The Way We Were (15 page)

“Mr. O’Neil is resting now. We’ve given him a sedative.” The doctor’s voice was soothing.

“We’ve run some tests to assess his condition and make a determination on
how to proceed. I’ve called in our best cardiac surgeon and his team.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “I expect them any minute.”

Again, Bailey leaned into Clay. “What’s the prognosis?”

C.J. had to smile, despite the circumstances. Though she’d only been the Second Lady’s permanent shadow for a few months, she’d followed the news accounts of the woman’s whirlwind career as the wife of
the vice president. It was public knowledge that Bailey and Clay had a history; first, as a young district attorney, he’d put her in jail for harboring a criminal. After that, for almost a decade, they’d disagreed on the best way to stop youth gangs, and had battled out their different views in the newspapers. But two years ago, when they were assigned to the same task force by the governor of New
York, they’d fallen hard for each other, and thumbed their noses at the political world. From what C.J. understood, they’d fought like hell to be together. In any case, Bailey O’Neil was a perfect role model for teenage girls and women alike. C.J. truly valued her assignment protecting the Second Lady, even though there had been some nasty gossip about how she’d gotten the position.

The doctor
continued analyzing the patient’s condition. “It appears Mr. O’Neil had a major heart attack. Your brother tells us he had the classic symptoms—-chest pain, shortness of breath, discomfort in his arm. Mr. O’Neil, the son, called 911 and administered aspirin, which helped.”

“Will Pa be all right?” Bailey asked, her voice shaky.

“We won’t know that for a while. We’ve already done some tests
to determine the amount of blockage. They wore him out, and made him anxious, which is why he’s sedated. The cardiologist and his team will determine the extent of the heart trauma and a course of action when they get here.”

“What might that include?”

The doctor glanced to Clay when he asked the question. “It depends on the amount of blockage. It could mean angioplasty, or some form of
surgery. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. I hate to commit, Vice President Wainwright, until the surgeon can give us his opinion.”

A woman who’d hovered behind them—she wore a hospital badge that read Janice Denny—cleared her throat. “I’ll show you to the private waiting room. The rest of your family is there, Ms. O’Neil.”

Bailey frowned. “Can I see Pa first?”

“Yes, of course.”
The doctor’s smile was sympathetic. “One person at a time is allowed into the room. He’s alone now, as your mother took a break. Try not to wake him up.”

“Hold on.” Mitch spoke with the air of a man used to being obeyed. “An agent will have to accompany Ms. O’Neil.”

“Into the CCU?” the doctor asked.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Isn’t that a bit excessive?”

“We didn’t have time to
do thorough advance checks on your personnel or the hospital rooms themselves. If the press downstairs knows we’re here, others could, too.”

Tim Jenkins stepped forward. His kind eyes and boyish charm were deceptive. He said with the authority of an SAIL, special agent in charge, “One of your team should go to the waiting room and check the area out while Ms. O’Neil is in with her father.
We’ll stay here with the vice president until you let us know all’s clear.”

“I want C.J. to come with me,” Bailey told them.

The Second Lady accepted the protection of the Secret Service willingly. Only the vice president was required by law to have it. On occasion Bailey let it slip in conversation that it was hard for her to have the agents around all the time. But she knew they were
needed to protect her and her children, especially because she was so high profile, due to her gang work in New York. And she did her best not to take her annoyance out on the agents. Mitch had told C.J. horror stories about presidents like L.B.J. mistreating his protectives, and even some vice presidential wives trying to dodge the service’s watch over them.

C.J. stepped forward, her face
blank. “Whatever you want, Ms. O’Neil.” Agents always addressed the protectees formally.

The doctor opened the door to the private CCU room, a privilege given to them because of the patient’s relationship to the vice president. When the doctor moved back, Bailey and C.J. stepped inside.

A man hovered by the bed—one of her Bailey’s four older brothers. This one, Aidan, had the O’Neil looks:
tall, lanky but muscular with crystal clear blue eyes and black hair, his a little long. When he saw his sister, he rushed to her and grabbed her in a bear hug hard enough to crack her ribs. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said, his voice breaking on the last word.

“Me, too.”

“Come on over.” He led her back to the bed.

A nurse sat in a chair in the corner. C.J. followed Bailey and stopped
a discreet distance away, while Bailey sat down at her father’s side. Machines at the head of the bed beeped and whooshed; the soft sounds of muted phones and footsteps filtered in from the corridor. Aidan settled a big masculine hand on her shoulders and C.J. avoided looking at his face.

“Hi, Pa,” Bailey whispered, lightly touching Patrick O’Neil’s limp hand. There were tears in her eyes.
“It’s me, your girl. I’m here in New York, and I’m going to stay until you get better.” Some sniffling. “I love you so much. Please, come out of this. Get better. I’m not ready for you to leave us yet.” She placed a hand on her stomach. “Clay and I are having another boy. We’re going to name him after you.” She kissed her father’s head. “Please, Pa.”

Before she lost control, even a modicum
of it, C.J. averted her gaze. She was used to quelling her personal feelings, though she’d known this trip to New York would test that skill. Ever since she’d joined the Secret Service, straining her relationship with her family and being subjected to unfair rumors among the agents, she’d hardened her heart. Getting weepy and sentimental about the situation had no place in her life now.

THE National Threat Assessment Center, or NTAC, was located right around the corner from Ford’s Theatre in D.C. Joe Stonehouse passed the famous landmark, remembering when he’d taken Josie there. Because the memory pricked, he shoved it away. He reached the Secret Service building and headed inside. Though it was Sunday night, they had business to take
care of.

