James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

“Maybe. But I don’t want you having to look over your shoulder all the time. Whatever game you think he might be playing, who’s to say it doesn’t end with you getting killed?”

“So that’s that?”

“For now, at least. You’re coming home,” he said. “Besides, there’s someone back here who’s requested a briefing from you.”

“Who?”

Driesen chuckled. She could practically see his sly smile through the phone.

“Who is it?” she repeated.

“You’ll see,” he said. “Come home, Sarah. That’s an order, by the way.”

Chapter 60

“YOU COULD’VE GIVEN me a heads-up,” Sarah whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “Seriously.”

Dan, sitting in the chair right next to hers, folded his long legs under the seat. It was bright and early the next morning in D.C., barely 7:00 a.m. “Nah, that would’ve just made you nervous,” he whispered back.

“Like I’m not nervous now? I am very nervous. And I don’t ever get nervous.”

As if on cue, the door next to them opened. An older woman with a mother-hen aura walked out, giving them a slight nod. She was clutching a clipboard against her chest.

“The president will see you now,” she said.

Sarah stood up, took a deep breath, and straightened some imaginary wrinkles out of her white blouse. A couple of panicked thoughts flashed through her head. Did I forget to put on deodorant? How do you talk — intelligently — to the president?

“After you,” said Dan, his arm outstretched. “He wants to see you, not me.”

So many times, Sarah had watched this scene play out when she used to tune in to The West Wing on television. But those were all actors. Make-believe.

This was the real deal. With only one step into the Oval Office, she could feel her heartbeat going into overdrive.

Is it too late to call in sick today? Not funny, Sarah. None of this is funny.

Clayton Montgomery, the most powerful man in the free world—and not too shabby a figure everywhere else—was a Blue Dog Democrat from Connecticut who’d been an All-American lacrosse player at Duke. Although that adopted southern pedigree helped him a bit on Super Tuesday, he never would’ve captured the general election without his wife.

Rose Montgomery—née Rose O’Hara—was a former Miss Florida and beloved TV news anchor at WPLG in Miami for five years before meeting Clayton. In other words, before the election she not only had better name recognition in Florida than her husband but also had better name recognition than his Republican challenger.

Oh, and she was also fluent in Spanish and could supposedly play “Hava Nagila” on the clarinet.

Montgomery won the presidency by twenty-eight electoral votes. The total number of electoral votes he won by taking Florida? Twenty-nine.

“Everyone, I want you to meet FBI agent Sarah Brubaker,” said President Montgomery, who was sitting at the Resolute desk signing a flurry of documents. His jawline was even stronger in person than it was on TV. He hadn’t even glanced up at her yet. “Two nights ago, she had drinks with a serial killer who tried to run her over afterward in the parking lot. Isn’t that correct, Agent Brubaker?”

“Uh, yes, I guess it is, Mr. President,” she said.

President Montgomery finally looked up and stared right at Sarah for the longest five seconds of her life.

Then he cracked a smile. Just as he did whenever he scored a point against his opponent during the debates. Just as he did when he posed for his campaign poster.

“And I thought I’d had some bad first dates,” he said. “Take a load off your feet, Sarah.”

Chapter 61

THE BRIEFING ITSELF was actually the easy part. The president listened intently while throwing in the occasional nod. Not once did he interrupt her. Sarah was clear, concise, and in full command of the facts. Not fazed at all. Go figure, she thought. Maybe this man is just easy to talk to, a good listener.

Then came the Q and A.

Sitting in an armchair that was clearly “his chair,” the president was joined by his chief of staff, Conrad Gilmartin, and his press secretary, Amanda Kyle, who actually—and ironically—looked a bit like C.J. from The West Wing . Given the practiced way in which they both took their seats on the couch to the president’s left, these were clearly “their seats.”

That left the opposite couch. Driesen sat on one end; Jason Hawthorne, the deputy director of the Secret Service, sat on the other. Squeezed in between them with all the comfort of the middle seat on an airplane was Sarah.

Just one big cozy gathering.

The president cleared his throat, firing his first question at Sarah. “Do you have any reason to believe that my brother-in-law would be a target of this killer?”

“Do you mean, sir, more of a target than anyone else named John O’Hara?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“The short answer is I don’t know yet.”

The president shook his head slowly. The room suddenly didn’t feel so cozy to Sarah.

“I can get that answer from anyone, Agent Brubaker,” he said. “Are you just anyone?”

Ouch .

Driesen was about to throw her a life preserver and intercede when Montgomery motioned with his hand for him to hold off. The gesture was subtle yet unmistakable.

The president stared at Sarah, waiting. She knew this time there was no smile and punch line in the offing.

Keep it together, Brubaker! Better yet, tell him what you really think.

“You’re right, Mr. President. Let me try that again,” she said finally. “The killer’s motivation has absolutely nothing to do with your brother-in-law. That’s what I believe.”

The rest of the room, save for Driesen, did everything they could not to blurt out their objections. That’s ridiculous! How could you be so sure at this point?

But they didn’t want to step all over their boss. They bit their tongues.

As for the president, he simply leaned back in his armchair, intrigued.

“Go on,” he said. “Convince me.”

Chapter 62

THE ROOM WAS so quiet Sarah thought she could actually hear herself blink.

“Mr. President, I’d like you to consider what would attract the killer to a specific John O’Hara out there, whether it be your brother-in-law or someone else,” she began. “Maybe they were classmates, maybe they had business dealings—in theory, it could be anything. Whatever the connection, though, the killer’s reaction to knowing this John O’Hara would have to be so strong, so violent, that it manifested itself as a need to kill basically anyone named John O’Hara.”

“Are you saying that’s not possible?” asked the president.

“No. Quite the opposite, sir. It’s very possible,” she said. “I’m convinced the killer has a specific John O’Hara in mind.”

“But just not my brother-in-law.”

“Exactly.”

“Why not? Lord knows he’s probably got some enemies out there.”

“I’m sure he does,” Sarah said, a little too casually. The second the words left her mouth she wanted to take them back. “I’m sorry, I meant no disrespect to him.”

President Montgomery let go with a slight chuckle. “That’s quite all right. If Letterman and Leno can rank on him, so can you,” he said. “I do it myself.” He looked across the room. “We all do.”

“What I meant,” she continued, “is that on the surface it would make sense that the killings had something to do with your brother-in-law, given his…well, let’s just say his notoriety. But that idea changed for me.”

“Once you met the killer.”

“Yes,” said Sarah. “I realized that this guy could’ve killed me if he wanted to. Rather easily, too. But he didn’t. Why? And why would he reveal himself to me in that manner?”