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 thank God I can see movement through a curtain-covered window, and the door opens, and it’s my sister Gwen all right, wearing an apron, her hands dusted with white flour, and also bearing one surprised and confused look on her face.
“Grace, I mean—Mrs. Tucker, uh, come in, come in,” she says, and we go in and I close the door behind us and lock it.
From the kitchen I hear Amelia call out, “Who’s there, Aunt Gwen?” and I have to fight so hard not to run into the kitchen and scoop up Amelia and quit the Secret Service right here and now, and leave and take her with me.
I say, “Gwen, the rear door to this place. Is it locked?”
Gwen, bless her, snaps to and says, “I think so, but I’ll double-check. Be right back.”
As she hustles out I move the First Lady into the living room on the right, then draw the curtains. The doorbell rings, and I slide out my SIG Sauer and gently pull one of the curtains aside.
It’s Scotty.
I unlock the door and let him in.
“Took you long enough,” I say.
“I wanted to give the parking lot a quick look-see,” he says, putting his own pistol away in its holster. “Didn’t see any unmarked vans or single guys sitting in cars watching the place.”
By now my little girl has heard all the voices and comes running in, wearing an apron three times her size, her hands covered with flour as well, and she screeches “Mommy!” and that’s it, I’m no longer a Secret Service agent, just one tired and frightened mother.
“Oh, honey,” I call out, and I hug her and kiss her, and hug her some more, and she complains, “Mommy, not so tight!,” and I can’t speak back because my eyes are full and my throat feels like it’s stuffed with cotton.
After some minutes pass, Amelia is gently banished to the spare bedroom that’s temporarily hers, and when she says, “Will you have some chocolate chip cookies later? Me and Aunt Gwen made them!”—and of course we all say yes, including the First Lady, who actually has a slight smile on her face.
Gwen brings us all coffee in the living room, and I have my pistol out on the coffee table, and I recall something, then pop out the magazine and put a fresh one in. Three rounds have already been expended, and I want fourteen full rounds available if need be.
My sister watches me and says, “I wouldn’t worry too much. My house is scrubbed.”
The First Lady speaks up. “What does that mean?”
Scotty’s maneuvered his chair so that it’s facing the door. “It means, ma’am, that this house, the utility bills, and everything else are under a different name. Not her own, so she can’t be traced.”
CANARY says, “Are you a spy?”
“Not brave enough,” she says. “Just read and think a lot.”
I finish reloading my pistol and say, “I imagine you’re wondering why I’m here, along with…Mrs. Tucker.”
“Good guess.”
“Best you don’t know much,” I say.
Gwen smirks. “Like need-to-know? You know how many times I’ve heard that?”
“Still,” I say, “it might help out if this all goes to a congressional investigation one of these days.”
She nods. “I see. What can I do?”
“We need to spend the night,” I say.
“Deal.”
“Among other things,” I say.
Gwen nods. “Deal again. Anything else?”
Not being on the run and being in my sister’s warm and comfortable and so far safe home makes me feel like I’m about to fall asleep in the chair.
“We need to get the First Lady someplace safe, which isn’t the White House. Or the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. Or any other government place.”
CANARY speaks up. “I may have a thought or two about that.”
I slowly nod. “I thought you might.”