The President's Shadow Read online

  But right now, Alby was still scraping at layer after layer of rat droppings, and sweating so hard his fingers were starting to prune. Up here on the roof, there was no shade; this close to summer, there was also no breeze. “102 degrees exactly,” Nico muttered to no one in particular.

  Still, for the Plankholders, there was one benefit to being on Fort Jefferson’s roof: the view. For three days now, they’d stared out at the ocean, mesmerized by the aquamarine horizon. During those moments, this island really was the only place left on this earth. For Alby, though, it wasn’t the ocean view that captured his attention. It was a different one.

  Throughout these three days, while his fellow Plankholders looked up and out, Alby stared in and down, with a perfect view of the fort’s open hexagon-shaped courtyard. From up here, Alby could see it all: the top of every tree, the roof of every building, and of course, where everyone was going.

  For three consecutive days, Alby watched. And eventually, he became certain of this: Every day, after Colonel Doggett left breakfast and headed back to the officers’ quarters, within ten minutes, one person always followed.

  Dr. Moorcraft.

  66

  Ten days ago

  Carter Lake, Iowa

  Dr. Moorcraft bolted awake, thinking he was in bed. He was seated in his kitchen, hands locked with plastic zip ties behind his back.

  “Whabuh— Why am I—!? My finger!?” he howled, thrashing around, bucking his chair against the Mediterranean tile, fighting like a dog trying to see its tail.

  “I peeled the skin from your pinkie,” Nico explained, sitting across from the doctor, palms flat on the antique farm table. The open needle-nose pliers lay between them.

  “Look how wide the pliers sit when they’re open,” the dead First Lady said. “It looks…”

  “…like a cross,” Nico and the First Lady said simultaneously. Nico smiled. There was nothing better than being understood.

  “Why’re—? Who’re you talking to?” the doctor asked.

  “No, I agree,” Nico said to the First Lady. “I’m doing his ring finger next.”

  “Nico, whatever you’re seeing… I don’t know your history, but you’ve been on antipsychotics and neuroleptics for years. If you’re off those, your hallucinations will start getting wor—”

  “You don’t have a wedding band,” Nico said to the doctor. “It was the same with Colonel Doggett.”

  “You saw Doggett? Is that how you—?”

  “Did your wife die, or did she leave you, like Doggett’s did?”

  “Son, you’re not hearing me. I’m trying to help you.”

  “That’s your second lie. All these years, they told me my sickness…that God chose me for this. That He— That He— That He made me this way…that He put this sickness in me. I know now that’s not true.”

  “God made you good,” the First Lady said.

  “God made me good!” Nico agreed, hands still flat on the table, like he was cupping something under his left palm.

  “What’s in your hand?” the doctor asked, still twisting to free his own arms. He was clearly in pain, but like the specialists in St. Elizabeths, he fought hard to keep control.

  “Do you know why we all wear wedding bands on our left hands?” Nico challenged. “It dates back to the ancient Romans and Egyptians, who thought that the fourth finger on your left hand connected with a vein that led directly to your heart. Vena amoris, they called it. The vein of love.”

  “Son—”

  “It’s idiocy really. They were proven utterly wrong. But that’s how medicine is, isn’t it? Sometimes it makes the gravest of errors,” Nico said, leaning forward, his face darkening.

  “Nico, I’m sure that speech sounded perfect in your head, but whatever you’re after, this venture is pointless. Why would—?”

  “I went through your drawers, Doctor. I found this.” Nico slid his cupped hand forward and lifted it, revealing a pile of over two dozen tiny white…

  “Baby teeth,” the First Lady explained as Nico brushed a few of them from his hand and they bounced across the table.

  “You’ve been in this house a long time, haven’t you?” Nico added. “That many teeth… You raised your kids in this house. You hid here all these years when the government gave you a new life. But not everyone—”

  “She’s your daughter, isn’t she?”

  “Don’t answer him,” the First Lady insisted.

  “The girl on the news. The one who they say helped you escape. I know she’s your daughter.”

