Damage Control

by Robert Dugoni

  55

  DANA HEARD HER mother’s footsteps descend the staircase, the familiar creaks of wood and the pad of slippers on the marbled entry. The door to the kitchen swung open, but if her mother was surprised to find Dana sitting in the dark, she did not say so. Kathy paused just long enough to touch Dana’s shoulder. Then she retrieved the teakettle from the stove and filled it at the kitchen sink. Dana recalled reading in one of her parenting books that mothers never stop being mothers, even after their children have grown, and that children never stop being children. They left home for school, got married, started families of their own, but the minute they stepped back into the family home, they reverted to childhood, expecting to be fed, sheltered, consoled.

  Kathy yawned, shut off the water, and placed the kettle on the front burner. The blue-fingered flames engulfed it until she adjusted the fire. Then she pulled two mugs from a cabinet and placed them on the slate counter, rummaging through an old cookie jar for two bags of tea. Dana traced an imaginary line on the kitchen table. Her mother knew Grant had called, and she likely knew they’d had the inevitable confrontation. But still Kathy remained silent, and Dana now realized it was because it was not her mother’s battle or her place to give advice. It was her place to console, and to listen when Dana felt up to discussing it. Dana had mistaken another of her mother’s strengths—silence—as a weakness.

  Kathy came over from the slate counter to the kitchen table with a plate of Danish butter cookies sprinkled with sugar specks, slid out a chair, and nibbled on a cookie. Kathy remained an attractive woman, a few pounds heavier and a lot less primped to order than when she was the wife of a prominent attorney, but her skin remained unblemished by age, and her blue eyes were as clear and bright as a young woman’s.

  “My biggest concern is Molly,” Dana said, continuing to trace the imaginary line. “I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want Grant to hurt her.”

  “You won’t hurt her. You’re a good mother. You’ll put Molly’s interests before any anger you feel for him.”

  “Then how come I feel like I failed?”

  Her mother shook her head. “There is a very big difference between being a good mother and being a good wife. They aren’t mutually exclusive, but they also are not the same. And you didn’t fail at either. The marriage failed. It failed for any number of reasons, but none you can blame yourself for solely. It takes two people to make a marriage work. You can’t make it work on your own, no matter how hard you try. And you did try, Dana. But that doesn’t reflect upon your abilities as a mother. You’ll do what’s best for you and for Molly. You won’t be able to help yourself. You love her too much not to.”

  “How long did you know?”

  “That Grant wasn’t right for you? The first day I met him.”

  “Really?”

  “I suppose that’s why Grant and I never got along. A mother never thinks anyone is good enough for her son or her daughter, but I knew he wasn’t good enough for you. He didn’t love you. He loved the thought of you. You fit into his idea of what life was supposed to be—a nice house, nice car, nice furniture. You were a part of the facade, part of the landscape he had painted in his mind. I know. I was part of the same landscape.”

  “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

  Kathy shrugged. “Would you have listened? There was nothing to say; I wasn’t the one marrying him. It was my place to hope I was wrong and to wish the very best for you.”

  “But you knew it wouldn’t work out.”

  Her mother took a deep breath. “If I had told you I didn’t like him, it would have only made you want him more. The hardest part of being a parent is allowing our children to fail. At some point they become adults, and you have to let them make their own choices, make their own mistakes, suffer their own consequences, as painful as that is to endure. When you told me you were pregnant, I was overcome with both joy and sorrow for you.”

  “What do I tell Molly?”

  “The truth. Be honest with her. The marriage didn’t work. You’ll know what’s best to tell her. That instinct will take over, and it will be stronger than any desire you may have to punish Grant.”

  “I think he’s been punished enough.”

  “This is the only advice I’m going to offer: He won’t be your husband any longer, but he will always be Molly’s father. No matter how many times he disappoints her, she will always love him. She’s entitled to a father, and he is entitled to his daughter. I just don’t know whether he’s up to it.”

  “He says he’ll take her from me.”

