from the carpenters to the groundskeepers, were sailors. And the bulk of the security duties fell to the permanent barracks of Marines deployed here. In truth, Camp David was better protected than 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, though you wouldn’t find many who would admit that on the record.

Security wasn’t uppermost in Jane’s mind as she watched in delight while Willa blew out the dozen candles on her two-tier cake and then helped hand out slices. Jane moved forward and hugged Willa’s mother, Pam Dutton, who was tall and thin with curly red hair.

“She looks happy, doesn’t she?” said Jane to Pam.

“Always happy around her aunt Jane,” replied Pam, patting her sister-in-law’s back affectionately. As the two women stepped apart Pam said, “I can’t thank you enough for letting us have the party here. I know it’s not, well, it’s not the norm, what with Dan, I mean the president not even being here.”

Not being a blood relation, Pam still found it uncomfortable calling her brother-in-law by his first name, whereas the president’s siblings, and Jane herself, often called him Danny.

Jane smiled. “The law provides for joint ownership of all federal property between the president and the First Lady. And just so you know, I still balance our personal checkbook. Danny’s not that good with numbers.”

Pam said, “It was still very thoughtful.” She looked at her daughter. “Next year she’s a teenager. My oldest a teenager, hard to believe.”

Pam had three children. Willa, John, who was ten, and Colleen, seven. Jane also had three children, but all of them were older. The youngest was a nineteen-year-old son in college and her daughter was a nurse at a hospital in Atlanta. In between was another young man still trying to figure out what to do with his life.

The Coxes had had their family early. Jane was still only forty-eight while her husband had just celebrated his fiftieth.

Jane said, “Based on my own experience, boys will mess with your heart and girls with your head.”

“I’m not sure my head’s ready for Willa.”

“Keep the lines of communication open. Know who her friends
are.
Gently
insert yourself into everything that’s going on around her but pick your battles cautiously. Sometimes she’ll pull back. That’s only natural, but once you’ve laid the ground rules it’ll be okay. She’s very intelligent. She’ll get it pretty quickly. She’ll be glad of the interest.”

“Sounds like good advice, Jane. I can always count on you.”

“I’m sorry Tuck couldn’t make it.”

“He’s supposed to be back tomorrow. You
know
your brother.”

She shot an anxious glance at Pam. “It’ll be okay. Trust me.”

“Sure, right,” the woman said quietly, her gaze on happy Willa.

As Pam walked off, Jane focused on Willa. The girl was a curious mix of maturity coupled with frequent flashes of the preteen she still was. She could write better than some adults and discourse on subjects that would befuddle many folks far her senior. And she possessed a curiosity about things that was not limited to issues common to her age group. Yet if one watched her, one would see that she giggled impulsively, used “like” and “wow” liberally, and was just starting to discover boys with impulses of both disgust and attraction typical of the preadolescent girl. That reaction to the opposite sex would not change much when Willa became an adult, Jane well knew. Except the stakes would be far higher.

The party ended, goodbyes said. Jane Cox stepped on board the chopper. It wasn’t designated as Marine One because the president wasn’t riding on it. Today, it was strictly ferrying the B-team, Jane knew. And that was perfectly fine with her. In private, she and her husband were equals. In public, she walked the obligatory two steps behind.

She strapped in and the door was swung shut and secured by a uniformed Marine. Four stoic Secret Service agents shared the ride with her. They lifted off and a few moments later she was staring down at Camp David, or the “Birdcage,” as the Secret Service had code-named the retreat, where it was cradled in the Catoctin Mountain Park. The chopper turned south and thirty minutes from now she would land safely on the lawn of the White House.

In her hand she held a note that Willa had given her before they’d left the party. It was a thank-you letter. She smiled. It was not unusual
that Willa already had one prepared. The note was written in a mature voice and said all the right things. Indeed, some of Jane’s staff could have taken a page from her young niece’s etiquette handbook.

Jane folded the letter and put it away. The rest of the day and night would not be nearly as pleasant. Official duty called. The life of a First Lady, she had quickly learned, was one of a frenzied perpetual motion machine buffered often by bursts of tedium.

The chopper’s skids touched grass. Since the president wasn’t on board there was little fanfare as she made her way to the White House. Her husband was in his working office near the ceremonial oval one. She had made few demands on him when she’d agreed to stand by him in his run for the nation’s highest office. One of them was that she could enter his inner sanctum without announcement, without being on the official visitor’s list.

“I’m not a visitor,” she’d told him at the time. “I’m your wife.”

She approached the president’s “body man,” officially known as the Special Assistant to the President. He was at that moment looking through the peephole in the door to the Oval Office prior to going in and breaking up a meeting that was running behind. He was the person charged with keeping her husband on schedule and functioning at maximum efficiency. He did so by rising before dawn and devoting every moment of his waking life to whatever the man needed, often by anticipating these needs even before the president. In any place other than the White House, Jane thought, the “body man” would be simply called a wife.

