The Pinocchio Syndrome

by David Zeman

  He felt an impulse to call Michael. He knew what Michael was going through. A friendly voice, at this final moment . . .

  But he vetoed the idea. It was too late for such things, really. Too late for a lot of things.

  What will be will be.

  The president sat down to wait.

  79

  —————

  2:30P .M.

  KAREN SLAMMED on her brakes a half block before the intersection.

  It was closed off by a roadblock made up of police cars with lights flashing. A uniformed D.C. cop was directing traffic to a detour leading north toward the freeway.

  Beyond the roadblock there were a lot of cars, all unmarked. Agents with handheld radios stood here and there.

  Cursing under her breath, Karen made a U-turn and took the first left turn she could find. Something was up, she knew. This was no coincidence.

  How had they gotten there before her? She had tried to get in touch with Kraig and failed. He couldn’t possibly know the truth.

  Karen pulled over to the curb and stopped the car. She thought for a moment. There were men converging on Justine Lawrence, and on Susan, if Susan was still alive. Men a lot more powerful than Karen. Men whose motives she could not know.

  “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck them.”

  She got out of the car and ran toward the alley between the houses.

  ————

  THE AGENTS reconnoitered in the middle of the first block of seedy bungalows, apartment buildings, and cheap businesses. An old woman behind one of the upstairs windows reflected that she had never seen so many walkie-talkies in her life.

  Four-man teams spread out along the street. Snipers were already on the roofs, prepared for a possible attack on the agents from one of the houses. Bomb specialists waited tensely in their vans, watching the cautious movements of the agents. Everyone wore heavy-duty bulletproof vests and SWAT helmets.

  Kraig was with two FBI men and another Secret Service agent, a man he knew well from shared assignments over the years.

  “Let’s take it slow,” Kraig said. “We don’t know what kind of weapons we might be up against.”

  He spoke through his radio to the assembled agents. “Two minutes,” he said. “Hold your fire.”

  The taller of the two FBI agents was a man unknown to Kraig. The agency had said he was a top SWAT specialist, quick on the draw but with good control. Kraig gave him a glance. The man nodded.

  “Thirty seconds,” Kraig said into the radio.

  Unseen by anyone, the tall agent released the safety on his automatic and covered the gun butt with his thumb.

  ————

  KAREN DARTED among the buildings like a guerrilla in the midst of a search-and-destroy mission. The sirens were screaming like banshees. The roar of gunned engines crashed between the houses.

  She studied the houses in the alley filled with garbage cans and tiny fenced gardens. Amazingly, the agents hadn’t thought to post men here. Not yet. So much for government efficiency, she thought.

  I must be a block or so ahead of them,she thought. They were blanketing the area, but Karen knew the exact address. That gave her time to work with. Not much, though.

  She looked at the address on her piece of paper. She counted the houses along the alley. Guessing quickly, she hurried to the third house from the end. It looked no different from the others, except for a tiny American flag stuck in one of the pots of geraniums on the stoop.

  She heard a roar and looked up to see a military transport plane flying over. Every window on the block rattled. This must not be a pleasant place to live, she mused.

  Three concrete steps that had long since sagged out of alignment led to the back door of the house. Karen climbed them and knocked quietly on the door. There was no answer. The cacophony of the sirens must have drawn the occupants to the front windows. She dared not go around front, in sight of the agents.

  She knocked harder.

  “Susan!” she called.

  She heard male voices shouting, and again the grinding of the car engines.

  “Jesus Christ,” she muttered to herself. And then, loud, “Susan! Justine!”

  Cursing the situation, she pounded on the door with all her might.

  “Susan! It’s Karen Embry! Open up!”

  She thought she heard a movement behind the door. It was probably the kitchen, she thought. Kitchens always overlooked alleys in these ancient little houses.

  “Susan! Justine!”

  She heard a fumbling at the latch. The door, warped by long years of abuse, crunched open slowly. She saw a woman’s face. It looked prematurely aged. The eyes were haggard. A small gun was pointed at Karen.

  “Justine,” Karen said.

  There was no time for the other woman to answer, for the sound of pounding fists and shouting voices came from the other side of the house.

  Karen saw a brief glimmer of acknowledgment in the other woman’s eyes.

  “Too late,” she said, and slammed the door.

  Her steps sounded faintly, receding. Karen pounded on the door.

  “Susan!” she cried. “Susan!!”

  She heard a crash as the front door was broken in. Then the sound of shots being fired. She sank to the concrete stoop, looking at the American flag that waved limply in her face.

  Too late,she thought.

  80

  —————

  “FEDERAL AGENTS! Open up!”

  Justine gave Susan a last look. Her eyes were soft in that instant. Then, as Joseph Kraig burst through the door, she turned to face him.

  “No!” Susan cried.

  Justine’s first step toward Kraig made his gun come up. He seemed to hesitate; so did she. Then he saw the revolver in her hand. He shot her three times. She fell at Susan’s feet, blood gushing from her chest.

  “No! Joe!”

