Barnes says, “But the man’s a killer. Children, women, families…he’s murdered them all, up close and personal.”
The deputy national security advisor says, “That’s part of his sociopathic tendencies. The more shocking the crimes, the more attention he receives. Like now. He’s in his element. The entire world focusing on what he’s saying, and what his next set of demands will be. That’s all he’ll do today.”
The camera pulls back, and with a jolt that makes Barnes instantly awake, the daughter of Matthew and Samantha Keating becomes visible. She’s kneeling on a rocky surface, arms bound behind her, and she’s wearing khaki shorts and a dirty and torn light gray Dartmouth sweatshirt.
Mel Keating stares up, head trembling, eyes wide behind her glasses, her hair a tangled mess. Barnes remembers the last time she saw Mel Keating, on Barnes’s Inauguration Day, when she looked like a typical teenage girl, a bit overwhelmed by what was going on around her, with all the pomp and ceremony.
Asim Al-Asheed says something in Arabic. Barnes gasps, sees what he’s holding in his hands, and in a trembling voice over the next few horrible seconds, her husband, Richard, says, “With all due respect, Ms. Palumbo, those hired CIA experts are full of shit.”
Chapter
67
Saunders Hotel
Arlington, Virginia
On the screen is our daughter, Mel, staring up through her eyeglasses, eyes wide, and I see with a pang of memory that she’s still wearing that Dartmouth sweatshirt she had on the last time I saw her, on that bright beautiful day, when she was about to leave on a hike with her boyfriend and offered to bring me back pastries from our local general store.
Oh, Mel.
Asim Al-Asheed steps out of the camera’s view for a moment, returns, and displays what’s in his strong hands:
A sharp-looking saber.
In the suite there are gasps and cries, and I stare, and think…
That blessed late night nineteen years ago in a room at Naval Medical Center San Diego, with a worn but smiling Samantha in a bed, holding a pink little baby against her and saying, “Oh, Matt, she’s so perfect…she’s so perfect.”
Asim Al-Asheed’s face hardens, and he barks out a phrase in Arabic.
Little Mel at five years old, face serious and with eyeglasses fastened with a band across the back of her head, chubby legs scraped and cut, pink T-shirt and white shorts, picking up the little two-wheeled bicycle and saying, “Daddy, I can do it this time, I know I can.”
The sword rises up, up, and up. Light glistening off the blade. Mel kneeling still, eyes closed tight, lips pressed together.
At my side Samantha is moaning, the low heartrending sounds of a mother in despair.
Mel winning her first district track meet at twelve, jumping over the finish line, looking behind to see her nearest competitor meters away, turning and smiling, raising her skinny arms up, just so damn happy, Samantha and me clapping hard and with joy from the sidelines.
The sword held high up.
The entire world seems to stop.
I’m on the edge of that aircraft at night, ready to step out into the darkness.
In her bedroom on the second floor of the White House, Mel curled up in bed, covers almost over her head, her face red and eyes swollen from all the crying, and her saying, “Dad, why do they hate me? They were laughing at me! Laughing at me on television! And millions of people were laughing, too…Dad…what did I do wrong?”
And me, gently stroking her back under the covers, knowing I have no good answer.
The sword is moving fast, coming down toward my girl.
The TV screen on the left cuts away from what a producer in Atlanta knows is about to happen. The screen now shows the CNN feed with one of the shocked overnight anchors.
Al Jazeera keeps on broadcasting, though it looks like the anchor is shouting at someone off-screen, telling them to pull the plug as well.
I’m stepping out into the darkness.
Just three days ago—only three days!—Mel, happy and smiling, hair wet from just being in the shower, looking so damn happy, so alive, so ready for the day, and asking me if I wanted her to do something for me, and then laughing before walking away, me asking her to call me when she got cell service the next day.
And her reply:
Sure, Dad. You can trust me! I’ll be safe and sound.
The flash of the descending sword, everything at a halt here in this room, and at the very last second, Mel opens her eyes and yells in a strong firm voice, “Mommy, don’t look!”
I grab Samantha’s head, pull her into my shoulder, as—
The sword strikes.
A burst of blood splatters against the camera lens.
A low, mournful “Ooooh” comes from someone in the room.
I hold Samantha tight, tight, tight.
I want to look away.
But I won’t allow myself to do that.
A finger seems to smudge away some of the blood on the camera lens, smearing it but keeping the lens clear enough to show what’s on the rocky surface.
A figure curled on its side, the word DARTMOUTH still visible on the dirty torn sweatshirt, khaki shorts, strong bare legs, dirty foot soles.
Some feet away, a—
I can’t say what I see.
Just an oval shape with frizzy blond hair, the shock of blood.
And a pair of eyeglasses, alone on the rock.
I step out into the darkness and fall forever.
Part
Three
Chapter
68
Two weeks later
Lake Marie, New Hampshire
I’m sitting in a wicker chair on the enclosed porch of my home, staring out at the waves of rain pelting the lake and the nearby forested hills. There are two Boston Whalers out there on the lake, Secret Service agents in each, doubling the usual water watch. Out in the woods surrounding my home, members of the Secret Service CAT team are on aggressive patrol, and the New Hampshire State Police has set up roadblocks, redirecting traffic away from the entrance to my access road.
