In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1) (32 page)

On the second floor of the White House, Maria Kendall was crying.  She knew.  Ever since the prayer vigil, she knew.  Somehow, someway, she sensed David had connected with her.  She didn’t know what it meant at the time and tried not to hold onto false hope.  It had been so hard, and the feeling had been so strong.  She never told anyone about the feeling that had come over her that night, not even the girls.  But she had prayed.  She didn’t even know what she prayed for, but she prayed nonetheless.  She hugged Angela and Michelle.  Both were crying; overcome by the rollercoaster of emotions.

Agent Tiller put her hand to her ear, listened for a second and nodded.  “Ma’am?”

The door opened and David Kendall stood on the threshold, tears streaming down his face.  Maria and the girls let out a sob as he limped into their arms.

“In stunning news, President David Kendall has been discovered alive.  The White House and federal authorities have not provided any additional information, except to say that President Kendall is alive and has returned to Washington today.  We have also learned that, after an emergency meeting of high-ranking officials, including the President’s Cabinet and Congressman Harry Bolsh and Senator Joyce Pankin, under the provisions of the Twenty-fifth amendment, presidential powers have been transferred from Vice President Rumson back to President Kendall.  We are told that President Kendall will be addressing the nation tonight.  This is an absolutely stunning turn of events for a nation still in shock over what was thought to be the tragic loss of a great man.  There is no word yet on exactly where President Kendall has been for these last two weeks or how he survived the crash of Air Force One. 

“In related news, we have also learned that Vice President Tyler Rumson has been rushed to the hospital.  Details are sketchy and, at this time, his condition is unknown.  We turn now to our White House Correspondent, Betty Hoffman for the latest details.”

Richter watched on the monitor as President Kendall, his jaw set, his eyes intense, strode into the East Room.  His limp was barely perceptible, Richter noticed, but he knew it had more to do with the man’s will than with the brace he was wearing or the pain medication he had taken earlier.  There was no mistaking that he was in charge.

Standing in the adjoining Green Room, Richter watched as Kendall waved to the crowd while nervous FBI agents trailed closely behind.  The president did not stop to shake hands, did not stop to share a few words or a hug with those he knew.  That would come later, Richter knew.  The president headed directly for the podium.  After a full ten minutes and many repeated attempts, he was finally able to quiet the room.  

“Ladies and gentlemen.  Fellow citizens,” the president began.  “You don’t know how good it is to finally be back home.”

The crowd jumped to its feet again, and the room overflowed with noise.  It was another two minutes before the crowd took their seats again.  The president glanced down.  He only had a few hastily scribbled notes, Richter knew.  There hadn’t been time for speechwriters and teleprompters.

“Two weeks ago, an attempt was made to alter the very fabric of our democracy.  An attempt was made to change something very dear to our hearts, to change the core of who we are as Americans: the right for each of us to determine our own fate.  An attempt was made to take away our ability as citizens to determine, through democratic process, who will lead us.”

President Kendall paused and looked out over the assembled congressmen and women, at his Cabinet, at the assembled government officials, and at the White House staff and the reporters who had been crammed into the East Room.  When he spoke again, his voice boomed through the room.

“I stand before you tonight, confident that our democracy has been restored!”

With a roar, the crowd jumped to its feet once more.  As the president held his hands up again, Richter turned and nodded to the FBI agent in front of the door.  The agent stepped aside and Richter entered the small side room.  The two FBI agents inside looked up but said nothing.  Jack and Derek were watching the president’s address on the monitor.  It took a moment before they noticed him.

“You know why you’re in here and not out there…” he began.

“The investigation?” Jack offered.

Richter nodded.  The boy was bright.  He started to say something but suddenly found himself tongue tied.  The words he had prepared a moment ago so his emotions wouldn’t get the better of him were gone. 

There was a thunder of applause from the other room.  They all glanced at the monitor, at President Kendall, behind the podium.  Back in the White House.  Back where he belonged.  Richter took a deep breath then smiled.

“Jack, Derek.  I don’t know where to begin,” he said.  “It’s been one hell of a journey and the odds were against us most of the way.  But we did it.”  He shook his head.  “You guys were amazing.”  He gestured towards the monitor.  “The president would not be alive today if it weren’t for you.”  He shook his head again.  “Heck, I wouldn’t be alive today…” He took another breath before continuing.  “Being an agent, you need to rely on your partners to cover your back. Well, I couldn’t think of anyone else I would want protecting me but you two.”

