Baby Carter (Baby Grand Trilogy, Book 3) Page 9

  Phillip leaned back in his chair. “What are our next steps?” he asked.

  “Once we get the final coroner’s report on the death of Samuel O’Connell—and we hear from Jamie Carter—we’ll figure out next steps,” Wilcox said as his cell phone buzzed. He picked it up, listened, and put it back into his pocket. “Let’s reconvene here tomorrow.”

  “Is everything all right?” Phillip asked.

  “Got a lead, but I’ll know more in the morning, Mr. President.” He left quickly, and Brandon gathered up his paperwork.

  “Will you be escorting me to Walter Reed today, Brandon?” Phillip asked.

  The young agent shook his head. “I believe Agent Summers is on duty, Mr. President.”

  Phillip hadn’t seen Agent Summers since the funeral. “Is he back at work already?”

  “Actually,” Brandon said, “he hasn’t taken any time off at all.”

  “What? He’s been working all week?”

  Brandon nodded. “He’s been working in the mornings so that he can get home to pick up his youngest daughter from the school bus. I haven’t seen very much of him myself, except briefly, when I passed him in the hall outside the Oval Office yesterday.”

  “How is he?”

  Brandon shrugged his shoulders. “As you might expect, sir. He keeps to himself. Says he prefers to focus on the job. Says it helps him not to think about it.”

  Charlotte had been asking about Agent Summers earlier in the week. He and Brandon were her two favorite agents. Phillip didn’t have the heart to tell Charlotte about what had happened to Summers’s young daughter—the two had gotten along so well at the summer picnic. A hit-and-run death was a lot for an adult to comprehend, let alone a child.

  “Any leads on who did it?” Phillip asked.

  “Not really,” Brandon said. “Witnesses say it was a black SUV, and PD has a license plate number, but the plate was stolen. It doesn’t look good.”

  “Thank you, Brandon. Keep me posted on any developments,” Phillip said as the young agent left the balcony. He picked up his phone. “Janice, can you get Jim Olsen from the New York Times on the phone for me? Thanks.” He held the phone to his ear and looked out at the view again. A soft breeze blew, reminding him of the night he surprised Katherine, on that very spot, with a candlelit dinner to celebrate their first hundred days in office. It seemed like a long time ago.

  “I’ve got Mr. Olsen, Mr. President,” Janice said into his ear. “I’ll put him through.”

  Phillip waited through a few clicks until he heard Olsen’s gruff voice say, “Hello.”

  “Well, well, well, Jim Olsen, is that you?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” he said with a laugh. “Did you think I’d let you go down to Washington without me?”

  “Nah, I know you better than that.” If Phillip closed his eyes, he could imagine he was back at the Executive Mansion in Albany, overlooking the Hudson, Olsen at his ear digging around about some new state initiative he had vetoed. “How are you?” he asked.

  “I’m good, Mr. President. I appreciate your call.”

  “Well, as you know, I’m not in the business of calling up journalists,” Phillip said, trying to keep his voice light, “but Collins tells me you’ve got something and won’t talk to anyone else here. You do know, Jim, that normally I hold the same position with journalists as I do with terrorists—I don’t negotiate.”

  Olsen laughed. “Yes, I do know that. To be honest, Mr. President, I’m not quite sure what I’ve got. As I’m sure you heard at yesterday’s press briefing—and have seen in newspapers across the country today—sources are telling us that there was an explosive device found at the White House on Monday. Is the White House ready to confirm that?”

  “As I believe Collins told you, we will address that at this morning’s press briefing.”

  “I understand, Mr. President,” Olsen said, “but there is something specific I’d like to have confirmed.” The familiar sounds of the newsroom—the tapping of keyboards and hurried voices—echoed in the background. “We get a lot of calls on our tip line, most of them, unfortunately, crackpots who find it funny to see journalists getting the runaround and chasing down bad leads. Makes for some real nice YouTube videos.”

