Long May She Reign (55 page)

Mr. Gabler let out his breath. “Three tenth graders in Nebraska.”

What?
Meg stared at him.

Mr. Gabler nodded. “I know. That's almost exactly the way I feel about it, Meg.”

Tenth graders. Jesus. Meg leaned back against the bureau, closing her eyes for a second. Then, she opened them. “Were they a genuine threat?”

He shook his head. “I gather they thought it would be funny.”

They were mistaken. “Are they just little creeps, or are they incipient monsters?” she asked.

“I suspect they are primarily the former, but we fully intend to treat them like the latter,” he said.

Good
. “How's the First Gentleman taking it?” she asked.

Mr. Gabler paused. “I am very pleased to be spending the day in Massachusetts, Meg.”

If that was the case, maybe she was, too.

After telling her that her security was going to remain somewhat elevated until she got back to Washington, but that she was otherwise free to go about her usual business, Mr. Gabler gave Jack a nod and left.

As she closed the door, Jack dropped the mystery and came over to rest his hands on either side of her waist.

“I'm glad they got them,” he said.

She nodded, feeling unaccountably tired. “When you were in tenth grade, would you have thought that chemical bombs were funny?”

Jack shook his head. “I was a jerk, but not
that
much of a jerk.”

She would have guessed as much, but it was still the right answer. She looked at his hands, and then up at his face. “I kind of have the feeling that your reputation for being a jerk is a little inflated.”

He shrugged. “Got me on a good day, that's all.”

Maybe.

He pulled her towards him. “If they're not going to come back up here anytime soon, maybe we should—”

She shook her head. “No, because the phone's about to—”

The drop-line rang.

It was, of course, her parents, on conference call, and they said encouraging, reassuring things to her, while she said confident, lighthearted things in return—and as far as she was concerned, all of their performances were unconvincing. Her father did suggest that she consider coming home early, anyway, a request which she deflected without giving him an answer.

Jack kept his distance during the conversation, glancing at the door every so often as though he thought he should probably leave.

“They're my
parents
,” she said, when she hung up. “We, you know, talk to each other. It's not that big a deal.”

Jack nodded, not meeting her eyes.

She had been convinced that who she was didn't matter to him—but, it wouldn't be the first time she had been wrong. “You know, technically, if you're in a room when the President is speaking to someone, you're supposed to stand at attention,” she said.

His eyes widened, and he actually straightened up.

Christ. “Too late,” she said, picked up the drop-line, and asked to be connected to Mr. Fielding, to try and get a feel for what was
really
going on, as far as her parents were concerned.

The new director of communications told her that he was currently hiding under his desk with a blanket over his head, waiting for the wrath that was Hurricane Russell either to pass, or to burn itself out. He also said that, to the best of his knowledge, the President was hiding underneath
her
desk, too, although in lieu of a blanket, she had brought a briefing book along with her.

Which gave her a very clear picture of the scene at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. With luck, Steven was off at baseball practice, and Neal, being Neal, would probably just shrug and go play on his computer for the rest of the afternoon.

“You're all right, though?” Preston asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “But, god-damn
tenth graders
.”

He sighed. “I know. Not too many things out there nastier than teenaged boys, unfortunately.”

“Speaking from personal experience?” she asked.

“Absolutely not,” he said. “Beatrice Fielding insisted upon utter sweetness at all times.”

Right.

“Our friend Ms. Goldman has been sniffing around all day,” he said.

Well, no one had ever accused her of not being an aggressive reporter.

“Promise me you won't give her anything,” he said, “okay?”

“No, Hannah, I can neither confirm nor deny,” she said.

“How about you just refer her to me, or to Maureen and Anthony,” he suggested.

That might be a serviceable plan, too. Anthony was her father's new press secretary—in his mid-twenties, openly and happily gay, and known to be terribly witty and blasé under stress, two character traits which were likely to come in handy in his line of work.

Today, for instance.

When she'd hung up, she and Jack stood there.

“It's
weird
, Meg,” he said finally. “I'm not going to get used to it overnight.”

She wanted to snap at him, but that wasn't going to get them anywhere. “What, the other people you've dated weren't the targets of chemical bomb hoaxes here and there?”

“When they were, they were smart enough to be a little shook up by it,” he said quietly.

Oh, so now he was mad at her, for not running around screaming? But, she shrugged.

“Well,” he said, and looked at her clock radio. “I should probably take off.”

Probably.

She let him get as far as the door before she relented. “Jack.”

He stopped.

“This is a stupid reason to have a fight,” she said.

He nodded.

But, they were going to have one, anyway?

“I was
worried
about you, Meg,” he said.

Oh.

“And then I have to listen to you going, ‘I'm fine, Mom, no problem,'” he said, “and it's the
President
on the other end, and—it's weird for me. I mean, if you want, we can act like you aren't different, but you are.”

All of which was probably legitimate, but still frustrating—and a very strong indication that this nascent attempt to be a nondescript college freshman who did conventional things like
date
probably wasn't going to work out.

“Anyway, I'm late for Ultimate,” he said.

She nodded.

“That's it?” he asked.

More or less. “Have fun playing,” she said, hoping she didn't sound as perfunctory as she felt.

His nod back was not particularly friendly, and he started to leave, but then stopped again. “You want me to lie to you, instead of telling you how I actually feel? Say what I figure you want to hear, since that'll make it that much easier to get you to sleep with me?” he asked. “Is that what you want? Because, I can do that. In fact, truth is, I'm really
good
at it.”

“You want me to kill you?” the guy had asked, in the same sort of angry, conversational way. “You want me to kill you right now?” Staring at her, with the half-smile, pressing her up against a filthy concrete wall, his arm jammed against her throat, pointing a gun right at her face the entire time. The muzzle
touching
her face, just below her left eye.

