For a brief period of time nobody could figure out what had happened. Had a kidnapper been hiding out inside the school? Did someone somehow sneak past all the security? All of these possibilities seemed hard to fathom. The security was too tight. Karen kept returning to the window that opened only from the inside. It was a critical clue, but she did not know how it factored into his disappearance. That is until a search of Cam’s bedroom turned up the answer. On his bedroom dresser was a note addressed to his parents. Cam had not been abducted, as Karen first believed.
He’d run away.
Mom and Dad,
I’m so sorry to do this to you. But I needed space from everything and everyone. I couldn’t stand the pressure and attention the shooting caused, not for one more second. If I stayed at the White House I was going to burst. I feel terrible doing this to you both. I know I’m going to cause all sorts of problems. But I don’t feel safe anymore and this was the only thing I could think to do.
I’m sorry. I’ll be in touch.
Love,
Cam
There was no doubt about it—the note was in Cam’s handwriting. It could not have been a forgery. Nobody could have snuck into the White House and planted it in his room. The working theory was that Cam was not coerced into running away, but had done so of his own volition.
He was four hours gone.
Television monitors inside the White House Situation Room gave Karen a window into the world outside. It was not a pretty picture. Every network, reporters from all conceivable media outlets, descended on the White House to report on Cam’s disappearance. Their portable lights glowed bright enough to hold back the twilight.
Creating an artificial barrier between the iron fence securing the grounds and the throngs of people who showed up to be at the epicenter of this national crisis stood a brigade of police, SWAT, and members of the National Guard. Guns were out in force to hold people back.
Every inch of the perimeter was professionally secured. Hidden from view were the best snipers the Secret Service employed. All active Secret Service agents in the D.C. area had been called into work. Meanwhile, the FBI, on top of hunting the Dirt Bike Shooter, was coordinating the search for Cam, mobilizing a truly massive interagency operation.
Karen took in the macro picture as a detached observer. Cam’s disappearance was her fault, and the enormous response—the logistics, coordination, allocation of resources—was the fallout of her failure. There was no conceivable way she could ever take part in the actual search. Her job now was to provide information when requested. She would do so while coming to terms with her soul-shaking feelings of guilt, and fear for Cam.
Four chairs separated Karen from the president, yet she could feel the white-hot anger radiating off him like a scalding sun. Ellen Hilliard, looking shattered, was seated beside her husband, eyes hollow, hands clasped tightly in her lap, numb with grief.
Next to Karen, his gray suit a rumpled mess, sat the director of the Secret Service, Russell Ferguson. Ferguson had the air of a man facing the firing squad. Beads of perspiration sank into the deep creases of his furrowed brow. His eyes held no expression, his jaw set tight, a look of utter desperation on his face. The president’s chief of staff, John O’Donnell, glared at Karen from his seat across the table.
“Go over it again,” the president demanded.
Karen did. Starting with that morning, when she brought Cam to school against her better judgment, and ending with the open window in the classroom that never got used.
“And nobody saw anything?” The president spoke through clenched teeth, his voice almost a growl.
“No,” Karen said softly, averting her gaze.
“We believe that is accurate. Our analysis there is complete,” O’Donnell said.
“Show me,” the president said.
O’Donnell used a computer connected to one of the wall-mounted monitors to bring up a satellite image of the school for all to see. A red circle marked the spot where it was believed Cam had slipped away undetected. Graphics of figures denoted the location of the Secret Service.
O’Donnell rose from his chair and went over to the screen. Using a laser pointer, he drew an imaginary line from the red circle to a football field a few hundred yards away.
“Given where Karen had her team positioned,” O’Donnell said in a flat voice lacking any judgment, “if Cam went across the soccer field to Quebec Street, or headed straight to Thirty-seventh Street, he would not have been in their sight lines.”
“So it wasn’t Karen’s fault,” Ellen said, sounding almost relieved. “Cam must have known he could slip away without being seen.”
“Why didn’t we have agents guarding those points?” The president directed his attention to Ferguson, who in turn directed his to Karen.
“I added more agents to the detail given the resources that were available to me,” Karen said, her voice shaky. “There were not as many as I would have liked, but we’ve had resource and scheduling issues for some time now.”
Karen sucked down a weighty breath as her eyes met Ellen’s.
“You added more bodies, but didn’t expand the coverage area?” the president said, his voice rising in pitch.
