The President's Shadow (22 page)

A
nd you’re sure you didn’t see him?” Director Riestra asked.

“You think I don’t know what he looks like?” A.J. pushed back. “I checked the alley myself. Both of them,” he added, pointing to each of the empty brick alleyways
. Truth is, A.J. was still surprised at his decision to let Beecher go. He hadn’t planned it. Like any hasty choice, it’d been more gut than brains. “If Beecher was here, he already got away.”

“You keep saying that. But when I got in the apartment, Mrs. Young’s bedroom window was still open. She said Beecher had just run out.”

“And again, maybe he went up to the roof. Maybe he’s faster than we thought. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Riestra readjusted his round eyeglasses, then made a little popping noise with his mouth. “For me, y’know what the greatest feature of the Secret Service is, A.J? Our exactitude. When you’re on protective detail, it’s a perfectly oiled machine. You do eight-hour shifts, then you get to go home for a rest, then, to make sure you’re always fresh, you come back and rotate to a new position where you start all over and do it again. Morning shift, afternoon shift, midnight shift. It’s like a Model T Ford. Whatever part you’re plugged into, the machine works exactly the same.

“Of course, we have to keep an eye on the rotation system. So sometimes you work the one-spot and get to be on the left shoulder of the President, sometimes you do advance work before he gets there, and sometimes you’re stuck babysitting the press or watching monitors in a basement,” Riestra added. “But when I looked at the past few weeks, you know what I found? You, A.J., always seemed to pull that one-spot. Day after day, week after week, you always got that same assignment: left shoulder of the President. And when I dug a little deeper, do you know why you got that spot?”

A.J. stood there, his posture stiff as oak. In a corner of the alley, a swirl of dead leaves spun in a mini-whirlwind.

“I looked it up; it was fascinating,” Riestra said. “You got that spot because the chief of staff
personally
put in a request for you. But y’know what I also know? The chief of staff doesn’t know you all that well, which tells me that that request came from someone even higher up the totem pole. And considering how high the chief of staff sits, well…who else does that really leave to make a request like that?”

“Sir, I’m not sure what you’re—”

“You’re in my damn way, asshole. I know you’re lying about Beecher. I know you saw him come off that fire escape. So whatever private thing you’ve got going with the President—I don’t care if he keeps you around so you can go down on him every day—”

“Sir, that’s not—”

Riestra grabbed A.J.’s shoulder, pinching the skin on his neck hard. Pulling him close, Riestra whispered, “You have no idea how close you are to having the very worst day of your life. I don’t care if you know God Almighty. When I ask you something, don’t lie to me. We clear?”

A.J. nodded. He smelled cigarettes on Riestra’s breath.

“I’m putting you back on training duty,” Riestra added, storming toward the front of the building. “If Wallace wants you, he can come get you.”

Standing there in the alley, mentally replaying the slow-motion end of his career, A.J. wasn’t surprised. This day had been coming. From the moment the President had asked him for that first favor back in Ohio, A.J. had known he was out on a moral tightrope. It’s hard to say no when the most powerful man in the world asks you personally. But with each passing request, that rope was
slowly twisting into a noose.

A.J. was tempted to call Francy, or former White House doctor Stewart Palmiotti, or even the private number that would connect him to Wallace himself. Instead he stood there, drenched in the alchemy of loss and embarrassed relief that follows the death of someone who’d been suffering for too long. In the corner, th
e
whirlwind of leaves continued to swirl. At the far end of the alley, Director Riestra headed for his black sedan.

It was that annoying little detail—of Riestra ducking into his car—that floated there, nipping at the back of A.J.’s brain. If Director Riestra cared about the buried arms, shouldn’t he be upstairs, talking to Mrs. Young? Shouldn’t he be getting more details about the victim? Instead, the director of the Secret Service got in his car—alone, without his own chief of staff—and drove away.

Huh
, A.J. thought.
There’s one other person who would really want to know that.

T
oday it was the cannons. Just as it had been the day before, and the day before that.

“Here, use this,” the marine guard named Dominic said, handing Alby a long metal pole with a moon-shaped metal scraper at the end of it.

For three days now, the Plankholders had been in charge of cleaning and restoring the island’s twenty-five-ton Rodman cannons. Back during the Civil War, only 320 of these massive cannons had been produced. Fort Jefferson had six—all still intact—one at each of the six bastions, pointed out from the roof of the six-sided fort.

