ONCE I GET Tanya calmed the hell down, I say, “How do you know it’s not her?”
Tanya wipes away tears from her eyes, but she’s still smiling widely. “Her teeth! That poor woman…her face was beat up but you could see her teeth…and there’s a lot of bridgework back there! It’s not the First Lady! She’s got perfect teeth.”
I feel whipsawed, like a roller-coaster ride I’m on has suddenly jolted to a stop before the final steep descent.
“Are you sure?”
Pamela Smithson and Brian Zahn both come out of the tent, and based on the smiles on their faces, I know it’s true. The poor drowned and battered woman in that tent is not Grace Fuller Tucker.
Pamela says, “Tanya’s right…CANARY has perfect teeth. That woman in there…she’s had a lot of work done in her mouth.”
Well, what now? I turn away from everyone, grab my phone, make a call to Parker Hoyt. The phone rings and rings…and there’s no answer.
What the hell? Based on his expression back at the White House when I told him about the recovered body, I was sure he’d still be in his office, pacing back and forth, waiting for this call.
But no answer.
“Sally?”
I turn and it’s Randy Anderson from Homeland Security, formerly of the Secret Service, and one tired hombre. His jumpsuit is splattered with mud and water, and he needs a shave.
He says, “Sally…that’s it. We’re packing up.”
“But…you’ll start again tomorrow, won’t you?”
A firm shake of the head. “Not a chance,” he says, and as he explains what’s going on, I hate to admit it, but my old friend is right. Randy gestures to the Humvees, the tent, the men and women searching, and he says, “This…for a day I could pretend it was an unannounced drill, helping search for a mythical lost canoeist. The second day, Sally, I was putting my head on the chopping block…a one-day drill extending into two? Okay, I could make it work. A two-day drill was pushing it. I’m sorry. A three-day search is impossible.”
Randy nods in the direction of the tent. “This is going to sound grim, but finding that poor dead woman is a blessing. It’ll mean a round of nice publicity for the department, having an unannounced drill end with something special, and it’ll get me a reprieve from management. Do you see what I mean?”
I hate his words, but I do know what he means. “Sure, Randy, I know.”
Even in his exhausted state, he smiles. “Sorry, Sally. I really wanted to help you…”
“You did, no worries,” I say.
“But CANARY…”
I nod, shove my cold hands into my coat pockets. “Randy, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sally…”
“Randy, this had nothing to do with the First Lady, and you know it. You…your Homeland Security unit was doing an unannounced drill along this river, and members of the First Lady’s off-duty detail were assigned by me to provide assistance and to give them additional training in working with Homeland Security on short notice.”
He rubs a hand across the bristles on his chin, slowly nods. “So that’s how it’s going to be.”
“Randy, maybe it’s my maternal nature, but I took care of you in Santiago, and I want to protect you again. So send everybody home…and thank you.”
He says, “When this is over…”
I touch his unshaven cheek. “When this is over, come visit me in Leavenworth, all right?”
“I just might try to break you out.”
“Don’t be a foolish boy,” I say. “Go.”
And he walks to his people, and I take my phone and call Parker Hoyt to let him know what’s just happened.
But again there’s no answer.
A few minutes later I huddle up with Scotty and the three members of CANARY’s detail. The joy of learning the dead woman wasn’t the First Lady is gone, and now they’re slumped over, tired, worn down. Scotty doesn’t say anything, and Tanya and Brian look to their detail leader, Pamela Smithson, who simply asks, “What now?”
I bite off what I want to say, which is What now? And is two days too late, and I say, “We take the night off. We’re exhausted, and we’ll start making mistakes.”
And you’ve already made enough mistakes, I want to add, but I’m too tired to get into a shouting match at the moment.
“We’ll start again tomorrow, eight a.m.”
Tanya asks the reasonable question, “Where?” and I know we can’t meet at my office, or the East Wing, or W-17…too many questions will roar our way tomorrow from other people who will be wondering why more than two days after the “Ambush in Atlanta,” the First Lady has been neither seen nor heard from. And I’ve got to lie once more to the other shift members of the First Lady’s protection detail, which is going to take some imaginative and delicate untruths.
“The horse farm,” I say. “We…the buildings there. They haven’t been thoroughly searched. There’s a chance CANARY might be there, lying low.”
“Wouldn’t the staff say something?” Brian asked.
“They’re loyal to her, like you three,” I say. “If she asked them to keep her presence there quiet, don’t you think they’d do it?”
Nobody says a word, which tells me they’re thinking it over.
“Go,” I say, and they walk away, and Scotty comes to me and asks, “Boss, what about you?”
I feel like crawling in the tent with the dead woman and taking a nap on the wet grass. I say, “I’ve got to get home. And I need to update Parker.”
“You need a ride?”
“I do.”
Scotty says, “Got your back, boss.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I walk away and try Amelia.
No answer.
A little cold stab in my gut.
Okay.
I call Parker Hoyt, at his office and on his cell phone.
No answer at either number.
I hang up.
Vehicles are driving away, fewer people are around, and a Rockford County ambulance slowly approaches the white tent, here to take the dead woman away.
Where the hell is Parker Hoyt?