The President's Henchman (20 page)

“No, I don’t want that, either.”

“I haven’t worked out what I’m going to do, but since you popped in on us, I’ve been thinking maybe you can take the kids to dinner by yourself, then take them over to your house. Maybe having a night alone, just Lars and me, we can come to an understanding. Would that be okay?”

“That’d be fine,” McGill said, and he squeezed Carolyn’s hand.

They ate at Wolfgang Puck’s on Maple, had Ben & Jerry’s carryout ice-cream cones while strolling downtown Evanston, and after they couldn’t agree on a movie they all wanted to see, went home to McGill’s house. The experience of stepping through his front door — after Deke had given the high sign — reminded McGill of tasting Carolyn’s coffee. He found the house he’d taken such pride in buying now struck him as incredibly humble — but entirely familiar and welcoming.

Life at the White House was far grander than anything he’d ever experienced, but there was an air of unreality about it. Like winning a stay at a five-star resort in a contest. The glitz was great, but you knew it was only temporary. Real life was comfortable furniture that could use a professional cleaning.

McGill made popcorn in a frying pan, and they watched Tom Petty in a repeat of a
Soundstage
show on Channel 11.

Caitie was the first to fall asleep. His youngest, unlike most children, never fought parental directives telling her to go to bed. She found great comfort, even delight, in her sheets, blankets, and pillows. When McGill and Carolyn had looked in on her when she was little, they frequently found her sleeping with a smile on her face.

She was getting fairly tall, but McGill was pleased to see that he could still carry her upstairs to her bedroom. He laid her down, gave her a kiss, and told her to change into her PJs. She mumbled okay, but by the time he got to the door she’d already pulled her comforter over herself and fallen asleep fully clothed.

He went back and pulled off her sneakers but otherwise left her as she was.

Kenny was waiting for him in the hall outside as he closed Caitie’s door. Abbie was downstairs in the kitchen. She’d insisted on washing the popcorn dishes. McGill took Kenny into the boy’s bedroom. Kenny sat on his bed; McGill sat on his son’s desk chair.

“You want to tell me what Deke said to you, or is that private?”

“No, it’s not private, not from you.”

Kenny’s team had lost the game, 2–1, but he’d had three of their four hits.

Kenny told McGill, “Deke said even Secret Service agents get scared sometimes, but they can’t show it, and they
never
let their fear get the better of them.”

McGill nodded.

“I’m glad he’s the one watching out for you, Dad.”

McGill smiled. “Yeah, me, too. Leo’s not bad either.”

Kenny lit up. “Yeah! I didn’t know he was a racecar driver. Maybe that’s what I should be. I mean, if Mom won’t let me join the Secret Service.”

“Or,” McGill suggested, “maybe you should get good grades, become a snappy dresser, polish your manners, and see if you can’t marry a girl who’ll become the president. Then you can have a lot of cool guys working for you.”

“Well, if the girl looked like Patti, that wouldn’t be too bad.”

Hearing his own words, Kenny had the grace to blush. McGill laughed and told his son good night, promising to look for a way he could keep in touch with his friends.

He went to Abbie’s room and waited for her, sitting on the edge of her bed. When she came, he was surprised at how mature she seemed at only fifteen. God, but some young man was going to be lucky when he found her. If McGill didn’t scare him away with threats of what would happen if he ever made Abbie unhappy.

“What can I do for you, sweetheart?” McGill asked.

She raised her arms and let them drop, stuck for an answer. She sat next to her father.

“I don’t know, Dad. At first, I thought there had to be some way you could get rid of those jerks who’d even think of hurting Kenny and Caitie and me. Kill them if you had to.”

She looked at her father to let him know she was serious.

“But then I thought if you killed them, that’d only make other people mad. And if you killed them, too, there’d be still more. That’s when I realized how many people there must be in the world who do bad things for no reason other than they can’t get their own way. Maybe I’m not so great myself, thinking I could kill people.”

McGill put his arm around his daughter.

“You’re a great kid. Do you know what your name means?”

“Gives joy,” Abbie said softly.

“That’s right, and that’s just what you’ve done your whole life. To your mother and me and everyone who’s ever had the pleasure of knowing you. That’s pretty great.”

Tears started rolling down Abbie’s cheeks.

“Then why would people want to kill me?”

McGill sighed and held his daughter closer. She buried her face on his chest.

“Because there are bad people in the world. That’s what you’ve come to realize. It’s a realization that scares everyone sooner or later. But you also have to understand that defending yourself doesn’t make you bad … even if you have to kill someone to do it. Both morally and legally, it’s permissible to defend yourself. To whatever extent is necessary.”

Abbie looked up at him.

“Is that why Mom has a gun now?”

She surprised him with that one; he’d have thought Kenny would be the first to find out.

“I got home from visiting my friend Becky early the other day. I heard Mom arguing with Lars while I was still outside.”

McGill told her honestly, “Your mother is afraid she’ll be the last line of defense for you and your brother and sister. She wanted something she could fight back with; Lars is having a problem with that.”

“Can I have a gun, too?”

McGill winced and shook his head. “Kids with guns is very a
bad
idea.”

“What about Dark Alley then?” she asked.

She surprised him with that one, too. Like a good male chauvinist, he’d thought
maybe
he’d teach Kenny someday, but it had never occurred to him that either of his girls would want to learn. Dark Alley was
vicious.
But maybe vicious was exactly what Abbie had in mind.

