The President's Daughter Read online

  All right, I will have our daughter Mel with me, but I’ve learned to sleep in temporary quarters in the mountains of Afghanistan, so I’m sure I can adjust to a teen girl underfoot who’ll be finishing her Sidwell Friends education from a remote location.

  I hope.

  “Any reporters around?” Samantha asks.

  “I think they’re hiding out in the terminal,” I say. “The A-list journalists are back in DC and Georgetown, toasting the Barnes Administration at inaugural balls and parties. Not interested in seeing a former president rejected by his party slink off into the snow and woods.”

  “Their loss,” she says, coming close for my hug and kiss, and then she whispers, “You did your best, Matt. You’re not a professional politician or a desperate office seeker. You were put into a tough situation and you did your best. History will recognize that.”

  “I’m not holding my breath.”

  Lights move at the other end of the runway, and she gently breaks our embrace. “Matt, you could have done so much more if the entire system hadn’t been crippled long before you entered the Oval Office. From Twitter mobs to focus groups, nothing can get done anymore. Not your fault.”

  I say, “You mean I was too good for the American people?”

  Another smile, a quick peck on my cheek. “Not so fast, sailor boy. It’s complicated, just like you. The real people are still there, with their problems and potential, hopes and dreams. It’s just hard for them to make good decisions when their brains are filled, and their spirits broken, with so much crap. I’ll call you when I get to Boston. And I’ll come up next weekend to see what, if anything, you’ve actually unpacked. Come March, I’ll be up with you and Mel during BU’s spring break.”

  Other lights appear.

  One black Chevrolet Suburban pulls up. A plainclothes New Hampshire state trooper is driving, with a second in the passenger seat. As was her right, Sam has refused Secret Service protection, and as a courtesy, these troopers will take her to Boston.

  Another Suburban rolls in, followed by two others, escorted fore and aft by New Hampshire State Police cruisers, lights flashing. At least my position as a former president rates a bit flashier and more secure transport to my new home up north.

  Mel walks toward me, holding two cups of coffee in her hands, one for her, one for me.

  Samantha gives her a quick hug and kiss and whisper, and then walks to her ride to Boston. She gets in and the Suburban glides out across the snowy tarmac.

  Our daughter Mel hands me a cup and wipes at her eyes.

  I put my arm around her. “How’s it going, kiddo?”

  “Sucks,” she says.

  “Sure does,” I say. “Congrats again on your early acceptance from Dartmouth. Chosen a major yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “A school?”

  “No again,” she says. Mel stays within my grasp, and I’m cherishing this special quiet moment with her.

  I say, “Anything you feel like studying?”

  “Not yet,” she says.

  I give her a gentle squeeze. “How about things you don’t feel like studying?”

  She laughs and sips at her coffee. “Political science, Dad. Sorry. And definitely not journalism. Or anything to do with TV.”

  I feel an old spike of anger. A few days after I gave my speech accepting responsibility for the death of Asim Al-Asheed’s family, Saturday Night Live did a skit with an actress depicting Mel—wearing Coke-bottle-thick glasses—hitting bull’s-eye after bull’s-eye at a shooting range, the joke being that at least one member of the Keating family knew how to shoot straight.

  That was a rough weekend, and it took months for Mel to bounce back from public humiliation in front of an audience of millions. The producer of SNL eventually apologized for including my daughter in such a mocking way, and after that he cast actors who played me as a clueless military robot. I was fair game, and they were funny. I accepted his apology and the head of NBC felt he could safely go outside again.

  “How about the military? Follow in your old man’s footsteps?”

  “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve jumped out of aircraft lots, right?”

  “Yes. And helicopters, too. But always with a parachute.”

  “You think I’m really gonna like to do that?”

  “Well, I can always hope.”

  Mel says, “Let’s go, okay?”

  “You got it, kiddo.”

  The two of us walk into the flying snow, as the promised possibilities and real achievements of the presidency of Matthew Keating finally come to an end.

