State of the Onion (20 page)

“I just came from informing Henry. You should know, too. The atmosphere at Camp David did not agree with the princess. She is back at Blair House with her assistants. Her chef remained at Camp David with the prince, so our kitchen may be called upon to assist with meals.”

I nodded acknowledgment.

“Kasim will act as liaison between the White House and Blair House.”

“He's back here, too?” The poor guy. He'd been so content at Camp David.

“Is there a reason he shouldn't be?”

I was in no mood to argue anymore. I said nothing. As long as I worked in the White House, I intended to maintain dignity in my position. “Thank you for letting me know,” I said, and then left the room.

KASIM DID, INDEED, STOP BY THE KITCHEN TO inquire about obtaining ingredients for Blair House. Peter Sargeant accompanied him. Cyan, Bucky, and I offered to make anything the princess required, but Kasim demurred. “If the items we discussed will please be delivered to Blair House,” he said, “the princess's assistants will prepare her meals.”

“Is she well?” I asked.

“Thank you for your concern, yes, the princess is much better now that she has returned to the apartments.”

“Has the social secretary discussed dinner with you?” I asked. “Has she explained how the courses will be presented?”

Kasim nodded, addressing us all. “I am pleased to say that Ms. Schumacher has been very thorough. The prince and princess, as well as the rest of our delegation are aware of the finger bowls, if that is your concern.”

It was. Guests at our official dinners often didn't know what to do when presented with a doily-covered plate, glass bowl of water, fork and spoon. Waiters placed these finger bowls before each guest after the main course. Once a guest was finished availing himself of its cleansing benefits, he was supposed to move the doily and bowl to the side and place the fork to the left and the spoon to the right. This indicated that the guest was ready to be served dessert. I couldn't count the number of times this tradition had resulted in confusion. I was glad Marguerite had taken time to explain the procedure to Kasim.

“Don't you have something to do?” Sargeant asked me.

I bit the insides of my cheeks. Hard. “Yes,” I finally said. “I have a great deal to do.”

“Then why aren't you doing it?”

I could take a hint.

Kasim held up a hand. “Your indulgence. Please. I have a question.”

“Yes?” I said, happy to be doing anything that might irritate Sargeant.

“Are you”—his wide brown eyes made an encompassing gesture about the room—“the entire staff? I cannot see how so few of you will accomplish such a substantial endeavor.”

“We have many more chefs arriving tomorrow,” I said.

“I have not seen others.” His gaze corralled the room again. “I have only seen those who are here, now.”

Sargeant started to interrupt. Kasim waved him away, focusing his attention on me.

Pleased to be granted the limelight despite Sargeant's disapproval, I continued. “We have temporary staff members scheduled to arrive tomorrow. They'll be here at eight, and Cyan and Bucky,” I gestured, “will take them through what needs to be done. Most of these chefs and assistants have worked with us before. That's nice because they know our procedures.” I smiled. “I'll be here by ten or so, and I won't leave until everything is perfect for the next day's dinner.”

Sargeant butted in. “You're not coming in until ten? Why not?”

“That's how we set up the schedule.”

“That makes no sense. Come in earlier. This is an important dinner. We can't have the kitchen working at half staff.”

Henry joined the conversation from across the room. “Peter, let me assure you. Everything is covered. We are all well aware of the importance of the state dinner and we are equally well-prepared.
I
scheduled Ollie to come in at ten tomorrow. I'm also coming in at ten. We are not needed here any earlier than that.”

To me, he said, in a gentler tone, “You mentioned stopping at Arlington tomorrow morning, right?”

I nodded, not giving voice to my answer. I didn't want Sargeant asking why I visited Arlington. Henry knew that before big events I liked to take a few moments there. Even though my dad wasn't a part of my life—not really—he was all the family I had here. Spending a few minutes at his graveside gave me peace.

“Why on earth—” Sargeant began.

As though to protect my private rituals, Henry interrupted. “We will be here very late tomorrow evening. Cyan and Bucky will handle the early shift, Ollie and I will handle the later shift, which is when things have a tendency to go wrong. We will ensure that they don't.” Henry glanced over to our pastry chef. “Marcel keeps his own hours as he sees fit.”

Mollified, Sargeant stopped arguing.

Kasim thanked us for the insights into the workings of our kitchen.

“Watch it!” Bucky cried.

Sargeant stood to my right, Kasim to my left. As one, we pressed ourselves against the countertop avoiding Bucky's race to the sink, flaming skillet in hand. I felt the waft of heat as he rushed past us. He dropped the pan in the sink, clunking it loudly. Water on the hot surface sizzled and smoke billowed upward.

“Why didn't you use baking soda to put that out?” Henry asked.

Bucky spoke over his shoulder. “It was out of reach, this was faster.”

Kasim blinked several times. “The smoke,” he said. “It is affecting my contact lenses.” He turned away, blinking more rapidly. Cyan, too, seemed to be struggling as the dark cloud spread through the room.