  Nico froze, blinking over and over. “Who told you that?”

  “She’s sick, yes?” the doctor asked. “Is that why you came here?”

  “Cut his other finger,” the First Lady said. “Take the knife. Slice him where his wedding band used to be. Don’t trust a word he says until you peel his skin like a grape and he—”

  “Tell me her symptoms,” Dr. Moorcraft added. “How’s she presenting? Is it cancer?”

  Nico nodded as the First Lady continued to yell.

  “How far along? Any idea of her staging?” Moorcraft asked.

  Nico’s voice was a whisper. He glanced down at the table. “Her teeth are falling out.”

  Moorcraft’s face didn’t shift. He barely moved. But Nico had been around enough doctors to know when the nightmare was worse than even they’d anticipated. “I’m sorry she’s suffering.”

  “You need to help her,” Nico insisted.

  “I don’t think you underst—”

  “You. Need. To. HELP HER!” Nico exploded, leaping from his seat, pouncing across the table and scattering all the teeth as his hot breath blasted Moorcraft’s face. As he collided with the doctor, Moorcraft’s chair tipped back.

  Twisting mid-fall, Moorcraft landed on his side. There was a pop at his elbow, where it was pinned by the chair.

  “My arm…!”

  Kneeling down, Nico shifted the doctor’s arm so it was no longer pinched by the chair. But he left him on the floor. “You need to help her!” Nico again growled.

  “You’re not listening! I wish I could save her. I wish I could give you everything you need and get you out of my—”

  “You put something in us! You know what it was!”

  “It doesn’t matter what it was!” the doctor shot back, the side of his head still pressed to the floor, arms behind his back. “You were part of an experiment. There were side effects no one ever anticipated, and now your daughter’s experiencing an uncontrolled division of abnormal cells, the likes of which we’ve never seen before. You know what the cure for that is? Nothing.”

  Still down on both knees, Nico shook his head.

  “With you—and your daughter—we were trying to do something noble, something grand. But for you to come here and think that if you skin me alive, I’ll pull out a magic test tube filled with a magic green elixir… This isn’t a spy movie. There’s no secret antidote that you pour into her mouth just as she’s about to die. If your daughter’s disease has progressed this far, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing left to do.”

  Nico shook his head faster than ever. The First Lady knelt next to him, putting an arm around him.

  “Your daughter needs you now. More than ever. But if you truly want to help her…” Lying on his side, down on the Mediterranean tile, Moorcraft craned his neck and turned toward Nico. “…the best thing you can do is make sure she doesn’t suffer.”

  A pit opened in Nico’s throat, a twisting, elastic crater that stretched down his chest, past his stomach, tugging from within, hollowing him out. Next to him, the First Lady whispered that it was part of God’s plan, but as Nico knelt there, replaying the past few weeks—

  Every father has dreams for his child. For decades now, Nico had kept those dreams buried, locked away. Indeed, for most people, the biggest dreams usually stay hidden. Then, two months ago, Clementine had returned to his life. Nico was doubtful at the time. He didn’t know this woman, and so many wanted so much from h
im. Yet one night, back when they were still sleeping in the car, Nico was startled awake, hearing something outside. Glancing out the back window, Nico followed the sound. It was Clementine, head bowed low. Please, God, keep my dad Nico healthy and safe. She was saying a prayer. For him.

  A lump clenched his throat. Nico never mentioned it to her. But in that moment, as a father, Nico opened that old box and carefully, curiously, cautiously, returned to those old dreams. For these past few weeks, those dreams were his fuel, his purpose. And now, down on his knees in the kitchen, no matter how hard Nico grabbed at those dreams, they were nothing but wisps of smoke. To have Clementine return was life-changing. But Nico knew, he should’ve always known: In life, especially for him, some things can’t be changed.

  “Nico, talk to me,” the First Lady insisted.

  “The doctor’s telling the truth,” Nico said, his voice back to its flat monotone.

