State of the Onion (10 page)

I tried to catch Naveen's reflection in the westernmost mirror every time my horse turned its back on the bench.

Nothing out of place.

He sat there and continued to read the paper.

Was this all just a hoax? Let's see how far the silly assistant chef will go? Was there a hidden camera somewhere, and a grinning television host ready to leap out and tell me this was all one big joke?

I came around again. Up and down, up and down. Without being too obvious, I watched Naveen as I circled past. No, this was no joke. His body was tense, and his dark eyebrows arched over the black lenses. He'd seen something, or thought he had.

We were slowing. Naveen hadn't yet gotten up to buy a ticket and I wondered if I should ride alone again. It'd be just my luck for some paranoid parent to call security and have me detained for suspicious behavior. Or a kid complain that I was hogging a horse.

The music continued as I whirled past again, but this time I felt a subtle change in speed.

The slowing went on for another several turns. I decided that as soon as I got off, I'd march over to Naveen, sit next to him, and force him to cough up this “vital information.” If he wouldn't, I'd leave. Simple as that. I needed to take charge here.

Coupling this ridiculous errand with a trip to the bookstore meant I'd probably be late getting back. I hated to be late.

We were almost stopped now.

Naveen sat up straighter, suddenly alert.

A man approached him. The same man who'd pushed me aside. He was moving too quickly. Oddly fast.

Naveen recognized the guy. Jerked away.

But the guy came in close.

Too close.

This was no Secret Service agent. Even I knew that.

My horse finally stopped, and as I rose in the stirrups to get off, the shrill bell announced the ride's end.

But this time, the bell sounded different—with a cracking background noise.

Naveen toppled off the bench onto the ground.

The blond man stood and began strolling away.

“Naveen!” I screamed.

Facedown in the dirt, Naveen didn't move.

I leaped off the horse and made my way to the exit, realizing belatedly that my shout had attracted the blond man's attention. He turned around. For the second time, we locked eyes. And I read in them a coldness I'd never experienced before.

He changed his direction and came after me. Not strolling anymore.

I had no other option.

I ran.

MY SHORT LEGS WOULDN'T WIN ME THIS RACE. I needed help and I needed it now.

I took off as fast as I could, my feet straining for purchase on the gravelly path. With nothing in my mind beyond escape from whoever this creep was, I skidded around the front of a bright orange stroller, its front wheel catching the edge of my foot. I almost fell, but my arms windmilled like a vaudeville comic's, and the sunglasses flew off my face. I forced myself to move forward, to run, the camera bouncing against my chest in a rhythm that mimicked my pace.

I looked back long enough to ease my conscience. Thankfully, the stroller hadn't fallen—its occupant was unaffected.

But the white-blond man was gaining on me.

I shot forward, heading for the blue-and-white tour bus kiosk. They had phones in there. They could call security. “Help,” I screamed, banging flat-handed against the Plexiglas windows as I raced around the kiosk's left side. The woman inside the booth recoiled in alarm. “Call the police,” I shouted. “There's a killer after me.”

As the words escaped my lips, I realized they were true.

Naveen was dead.

I couldn't wait.

The world froze and narrowed. There was only me—my shouts ringing hollowly in my ears—and the man close behind. His face wore anger like a grotesque mask.

I read his expression—there was no doubt that he would catch me. And soon I would be just as dead as Naveen.

I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

Weren't there people around? As though standing at the mouth of a bright tunnel, I couldn't see anything beyond ten feet in front of me. Colors meshed, shapeless forms surrounded me. I heard nothing but the
whoosh
ing blood in my brain and the echo of my gasps as I skipped the curb, vaguely aware that I was supposed to check for cars.

Let the damn car hit me. Then maybe the assassin behind me wouldn't.

Horns blared.

I didn't stop. Didn't turn.

Just across the street was the welcoming red brick of the Arts and Industries Building. A haven. There would be security inside. I tripped up the steps and yanked at the door.

It didn't budge.

Horns blared again.

Brakes screeched.

“Help me!” I screamed. My voice, raw with emotion, pierced my consciousness enough to let me read the sign:
CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS
.

I spun.

The blond man was on the ground in the middle of the street. Rolling. A taxi had hit him. People called for help.

My breath caught. Thank God.

And then—unbelievably—he righted himself. Back on his feet, he slammed both hands on the hood of the taxi and started to push his way past the bystanders who'd stopped to stare.

Where were the gapers when I needed them?

I took off to my left. To the Castle. There had to be someone there.

“Help!”

But I'd hesitated too long. The blond man was almost on top of me. His footfalls echoed my own on the short run across the brick walkway that separated the two buildings.

