The Second Shooter (12 page)

The president walked toward the Oval Office. He had his morning intelligence briefing to get to. The Secret Service agents followed him.

Wendell Donahue stopped the Ford Crown Victoria in front of an older two-story house on a quiet residential street in Bethesda, Maryland. Bill Blackstone rode shotgun. Max Garcia sat in back with his Samsonite briefcase beside him. It was 7:15 a.m.

A pair of sensible midsized sedans, a Chevrolet and a Dodge, sat in the driveway in front of the closed garage. To Garcia, neither looked like the kind of car a young, single FBI agent would drive. Maybe the kid's car was stashed in the garage, but he doubted it. More likely, the Millers, like most Americans, had so much stuff they had to use their garage for storage, and parked their cars in the driveway. "What kind of car does Miller drive?" Garcia asked.

"The son or the father?" Donahue said.

"The son."

"I don't know."

"You know who he dates but not what he drives?"

"I think I was pretty clear," Donahue said, turning to look back at Garcia. "What I was saying earlier, about monitoring interoffice relationships, isn't official Bureau policy. It's just a way to be proactive in—"

"I get it," Garcia said. "You don't want a domestic fight blowing up in the squad room between two people who carry guns for a living."

"Exactly."

"Do you know if Miller has a government car?" Garcia pointed to the two cars in the driveway. "Could one of those be an FBI car?"

"Junior agents don't get take-home cars," Donahue said.

"How long has his father been retired?"

Donahue shifted the Ford into park. "Three, maybe four years."

"I don't figure Miller as the kind to have gone running home to mommy and daddy," Blackstone said. "Especially not with Favreau tagging along."

"I agree," Garcia said. "Still, we might find out something useful by talking to the parents. Maybe he has another girlfriend, one the FBI doesn't know about." Donahue shot him a dirty look but didn't say anything.

They all climbed out of the Ford and walked to the front door. Donahue pushed the bell. They waited in awkward silence, Garcia very aware that retired FBI Special Agent Lee Miller would check them out through a window or the peephole in the door before he opened it. What would he think of three stern-looking men, only one of whom he knew, calling on him at home at just past seven o'clock in the morning?

Lee Miller opened the door. He was in his late fifties, tall and balding, with a hastily swept combover that only partially covered his pale scalp. He wore pajama pants and a T-shirt. Concern clouded his face as his eyes swept the three men on his doorstep. He focused on Donahue, but before he could articulate a question, a woman's voice called from inside the house, "Lee, who is it?"

Miller ignored the question and kept his eyes on Donahue. "What is it, Wendell?"

Donahue cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to barge in on you so early, Lee, but we, uh, have a bit of a situation."

Miller's wife appeared behind him. She was a striking woman in her early fifties. She looked directly at Donahue and ignored the other two. "Something's happened to Jake, hasn't it?"

Donahue shook his head. "No, Caroline. I mean, he's not hurt or anything." He looked at Miller. "But this is about Jake."

Lee Miller stepped aside and the three of them entered.

They all went into the kitchen. The breakfast table was set for two. Donahue sat down at the table with the Millers. Garcia and Blackstone remained standing. Caroline Miller made a nervous offer of coffee, but she seemed relieved when everyone declined.

"Has anyone called you?" Donahue asked.

The Millers answered at the same time. He said, "No." She said, "Called about what?"

Mr. Miller eyed Blackstone. Then focused on Garcia. "I don't believe we've met."

"So you haven't heard from Jake?" Donahue persisted.

"Is he all right?" Caroline Miller pleaded.

"He's not hurt," Donahue said. "If that's what you mean."

"Then where is he?" Mrs. Miller said.

Donahue hesitated before saying, "He's missing."

Caroline Miller's hands leapt to cover her mouth. "Oh, my God."

"Missing?" Lee Miller said. "What do you mean missing? He's an FBI agent. How can he be missing?"

"He disappeared," Donahue said. Then he glanced at Garcia as if asking if it was all right to say more. Garcia nodded and Donahue continued, "He disappeared with a terrorist."

"A terrorist," Caroline Miller nearly shrieked.

"Are you saying Jake has been kidnapped?" Mr. Miller said.

