David Baldacci: First Family

In her hand she held a note that Willa had given her before they'd left the party. It was a thank-you letter. She smiled. It was not unusual that Willa already had one prepared. The note was written in a mature voice and said all the right things. Indeed, some of Jane's staff could have taken a page from her young niece's etiquette handbook.

Jane folded the letter and put it away. The rest of the day and night would not be nearly as pleasant. Official duty called. The life of a First Lady, she had quickly learned, was one of a frenzied perpetual motion machine buffered often by bursts of tedium.

The chopper's skids touched grass. Since the president wasn't on board there was little fanfare as she made her way to the White House. Her husband was in his working office near the ceremonial oval one. She had made few demands on him when she'd agreed to stand by him in his run for the nation's highest office. One of them was that she could enter his inner sanctum without announcement, without being on the official visitor's list.

"I'm not a visitor," she'd told him at the time. "I'm your wife."

She approached the president's "body man," officially known as the Special Assistant to the President. He was at that moment looking through the peephole in the door to the Oval Office prior to going in and breaking up a meeting that was running behind. He was the person charged with keeping her husband on schedule and functioning at maximum efficiency. He did so by rising before dawn and devoting every moment of his waking life to whatever the man needed, often by anticipating these needs even before the president. In any place other than the White House, Jane thought, the "body man" would be simply called a wife.

"Get 'em out, Jay, because I'm coming in," she told him. He moved with alacrity to do just this. He had never once "peeped" her. And never would if he wanted to keep his job.

She spent a few minutes with the president and told him about the birthday party, before going to their living quarters to freshen up and change her clothes for a reception she was hosting. As darkness fell a few hours later she returned to her "official" home, tugged off her shoes, and drank a much-needed cup of hot tea.

Twenty miles away, newly twelve-year-old Willa Dutton screamed.

SEAN LOOKED at Michelle as they drove along. A brief look, a sizing-up glance. If she felt it, she didn't comment. Her gaze stayed straight ahead.

"When'd you meet them?" she asked.

"When I was in protection. Kept in touch. Really nice family."

"Okay," she said absently, staring out the windshield.

"Have you seen Horatio lately?"

Michelle's hand tightened around her cup of Starbucks coffee. "Why did you follow me down to his office?"

"Because I knew what you were going to do."

"Which is what exactly?"

"Break in to try and find out what you told him when you were hypnotized."

Michelle remained quiet.

"Did you find out?"

"It's pretty late to be going over to someone's house."

"Michelle, I think we need to talk this-"

"What you need to do, Sean, is not go there."

Sean stared out at a night that seemed to be closing in on him.

"You didn't answer my question," she said.

"You didn't answer mine either," he said in an annoyed tone.

"So about going over to their house this late?"

"It's not my call."

"I thought you were dropping off a birthday present?"

"I bought the present after she phoned. I suddenly remembered it was her birthday today."

"Why then?"

"It might have to do with a job for us."

"Your really nice family needs a private investigator?"

"And she didn't want to wait."

They turned off the winding country road and pulled into the long drive, passing trees on both sides.

"Boondocks," muttered Michelle.

"Private," Sean amended.

The next instant the large house came into view.

"Nice place," she said. "Your friend obviously does well."

"Government contracting. The Feds apparently throw money at people."

"Wow, what a surprise. But the house is dark. You sure you got the time right?"

Sean eased the car to a stop in front.

Michelle put down her coffee and pulled out her pistol from its belt holster. "That was a woman's scream."

"Wait a minute. Don't go off half-cocked," he said, putting a restraining hand on her arm. The crashing sound from inside the house made him reach in the glove box for his own weapon. "Let's confirm before calling the cops."

"You hit the back, I got the front," Michelle said.

He climbed out and hustled to the rear of the brick colonial skittering next to the side-load garage and stopping for a few moments to scan the terrain before heading on. After doing her own recon of the area, Michelle was next to the front door a minute later.

No more screams or crashes. No other vehicles in sight. She could call out, see if everything was okay. Only if it wasn't she might be giving some bad guys a warning. She tried the front door. Locked. Something made her pull her hand back, she wasn't quite sure what, only she was glad she had.

The bullet blast ripped through the door, sending shards of painted wood spinning into the air. She could actually feel the slugs race past before they riddled Sean's car.

She leapt off the front porch and did a roll, coming up and hitting full sprint two steps later. Her hand dug into her pocket and her fingers drilled 911 on the keypad. The dispatcher's voice came on. Michelle was about to speak when the garage door blew open and the pickup truck cut a tight turn and bore down on her. She turned, fired at the tires, then the windshield. Her phone flew out of her hand as she catapulted to the side and rolled down an embankment. She landed in a pile of leaves and mud at the bottom of a runoff ditch. She sat forward and looked up.

And fired.

Her aim, as usual, was unerring. The bullet hit the man dead in the chest. There was only one problem. Her jacketed 9mm round didn't drop him. He staggered back, then brought his weapon up, took aim, and fired back.

The only thing that saved Michelle Maxwell that night was that she deduced her attacker was wearing body armor, and then was nimble enough to roll behind a monster oak before the MP5 rounds headed her way. Dozens of slugs slammed into the tree, shredding its bark and sending pieces of oak tailings whipsawing away. Yet wood that thick always won out, even over submachine gun bullets coming in waves.

She didn't pause, because it only took a practiced hand seconds to eject and then slap in another clip on the MP. She jumped out, both hands on her pistol grip. This time she would aim for the head and drop him for good.

Only there was no one there for her to kill.

Mr. MP5 had pinned her down, then fled.

She cautiously made her way up the slope, her pistol pointed straight ahead. When she heard the truck start to race off she scrambled up, pulling at roots, branches, and vines. The pickup was out of sight by the time she reached the driveway. She hustled toward Sean's car thinking she would take up pursuit, but stopped when she saw steam rising from under the hood. Her gaze drifted to the bullet holes in the sheet metal. They weren't going anywhere.

They?

"Sean," she screamed. "Sean!"

"In here!"

She sprinted up the steps, kicked open what was left of the shattered front door, and barreled into the living room, her gun making precise grid arcs.

Sean was kneeling on the floor, hovering over the woman. She was lying on her back. Arms and legs spread-eagled like she was frozen in a jumping jack. Her eyes were open but hard and flat because she was dead. The red hair touched her shoulders. It was easy to see what had killed the woman. Her throat had been shredded.