First Family kam-4 Page 4

  He climbed back in his little plane, throttled up, and once more lifted into the sky. He headed on, zipping into a forgiving headwind of less than five knots an hour.

  A short time later, he pulled back on the throttle, pushed the yoke forward, and rode the thermals down. This was the tricky part, landing at his other property. It was set in the mountains and there was no runway, just a long strip of grass that he'd leveled and mown with his own sweat. It was firm and flat and yet the crosswinds and shears up here could be challenging. The balls of his cheeks tightened and his strong hands gripped the yoke as he swooped down, his landing flaps set on full. He touched, bounced, touched again and bounced up once more, the tiny plane's suspension system getting a nice quiver. When he came down the third time his wheels held to the earth and he pushed hard on the tops of the foot pedals with his heels to engage the front-wheel brake. That along with the landing flaps allowed the Cessna to come to a halt well short of the end of the makeshift landing strip.

  He pressed the tops of the lower foot pedals with his toes to work the inner flaps and direct the plane back around so it faced in the opposite direction; then he cut the engine. Quarry climbed out after grabbing his knapsack and a set of roped-together triangular parking blocks that he carried in the aircraft. He placed them under the wheels of the lightweight plane to keep it stationary. Then his long legs ate up the rising, rock-strewn ground to the side of the mountain. He pulled a ring of keys from his coat pocket and flicked them around until he found the correct one. He stooped and unlocked the thick wooden door set into the side of the mountain. It was mostly hidden behind some boulders that he'd levered off an adjacent outcrop and then chocked down tight.

  For decades his grandfather had worked the coal seams inside this mountain, or rather his crew of underpaid men had. As a child Quarry had come here with his ancestor. Back then they had traveled here by a road that had been accessible until a day ago when Quarry had blocked it off. It was by this road that the dump trucks had carted away the coal when the mine was in operation, and he had used the same route to ferry by truck all the supplies he'd needed up here. They wouldn't have fit in his little plane.

  This chunk of mountain hadn't always been a mine. Cavernous rooms had been created over time by the corrosive force of water and other geological muscle. In these spaces, long before any coal was ripped out of it, imprisoned Union soldiers had slowly and horribly died here during the Civil War, eking out their final days without sun and fresh air as the flesh fell off their bodies, leaving only glorified skeletons on the day they stopped breathing.

  The shafts were now set up with lights, but Quarry didn't use them unnecessarily. The power came from a vented generator and fuel was expensive. He used an old flashlight to see. The same one, in fact, that his father had used to hunt down "uppity" blacks-as his daddy had called them-at night in the swamps of Alabama. As a child he'd spied on his old man coming home at night, all giddy about what he and his comrades in hate had done. Sometimes he would see the blood of the old man's victims on his father's sleeves and hands. And his daddy would cackle as he sucked down his whiskey, in sick celebration of whatever it was he thought he was accomplishing by killing folks who didn't look like him.

  "Old hateful bastard," Quarry said between clenched teeth. He reviled the man for all the misery he'd caused, but not enough to throw out a perfectly good flashlight. When you didn't have much, you tended to keep what you had.

  He opened another door set against a rock wall off one of the main shafts. He grabbed a battery-powered lantern from a shelf and switched it on, setting it on a table in the middle of the room. He looked around, admiring his handiwork. He'd framed out the room with sturdy two-by-fours and put the Sheetrock up himself; every wall was plumb and painted a therapeutic light blue. He'd gotten all the materials for free from a contractor buddy of his who had supplies left over from jobs with no place to store them. Behind the walls was the solid rock of the mountain's innards. But anyone looking around the room would think they were in a house somewhere. That was sort of the idea.

  He walked over to one corner and studied the woman who sat slumped in the straight-backed chair. Her head rested on her shoulder as she slept. He poked her in the arm, but she didn't react. That wouldn't last.

