The First Lady - James Patterson Page 0,19

allowed them to buy a house, leave something for the kids, maybe get a vacation cabin for the summer. Families like that, they weren’t entrepreneurs— they weren’t thinking of new Internet apps, stuff like that. So they were abandoned, forgotten. This President … he’s remembered them. And he’s remembered my family. That’s why I work for him, and that’s why I’m dedicated to his safety and success. His opponent … he thinks if we all grew kale, held hands together and sang Kumbaya, then we’d be ushered into a new world of light and happiness. I can’t allow him to win. It would be an epic disaster.”

Marsha says, “Nice sales pitch. What’s the job?”

He says, “You grew up poor in Wyoming, didn’t you? Orphaned daughter of a Basque sheep farmer, up there in the mountains. Your parents died in a truck accident during a blizzard. You joined the Corps to get out of there, make a living. It must have been pretty rough out there in Wyoming before you left.”

She says, “You had a big lake. We had mountains. You had it better.”

Parker says, “The First Lady is gone. The Secret Service doesn’t know where she is.”

“Good for her,” Marsha says. “You see the knockers on that other gal? I’d be missing from my husband too if I found out he’d been stepping out with her.”

“There’s more to it than just that,” Parker says. “Something screwy is going on with her sudden absence. She might be missing, might have left on her own. I’m not going to allow her to sabotage the President’s second term, so we’re keeping the search for her secret. I’ll give you information about the Secret Service’s investigation, and I want you to shadow them … and if the situation requires, terminate.”

Marsha crosses her legs. “How will I know when the situation requires it?”

“I’ll be in constant contact. You’ll know.”

A group of chattering schoolchildren go by, two female schoolteachers desperately trying to corral them away from the pool. Parker says, “You okay with that?”

Marsha says, “Just to be clear … just her or do what’s necessary?”

“Pretend you’re out in the field, no way to contact anybody else. Do what has to be done.”

Another slight shrug. “Not a problem.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve never liked her anyway,” Marsha says. “Not a problem.”

“Good,” Parker says. “I need you to start right away.”

“Fine,” she says.

“Great,” he says. He rattles off a series of digits. “That’s my direct line at the White House. Give me a call in thirty minutes and I’ll give you what I know, and we’ll proceed from there.”

“Deal,” she says.

Marsha gets up, and Parker says, “Ask you one more question?”

“You’re not on the clock yet, so yeah, ask away.”

“Who’s Pershing? You know, the guy this park was named after.”

For the first time since he had met this killer, she smiles.

“What is this, a joke? General John Joseph ‘Black Jack’ Pershing. Head of the American Expeditionary Force during the First World War. Chased Pancho Villa through Mexico earlier but never caught him. You need anything else?”

“No,” Parker says. “Go along, and don’t be late calling.”

Marsha says, “I won’t,” and she walks away, and like snipers everywhere, she quickly blends in with the crowds and trees and disappears.

Parker takes that as a very good sign.

CHAPTER 17

AT THE WESTBROOK Horse Farm just outside of the rural Virginia town of Campton, a forty-minute drive from the White House, Scotty parks our Suburban next to two other black, identical-looking Suburbans situated in a dirt lot surrounded by a chest-high white wooden fence.

I get out and Scotty tries to catch up with me as I stride over to the First Lady’s three-person security detail, standing in a group like little animals huddling together for protection, and I lose my professional composure and attitude and let them have it for about three wasted minutes, yelling and jabbing my right arm at them like I was about to step over and punch each of them in the throat.

The detail, two women and a young man, take it without flinching, and then I stop, take a deep breath, and say, “That wasn’t necessary. My apologies. I’ve wasted time. Pamela, give me a briefing.”

Pamela Smithson steps forward. She’s blond and barely made the weight and height requirements for female Secret Service agents, but she’s an expert in hand-to-hand combat, and at some agent’s birthday party last year, I saw her take some clown from Homeland Security who had been harassing her and toss him into a swimming pool.

“CANARY wanted