MICHELLE LEFT HER PISTOL in her locked safe box in the SUV. She had no desire to sit in a federal prison for the next several years contemplating the error of her ways for trying to waltz into the White House with a loaded weapon.
They had lost the reporters hanging outside their office, although the effort had cost some rubber off Michelle’s truck tires and one of the journalist’s cars had banged into a parked van during the abbreviated chase. She had not stopped to assist.
They passed through the visitor’s entrance. They expected to be led into the White House but were surprised when after they’d been wanded and searched one of the agents stationed there said, “Come on.”
They were hustled into a Town Car waiting outside the entrance. It sped off as soon as the door closed.
Sean said to the driver, “Where the hell are we going?”
The man didn’t answer. The guy next to him didn’t even turn around.
Michelle whispered, “SS doesn’t look too happy right now.”
“Blame game’s started,” Sean whispered back. “And they might know why the First Lady has asked us here. And they probably don’t like outsiders snooping around.”
“But we used to be one of them.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t exactly leave on the best terms. And neither did you.”
“So the FBI hates us and so do our own guys. You know, what we need is a union.”
“No, what we need is to know where we’re going.” He was about to ask the question again when the car slowed and stopped.
“Out here, in the church,” the driver said.
“What?”
“Get your ass in the church. The lady’s waiting.”
As soon as they stepped out of the car they realized their trip had been very short. They were on the other side of Lafayette Park from the White House. The church was St. John’s. The door was open. They walked inside as the Town Car drove off.
She was seated in the front pew. Sean and Michelle sensed rather than saw the presence of the security detail around the room. When Sean sat next to Jane Cox, he couldn’t tell whether she had been crying or not. He suspected she had, but he also knew she was not the sort of woman who showed her emotions easily. Perhaps not even to her husband. He had seen the woman become emotional before, but only once. He had never expected to witness another such episode.
Under her black overcoat she wore a knee-length blue dress, along with sensible pumps and little jewelry. Her hair, though covered in a scarf, was in its trademark upsweep that many had compared, mostly favorably, to Jackie Kennedy. The woman had never been flash, Sean knew, just classy. Elegant. She never tried to be something she wasn’t. Well, that wasn’t exactly true, he concluded. A First Lady had to be many things to many people, and there was no way any single personality could accommodate so many different requests. So some role-playing was inevitable.
“This is Michelle Maxwell, Mrs. … Jane.”
Jane smiled graciously at Michelle and then turned back to Sean. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me so quickly.”
“We thought it was going to take place at the White House.”
“I thought so too, but then reconsidered. The church is a little more private. And… peaceful.”
He leaned back in the pew and studied the altar for a moment before saying, “What can we do for you?”
“You really were there when it happened?”
“Yes. I was bringing a present for Willa.” He went on to fill in the details of the night’s events, withholding the more graphic elements.
“Tuck doesn’t remember much,” she said. “They said he’ll be fine, no internal bleeding or anything, but his short-term memory appears to be impaired.”
“That often happens with blows to the head,” Michelle remarked. “But it might come back.”
“The Secret Service is undertaking protection of the… extended First Family now,” she said.
“Smart move,” said Sean.
“The Achilles’ heel finally exposed,” noted Jane quietly.