Again, Donahue, the ever-cautious bureaucrat, glanced at Garcia. This time Garcia answered. "Your son wasn't kidnapped, Mr. Miller. He helped a man escape from the FBI. A Frenchman named Andre Favreau. Does that name mean anything to you?"

Lee Miller stared at Garcia. "Who are you?"

Donahue cleared his throat. "He works for a government agency...with an interest in this case." He nodded at Blackstone. "They both do."

"What case?" Caroline Miller said. "My son isn't a case. He's an FBI agent. Just like you. Just like my husband. And what do you mean, Wendell, that they work for a government agency? What government agency?"

But Lee Miller got it. He nodded at Donahue and laid a hand on his wife's arm. Then he turned to Garcia. "That name you mentioned, I've never heard it before. Who is he?"

"Andre Favreau is an international fugitive," Garcia said. "Wanted for the attempted assassination of French President Charles de Gaulle."

"Charles de Gaulle!" Lee Miller blurted. He turned from Garcia back to Donahue. "Wendell, if this is some kind of retirement prank, I've got to say it's in pretty poor taste."

"It's not a prank, Lee," Donahue said.

"That doesn't make any sense," Caroline Miller said. "Charles de Gaulle has been dead for...Well, I don't know exactly how long, but I do know that he's been dead for a long time."

"He died in 1970," Garcia said. "Favreau is wanted for the assassination attempt that targeted Charles de Gaulle and his wife on August 22, 1962."

"Nineteen sixty-two!" Caroline Miller screeched. "But that's absurd." She glanced at her husband for support. "Jake was born in 1988." She looked from Garcia to Blackstone. "I don't know who you people are, but you've certainly got your facts wrong."

"Obviously, we're not saying Jake was involved in the attempted assassination," Donahue blurted idiotically.

"But Andre Favreau was involved," Garcia said. "He sprayed de Gaulle's car with machine gun fire and gunned down two policemen in cold blood. All of the other conspirators were caught and executed by firing squad. Only Favreau escaped."

"But what does any of that have to do with Jake?" Caroline pleaded, a note of hysteria creeping into her voice.

"We don't understand his connection to Favreau," Garcia said, "But it appears that whatever his reason, your son is helping him."

"Appears?" Lee Miller said. "So you're not sure?"

"No," Garcia said. "We're not certain. There is a possibility that your son is acting under duress. Perhaps as a hostage. But we won't—"

"Of course he's acting under duress," Mrs. Miller said. "If you think my son would ever do anything to help a...a terrorist, then you're just plain crazy. Jake would never..." But her voice broke into a sob as she started crying.

Lee Miller looked at Donahue. "She's right. My stepson wouldn't do anything to compromise his integrity or that of the Bureau. He's dreamed of being an FBI agent since—"

"Stepson," Garcia interrupted. "Jake Miller is your stepson?" He turned to Donahue for confirmation. The FBI agent shrugged. Clearly this was news to him too.

"He's Caroline's son," Lee Miller said.

"Why don't I know this, Lee?" Donahue said.

"It's in his security packet."

"But you never mentioned it to me."

"Who's his father," Garcia said.

"I am," Lee Miller said. "I raised him like he was my own son. Sent him to Georgetown."

Garcia stared at Lee Miller, waiting for the answer to his question. But it was Caroline Miller who spoke up. "His name is Gordon McCay."

"What does he do?" Garcia asked.

"He's a writer," Caroline Miller said.

Garcia saw Lee Miller's face tighten with distaste. Clearly, this was a subject he preferred not to discuss. "What kind of writer?"

"He's a conspiracy kook who's never had a real job," Lee Miller said.

His wife's response was quick and sharp. "That's not true."

"Stop defending him," Lee Miller said. "He's a deadbeat. We both know that. And he never sent a nickel to help raise his...to raise Jake."

Garcia thought that if Jake Miller wouldn't run to his retired FBI stepfather when he got into trouble, maybe he would run to his real father. "Where does he live?"

"Wherever debt collectors can't find him," Lee Miller said.

Caroline Miller ignored her husband's remark. "He used to send Jake cards for his birthday and at Christmas. Along with a copy of his latest book."

"All that stopped years ago," Lee Miller said.

"What does he write?" Garcia asked.

Mr. Miller waved a dismissive hand. "Conspiracy nonsense."

"Specifically," Garcia said.

