First Family kam-4

by David Baldacci

  She put her magazine down. "I can see you're still in full campaign mode. It's late but I'm not really sleepy. Would you like to watch a movie in the theater? Warner Brothers just sent one of their latest over. I don't even think it's in theaters yet."

  He finished his drink, stood, and held out his hand.

  "No movie. I missed you, love of my life."

  He gave her the same heart-stopping smile he'd flashed at the college freshman over twenty-five years ago. She rose obediently and followed him into the bedroom. He closed the door behind them. He took off his tie and shoes and unzipped his pants. She slipped off her dress and undid her bra straps. She lay back on the bed, he on top of her. What followed was a private, intimate moment, an extraordinarily rare event for the First Couple. Sometimes, Jane thought, as he heaved and thrust above her and she moaned in his ear, that making love to her husband was the only privacy they ever had anymore.

  When he was done he fell away from her, gave his wife a final kiss, and went to sleep. Air Force One was out the gate early the next morning and even the tireless Dan Cox needed a few hours of rest before hitting the road again.

  The first time they'd made love in this very bed Jane had started to giggle. The newly sworn-in president had not been amused, interpreting her glee as aimed at something lacking in his lovemaking skills. However, when she'd told him why she was laughing, he'd joined in with her.

  What she'd told him was, "I can't believe I'm getting screwed by the president of the United States."

  Now Jane lay there for a half hour before rising, showering, dressing, and surprising the Secret Service agents by going back downstairs. She opened the door to her office, closed it behind her, unlocked her desk, and took out the letter and the key.

  When would she get it? What would it say? What would she do then?

  She looked at her watch. It was late, but she was the First Lady.

  She made the call, woke him up.

  Sean King said groggily, "Jane?"

  "I'm sorry for the lateness of the hour. You're coming to the funeral of course." It was not even close to being a question.

  "Ironically, I just attended one."

  "What?"

  "Long story. Yeah, I'm planning on being there."

  "Tuck told me that you'd called."

  "Did he also tell you what we talked about?"

  "That was a mistake, Sean. I'm sorry. We should have been truthful with you from the very beginning."

  "Yes, you should have."

  "I was concerned about the… the…"

  "Your brother screwing around on his wife?" he said helpfully.

  "That it would reflect badly on the president's reelection campaign."

  "Well, we can't have that, can we?"

  "Please don't be cynical. I don't need that right now."

  "Your concern was well justified. But it took me down a detour I didn't need to go down. A waste of time we couldn't really afford."

  "So you think it has nothing to do with Willa's disappearance?"

  "Can I tell you that for sure? No. But my professional instinct is telling me that it doesn't."

  "So what now?"

  "Talk to me about Willa."

  "What about her?"

  "Pam only had two children, both by C-section."

  Ice seemed to congeal in Jane's bloodstream. "Pam had three children as you very well know."

  "Okay, but she didn't give birth to all three. The postmortem confirmed that. I told Tuck about this. I thought he would have told you."

  Tuck of course had told her, but she had no intention of revealing this to Sean. "So what exactly are you saying?"

  "That one of the kids was not Pam's. Was it Tuck's by another woman? And was the child Willa?"

  "I can't answer that."

  "Can't or won't?"

  "Why is this at all relevant?"

  Sean sat up in his hotel room bed. "Are you serious? It's relevant because if Willa isn't Pam's daughter, then her real mom and/or dad could be behind her kidnapping."

  "Willa is twelve years old. Why would someone wait all this time?"

  "I thought that too, but the fact is I don't have the answer to that. And I'm convinced that I need the answer to that question if we're going to solve this thing and find Willa. So can you help me out?"

  "I don't know anything about it."

  "Well, if she is Pam's daughter, then the lady had to be pregnant with her all those years ago. Was she?"

  "I… She… Now I remember, they weren't living in the U.S. back then. They were in Italy. Tuck's business. And now that I think about it, they returned shortly after Willa was born."

