lap over its edge. Hauling himself out was much less trouble than actually standing and beginning the long, hazardous journey across the city.
11
Seattle She loved Pike Place Market because it was so busy, so full of life, that you could lose yourself in it and forget for just a moment that the world had gone to hell. A strong aroma of spices and coffee mingled with the unmistakable briny odor of fresh fish and crabs from the sea. Some of the reopened fishing areas off the coast of California were starting to produce again. Each time Barbara Kipper came to the market, a little more produce appeared from the formerly deserted parts of the United States, starting with a bounty of potatoes from Idaho. Stopping before a stall to inspect a batch of Vidalia onions from Missouri, Barb thought it was almost possible to convince yourself that the Wave was a bad dream and that the hungry times had never really happened. It was all a straight-to-video stinker with horrible computer graphics and bad acting. She popped four of the best-looking onions into her string bag before handing over a two-dollar note that looked even fresher than the vegetables. The stall owner handed her a few coins in change, and she passed on to Abe Frellman's Sausage Hut, where she wanted to pick up a string of the deliciously fat pork and porcini chipolatas Kip liked so much.
'Came out of the smokehouse this morning, Mrs. Kipper,' Frellman said, when he saw her eyeing them. 'Three newbies a pound.'
Barbara smiled. 'You can do better than that, Abe. How about two-fifty?'
As they haggled back and forth over the inflated prices, Barbara realized that it was truly impossible to lose herself in the market or the past. The four Secret Service men trailing her as she tried to shop for fruit and vegetables would never allow that to happen. And even though the stallholders and many of the regular customers had grown accustomed to the First Lady buying and carrying her own groceries, Barbara Kipper was still the center of a buzzing circle of gawkers, admirers, and occasional crazy people wherever she went.
'Missus Kipper! Missus Kipper. Over here. Freshest Dungeness crabs on all the West Coast over heeeyah!'
Barb smiled and waved at Sammy Portuni as he held aloft two giant orange-backed specimens, their pincers snapping angrily in the air as a rival seller cried across the heads of the crowd.
'Hell, no, Ms. Kipper. Over here is where you want to be for the finest damn crabs and lobsters and fresh Canadian salmon anywhere.'
She turned and waved at Jon Daniels from the Old City Fish Shop, who waved back at her with an enormous shining silver fish that looked bigger than her daughter.
Suzie jerked her mother's hand. 'Can we get the big fish, Mommy? The big fish for Daddy?'
'Suzie, I can't carry a big fish like that all the way home, darling,' she protested. 'And I came here for fresh fruit and vegetables. We have plenty of meat and fish at home in the freezers.'
'Oh veg-e-tables,' Suzie moaned. 'They're no fun at all. And we've got heaps of them in the garden at home. And you're getting sausages, and sausages are meat.'
Thankfully, before Suzie could really get going on her antivegetable stump speech, a three-piece band started up: a fiddler, a double bass, and a guitarist banging out some jaunty little Cajun number from the sound of it. Barb forged on through the crowd toward her favorite produce store, reminding herself to stop at the cheese shop for some of the stinky blue stuff Kipper liked on his toast in the morning. She had just noticed a new stall selling handblown glass jewelry when one of the Secret Service men appeared at her side. Momentarily distracted-she hadn't seen a craft store in the markets for years; they were all about fresh food nowadays-she missed whatever he muttered in her ear. She really did want to see that jewelry. It had been so long since anyone had the time or freedom to indulge in such things.
'Missus Kipper, ma'am. You really need to come with us now.'
It was the hard edge he put on the last word that finally broke through and caught Barb's attention.
'What's up?' she asked, turning to him. 'Is there something wrong?'
She looked around quickly but saw nothing untoward in the markets. They were crowded with midweek shoppers, most of them with their arms full of groceries. Like her, they were probably supplementing the produce nearly everyone grew these days in their home gardens or on the community plots that had taken over so much public parkland. Barb kept her face neutral and her voice low, not wanting to cause a minor panic, even though she was suddenly feeling very anxious.
'Is it Kip?' she asked as quietly as she could. 'Has something happened to my husband?'
'If you'll come with us, ma'am,' the agent insisted, taking her string bags of onions and celery and carrots and handing them off to another man, who disappeared into the throngs. Three more agents moved in around Barb and Suzie and began to maneuver them toward the exit where Pike Place swung around to climb up a slight incline back to First Avenue. Three black Chevy Suburbans were waiting under the market's famous orange neon sign. The day had clouded over while she'd been shopping, and the lettering stood out sharply against the lowering gray sky.
Barb bit down on her irritation. She had grown used to the ways of the Service and knew they would explain all that they could once she and Suzie were safely out of harm's way. A few people in the crowd noticed that the First Lady was cutting short her regular shopping trip, and there was a momentary surge in the background buzz, but when nobody pulled any guns or started bellowing instructions to her protection detail, the small surge in the crowd's excitement level quickly abated. Just as the city had grown used to the First Family walking and living among them, they had become accustomed to Kipper and Barb occasionally disappearing without notice at the behest of their bodyguards. Three years after the Wave had simply vanished, the world remained a dangerous and unpredictable place. It was always a wonder to Barb that people seemed to have adapted so quickly to the arbitrary and hazardous nature of life in the new world.
'Does this mean we don't have to have vegetables for dinner?' Suzie asked with the eternal hopefulness of childhood as she hauled herself up into the rear seat of the Suburban in the center of the little convoy.
Barb smiled nervously at her daughter. It was a little sad how quickly Suzie had also adapted to an unsettled and uncertain existence. She had been whisked away into hiding so many times in Kip's first year as president that she took it as a natural state of being.
'Seat belt on, darling,' Barbara said, as she strained to lock in on some vital piece of intelligence from the chatter of the agents, surrounding the vehicle, fingers to their earpieces, listening to whatever information there was to be had. At times like this, Barb wished she had one of those earpieces.
'I have my belt on, Mom, but you didn't answer my question. Are we having vegetables? Potatoes are okay, especially the crispy ones that Chef Mikey does. Is the chef cooking dinner tonight, or are you, Mommy? If we have visitors, don't you think Chef Mikey should do the crispy potatoes?'
'Suzie, just quiet down for a moment and let Mommy get strapped in, would you?'
The agents were moving with some haste but not scrambling madly the way they had on the day Kip had ordered those Chinese planes shot down over Alaska. That day remained her yardstick for judging when the brown stuff had really hit the fan. The Suburban's engine roared into life, and they accelerated away sharply enough to press her back into the seat. She pushed herself forward with some effort, leaning over to speak to the Secret Service man riding shotgun in the front seat.
'So what's happening, Peter?' she asked. 'Is it Kip? Is he okay?'
'Yes, ma'am,' the agent replied tersely as they sped up the hill and across First Avenue.
'Yes what?' Barb asked with a flash of irritation.
'Yes, ma'am. It's your husband,' he said, but without elaborating.
'Mommy,' a small voice asked from beside her. 'Is Daddy okay?' 'I'm afraid he's dead,' the agent informed him.
'Damn,' Jed muttered.
'But I was standing just a few feet away,' Kip protested. 'I didn't get a scratch. How did he get hit?'
'Mister Koppel was struck by shrapnel, sir,' the detail chief, Agent Shinoda, replied. 'It was bad luck. He died on the scene while two of my people attempted to stabilize him. One of them was wounded in doing so. Critically.'
'I'm sorry,' Kipper said. 'What was his name?'
