The First Lady - James Patterson Page 0,69

another, assigning them to the agents. I say, “Be thorough, but haul ass. We don’t have much time.”

For about thirty minutes I’m in one of the large barns, taking in the scent of horse, grain, and hay, and with flashlight in hand, I make my way across the cobblestoned floor, pointing the light into each stall. Most of the horses avoid me and ignore me, and some make grumbling noises and slight whinnies.

One horse stands out, the beautiful black Morgan named Arapahoe belonging to the missing First Lady.

I carefully flash the light around his enclosure, making sure the First Lady isn’t tied up in the corner with a bloody hand.

I say to the horse, “You know what happened, pal. Wish I could make you talk.”

He blinks his sad brown eyes.

I wonder if horses can mourn.

I resume walking and find a ladder at one end, and climb up, the small flashlight in my teeth.

The upper part of the barn has boxes, piles of leather gear, some old saddles and boots, and clumps of hay. I move around and twice bump my head on an overhead beam—painful but not limiting—and when I move my way back down the ladder, about ninety pounds and seventy years of Virginia womanhood is angrily waiting for me.

“I’m Connie Westbrook,” she announces. “Who the hell are you?”

She has steel-gray hair bundled at the back of her head in a tight bun, and she’s wearing a tan robe over a nightgown and knee-high Wellingtons. One wrinkled hand is holding the robe closed against her chest, and the other is holding a flashlight.

When I get to the bottom of the ladder, I do her the courtesy of showing her my identification. “I’m Sally Grissom of the Secret Service,” I say. “I’m the special agent in charge of the Presidential Protective Division.”

Connie seems to be one of those old Commonwealth of Virginia matrons who can trace their lineage back to the original founding of Richmond, and who still calls the Civil War the “Late Great Unpleasantness.”

“So?” she asks. “Why are you here?”

I start out of the barn, and she keeps up with my brisk pace. “You know why.”

“And where’s your warrant, Agent Grissom?”

I go out into the cool air. The sky is not yet lightening over in the east. “Really, ma’am? The First Lady has gone missing at your facility and you’re concerned about a warrant?”

She purses her lips. “You’re here illegally.”

“I’m here to find the First Lady.”

“She’s not here,” she snaps at me. “I’ve already told your … personnel that very same fact. And now my fields and trails are being trampled, torn up, and my horses are panicking. And I want you to leave … and just as soon as I can, I’m getting those other … people off my property.”

“Well, we’re looking again,” I say. “Just to be sure.”

“I forbid it.”

I give her a good stare, up and down, up and down, and I say, “Ma’am, you can forbid it all you want, and while you’re at it, you can forbid the sun to rise over there. Both will be equally effective. Now—”

A voice crackles in my earpiece. “Boss, Scotty.”

I lift up my wrist, trigger the microphone. “Sally here, Scotty. Go.”

“Small outbuilding, about fifty meters to the east, in a grove of oak trees,” he says. “There’s something going on.”

“Like what?”

“Like a locked door,” he says. “And a trash bag outside.”

A slight crackle of static. “With bloody bandages inside.”

CHAPTER 57

IN A MATTER of seconds, I’m at the building, and Scotty is standing outside, his flashlight illuminating a white plastic trash bag outside of a locked wooden door, painted green. Oak trees are nearby and overhead, and there’s a dirt path leading back to where we were. Unlike the other buildings we’ve been searching, this one is worn, with a sagging roof. It’s one story and there are small windows set up near the roofline.

I turn, and Connie Westbrook has managed to keep up with me.

I flash my light over at the building. “What’s in here?”

“Nothing,” she says.

Scotty says, “Over here, boss.”

I check the torn top of the white trash bag. Inside are crumpled fast-food bags, McDonald’s and Burger King, and I nudge the top, where there’s a couple of crumpled white gauze bandages, stained brown with old blood. There’s also bits of string— used sutures?—and cotton swabs.

Back to Connie I say, “Care to change your mind?”

She folds her arms, says not a word. Pamela and Tanya appear, breathing hard, running from wherever they’ve been. Scotty doesn’t say