At Any Cost (9 page)

Fallon kissed his cheek and he startled awake.

“Hi, sweetheart …”

Evan woke with a little start, blinking at her.

“Hi, honey, how are you doing?” She wanted to cuddle him, hug him close to her heart, and he usually allowed her to, but if she did it too quickly, he would become irritable. So she merely sat by his bedside, petting back his soft, baby-fine hair.

He sat up and looked around as if trying to remember why he was there.

“Where is Kendra?” Fallon asked.

“Don't know,” he said sleepily.

“Come on, let's go find her,” she said. She stood up and held out her hand. Evan took it and scooted out of bed.

With every step, she grew more furious at Kendra for leaving him unattended and her mother for not caring. At Kendra's room, Fallon knocked loudly on the door. No answer. She could hear her father's voice from the library asking, “Where the hell is Fallon?”

“Have you seen Kendra?” she asked the Secret Service agent posted at the foot of the stairs.

Just then, Kendra's voice floated over to her. “Here I am! Is Prince Charming awake?”

Fallon turned to the young caretaker with death in her eyes. “Where were you?”

“I just went to the bathroom.”

“If you don't want this job, there are others who do,” Fallon said coldly.

Shock stained Kendra's cheeks pink. “Miss Hughes …”

“Do not let him sleep in the middle of the day. His wake up is seven in the morning and his bedtime is eight thirty. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said weakly.

“I have a meeting to attend,” Fallon said. “But you will take my brother upstairs, play some games with him, take him to visit my mother, and keep him entertained for the rest of the day. Am I clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Fallon turned to Evan, her manner instantly softening. “I will come see you tonight. We'll have dinner together, okay?”

“Okay.”

Fallon bent down and kissed him. “Okay, Sport, I'll see you later.”

He nodded and offered a tight smile that created a gap in the day—a little moment where nothing existed but his innocent goodness. What she wouldn't give to live a normal life, in a normal town, where she could make sure that Evan had a life that would be worthy of his sweetness. She'd love to be able to simply enjoy those smiles for what they were instead of feeling that they were too few. She made a mental note to talk to her mother about getting another nanny, but knew she couldn't do it now, not after their fight; her mother's silent treatment was legendary. When she got back to the office, she thought dully, she'd make some calls, see if she could find a replacement nanny. Someone with more experience with special needs children. And more common sense.

She was still shaking with fury and fear when she sat down on the green brocade silk sofa in the meeting room with her father, a defense attorney, and Jerry Chambliss, her father's advisor. The room felt crowded with all the big personalities bearing down upon her.

As her father stood glowering at her, resentment wafted from him like microwaves. How dare she take him from his important work, stealing his energy and time on something as trivial as murder, and then waste even more of it on Evan?

There was no support or love in this house. She had long ago accepted the familial arrangement, but now she felt the loneliness acutely. She was on her own. Normally, the reality of her family life would not have bothered her. She valued independence and self-reliance above all other virtues. But in this one instance, as she stood accused of taking a person's life, she had feebly hoped that her mother might offer some practical, loving advice, or her father might use his significant power to help her.

The criminal attorney wore a double-breasted blue serge suit and a red power tie. His thinning silver hair showed a pronounced widow's peak, which gave his face a hawkish look. It took several minutes to realize she had seen him before; he was a former Attorney General of the United States, now returned to private practice. It would be easy to mistake this for a grand gesture of assistance, but Fallon understood her father, at least better than she understood her mother, and so she knew that his ability to summon the former Attorney General was an ego trip. He demanded the most famous attorney in the USA because he wanted to feel powerful and to give the former AG an opportunity to become useful to this administration.

Capital murder would be negotiated down to manslaughter, he said, then hastened to add: even that would be the very worst scenario. “The DOJ will drop the case as soon as it becomes obvious that it's a political ploy. They'll be embarrassed for having launched this attack.”

“Murder is rather on the nose, isn't it?” Jerry Chambliss said with a patrician chuckle.