He snatched the neckstrap of my camera, yanking me to a halt. The camera slammed into my face. I saw sparkles before my eyes. He seized my arm and turned me to face him.

All my self-defense practice with Tom paid off in that moment. Muscle memory, he'd called it. With an instinct borne of many hours of repetition, I slammed the heel of my hand against my attacker's temple. Then I sent a knee to his groin.

The man hadn't expected me to fight. His fingers loosened just enough for me to wiggle away.

I turned away, screaming again for help. Where was everyone? How could they just ignore me?

Still hampered by tunnel vision, I strove for focus. I ran past the flowered fountain. Purple flowers glowed in the sunlight.

Why on earth was I noticing flowers?

I heard scrambling behind me and I knew the killer had gotten up.

Three white-shirted security men came running around the front of the Castle, just as I was about to turn the corner. One grabbed me by the forearms.

I pointed behind me. “Get him!”

The black man holding me kept a tight grip. “Get who?”

I turned, still pointing.

The assassin was gone.

“He…he…” Safe now, in the presence of Smithsonian Security, I tried to pull away, looking for the white-blond man. But the guard held tight.

“You're not going anywhere, lady.”

High-pitched wheezing shot out of me as I gasped for breath. “But he killed a man. He killed…” What was I supposed to say? That the guy who'd jumped the White House fence a couple days ago had been killed? And I didn't even know that it was true. Maybe Naveen had fainted.

I hoped.

But I knew better.

“Have you been drinking, miss?” one of the other guards asked.

I shook my head. “Follow me,” I said, still trying to catch my breath. “I'll show you.”

The black man holding me exchanged glances with the other two guards. They were all about my age, and their looks seemed to suggest that they were unwilling to humor me. “I think we better call for some help.”

They started to walk me toward the Castle's front doors. “No,” I said. “I have to get back to the bench.”

For the first time I noticed I was shaking. Not chilly-outside-shaking, but whole-body trembling. All that had just happened, and my narrow escape from what I imagined could have happened was affecting me physically. I wanted to sit, but I couldn't. Not with Naveen lying alone by that bench. Please let someone have called for help.

An answering siren sounded nearby. “Thank God,” I said, “maybe they can save him.”

“Are you on medication?” my guard asked.

“Would you stop with the accusatory tone?” I'd been polite long enough. “There's a man over there who needs help. I saw him get…get…”

“Get what?”

“He slumped over. I think he's dead.”

One of the other guards grabbed at his radio. “I'll call it in,” he said, but the siren's wails were close now.

I shot my captor a look that said, “See?”

THE PARAMEDICS ARRIVED ON THE SCENE just as I made it back to the bench, double escort in tow.

Naveen had been flipped onto his back by someone trying to administer CPR. The paramedics moved the Good Samaritan out of the way as other Smithsonian Security personnel worked the inquisitive crowd backward. I scanned their faces, searching for the white-blond man. But the gawkers, shifting as they watched, were just an average mix of curious tourists and nosy locals. I recognized some from my ride on the carousel.

I steeled myself to look down.

There was no doubt. Naveen was dead.

I bit my lips tight. He'd wanted to talk with me. He'd poked me in the back not ten minutes earlier. He'd claimed to have important information.

Most of all, however, he'd been alive.

Half his face was covered with dirt from where he'd fallen after the blond man's visit. Whoever had turned him, I'm sure, had been surprised by the body armor. Hard to do CPR on someone wearing Kevlar, I imagined. But even I could tell from here that Naveen hadn't had a chance. The blond man's bullet had done terrible damage. I couldn't believe the volume of blood. It mixed with the dirt to create an enormous black puddle under his body that the paramedics couldn't help but track through.

The sight of sticky footprints as Naveen's lifeblood seeped into the ground made me want to look away. But I couldn't turn my head.

The guys holding me hadn't let go the whole time it took to walk over here. They weren't letting go now, either. They hadn't handcuffed me, but I found myself the object of scrutiny as people around started to take notice.

The old lady in the red shorts pointed from across the circle of onlookers surrounding Naveen's prone form. “I saw that girl running.” She turned to her husband. “We saw her running, didn't we, Egbert?” The man didn't have time to respond before the woman pointed again, and with old-lady vehemence called out. “You killed him!”

The black guy who'd first grabbed me tugged my arm, “Let's go,” he said.

The elderly woman called after us, “Was he a terrorist?”

WHEN I FINALLY SAT, IT WAS IN A HARD PLASTIC chair in what was undoubtedly an interrogation room. My face ached from the hit I'd taken with the camera. At my request, which had come out in little more than a bleat, someone had placed a paper cup of water on the table in front of me. I drank fast, my greedy throat parched from so much screaming.

