Hoyt looked authentically confused. “Do with it? Not a thing, I hope. It’s my fervent prayer that not a soul outside this room ever lays eyes on this sordid thing. I mean that in all sincerity.”
“So, I accept Hyland’s offer, and the whole ‘sordid thing’ remains stashed safely away somewhere?”
“Precisely. And when I die, it’s yours to do with as you please.”
“Sweet.”
“Come on now, Andrew. How onerous is this, really?”
Andy glowered at his father-in-law. “Is there anything else, Whitney?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You corner me into accepting the vice presidency, and then what? Once I’m in the White House, you start cornering me there as well? You just said it yourself. The expiration date on this damn thing is the same as your own expiration date. Your grip on me lasts as long as you draw breath.”
“I respect you, Andrew,” Hoyt said. “In all this silliness, let’s not forget the basics here. I think very highly of your political instincts. I agree with the great majority of the stands you take. I don’t see any real trouble ahead on that front.”
“A great majority.”
“Yes.”
“How big of you. So what about those areas where you and I maybe don’t see eye to eye? What happens when you want a favor from me and I don’t want to give it? Come on, I’m not a fool. You’re literally drooling over the prospect of pulling the strings on the vice president of the United States any old time you wish. A fine fucking way to run the country, Governor, I have to say. Nice nasty stuff, Whitney. I’m real proud of you.”
Hoyt said nothing. He made a deliberate show of his silence and a deliberate show of finishing up his drink. He held up the empty glass, and Jordan took it from him. Whitney rubbed his thin fingers over his jaw and settled his gaze on Andy. The eyes were stunningly vivid; it appeared nearly as if the eyes of a younger, hungrier animal were looking out from a misappropriated facade.
“Of course you’re not a fool,” Hoyt said, lowering his voice. “You’re extremely smart. That’s part of your perfect package. But I do have to say, I’m disappointed in you.”
Andy knew that he shouldn’t take the bait, but he did anyway. “Why’s that?”
“Because you’re so shortsighted, son, that’s why. Maybe that really is your basic flaw. You’re pretty good with the big picture in general. In your way. But I guess you really do fall down when it comes to the bigger picture.”
The phone on the desk rang.
The sound jolted Andy, but Hoyt waved a hand. “Jenny will get that.”
The ringing ceased in the middle of the third ring. Hoyt took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.
“Andrew. Think about it. Why in God’s name do you think a person of my ambition and my intelligence and my understanding of the way the world operates would give two flying hoots in hell about pulling the strings of the vice presidency of the United States? Seriously. Think about it. That’s exactly what we call shooting low. That’s not a big picture.”
Jordan piped up. “He’s not getting it.”
Hoyt ignored him. He was focused on Andy.
“Chris Wyeth lasted two months. Two. Now the bastard’s on his way out, and you’re in. You’ve got to wake up, Andrew. You are the next vice president of the United States. Let that sink in. It’s monumental, of course. In its way. But for goodness’ sake, don’t let yourself get too settled in. By this time next year, John Hyland is already going to be pasting clippings into his scrapbook. Hyland’s gone, Andrew. Just like Chris. He simply doesn’t know it yet. Veep schmeep, son. You’re the next president of the United States. That’s the bigger picture. That’s the old man’s vision. Now do you see how this works?”
Andy saw. He saw clearly. He slouched against the desk. “You think you’re a kingmaker. You and your stooge here. What the hell is he going to be? The next secretary of state?”
“Don’t be foolish,” Hoyt said. “Chief of staff would be the most logical. Isn’t that what we last thought, Paul?”
The son of a bitch was not kidding.
“Andy!”
The cry came from out in the hallway. A second later the door opened, and Jenny Hoyt practically fell into the room. She seemed not to notice the tableau of tension.
“Andy! Whit! They think they’ve found her! Michelle! There’s about to be a raid!”