  Her mother laughed softly. “Let him. She’d be home in twenty-four hours.”

  Dana smiled. “I know.”

  “You can’t be a father for him.” The kettle on the stove hummed a low whistle. Her mother stood and kissed her on top of the head before going over to the stove to pour the tea.

  Then the telephone rang, shattering the silence.

  56

  ROBERT MEYERS FINISHED the crumbs of his slice of freshly baked apple pie and washed them down with a gulp of cold milk. “The best,” he said, setting the glass on the table.

  Carmen Dupree stood in the stainless-steel kitchen waiting to take his plate and glass. She wore her black overcoat over her uniform and white tennis shoes. She had been prepared to leave earlier, just before Robert Meyers rang the kitchen and advised that he wanted a slice of pie. That required her to wait. Meyers demanded that she serve him, then remain to clean up.

  Meyers sat back against the blue floral fabric. “It’s your best apple pie yet, Carmen.”

  She smiled, closed-mouthed, and hoped his relaxed posture was not an invitation to continue their conversation. After thirty years of supporting her weight in awkward positions cleaning other people’s homes, Carmen’s arthritic ankles and feet ached after a full day. The doctor said there was little they could do for her. She wanted to go home and soak them in hot water and Epsom salts.

  Meyers patted his stomach. “I think I’ll have to step up my workout regimen. Nobody wants a fat president.” Carmen took the plate and glass, hopeful it would signal an end to their evening. The fact that she continued to wear her coat hadn’t. “You don’t seem yourself tonight, Carmen. You seem anxious. In fact, you’ve seemed anxious for some time. Why is that?”

  Carmen walked the plate and glass to the counter. “Just tired, Mr. Meyers. Been a long day, and I’m not getting any younger. And my boys are in trouble again. Seems if one isn’t in trouble, another is. Mothers are anxious when they have sons.”

  “I suppose.” Meyers stood and adjusted his bathrobe. “But I’m looking forward to more years of long days. Would you like to work in the White House?”

  She smiled. “No, sir, don’t suppose I would. I’m home here. Happy to stay here.”

  He laughed. “Of course you are. That’s why you keep secrets from me.”

  She dropped the plate in the sink, but it did not shatter. She picked it up, rinsing it. “All women have secrets, Mr. Meyers. Nothing new about that.”

  “I’ll bet all the tea in China still wouldn’t persuade you to divulge your family’s recipe for that apple pie, though, would it?”

  Carmen shook her head. “No, sir. Couldn’t be doing that.”

  Meyers shook his finger at her playfully. “You have me over a barrel. You found a path to my stomach, and now I’m an apple-pie junkie, just like my father. I’ll keep trying, though. I’m a persistent man, and I’m going to figure out all of the flavors and spices in there. I can’t go to the White House without it.”

  Carmen put her hands in the front pocket of her overcoat and produced two black gloves. “Good night, Mr. Meyers.”

  He nodded to her. “Good night, Carmen.”

  MEYERS STARTED UP the main staircase, stopping to consider his recently finished portrait. It was a good likeness of him. He’d decided to smile, believing it reflected his youth and vitality. Modern presidents were getting younger, a trend that reflected the demands of the
job. The days started early and finished late. That was all right by him. He didn’t need much sleep. If he caught four hours of uninterrupted sleep a night, he considered it fortuitous. The pressures of the day required his strict attention, which was what had upset him about Elizabeth’s recent transgressions. She knew the demands upon him. She had known when they married. He had made it very clear that politics was his calling, his destiny.

  A security agent stood at the top of the staircase. The sight of the man reminded him that Boutaire still had not reported in. That was not good. Dana Hill was bold. Too bold. She had come to Robert Meyers’s party, walked right in, and shaken his hand. Meyers gave her credit for guts but little for brains. Maybe it no longer mattered. Elizabeth now knew the truth, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. He had planned it well. James Hill was dead. So were the two men Boutaire had sent to rob him. Dana Hill had an earring. She could keep it, for all he cared. Still, he didn’t like the woman. She clearly did not know her place. In that regard, Boutaire had failed. He should have killed her, but it was not too late to put Dana Hill in her place. Meyers had that kind of power.

