The President's Daughter Read online

  Sheila fumbles in her purse as he gets out of the Subaru into the cool late morning. At the start of the trail is a crumpled form, and he quickly walks over, saying, “Hey, you okay? You okay?”

  Young man, eyes open in surprise, wearing khaki shorts and a Patriots T-shirt, crumpled up on his side, knapsack secured to his back and the side of his head a bloody, oozing mess.

  Sweet Jesus, Clem thinks.

  Sheila is next to him, her shaking hands holding her Galaxy cell phone, and she says, “Clem, we got service.”

  “Call 911. Tell the dispatcher where we are, and there’s a man killed here.”

  She makes the call and Clem stays away from the body, knowing what to do, what not to do. The young boy is dead and there’s nothing to do for him. No reason to go up and check the body, now, is there? Leave the boy be, along with any evidence the police will find. He hears Sheila on the phone, her voice even and calm. Good strong woman, he thinks. Lucky to have her.

  But something else is odd.

  Another knapsack dumped on the ground about six feet away.

  Another hiker? The shooter? Was this guy on the ground trying to steal that knapsack, a tussle, and then somebody took out a handgun?

  Sheila says, “Hear that?”

  A faint sound of a siren.

  “Somebody’s moving fast,” he says.

  Sheila says, “Dispatcher managed to get ahold of Donny Brooks, out of Troop F. I bet that’s him.”

  Clem is pleased. This part of the state has little or no town police departments, meaning the state police and the county sheriff are often the first responders. Because of their little store, he and Sheila know every sheriff’s deputy and state trooper within a fifty-mile radius.

  Like the trooper driving a dark green Dodge Charger coming into view, light bar flashing as the cruiser comes to a skidding halt. Donny Brooks is at the wheel and Clem sees him use his cruiser’s radio to sign off at the scene. He quickly steps out in the standard trooper uniform of dark green shirt and tan trousers, and his face is wound up with concern and energy as he comes up to them, putting on his round campaign-style hat over short blond hair. He’s in his late twenties, bulked up around his shoulders, and he moves in a hurry.

  Donny gives the body a quick view, staying a few feet back. “Clem,” he says. “When did you find the boy?”

  “About ten minutes ago, Donny,” he says. “Sheila and I were coming up here for a hike—”

  “Anybody in the area? See or hear anything while coming up here?”

  Sheila says, “We almost got run down by a big black SUV. Son of a bitch nearly ran us off the road.”

  Donny is still staring at the body. He pulls a small notebook out of his left shirt pocket, along with a pen, and starts taking notes. “How long from when you saw the SUV and when you found the body?”

  Sheila says, “About three minutes.”

  “What kind was it?”

  Clem says, “I don’t know.”

  Sheila says, “Cadillac Escalade, that’s what it was. Damn thing nearly hit me, nearly ripped off the side-view mirror.”

  Donny says, “Did you get the license plate?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Sheila says. “Sorry to say, I didn’t see what state it was.”

  The state trooper checks his watch, and from observing troopers and other cops working over the years, Clem knows what Donny is doing: estimating how far the Cadillac has gone since the two of them nearly got hit.

  Donny toggles his shoulder radio mic and says, “Dispatch, one one four. Put out a BOLO for a black Cadillac Escalade, departing the area, heading to Upper Valley Road. Possible witness or suspect. Alert departments in Purmort, Montcalm, Spencer, Monmouth, and Leah on the BOLO as well. Contact Sergeant Wagner. Have him report here.”

  There’s more radio chatter back and forth, and when there’s a pause, Clem says, “See that extra knapsack? Dumped there? Don’t you think that’s odd, Donny?”

  The young trooper nods. “Yeah. Noticed that right after I rolled up.”

  “Gonna take a look at it?”

  “Should wait for my supervisor to show up but…shit, might be helpful.”

  Donny circles around the knapsack, and then puts on a pair of latex gloves, squats, opens it up. Clem eases up to see what might be in the pack, and out comes a water bottle, two granola bars, a dark blue sweatshirt, a pair of wool hiking socks, and a tan wallet.

