Once she was finished, she walked out to the hall with her head down, in case there was any visible evidence that she had been crying.
“I, uh—sorry about that,” she said.
Martin, sitting back at his desk, just shook his head.
Meg looked around. It was very, very quiet. “At least I didn’t wake up everyone else this time.”
Martin shrugged. “Susan came up to check. I’m sure you could go knock on her door, if you wanted.”
It was reassuring to know that Susan was pretty much always going to come upstairs and check—but humiliating to know how god-damned loud the screaming must be.
“Are you going to be able to get back to sleep?” he asked.
She didn’t really know him at all, but Martin seemed like a very nice guy. For that matter, she didn’t know any of them, beyond insignificant details, like the fact that Paula was from Atlanta, and Larry was a rabid New York Jets fan, and that sort of thing.
Martin lifted the large thermos of coffee, which he always kept on the left side of the desk during his shifts. “Want some?”
Did she? Okay. Meg went into her room, and brought out the Williams mug she’d bought to replace the Red Sox one that had gotten broken.
“I hope you like lots of milk and sugar,” he said. “I add it before I come here.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s great,” Meg said quickly. When it came to coffee, she was finding that she wasn’t particularly picky. If it was hot—or even lukewarm, it was good.
He filled her cup, and she nodded her thanks.
“I usually have milk and stuff in my refrigerator,” she said. Or, anyway, sometimes. “If, you know, you ever need anything.”
He nodded. “I’m all set, but thanks.”
Okay, then. She should go into her room, and watch CNN or ESPN, maybe.
“Want to stay out here for a while?” he asked, indicating the chair next to the desk.
Meg hesitated, and then sat down. She felt sad, and shaky, and it would be a relief to talk to someone, even a near-stranger. It was really pretty appalling that she knew so little about him. He was African-American, very light-skinned, probably in his late twenties, and pretty tall, with big shoulders. She wasn’t sure if he wore contact lenses, but late at night, she often saw him with reading glasses on, and since he didn’t have a wedding ring, he was probably single. Most of her agents were, and from what she had heard, a few of the others sometimes acted that way.
“Where’d you go to school?” she asked.
“Clemson,” he said.
The only thing she really knew about Clemson was that it was in South Carolina. “Did you like it?”
He sipped some coffee. “It was okay. But I screwed up my knee playing football my sophomore year, and they took my scholarship away. I thought that was kind of lousy.”
Definitely lousy. “So, what did you do?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Got my grades up. Took out some loans. Worked a couple of jobs. That kind of stuff.”
Which instantly made her feel guilty—and obscenely, offensively rich. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t always remember that I’ve been really lucky that way.”
For the first time, he made direct eye contact with her. “I wouldn’t trade places with you for a minute.”
Christ, did it seem that awful? Oh, hell, it was that awful. “I’m sorry I don’t talk to you guys more,” she said. “I just—you must think I’m this unbelievable bitch.”
He shook his head.
Yeah. Right. As protectees went, she was an absolute joy. She sighed. “What happened to Chet makes me sick.” One of the two agents who had been shot—and died—that day in front of her high school. “He was my friend.”
Martin nodded.
“And I don’t blame you guys for Dennis,” Meg said. The bastard who had sold her out—and also gotten killed for his trouble.
Martin looked grim. “We blame us for Dennis.”
Yeah. They probably did. And, all things being equal, they probably should.
It was quiet. They were alone. No one else ever had to know that they had discussed this.
Meg swallowed. “If I ask you a serious question, will you give me an honest answer?”
“If I can,” Martin said.
Okay. But the thought of even saying this aloud—a fear that, not infrequently, surfaced in some disguised form in her worst dreams—was scary. Terrifying, even. Meg took a deep breath. “If it happens again, are you guys going to kill me?”
Martin tilted his head. “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
The reality was that this answer might be so secret and covert—and inhumane—that even her mother hadn’t been consulted. Because she sure as hell wouldn’t have given her approval. Presumably. But it would be foolish to think that security and intelligence agencies revealed all of their secrets to anyone, even the President. They might justify it by spouting about national security concerns, and plausible deniability, and so forth, but it was really about power and corruption, and the simple reality that the combination of the two could sometimes lead to some very dark and evil activities. A person would have to be incredibly naive to believe otherwise.
Martin was still looking at her, clearly baffled. “Meg?”
She should have stayed with football, and college, and other friendly topics. She let out her breath. “If someone tries to kidnap me again, and it looks like they’re going to pull it off, are you guys under orders to kill me, if you have to, to keep them from being successful?”
He stared at her. “What? Are you crazy?”
Yes, but that was another issue, entirely. “The country’s security is a hell of a lot more important than my safety,” Meg said. “If anyone managed to get away with it again, that would make us look—it would be a lot better just to wipe them out, even if it means taking me out, too.”
His mouth had actually dropped open during all of this, and when he put his cup of coffee down, she was surprised to see his hand quiver. “Our only orders are to protect all of you, at all costs, even if it means giving up our own lives to do it,” he said. “It’s our code.”