  Meyers walked the carpeted hall, wondering what it would be like to stroll the halls of the White House in his slippers and bathrobe. He wouldn’t feel the least bit self-conscious. It would be his home, after all. He could dress however he damn well pleased in his own home. He had read somewhere that Lyndon Johnson held meetings with staff while sitting on the toilet. The press and biographers said it reflected Johnson’s megalomaniac personality, his need to degrade those who worked for him. Meyers knew otherwise. Johnson didn’t have enough time in the day to take a crap in peace, and staff needed to be reminded that they were not on par with the president of the United States. It helped keep them in line. For similar reasons, Meyers insisted on a fresh-baked apple pie each day, whether he ate a slice or not. The rest of the country could eat day-old pie. Not a future president.

  Tonight Carmen’s pie had hit the spot. The warmth from his contented stomach spread to his groin with the thought that Elizabeth awaited him, smelling of flowers and wearing the white lace nightgown an assistant had purchased. He smiled. His wife remained a beautiful woman. He had done all right for himself. She’d always had suitors, but he’d been the one to bag her. He quickened his stride. Making love to her remained an enjoyable task. In college, he’d considered her youth and vitality an attribute, but keeping her under control had been hard work. She acted out to test his love and sought to be punished to affirm that he still loved her. Now she could have no doubt. She had made a mistake, a terrible mistake, but he truly had forgiven her. What were his options? Divorce? Under the circumstances, it was out of the question.

  Meyers walked into the parlor and started toward the closed double doors leading to the bedroom. Light crept out from beneath them onto the carpet. She had waited up, as he’d requested. He pushed open the door to the low hum of music. The lighting from the candle wall sconces cast a soft glow across the bed, also as he preferred. But the bed was empty. The sheets lay in a crumpled pile in the center. He walked to the bathroom door, about to knock, when he heard the slow trickle of water. His wife preferred to fill the tub to shoulder level and allow a continuous flow of hot water to soothe her as she soaked, sometimes for an hour. He looked at his watch. It was already late. Still, he decided not to rush her. He contemplated calling the staff to change the sheets on the bed but instead pulled them tight to the corners and tucked in the sides. He fluffed the pillows and put them at the head of the bed. Then he took a seat on the sofa near the window, picked up a copy of Newsweek, and slipped on a pair of reading glasses.

  After ten minutes, he tossed the magazine on the teak table, stood, and looked about the room. He was growing tired, and his interest had begun to wane. He picked up the telephone, a direct line to the security office in the compound.

  “Who am I speaking with?”

  “This is Garth Schlemlein, Senator.”

  “Has Peter Boutaire checked in yet?”

  “No, Senator, he has not.”

  Meyers rubbed his chin. It had been over forty-eight hours since he’d heard from Boutaire. It was not uncommon for the man to disappear for stretches of time only to surface with the task accomplished, but Meyers did not think this was one of those times. “I asked that his apartment be considered. Has that been done?”

  “It was done, Senator. The manager said he had not seen Mr. Boutaire in quite some time. His unit was nearly empty.”

  Meyers took a deep breath.

  “He also said Boutaire’s sister and a police detective had been to the apartment earlier in the evening. Our men missed them by—”

  “His sister?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He doesn’t—” Meyers caught himself.

  “Sir?”

  Meyers’s focus shifted to the closed bathroom door. “Keep trying to reach him. Have him report to me as soon as he arrives. I don’t care what time of day or night.” He hung up, went over to the bathroom door, and knocked. “Elizabeth?” There was no answer. He pressed an ear to the door. “Elizabeth?” He heard only the trickle of water. He jiggled the brass handle. The door was locked. “Elizabeth!”

  He walked to the dresser and reached for the key to the lock but did not feel it. He stood on his toes and swept his hands over the top. The key was not there. She’d taken it. He banged on the door. “Elizabeth!”