  Sean leaned back against the headboard. "Well, that was convenient. So you don't know for sure if she was pregnant? Never saw any pictures? Mom and newborn in the hospital? No baby showers? Didn't visit them over there?"

  "You're being cynical again," she said coldly.

  "No, I'm actually being politely probing."

  "Okay, I admit that I can't tell you for sure if Willa is Pam's daughter. I always believed that she was. Let me put it this way, I had no reason not to believe that she was."

  "Well, if you are withholding something from me I will get to the truth at some point and the results may not be to your liking."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "Threatening any member of the First Family is a felony, as you well know. And I'm one of the good guys. See you at the funeral, Mrs. Cox."

  He hung up the phone.

  Jane locked the letter and key back in her desk and nearly ran to the living quarters. As she undressed and climbed back into bed, she listened to the soft snores of her husband. He never had trouble going to sleep. Even after working the phones until the wee hours of the morning, he would finally put the receiver down after haggling over some mind-numbingly important national business, brush his teeth, and be asleep within five minutes. She, on the other hand, took hours to do so, if she ever managed at all.

  As she lay on her side and stared over at the wall she imagined she could see Willa's face there, the child beckoning to her. Pleading.

  Help me, Aunt Jane. Save me. I need you.

  CHAPTER 44

  WHAT'S THE MATTER, Gabriel? You look like you're not feeling too good."

  Quarry eyed the little boy across the heft of the kitchen table.

  "Haven't been sleeping too good the last couple of nights, Mr. Sam," he said miserably.

  "Kids are always supposed to sleep good. You got something on your mind?"

  Gabriel couldn't look at him when he said, "Nothing important. I'll be okay."

  "You got school today?" Quarry asked, as he studied the boy closely. " 'Cause if you do, you're gonna miss the bus."

  "Nope. Teacher day. I thought I'd help Ma, do some field work, and then get some reading done."

  "I need to talk to your ma after I go into town."

  "What about?"

  "Personal business."

  Gabriel's face fell. "I didn't do anything wrong, did I?"

  Quarry smiled. "You think the whole world revolves around you? Naw, just business stuff. You get a chance to clean out the toolbench in the barn some, that'd be real good. Get rid of anything that's rusted up bad. And I got another stamp for you."

  Gabriel did his best to smile. "Thank you, Mr. Sam. Got me a good collection going. I checked on one you gave me on the computer at school. On eBay."

  "What the hell is that?"

  "You buy and sell stuff on there. Like a bunch of stores on the Internet."

  Quarry looked mildly interested. "Go on."

  "Anyway, this one stamp you gave me is worth forty dollars!"

  "Damn. You gonna sell it?"

  Gabriel looked shocked. "Mr. Sam, I'm not selling anything you give me."

  "Piece of advice for free, little man. That stamp collection is gonna help fund your college education. Why you think I been giving 'em to you? And the old coins too?"

  Gabriel looked puzzled. "I guess I never
thought about that."

  "See, your brain's not as big as you think it is, now is it?"

  "Guess not." They ate some more and the boy said, "You been flying up to the mine a lot."

  He grinned. "Trying to find me some diamonds."

  "Diamonds in the mine?" Gabriel said sharply. "Thought all those mines were in Africa."

  "Might have us some right here in Alabama."

  "I was thinking maybe I'd go with you."

  "Son, you been all over that mine with me. It's still just dirt in a big hole."

  "I mean on the plane. We always went in the truck."

  "We always went in the truck 'cause you don't like to fly. Hell, you told me every time you watch me take off you want to crawl inside the earth and never come out."

  Gabriel smiled weakly. "I'm trying to get over that. I want to see more of this world than just Alabama, so I've got to get on planes, right?"

  Quarry smiled at the boy's spot-on logic. "That's pretty right, yeah."

  "Let me know then. I'll be getting on with the chores."

  "You do that."

  Gabriel put his dishes in the sink and scooted out of the kitchen.