Jack’s face flushed red and he wiped away a tear.

“It’s been an amazing adventure,” Derek said, his voice cracking.

“It has been, but unfortunately,” Richter said as his smile faded.  “It’s not over yet.  They’re going to want to talk to you,” he continued with a nod to the two FBI agents.  “There’ll be depositions and Congressional Hearings…” he waved his hand.

“Yeah,” Jack said.  “They told us.”

“Well,” Derek said with a grin.  “This is our first time to Washington.  I’m sure between all of that we’ll get to see the sights.”

“Unfortunately, over the next few days, you’ll be spending most of your time behind closed doors. But I’ll make sure the FBI gives you the grand tour.”  He smiled.  “I’ll make sure they show you things tourists never get to see.”

Jack and Derek smiled at that.

Richter gestured toward the TV again.  “Listen, he wants to meet you later tonight, after the media circus is over.  Are you guys okay waiting around?”

“Are we okay?”  Derek spread his arms wide.  “Where else do you think we’d rather be?”

Richter smiled.  There were things he wanted to say, that he had to say, but he knew he couldn’t.  Not tonight.  He stepped forward, his hand out. 

“Thank you…”

Jack ignored the outstretched hand and suddenly his arms were around Richter’s shoulders.  A second later, Derek joined them.  Richter suddenly felt the tears running down his cheeks.  After a moment he pulled away and forced himself to push all the emotions back down. 
Not here.  Not now
.

“Listen, I need to go,” he said as he wiped his eyes.  “The next few days will be hectic, but I’ll make sure I check in on you guys from time to time to see how things are going.”

Jack and Derek nodded and Richter turned away before anyone said anything else.  He stepped back into the East Room. 

After a moment he caught Monahan’s attention and nodded.  Ignoring the eyes on him, he stepped out into the hall.  Spotting him, the reporters and photographers who had been relegated to the TV monitors set up hastily in the hall, pushed forward only to be blocked by a team of FBI agents who formed a protective ring around him.  Pat Monahan pushed his way through the crowd.  They shared a glance.

In a voice that betrayed his weariness, Richter mumbled, “I’m going home.”

Monahan nodded then spoke to one of the agents.  He and Richter shared another glance then Monahan squeezed Richter’s arm and nodded again. 

Five minutes later, Richter found himself in the back of an FBI Suburban.  His face a mask, he said nothing to the agents sitting beside him.  Twenty minutes later, the car slowed, and he glanced out the window and saw that they had stopped in front of his building.  He stared out the window and, for a moment, the building felt unfamiliar and cold and he wondered how he had ended up here.  He shook his head, then realized someone was talking to him.  He turned and noticed for the first time that Special Agent Wayne Elms was next to him.  Elms asked him again and Richter frowned then shook his head.

Elms nodded.  “Wait here a moment please.”

As Elms climbed out, Richter sat back and closed his eyes.

Sometime later—five minutes, maybe more—Elms returned. 

“The door’s open.  The apartment’s secure.”  Elms paused.  “I’d like to post some of my men inside your apartment,” he added.

Richter shook his head.  Then he climbed out.

A minute later he shut the door to his apartment, not bothering with the bolt.  Elms and his men, he knew, would be right outside.  He glanced at his sparsely furnished apartment: at the sofa and chair he had purchased with little thought, at the remote sitting next to a TV that he had so rarely used, at the jar full of cooking utensils by the stove, some still wrapped in the plastic they came in, and at the cheap Ansel Adams print he had hung on the wall in a vain attempt to make a place that he spent so little time in feel like home.  He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was an intruder.  He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

Slowly, he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor.  His face buried in his hands, his body shook as he began to weep.  

It was a hot Carolina morning when Matthew Richter turned into the driveway of the small house in Greensboro.  He parked the car and sat for a moment studying the brick ranch, the well-manicured lawn, and neatly tended shrubs.  Richter took a deep breath and climbed out of the car.  The door opened as he walked up the steps.  The woman smiled, but her eyes betrayed the pain. 

“Ma’am, I’m Matthew Richter.  I called earlier.”

“I know.  I recognize you…from TV.  Please.  Come in.”