  He rolled up her sleeve, pulled a sterilized syringe from his knapsack, and stuck her in the arm. That did drive her awake. Her eyes opened and then slowly focused. When they settled on him, she opened her mouth to scream, but the tape across it prevented this.

  He crinkled a smile at her even as he efficiently filled two vials with her blood. She stared down in horror at what he was doing but the restraints held her tightly to the chair.

  "I know this must seem strange to you, ma'am, but believe me, it's all for a good cause. I'm not looking to hurt you or anybody else, for that matter, really. Do you understand that?"

  He pulled the syringe free, dabbed the wound with a cotton swab doused with alcohol, and carefully placed a Band-Aid over it.

  "Do you understand that?" He gave her a reassuring smile.

  She finally nodded.

  "Good. Now, I'm sorry I had to take some of your blood but I really needed to. Now, we're going to feed you and keep you clean and all that. We won't keep you tied up like this. You'll have some freedom. I know you can see that was necessary at first. The tying-up part. Right?"

  She found herself locking gazes with him and, despite the terror of her situation, nodding once more in agreement.

  "Good, good. Now, don't you worry. It's going to turn out okay. And there won't be any funny business. You know with you being a woman and all. I don't tolerate any crap like that. Okay? You have my word." He gently squeezed her arm.

  She actually felt the edges of her mouth curl up in a smile.

  He put the vials in his knapsack and turned away from her.

  For a moment she imagined him whipping back around and, with a maniacal laugh, firing a bullet into her brain or slitting her throat.

  Yet he simply left the room.

  As Diane Wohl looked around she had no idea where she was, why she was here, or why the man who'd kidnapped her had just relieved her of some of her blood. She had gone shopping at Talbot's, he had been in her car with a gun, and now she was here, wherever here was.

  She began to sob.

  CHAPTER 7

  SEAN KING SAT in the dark. The light blazing on made him lift a hand to shield his eyes and squint up at the intruder.

  "Sorry, didn't know you were in here," Michelle said, though she didn't actually sound apologetic.

  "I slept here," he explained.

  She perched on the edge of his desk. "Going off in a pout? Refusing to answer questions? Sleeping at the office? Sitting in the dark? Do I sense a pattern?"

  He slid a newspaper across to her. "Did you see the story?"

  "Read it online already. Got most of the facts right. You seemed appropriately thoughtful in the photo."

  "It's a file shot they pulled from my Secret Service days."

  "I thought you looked remarkably youthful."

  "Had a bunch of reporters calling. I kept hanging up."

  "They're not just calling. They're parked out in front of our office. I came in through the back. I think someone spotted me, so that exit's probably covered now too."

  "Great. So we're trapped in here."

  He stood and paced, his long feet kicking out angrily.

  "You want to talk about it now?" she asked.

  He stopped, flicked a piece of carpet fuzz with his loafer. "It's a tough situation," he answered.

  "Which part? Finding a woman cut up and a kid gone? Or something going on inside your head?"

  He just started pacing again, his chin tucked to his chest.

  "You said you knew the First Lady. How? You were long gone from the Service before Cox was elected. Come on, fess up."

  He was about to say something when the phone rang. Sean turned away, but Michelle snatched it up. "King and Max
well. We snoop so you don't have to." She stopped dead. "What! I… Oh, yeah, sure. Here he is."

  She held the phone out.

  "I don't want to talk to anybody."

  "You will to this person."

  "Who is it?"

  "Jane Cox," she whispered.

  Sean cupped the phone against his ear. "Mrs. Cox?" He listened and, giving a quick, embarrassed glance at Michelle, said, "Okay, Jane."

  Michelle did an eyebrow hike and watched her partner closely.

  "I know. It's truly a tragedy. Willa, yes, of course. Right. That's right. You understood correctly. Have you spoken to Tuck? I see. Of course, I understand that. What?" He checked his watch. "Certainly, we can make that." He glanced at Michelle. "She's my partner. We do work together, but if you'd rather… Thank you."

  He hung up and looked at Michelle.

