The First Lady - James Patterson Page 0,83
down there?” comes a voice, and Mr. Fuller is limping his way down the road, and Tanya and Scotty react as if he’s another threat, until I say, “Stand down, stand down. That’s CANARY’s father.”
No time for explanations, or questions, or anything else.
Now it makes sense. This remote cabin was the other place where a stressed First Lady could be happy and relaxed.
“Scotty and I are leaving with CANARY,” I say. “Pamela, you, Tanya, and Brian stay behind, guard the prisoner, start calling law enforcement, and make sure the prisoner gets to the hospital alive, got it? I don’t want any accidents between here and the hospital. That shooter is to stay alive, and I don’t care who you guys have to kill to make it happen.”
Like the good agent she is, Pamela nods in agreement. “What should we tell the locals when they get here?”
“Anything you like,” I say. “No one will believe you anyway. Scotty, let’s go.”
In a few seconds we’re in the Suburban. Scotty makes a sloppy U-turn, and we’re bouncing back down the dirt road. I look out the rear and see Mr. Fuller is trying to talk to Pamela, who’s on her cell phone, and Brian is kneeling right next to the shooter, securing the handcuffs, while Tanya stands, aiming her pistol down.
“Where to, boss?” Scotty says as we hit the pavement of East Dominion Road.
“No idea,” I say. “Just drive until I think of something.”
CHAPTER 77
PARKER HOYT IS again pacing in his office when his special phone rings, and he nearly trips over his own feet, rushing to get to it.
He grabs it, noting his hand is moist from worry.
“Yes?”
Hiss, pop, crackle of static.
“Hello?” he says.
Another burst of static, and a voice says, “It’s over.”
He collapses in his chair with relief. “Thank God.”
The voice says, “You should get out of town. Like, now.”
“Why?” he asks. “You told me it was over.”
“Well, the phone must have dropped the first part,” the voice says. “It’s over because CANARY’s been recovered and she’s safe.”
Parker closes his eyes, willing that the voice on the other end of the line will say something else, hoping he is pulling some sort of stunt to get more pay, more prestige, more anything.
“What happened?” Parker asks.
“A female shooter ambushed CANARY and Grissom as they were leaving a property in Virginia that belonged to CANARY’s dad. Grissom did her job, and CANARY’s still alive.”
Damn, damn, damn, he thinks.
The shooter.
Marsha Gray, of course. Good lord.
“Is the shooter dead?”
“Not at the moment,” the caller says. “She took three nine-millimeter rounds to the chest, broke her sternum and a few ribs. She’s unconscious at the moment.”
Marsha Gray, alive.
All right, he thinks. Her word against his. It’ll mean—
“Another thing,” the caller says. “She had an iPhone with her. Could only open it with her thumbprint, but I managed to do so. Found lots of interesting recordings there … taped conversations between you and her.”
A long pause and Parker feels like he’s about five seconds away from having a coronary event.
“Name your price,” he says. “I need to have that iPhone.”
“We’ll deal later,” the voice says. “In the meantime, I gotta go.”
Parker sits up in his chair. “Wait, wait, please … don’t hang up.”
“Make it quick.”
Parker rubs his head. “You … are you in a position … I mean, can you …”
“Can I what?”
Parker takes a deep breath that makes him feel like knives are being dug into his lungs. “Can you … finish the shooter’s mission?”
No reply.
The hiss of static.
More crackling and popping noises.
Is his caller still there?
The voice speaks up, tone firm.
“I’ll think about it.”
And hangs up.
CHAPTER 78
WHILE SCOTTY IS trying to find someplace to park our Suburban, I’m at the door of a pretty yet not-too-fancy town house in a wooded section of Laurel, Maryland, which is about eight miles away from my sister’s place of employment at Fort Meade.
I ring the doorbell, wait, arm around CANARY. We’re both exhausted, woozy on our feet, and her face winces from the pain that’s no doubt coursing up her left arm, while my own lower back is throbbing like it’s getting punched over and over again.
I ask, “How are you doing, ma’am?”
“Please, call me Grace.”
“Not going to happen, ma’am,” I say.
I ring the doorbell again, a dark thought coming to me— suppose something has happened to Gwen, to get at Amelia? That could work, grabbing my daughter …
“This is your sister’s place? Are you sure she’s going to let us stay?”
“She has to,” I say. “She’s family.”
And