  “That’s something,” Clem says.

  Sheila is next to him, close enough for him to hear her breathing.

  The trooper opens the wallet, pulls out what looks to be a student ID, and Clem peers closer and is stunned at the photo and the name of a pretty young blond woman.

  MELANIE R. KEATING

  “Oh, shit,” Donny says as more sirens sound off in the distance.

  Sheila says, “That…that’s President Keating’s daughter!”

  Clem can’t say a word.

  This is going to be one anniversary to remember.

  Chapter

  26

  Northwestern New Hampshire

  Mel Keating is trying to ease her rapid breathing, which is hard to do, since her arms and legs are bound by duct tape, her head is covered by a cloth hood tied around the base of her neck, and her mouth is taped and filled with a wadded-up piece of cloth. Luckily, her glasses are still secure on her face. Part of her is quaking in deep horror and shock at seeing Tim shot dead in front of her, snuffed out before he was even old enough to drink, blasted away in a dirt parking lot by two terrorists.

  Tangos, she thinks, her eyes streaming tears, using the familiar military slang for terrorists. Killers. Scum.

  The kind of people Dad fought when he was in the teams, and later, when he was president.

  Mel is stunned at her college classmates’ ignorance and apathy about the real world, and she’s learned to keep her mouth shut during late-night hangs, when her fellow students would drone on and on about how the real roots of terrorism were poverty, despair, and inequality.

  One night she pointed out that Osama bin Laden had come from a wealthy Saudi construction family and was certainly not penniless or oppressed, and boy, she never made that mistake again after putting up with an hour of listening to how ignorant, unfeeling, and privileged she was.

  The hood is canvas, smelling of grain. She still fights to keep her breathing steady, and she is desperately trying to listen in on her two captors as they speed along.

  Her.

  They wanted her.

  The president’s daughter.

  But why?

  Dad’s been out of office for nearly two years. No power, no influence, no way to pick up a phone and meet their demands.

  Shut up, she thinks.

  Focus.

  A minute ago, the SUV she’s in got off the dirt road and swerved left, onto a paved highway.

  Think.

  Listen.

  On a paved road.

  Damn it, she thinks, you should have been paying attention.

  Toughen up, girl.

  Keep calm, keep breathing through your nose, stay relaxed.

  Don’t think of sweet Tim, don’t think of his being murdered, don’t think.

  Listen.

  The hum of the tires on a paved road.

  They’re still going on pavement, Upper Valley Road.

  Pay attention.

  The SUV stops.

  Backs up.

  Back on a dirt road.

  Start counting.

  One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three…

  She’s being transported, taken to a hideout, a remote place for her kidnappers to keep her secure and send out a ransom demand. By counting and keeping track, she can retrace her travel at some point and—

  The SUV stops.

  Moves around.

  Back on a paved road.

  Okay, how many seconds was that?

  Ten, eleven?

  The SUV goes in a circle, stays in a circle, circling and�
�

  Back on a dirt road.

  Now a paved road.

  Tears come to her eyes.

  Those guys up there, they’re good, confusing her, making sure she can’t keep track of shit.

  The tears come faster.

  Mel thinks, Okay, you two are good.

  But I’m pretty good myself.

  She takes a deep cleansing breath, remembers paved road, dirt road, paved road, dirt once more, and she starts counting again as her kidnappers speed along the smooth pavement.

  If they think they’ve kidnapped some typical college kid who’s going to demand a pillow and safe place, Mel is relishing the chance to prove them oh so very wrong.

  Chapter

  27

  Northwestern New Hampshire

  Sometime later, Mel feels the SUV stay on a dirt road for a good length of time, and she resumes counting one more time, going one thousand one, one thousand two, and keeping focused.

  The tears have stopped. No time for tears. Her legs and arms are cramped, her mouth is dry-raw with the cloth stuck inside, and she’s wondering how long it will be before Tim’s body is found.

  The sudden shot of a pistol, the look of shock on Tim’s face, the spray of blood out in the air…

  Her ears pop.