  She snapped, "If you clam up and start pacing again I swear to God I'm going to pistol-whip you. What did she say?"

  "She wants us to come by to see her."

  "See her? Where?"

  "At the White House."

  "Why? What does she want us for? To tell her what we saw the other night?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Then what exactly?"

  "I think she wants to hire us to find out who did this."

  "The First Lady wants to hire us? Why? She has the entire freaking FBI."

  "She doesn't want them apparently. She wants us."

  "I'm not deaf. You mean she wants you."

  "Do you think we can lose the reporters? I don't want them trailing us to Pennsylvania Avenue."

  Michelle stood and tugged out her keys. "I'm offended you even have to ask."

  CHAPTER 8

  SAM QUARRY UNLOCKED the door and peered in, saw her sitting at the table having a bowl of cereal. She snapped her head around, jumped from the chair, and drew back against the wall.

  He kept the door open as he walked in. "Willa, there's nothing to be scared of."

  "I'm not stupid. There's like everything to be scared of. Most of all you!"

  Her cheeks quivered and fearful tears clustered at the corners of both eyes.

  Quarry pulled up a chair and sat down. "I guess I'd be scared too. But I'm not going to hurt you. Okay?"

  "You can say anything. How do I know you're not lying? You're a criminal. Criminals lie all the time. That's why they're criminals."

  Quarry nodded. "So you think I'm a criminal?"

  "You are a criminal. You kidnapped me. People go to jail for that."

  He nodded again and then glanced at the bowl. "Cereal not too soggy? Sorry, but powdered milk is all we got."

  She stayed flattened against the wall. "Why are you doing this?"

  "Doing what? You mean bringing you here?"

  "Under the circumstances, what else could I possibly mean?"

  Quarry smiled at her blunt logic. "Heard you were smart."

  "Where's my family? I asked the other man but he wouldn't say. He just grunted."

  Quarry pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face, concealing a look of profound disgust as he did so.

  "Why are you wearing latex gloves?" she asked, staring at his hands.

  "Heard of eczema?"

  "Sure."

  "That's what I got and don't want to give it to anybody else."

  "I asked you about my family," she said earnestly. "Are they okay? Tell me."

  "They're doing fine. But then if I'm a criminal, I could be lying."

  "I hate you!" she screamed.

  "Can't blame you."

  "Is this because of my aunt?' she said suddenly.

  "Your aunt?" he replied innocently.

  "Don't treat me like I'm dumb. Jane Cox is my aunt. My uncle is the president."

  "You're right. You're sure right about that."

  "So is it about him?"

  "I'm not gonna answer that. Sorry."

  Willa raised the sleeve on her shirt, showing a Band-Aid near the crook of her elbow. "Then tell me what's this for?"

  "I guess you got cut."

  "I looked. It's just a little pinprick."

  He eyed her bowl and spoon again. "You done with these?"

  "Is this about my uncle?" she snapped.

  "Let's get something straight right now, Willa. I don't want to hurt you. It's true I broke the law and brought you here, but I'd much prefer to see you walk right out that door and get on back home. But while you're here, it'd be real good if we can just try to get along as best we can. I know it's hard, but that's just the way it's got to be. Better for me." He stared intensely at her. "And better for you."

  He scooped up the spoon and bowl, cradling them against his chest, and walked toward the door.

  "Will you tell my mom and dad I'm okay?" she said in a softer tone.

  He turned around. "I sure will."

  This statement made his growing anger harden intractably.

  After he left, Willa sat back down on a cot set up in one corner and slowly gazed around the room. She had spoken bravely to the man, but she didn't feel very courageous. She was scared and she wanted to see her family. She curled and uncurled her hands in anxiety. The tears began to slide down her cheeks as she considered one horrible scenario after another. She prayed and spoke out loud to her mom and dad. She told her brother and sister that she loved them very much, even if they did come in her room unannounced and mess with her stuff.