"His favorite topic is the Kennedy assassination," Lee Miller said.

Garcia couldn't help but remember what he'd told Agent Donahue in his office just one hour ago. Favreau is a meticulous planner. Nothing he does is random. He has some connection to your agent. Now the fog was clearing.

"He writes about other things too," Caroline Miller said.

"Yes, he does," her husband said. "Like Big Foot, UFOs, and the Loch Ness Monster."

Caroline Miller looked at Garcia and shook her head. "He's never written about the Loch Ness Monster."

"How would you know?" Lee Miller said. "Have you ever read any of that bunk he writes?"

"I've read all of his books," she said.

Garcia asked Caroline Miller, "Where was he living the last time you heard from him?"

"Costa Rica," she said. "He thought..." She seemed embarrassed. "He has a very active imagination."

"He thought what?" Garcia prompted.

"That the U.S. government was after him," Lee Miller said.

Fixing Mr. Miller with a stare, Garcia said, "Do you know where he is now?"

Miller glanced away. He knows, Garcia thought. "Mr. Miller, do you know where Gordon McCay lives now?"

Miller nodded.

"Where?" Garcia asked.

The silence hung for a moment. Then Miller sighed. "He sent some letters. A few parcels. Books, I guess."

"When?" Caroline Miller said, her tone sharp.

Lee Miller didn't look directly at his wife when he spoke. "Last couple years."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Now he looked right at her, taking the moral high ground. "Because I threw them away."

"What!"

"I was helping Jake. Once he applied to the Bureau, I couldn't see any good coming from him keeping in touch with that...screwball."

"That screwball is his father," Caroline Miller snapped. "And he has every right to contact his son."

Garcia cleared his throat. Both Millers looked at him. He focused on Lee Miller. "Was there a return address?"

"No," Miller said. "Just a postmark."

"From where?"

"A little town in Oklahoma." He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, trying to recall. "Sandy...Shady...Shady something." Then he snapped his fingers. "Shady Point. Shady Point, Oklahoma."

"Keep in mind that I had never even heard of Shady Point, Oklahoma, in my life. And I had no idea why he wanted to go there. Everything was a secret with him. He only gave out as much information as he absolutely had to."

***

The Samuel R. Kerr Municipal Airport was located in rural Le Flore County, Oklahoma, five miles from the little town of Shady Point. The airport consisted of a single runway and a lone hanger. Attached to the hanger was a tiny office with a faded wooden sign nailed to the door that identified the space beyond, in slightly grandiose terms, as the Flight Operations Center.

In reality the office was more of a lounge, a place where pilots could check the posted weather reports and fill out their logbooks. Free coffee was available and a pair of vending machines dispensed soft drinks and snacks. There was one telephone, but you couldn't make long distance calls on it. And no Wi-Fi. So not much in the way of true flight operations actually went on inside the office, not that it mattered much because Sam Kerr Airport had no control tower or radio. The airfield was strictly VFR-visual flight rules-with no navigational aids whatsoever. Pilots about to take off or land simply broadcasted their location and intention on a common radio frequency and proceeded with due caution while hoping other pilots in the area heeded the message and steered clear.

At 8 a.m., Andre Favreau taxied onto the apron and killed the Cessna's engines. Even before the propellers quit turning, Jake climbed out of the cockpit door and onto the starboard wing. Every muscle in his body was sore from being chased, beaten up, and Tasered, and that soreness had only been compounded by the long flight in the cramped cockpit. He stretched to get the circulation back into his stiff limbs; then he reached down and took Stacy's hand to help her crawl out of the back seat.

"Thank you," she said as she stood on the wing beside him.

"You're welcome," Jake said, his eyes scanning the airport. Near the hanger a couple of pilots were tinkering with their airplanes. Both were single-engine propeller aircraft. In fact, all the planes parked on the apron were propeller driven, and only one was a twin-engine.

"What are you looking for?" Stacy asked.

"To be honest, a SWAT team."

She smiled. "Not exactly the answer I was hoping for."

"What were you hoping for?"

"A restaurant."

Jake cleared his throat. "Listen, Stacy..."

She looked up at him, and he noticed for about the thousandth time how beautiful her eyes were.

"Given our situation," he said, "I know how inadequate this sounds, but..."