“Get ’em out, Jay, because I’m coming in,” she told him. He moved with alacrity to do just this. He had never once “peeped” her. And never would if he wanted to keep his job.

She spent a few minutes with the president and told him about the birthday party, before going to their living quarters to freshen up and change her clothes for a reception she was hosting. As darkness fell a few hours later she returned to her “official” home, tugged off her shoes, and drank a much-needed cup of hot tea.

Twenty miles away, newly twelve-year-old Willa Dutton screamed.

S
EAN LOOKED
at Michelle as they drove along. A brief look, a sizing-up glance. If she felt it, she didn’t comment. Her gaze stayed straight ahead.

“When’d you meet them?” she asked.

“When I was in protection. Kept in touch. Really nice family.”

“Okay,” she said absently, staring out the windshield.

“Have you seen Horatio lately?”

Michelle’s hand tightened around her cup of Starbucks coffee. “Why did you follow me down to his office?”

“Because I knew what you were going to do.”

“Which is what exactly?”

“Break in to try and find out what you told him when you were hypnotized.”

Michelle remained quiet.

“
Did
you find out?”

“It’s pretty late to be going over to someone’s house.”

“Michelle, I think we need to talk this—”

“What you need to do, Sean, is not go there.”

Sean stared out at a night that seemed to be closing in on him.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said.

“You didn’t answer mine either,” he said in an annoyed tone.

“So about going over to their house this late?”

“It’s not my call.”

“I thought you were dropping off a birthday present?”

“I bought the present
after
she phoned. I suddenly remembered it was her birthday today.”

“Why then?”

“It might have to do with a job for us.”

“Your really nice family needs a private investigator?”

“And she didn’t want to wait.”

They turned off the winding country road and pulled into the long drive, passing trees on both sides.

“Boondocks,” muttered Michelle.

“Private,” Sean amended.

The next instant the large house came into view.

“Nice place,” she said. “Your friend obviously does well.”

“Government contracting. The Feds apparently throw money at people.”

“Wow, what a surprise. But the house is dark. You sure you got the time right?”

Sean eased the car to a stop in front.

Michelle put down her coffee and pulled out her pistol from its belt holster. “That was a woman’s scream.”

“Wait a minute. Don’t go off half-cocked,” he said, putting a restraining hand on her arm. The crashing sound from inside the house made him reach in the glove box for his own weapon. “Let’s confirm before calling the cops.”

“You hit the back, I got the front,” Michelle said.

He climbed out and hustled to the rear of the brick colonial skittering next to the side-load garage and stopping for a few moments to scan the terrain before heading on. After doing her own recon of the area, Michelle was next to the front door a minute later.

No more screams or crashes. No other vehicles in sight. She could call out, see if everything was okay. Only if it wasn’t she might be giving some bad guys a warning. She tried the front door. Locked. Something made her pull her hand back, she wasn’t quite sure what, only she was glad she had.

The bullet blast ripped through the door, sending shards of painted wood spinning into the air. She could actually feel the slugs race past before they riddled Sean’s car.

She leapt off the front porch and did a roll, coming up and hitting full sprint two steps later. Her hand dug into her pocket and her
fingers drilled 911 on the keypad. The dispatcher’s voice came on. Michelle was about to speak when the garage door blew open and the pickup truck cut a tight turn and bore down on her. She turned, fired at the tires, then the windshield. Her phone flew out of her hand as she catapulted to the side and rolled down an embankment. She landed in a pile of leaves and mud at the bottom of a runoff ditch. She sat forward and looked up.

And fired.

Her aim, as usual, was unerring. The bullet hit the man dead in the chest. There was only one problem. Her jacketed 9mm round didn’t drop him. He staggered back, then brought his weapon up, took aim, and fired back.

The only thing that saved Michelle Maxwell that night was that she deduced her attacker was wearing body armor, and then was nimble enough to roll behind a monster oak before the MP5 rounds headed her way. Dozens of slugs slammed into the tree, shredding its bark and sending pieces of oak tailings whipsawing away. Yet wood that thick always won out, even over submachine gun bullets coming in waves.

She didn’t pause, because it only took a practiced hand seconds to eject and then slap in another clip on the MP. She jumped out, both hands on her pistol grip. This time she would aim for the head and drop him for good.

Only there was no one there for her to kill.

Mr. MP5 had pinned her down, then fled.

She cautiously made her way up the slope, her pistol pointed straight ahead. When she heard the truck start to race off she scrambled up, pulling at roots, branches, and vines. The pickup was out of sight by the time she reached the driveway. She hustled toward Sean’s car thinking she would take up pursuit, but stopped when she saw steam rising from under the hood. Her gaze drifted to the bullet holes in the sheet metal. They weren’t going anywhere.