Fallon barely heard him. The word “murder” kept chanting through her mind, obscuring any other cogent thought and paralyzing her with dread.

“You might as well get it all on the table now,” the attorney said. “Tell me everything about Leo Jacobellis and why the DOJ thinks you gave him a fatal dose of cocaine.”

Why? Because I did. Or rather: I didn't stop him.

Her last year of college, she had a disastrous affair with an engineering Ph.D. student. She liked him because he was smart and funny in a geek-endearing way. He was one of the first guys she'd ever met who was oblivious to her name. Hughes in Montana meant an empire of cattle, oil, and oceanic exploration equipment going back a hundred years. In the last ten, it had been the name of the governor. And Elizabeth Baker Hughes was not only an actress, she was a movie star, one of the most photographed women in the world. Leo was indifferent to all that. He pursued her with an intensity that overwhelmed her and left her dazzled. But at school, he was under pressure to finish his program and complete his thesis, the subject of which Fallon could not even begin to comprehend. His thesis was based on research that required long hours in the lab, and after a while, she began to suspect that he was taking cocaine to give him stamina.

She confronted him, and to her surprise, he admitted it. The fact that he did not attempt to deny his problem gave her hope. Even as an addict he was different—he was strong and
so
brilliant. He had so much to live for. He swore he would stop. Yet the addiction accelerated.

He began to oscillate between elation and desperate depression. As he fell further behind in his research and thesis work, he simply did not realize how much he was taking. Or that was what Fallon had said to the doctors when they told her that he'd taken a massive overdose and his heart had stopped.

They did not say the word. They did not say, “He died,” or, “He is dead.” They said, “His heart has stopped.”

All these years later, the sadness never really abated. She had not loved him, not really; she knew that now. But she had liked him a great deal, and his death had informed almost every single major decision in her life.

She looked up at the attorney and said, “That's all.” That would be the story she stuck with.

The hidden truth was more complex and it was not relevant to the Department of Justice's case against her.

She had been angry with Leo for a long time, so when the news came that “his heart has stopped” she didn't feel the dagger-stab of grief right away. Rather, it crept in slowly, over a period of weeks. As her anger melted, profound sadness took its place, filling her, weighing her down as if her blood was made of mercury. Her whole world narrowed and darkened. She carried the guilt like an anvil, certain that every person she encountered could see that she was marked with death.

When she finally graduated with a degree in art history, she had moved back to the family ranch in Shelby, Montana to be near Evan. His sweet presence was enough to help her start to see the light of life again. She longed to travel, and for a few months, she wrestled with her desire to see the world and the desire to make sure Evan was cared for. Her mother convinced her that Evan would be fine, so Fallon traveled to France, then Greece. There, on the isle of Paxos, she met Tom Bishop.

When she returned to the States, her father announced his plan to run

for president in the next election. It was time for her to settle down, and if she couldn't do it for herself, she should at least to do it for the sake of his political career.

The guilt card. Her father's irresistible gambit. As always, it worked. And as she expected, companies were not rushing to offer jobs to a woman who had an art history degree. Realizing not much else was available to her, she decided to take the LSAT. To her own surprise, she was admitted to Pepperdine.

Now she was in the weird bubble of D.C., being accused of murder. And some guy killed himself yesterday. She shut her eyes for a moment, wondering when life was ever going to let up.

Her father wrote a check to pay the lawyer's retainer fee. He glanced up at her with acute disappointment in his face, as if she were going to use the money for fancy shoes or some unnecessary trinket.
Sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to interrupt your day as I got accused of murder. My mistake.

Her father thanked the attorney for coming on such short notice and asked to be apprised of any developments. He then walked with the attorney out of the Lincoln Room.

Fallon sat alone on the sofa, looking around the beautifully appointed sanctum, feeling it held no more significance to her life than a hospital waiting room or some stranger's foyer. A tumble of images bumped through her mind: Leo Jacobellis's funeral, Paxos, the search warrant.