“I increased the Secret Service presence as much as I could to guard against threats entering the building. That was what was on my mind, given that days ago someone had tried to kill Cam. How was I to know he was going to slip away on his own?” The force in her voice surprised her.
“It’s your job to know, Karen,” the president said with rising anger.
“I didn’t think he should have gone to school in the first place.”
The president’s face turned red. “Protecting my son was your job, Karen. It was your only job and you failed me, you failed Ellen, and most importantly, you failed Cam.”
“It’s not Karen’s fault, Geoffrey,” Ellen said. “If anyone is to blame here, it’s Russell. Not only did he ignore Karen’s repeated requests for more resources, we have no idea the extent of corruption in his damn department.”
“That’s enough, Ellen,” the president snapped. “You’ve made your point on that perfectly clear.”
Russell Ferguson pulled at his shirt collar to release some trapped body heat.
The president said, “Talk to me about cameras.”
“There are cameras near the elementary school close to Tilden Street,” O’Donnell reported. “But there are a number of different routes Cam could have taken that have no surveillance activity whatsoever.”
With a knock on the door, all conversation came to a stop.
“Enter,” the president said sharply.
In stepped Dr. Gleason. Finding Cam was a singular mission and everyone at the White House was called in to participate, including his doctor.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. President?”
Gleason tugged on his white lab coat, unsure, it seemed, what to do with his hands.
The president emerged from his fog of anger. “Fred, good. Thank you for coming. The FBI was searching Cam’s room, looking at his computer, trying to figure out where he may have gone, and they found something odd. I was hoping you could explain it to me.”
Karen had heard about some sort of discovery in addition to Cam’s note, but nobody had told her what had been found. It was doubtful she’d ever be told anything of consequence again as it pertained to the first family. What had to be obvious to all was that Dr. Gleason was suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin.
“What is it?” Gleason asked.
From a folder on the table, the president produced a publicity photo of Dr. Gleason, one that the PR flacks had commissioned for the White House Web site. He held a photo up for all to see, before handing it to Gleason. Scrawled across the photograph, written in a black Sharpie with Cam’s distinctive handwriting, were two phrases chillingly familiar to Karen:
I know what you are. I know what you do.
“What’s this about, Fred?” the president asked. “Is this related to Cam’s issue with Taylor? Help us understand.”
“I’m—I’m as shocked by this as you are, Mr. President,” Gleason said, stammering slightly.
Karen noticed that Gleason nodded his head yes, contradicting his denial of any knowledge about the photograph. His shoulders sagged as if weighted from whatever secret he was holding.
“Give us your best guess,” Ellen said.
“May I speak freely?” Gleason asked. “I don’t wish to reveal anything confidential regarding Cam’s care, but this could be important.”
“Patient privacy is the least of our concerns right now,” the president said, looking at Ellen, who nodded in agreement.
Gleason cleared his throat. His actions seemed shifty to Karen. His body went still, but his feet were shuffling. He stopped blinking.
“As you’re well aware, I’m the one who has been pushing for Cam to receive some psychological help for his issues. I believe the pressures of the White House and the resulting trauma from the attempt on his life have brought him to a critical point.” Gleason kept putting his hand to his mouth—a sign, Karen recalled from her training, of deceit. “He needed someone to blame for his troubles, including troubles with his chess game, and I was the perfect outlet for his anger. I’m Taylor’s dad, and, well, he already resents me for what I’m trying to do with his medical care. Obviously, I think his behavior here proves I was right. He’s emotionally unstable, and I’m deeply concerned for his welfare.”
Karen found him convincing. She remained tight-lipped about what she had seen in Cam’s room—the printout with those two phrases written down the page, even what Cam had said to Lee—Gleason’s a liar. Everything Dr. Gleason said could explain those things as well.
“Thank you, Fred, you can go now,” President Hilliard said.
Gleason turned for the door, paused, and turned back around.
“Geoff, Ellen, I’m very sorry about what’s happened.” He shot Karen a look of contempt, and a shiver raced down her spine. It’s your fault, his eyes were saying. If only they’d gotten rid of you sooner, none of this would have happened. His hard stare softened. “If there’s anything I can do,” he added.
“We’ll let you know, Fred,” the president said.
And with that, Gleason was gone.
Karen shrank under the weight of the president’s hostile stare.
