IT’S THREE A.M. and I’m at a McDonald’s in Forestville, Maryland, waiting. I’ve finished off two cups of coffee and two Sausage McGriddles sandwiches. I was hungry earlier, which I suppose is a good sign, but I’m still not conscious of having tasted anything.
So much going on.
I’m sharing this common eating area with a number of folks that you would expect to see in an urban McDonald’s at three a.m.—bundles of young men and women, laughing and chatting, working women staring at their breakfasts, and two long-haul truckers, sitting in their booths, just shoveling fuel into themselves so they can keep on truckin’.
A door opens up. Scotty comes in, glances around, and then spots me, slides into the booth.
“Boss.”
“Hey,” I say.
“How’s Amelia?”
“With her aunt Gwen.”
“Boss, I’m so sorry that—”
I hold up a hand. “It’s done. And I’m not going to talk about it. Let’s wait, all right?”
We don’t have to wait long. The door swings open, and two members of CANARY’s protective team come in, looking like they just spent the past hour holding up a sign and begging passing motorists for coins. The lead agent, Pamela Smithson, comes by, accompanied by Tanya Glenn. They skip the food counter and push in next to Scotty.
“Where’s Brian?” I ask. Pamela yawns and Tanya says, “I saw him out in the parking lot. Looks like he was making a phone call.”
Scotty says, “At three in the morning?”
Tanya says, “Maybe he was telling his mommy what he wants for breakfast.”
Pamela slightly smiles and then the door swings open, and the young male agent hustles in, saying, “Sorry, didn’t mean to be late.”
He sits next to me, and I say, “That’s all right. I haven’t started yet.”
And before I start, Pamela says, “Sally, I know I speak for Tanya and Brian by saying how sorry we were to hear about Ben. Is there…is there any news? About the investigation?”
“No,” I say.
Next to me, Brian says, “Do the local police have any leads?”
“None that I know of,” I say, and Tanya speaks up: “Sally, I can’t believe your daughter was there when—”
I hold up my hand once more and say, “No offense, guys, but shut your traps.”
Their faces flush or freeze. I’ve gotten their attention.
Good.
“There’s a lot going on and I don’t have much time,” I say. “Just tell me this to start: what have you been doing the past few hours?”
Scotty and the three other agents give quick glances to one another, as if they’re wondering if this senior Secret Service agent has finally gone off the rails, and one by one, the answers come.
“Having a beer, watching HBO.”
“Asleep.”
“In bed, trying to sleep.”
“I was sleeping, too.”
I say, “Any of you get any phone calls from the FBI?”
No verbal answers, just quick shakes of the head.
“I thought so,” I say.
I check, just to make sure we’re relatively alone in this large McDonald’s, and I say, “CANARY’s been kidnapped. About twelve hours ago a ransom message was delivered to the White House.”
Their faces show various stages of shock and disbelief, and CANARY’s lead agent is the first to respond.
Pamela says forcefully, “How do we know it’s not a fake? Ever since the news got leaked about her supposed drowning, every freak and nutcase has crawled out of their mom’s basement and started posting conspiracy theories on the internet. Maybe this note’s just part of it.”
“This note came with a severed finger joint,” I say. “The fingerprint matches.”
Whispered obscenities and wide eyes, and Scotty says, “Boss…what’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on,” I say. “That’s the problem. I was with Parker Hoyt when the ransom note and the finger arrived. He said he was going to contact the FBI and tell them what happened.”
Silence. Out in the kitchen, there’s some arguing going on in Spanish.
I say, “None of you have been contacted by the FBI, you…the shift working with CANARY when she disappeared. You should have been the first ones interviewed.”
Scotty says, “What did the ransom note say, boss?”
“A hundred-million-dollar payout by six o’clock this morning. At six p.m. today, the President goes on national television to apologize for his affair.”
Tanya Glenn’s eyes are moist but sharp, like knives coming out of a dishwasher. “What are you telling us, Sally?”
I say, “The money may be paid. But there’s no way the chief of staff is going to have that speech delivered.”
Out in the kitchen, there’s a loud noise as something crashes to the floor.
“Parker Hoyt wants CANARY dead,” I say. “And it’s up to us to stop him.”