  Going up in altitude, then.

  The SUV slows.

  Stops.

  Right at sixty-three seconds.

  Remember that.

  The forward doors open and shut.

  Murmur of voices. The rear hatch opens and she dimly senses sunlight through the cloth bag. Hands grab her and she’s lifted up with ease, and she fights not to moan, groan, or flail around. She won’t give the bastards the satisfaction of seeing her squirm in fear.

  No.

  She won’t give them that.

  She’s moved around, and she senses she’s in a house because she can hear the footsteps of her two captors, and the squeak of a door opening, and now they’re on steps.

  And—

  Mel is gently lowered onto a bed.

  Hands move across her and she recoils at the touch, but they are brisk, formal, tearing away the duct tape and using…a razor? scissors?…to cut through and remove other swaths of tape.

  The bag is last.

  It comes off and she blinks her eyes through her glasses several times, and then the younger guy comes to her, and he’s got something in his hands, a little bottle of…

  Vegetable oil?

  He smears a bit on the edge of the duct tape across her mouth, and then gently tugs, and repeats the procedure several times, until the tape is removed without much pain.

  For real? They kill Tim and kidnap her, and they’re concerned now about hurting her?

  The guy’s older companion looks on, staring.

  The tape is gone, and she works at the cloth with her tongue, but the guy who pulled the tape off, he does the same with the wad of cloth, and she says, “Ugh,” and then he offers her a drink of bottled water.

  She swallows, swallows, and then spits out a stream on the guy, catching him right in his smug face.

  “You bastards!” she yells out. “You miserable, evil killers. You will—”

  The older man with the bushy eyebrows steps closer, and something about his dead eyes stops her. She takes a breath, now really scared. Not wanting to look at him, she gives the room a quick glance.

  A concrete cube, with no windows and the only exit a heavy metal door. She’s on a small made bed. There’s a lamp in the corner. Small table and chair bolted to the floor. A chemical toilet.

  That is it.

  The older man says, “Here you are, Melanie Keating, and here you will stay, unless your father agrees to my demands.”

  She wants to spit at him again, but she doesn’t have the saliva. “My dad is tougher than you think. Don’t you idiots know that? Do you think he’s going to give in to your demands?”

  The older man smiles a weary smile, gestures to his companion, who goes to the door and unlocks it.

  He says, “He may be a tough man, as you say.”

  He gently pats her on the head, like a prized pet or toy.

  “But is he a tough father?”

  He quickly leaves the room, the door closes behind him and is locked, and Mel is the loneliest she’s ever been in her life.

  Mel curls up on the bed, hugging herself, praying.

  God, please have Dad get me out of here.

  Please.

  A few minutes pass, and then she stops the prayers, stops hugging herself.

  Mel sits up, wipes at her eyes.

  All right, she thinks. You’ve had your cry.

  Maybe Dad will find her.

  Maybe not.

  But no more crying.

  Time to start thinking, and planning.

  Mel thinks, If I’m getting free, it’s going to be up to me.

  Nobody else.

  Chapter

  28

  Lake Marie, New Hampshire

  After my phone call from Deputy National Security Advisor Sarah Palumbo and the grim and unsatisfactory discussion with Agent David Stahl, I’m trying to vent my frustrations on my late-morning chores.

  Not much else an ex-POTUS can do in these circumstances. Earlier, David gently recommended that I stay inside for the day, and I equally gently told him no.

  Well, maybe not so gently.

  What I’m looking to do is clear out the brush and saplings and old growth that’s strangled this old stone wall, set here probably two centuries ago. It’ll look nice, especially after I get the land rototilled and plant some grass. I stand up, stretch my back, try to enjoy the view, try to quiet the concern in my mind. Hard to believe with all these forests, but these trees are relatively young. Centuries ago, most of the trees here were cleared out by the earlier settlers and farmers, and then, when cheaper and more fertile land opened up in the West (after the Native Americans were nearly wiped out, of course), many farms were abandoned, and the trees reclaimed their birthright.