  “I am! I swear on those baby teeth, I am!” Moorcraft pleaded.

  “You need to kill him,” the First Lady said.

  Nico didn’t hear her. He was still staring at the doctor. “How’d you know who Clementine was?”

  “Clementine?”

  “My daughter. When you mentioned her before, how’d you know she was my daughter?”

  “Nico, you know how much money was invested in you? You really think we didn’t keep track of everything you did?”

  Nico nodded. “And the files from back then, where are they now?”

  “I-If I had to guess? Right where we left them. On the island.”

  Nico nodded again, this time a bit slower. “I appreciate that.” Climbing up from his knees, he glanced around the rustic and enormous Spanish-style kitchen. “This room is bigger than our day room at St. Elizabeths,” Nico added.

  “I’m sorry they locked you up there,” Moorcraft said, still bound in the chair, lying on his side. “I never wanted—”

  The doctor never got the words out.

  Nico grabbed the needle-nose pliers from the table and stabbed them deep into Moorcraft’s throat. Flecks of blood hit Nico’s chin and lips. Arching his arm back, he stabbed the doctor again. And again. And again.

  “There you go, sweetie. We can’t change who we are,” the dead First Lady said with a grin.

  Nico was in a frenzy now, gripping Moorcraft’s hair and stabbing the doctor in his neck, his face, his cheek. “You stole my daughter! You stole her life from me! I WANT IT BACK!” he roared, blinking tears from his eyes, spit flying from his mouth. “GIVE IT BACK! GIVE ME HER—!”

  “N-Nico…?” a brand-new female voice called out from across the room. A younger woman’s voice.

  Nico turned, following the sound. In the doorway, the overweight woman who’d driven them here—AnnaBeth—was frozen in place, a thin curl of her wiry black hair twirling down her cheek. “Mother of pearl… Nico, what’s happening?” she stuttered, starting to wobble.

  Bits of blood spotted Nico’s face. One fist still gripped Moorcraft’s hair; his other held the pliers, which were deep in the doctor’s cheekbone.

  “Nico, she’s a witness now,” the First Lady blurted. “You know what to do.”

  “I-Is that the lawyer?” AnnaBeth said, tears swelling. She looked like she wanted to run, but her legs didn’t move. “I thought you were— You said you were coming to speak to him.”

  “I told you to wait in the car,” Nico said, gripping the doctor’s hair.

  “You’re supposed to be speaking to him,” AnnaBeth pleaded. “Why’re you—? What have you done?”

  “Nico, if she tells anyone you’re here…” the First Lady began. She didn’t have to finish the sentence.

  “I believed in you!” AnnaBeth cried. “I told everyone you were gentle!”

  “You know what to do with witnesses,” the First Lady added.

  Nico nodded, already hating himself for it. He let go of Moorcraft’s hair. The doctor’s body slumped to the floor, making a splash in the puddle of his own blood. Nico’s free hand held the needle-nose pliers, which had bits of flesh in their tips. He headed toward AnnaBeth.

  “Nicky, please,” AnnaBeth sobbed. “We’re supposed to be together! Please don’t do this!” She closed her eyes as Nico got closer. “We’re supposed to be together!”

  “This is her own fault. Not yours,” the First Lady added.

  AnnaBeth clamped her eyes shut. Nico was so close—almost nose-to-nose—she felt his breath on her face. The last thought in her head was about her dog, and who would pay for him at the kennel.

  For a long moment, there was nothing but silence.

  When AnnaBeth opened her eyes, the kitchen was empty. Nico was gone.

  “Are you stupid!? What’re you doing!?” the dead First Lady yelled as Nico walked calmly through the living room, back toward the front door. “You need to get back there and take care of this!”

  Nico ignored her. In life, some things could never be changed. But some things had to be.

  “This is the moment you’ll regret,” the dead First Lady warned. “When you’re lying on the ground and they lock you away for the last time, this is the part where you screwed it up!”

  Pushing the front door open and heading for the car, Nico again didn’t answer. He knew what he had to do. And where he had to go—the last place he wanted to be: back where it all started.