“What?” Jack asked uneasily.

She looked at him, trying to remember what room she was in, and what room she
wasn't
in, and—it was hard to get her breath, and she had to swallow a couple of times.

“What is it?” he asked. “God, Meg, you look—what did I do?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I just—never mind.” She sat down on the bed. “Um, have a good game. Uh—practice, I mean.”

“Is something wrong with your eye?” he asked.

She realized that she had brought her hand up to the spot where the gun had been, and dropped it. “No. It's fine.”

“I really don't have to go play,” he said. “It's not like I'm not out there almost every day, so I could—”

She shook her head. “No, you should go—” right away, if possible— “and I should make some calls, and find out if it's too late for me to do PT today.”

“You sure you're okay?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she said.

He still hesitated by the door. “Am I going to see you tonight?”

Doubtful. “Well, I'm usually pretty wrecked after PT,” she said, “so—well—”

He sighed. “Just tell me no, Meg. It's easier.”

If that's what he wanted, then that's what she would do. “No,” she said. “Probably not.”

He didn't look happy to hear that, but he just nodded. “Okay, whatever.” He went out to the hall, closing the door behind him as he left.

Once she was sure he was gone, she couldn't help touching her eye again. Jesus. That was one bout of terror she hadn't expected.

She had to sit there for a few minutes, taking deep breaths, before she felt ready to limp out to the security room and let her agents know that she wanted to go down to the hospital.

When she walked into physical therapy—after, as usual, being stopped a few times on her way through the hospital by people who wanted to say hello, shake her hand, or even have her sign “Get Well” cards they were bringing to a friend or loved one—she must not have looked very good, because the first thing Vicky did was take her blood pressure.

“We're not going to do any PT today,” she said, when she was finished and had marked the numbers down on her chart.

“Is it high?” Meg asked, not wildly interested in the answer.

Vicky rolled up the cuff and put it away. “For blood pressure, no. For you, yes.”

“Well, midterms,” Meg said, and shrugged.

Vicky rolled her eyes. “Meg, the Secret Service and FBI have been around here most of the day.”

Oh. Well, they would have been, wouldn't they.

Which didn't change the fact that Vicky summoned a couple of the doctors who had been waiting nearby, and she ended up having—what, her third? fourth?—comprehensive medical exam of the week. She seemed to pass muster—or, at any rate, no one suggested admitting her. But she felt pretty stupid when they asked her what she had had to eat so far that day, and she had no idea whatsoever.

Vicky scowled and left for a few minutes, returning with a chilled carton of vanilla-flavored nutritional supplement and a straw.

Meg sipped it, methodically, and while it didn't make her feel any less shaky, Vicky stopped frowning when she finished.

When she got back to the dorm, her posted security was still higher than she wanted it to be, but at least the feeling of urgency had diminished. There seemed to be an aura of fear in the air, but she suspected that it had more to do with a building full of people frantically cramming for their remaining exams than it did with anything to do with her personally. For once, no one even seemed to be playing video games in the common room, which she could almost never remember happening before.

Although she knew she should immediately start studying, she turned on CNN to see what the top stories were. The day seemed to have been relatively quiet, but in due course, the President was shown at a Rose Garden bill-signing ceremony—an expansion of health-care options for small business owners, sole proprietors, and freelancers; good for her—and Meg leaned forward to study the way she looked. Judging from the angle of the sun, the footage must have been from some time before noon—and there was no sign whatsoever that she was waiting to find out whether her daughter was on the verge of being caught in the middle of a terrorist chemical attack. In fact, she appeared so relaxed and warm and funny, that it was possibly a little psychotic.

But, Meg saw her stiffen ever so slightly as she glanced at something—or, more likely, some
one
—off to the side; then, she continued her remarks without any noticeable distress. So, the someone, probably Glen, her chief of staff, must have given her a signal, with an update of the situation. Or, all things being equal, he might have been letting her know about something
else
going on in the world today.

But it was still fairly amazing that there had been a potentially huge story about to break, and yet, the media seemed to have missed it entirely.

So far, at least. After all, Hannah the Shark might not be the only one who had been nosing around today.

She still felt too restless to study, so she took the elevator down to the basement to get a soda from the vending machine, and then rode up to the second floor, where the common room was still, strangely, deserted.

But Susan's door was open, and she tapped on it with her cane.

“Uh, hi,” she said.

Susan, who was at her desk studying, looked up. “Hi.”

“You got the word?” Meg asked.

Susan nodded. “Yeah. You okay?”

Depending upon one's definition. Mostly, she was tired. “Sure,” Meg said. “I hope you didn't get in trouble about your midterm.”

Susan shook her head, which was wrapped in a towel, so she must have just gotten out of the shower. “No, no problem. She just let me stay a while longer to finish.”

“Well, that's good,” Meg said, and nodded a few times too many. “I mean, I'm glad.”

“Tenth graders,” Susan said, sounding disgusted.

Yeah. God-damn cretins. Just thinking about it made her grit her teeth.

Susan clasped her hands behind her head and leaned back in her chair, which tipped onto the two rear legs. “If you're beating yourself up because you were spooked by the whole thing, that's dumb. Why wouldn't you have been?”

What, she looked scared? Meg stopped gritting her teeth. “I wasn't.”

“
I
was,” Susan said.

Yeah, cleaning up a dorm full of dead and maimed freshmen would have been a messy task.

Susan looked at her for a long minute, and then shifted her weight so that the front legs of her chair came banging back down onto the floor. “When you asked me if I wanted a specialty coffee, I wanted to deck you.”