Maybe Dennis had missed the training sessions on The Code.
“No one will ever get you again,” he said, “but if, God forbid, they try, I can promise you that there isn’t a man or woman on this detail who wouldn’t instantly shoot anyone who drew down on you, even if it was one of our own people.”
Christ, she hoped that was true.
Martin still looked very upset. “Meg, tell me that you haven’t been spending a lot of time worrying about this. Because it’s not ever going to happen.”
She could only tell him that if she lied. “It’s one of the nightmares I have,” she said softly.
If he wasn’t such a big, tough person, she might have been afraid that hearing all of this had made him feel like crying.
“The guy told me that it would have been over right then and there if you all had shot me.” Except that no one, except for Beth and Preston, ever knew what she meant when she referred to “the guy.” She sighed. “The kidnapper, I mean. The main one. He said he wasn’t sure which way you were going to go, but that you should have killed me, to keep the government from being so completely humiliated. That the fallout from my being dead would have been much lower.”
“Yeah, well, fuck him,” Martin said, and then looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have used that word in front of you.”
Since the kidnapping, she had started using it herself, regularly. One of the more unattractive aspects of her new personality.
Martin reached over to touch her sleeve apologetically, and then withdrew. “Did he tell you a lot of horrible stuff like that?”
And how. Meg nodded. “Oh, yeah. Big talker, that one.”
“Yeah, well, I hope I’m the guy who runs him down someday,” Martin said, the expression in his eyes noticeably darker.
Meg smiled a little. “You know what? I hope
you’re the one who gets him, too.”
Somewhere over in Sage D, a door slammed, a couple of people laughed, and the door slammed again. Then, it went back to being quiet.
“I’m sure there were all kinds of back-channel discussions and overtures going on,” Meg said. “But my mother really wasn’t going to make any concessions.” She had never had to be told, one way or the other, because she had been able to see it in her eyes ever since—and far too often, unnervingly, she recognized it in her father’s eyes, too, when he was looking at her mother, and didn’t that know she was watching. “I mean, she was willing to destroy herself, and sacrifice me, to live up to her oath, and serve the country’s long-term interests. It was—” well— “pretty god-damned cold.” Ice cold. “But, Christ, it was brave.”
Martin had a “boy, am I in over my head” expression on his face.
“I mean, she’ll never be able to forgive herself,” Meg said, “but damn, it really was heroic. And I’m glad she did it.”
She wasn’t sure he was going to respond—because people just didn’t talk about the President that way—but, to her surprise, he was nodding. “I was in the Marines for a while,” he said. “Before I applied to join the Secret Service. And if you had an officer like that, you couldn’t stand the son-of-a-bitch, but you followed him anywhere he told you to go, because—well, you knew you had a leader, and you felt lucky because of it.”
The image of her mother, directing troops through the desert, or the jungle, or out of a helicopter, her uniform carefully tailored and her helmet perched at just the right angle, was kind of funny. Meg shook her head. “Yeah, but a lot of people must hate her for it. I mean, all over the country.” Hell, all over the world.
“Probably,” Martin agreed. “Especially anyone with children. But, the military, and law enforcement, and guys like me? She wasn’t exactly a favorite. You know, rich New England lady? Walking around cracking wise and looking like a movie star? Not even a jock? Forget about it. But, damn, she showed us something. We might not have followed her before, but we sure will now.”
Everyone always forgot that her mother had actually been born and raised as an Upper East Side New Yorker—but, it was still a perspective which never would have crossed her mind. Although she suddenly flashed back to watching a news clip with Preston a few months earlier, when her mother was on an aircraft carrier, and he had said something to the effect of, “My God, will you look at those salutes? Whole new ballgame.” She hadn’t asked him what he meant because, well, she was too tired at the time.
“You showed us something, too,” Martin said.
Meg looked at him uncertainly. “Something good?”
He grinned. “Fuckin’ A,” he said.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, she rose above the temptation to skip her psychology class—mainly because they had a unit quiz coming up, and she should probably try to be somewhat prepared for it. She hadn’t managed to wake up in time for breakfast—again, so she stopped at the Eco Café on the way to get some coffee and a couple of cookies. People weren’t supposed to bring food or drinks into the amphitheater, but as long as she wasn’t flagrant about it, with luck, her professor—who was inclined to be testy—wouldn’t notice.
She was just taking her first bite when Jack Taylor came over, as though he had every intention of sitting next to her—even though there were lots of empty seats.
“You okay?” he asked. “I didn’t see you in here on Friday.”
Not that he’d been looking, right? Considering that they hadn’t exchanged a single word recently. There hadn’t even been many nods, of late. And, of course, she’d been down on Spring Street, anyway, which would have made her more difficult to find. Meg shrugged. “I was in the front row, taking notes like crazy.”
“Right,” Jack said, and smiled briefly. “I just wanted to be sure you weren’t sick or anything, or—well, you know.” He shook some snow off and unzipped his jacket. “Mind if I sit here?”
