“Armani?” she said.
He shook his head. “Ah, would that it were. Versace.”
Which was still pretty damn good. She checked his shoes and felt her grin widening. “Are you wearing little boots?”
He stretched his legs out, and she caught a glimpse of grey socks—a shade lighter than his shoes, but darker than his suit—above the ankle-high boots. “Indeed I am,” he said.
For some reason, she found that hilarious—even more so than the black-and-white zoot suit shoes he sometimes showed up to work in—and it took a great effort not to laugh. “You know what would have been one of the worst things about getting killed?”
“I don’t know, Meg,” he said, sounding much more serious.
She gestured to indicate his entire ensemble. “Not seeing any more of your outfits. I mean, your outfits are usually the high point of my day.”
He laughed.
“I’m serious,” she said.
“Well, maybe we should work on making your days a little more stimulating,” he said.
She laughed, too, feeling an immediate, nearly gasp-inducing twinge in her ribs.
“How you feeling?” he asked.
To lie, or not to lie. “I don’t know,” she said. “Kind of terrible.”
He nodded. “At least you look better than you did the last time I saw you.”
She frowned, trying to remember. “I saw you?”
“In the emergency room,” he said. “I brought your brothers to see that you really were all right.”
She frowned more, not remembering any of that. “My brothers were there, too?”
“You were pretty much out of it,” he said.
Jesus, she must have been. “Was I talking to you?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“I talked to you on the phone,” she said, suddenly remembering that much, at least.
He nodded.
“Did I make any sense?” she asked.
“You weren’t really saying anything at all, kid,” he said. “I was pretty worried.”
“I was so tired.” She sighed. “I’m still so tired.”
He started to get up. “You want me to—?”
“No, I’d rather talk to you,” she said. “Or, you know, have you stay here.”
He nodded, and reached over to pick up her hand, Meg noticing—again—how strange and nice it was to feel safe.
“Where are my parents?” she asked.
“Thought they looked pretty tired themselves,” he said.
She hadn’t seen either of them sleep so far, so they definitely must be. “You mean, they’re resting?”
“I think your father might be,” he said. “Your mother’s in a meeting.”
The latter, not being at all surprising. “She worked the whole time I was gone,” Meg said, “right?”
Preston nodded.
Because not negotiating would mean much less, if the government noticeably stopped functioning. And she wondered what the country thought about that—but didn’t really want to know. Aware that Preston was looking at her intently, she let out her breath. “My father thinks the FBI’s stupid.”
“It’s been a pretty frustrating time,” he said.
Preston was a master at non-answers. Although he was usually pretty straight with her. “I guess if they don’t come up with something, heads’ll roll?” she asked.
“Heads have already rolled,” he said. “Believe me.”
A phrase which, taken literally, was terrifying.
“What?” Preston asked.
She shivered, not sure if she wanted to let go of his hand—or hang on more tightly. But, she didn’t want to fall apart in front of him—or anyone else—so, she forced the image out of her mind. “I can ask you stuff, right? And you’ll tell me?”
He nodded.
“I asked those FBI guys and everything, but they wouldn’t really—” She swallowed. “What happened at the school?”
Preston hesitated—which was an answer in itself.
“I saw them both go down,” she said.
He nodded.
“I wish—” Now, on top of everything else, she was about to cry, too. “I really liked Chet. I liked him a lot.”
His other hand came over so that he was holding her hand between both of his. “The thing you have to remember, Meg, is that none of it was your fault. It’s terrible, but it wasn’t your fault.”
She blinked, some of the tears spilling over. “I stopped walking. I know I’m not supposed to—”
“You were told to stop,” Preston said. “Anyone would have.”
Meg looked up. “They heard that?” Her back-ups—in some form or other.
He nodded. “Took a second for them to realize that it wasn’t just a reflex on his part.”
It had seemed so—benign. As though he was looking out for her. “The guy said they almost made it with the stun grenades and stuff,” she said.
Preston nodded again.
It was way too soon to be thinking about any of this. Ideally, she didn’t ever want to think about it. “Shouldn’t Dennis have figured they’d kill him?” she asked. “For knowing too much?”
“He talked a little,” Preston said, and she was glad he left off the “before he died” part. “I guess he thought they were just going to wound him.”
Christ, there must have been an unbelievable amount of money involved, from start to finish. “And then later, they would have like, retired him, because of the stress of it all?” she asked, a few more pieces of the whole thing falling into place.
Preston shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe. No point in thinking about it now, though.”
Well, he was definitely right about that. In fact, there were a lot of details she’d just as soon never know. Which didn’t make it any less her fault. “I knew I didn’t like him,” she said. “I knew there was something—”
Preston shook his head. “If anything, Meg, you thought he was over protective.”