“Should have used a fire extinguisher,” Sargeant complained, loud enough for Bucky to hear.

With his back to us, Bucky answered. “And have to fill out a dozen reports in triplicate to explain why it wasn't a breach of security that caused me to use it? No thanks.”

“Geez,” Sargeant said. “It's bothering my contacts, too.” He coughed, blinked several times, and caught a lens in his palm. Keeping his head down, he tore out of the kitchen, anger radiating from him like the heat off Bucky's pan. Kasim followed Sargeant, and Cyan brought up the rear, her eyes streaming from the smoke's irritation.

Marcel, Henry, and I braved the haze, while Bucky—apparently unaffected—washed the burnt skillet. “Can I clear a room or what?” he asked merrily.

We flicked the exhaust fans to high, and soon Cyan returned. “Where's Sargeant?” I asked. “And Kasim?”

She shrugged. “Gone. Kasim said he was heading back to Blair House, and Sargeant said he had plans for tomorrow he needed to solidify today.”

“Bucky,” I said, slapping him on the shoulder, “how can we ever thank you?”

AT NINE O' CLOCK THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I got off the Metro at the Arlington Cemetery stop. About twenty people got off at the same time. A family of four with a stroller, some couples, a group of tourists, and a couple of stragglers. We all followed the signs to the Arlington Visitor Center and a few of us branched off from the first-time visitors, clearly knowing where we were going. I was back for a another visit sooner than my usual interval, but with everything that was going on I felt the need.

Another woman and two men headed in the same direction as me. The woman, in her sixties, grasped a bouquet of cut flowers as she headed toward the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. A man with a briefcase and a rapid pace quickly outdistanced the rest of us. The other man carried a small potted plant. I knew that sort of arrangement wasn't allowed in Arlington. I wondered if I should say something, but I decided it was too late. He'd brought the thing, and if it gave him happiness to leave it there, so be it. The cemetery workers would remove it as soon as they saw it. And this guy would probably be none the wiser.

He walked the same direction I did, though far off to my left, like a wing man. I tried to figure out who he'd be here to visit. A parent? A sibling? I couldn't tell his age. He wore a baseball cap over long, red frizzy hair, a black T-shirt that read
LINCOLN CITY
, a blue short-sleeve dress shirt open over the T-shirt, and baggy blue jeans. He walked with a loping gait but he was short, so he didn't get far fast.

I was about to give into my helpful-Hannah instincts and mention the restrictions on grave decorations when he veered off far left and disappeared around one of the buildings.

An omen. I wasn't supposed to say anything.

Alone now, I made the quiet trek to my father's grave. Clear skies with a wind so harsh it nearly knocked me sideways, it was cool enough to need my hoodie, warm enough to promise a sparkling day ahead. I would miss most of it, sequestered in the kitchen until every possible last-minute issue had been covered, but I planned to enjoy this peaceful respite while I could.

Somewhere beyond my vision to the far right, a lawn mower did its job, the sound coming in spurts as the wind quieted and rushed up again. With 260 acres to manage here at Arlington, it always seemed a lawn mower, or four, hummed nearby. I crested a rise and noticed that the section next to my dad's was in the process of being mowed. I loved the smell of the fresh-cut grass, and the cool dew damp of the morning. The intermittent roar of the nearby machines didn't bother me. It was nice to have a reminder of life, of continuity, of normalcy as I visited those who'd died for the freedoms I took for granted every day.

My hair lifted, twisting as it escaped my hood. I sighed, enjoying the sensation.

“Hey Dad,” I said aloud. Nobody near to hear.

As always, the only answers were the calls of birds, the push-pull
shush
ing of the wind, and the ever present activity in my own mind. I sought to quiet my thoughts, to take in the calm that surrounded me here. To let it take root in me so that the next several days would go as smoothly as I wanted them to.

Whether or not I had a job at the White House when all this was through, I could do no less than my best. Ever.

“You understand that, don't you, Dad?”

The whirr of the nearest lawn mower shifted from active cutting to soft idle. I glanced up. A worker, just beyond a copse of trees, swung out of his grass-cutting seat and waved over another worker in a white pickup truck, towing a wood chipper. The pickup driver stopped, got out, and the two men trotted a couple hundred feet behind the mower and dropped to their hands and knees, searching the ground. I wondered what was lost.

Had the lawn mower not quieted just then, had the wind not taken that moment to still, I might not have heard the out-of-place noise to my left.

I twisted my head to see the red-haired guy in the baseball cap walking toward me. No potted plant in his hands. Evidently he'd found whoever he was looking for. I smiled a hello. This was a big place; he must have gotten lost. I figured he needed directions back to the Metro.

But as I took a step toward him, my skin zinged an early warning. The man's expression wasn't right. His face, getting nearer by the step, was angry, determined…and familiar.

TUNNEL VISION SWALLOWED MY AWARENESS. Flash fear held me immobile. A rush like a giant wave crashed in my ears as my terrified brain took forever to delineate options. Torn between running—to where? my mind screamed—and fighting, indecision froze me to the spot.

