The First Lady - James Patterson Page 0,25
missing First Lady.”
CHAPTER 21
A CONCERNED MALE voice saying, “Missy? Missy? Are you all right, missy?”
Tammy Doyle opens her eyes, winces. The right side of her head is throbbing. The passenger-side door is open. Her cabdriver unbuckles her seat belt, gently helps her out as she steps onto the dirt and—
Chaos. Complete and utter chaos.
The taxicab she was in is halfway off the highway, facing the wrong way. The trunk is smashed in and nearly torn off. Broken taillight glass and bits of metal are scattered across the asphalt, on top of skid marks. There are also tire tracks in the dirt median where the pickup truck had raced across. Traffic is slowing down on both sides of the highway, three lanes westbound and three eastbound.
She jumps when the cabdriver touches her shoulder, offers her an open bottle of Poland Spring water. Tammy takes a deep swig, and the driver is smiling. “Lucky me, lucky us, eh? Back home, I was in the ENDF and—”
Tammy shakily says, “What’s the ENDF?”
“Ah, yes, the Ethiopian National Defense Force … drove … what you call … armored vehicle.” He laughs, motions with his hands. “For two years, I fought in the desert against the rebels— you know when you see armored vehicle appear suddenly out of a sandstorm … learn to swerve … I see this madman coming at us … I swerve!”
There’s bleeding from his left temple, and Tammy says, “Hey, you’re hurt.”
“Ah, nothing,” he says, taking out a handkerchief and holding it to his head. “But my cab … my poor cab …”
Sirens are off in the distance, and the slow-moving traffic starts to make room for the approaching police cruisers and emergency vehicles. Her driver leans into the open door of the cab, removes his cell phone, and starts talking rapidly, and a dim part of Tammy recalls that Ethiopians speak Amharic, a Semitic language, and he gets off the phone and says, “My cousin Jamal … he will be here shortly … he will take you home . . .”
Tammy leans against the cab, takes another swallow of water, and realizes her legs are quivering hard.
Home seems very far away.
The Virginia State Police troopers who arrive take a brief statement from Tammy—they seem much more interested in her driver—and as another cab rolls to a stop and the first driver races over to talk to his cousin, she says to the near trooper, “Where’s the truck?”
“The one that hit you?” he says, looking down at his clipboard, filling out a form. “No idea. Seems to have swung back on the highway … bet the driver was either drunk or texting, lost control for a moment. He’ll be caught, I promise you that … you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”
“No, I just want to go home.”
The large trooper says, “I can see why. This was lucky for all of you.”
Lucky. That’s a word that doesn’t make sense to her.
The drive home is quick, and Tammy is sure she’s still in shock at how close she came to being seriously injured … or even killed … if her Ethiopian cabdriver hadn’t moved so quickly. Good Lord.
And something he had said … it’s nagging her. She doesn’t know why.
Tammy looks at the expensive homes and developments in this part of Arlington and once again feels quiet pride that she’s made it this far, and she wants to go home, dump her laundry by the washing machine, relax, and think about what tomorrow will be like at her K Street lobbying firm, Pearson, Pearson, and Price, but Tammy knows she hasn’t gotten this far by being weak or scared or—
Her new cabdriver, Jamal, slows down, turns his head back. “Miss?”
She looks up, about to ask what’s wrong, and then she doesn’t have to say a word.
There’s a mob of press out in front of the gate leading into her condo complex, five satellite trucks with their dishes up, photographers, reporters with hand mikes and—
A burly man with a tan vest holding a large camera spots the slowing cab, points, and then the scramble starts, the mad rush, and Jamal slows down and—
“Move!” she shouts, fumbling in her purse for the key card that will open the sliding gate.
Jamal slows down, jerks forward as camera flashes light up the cab’s interior. She turns her head away from the mob and the shouts start, blurring into just one constant mess of words, yells, questions, taunts, and demands.
The cab goes forward, stops again,