  Moisture seeped through the soles of his wool slippers. He stepped back and saw the discoloration of the carpet near the door. “Elizabeth, open this door. Elizabeth!”

  He smashed a shoulder into the wood, but the heavy door did not give. He hit it several more times, growing angry, calling out her name. He picked up the phone on the nightstand by the bed, yelling, “Get somebody in here. Now.”

  Within seconds, the compound was in a flurry. Two security agents burst into Meyers’s bedroom. Meyers pointed to the door. “Bust it down.”

  The agents looked about the room, perplexed. “Do you want to get—”

  “Bust it down, goddamm it.”

  The bigger of the two agents moved quickly to the door and tried the handle.

  “It’s locked, you fool,” Meyers growled.

  The man hit the door hard with his shoulder. It did not budge. He stood back, used a swinging motion to propel his weight forward, and crashed his shoe against the handle. Again the thick oak shook but did not give. A second kick had similar effect.

  “No good.”

  “Get something,” Meyers shouted to the second agent.

  Minutes later, with Meyers alternately pacing the room and banging on the door and calling his wife’s name, the agents reappeared, one carrying a sledgehammer.

  “Go,” Meyers said when the man hesitated.

  The agent swung the hammer at the door handle. The door frame cracked. A second blow splintered it. The third blow exploded the door inward. The bathroom emitted a blast of hot, humid air. Meyers shoved the agents to the side and rushed in, fanning the steam. The mirrors dripped with condensation. Water overflowed the bathtub’s beveled marble rim, an inch deep on the tile floor.

  MEYERS RUSHED DOWN the hall, the two agents trailing behind. A clearly perplexed third agent stood outside the closed door to Elizabeth’s study. “She asked not to be disturbed,” he said.

  Meyers shoved him aside and tried the door. Locked. “When did she go in there?” Meyers asked.

  “About thirty minutes ago, sir.”

  Meyers knocked on the door. “Elizabeth, open the door.”

  There was no answer.

  Meyers knocked more forcefully and raised his voice. “Open the damn door.” He stepped back and motioned to the agent holding the sledgehammer. “Break it in,” he instructed.

  The agent swung the hammer, repeating the process until the door burst open. Like the bathroom, the room was empty. Meyers spun to the agent who had stood outside the door. “Where the hell is she?”

  “I don’t
—”

  “Did you see her leave?”

  “No, sir, the door never opened.”

  “And you never left?”

  The guard shook his head. “No, sir, I asked Mrs. Meyers what she was doing up so late. She said she couldn’t sleep and was going to be working late and wanted absolutely no interruptions. She asked me to stand guard outside her door.”

  Meyers ran a hand across his face and closed his eyes. “Then what the hell did she do, pull a fucking Houdini?”

  The agent did not respond.

  “Tell me,” Meyers yelled. “I’m asking a question. How did she get out?” He stared into the empty room. It was the question that had perplexed him most about her affair with James Hill. How did she get out of the compound? Based on Peter Boutaire’s investigation, Elizabeth had left the compound when Meyers was traveling. Her meetings with James Hill had transpired at a mountain retreat and once or twice at his home in Green Lake. The pair had even stopped once at a roadside motel, like two high school students unable to control their raging hormones. Meyers had no doubt that once off the compound grounds, disguised in a wig or other attire, his wife could disappear into the everyday masses. Those who might recognize her would dismiss her as a look-alike. But Boutaire had never figured out how Elizabeth managed to get off the compound grounds.

  “There is another exit,” the agent said.

  Meyers turned. “What?”

  “Another exit from the study.” The agent pointed. “The wall is a doorway, sir, just under Mrs. Meyer’s portrait.”

  Meyers considered the man for a moment. The windowless room had been intended as a room for servants, so as not to disturb the family’s privacy, but Elizabeth had chosen it for her study. Her preference for it over other, more suitable rooms had always perplexed him. Below her portrait on the red silk wall, he found a recessed handle within the woodwork. He pressed it and pushed open the wall to a bleak staircase.