Yes, and no. “As long as you promise to pay very close attention if we cover erotomania today,” Meg said.
Jack nodded. “Okay. If you explain the really hard words.”
It wasn’t quite a “touché”—but, it wasn’t bad.
Despite the weather, all he was wearing under his jacket was an old flowered Hawaiian shirt, jeans, and high-tops. No gloves, a baseball cap which said “SM,” with a scripted “SAMOHI” below the logo, black sunglasses. California boys didn’t get cold, apparently.
The class started, which meant that they didn’t have to sit there and try to make conversation. Which was just as well, but she found herself a little too aware of the fact that he was right next to her. For better or worse, he was exceedingly attractive. But she made a strong, if only minimally effective, effort to concentrate on the lecture.
“What’s the cap?” she asked.
“My high school,” he said. “Santa Monica.”
Good to hear that it had nothing to do with sadomasochism.
“You have terrible handwriting,” he said quietly at one point.
Yes. She did. She glanced over at his notebook and saw neat, very organized printing, with sections carefully lettered and numbered in outline form. Kind of a dramatic contrast to her jagged stream-of-consciousness scrawling.
“Security reasons,” she said. “I’m sure you understand.”
For at least a second, he fell for that, but then he grinned.
When the class ended, her plan was to stall until he gave up and went away, except that he was taking his own sweet time packing up, too.
“You going to lunch with anyone?” he asked.
It would be way too embarrassing to admit that she was going to go take a pre–physical therapy nap after her Shakespeare class. Meg shook her head. “I have an appointment later, and I need to get ready for it.”
“Oh.” He looked disappointed. “Well—you going to dinner with anyone?”
Dinner was likely to coincide with her post–physical therapy nap. “I’m sorry, I really can’t,” Meg said. “It’s nice of you to ask, though.”
“Aren’t you even a little bit curious?” he asked, as she started to leave.
Christ, couldn’t the guy take a hint already? After all, she’d just turned him down twice in less than a minute. Meg stopped, without turning to look at him. “About what?”
He walked around her so that they were facing each other. “About whether it was just alcohol, or whether we really did have that much chemistry. I mean, it was—I’ve never felt that way with anyone before. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Well, actually, she couldn’t, either. And even his bringing it up was, frankly, um, arousing. “Really? It’s always like that for me,” Meg said.
He grinned, and reached out to run his hand across hers.
Maybe, just possibly, she felt a tiny electric charge. A frisson, even. “Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t do a thing for me.”
“Okay.” He removed his hand from hers. “So, do I give up, or do I keep trying?”
It would be so easy just to get rid of him. Too easy. And maybe easy wasn’t what she needed right now, despite its overall appeal as a lifestyle strategy.
“Keep trying,” she said, and then limped away.
* * *
WHEN SHE GOT to physical therapy, Vicky was running late with her previous patient, so she started with Cheryl, and her hand.
“Do you think I’m going to have to have more surgery?” Meg asked, trying to distract herself from the pain by watching her fingers refuse to respond, over and over, as they attempted various exercises.
Cheryl hesitated—which was pretty much an answer in and of itself.
“So, all of this PT, trying to break up the scar tissue and the contractures, and get some movement back and all, will pretty much be canceled out,” Meg said.
Cheryl hesitated again.
Swell.
“You’re a very hard worker,” Cheryl said. “And I’m really
seeing some progress with your pinky.”
Yeah. She could flick it, a little. Sometimes without even getting tears in her eyes.
When they were finished, Cheryl attached the TENS—Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulation—unit to Meg’s hand. It was supposed to work wonders for pain management, and she even had a portable one to use in her dorm room, if she were so inclined—but, she really didn’t think it had much effect at all, so she rarely bothered with it.
She had a short rest between sessions, and then Vicky came in to work with her knee. By the time they started doing the weight-bearing exercises, Meg was so worn out that she wanted to go back to lying down, covered with ice packs.
“I think that’s going to be enough for today,” Vicky said, watching her legs—even her good one—tremble as she tried to negotiate a barely moving treadmill.
“What about the Cybex?” Meg asked, although the thought of being strapped into the machine to do weight-resistance exercises was enough to make her feel like crying.
“We’ll do that first on Wednesday,” Vicky said, walking with her hand just below Meg’s elbow, as though she might be going to crash to the floor at any second.
Did she really look that close to collapsing? Damn.
“I don’t want to nag,” Vicky said, setting her up with a fresh batch of ice packs.
Could have fooled her.
“But, what did you have for lunch?” she asked.
Should she tell the truth? Why not. So much easier than off-the-cuff lying. “A Coke and some M&Ms,” Meg said.
Vicky pursed her lips.
“And, of course, my latte,” Meg said, indicating her long-since empty cup. “Full of milk, for strong bones, and overall good health.”
Vicky did not seem to be amused.
“The M&Ms really gave a boost to my fast-twitch muscles, I think,” Meg said.
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