Back then, each cannon could fire a cannonball over three miles, all the way to Loggerhead Key, making these the most powerful guns in existence. During the 1900s, th
e
iron carriages that they were mounted on were sold off as scrap metal by the military. But since the cannons themselves were too heavy to move, they’d been sitting here, rusting in the salty, sandy terreplein for decades.

Three days ago, Alby and the Plankholders had used hydraulic jacks to prop each cannon up, one by one, then wedged stacks of wood under them so they could roll them onto granite blocks and point them even farther out over the parapets.

Two days ago, they’d used hammers and putty knives to scrape away the rust pustules and half-inch-thick corrosion that coated the exterior surface of each cannon, especially where it’d been lying in the sand.

Toda
y
, six of them, including Alby and Nico, were armed with long moon-shaped scrapers, which they’d use like giant Q-tips to reach into the fourteen-foot-deep mouth of each cannon. One cannon was filled with dead birds and crabs. Another had ancient bottles in it. All had thick coats of rat droppings and plant debris. For six hours, Alby baked in the sun, fighting to scrape it all away.

According to the guard, when they finished, a small electronic device the size of a shoebox would be inserted into each cannon, then the muzzle would be covered. Supposedly, it’d help them track any changes in the cannon’s temperature or humidity, for preservation purposes. They’d know if an animal got inside. Or even a dead body, Dominic explained with his panting laugh.

But right now, Alb
y
was still scraping at layer after layer of rat droppings, and sweating so hard his fingers were starting to prune. Up here on the roof, there was no shade; this close to summer, there was also no breeze. “102 degrees exactly,” Nico muttered to no one in particular.

Still, for the Plankholders, there was one benefit to being on Fort Jefferson’s roof: the view. For three days now, they’d stared out at the ocean, mesmerized by the aquamarine horizon. During those moments, this island really was the only place left on this earth. For Alby, though, it wasn’t the ocean view that captured his attention. It was a different one.

Throughout these three days, while his fellow Plankholders looked
up and out
, Alby stared
in and down
, with a perfect view of the fort’s open hexagon-shaped courtyard. From up here, Alby could see it all: the top of every tree, the roof of every building, and of course, where everyone was going.

For three consecutive days, Alb
y
watched. And eventually, h
e
became certain of this: Every day, after Colonel Doggett left breakfast and headed back to the officers’ quarters, within ten minutes, one person always followed.

Dr. Moorcraft.

D
r. Moorcraft bolted awake, thinking he was in bed. He was seated in his kitchen, hands locked with plastic zip ties behind his back.

“Whabuh—
Why am I—
!? My finger!?
” he howled, thrashing around, bucking his chair against the Mediterranean tile, fighting like a dog trying to see its tail.

“I peeled the skin from your pinkie,” Nico explained, sitting across from the doctor, palms flat on the antique farm table. The open needle-nose pliers lay between them.

“
Look how wide the pliers sit when they’re open
,” the dead First Lady said. “
It looks…
”

“
…like a cross,
” Nico and the First Lady said simultaneously. Nico smiled. There was nothing better than being understood.

“Why’re—? Who’re you talking to?” the doctor asked.

“No, I agree,” Nico said to the First Lady. “I’m doing his ring finger next.”

“Nico, whatever you’re seeing… I don’t know your history, but you’ve been on antipsychotics and neuroleptics for years. If you’re off those, your hallucinations will start getting wor—”

“You don’t have a wedding band,” Nico said to the doctor. “It was the same with Colonel Doggett.”

“You saw Doggett? Is that how you—?”

“Did your wife die, or did she leave you, like Doggett’s did?”

“Son, you’re not hearing me. I’m trying to help you.”

“That’s your second lie. All these years, they told me my sickness…that God chose me for this. That He— That He— That He made me this way…that He put this sickness in me. I know now that’s not true.”

“
God made you good
,” the First Lady said.

“God made me good!” Nico agreed, hands still flat on the table, like he was cupping something under his left palm.

“What’s in your hand?” the doctor asked, still twisting to free his own arms. He was clearly in pain, but like the specialists in St. Elizabeths, he fought hard to keep control.

“Do you know why we all wear wedding bands on our left hands?” Nico challenged. “It dates back to the ancient Romans and Egyptians, who thought that the fourth finger on your left hand connected with a vein that led directly to your heart.
Vena amoris
, they called it. The vein of love.”