  “I know a thing or two about YouTube videos myself …”

  “Yes,” Olsen said. “I imagine you do, but there was one tip this morning that I thought was somewhat specific and strange.”

  “Oh?” The skin on the back of Phillip’s neck prickled, and a strange feeling came over him—the same feeling he got when he was in the army and was about to be ambushed. “Jim, I’m afraid I don’t have much time. I—”

  “Mr. President,” Olsen took an audible breath, “does a Hello Kitty watch mean anything to you?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Jamie awoke with a start and instinctively felt around for Faith. When she didn’t find her daughter’s sleeping body next to her, she reached for her pistol, which was still in the waistband of her jeans—a discovery that both surprised and relieved her. Bright sunlight was streaming through the windows, making it difficult to see, and she blinked her eyes a few times until the furnishings of the log cabin came into focus.

  The room was empty.

  Her heart began to pound. How long had she been asleep?

  Jamie pushed off the blanket that she didn’t remember placing on herself and stood up quickly, holding the gun in front of her. She scanned the room. The fireplace was roaring, just as it had the night before, and everything appeared normal. No signs of a struggle. She glanced downward and saw a sheet of loose-leaf paper on the coffee table with a note written in crisp, block-letter handwriting:

  Don’t worry. She’s with me. —Don

  Worry shot through Jamie’s body.

  As Jamie made her way across the room, a flicker of movement outside the front window caught her attention, a contrasting of light and dark, like a shadow, and as she got closer, she heard a sound and realized it was Faith’s voice.

  She was giggling.

  Jamie ran to the window, with the gun by her side.

  Outside, Faith was standing on the front porch. She was watching Bailino throw a stick into the snow, and Lucky, whose fur was caked with snowflakes, run after it. When Lucky retrieved it, Bailino handed the stick to Faith who took a turn throwing it—a smile of pure joy on her face. Bailino spotted Jamie at the window and glanced at the gun in her hand, which Jamie moved down and out of view. He motioned to Faith, who turned toward the window and started waving and shouting.

  “Watch me, Momma!” she shouted, her voice barely audible through the thick glass.

  The little girl was wearing a black longshoreman’s knit cap that practically covered her ears and her eyebrows and a winter coat whose sleeves were so long she had to keep pushing her little hands out. Faith took the stick again from Bailino, tossed it a few yards into the snow, and immediately turned around for Jamie’s approval. Jamie put the gun between her thighs and raised her hands high so that Faith could see them, and she clapped.

  Lucky returned the stick and shook off some of the snow clinging to her thick coat, which landed on Faith’s face causing her to cackle. Bailino handed her the stick once again, and Faith threw it as far as she could, with Lucky dutifully chasing after it.

  Under normal circumstances, this would have been an everyday scene—a father, his daughter, and his dog playing in the snow—but Jamie knew the situation was anything but everyday. She had the urge to go out there. It was not like her to leave Faith unattended or with someone else, and it was unusual to see Faith interact with a man other than Edward or Phillip Grand.

  Bailino was standing close to Faith, but not too close. He was just enough away so that, if he needed to, he could reach her in an instant—a distance Jamie, herself, would have measured had she been out there. His gaze drifted, like a sniper, from Faith and Lucky to the land around them—snow-covered flatlands that stretched at least an acre or two until it reached a line of
snow-covered trees. When the arc of his gaze landed back on Jamie, Bailino nodded and returned his attention to Faith.

  For the first time in a long time, a wave of calm came over her, and she decided, for once, not to argue with it. She took one last look at her daughter, who was petting Lucky with the sleeve of her coat, and left the window. She placed the gun back into her ankle holster and began exploring the guesthouse.

  The home was essentially one great room with what looked like several rooms in the back—a pair of bedrooms, perhaps, and a bathroom. Although it was much smaller than the log cabin Bailino had had in Albany, it reminded Jamie of it—the décor, the sense of place, the tidiness of the furnishings. Above the fireplace, the antique gun that had saved her life hung with distinction.