  Part

  Two

  Chapter

  17

  The post-presidency of Matthew Keating, year two

  Lake Marie, New Hampshire

  I yell out, “Come on, David, make the Secret Service proud! I’m going to kick your ass!”

  We’re paddling identical dark green Old Town canoes across Lake Marie, and his is trailing mine by about two feet, his strong face emoting a mix of amusement and grim exertion as he vies to take the lead.

  I’m shirtless on this hot June day, but David Stahl, special agent in charge of my Secret Service detail, is wearing a loose black T-shirt that conceals both his strength and whatever weapons and communications gear he’s carrying. This race across the dark blue waters is a daily event to keep us both in shape, although he’s about ten years younger than me and probably doesn’t need the extra exercise.

  Past the dock where a single-engine pontoon boat is moored is the old-fashioned large lake home I purchased during the interregnum between Pamela Barnes’s election and her inauguration. It’s two stories, dark brown, with a wraparound enclosed porch and three outbuildings, a detached two-car garage, a shed for my workout gear, and a small refurbished barn for the Secret Service detail. Pine trees and white birches are scattered around the grounds, which have conservation land on either side, meaning no nosy neighbors.

  “Just a few more yards, David, c’mon, dig in!” I yell. “Don’t wimp out on me now! Do it, c’mon, do it!”

  Unfair, I know, but I’m feeling a thrill knowing that even though he’s younger than me, and in better shape, I am going to kick his ass indeed, and he knows that I won’t stand for him slacking off so that I can later brag about a win.

  This is a canoe race, not a golf match, and it’s impossible to futz with the results, like using handicaps or mulligans. It’s straightforward, win or lose, no excuses.

  I like that clarity.

  I hear the harsh scrape of my canoe bow striking sand first and I let out a whoop of joy, and I clamber out into shin-deep water as Agent David Stahl keeps on pushing and comes in second. My right hip, crushed in a helo crash in Afghanistan a long time ago, barely aches this morning. A good thing. I drag my canoe a couple of feet up our little beach and see David, his short black hair sweated through, right behind me. He gasps, “Pretty good, sir, pretty good.”

  He slops through the lake water and I help him drag his canoe from the dock to the small open structure that serves as a boathouse. As we put up our paddles and PFDs, I hear a woman’s voice: “Mr. President, got a moment?”

  There’s a cooler at my feet and I open it, pull out a bottle of water, pass it over to my lead Secret Service agent, and then take one for myself.

  Coming down the flagstone path from the house is Madeline Perry, my chief of staff while I’m still getting used to my post-presidency. She’s about my age and, as Glamour magazine would say, big-boned, with shoulder-length black hair and very fair skin that can’t tolerate the sun. She volunteered to join me in my New Hampshire exile, when most others on my White House staff stuck around to find jobs with the new Barnes Administration or elsewhere in DC. Today, Madeline has on her standard uniform of black slacks and flowing pastel blouse.

  I twist off the cap of the water bottle, take a long cold swallow. Madeline comes closer and says, “I’m heading off to the Manchester office, sir, and then I h
ave a flight to Manhattan.”

  “Safe travels,” I say.

  “I’m sure it’ll be safe,” she says, “but what would make it a memorable trip is for you to say yes.”

  “Yes to what?” I ask, though I’m teasing her. I know what she’s looking for. At least four publishing companies have expressed interest in my autobiography. Now I have to agree to write it.

  Her thin lips press together, and I hold up a hand in surrender. “Maddie, Maddie, okay. Not today, but soon. All right? Promise.”

  She shakes her head. “Mr. President, the longer you’re out of office, the quicker the window closes on you telling your story. The interest will start to fade away, and publishers will go find other projects.”

  Another nice swallow of cold water. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

  Madeline makes her way back up to the house, her head turning back to me. “It is a bad thing, if all you want to do is barely make enough money for you and your family, much less starting the foundation to help all your fellow vets who have problems a lot bigger than your election loss.”

  Ouch, I think, and I turn to Agent Stahl for reassurance or sympathy, but, smart guy that he is, he’s moved back to the boathouse to tend to the canoes, pretending not to hear my little exchange with Maddie.