My two guards had been replaced by two Metropolitan Police officers. One white, one black. Both standing, they looked at me with identical scorn. I'd shown them my White House ID, hoping that would buy me a little consideration.

I drained the paper cup. I guess that had been all the kindness I was going to get.

We'd gone over the events of the afternoon several times, and I'd begged to call the White House to let Henry know what was going on, but they hadn't let me near a phone, yet.

And just when I thought it couldn't get worse, a knock at the door admitted three Secret Service agents. Craig Sanderson, a woman I didn't know, and Tom, whose demeanor was just as professional as ever, but whose eyes bore into mine with an anger that sent white-hot fear racing across my chest.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Craig drawled to the two police officers. “We will take it from here.”

They left, but I had no doubt the officers were simply shifting position to the other side of the room's one-way mirror.

“Ms. Paras,” Craig said, taking a seat the moment the door closed. “I have a copy of your statement in front of me, but I have to ask: What were you doing on the Mall this afternoon?”

I tried hard not to look at Tom. I wanted, more than anything, for him to know that I hadn't broken my promise.

“Naveen,” I began, focusing on Craig as I spoke, “called me.” Now I did look at Tom, repeating. “
He
called
me
.”

Unruffled, Craig said, “But that does not explain why you were out there with a dead man, a former operative, and why the witnesses believe you killed him.”

“I didn't kill him. You've got to know that, don't you? It was a guy. A really blond guy.”

Craig sat up. “You mean to tell me that you saw the killer?”

“Yes,” I answered, surprised. “Didn't they tell you?” I'd gone over my statement with the Smithsonian Security guys and the Metropolitan Police at least five times. I'd made that point very clear. What now became clear to me was that the security staff and the police hadn't shared information with the Secret Service.

“Ms. Paras,” the woman spoke up. She, too, had a drawl. Where on Craig it came across frighteningly passive, on her it sounded demure and inquisitive. “Why don't you tell us exactly what transpired here this afternoon?”

“Can I call Henry first?” I asked. “He's got to be worried. I should've been back hours ago.”

Tom hadn't sat down. Now he pushed an unoccupied chair out of his way, making an angry scrape against the tile floor. “I'll call Henry,” he said, without looking at me. Two heartbeats later, he was gone.

I felt my whole body react. He was furious. Once I explained, he'd understand. He had to.

My eyes stayed on the closed door for a long moment.

“Ms. Paras?” the woman prompted.

BY THE TIME I GOT BACK TO THE KITCHEN IT was after seven. With the president and First Lady out at a charity event at the Kennedy Center, it was very quiet. My shoes made soft noises as I made my way to the kitchen. Other than those standing guard at their posts, I didn't want to run into anyone else tonight. I wanted to gather my things and make my way home, hoping for a chance to connect with Tom along the way. I needed to explain myself.

Henry sat at the computer screen. He twisted his bulk around as the sound of my tiptoeing. “Ollie,” he said, standing, “what happened?” He moved toward me. I let myself be enveloped by those big arms, and even though it hurt to press my bruised forehead against his chest, it felt so good to be held. “I was so worried.”

“What did they tell you?” I asked into his chest.

I felt his grumble of relief. “Not much. Agent MacKenzie called here. At first I thought you'd been injured, but he said you were all right.”

I broke away from him. “How did he sound?”

“How did he—? Ah…yes, I understand. Tom. He was…professional. Terse and to the point. Nothing more, nothing less. He told me that you would be late returning.” Henry glanced up at the clock. “I didn't realize he meant this late. What on earth happened? We heard about the shooting at the Smithsonian. Did you see it? Are you a witness?”

I wanted to tell Henry everything. He had such a positive outlook on life and he seemed to see everything so clearly. I could've used a dash of his insight. “I'm not supposed to talk about it.”

He nodded. “I understand.” But his slight frown said just the opposite.

As he returned to his computer musings, I gathered a few things, added a couple of notes to my plans for tomorrow, and started to head out. “Henry,” I said, suddenly remembering, “I didn't pick up your book.”

He didn't turn. “It's okay.”

His words were quiet, resigned. “It's okay.” That bothered me more than if he'd made a joke or teased me about forgetting.

“See you tomorrow,” I said, hoping for something more.

Henry nodded, but didn't say another word.

My shoes made their quiet squeaks across the floor, taking me through the dim hall toward the East entrance. I passed the wall of windows to my right, wondering who was out there in the night, and what they were planning. The sooner I got out of here and was able to call Tom, the happier I'd be.