  She walked toward the kitchen and opened the refrigerator for no particular reason and then the freezer, which had some frozen dinners, bags of vegetables, and a pair of large icicles laying side by side where the ice cube tray was supposed to be. She reached in and touched the sharp tip of one of them.

  I got rid of him. Stabbed him with an ice pick.

  Images flashed through her mind of Edward hogtied in the trunk of a car and of Paolo Cataldi’s sliced-off body parts landing beside her at the Barbara farmhouse with a thud. The dark memories, one by one, pushed forward, but Jamie pushed back, focusing instead on the muffled sounds of Faith’s giggling voice coming from somewhere outside. She closed the freezer.

  A couple of glasses and bowls sat overturned in the dish rack, washed, and the dining table had been wiped, the placemats in line with the sides of the table. Faith’s coat hung neatly on one of the table chairs. Near the back bedrooms, a baby grand piano stood in the far corner of the room. As she got closer, she realized it looked identical to the one that had been in Bailino’s bedroom in Albany, and a feeling of déjà vu washed over her as the front door to the guesthouse flew open, and Faith came stumbling inside, her face aglow.

  “Momma, Momma! I saw a gray wolf!”

  “You did?” Jamie asked as Faith barreled into her arms, her skin cold, but her breath warm.

  “And did you see me throw the stick?!”

  “I did,” Jamie said, helping her out of the large men’s jacket. “That was great.”

  Lucky bounced through the door next and shook the snow off her coat as Bailino entered, stamping the snow from his boots. He closed the front door.

  “Don says I’m a natural!” Faith squealed.

  Don.

  Her little body freed itself from the coat like a butterfly from a cocoon, and she joined Lucky on the area rug in front of the fireplace. She was still wearing the black knit cap on her head.

  “She asked me for my name,” Bailino said, hanging up his coat. “Hope it’s all right.”

  “Of course,” Jamie said, although she wasn’t sure if it was.

  “This is the best vacation ever, Momma!” said Faith, running her hand along the wet fur of the dog, who circled the area rug a few times before plopping down next to her. “Don says I need to get proper boots, though. And a proper coat. Can we buy proper boots and a proper coat for me?”

  “Yes,” Jamie said, “but, sweetie, I’m not sure how long we are going to stay.”

  Faith’s bright mood darkened. “Awww …” She put her arm on Lucky, who turned onto her back so Faith could rub her belly. “Can’t we stay for a lot of days?” she asked in a small voice.

  Strangely, the official word to the press was that Jamie was on vacation, and somehow it was turning out to be a real one. “We’ll see,” Jamie said. “And not so close to the fireplace, please?”

  Her daughter shimmied a few inches away from the fire. “Momma doesn’t like fireplaces,” Faith informed Bailino.

  “I’m not too fond of them myself,” he said. He was running water into a tea kettle.

  “Can we go for ices soon, Momma?” Faith asked. “You said yesterday that maybe today we could.”

  “I don’t think it’s open,” Jamie said. She glanced at Bailino.

  “Marge’s? I’m afraid not until spring,” he said, “but we can make some snow cones here, if you like?”

  It was as if Bailino had said he was going to buy Faith a pony.

  “Snow cones!” Faith cheered, standing up and startling Lucky, who got up too, her tail wagging. “Charlie would be so jealous!”

  Bailino smirked, placed the teakettle on the stove, and lit the front burner. He pulled a mug out of the cabinet and held it up. “Tea, hot chocolate?” he asked Jamie.

  “Hot chocolate, please,” Faith called. She was twirling like a ballerina around the dog.

  Jamie nodded. “I guess it’s two hot chocolates,” she said.

  “Coming right up.” Bailino placed three mugs and spoons on the table with a few packets of hot chocolate mix, all deftly with his right hand, as if he never needed the other one. “Did you sleep all right?” he asked as she slid onto one of the dining chairs.