Andy pushed off the desk. Jordan came forward as well, and the two met in the middle of the room. Andy stiff-armed the Brit in the chest, never breaking stride. He strode past Whitney and past the trembling Jenny.
“Andy?”
As Andy hit the hallway, he began running. He didn’t know where to.
Michelle Foster stood at the edge of the hayloft. She knew it was called a hayloft even if there was no hay in it.
Back when Michelle was in kindergarten her teacher had once taken the class out to the country for a daytime Halloween party. Her teacher’s brother was a farmer, and his hayloft was filled with hay. Not only the loft, but down below the loft a gigantic nest of loose hay had been piled up for the kids to jump into. The children had all worn their Halloween costumes, and the brave ones had climbed the thick wooden ladder to the loft and then leaped into the large pile of hay. Over and over and over. Michelle had been Tinker Bell that year. She wore a silver jumpsuit under a silver skirt, and her mother had fashioned a set of silver wings using white coat hangers and silky material. The funny part was that Michelle had been told to remove the wings before she jumped into the hay pile. They might bend, or worse, they might injure her. Michelle had told her friends that if she hadn’t removed the wings before she jumped she would have flown all around the inside of the barn.
“Mommy doesn’t want me to show off,” she had explained. “She says it’s not fair to other people who can’t fly.”
So the wings had remained with Michelle’s regular clothes in a paper bag near the barn door, and her mother had stood with the other mothers clicking away with her camera, taking shot after shot of the falling children. The Little Mermaid. Dracula. Some hobbits. Spiderman. Simba. Snow White. Derek Jeter. Harriet the Spy. Down they all came. Little shrieks. Falling bodies. Costumes billowing. Landing safely. Michelle’s mother filled her camera with the images. When that part of the party ended, Michelle stood patiently while her wings were reattached to her costume, then she dashed off to join her friends for pumpkin ice cream, leaping as she ran but of course not taking flight. Her mother caught her with the camera in one perfect shot. Both of Michelle’s feet were off the ground. The wings were flapping out to the side. She was flying.
This barn was dark and filthy. The only light that entered came in through gaps in the walls and through some broken places in the roof. But even the light leaking in remained stingy and narrow.
There was a wooden ladder in this barn, too. But it was down on the floor. There was no pile of golden hay for Michelle to leap into. There were parts of a machine. There was a long metal trough, partly rusted. An oil puddle. An old stove. Just junk. If she dropped into that mess, it would eat her up.
Michelle’s face was sore from all the gray tape that the giant kept putting over her mouth when he didn’t want her to call out.
Her throat was sore from all the times that he did let her call out. But her mommy and daddy did not come rushing to save her.
Her eyes were dried out. Her stomach hurt. Even when the stinky piece of cloth wasn’t over her nose and mouth and making her groggy, she could still taste the smell, and it was upsetting.
The hayloft was large. She could move around freely. But there was no way to climb down. There had been rain outside earlier, and some of it had come inside the barn. The floor of the hayloft was slick in spots, and now the air smelled like wet laundry.
Michelle remembered her kindergarten wings. If she had them now she might have tried to use them. She knew it was make-believe, but she wanted to believe it would have worked anyway, and so she let herself i
magine that she could fly right through one of the holes in the barn’s roof.
As she stood peering over the edge of the hayloft, the barn door slid open. The small wedge of light on the floor grew swiftly. And then a shadow stepped into it.
It was the giant.
He came into the barn and lifted the heavy wooden ladder and placed it against the floor of the loft. Michelle backed away. Except for the gray tape and the stinky cloth, the giant had not been mean to her. In fact, he’d been repeating over and over that she was a good person.
Her knees buckled when she saw that he had the glass jar with him. The stinky cloth was inside the jar. She backed herself into the far corner of the hayloft.
The giant spoke. “We have to go.”
Michelle’s protest sounded like the mews of a kitten. “No. Please.”