If there’s been a better example of closing the barn door after the proverbial horse has escaped, I’ve not heard of it.
The rain continues to fall.
No matter the weather, it’s been cold and raining here for two weeks straight.
Besides the Secret Service agents in and around the compound, also doubled in number, I’m alone in the house. Samantha went back to Maine last week and has again thrown herself into her archaeological dig. Our few phone calls have been polite and strained. Before she left, there were lots of tears, hugs, rages, recriminations, slamming doors, and more tears and hugs, and long talks into the night, sharing memories of Mel.
My chief of staff, Madeline Perry, has visited twice, both times bringing along a selection of sympathy cards and letters from all over the world, including one that was slipped in by mistake, with a scrawled note saying, “Good that your ugly girl is gone. Your bitch wife and you should be next, traytor.”
Last week, Yvette Cloutier, a local French-Canadian woman who’s been working as a house cleaner here for six months, burst into tears when she saw me in the living room. She held my hands in hers and prayed aloud in French, and only stopped when one of the new Secret Service agents gently led her away.
I feel like I’m trapped in a large funeral home, with no body to grieve over but lots of quiet mourners moving about, not daring to speak too loudly or laugh in my presence.
I’ve been trying to avoid the news coverage as much as possible, but what I’ve seen is both heartening and discouraging. There have been prayer vigils in Mel’s memory at religious institutions across the nation, police and military raids on terrorist cells allied with Asim Al-Asheed here and in Canada, Britain, and France, and hundreds of people have clustered on roads leading to my home, bearing flowers and cards.
But there are those taking advantage of Mel’s death to make their own points, from polit
icians blaming the Barnes Administration for allowing this to happen to others criticizing New Hampshire’s governor for not immediately deputizing every gun owner in the state to assist in the earlier search.
There are also rumors that my successor is planning military action, but where? And how? And who knows where Asim Al-Asheed is now, having slipped back into the shadows as he’s done so many times before. Is he in Canada, the States, or hiding among his supporters around the world?
About the only other distraction here was when, soon after Samantha went back to work, three FBI agents arrived from DC, intent on going into Mel’s empty room to look through her belongings and pack up her laptop for forensic analysis.
I stood in front of her bedroom door.
“Not going to happen,” I said, unable to stand the thought of strangers going through Mel’s possessions, her papers, and reading her private thoughts and searches on her PC.
“Sir,” the lead FBI agent said, “we need to see if there’s any evidence your daughter had been in earlier contact with—”
I said, “Not going to happen. Nobody’s going into Mel’s room. Nobody’s looking at her computer.”
“Sir…”
“The only way any of you are getting into my daughter’s room is through me, and the Secret Service might have something to say about that.”
The FBI left, and that night, I slept on the floor in Mel’s room, curled up in a blanket, just mourning, remembering, and mourning some more.
I rub at my face and the stubble. It’s been a few days since I’ve shaved. The first few days back at Lake Marie were filled with lots of drinking and guilt. Then I shook that off and got to work, going for long runs along the access road and nearby trails—never alone, of course—and working out in a small shed near the garage that has some weights and other training gear. And I did other training, the type of training I’ve hidden away from my protective detail.
I check the time.
Five p.m.
I take out my iPhone and hold it up and start recording a short video message for my wife.
“Hey, Sam, it’s me,” I say. “Here’s the weather at Lake Marie.” I slowly rotate the phone so she can get a view of the dock, moored pontoon boat, and sodden beach. I bring the phone back and say, “Lots of rain. At least it’s keeping the tourists and gawkers away. I hope the weather is better up in Maine, hope you’re making progress, hope you’re making history up there…”
I stop, thinking, Idiot: Yeah, she’s making history, all right, the sorrowful First Lady, away from her husband, the only First Lady to have her daughter murdered.
“Anyway, if it’s sunny out tomorrow, I’ll take out the tools and get back to clearing brush. Nothing much else is going on…”
Meaning, Yes, Sam, our daughter’s body hasn’t been found yet.
“That’s the news from Lake Marie. Love you. Miss you…call if you get a chance. Bye for now.”
I switch off and email the message to Sam, wondering if she will call me back.
I look out once more at the rain, at the drawn-up canoes, and the memory of the canoe race and of seeing Mel for the last time comes charging back, and I wipe at my eyes.
The screen door opens and Agent David Stahl comes out, nods, and then looks out to the cold, dark gray waters of the lake. He’s lost weight, his face is drawn and tired, and it seems like years ago when he and I were out there on those sunny waters.
I say, “Take a load off, David.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He drags over a wicker chair and sits down. He has on boat shoes, tan slacks, and a wrinkled dark blue polo shirt.
A few seconds pass, and he says, “Sir, you know we have some new agents here. I think tonight might be a good time to introduce them to your poker skills.”