“Ollie?”

I spun, gasping. I sucked saliva down into my lungs, which threw me into a coughing spasm. “My God,” I spluttered. I hadn't heard Paul come up behind me. Bent in half, and supremely embarrassed, I held a hand up to cover my mouth.

He looked ready to slap my back. “I'm sorry, are you okay?”

I was already recovering, so I stepped just out of his reach. “Yeah, I just got scared is all.”

“After this afternoon's excitement, I'm not surprised.”

“What…” I coughed again. “What do you know?”

He looked off into the shadowed recesses of the long hallway as though considering what to say next. “You've had a tough day.”

I thought of Naveen. I thought of how close I'd come to sharing his fate. “It could've been worse.”

Paul nodded. “Which is why I waited for you tonight.”

My stomach clenched—as though someone had reached in and squeezed. “You did?”

“About the executive chef position…” he began.

Here it comes. I'm out. My actions today killed my chances. I knew it.

When it took forever for Paul to finish his thought, I prompted him, holding my breath even as I said, “Yes?”

“The First Lady believes…”

The fist around my stomach tightened.

“…it's imperative that you
are
present when Laurel Anne has her audition.”

I let my breath out. All I could think of was that I wasn't being fired. As disappointed as I knew I should be by Paul's pronouncement, I was elated that they hadn't decided to toss me out on my butt. Yet. And, I seemed to still be in the running for the promotion. After all that had transpired today, I took this as a positive sign. “All right,” I said. “That's good news, right?”

Paul gave me a pointed look. A “don't get your hopes up” look. “Mrs. Campbell said, and I quote: ‘If I decide that Laurel Anne's talents are the right choice for the White House kitchen, Ollie will be reporting to her.'” He shrugged with the resignation of someone imparting bad news. “She thinks it's a good test to see if you work well together.”

“Sure,” I said in a small voice. “Of course.”

“See you tomorrow, Ollie.”

“Yeah.”

The walk to the McPherson Square station gave me the opportunity to try Tom. I called him three times. It rang before it went to voice mail. That meant he had his phone turned on, but wasn't taking my calls. The first time that I got his voice mail, words failed me and I hung up. The second time, I started to explain, but was cut off by a disembodied voice letting me know my recording time was up. The last time I just apologized.

As I took the escalator down toward the rushing trains, I gripped my cell phone tight. “Please call,” I whispered. The little display registered
NO SERVICE
and I got on the first train to Crystal City, with the firm belief that there would be a message from Tom waiting for me by the time the train emerged into the night at Arlington.

I WALKED FROM THE METRO TO MY APARTMENT holding the cell phone in my right hand in case it rang. Just to be certain that I hadn't missed Tom's call, I checked the display every so often as I slowly closed the short distance from the station to the apartment complex. Too slowly. I weighed a thousand pounds.

But the night was clear. Despite the plethora of lights from the surrounding buildings and those from the nearby airport, I could make out stars. Hundreds. One of them, bright and winking, made me stop to make a wish.

I held my breath and waited.

But the phone still didn't ring.

Maybe it wasn't a star, I reasoned. Maybe that one had been Jupiter.

A quick cold breeze shot past as I trudged up the walkway. Chilly night. Matched the state of my mood right now.

I worked up a smile and said hello to James at the front desk. While my building wasn't posh enough to have a real doorman, James tried hard to fit the bill. He took his job seriously, manning the front desk and walking the corridors each evening in a sort of pseudosecurity endeavor. He and two other fellows traded hours, and for their trouble they got a hefty reduction in their rent. James's white hair caught glints from the recessed lighting above, and he nodded a greeting.

“Who were those two fellas who came to visit yesterday morning?” he asked.

That was just yesterday? It seemed like months ago. “Friends of mine,” I said.

“We talking about the same two fellas?” James asked. He was ready for conversation, but all I wanted was to grab an elevator and get to my apartment. “They didn't want me to buzz you. They showed me Secret Service ID, so I let them by. They looked pretty upset. Is anything wrong?”

I punched the “up” button, and was rewarded with an immediate “ding.” At this time of night, there wasn't a lot of activity up and down the shafts. “Everything's fine,” I said and sighed with relief when the elevator doors closed, cutting off further commentary. I punched the button for thirteen. I didn't put much stock in superstition, but other people did. Which is why I'd chosen the floor. Rent was cheaper.

Mrs. Wentworth must have been waiting for me, because she popped out of her door the moment I stepped off at our floor. “Olivia,” she called, waving a sheet of paper at me with her free hand—the one not gripping her cane. “Come here.”