  As he headed to the barn, Gabriel was thinking hard. Thinking about what he'd heard Mr. Sam talk about when he was drunk in the library last night. He'd heard the name Willow or something like that, maybe like the weeping willow, he figured. And he'd heard Mr. Sam say the word "coal," or at least it sounded like it, which had made Gabriel think of the mine too.

  He wouldn't ask Mr. Sam directly because he didn't want him to know that Gabriel had been eavesdropping, even though he'd just come down for another book to read. Mr. Sam sure had been sad about something, Gabriel told himself while he was cleaning out the toolbench in the barn. And the other day he'd watched as Mr. Sam had rolled up his sleeve to help with washing the dishes. There were burn marks on his forearm. Gabriel wondered about that too.

  And he'd heard Daryl and Carlos talk about things in the gunroom at night while they'd been cleaning their rifles. But none of it made much sense. Once they'd been talking about Kurt. When Gabriel had come in the room, they'd shut up real fast and then showed him how to break down and reassemble a pistol in under fifty seconds. And why go up to the mine every day? And why had Carlos and sometimes Daryl stayed up there overnight? Was there something going on up there? Gabriel didn't think it was about diamonds.

  And more than once he'd gotten out of bed in time to see Mr. Sam head down to the basement with a fat ring of keys. Gabriel had followed him all the way one time, his heart beating so hard he thought for sure Mr. Sam would hear it. He'd watched as the man had opened up a door down a long passageway that smelled foul. His ma had told him once that that was where the Quarrys used to keep their bad slaves. He hadn't believed her at first and had asked Mr. Sam about it. But Mr. Sam had confirmed his mother's statement.

  "Your family had slaves, Mr. Sam?" he'd asked him once when they were walking the fields.

  "Most folks 'round here did back in the old days. Atlee was a cotton plantation then. Had to have people to work it. A lot of people."

  "But so why didn't they just pay 'em? Not keep 'em as slaves just 'cause they could."

  "I guess it comes down to greed. You don't pay folks, you make more money. That and thinking one race wasn't as good as another."

  Gabriel had stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and said, "Now that's a damn shame."

  "Too many people think they can do anything, hurt anybody, and get away with it."

  But that didn't explain why Mr. Sam went down into the stink of the basement where they used to keep the bad slaves. Strange things going on at Atlee for sure. But it was Gabriel's home; he and his ma had no other, so it really wasn't any of his business. He was just going to keep going on his way. But he was still curious. Real curious. It was just his way.

  CHAPTER 45

  QUARRY STOPPED the pickup truck in front of Fred's Airstream and tapped the horn. Fred came out, a store-bought cigarette dangling from one hand and a paper bag in the other. He had on an old sweat-stained straw hat, corduroy jacket, faded jeans, and boots withered by sun and rain. His white hair hung to his shoulders and looked shiny and clean.

  Quarry leaned out the window. "You remember to bring some ID with you?"

  Fred climbed in the truck, took out his wallet, really two flaps of leather hooked together with rubber bands, and slipped out an ID card. "White man's way of keeping tabs on us real Americans."

  Quarry grinned. "I got news for you, buckaroo. Old Uncle Sam ain't just watching folks like you. He's watching all of us. Real Americans like you and the ones just renting space here like me."

  From the paper bag Fred drew out a bottle of beer.

  "Damn, can't you wait until we're done before you suck that down?" said Quarry. "I don't want to ever see what your sorry liver looks like," he added.

  "My mother lived to ninety-eight," Fred replied as he took a long drink and put the bottle back in the bag.

  "Yeah? Well I can pretty much guarantee you won't. And you've got no health insurance. Neither do I. They say the hospital has to treat everybody, but they don't say when they do. Been over the county hospital mor'n once lying on the waiting room floor with the fever and the chills and the heaves so bad I think I'm gonna die. Two days go by and then some kid in a white coat finally comes out and asks you to stick out your tongue and wants to know where it hurts while you're lying on the floor with your stomach coming out your ass. By then you've pretty much lived through it, but some damn drugs would've been nice too."

