'Yeah.'
As they were walking to the door Frank said, 'Oh, I almost forgot. A package came for Sean earlier today. I have it in the living room.'
He left and came back a minute later with a small cardboard box. When Sean saw who it was from, he exclaimed, 'My two-star bud came through again. More AWOL binders.'
'AWOL binders?' said Bobby.
'A case we're working,' explained Michelle.
They headed out to the SUV. 'I'll go through the binders, Sean, while you drive. That'll save time, which we don't have a lot of.'
'Thanks, Michelle,' he said earnestly. 'That's very nice.'
'Nice has nothing to do with it. You get carsick when you read. I don't want you puking in my truck.'
Bobby smiled. 'Now that's my little sister.'
They drove off and headed through town toward the highway. Michelle opened the box and took out the first binder.
'It's a good thing your brother lives here. He can keep your dad company.'
'I plan on keeping him company too. If this has shown me anything, you can take nothing for granted. Here today, gone tomorrow.'
'I'll stop for some coffee before we hit the interstate,' said Sean. 'It seems like we always start these trips late at night.'
'Make mine a double.'
Sean got the coffee and they headed north.
Michelle went through five more binders and then stretched her arms.
'You want me to take over? I can hold the puke in,' he said.
'No, I'll keep going. But if we don't find something here, then what?'
'Just pray you do find something in that stack because there is no then what.'
Sean checked the clock on the dashboard and then pulled out his phone and pecked in a number.
'Who you calling?'
'Chuck Waters. Want to get an update. Maybe he's got a lead he'll share.'
'Right. And I'm going to try out for Dancing with the Stars.'
The FBI agent picked up on the second ring. Sean and he talked for a few minutes and then Sean clicked off.
'Anything new?' asked Michelle.
'Jane got the letter in the post office box, and Waters confiscated it.'
'What did it say?'
'Something about a ten-million-dollar ransom. Only Waters thinks she pulled a fast one and fed them a fake letter.'
'Why does he think that?'
'Things in this letter didn't match the one that was sent with the bowl and spoon. Different typewriters, for instance. And he said there was something funky about the postmark.'
'Why would she pull a switch?'
'She's got a vested interest in this case, Michelle. From what Betack found with the second letter, this thing is personal to Jane Cox. She didn't want anyone else to read this last letter.'
'You don't think Willa is her kid, do you? Maybe she was fooling around on the president before he was the president? Got pregnant and handed it off to her brother and his wife?'
'I might think that except about twelve years or so ago I saw Jane Cox and she wasn't pregnant.'
'About twelve or so years ago?'
'I mean I saw her off and on during that period of time. She couldn't be Willa's mom unless they're lying about the girl's age.'
Michelle shook her head and continued reading. A half hour later she yelled out, 'Turn the car around!'
Sean nearly ran the truck into a Jersey wall. 'What is it?'
'Turn the car around.'
'Why?'
'We need to head south.'
Sean put on his turn signal and started to edge to the right lane. 'Why south?'
She scanned the pages of the binder she was holding, speaking rapidly. 'Three AWOLs from the same address in Alabama, but they all had different last names. Kurt Stevens, Carlos Rivera, and Daryl Quarry. They were supposed to report to their base and be shipped out to Iraq, only they never showed up. MPs went to check it out. Place called Atlee, like an old plantation. Father Sam Quarry, Vietnam vet, owns it. MPs couldn't find any trace of them.'
'Okay, they're Army deserters and it's one of the states on the isotopic probable list, but that's not conclusive, Michelle.'
'They interviewed Sam Quarry, a Ruth Ann Macon, and her son, Gabriel. And a guy named Eugene.'
'Again, so what, Michelle?'
'Gotta love the Army's attention to detail. The report says that Eugene identified himself to the MPs as a member of the Koasati Indian tribe.'
Sean squealed across all lanes, horns blaring at him, and took the next exit. Two minutes later they were on a slingshot path to Alabama.
CHAPTER 73
THERE IS probably no more formal, preplanned space for sale in the world than the Oval Office. Who was allowed into the room, from the prime minister of a relatively unimportant country, to a large compaign donor, could take days if not weeks of wrangling behind the scenes. Simply an invitation to the Oval Office for folks not routinely engaged in business with the man must be fought for with equal parts ferocity and delicacy. Once you gained entry to the hallowed space, the treatment you received-a handshake, a pat on the back, a signed photo as opposed to merely the picture-was all in the details. And in the negotiations. The Oval Office was not an environment that encouraged spontaneity. The Secret Service in particular frowned on anything approaching unplanned movements.
It was late, but Dan Cox was knocking out a few of these obligatory requests before he left in the morning for his UN address. He had been briefed on who these people were; mostly elite campaign supporters who'd opened their checkbooks and, more importantly, induced lots of their rich friends to do the same.
They came in one by one, and the president went into automatic greeting mode. Shake hand, nod, smile, pat back, say a few words, and accept the groveling thanks in return. For some particularly heavy hitters, deftly pointed out by his team of aides who hovered everywhere like the guardian vultures they were, the president would pick up some national treasure off his desk and talk to them about it. A lucky few even received a small memento. And these happy folks left believing that they had registered a personal connection with the man. That some brilliant thing they had said had precipitated the world leader giving them a signed presidential golf ball, or box of presidential cuff links, or pens that had the seal on it, all of which the White House kept by the ton for just such occasions.
This carefully planned process was ripped savagely apart when the door to the Oval Office was flung open, no mean task since it was quite a heavy door.
Dan Cox looked up to see his wife standing there-no, rather, teetering there in her high heels, stylish dress, her coat trailing behind her, her eyes wild and unfocused, her normally perfect hair in disarray. Right next to her were two anxious-looking Secret Service agents. The conflicted looks on their faces were clear. Despite the unofficial policy allowing the First Lady to enter the Oval Office mostly when she wanted to, on this occasion they obviously hadn't known whether to let her in or tackle the woman.
'Jane?' the astonished president said as he dropped a golf ball he was about to hand to a real estate developer
