The First Lady - James Patterson Page 0,24

She’s different,” Pamela says. “Doesn’t want to accumulate power, doesn’t want to save the world, doesn’t care how much anybody weighs … but children—that’s always been her focus, ever since Inauguration Day.”

“That’s why she comes here?”

“And other places too,” Pamela says. “The press only sees a portion of what she does. From the start, she didn’t want a big detail. Jackie Kennedy … she made do with three, and Mrs. Tucker, that’s exactly what she wanted. Three, to keep it quiet and relatively unobtrusive. And lots of times, when the President is traveling, she goes out to area shelters or soup kitchens, or foster homes, and volunteers or makes donations, or just … listens. She’s a great listener.”

A shout. I look over, and Brian and Tanya are on the other side of the rushing water—they wave, then keep on searching. Their pants are soaked up above their knees.

“What else?” I ask.

“She takes care of her detail, I can tell you that,” Pamela says, eyes to the ground and to the stream, just like me. “Any holiday-related trips—like Thanksgiving or Christmas— always happen a week later so we can spend that time with our families. And the letters she gets … lots of letters, asking for help, asking for cash. And she answers every one of them, most of the time enclosing a check or money order. Ever see that in the news?”

“No,” I say.

“And look where that gets her,” Pamela says. “She’s out helping kids and moms, face-to-face, and her husband is screwing some bimbo.”

I say, “That particular bimbo is an executive at one of the biggest lobbying firms on K Street. She didn’t get that job because of her cup size. So let’s not blame her right away, okay?”

Pamela doesn’t reply. I don’t care. We continue, scanning, looking at the field, at the stream, at the banks of the stream, a constant to-and-fro.

I say, “Besides being tossed by the horse, do you think she’s run off? Or hiding? Or anything else?”

“No,” Pamela says. Then she looks at me and says, “Some scarf.”

“Thanks,” I say. “My daughter made it.”

“She’s good.”

“I know.”

Her talking is now distracting me and I want to tell her to shut up, but I see something fluttering in the water, like a leaf, a white leaf, like—

I hold up my right arm. “Stop.”

Pamela stops and I stare, wanting to make out what’s caught my eye.

White. Jammed up against the rocks. About three feet into the stream.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Don’t know,” I say.

Across the stream the other two members of the detail are still working. Good. If this turns out to be nothing, why delay them?

I step forward and look closer.

Seems to be a bit of trash, or a piece of paper.

Well?

“I’m going in,” I say.

“Don’t fall.”

“Gee, thanks.”

I slip off my shoes and wince as I get into the strong, cold water. The fast-moving current tugs and pulls at me, and I’m barely up to my soaked knees. I take one step, then another, and on the third step I meet up with one slippery rock and nearly fall in. Only by some serious windmilling of my arms and tilting back and forth do I get to stay up.

Close now, only a few more inches.

There.

A sheet of white paper, that’s all, battered and torn by the quick water, jammed up against an exposed rock.

I gently peel it free, reverse course, and head back to the bank. Pamela extends a hand and helps me up.

“What is it?”

I don’t say anything because I don’t know anything.

I’m starting to shiver from the cold, and I kneel down on the muddy dirt and grass, do my best to gently unpeel the soggy piece of paper. The thick red wool scarf lovingly knitted by my Amelia flips over and hits the mud, and with a quick reflex, I toss it back over my shoulder.

“Holy crap,” Pamela says.

I recognize the stationery.

At the top is a stylized drawing of the White House, and below that is the imprinted phrase FROM THE OFFICE OF THE FIRST LADY.

And just below that, in a clear and crisp cursive handwriting, is this:

My dear ones, after the events of today, I just can’t take it anymore. It’s clear that …

The rest of the message is a mess of blue ink, where the water has washed away the writing.

Kneeling down next to me, Pamela murmurs, “Sweet Jesus, a suicide note?”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” I say sharply. “Focus on what we have, which is bad enough.”

I look to the rushing waters.

“A