But he was already unscrewing the lid of the jar. He had a blue paper mask with him that he slipped over his nose and mouth. Now he looked scarier. He was muttering under the mask, but Michelle couldn’t understand what he was saying. She only knew that if she had her coat-hanger wings she might fly right past him. But she didn’t have them. She only had her arms, and right now, they were useless.
She was crying even before she had actually smelled the stinky cloth that was floating toward her face.
The two cars sped off the King’s Hook peninsula. The trooper who had remained at the security gate fishtailed in his U-turn, stamped down on the accelerator, and switched on the lights and sirens. The news vans lagged far behind.
Lillian phoned the house as the mini-caravan approached Whitney Hoyt’s property. Jenny answered.
Lillian asked, “Anything?”
“Not yet,” Jenny said.
Lillian glanced at Christine. “Get the gates open, please. My driver here is definitely not going to slow down.”
As the vehicles came within sight of the Hoyt driveway, the paired iron gates were sliding off to the sides. Jenny Hoyt’s car flew past the collected media and through the gate.
Followed by Chris Wyeth in his car.
The state trooper eased to a stop just in front of the gates. He turned off his siren. Behind him, the news vans lurched to a stop.
The trooper flipped off his flashing lights.
The two halves of the iron gate slid silently back together.
“That’s the plan?”
Megan was seated on the hood of her car, her feet up on the bumper. Agent Armstrong stood just off the roadway, his arms crossed tightly.
“If the old lady can be extracted, we extract her.”
“You haven’t tangled with this particular old lady,” Megan said. “She might be a little less extractable than you think.”
“It’ll either be simple or it’ll require force. Either way, she comes out.”
“And if Michelle is in there somewhere while we’re laying it all over this woman?”
“If that’s the scenario, we’ll move in. You’re not to worry about that.”
Megan gave him a crooked look. “This is Smallwood’s grandmother. We drag this woman out by the hair, I don’t think Smallwood is going to stand by biting at his hangnails. He has killed eight people. And that’s just what we know of.”
Armstrong had donned his sunglasses, even though the area where the two were wrangling was fully shaded by a high canopy.
“It’s our operation, Detective,” Armstrong said. “We’re past pissing time. Do we need to get your superior in on this? We’ve got twenty-three men ready to go. Christ’s sake, you can hardly say you’re being marginalized here. You’re the fucking point person.”
She knew he was right. The plan held plenty of risk, but all other options would require a willingness to dig in and allow time to become a factor. That wasn’t going to happen.
The clean version of the plan made sense. Draw Doris Smallwood off her property one way or another, then establish through her where Smallwood and Michelle were located. The house? The barn? Somewhere else? Together? Separated? Once they had Smallwood’s location pinpointed, the SWAT teams could move in and chemically disable the subject. Textbook all the way.
“We didn’t exactly part on loving terms,” Megan said, slipping down off the hood. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the woman pulled a shotgun on me.”
“You’ll be wearing a vest.”
“The rest of my body thanks you very much.”
Armstrong’s exasperation boiled over. “For Christ’s sake, are you a fucking law enforcement agent?”
Megan held her tongue. Anything less and the operation was shot. “Suit me up,” she said curtly. “I’ll go grab the old lady.”
Armstrong stood down somewhat. “Thank you.” He pointed to the man in the front seat of his car, which was parked behind Megan’s. “Curt will get you wired up. We’ll hear everything. Outside the house is preferable, of course. But if she’ll only talk to you from inside, we’re listening.”
“Your boys can pounce if necessary.”
“Correct. But persuade her if you can. Try not to pull the badge on her. Try that sweet talk of yours. If Smallwood’s listening, he’ll be less suspicious. But if you have to cuff her and drag her, then cuff her and drag her.”
“This woman is a bear,” Megan reminded him.
“Shit. You can handle a little old bear, can’t you?”
Megan arrived by foot this time, leaving her car at the end of the rutted driveway, blocking it. She paused as the house came into view and scanned the visible windows. She detected no movement.