  I watch my chief of staff go behind the garage, where her Volvo is parked. I know I shouldn’t be so rough on her. Hers is a thankless and anonymous job, managing my post-presidency. My first year out I got about a hundred thousand letters, most handled by volunteers, and now that’s gone down to about twenty thousand, and Madeline rides herd on that and so many other tasks, from speech requests to folks wanting me to tell the real truth about what’s being hidden in Area 51 and whether Roswell was an alien encounter.

  Some days I’m envious of the carefree time after Eisenhower’s 1953 inauguration when Harry Truman and his wife, Bess, hopped into their car and drove themselves home to Missouri. I’m not yet ready to give up the enjoyment of just being a person and a dad.

  Up at the house, a screen door slaps closed, and Mel comes bounding down the porch stairs, yelling, “Hey, Dad, I’m getting ready to head out with Tim. Who won the race?”

  I call back, “Who do you think?”

  She laughs. “That’s ten in a row, right?”

  Agent Stahl says, “Hey, it’s nine. Let’s keep the numbers straight.”

  “Whatever you say, Dave,” Mel replies, grinning. “You need anything at the store?”

  I take a moment to admire my daughter as she moves quickly down the flagstone path, eyeglasses firm on her face, her blond hair still damp from her morning shower. She’s wearing a dark green knapsack on her back, climbing boots, khaki shorts, and a light gray sweatshirt on which is printed DARTMOUTH. Mel’s nineteen, smarter than I ever was at her age—my interests were beers, girls, guns, and horses, while Mel scored in the upper 1 percent on the SATs.

  I say, “What do you mean ‘at the store’? You’re not due back until tomorrow.”

  She stops in front of me, perfect white smile wide. “I know. But I also know you love those maple square pastries at Cook’s General Store. You want me to pick up a box when I come back home?”

  Ah, Cook’s General Store. I remember with a flush of shame the first day I went shopping there, two years back, and could not believe how much a gallon of milk cost. Nearly four bucks? For real? When did that happen?

  That’s when I knew I had been in a bubble for way too long.

  I shake my head, give Mel a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I’d love that, but my cholesterol level won’t. Thanks for the offer.”

  Mel gives me a quick hug back. “You let me know when your cholesterol level surrenders, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say. “And have fun with your Tim, all right?”

  A little eye roll. “My Tim…okay, Dad.”

  “And call me tomorrow when you get your cell service back, all right?”

  A laugh. “Sure, Dad. You can trust me! I’ll be safe and sound. Look, gotta run. He’s picking me up on the access road. He should be there by now.”

  My daughter whirls and goes up the flagstone path, between the house and garage, and I watch until she’s out of view.

  Agent David Stahl says, “What’s your schedule, sir?”

  “Oh, nothing major. Second cup of coffee, read the morning newspapers, first shower of the day, and then clearing some saplings and brush out by the old stone wall. Exceptionally exciting, eh?”

  “And Mel?”

  Mel was no longer eligible for Secret Service protection once I left office—the cutoff age for children of former presidents is sixteen—and since those professional guardians have left her side, it’s amazing how much she’s relaxed and opened up. But still, Agent Stahl likes to keep up with what our daughter is doing and seeing, and I like knowing he’s doing that.

  “A hike with Tim Kenyon, her friend from school,” I say. “Going up to Mount Rollins, spending the night at a hut owned by the Dartmouth Outing Club, and then coming back tomorrow.”

  “The weather’s great,” he says. “They should have a good time. How do you like him?”

  “Tim?” I reply. “Mel likes him, so I do, too. She told me he even considered taking ROTC up at Dartmouth so that’s points in his favor. A bit nervous when we first met, but he’s been fine ever since I gave him a little pep talk.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  I smile at Agent Stahl, still worn and sweaty from our canoe race. “I told him that I had a 9mm pistol and a shovel, and I knew how to use both. See you later, David.”