“Son—”

“It’s idiocy really. They were proven utterly wrong. But that’s how medicine is, isn’t it? Sometimes it makes the gravest of errors,” Nico said, leaning forward, his face darkening.

“Nico, I’m sure that speech sounded perfect in your head, but whatever you’re after, this venture is pointless. Why would—?”

“I went through your drawers, Doctor. I found
this
.” Nico slid his cupped hand forward and lifted it, revealing a pile of over two dozen tiny white…

“
Baby teeth
,” the First Lady explained as Nico brushed a few of them from his hand and they bounced across the table.

“You’ve been in this house a long time, haven’t you?” Nico added. “That many teeth… You raised your kids in this house. You hid here all these years when the government gave you a new life. But not everyone—”

“She’s your daughter, isn’t she?”

“
Don’t answer him
,” the First Lady insisted.

“The girl on the news. The one who they say helped you escape. I know she’s your daughter.”

Nico froze, blinking over and over. “Who told you that?”

“She’s sick, yes?” the doctor asked. “Is that why you came here?”

“
Cut his other finger
,” the First Lady said. “
Take the knife. Slice him where his wedding band used to be. Don’t trust a word he says until you peel his skin like a grape and he
—
”

“Tell me her symptoms,” Dr. Moorcraft added. “How’s she presenting? Is it cancer?”

Nico nodded as the First Lady continued to yell.

“How far along? Any idea of her staging?” Moorcraft asked.

Nico’s voice was a whisper. He glanced down at the table. “Her teeth are falling out.”

Moorcraft’s face didn’t shift. He barely moved. But Nico had been around enough doctors to know when the nightmare was worse than even they’d anticipated. “I’m sorry she’s suffering.”

“You need to help her,” Nico insisted.

“I don’t think you underst—”

“
You. Need. To. HELP HER!
” Nico exploded, leaping from his seat, pouncing across the table and scattering all the teeth as his hot breath blasted Moorcraft’s face. As he collided with the doctor, Moorcraft’s chair tipped back.

Twisting mid-fall, Moorcraft landed on his side. There was a pop at his elbow, where it was pinned by the chair.

“My arm…!”

Kneeling down, Nico shifted the doctor’s arm so it was no longer pinched by the chair. But he left him on the floor. “You need to help her!” Nico again growled.

“You’re not listening! I wish I could save her. I wish I could give you everything you need and get you out of my—”

“You put something in us! You know what it was!”

“
It doesn’t matter what it was!
” the doctor shot back, the side of his head still pressed to the floor, arms behind his back. “You were part of an experiment. There were side effects no one ever anticipated, and now your daughter’s experiencing an uncontrolled division of abnormal cells, the likes of which we’ve never seen before. You know what the cure for that is?
Nothing.
”

Still down on both knees, Nico shook his head.

“With you—and your daughter—we were trying to do something noble, something grand. But for you to come here and think that if you skin me alive, I’ll pull out a magic test tube filled with a magic green elixir… This isn’t a spy movie. There’s no secret antidote that you pour into her mouth just as she’s about to die. If your daughter’s disease has progressed this far, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing left to do.”

Nico shook his head faster than ever. The First Lady knelt next to him, putting an arm around him.

“Your daughter needs you now. More than ever. But if you truly want to help her…”
Lying
on his side, down on the Mediterranean tile, Moorcraft craned his neck and turned toward Nico. “…the be
s
t thing you can do is make sure she doesn’t suffer.”

A pit opened in Nico’s throat, a twisting, elastic crater that stretched down his chest, past his stomach, tugging from within, hollowing him out. Next to him, th
e
First Lady whispered that it was part of God’s plan, but as Nico knelt there, replaying the past few weeks—

Every father has dreams for his child. For decades now, Nico had kept those dreams buried, locked away. Indeed, for most people, the biggest dreams usually stay hidden. Then, two months ago, Clementine had returned to his life. Nico was doubtful at the time. He didn’t know this woman, and so many wanted so much from him. Yet one night, back when they were still sleeping in the car, Nico was startled awake, hearing something outside. Glancing out the back window, Nico followed the sound. It was Clementine, head bowed low.
Please, God, keep my dad Nico healthy and safe.
She was saying a prayer. For him.