“Obviously, I can’t have you working the White House detail anymore, Karen. As for your future with the Secret Service, Russell has made the difficult decision to put you on paid leave pending the conclusion of an internal investigation.” Karen knew it was not Russell’s decision at all, same as she knew the move was a formal precursor to her being fired. “If you have any information,” President Hilliard continued, “I’m counting on you to do the right thing and share it with Russell, who will get it to the FBI. I’m final on this.”
“Don’t you think I should have a say?” Ellen interjected.
“No. This decision is effective immediately. Russell will handle the logistics,” the president said, rising from his seat once more. “I thank you for your service. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to the Oval Office to make a public address, an appeal really. Cam is one of the most well-known boys in the world. Someone is going to see him out there, and we’re going to get him back.”
The president exited the Situation Room with hurried steps and John O’Donnell followed.
Russell placed a hand on Karen’s shoulder to comfort her. Worry stayed etched into his face. He knew he was next.
“I’m so sorry about this,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“No, Russ,” Karen said in a soft voice. “You’re wrong. It was.”
“I’ll need to get your badge and guns,” Russell said glumly.
Ellen approached. “Russell, will you give us a moment, please?” she said. “I’d like to speak with Karen alone, if I may.”
With a nod, Russell Ferguson excused himself from the room.
“I’m so sorry about everything,” Ellen said, her voice genuine and consoling. “It’s—more than any of us can take.”
“I should have done more to protect him.”
“You couldn’t have known,” said Ellen. “Geoffrey is wrong to blame you.”
“Someone has to be the fall guy—or gal,” Karen answered glumly.
“You can still help Cam.” Ellen sounded conspiratorial.
“How?”
“The girl. Susie Banks.”
“I’m not following.”
“From the beginning you told me to trust Lee, that he was one of the best doctors you knew. I took your advice to heart, didn’t I? And you were right. I’ve come to trust him completely. Geoffrey does, too, in a way—though not to my degree, of course. Otherwise he’d have taken Lee’s request seriously, and offered the girl protection.”
“What are you asking me, Ellen?”
“Despite everything that’s happened, I still trust you with my life and the lives of my family,” Ellen said. “You saved Cam from Duffy. Cam did what he did on his own, for his own reasons, and I don’t think there was any way you could have prevented it.” Ellen looked away. “If anyone here is to blame, it’s me,” she said. “I let him go. I acted against your advice and you’re the one who suffers the consequences.”
“I would have done the same to me if I were in the president’s position,” Karen said.
Ellen nodded several times in quick succession. “You’ve always been so loyal to us. Even now. Which is why I want your help.”
“My help?” Karen laughed at the absurdity. “Ellen, I’ve been suspended, and we both know that’s just the first step before I’m officially let go.”
“Yes, I realize. But you have a gun of your own, I suppose.”
“I do. Several, in fact.” Karen’s eyebrows rose, along with her curiosity. Where is this going?
“Somebody tried to kill Cam, and that killer is still out there. If Lee’s right, then the attempt on Cam’s life must somehow be connected to his medical issues. It’s reasonable to think that same person is going to go after Susie again. Assuming Cam comes back to us—”
“Cam will come back,” Karen said, interrupting. “I’m sure of it.”
“Assuming he does,” Ellen continued, “we can’t let anything happen to the girl.”
“Josh is watching after her.”
“He’s not Secret Service.”
“I haven’t exactly been very good at my job.”
“Your opinion. Not mine.”
“It’s your husband’s, too.”
“He’s not asking you to help. I am.”
“Asking me what, exactly?”
“Go to the camp and guard Susie. Guard her like you’re protecting Cam. Don’t let anything bad happen to her. I’ve heard that Lee has found another case from the TPI files. Enlarged organs, seizures too. And that boy’s dead—a suicide, right?” Ellen’s expression revealed her doubt. “If Lee’s right, and Cam’s symptoms worsen, Susie Banks might not just be the key to understanding what’s going on with him—she could be the cure.”
“Ellen, we don’t know if there’s a link or not, not for certain at least.”
“What do you believe?” Ellen asked.
Karen thought about Lee. It was Lee who’d diagnosed Cam’s splenic rupture before anyone else had a clue. He was the one who found five strangely sick kids with links to the TPI. She’d always trusted Lee. He was far from the perfect husband, but he was always an amazing physician.
“I’ll pack my bags and head out tonight,” Karen said.