The route to the conference room was familiar, and the smell of lemon wax, cleaning fluid, and leather accompanied him. He’d worked at NTAC, a division of the Secret Service that analyzed potential assassins in order to preclude their attacks, for five years before Josie’s death. Afterward, he became part of the Safe School Initiative, which addressed school shooters. Then, at his
instigation, and with him at the helm, the School Threat Assessment Team, or STAT, was formed. They collected information about past school shootings and the shooters themselves for the purpose of preventing targeted school violence; they also monitored developing situations in high schools across the country. Then, too, since the World Trade Center attacks, school kids were even more messed up and
needed help from adults.

And, in the event of a serious potential risk, they went undercover in the buildings. Which was why he was here tonight. He pushed open the conference room door.

“You’re late,” a voice from the other side of the room said.

The remark came from his sulking colleague, who still looked like one of America’s Most Wanted in his torn jeans, flannel shirt, and unkempt
hair. Joe refrained from snarling. Once again, he cursed his luck that Ludzecky was the only agent available to go into Fairholm High School with him on such short notice.

“Traffic on Dupont Circle,” Joe said tightly. Shrugging out of the jacket of his pinstripe suit, he sat down on a table and picked up the remote to view a Power Point presentation the government had prepared for them over
the weekend. “All right, Suzie Q, let’s see what makes you tick.”

“How come we didn’t have all this information before we went up to New York on Friday?” Ludzecky wanted to know.

“We had to move in fast, given what we found last week.” Joe clicked on the appropriate icon to get into the program. “The data wasn’t ready.”

They’d been collecting information on Fairholm High School for
months as part of STAT’s program to keep tabs on high-risk situations in the nation’s secondary schools. But two recent developments had propelled them to target Fairholm for immediate intervention.

Mrs. Suzanna Quinn’s picture appeared on the big screen. He studied the blond hair, pulled back in a knot like she’d worn it two days ago, revealing gold hoops at her ears. Her light brown eyes
were smiling. “This is Suzanna Quinn’s professional photo.” He noted she wore the same kind of suit she had on when they’d met. Tailored. Professional.

“Buttoned up like a four-star general,” Ludzecky commented.

“At least she sets a good example for her troops.”

He clicked on
background information
; the screen split, and statistics came up next to her picture.

“She doesn’t look
forty-three.”

Joe thought she did. A good forty-three, though. Smooth skin. Only a few laugh lines around her eyes. Sculpted chin.

Married. Widowed. She’d been climbing the academic ladder, on her way to a college administration position, when her husband had died from a heart attack. She’d shied away from working at the local college where he’d taught the ethics of law. Instead, when
she’d finished her doctorate in education, she called on her initial experience as a high school social studies teacher, then school counselor, and finally assistant principal; she’d applied for and received the principalship at Fairholm High five years ago. She had one son, Josh, a senior at the school. He scanned the rest of the general information. “This isn’t what I need to know about her.”

Ludzecky sighed dramatically. The kid should be on stage. “I don’t understand why we didn’t just tell her we were comin’ in undercover. She’s the principal, for Christ’s sake.”

That got Joe’s back up. Superintendent Maloney had had doubts about Quinn accepting the undercover work without a fuss, and after Joe had read her files, he’d made the decision to keep her in the dark. Maloney hadn’t
been comfortable with that, and Joe himself had had second thoughts about it. But his instinct had told him to wait, and on more than one occasion, those instincts had saved his life.

“You read her mission statement for the school and her own personal essay on management style; she’d balk at covert actions. She’s preached democracy and openness and flexibility with evangelistic zeal.” He glanced
at the screen. “What I want to know is why.”

“Afraid she’ll interfere with your commando tactics?”

“No, I was afraid her objections would make it harder for us to get into the school. You know time is of the essence, after the latest developments. I decided to go under covertly; when everything’s set up, I’ll let her in on the plan. By then, it’ll be too late for her to do too much damage.”

Ludzecky scowled. “Don’t you get tired of playin’ God all the time?”

Joe ignored the sarcasm which came in a steady stream from the young agent’s mouth. He continued to flick through the files. Pictures came up of her son—he resembled his mother, with blonder hair but those same eyes. Her husband was next. Joe clicked on an icon labeled Lawrence Quinn. Fifteen years her senior. Second marriage.
First wife deceased. Professor at NYU in legal ethics. Ah, maybe this was the source of her rabid belief in honesty at all costs. They moved to Fairholm when their son was born; her husband taught at a local college, and she took a teaching job at the high school. Assessment by team: good marriage, low-key, no known separations, seemed to love their kid.

“Geez, look at that,” Ludzecky said.

“What?”

“The guy died on their fifteenth wedding anniversary.”

“Yeah?”

The younger man snorted. “Not surprised
you
didn’t notice,” he grumbled.

Joe knew Luke’s, and others’, attitude toward him. They called him Iron Man, Stone Man, the Ice King. Not that he cared. His restrained personality was a hell of a lot better than mimicking his parents. Besides, he hadn’t always been
like this.

Joe nodded to the section on Quinn’s husband. “It could be just her husband’s views that’s got her so jagged on honesty. Your typical liberal couple.” He tried to hide the disdain in his voice, caused by the memory of the liberal couple who raised him. Clicking the remote, he brought up the section labeled
parents
.

Her family grew up right here in D.C. Mother, Joanna Carson.
Schoolteacher. Raised four children on her own after father died in 1960—two months before Suzanna was born. Father’s career path...bingo!

Even Ludzecky leaned forward and read with interest. “Holy shit.”

“Nathan Carson was brought down by good old Senator McCarthy,” Joe said, finding the last piece of the puzzle.