Which was true, but—“I know,” she said. “But if I’d told you, or maybe my father, or—”
“Yeah, your buddy Josh was all worried about that, too. Says he knew you weren’t going to tell anyone, so he should have,” Preston said. “But—initially, at least—the reality is that he probably would have just gotten a warning to back off a little. Give you some space.”
It was nice of him to try and let her down easily, but that didn’t make it true. “He probably would have been taken off the detail,” Meg said.
“Maybe,” Preston said. “Not necessarily.”
She disagreed—but, okay. What she wanted to do, was stop asking questions, but there was still so much that she didn’t know. “Were other people—” She really didn’t want to know the truth about this one. “I mean, people in my class, or teachers, or—”
Preston shook his head. “No. There were some minor injuries from glass fragments, and the ricochets, and so forth, but—well, thank God you warned them all to get out of the way.”
What? She frowned at him. “I didn’t do that.”
He nodded.
Well, she was the one who had been there—and she was damned sure that that hadn’t happened. “What about, you know, the terrorists?” she asked.
“Your back-ups brought down three of them,” he said.
Jesus. “Were they—?” she asked.
“Two of them,” Preston said, nodding. “The other one’s in a prison hospital, for now.”
She didn’t want to know whether extraordinary rendition, or anything like that, was in his future. “Is he like, plea-bargaining?” she asked.
“I don’t think he knows much. Whoever planned the thing was—” He stopped.
“Pretty god-damned brilliant,” Meg said. And then some.
“Well, no one’s that smart,” Preston said. “They’ll get him.”
Not bloody likely. She shook her head.
“The Agency’s reputation was pretty tarnished by this one,” he said. “
All of the security agencies, actually. I think they’ll do everything it takes.”
Yeah, right. Meg narrowed her eyes at him—which pulled at her stitches. “You sound like a press secretary.”
“Wonder why,” he said, and grinned at her.
Well, yeah. But, even so. “You know they’re not going to get him,” she said.
He shrugged. “They got the damn group that funded the thing.”
She perked up. “Really? When?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess it was the third or fourth day.”
Third or fourth day. It was the third or fourth day when they had panicked—or whatever it was that had happened, and—“Did it leak?” she asked.
Preston nodded. “Hit the Internet first, and then most of the networks started running with it.”
Great. It was impossible to keep the Internet in check, but, because of some television networks grubbing for extra ratings—and, she assumed, advertising dollars, she’d ended up chained in a mine shaft in the middle of nowhere. “That was stupid,” she said. “They almost got me killed.”
“I don’t think your mother’s going to forget it anytime soon, either,” he said.
Big deal. Meg shrugged. “Well, it’s not like she can do anything. I mean—”
“Would you want to be a major news organization the President had a grudge against?” he asked.
No. Meg looked at him uneasily. “All she can really do is restrict access, or—”
“That’s a lot, Meg,” he said.
But not enough, considering the way it had played out. Feeling very thirsty, she reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. “She can’t actually come right out, and—”
“They’ll get the message,” he said.
A person didn’t get to be the President without learning how to handle enemies somewhere along the line. “My father’s even less forgiving than she is,” she said.
Preston nodded, pouring some fresh ice water into her glass. “Especially where his family’s concerned.”
Yeah. “Who were they?” she asked. “The terrorists, I mean.”
Preston scowled, and she was surprised to see his right fist tighten. “Some new damned Islamofascist splinter group.”
Swell. “Are they in jail?” she asked.
“Some were detained; others were deported,” he said. Cryptically.
Foreign policy was always scary, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know any more details. “Was it—” She hesitated. “State-supported?” Christ, a war could be started over this.
He shook his head. “Doesn’t look that way.”
“Thank God for that,” she said.
The tension in Preston’s face eased slightly. “Yeah, I’d say so.”
“Do you think she would have—” Meg stopped, since saying “blown them off the map” lacked a certain—“I mean—”
“Your mother is a very prudent woman. I like to think—” He grinned. “Well, you know me, kid, I’m big on economic sanctions.”
None of this was funny, but she laughed anyway. “Can you imagine my father’s reaction if that’s all she did?”
Preston laughed, too. “I’d rather not imagine it.”
Picturing her father signing on with the Delta Force or HRT or something was kind of amusing, but everything was starting to hurt again, so she closed her eyes.
“You okay, Meg?” Preston asked, sounding worried.
“I’m just tired.” She opened them. “What time is it?”
He looked at his watch. “Almost six.”
She nodded. Not that it really made any difference.
“Feel up for some dinner?” he asked.
“I guess,” she said, without enthusiasm.
“Couldn’t hurt,” he said.
She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the door. “Does everyone think I’m going to be psycho from this?”
He shook his head. “I think people are probably just going to be afraid of saying the wrong thing.”
Hell, she didn’t even know what the wrong thing was.
“My feeling,” he said, “is that you should probably just worry about getting better, then worry about how you feel about things.”
Right now, all she felt was tired. In lieu of yawning, she sipped some water. “An Army psychologist was here, when the FBI was.” At least one.