“Nothing,” Megan muttered. “No one’s outside.”
The fiber microphone affixed under her collar required no unnatural volume on Megan’s part. The technician who had wired her up had told her that he’d be able to hear her swallow.
Armstrong had agreed not to transmit through the transparent earpiece Megan was wearing unless absolutely necessary. What the detective needed was her focus, not a voice chattering in her ear. Even so, the lack of even an affirmative grunt through the earpiece rattled her. The Kevlar vest was bulky, exacerbating her already rapid breathing.
“I’m heading to the door.”
Megan was keenly aware of the house dominating her vision as she approached it. It seemed as if its walls were stretching sideways and the roof growing higher, the entire structure expanding and cutting off her view of all else. Megan was also aware of swallowing hard as she reached the stoop and rapped her fist sharply against the door.
“Mrs. Smallwood! It’s Detective Lamb! I’m sorry to bother you again! I need a word with you!”
No response.
“Friendlier,” Armstrong whispered in her ear.
You fucking try friendly, Megan thought. She knocked on the door again. “Mrs. Smallwood! This won’t take a minute! Please!”
“That’s better.”
“Shit.” Abruptly Megan stepped back from the stoop.
“What’s up?”
Megan’s eyes played swiftly over the windows again. “Nothing,” she murmured. “Except I just remembered that Smallwood’s known to have a fairly crude way of answering the door.” Armstrong said nothing. Which said plenty. Megan continued, “I want to check the barn.”
Armstrong protested. “No! If he’s in there you’re completely exposed. We don’t want you stumbling into him. That doesn’t do any good. Get the lady. Follow the plan, Detective. We know what we’re doing.”
Megan didn’t care for the implication. But now was not the time to stand there arguing into her collar.
“No response to my knocking,” she said tersely. She remembered all of a sudden that her transmissions with Armstrong were being recorded. Use manual-speak, she reminded herself. “I’m going with a verbal warning and then entering the location.”
Armstrong had picked up on the tone. “Roger that.”
Megan knocked again, and again called out. “Mrs. Smallwood! I left state property behind in error! I’m coming inside to retrieve it!”
A lie, but sufficient c
over if she needed later to justify her entering the private home without a warrant or invitation.
The door was unlocked.
Megan moved through the mudroom and into the dining room. “Empty,” she said softly. “No one yet.”
“Weapon?”
Despite her queasiness, Megan smiled. She unholstered her weapon. “Definitely.”
Logic said that the woman was still in the house. The fact that she was not responding to Megan’s calls suggested either unwillingness or inability to respond. Doris Smallwood seemed far too voluble a person to simply opt for clamming up. This was not the woman’s style. Smallwood was here. Megan gave Agent Armstrong a nice solid swallow to groove on.
“Commencing room search,” she whispered. “First floor. Dining room clear.”
The search proceeded swiftly. Rooms. Closets. Behind large furniture. “Negative,” she murmured with the conclusion of each room.
Armstrong and Megan had discussed the matter of the house’s basement and attic. The decision had been made that Megan was not to pursue either option. Both were considered too remote and too dangerous. Barring the easy removal of Doris Smallwood from the house and her cooperation in identifying Smallwood’s location on the property, the waiting SWAT teams would have to resort to an upscaled siege. Not the preferred option, but there it was.
The possibility of the elderly woman’s vanishing had not been covered, but Megan swiftly went over the territory in her mind. If the woman was not on the first or second floor but was still in the house — presumably now with her grandson — they had to be in either the basement or the attic.
Or the barn.
Or anywhere else.
Damn. This operation was methodical, but whether it was brilliant or bogus was still anyone’s guess. Megan felt vaguely like a bug on a string being lowered into a pit of spiders so as to get a good read on their hunger level.
As she headed for the second floor, the old wood steps had a lot to say. Naturally. The lighter Megan landed her feet, the more robust the snap and the creak.
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