“Tell you what, kiddo,” McGill said. “Let’s start with something more traditional: karate, taekwondo, or something like that. You learn the discipline and the technique for a couple of years, then if you still want to learn Dark Alley, I’ll teach you.”

“Promise?”

McGill nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Thanks, Dad.” She leaned in and gave him a peck on the lips. “So how’s your case in Washington? That woman with the creepy guy on the phone.”

Now he surprised Abbie; he told her he’d been fired.

“Why?”
she demanded.

He told her that, too. Which made her frown.

“She said it was all a dream? Or you think she’s trying to play a trick on Patti?”

“Yes and maybe,” McGill answered.

“But you don’t know which one.”

“No.”

“I don’t believe it,” Abbie said.

“Which part?”

“That it was a dream. Who ever heard of a dream that was so scary you’d go to the police about it?”

McGill was no longer a cop, but obviously his daughter still thought of him that way. He hadn’t told Abbie about the green thong, but he suspected she’d be equally skeptical on that point.

“What about the idea that she might try to play a trick on Patti?” he asked.

“Maybe. But has she ever done anything like that before?”

“No, but she works for someone who has.”

“But that’s not fair.”

“What isn’t?” McGill asked.

“Thinking she’s like someone else. That’s …”

“Guilt by association?”

“Yeah.”

“Dad, you know what’d really be bad?”

“What?”

“What if someone made the woman fire you, but she’s still in trouble? Who’d help her then?” Abbie gasped as her train of thought stopped at an unpleasant station.

“What is it, honey?”

“I … I’d rather not say.”

“Abbie.”

Now she hugged him.

“I was thinking — and I know it wasn’t your fault — but this could be like when you had to stop helping Mr. Grant. Look what happened to him.”

“Yeah,” McGill said, hugging Abbie back. “Just look.”

Chana Lochlan sat staring at the video loop playing on the television in her darkened home office. The view never changed. It was an endless stretch of interstate highway seen in the depths of night from behind a steering wheel. Low beams illuminated lane-divider stripes. One after another. After another. After another …

A soft ceaseless rush of wind blew past.

Chana sat unmoving, eyes glazed.

In a corner of the room, beyond the glow of the TV, Damon Todd watched Chana carefully. Her breathing was shallow but regular. Otherwise, not a muscle in her body moved. He gave her another couple of minutes. He wanted to be absolutely sure she was in a K-hole.

Ketamine hydrochloride had originally been created as a human anesthetic and belonged to a class of drugs known as dissociative anesthetics. Its current legitimate uses were for general anesthesia for children, people in poor health, and animals.

Its street name was Special K. Definitely not endorsed by the Kellogg’s people.

In small doses, usually snorted, Special K produced a mild dreamy feeling similar to the effect of inhaling nitrous oxide. Users felt as if they were floating slightly outside their bodies. Numbness in the extremities was also common.

Higher doses often produced hallucinogenic effects and could cause the user to feel very far removed from his or her body. It was known as going into a K-hole and was likened to a near-death experience. It left the user all but paralyzed. Temporarily.

Todd had injected Chana with a large dose. He’d done it after he’d put her into a hypnotic state. The injection site was the lingual surface of the gingiva between her first and second upper left molars. A spot likely to be found only by a dentist. And in a day or two the wound would be healed. Gone.

“My dear,” Todd asked, “can you hear me?”

“Yes.” Her voice was soft, childlike.

“Are you feeling all right?”

“Sleepy.”

“That’s fine. I’ll let you rest soon. But now I need to know something.”

“What?”

“Have you been troubled lately?”

“Yes.” Chana’s voice became fearful.

“Don’t worry, my sweet girl,” Todd told her.

“I try to be good. I try to be
perfect.”

Todd wanted to reach out to her, hold and comfort her, but now was not the time.

“And you are, as perfect as any of us can be.”

“Not as perfect as you.”

Todd had to repress a bitter laugh.

“I’m going to ask you to look at yourself now,” he said. “There’s a very special mirror in front of you. You look at it and you can see all your troubles. They’re stuck on you like the name tags you’d wear to a convention: ‘Hi, I’m…’ Only these name tags list your problems. Can you see them, my dear?”

“Yes,” Chana said.

“Look at the first trouble tag you can see. What does it say?”

“‘Too old.’ I’m getting too old.”

The very idea took Todd by surprise. Chana was beautiful. In the prime of life.

“Too old for what?” he asked.

A snarl entered her voice. “My job. My stupid fucking job.”

“What’s wrong with your job? Is someone giving you trouble?”

“The
job
is what’s wrong. I’m the most fucking fabulous face on TV. What the hell kind of job is that? Who can live up to that? I want to
write,
goddamnit!”

He hadn’t heard her express that ambition before. “Who’s stopping you from writing?”

“Everybody. My job is to look great and read what they tell me as if I’m offering my own thoughts. My own words. But that’s not what I think. That’s not
me!”

Hadn’t taken long to get to the crux of the matter: the question of identity.

“And who are you?” he asked.

“Nanette
Lochlan.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, everyone knows me as Chana, but that’s not who I really am. I’m Nanette. Nanette’s perfect.”

“But is Nanette who you want to be?”