  Susan clutched her hands to her breast, as though to hold her own blood inside her. Men were piling into the room, all shouting. In that instant Kraig did something that struck Susan. He interposed himself quickly between herself and the other agents, as though to protect her. “Hold your fire!” he ordered. Their faces, impersonal, registered mute acknowledgment.

  Then Kraig had his arms around Susan and she was weeping uncontrollably.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “You’re all right.”

  One of the agents had stepped on Justine’s wrist. The gun lay on the carpet beside Justine’s hand.

  “This is a crime scene,” one of the agents said to someone. “We’re impounding everything. Nothing leaves this house.”

  Agents were fanning out around the house. With their suits and polished shoes and radios they looked like robots. One of them was kneeling in front of the collection of videotapes beside the TV. He scanned the spines of the little boxes, noting the titles.

  Kraig was holding Susan’s face against his chest. She could not take her eyes off Justine, whose scarred wrist lay lifeless on the rug under the agent’s foot.

  “Can you talk?” Kraig asked Susan.

  She nodded weakly.

  “Where are the others?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I never saw any others.”

  Kraig looked from Susan to Justine.

  “We’ll sort it all out later,” he said. “The important thing is that you’re safe. Wait until Mike hears. He won’t believe it.”

  Susan stared at him through wide eyes, like a child.

  81

  —————

  AMERICA CELEBRATES

  April 28

  Americans mingled tears of relief with joyous smiles today as Susan Campbell, the wife of vice presidential nominee Michael Campbell, spent her first day at home after a harrowing four-week abduction.

  Michael Campbell wept openly as he thanked law enforcement officials and the public at a Washington news conference.

  “Without the heroic determination of the FBI, the federal intelligence services, and law enforcement agen
cies around the country, Susan would not be home with us today,” Campbell said. “I owe a special debt to Agent Joe Kraig, who personally saved Susan after a desperate search for the hideout where she was being held. I’ve known Joe since we were boys together in prep school. He’s been a friend to me and to Susan since before our marriage. Now he is a hero to me. He always will be.”

  Susan Campbell is in seclusion at the Campbell family home on the Chesapeake Bay, and will not be available for comment until doctors have determined definitively that she is over the worst of the stress she endured as a hostage.

  An FBI spokesman has identified the abductor of Mrs. Campbell as a former mental patient who had no connection with any political group. The woman’s identity has been withheld pending notification of next of kin. Authorities refused to comment on whether she had confederates in the abduction.

  The abductor demanded that Senator Campbell withdraw from consideration for vice president. Campbell refused, saying that he could not in good conscience negotiate with a terrorist despite the danger to his wife.

  Campbell left the news conference to return to his family home, where his father, Judd Campbell, and other family members are gathered around Mrs. Campbell.

  Sadly, the safe return of Susan Campbell comes only days after the tragic suicide of Ingrid Campbell, the senator’s only sister. Law enforcement spokesmen and family friends have speculated that despondency over Mrs. Campbell’s abduction may have contributed to Ingrid Campbell’s suicide.

  “My whole life has been a lie . . .”

  Michael heard the sudden bright blade of conversation as the nurse opened the door to the bedroom.

  It was his father’s voice. The door opened wider to reveal Judd Campbell sitting on the edge of the bed, holding Susan’s hand. It looked for all the world as though Susan were comforting Judd rather than the reverse.

  When they heard Michael’s step they both looked up. Judd seemed embarrassed. Susan’s expression was unreadable. Then Judd was patting Michael’s shoulder as he walked past him, and Susan offered her usual diffident, welcoming smile. But Michael had heard her murmur to his father, “It will be all right, Dad,” in the confusion of bodies shifting position under the nurse’s eye.

  Michael sat where his father had sat and looked down at Susan.

  “How you doing?” he asked.

  “Coming along,” she smiled. “A little at a time.”

  “Did those federal guys give you a hard time?” he asked.

  “They’re terrible,” Susan said. “Going over the same ground a thousand times, when I already told them the little I know. They seem disappointed in me. I think they blame me for not knowing more.”

  Susan had been subjected to a tactful but exhausting debriefing at the hands of several federal agents. She had kept her story simple, saying that her kidnapper was a madwoman motivated by some sort of obsession with Michael and his career, along the lines of a John Hinckley or a Sirhan Sirhan.

  “She treated me well,” Susan told them, “but I could see she was mentally unbalanced. I’m afraid that if she hadn’t been stopped she might have tried to kill Michael.”

  The agents had seemed skeptical, pressing Susan for more details about the abductress’s motives and possible associates. Susan stuck to her guns. She barely talked to the woman, she said. She was left alone except when her meals were brought. She did nothing but read and watch videotapes the whole time she was in captivity.

  The effort of lying left Susan drained. But the agents had no choice but to accept her story.

  Michael took her hand. Susan tried to suppress the tremor in her fingers as he clasped them.

  “What’s the matter?” Michael asked, sensing her withdrawal.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I’m afraid my nerves still aren’t what they should be.”

  “Well, that’s natural,” he said. “After what you’ve been through. It may take a long time, you know. The doctor says you may have flashbacks. It can be pretty bad.”