  And why New Hampshire?

  I grew up in Texas, lived for a number of years wherever the Navy sent me, returned to Texas, but decided to lay my head down here, in the Granite State, which threw me a lifeline after I got my ass kicked in the Iowa caucuses by my rebellious vice president, Pamela Barnes. The people here gave me a solid victory in the famed first-in-the-nation primary.

  I like—and honor—loyalty.

  I fumble for my iPhone, check the time, and do a quick selfie video with my recent work in the background.

  “Hey, Sam, here’s my daily update,” I say. “Making progress. In a couple of months, it’ll all be cleared away. Hey, maybe you and your crew can come here and do a dig. Who knows what you might find? Love you. Will call you tonight.”

  I switch off, send my daily selfie to Sam’s email account with its bu.edu address, and look forward to getting back to work. In the time Sam’s been at BU, we’ve made it work, with us spending time together, usually every other weekend, and for longer stretches during the summer. Holidays, of course, and a few events at Dartmouth with our daughter Melanie.

  It’s an odd relationship, I know, but the Ozzie and Harriet family of the 1950s is long gone.

  I go back to the stone wall and a figure emerges from behind the rough rocks, wearing camouflage clothing, black gloves, a sniper’s veil, and holding an SR-16 CQB 5.56mm assault rifle.

  My muscle memory kicks in and I grab at my right hip, where there is—

  Nothing.

  No weapon at all.

  Damn chatter is right after all.

  I’m about to toss the handsaw at the figure when it suddenly lowers the weapon, tears off its sniper’s veil, and the sweaty face of a young blond woman is revealed—

  Secret Service Agent Stacy Fields holding an agency-issued weapon

  —and she speaks into her wrist microphone: “This is Fields. I’ve got Harbor at the old stone wall. Repeat, Harbor is at the old stone wall.”

  I swi
vel to the sound of a racing engine.

  The Boston Whaler is rushing in my direction, the two agents no longer carrying fishing poles but carrying weapons, and there’s a flow of water at the bow, and I flash back to my Navy days, recalling, That boat is sure moving fast. It’s got a bone in its teeth.

  Something is seriously wrong.

  That chatter warning from Deputy National Security Advisor Palumbo is right on the mark.

  Another engine roars louder, and a bouncing mottled-green Yamaha four-seater UTV is racing toward me, Agent David Stahl at the wheel, wearing a Kevlar vest, and two other Secret Service agents—Ron Dalton and Paula Chin—are riding with him, also wearing Kevlar vests and holding out their own SR-16 CQB 5.56mm assault rifles.

  The UTV skids to a halt and Agent Fields grabs the waistband of my shorts and the collar of my T-shirt and says, “Sir, we’ve got to get you to safety. Now! Please!”

  The Boston Whaler swerves to shore and the two armed agents jump out of the boat, quickly push through the water, kneeling down on the shoreline, looking out to the lake with weapons at the ready. I drop the handsaw, and Agent Fields propels me to the open rear seat in the UTV. I’m bundled in and buckled and the UTV roars in a half circle as I’m pushed down, and a Kevlar bullet-resistant blanket is tossed over me, and I’ve barely adjusted to my cramped position when the UTV’s engine roars with speed.

  Something is seriously wrong.

  I bounce and rattle and then the engine roars louder, and there’s a quick, skidding halt, and the heavy blanket is tugged off me, and I’m unbuckled from the rear seat, and I’m practically carried to the two-car garage adjacent to my lake house. The left garage door is lifting up, revealing a reinforced concrete bunker with a heavy metal door in the center.

  My lake home’s safe room.

  There’s a blur of motion and orders of “Go, go, go,” and the door is opened from inside by Secret Service agent Nicole Washington and I’m carried and propelled, with the other armed agents around me.

  I’m pushed inside.

  Agent Paula Chin brings up the rear, standing at the door, SR-16 CQB assault rifle up to her face, blocking any outside view or aimed weapon as the heavy door is closed, and I think that this is what they mean by that simple phrase putting one’s life on the line.