Richter followed her into the living room. 

“Please have a seat.  Can I get you something to drink?  I made some fresh ice tea.”

“Thank you, ma’am.  That would be nice.”

Richter looked around the room.  Pictures of Stephanie were displayed on end tables, on the mantel and the walls.  Stephanie posing with friends.  Stephanie, in cap and gown, at her college graduation.  Stephanie holding a trophy after, Richter guessed, a track meet.  Stephanie, eyes vigilant, standing behind President Kendall as he shook hands with President Magaña of Mexico.  On the table next to him, there was a memorial card from Stephanie’s funeral.  He flipped it over and read:

To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. 

This is to have succeeded.

-
        
Ralph Waldo Emerson

He let out a breath, placed the card back on the table, then stood as he heard voices coming from the kitchen.  Mrs. Sartori walked in carrying a tray.  A tall, distinguished looking man with gray hair followed her in. 

He stuck out his hand.  “I’m Ted Sartori.”

“I’m Matthew Richter, sir.”

“Please, have a seat.”

While Mrs. Sartori poured drinks, Richter picked up a picture frame.  “I didn’t realize Stephanie was a track star.  She never told me that.”

“She ran in high school.  Mostly long distance.”  Pointing to the picture, Mr. Sartori continued.  “That was after she completed her first marathon.  She was still in college then.  She didn’t win.” Mr. Sartori smiled at the memory, then shook his head. “But I had a trophy made up beforehand, and we gave it to her when we finally met up with her at the finish line.”  Mr. Sartori paused, the words stuck in his throat.  “She was our only child.”

Mrs. Sartori touched his arm and then turned to Richter.  “Mr. Richter.  I didn’t ask, but I hope you like sweet tea.  It’s how we serve it in the South.”

“Please, call me Matthew.”  He took the glass.  “Thank you, ma’am.”  He took a sip.  “This is very good.”

He put the glass on a coaster.

“I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.  I know this is a very difficult time for you.  I worked with Stephanie and…I had come to know her quite well.  I realize you’re probably wondering what happened.”

Mrs. Sartori nodded.  “No one has told us much.  The president called to offer his condolences and to thank us.  He told us Stephanie saved his life.”  Mrs. Sartori reached for a tissue.  “Did she?”

Richter’s felt his eyes well up.  “Yes, ma’am, she did.  Stephanie was a hero.”

Matthew Richter looked around the empty apartment one last time.  His footsteps sounded loud as the noise echoed off the bare walls.  He paused by the window for a moment and sighed.  Two months of endless sessions with investigators, of testifying before Congress, of painstakingly recounting their ordeal had left him drained. 

Rumson was dead.  In the scuffle with Richter, he had fallen on the letter opener, and the blade he had intended for Kendall had pierced his own flesh instead.  There was little anyone could have done, and by the time the doctor arrived, he was gone.  The woman named Jane, investigators had determined, was someone Rumson had befriended as a child.  Like Mosby and McKay, she was one of many that Rumson had apparently cultivated over the years.  She had vanished.  As investigators learned more about her background, they realized that finding her would be a challenge.  Joe Reed refused to speak, his lawyer claiming that he had been tortured and that anything he said had been under duress.  His demands for a plea bargain fell on deaf ears.  The investigation into the Air Force, the Secret Service, and the FBI continued; Emil Broder loudly protested his innocence.  Yet the questions remained.

Richter turned from the window, and stopping by the door, glanced back once more.  Even with his FBI detail, the reporters still hounded him, trying to win a few minutes of his time, telling him he was a hero.  They shouted their questions over the tops of his agents.  One question, above all, had struck a chord.

“How do you feel?”

How did he feel?  He stared at the apartment. 
Like this
, he thought. 
Empty
. 
Hollow
.  Stephanie was gone.  She and Brad Lansing and so many others had done their jobs.  Yet, the Service had failed them.  The Service had failed him. 

With a sigh, he shut the door.

Fifteen minutes later, a ball cap pulled low over his face and driving his own car for the first time in months, he merged onto Rt. 495.  It was seven hours to Columbus.  He would spend a week with his family, maybe two.  Where he would go after that—what he would do next—he wasn’t sure.  But one thing was clear, there was nothing left for him here.

He glanced in his rearview mirror and watched as Washington, DC, faded in the distance.