“I really wouldn’t worry. I mean—” he glanced at her—“later on, you may want to talk to someone, but—”
“You think I’m going to be psycho?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Just don’t rule it out—it might be something you’ll want to do.”
“Thomas Eagleton,” Meg said grimly.
He laughed. “I think we’ve come pretty far past that—but, I dig your sense of history.”
Well, yeah—decades had passed. She smiled a little.
He reached over, touching her cheek. “I’m just going to give you one piece of advice. Do whatever the hell you feel comfortable doing, okay? Don’t put on an act, don’t be a sport, don’t do anything that isn’t the way you really feel.”
Must be nice, to live in whatever galaxy he was apparently from. “That’s not exactly realistic advice, Preston,” she said, sort of amused. “I mean—well, Christ.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I know. Just thought I’d throw it out there.”
Even though it had fallen quite flat. “Can I be straight around you?” she asked. “If no one else is around, I mean?”
“Absolutely,” he said.
19
VEGETABLE SOUP, CUSTARD, milk. None of which she really liked, but she was too shy to say so.
“Is there anything else you want, Meg?” her father asked. “Anything you’d like better?”
She couldn’t really think—even about something that basic, so she shook her head, lifting the spoon. Her hand trembled, the same way it had at lunch, and she glanced around to see if anyone—her whole family was in the room; although her mother kept going out to the hall to take phone calls and have conferences with people—had noticed. Since they were all carefully not paying attention, she knew that they had. So, she took as deep a breath as her ribs would allow, and tried again, getting a small spoonful down.
“I’m in the mood for a milkshake,” her mother said, unexpectedly. She looked at Meg. “Anyone else? Boys?”
“Okay,” Neal said in a very small voice, and Steven shrugged.
“Okay,” Meg said. “I mean, please.”
Neal looked guilty. “Please,” he said, his voice even smaller.
Her mother glanced at Meg’s father, who shook his head. “All right, then.” She got up, Meg unnerved by how—fluttery—she was. “I’ll be right back.”
The room seemed very quiet as she left, and Meg focused on her brothers. “So,” she said. “How was school?”
They looked at her father uneasily before shrugging.
Oh. Right. It was—sometime in June, and their school must have already let out for the year. Then, something else occurred to her, and she looked at Steven. “Wait, did you go to your graduation?”
He checked their father’s expression before answering. “What, like eighth grade’s some big deal?”
Aw, hell. “What about Kings Dominion?” she asked. Which was the end-of-year class trip he’d been looking forward to for months.
Steven just shrugged.
Great. She hadn’t been hungry, anyway, but what little appetite she’d had was now completely gone.
“Well, we’ll figure out something,” their father said smoothly, “later this summer, maybe.” He stood up. “Meg, would you like some more soup?”
She shook her head, and it was very quiet for a minute. Depressingly so.
Neal gestured, tentatively, towards the television. “Can we, um, maybe—?”
“If your sister’s feeling well enough,” their father said.
“Sure,” Meg said. “I mean, yeah, that would be good. Are the Red Sox on?”
Meg started to pick up her soup spoon again, then realized that what she should probably do, tired or not, was call Josh. Say hello, at least. She lowered the spoon, having to concentrate to come up with his number, wishing she had a pencil so she could write it down.
Boy, was she tired.
“What is it?” her father asked, looking worried.
“I should call Josh,” she said, glancing around to see if there was a telephone anywhere—locating it on the bedside table.
“I think he’s here, actually,” her father said.
What? Meg frowned. “Did I know that?”
He shook his head. “Probably not. Tonight’s the first time you’ve seemed well enough for visitors.”
Weird to think of Josh as a visitor. “Can I see him?” she asked. “I mean, you know, say hi?”
Her father nodded, picking up the phone and asking whoever it was who answered—the nurses’ station? the Secret Service?—to send Josh up, Meg feeling anxious in spite of herself. Shy.
Her mother, a nurse with a tray of milkshakes, and Josh all arrived at just about the same time. Josh stopped to let them go first, giving Meg a chance to get a good look at him. An upsetting look. He was as shaky and tired as her family and Preston seemed, his hair parted strangely, with a cowlick she’d never even known he had. His shirt was rumpled underneath his sweater, and he seemed unsteady on his feet, like they had just woken him up. Which, for all she knew, they had.
Seeing her, he smiled. Nervously. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she said. “I didn’t know you were here. I mean, they just told me.”
“Well, I thought—I mean, it seemed like you might—” He blinked a few times. “I mean, um—” he handed her a small package—“here.”
“Thank you.” It was too hard to open it with one hand, but she could tell by the feel that it was a bag of orange marshmallow circus peanuts. She grinned. “My favorite.”
“Yeah,” he said. “H-how do you feel?”
Instead of saying anything negative, she shrugged. “Did they wake you up or something? You look tired.”
Long Live the Queen Page 16