A scuffing sound in the marble hallway caught her attention, and she glimpsed a dark figure step away from the entry.

Secret Service.

The heels of her shoes tapped and echoed across the polished marble floor as she approached. Tom's head was bent to his BlackBerry, the smooth lines of his body backlit by a far window. How she wanted to feel him close to her and lose herself in his strength and his life-giving energy.

Tom looked up from his BlackBerry. Seeing her troubled expression, he put the device away and approached. “Are you okay?” His voice was low and soothing.

Fallon could not meet his eyes for fear she might do something mortifying like cry or reveal the tenderness she felt for him. Instead, she intently studied the sharpness of his white shirt against his black suit.

“Fallon?” He placed his fingers under her chin, forcing her to look up into his eyes. “Are you okay?”

His obvious concern incited more riots of affection through her. How unbelievably sweet it would be to give in to the impulse, to lay her head against his chest and let him gently soothe away all the bumps and bruises. But acting like she wanted to make up for lost time with him or allowing him into the emotional vortex that was her life would be madness. Seeking comfort from him was the wrong strategy. In that crazy moment in the vestibule when they were pawing desperately at one another, she'd babbled that she would never ask for anything more. It was unlikely he even heard her—he certainly hadn't acknowledged the comment—but she thought it wise to keep her word. Not just for his sake but for hers. She simply did not ever want to go through the heartbreak of Paxos again. She would try to keep things light between them. She'd never been able to do that before, but she had to make it work this time.

She inched back. “Yes,” she answered firmly. “I am okay.”

Tom looked dubious.

“Come on,” she said, steeling her spine. “I have to get back to work.” She paused and frowned. “I wonder if they actually want me back at work.”

“Maybe you should call Sam Cahill? He seems like he's on your side.”

Fallon scrabbled for her phone in her big, slouchy purse. Within seconds, Sam Cahill's voice came on the line.

“Hi, Sam, it's me. I don't know how to ask this discreetly so I'll just come out with it. Should I come back today?”

After a thoughtful pause, he answered. “I would give it a day to die down. Just take it easy for the rest of the day. Show up tomorrow and if you get any friction, come to me.”

Secretly relieved, Fallon thanked him and hung up. “I guess we're going back to my place,” she said.

In the back of the limo, Fallon checked the news on her iPhone. Breathless reports of her search warrant were all over CNN, Drudge Report, Fox News, and the networks, covering like it was worse than Watergate. She opened Facebook and saw her friends' posts asking what happened; what was the warrant about?

If she had been an alien who just landed from Mars, she would have thought only two things were happening in the United States: the daughter of the president-elect was being accused of murder, and the USA and Russia both feared increasing tensions.

The harsh rhetoric between the two nations had been ongoing since summer, but over the past few days, it had intensified to a frightening degree. The stress of handling such a delicate situation might explain her father's disregard for her well-being, but she doubted it. He was always abrasive and self-centered, even when the political landscape was calm.

Vice President-elect Claudia Wells was coy when asked at a press gaggle to give her impressions, saying only that she would leave diplomatic matters to the current person in that role.

Fallon's experience with Washington told her one thing: politicians never came out and bluntly told the whole truth. Everything out of their mouths was a talking point drafted by a press secretary. There were always deals being done out of the public spotlight, sleights of hand, trickery, white lies, and polls to confuse voters. Trying to make sense of it all was often impossible. So whatever was happening in Russia was probably only half known to the intelligence operatives on the ground and even more opaque to the general public. No matter how many media hours were dedicated to the situation, the truth was going to stay well hidden.

Not for the first time, Fallon felt apprehension about her parents' instincts for political gamesmanship. With tensions increasing by the day and serious foreign policy issues requiring deep thought and considered analysis at the forefront of every talk show, newspaper article, and blog post, Preston Taylor Hughes was expected to address a threat he simply did not understand. Her father had no real experience in diplomacy, though he believed his interactions with various heads of industry and lobbyists was substitutable. His overestimation of his abilities was going to be a very rude shock.