  She wiped the tears away and tried to stay focused. She didn't believe the man about the gloves and the eczema or the mark on her arm. She believed it had to do with her aunt and uncle. What other reason could there be? Her family was pretty ordinary otherwise. She began walking around the room, singing softly to herself; it was something she often did when she was worried or scared.

  "It'll be okay," she said to herself over and over after she couldn't sing anymore. She lay back down and covered herself with the blanket. But before she turned the light off, she looked over at the door. She rose, crossed the room, and stared at the lock.

  It was a sturdy dead bolt, she noted for the first time.

  And because of that, fear was suddenly replaced with a tiny spark of hope.

  CHAPTER 9

  QUARRY WALKED DOWN the mineshaft, one hand idly playing over the black rock of the walls where the remains of old bituminous coal seams were still visible. He unlocked the door to another room. Inside he sat at a table and lifted out the vials of blood from his knapsack and labeled each with different numbers. On a shelf hung on the wall he pulled off a box and opened it. Inside were more vials of blood. Some belonged to Pam Dutton, who now lay in a morgue in Virginia, he knew. Others were blood he'd taken from Willa while she had been unconscious.

  He labeled Pam's and Willa Dutton's vials with numbers and placed them all in a cooler filled with ice packs. Next, he slid Willa's bowl and spoon in a plastic baggie and put this inside another box.

  Okay, the busy work's done. I got to get on with things.

  He rose, unlocked a freestanding metal gun safe that he'd brought here on his truck. Inside were automatic and semiautomatic pistols, shotguns, rifles, scopes, two MP5s, and a couple of AKs and rounds of ammo for all of them. The cache represented several generations of the affection Quarry men held for the Second Amendment. He looked carefully over the selection and settled on a.45 Cobra Enterprises Patriot. His hand gripped the polymer frame as he slapped in an extended seven-round magazine filled with standard 1911 ordnance. It was a light gun, though with plenty of power, and took twelve pounds of force to pull the trigger. Because of its imbalance with a twenty-ounce frame and a.45 round, it wasn't the most fun pistol to shoot. But it was light to carry around and whatever you hit with it at close range dropped on the spot.

  It was a nice, compact weapon for personal protection. But that's not what he'd be using it for. As his hand gripped the loaded pistol it began to sweat.

  His magazine carried seven rounds, but in truth he only would need two. And it would give him no pleasure. Not one
damn bit.

  He trudged down the rock corridor preparing mentally for what needed to be done. His daddy and granddaddy had hunted down humans before, though he knew they hardly considered black folks human. Killed 'em probably without much thought, like they would a cottonmouth or a pesky mole. Yet that's where the son and grandson parted company with his male relations. He would do what needed to be done, but he also knew the scars would be deep and he would relive the killing moment over and over for the rest of his life.

  He came to the spot and shone his light through the prison bars set in the opening of a large alcove in the wall. These were the same bars that had held back scores of Union soldiers, although Quarry had refinished the rusting metal and reseated the bars back into the rock.

  Against the back wall two men crouched. They were dressed in Army fatigues, their hands cuffed behind them. Quarry looked over at the small, wiry man who stood next to him on the free side of the bars.

  "Let's get this done, Carlos."

  The man licked his lips nervously and said, "Mr. Sam, all due respect, I don't think we got to go down this road, sir."

  Quarry wheeled around on him, towering over the little man. "Only one damn leader of this band, Carlos, and that's me. You got a chain of command here and that's just the way it's got to be. You're an Army man and you know that's the truth, son. Trust me, this is hurting me a helluva lot more than it'll ever hurt you. And it's leaving me shorthanded for what I got to do. A real pisser all around."

  The cowed man looked down, opened the door, and with a hesitant wave of his hand motioned the two men to step out. Their legs were shackled together too, so they hobbled forward. When they came into the wash of light from Carlos's flashlight, the perspiration shone clear on their faces.

  One of the men said, "I'm sorry. Jesus, sir, I'm sorry."

  "I'm sorry too, Daryl. This doesn't give me any pleasure at all. None."