Any other time I’d smile and eagerly say yes, for one of the simple joys I’ve had is playing poker, sometimes nightlong sessions, with the agents stationed here, winning more often than losing.
But this isn’t any other time.
“Maybe not tonight,” I say, “and maybe not ever, if Agent Peyton is on shift.”
David grimaces. One of the new agents assigned here is Agent Brett Peyton, who is brash and full of himself and who I guess is reporting directly to Faith Murray, the deputy assistant director in charge of the Presidential Protection Detail. She’s preparing a purge and disciplinary action against my original detail.
“What’s the latest?” I ask.
“The search is expanding into Maine and New York State, as well as southern Vermont, and southern Ontario and Quebec. There’s been a lot of reports and tips about that floatplane, but unfortunately, nobody can recall a registration number, so we can’t trace that. And with the number of isolated lakes, rivers, and ponds within the flying range of that floatplane…”
He stops, and we both know he doesn’t have to continue.
The odds against Mel’s body being found anytime soon are very high indeed.
I cross my arms, look at the canoes, wondering if I’ll ever again race David out there on the lake.
I try very hard to speak the next several sentences in a firm and unwavering voice, like I’m giving a State of the Union address, and with the first words I fail.
“When she’s found, no matter where, David…and it’s time for her to be moved…I want you there, and five other agents from the original detail…I want you to take her home. All right?”
Tears are rolling down his face, and he says hoarsely, “Mr. President, we can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“Because we failed her…and you, and Mrs. Keating. It wouldn’t be right.”
I shake my head. “We all failed her. David, do it. All right? You take my girl home.”
He just nods.
I nod in return.
After a few more gray minutes pass, I say, “I admire you, David, you and the other agents, for the job that you do, for keeping alert during long hours of boredom, traveling with me while hearing the same dull speech, over and over again, and putting up with us protectees. It’s a hard job that most people know nothing about, only the bullshit they see on TV or at the movies.”
He doesn’t say anything, which is fine.
“My apologies in advance, David, because in this hard time, I’m going to make your life, and the lives of the other agents, very, very difficult indeed.”
“How’s that, sir?”
I look again at the sodden beach. Think of the volleyball net being up, Mel and her Dartmouth friends, laughing and playing, enjoying the best times of their lives, every day here a perfect day with lots of sun and no rain, no clouds, ever.
I say, “I’m going dark over the next few weeks. I’ll be going places, talking to people. Some not so nice people, probably. And there will come a day when I find Asim Al-Asheed, and I’m going to look at him, face-to-face so he knows I’m there, standing in front of him, during those last few seconds.”
I pause.
“Then I’m going to blow his goddamn head off.”
Chapter
69
Lake Marie, New Hampshire
To Agent Stahl’s credit, he doesn’t blink, he doesn’t protest, doesn’t say a word.
I say, “Along the way I might find the floatplane pilot who helped Asim escape with my girl. I might find the man who sold him the rope that tied her up, and the man who gave Asim the sword he used to behead her. And if I come across these people, I’ll kill every one of them.”
I pause again.
No word from Agent Stahl.
I say, “At some point I’m going to leave here, without your approval, and without the knowledge of the director of the Secret Service and the secretary of Homeland Security. Do you understand what I’m saying, David?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s nothing on this earth that’s going to stop me,” I say, my voice even and not quavering, not like before when I was talking about recovering Mel’s body. “If you want to make
your arguments to convince me to do otherwise, go right ahead. It’ll be a waste of your breath, but I’ll be polite and listen. If you and the rest of the agents here want to stop me from doing this, you’re going to have to shackle me in the safe room.”
David says, “All right, sir. Then please listen to what I have to say.”
“I said I would.”
He stares right at me with his tired face and haunted eyes and says, “I want in.”
After a moment of surprise on my end, I say, “Hold on, David, hold on. This is going to be rough, rugged, and mostly illegal. If you come along—”
He shakes his head. “What? If I come along my career’s over? It’s already finished. All that’s left are the congressional hearings and the disciplinary proceedings. I’ll be lucky to keep my pension, and right now, I don’t give a shit about that. I want to help you, Mr. President.”
“David…”
He leans forward in the worn wicker chair. “Mr. President, let me rephrase what I just said. I need to come with you.”
His eyes are still haunted but there’s a pleading in there as well.
“What are you looking for, David? Redemption?”
A harsh shake of the head. “No, sir. Just like you, justice.”
There’s determination in his eyes, and I’m sure he’s looking for justice, but I see what he means when he says he needs this.
We all do.
“All right,” I say, clasping my tired hands together. “I’m going to need a lot of burner cell phones and prepaid debit cards set up under false email addresses. And I’ll probably need a few trusted operators to join me. I’ll be doing a lot of digging, a lot of off-the-grid research. I’ve got some cash in the bedroom safe. If you want to help, spend a day or two traveling to different stores in the area—make sure you’re wearing a hat or something to hide your features. Get a Chrome laptop or something similar from Best Buy. The phones from different stores. You’ll need to set up an encrypted email account to activate the phones and to purchase some prepaid debit cards. Then…”
The President's Daughter Page 24