  The image of Justine’s scarred hand flashed across Susan’s mind. The martyred, blotchy hand of a sick woman, it had held Susan’s own as warmly as that of a mother. Later it had held the gun that invited Joe Kraig to shoot her. Justine had given Kraig no choice. She wanted that badly to die. But even in assuring her own death she had given Susan another chance at life.

  The little TV in the corner was tuned to CNN.“The president’s standing in the polls is higher than it has been in two years,” the reporter was saying.“Pressure in Congress for a special election has eased dramatically. Public support for Colin Goss as an independent presidential candidate has also dropped. Most observers predict a new surge of support for the administration after Michael Campbell becomes vice president.”

  There was a silence. After another moment Michael let go of Susan’s hand and went to sit in the rocking chair that had belonged to his mother.

  “Babe,” he said, “will you tell me something?”

  “If I can,” Susan said.

  “That woman. The kidnapper . . .” He looked troubled. “Did she talk much?”

  “Not much,” Susan lied. “A word or two when she brought my meals. She would ask me if I wanted something else to read, or some more video—videotapes.”

  “Didn’t she ever tell youwhy she was doing it?” Michael pressed.

  “No,” Susan said in a level voice. “She just—she didn’t seem to think I was important enough to talk to.”

  Something coiled painfully inside her at these words. Justine Lawrence was the first person in Susan’s life who really believed Susan was important enough to trust with the truth.

  “Well, I guess we’ll never know,” Michael said.

  “No,” Susan agreed. “I guess we never will.”

  “The worst thing about it,” Michael said, “was knowing that it was because of me. All my life I’ve worried about what my career was doing to you. And now, to have you kidnapped . . .” He shook his head. “If you hadn’t come back safe, I don’t know what I would have done.”

  You would have become vice president. Susan did not say these words.

  “You would have survived,” she said.

  “But it never would have been the same.”

  “No,” she agreed. “Like your father. It’s never been the same for him.”

  Michael’s eyes narrowed. “You mean, since my mother . . . ?”

  Susan nodded. Margery Campbell had killed herself in this room.

  Susan felt something hard in her eyes focus on him. She tried to hide it. She ran a hand instinctively along the comforter beside her. Michael’s look was worried.

  “Yes,” Michael said. “I see what you mean.”

  “I feel so terrible about Ingrid,” she said. “That must have been hard on you.”

  “Hard. Yes. Ingrid was as much a mother to me as—”

  His words trailed off. His expression was wistful, but the worried look persisted under it.

  “I’ll miss her,” Susan said, watching him.

  A voice at the door startled them both.

  “I think it’s time the patient had some serious rest.” It was the nurse.

  Susan breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m afraid you’re right,” she said. “I’m all in.”

  Michael came back to the bed and kissed Susan on the lips. As he pulled back he saw that her eyes were still open, looking at him.

  The nurse shooed Michael out of the room. He glanced back over his shoulder, a look of humor at the nurse’s importunity on his face.

  This time, try as she might, Susan could not silence the eloquence of her eyes. They were telling Michael that she knew. Knew everything.

  And in that last split second as he was going out the door, she saw in his eyes that he knew she knew.

  A moment later the nurse came back to ask Susan if she wanted another tranquilizer.

  “I don’t need it,” Susan said. “I can hardly keep my eyes open. I’m going to take a nap.”

  “Go
od girl,” said the nurse. “Just rest.”

  The nurse let herself out silently. Susan lay staring at the ceiling. For a moment it seemed to disguise itself, and she saw the ceiling of her bedroom back in New Hampshire, where as a girl she had dreamed of a Prince Charming who would come along one day to carry her away.

  Then the magic lantern went out, and Susan was back in the here and now. She knew she would not sleep today.

  Time to rest,she thought,when it’s over.

  82

  —————

  Washington

  April 30

  JOE KRAIG had not seen Susan since he rescued her.

  The NSA had, in a remarkable show of arrogance, taken over the case from the other agencies. Claiming authority from the White House itself, the NSA had demanded that all relevant files be turned over to it. Susan was being held incommunicado pending her “debriefing,” and none of the agents who had worked so hard to save her were being informed as to the results.

  Kraig found himself stewing over his own ignorance of the whole story behind Susan’s abduction. He also saw no good reason why he should not be allowed to visit Susan. After all, it was he who rescued her. It was he whom Michael called a hero.

  He had spoken to Michael several times on the phone. Michael told him Susan was “not herself,” but was coming along. Michael refused to allow Kraig to speak to Susan, saying she needed more time to pull herself together.

  Today Ross Agnew’s secretary had helped Kraig go through the inventory of what had been found in the house where Susan had been sequestered. There was little to itemize. A toothbrush, some soap and shampoo used by the abductress, Justine Lawrence. Cosmetics, body oils, soap, and shampoo used by Susan. The remnants of some basic groceries. A few condiments left in the refrigerator.

  There were magazines in the bedroom where Susan had stayed, including theNew Yorker andVanity Fair . There were books by Susan’s favorite authors and videotapes of some movies Susan liked.

  In the VCR attached to the TV in Susan’s bedroom at the time of the rescue was an old Harrison Ford movie,Witness, on video. The agents had joked about how young Harrison Ford used to be.