A lump clenched his throat. Nico never mentioned it to her. But in that moment, as a father, Nico opened that old box and carefully, curiously, cautiously, returned to those old dreams. For these past few weeks, those dreams were
his fuel, his purpose. And now, down on his knees in the kitchen, no matter how hard Nico grabbed at those dreams, they were nothing but wisps of smoke. To have Clementine return was life-changing. But Nico knew, he should’ve always known: In life, especially for him, some things can’t be changed.

“
Nico, talk to me
,” the First Lady insisted.

“The doctor’s telling the truth,” Nico said, his voice back to its flat monotone.

“I am! I swear on those baby teeth, I am!” Moorcraft pleaded.

“
You need to kill him
,” the First Lady said.

Nico didn’t hear her. He was still staring at the doctor. “How’d you know who Clementine was?”

“Clementine?”

“My daughter. When you mentioned her before, how’d you know she was my daughter?”

“Nico, you know how much money was invested in you? You really think we didn’t keep track of everything you did?”

Nico nodded. “And the files from back then, where are they now?”

“I-If I had to guess? Right where we left them. On the island.”

Nico nodded again, this time a bit slower. “I appreciate that.” Climbing up from his knees, he glanced around the rustic and enormous Spanish-style kitchen. “This room is bigger than our day room at St. Elizabeths,” Nico added.

“I’m sorry they locked you up there,” Moorcraft said, still bound in the chair, lying on his side. “I never wanted—”

The doctor never got the words out.

Nico grabbed the needle-nose pliers from the table and stabbed them deep into Moorcraft’s throat. Flecks of blood hit Nico’s chin and lips. Arching his arm back, he stabbed the doctor again. And again. And again.

“
There you go, sweetie. We can’t change who we are
,” the dead First Lady said with a grin.

Nico was in a frenzy now, gripping Moorcraft’s hair and stabbing the doctor in his neck, his face, his cheek. “
You stole my daughter! You stole her life from me! I WANT IT BACK!
” he roared, blinking tears from his eyes, spit flying from his mouth. “
GIVE IT BACK! GIVE ME HER—
!
”

“
N-Nico…?
” a brand-new female voice called out from across the room. A younger woman’s voice.

Nico turned, following the sound. In the doorway, the overweight woman who’d driven them here—AnnaBeth—was frozen in place, a thin curl of her wiry black hair twirling down her cheek. “Mother of pearl… Nico, what’s happening?” she stuttered, starting to wobble.

Bits of blood spotted Nico’s face. One fist still gripped Moorcraft’s hair; his other held the pliers, which were deep in the doctor’s cheekbone.

“
Nico, she’s a witness now
,” the First Lady blurted. “
You know what to do.
”

“I-Is that the lawyer?” AnnaBeth said, tears swelling. She looked like she wanted to run, but her legs didn’t move. “I thought you were— You said you were coming to speak to him.”

“I told you to wait in the car,” Nico said, gripping the doctor’s hair.

“You’re supposed to be
speaking
to him,” AnnaBeth pleaded. “Why’re you—? What have you done?”

“
Nico, if she tells anyone you’re here…
” the First Lady began. She didn’t have to finish the sentence.

“I believed in you!” AnnaBeth cried. “I told everyone you were gentle!”

“
You know what to do with witnesses
,” the First Lady added.

Nico nodded, already hating himself for it. He let go of Moorcraft’s hair. The doctor’s body slumped to the floor, making a splash in the puddle of his own blood. Nico’s free hand held the needle-nose pliers, which had bits of flesh in their tips. He headed toward AnnaBeth.

“Nicky, please,” AnnaBeth sobbed. “We’re supposed to be together! Please don’t do this!” She closed her eyes as Nico got closer. “We’re supposed to be together!”

“
This is her own fault. Not yours
,” the First Lady added.

AnnaBeth clamped her eyes shut. Nico was so close—almost nose-to-nose—she felt his breath on her face. The last thought in her head was about her dog, and who would pay for him at the kennel.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence.

When AnnaBeth opened her eyes, the kitchen was empty. Nico was gone.

“
Are you stupid!? What’re you doing!?
” the dead First Lady yelled as Nico walked calmly through the living room, back toward the front door. “
You need to get back there and take care of this!
”

Nico ignored her. In life, some things could never be changed. But some things had to be.

“
This is the moment you’ll regret
,” the dead First Lady warned. “
When you’re lying on the ground and they lock you away for the last time, this is the part where you screwed it up!
”

Pushing the front door open and heading for the car, Nico again didn’t answer. He knew what he had to do. And where he had to go—the last place he wanted to be: back where it
all started.