  67

  Today

  Washington, D.C.

  A.J. sat in his parked gray Dodge, staring down at the flip phone he used only for private calls. He knew the number on the screen, he knew it by heart: Beecher’s number. He just didn’t know whether to hit the call button or not.

  For two more minutes, he played out the various scenarios. Beecher would definitely appreciate the info. And if the Culper Ring was as good as the President thought, it might even be able to protect him.

  But as A.J. sat there in his cold car, his feet getting even colder, he couldn’t help but picture what would happen tomorrow morning, when he returned to the Secret Service training facility out in Beltsville. The exact same place where, all those years ago, he’d first started as an agent.

  For A.J., that was it. There’re two choices in this world: going forward or going back. It’s really no choice at all.

  Hitting end on his phone, A.J. dialed a brand-new number. It rang once before someone picked up.

  “I thought we talked about using this line,” Francy said.

  “I know. I was just—” He caught himself, refusing to beg. “I wanted to make sure you got there okay.”

  He could hear Francy rolling her eyes. “Is that your way of trying to find out where we are?”

  Of course it was. Over the past few weeks, ever since Palmiotti left the White House, and Francy was brought into the President’s circle, A.J. could feel himself being squeezed out. But there was always a way back in.

  “I think you may have a problem,” A.J. said, careful to use the word you. Not we. He’d learned that early: The only way out of the doghouse was to acknowledge you were in it.

  “What kind of problem?” Francy asked.

  “Riestra.” He let it hang there in the air.

  “Can you please stop playing coy and mysterious? It’s annoying,” Francy said. “I’m listening.”

  “He’s already gone.”

  Francy stopped at that. “Define gone.”

  “As in, got in his car and drove away. By himself. He didn’t talk to Mrs. Young. Didn’t ask her any questions. Didn’t even stop to find out why her son’s arm might’ve been buried in the Rose Garden. Far as I can tell, the only thing Riestra’s hunting is Beecher.”

  Once again, Francy was silent. “You think Riestra’s a Knight.”

  It was a statement, not a question. “All I’m saying is, I know it’s been a rough few days. And I know how hard it is when it feels like one of your own might be working with the other side. But I swear to you, Francy, you know me. You know my family. That’s two generations. We’d give our lives to keep
Wallace safe…to keep this country safe.”

  There was nothing but silence. In the background, he heard Francy whisper, “Yes, ma’am.” She wasn’t just with the President. The First Lady was there too.

  “Just tell me what you need me to do,” A.J. added, well aware that he was begging.

  Again, silence. Until…

  “Actually, there’s one thing we could really use your help with.”

  “You name it, I’m there.”

  “This one you need to hear from the man himself.”

  A.J. squeezed his cold toes into a victorious fist. Those were the words he’d been waiting for. “Just tell me where you are.”

  68

  Washington, D.C.

  Mac stays quiet as we ride up in the elevator. Her head is down, away from the camera. She doesn’t want to be here. Neither do I. But sometimes, there’s no choice.

  “Beecher, this is foolish,” she whispers as the elevator doors roll open and I head out into the bright white fluorescent-lit hallway of the ICU. “With everything going on—”

  “I know what’s going on. But you were there when the nurses called. They said something happened with Tot. If you were the one in the coma, wouldn’t you want us coming in for you?”

  Mac’s seventy-two years old. She knows the answer. “Promise me we’ll be quick.”

  “We’ll be quick.” Nodding a hello to the Jamaican nurse who’s always on the night shift, I ask, “How’s he doing, Jocelyn?”

  “Same,” Nurse Jocelyn says, like nothing’s wrong.

  “Same? Someone said that something happened, that he was sick. They called us from a hospital phone.”

  Nurse Jocelyn shakes her head. “We don’t call anyone. Not unless—” She cuts herself off, trying to keep us calm as we race for Tot’s room. “Your sister’s in there with him now. I never met her before. That was nice of her to come.”