  Chapter

  18

  Near the American-Canadian border

  Lloyd Franklin is driving his battered black Ford F-150 pickup truck and his cousin Josh is riding shotgun when Lloyd spots two figures emerging from the deep woods along this narrow dirt road five miles south of the Canadian border.

  Josh is sleeping, his bearded face drooping and nearly touching the stained Boston Bruins T-shirt covering his beer gut, and Lloyd nudges him with his elbow and says, “Wake up.”

  Josh coughs, wipes at his eyes, and says, “Trouble? What? Border Patrol?”

  Good question, because secured under a worn blue tarp in the rear of Lloyd’s truck are ten cases of Marlboro cigarettes—five hundred cartons total—heading to their smuggling partner in Ontario. Bought at forty-eight dollars per carton at a number of stores in and around Lebanon, New Hampshire, Lloyd and Josh charge eighty dollars American in Ontario.

  Even with the cost of gas and the payoff to their Canadian partner, Lloyd and his cousin are going to clear over fifteen thousand dollars in this quick trip on this narrow dirt road that’s one of the many illegal crossings in and out of their northern neighbor. Jobs that Lloyd and his cousin could do up here have been fading away, and food stamps and surplus cheese and oatmeal just ain’t making it.

  Lloyd peers through the dirty windshield. “Don’t know who the hell they are. Dressed all in white.”

  “Priests, maybe?” Josh asks.

  “I—ah, you asshole!”

  The two strangers come out in the middle of the dirt road, the taller and older of them holding up a hand. Lloyd brakes—he feels the grinding underfoot; with the cash they’ll be getting, he can finally afford to get the rotors replaced—and stops about four feet away from the two guys.

  “Look at that, will you?” Lloyd says, thinking, Yeah, they’re wearing white jumpsuits and they look pretty weird out here in the middle of nowhere.

  Josh breathes heavily, reaching under the seat, pulling out a holstered .357 Ruger revolver. Josh unholsters the revolver, holds it in his plump lap, and says, “If these two don’t get out of the way, I’ll handle it.”

  Lloyd lowers the window as the taller and older man starts walking toward them. “Lighten up, Josh. Probably just a couple of freaks, lost in the woods. Looking for their yoga partners or something.”

  “You lighten up,” Josh snaps back. “Goddamn C
itizens Bank is about to foreclose on my house, kick me and Lisa and the kids out, and I’m not going to let that happen. Don’t care if these two are starving or been lost for a month: we’re not helping, and we’re getting to the handoff on schedule.”

  The man comes up to the driver’s side, smiling, dark skin, bushy eyebrows, and says in an accented voice, “Sorry to bother you.”

  “What’s the problem?” Lloyd asks. “And why are you wearing those…hazmat suits, right?”

  The man continues to smile, an odd look in his eyes. “That’s correct, you smart fellow. And there’s no problem. We just need your truck. Now.”

  There’s a light amusing tone to the man’s voice, but fright creeps up the back of Lloyd’s neck, and Josh says, “Screw this. Get moving, coz.”

  The man says, “Ah, yes, screw this. I bet we are interrupting you, the two of you. Ready to pleasure each other?”

  Lloyd throws the truck in Park and Josh says, “You two…,” and Lloyd slams open the door, hitting the guy. He and Josh have done roofing, house framing, logging, and have ridden for years with the North Mountain Boys motorcycle gang, and these two creepy shits are about to get tuned up. He and Josh have at least a good half foot on both of them, and about forty or fifty pounds.

  This is going to be fun.

  Josh slides his revolver into his waistband and goes to the younger, smaller guy, grabbing him by the collar. He says, “You think this is funny? You think we’re fags or something?”

  Lloyd is moving onto the first guy but pauses, wanting to see Josh get the first hard punch into the little guy, and—

  The small guy squirms, doing something fast with his hands.

  Josh yelps.

  Spins around, pretty quick for a big and heavy guy.

  Josh’s hands are around his throat.

  He stares at Lloyd.

  Josh gurgles.

  Coughs.

  Blood sprays out from between his fingers, trying to hold his severed throat together, and he stumbles two steps and falls down heavy on the dirt road.