  “Too long,” Jamie said. “Thank you for the blanket.”

  Bailino rubbed his beard, which was still speckled with snowflakes, and leaned toward her. “You remember that kid who posted the YouTube video of Grand?” he asked.

  Sudden changes of conversation, delivered in quick, direct jabs, were Bailino’s forte. While five years ago Jamie may have been caught off guard by them, she was ready this time—probably because she made it a habit to be ready for anything. “Yeah, the kid from upstate New York,” she said.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Dead?” She wasn’t ready for that. “How?”

  He glanced again at Faith, who was hopping on one foot while Lucky, appearing puzzled, followed her. “They’re not saying,” he said in a low voice. “But my guess is that it was a gunshot.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Instinct,” he said.

  “Do you think it’s related to what happened at the White House?”

  “My instinct tells me yes.”

  “Why? What’s the connection?”

  “Don,” Faith asked, coming near the table, “may I put the TV on?”

  “Yeah, sure, cookie, you know how to do it. The remote is over there.” Bailino pointed to one of the coffee tables.

  “Is it okay, Momma?” Faith asked.

  Jamie smiled. “Of course, go ahead. I’ll call you when the hot chocolate has cooled.”

  Faith gave her a quick hug and ran toward the coffee table.

  “She’s so polite,” Bailino said. “It reminds me of you walking through Bryant Park that day.” He sat down in a chair and leaned back. “I can still see you, trying to find a place to sit, balancing your water on your resume.”

  He seemed to recall the memory fondly as if it weren’t the moment of her abduction, the moment that had changed her life forever. “Easy pickings, right?” Jamie asked.

  Bailino shrugged. “Yes and no.”

  “I’m not that same person anymore.” She ripped open two of the packets of hot chocolate at the same time and poured the contents into their respective cups.

  “No,” Bailino said, staring at her. “You’re not. But also you are.”

  The teakettle whistled. He turned off the burner and poured water into the three mugs.

  “How did you get out?” she asked, stirring one cup of hot chocolate, then the next two. “Of the old farmhouse?”

  “Sewers. Same way I got into the Executive Mansion in Albany. And the Little Flower Hotel.” Bailino sat down at the table again. He seemed slower than she remembered, a bit tired, and she thought perhaps it was due to the elevation.

  “You did that to your hand?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I had to go through your purse to see if you had a phone.”

  “Burner,” Jamie said, “and it’s off. No more rookie mistakes.”

  “Momma,” Faith called, “is it cool yet?”

  “Not yet, honey. A few more minutes.”

  The little girl leaned on the top of
the couch. “Are you sure we can’t stay a bit more? I like it here.”

  “No, honey, we’ll probably have to leave soon.”

  “Leave? You just got here,” Bailino said. “It’s probably a good idea to stay until you know what’s going on.”

  “I know. I need to check in with the president,” Jamie said. “And with Edward.”

  Faith walked toward the window by the fireplace, and Jamie was about to call her back when Bailino said, “It’s okay. The windows are bulletproof glass and locked. She’s fine.”

  Lucky stood next to her, looking like a horse. Faith rested her hand between the dog’s ears as if they had been friends for years.

  “Where did you get the dog?” Jamie asked.

  “Damn dog …” Bailino took a sip from his mug, the steam of the hot chocolate wetting his face. “A dog was the last thing I wanted, trust me.” He placed the cup on the table. “About six months ago, I was out getting firewood, and I heard this tiny screeching. I followed the sound and came across this little girl.” He motioned to Lucky. “She looked like crap—malnourished, like she had been dropped there by someone off the road. She was so much smaller than she is now, like a baby. I carried her back and wrapped her in blankets and fed her. I don’t know why. Instinct, I guess. I didn’t think she was going to make it anyway. One morning, I was lying on the couch there, and I woke up to her licking my hand. It was the first time I had ever seen her move. She had walked by herself. She hasn’t left me alone since.”

  “You don’t seem to mind.” Jamie said with a smile.