One second, maybe two.

It felt like hours.

The killer from the merry-go-round reached behind his flapping shirt to his waistband and I spun away, knowing he had a gun and a bullet meant for my brain.

My feet pounded the grass. Silenced by fear, I zigged to my right between headstones, wondering, absurdly, if ducking behind one might render me invisible. I knew I should scream, but irrationally decided it could slow me down.

Stupid, stupid.

I needed cover. I raced for the trees.

My screams finally came as I skip-stepped past more headstones. In perfect alignment, so low to the ground, they offered nothing in terms of cover. I didn't have my own gun with me—of course not—and I didn't know what else to do. I ducked to my left this time, remembering Tom's admonishments about moving targets.

On the wind, I heard a pop, like a cap gun.

I didn't turn.

Fifty feet away, a hundred? I couldn't guess—I didn't care—the groundskeeper and pickup driver still knelt on the grass far behind the riding lawn mower, searching the ground. I called to them, but my voice whipped away on the swift wind.

A horrifying thought occurred to me. What if the groundskeepers were in cahoots with the man chasing me? What if I was supposed to run to them, seeking safety, only to find myself trapped?

I shut my mouth, concentrating every muscle on moving forward, racing, running, putting distance between me and the killer.

Life didn't flash before my eyes. Ideas did.

My late-to-the-party brain finally kicked in with a suggestion, and I swerved left then right, then left again.

Another pop.

He was shooting at me.

Dear God, why?

Because I'd seen him at the merry-go-round.

Thirty more steps. Twenty.

I counted as I ran, leaping as my short legs strove for long strides, repeating: Don't fall.

Don't fall.

Don't.

Fall.

Ten more steps.

A noise, a shout.

To my far right, the groundskeeper got to his feet, gesticulating, hollering. Even if these workers weren't in league with the killer behind me, I knew I'd never out-distance the killer behind me in time to reach them. They were too far.

They continued to shout, but I couldn't make out anything over the hum of the motor, now three steps away.

Two.

One.

I bounded into the seat, taking precious seconds to shift the lawn mower into gear and jerk the front wheels far to the left, directly into the runner's path. The mower lurched forward, too slow, too slow. I leaped off the other side. The groundskeeper ran at me from behind. The killer ran at me from my left. The pickup truck driver must have known what I had in mind, because he came at me, too.

Too late. I made it into the white pickup, pulling the door shut out of habit and slamming the vehicle into gear.

I floored it. The equipment bed behind me bounced over the uneven ground and I prayed it wouldn't overturn.

Perspiration beaded down my face, puddling at my collarbone. Desperate sweat caused my shaking hands to slip on the steering wheel. I stole a quick glance in the side view mirror where I saw the two groundskeepers shaking their fists and shouting. I could see their mouths moving, but I couldn't hear a word.

The killer was gone.

Again.

Blowing out breaths, I fought to achieve enough calm to make sense of all this. I needed to drive to the entrance, or one of the maintenance locations. I needed to talk to people I could trust.

I drove the long aisle of grass between white headstones, apologizing to the dead upon whose graves the tires trampled. It felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.

At the first road, I took a left, my mind still not working the way it should. What had happened? If the Chameleon was dead, then who was this?

Only one option made sense. It
hadn't
been the Chameleon who'd killed Naveen. Someone else had killed him. And that someone wanted me out of the picture.

Still shaking, I pulled the truck to the side of the road, and stopped. By now the groundskeepers would have called in the theft of the pickup. I was sure to be arrested soon. I needed to know what I could or couldn't say about Naveen's killer to these local authorities. I needed to think. I needed to call Tom.

I eased off the brake and dug for my cell phone, heart pounding again. But this time for a completely different reason.

I heard sirens in the distance. Coming for me. I knew it and felt a combined sense of relief, fear, and agony knowing whatever happened next would prevent me getting to work on time. Poor Henry.

With resolve, I increased pressure on the gas pedal. The visitor's center was far off, but I knew how to get there. But before I did, Tom had to know. I pulled up my cell phone, ready to dial.

The click to my right should have warned me.

I didn't react in time.

The passenger door flew open and the pale-eyed killer pointed his pistol right at my head.

Without thinking, I jerked the wheel to the left and slammed the gas pedal hard as I could, praying I wouldn't flood the thing.

I didn't.

The killer fell away; I heard his grunt as he hit the ground. He got a shot off. It hit the pickup's back window, making me scream, shattering the glass into an instant zillion-piece spiderweb.

Sirens grew louder.

My cell phone remained in my right hand as I gripped the steering wheel and drove for my life. I thought I heard another shot hit the truck, but when I heard it again and again, I realized it was the memory of the hit replaying in my mind.

I watched through my rear-and side-view mirrors, not looking where I was going.

Flashing lights directly ahead.

I hit the brake, held my hands up, shouting, “I'm not armed,” as the pickup was swarmed by police.

I'd gotten away.

But for how long?