  "I never go to hospital." Fred said this in Indian. And then he started talking fast in his native tongue.

  Quarry interrupted him. "Fred, I don't have Gabriel here, so when you start going full Muskogean on me, I'm lost, man."

  Fred repeated it all in English.

  "There you go. When in America, speak the English. Just don't try to go to the damn hospital without an insurance card. I don't care what language you're talking, you're screwed."

  The truck bumped along. Fred pointed to a building in the distance. It was the little house that Quarry had built.

  "You do good job on that. I watch you sometimes while you do it."

  "Thank you."

  "But who did you build it for?"

  "Someone special."

  "Who?"

  "Me. My vacation home."

  They drove on.

  Quarry pulled out a bulky envelope from his jacket and passed it across to Fred. When Fred opened it, his hands shook slightly. Stunned, he looked up at Quarry, who was eying him from under bushy eyebrows.

  "One thousand dollars in there."

  "What is it for?" Fred asked, as he hacked up some phlegm and spit it out the window.

  "For coming back home," he said, grinning. "And for something else too."

  "What?"

  "That's why you needed your ID."

  "And why do I need my ID? You never said."

  "You're gonna be a witness to something. Something important."

  "This is too much money to be a witness," Fred said.

  "You don't want the cash?"

  "I did not say that," the man replied, the heavy wrinkles on his face deepening as he spoke.

  Quarry playfully jabbed him in the arm with his elbow. "Good. 'Cause I ain't no Indian giver."

  Thirty minutes later they reached the small town. Fred was still looking down at the envelope packed with twenties. "You didn't steal this, did you?"

  "Never stole nothing in my life." He looked at Fred. "Not counting people. Now I stole me some people, you know." A long moment passed and then Quarry laughed and so did Fred.

  "Cashed in some old bonds my daddy had," explained Quarry.

  He pulled in front of the local bank, a one-story brick building with a glass front door.

  "Let's go."

  Quarry headed to the door and Fred followed.

  "I've never been in a bank," said Fred.

  "How co
me?"

  "I've never had any money."

  "Me neither. But I still go to the bank."

  "Why?"

  "Hell, Fred, 'cause that's where all the money is."

  Quarry snagged a banker he knew and explained what he wanted. He pulled out the document. "Brought my real American friend here to help witness it."

  The stout, bespectacled banker looked at the scruffy Fred and attempted a smile. "I'm sure that's fine, Sam."

  "I'm sure it's fine too," said Fred. He patted his jacket where the envelope full of money was, and he and Quarry exchanged a quick grin.

  The banker took them into his office. Another witness was called in along with the bank's notary public. Quarry signed his will in front of Fred, this other witness, and the notary. Then Fred and the other witness signed. After that, the notary did her official thing. When it was all completed, the banker made a copy of the will. Afterward, Quarry folded up the original and put it in his jacket.

  "Make sure you keep it in a safe place," warned the banker. "Because a copy won't be good enough for probate. How about a safe-deposit box here?"

  "Don't you worry about that," said Quarry. "Anybody tries to break into my house gets their head blown off."

  "I'm sure," said the banker a little nervously.

  "I'm sure too," said Quarry.

  Fred and Quarry stopped at a bar for a drink before heading back.

  "So now it is okay to drink, Sam?" asked Fred, tipping the mug of beer to his mouth.

  Quarry pitched back a few fingers of bourbon. "It's after noon, right? All I'm telling you, Fred, is to have some reasonable standards."

  They drove back to Atlee. Quarry dropped Fred off at the Airstream.

  As the old man slowly made his way up the cinderblock steps, he turned back to Quarry who sat in the old truck. "Thank you for the money."

  "Thank you for witnessing my will."

  "Do you expect to die soon?"

  Quarry grinned. "If I knew that I'd probably be off in Hawaii or something going for a swim in the ocean and eating me that calamari. Not riding around in a rusted-out truck in nowhere Alabama talking to the likes of you, Fred."