The President's Henchman (42 page)

He cast his gaze directly at Sweetie.

Who looked right back at him.

“What are my sins, Reverend Godfrey?” she asked.

“You support the killing of the unborn,” he jeered from the stage.

“I don’t.”

“You support those who do.” Once more the preacher jabbed a finger at Sweetie.
“Your guilt is as theirs!”

Some of the more zealous members of the crowd surged toward Sweetie.

To his great surprise, Putnam Shady grabbed a man and yanked him back.

The man stayed yanked, and the others halted because Godfrey gestured restraint. “Stay thy hands, brothers and sisters. We are not here to do violence.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Reverend,” Sweetie said. “Not for my own safety. Not because you’re wrong. But because your followers are the ones threatening the lives of innocent children.”

“No! Never! Lies!” The crowd needed no urging on this point. While they didn’t physically confront Sweetie, they leaned forward to shout their denials and shake their fists.

With fine timing, as the crowd wound down, Godfrey added, “Calumny.”

“Is it, Reverend?”

“Of course, it is.”

“Then you’ll allow no violence here tonight?”

“You’ve heard my words.” He smiled condescendingly. “You have no worries from us, only from God.”

“I have no worries for myself, Reverend. None at all.”

“Then whose safety concerns you? Who are these innocent children?”

Sweetie turned her head and extended a hand to Caitie. Her moment had come.

McGill had never done anything harder than to let his daughter go at that moment. He didn’t trust Godfrey any more than he did the devil. For her part, Caitie did not hesitate. Nor did Deke. He followed at her side, right hand under his coat, until they reached Sweetie. Then the special agent faded back, but not far.

Caitie took Sweetie’s hand. Together, they turned toward Burke Godfrey. Sweetie nodded, and Caitie pushed back the hood of her sweatshirt. Every camera present pushed in on her face, looking as calm and fearless as that of the woman who stood next to her.

“This is Caitlin Rose McGill, daughter of James J. McGill, the president’s husband.”

The crowd gawked in surprise at this development.

Sweetie and Caitie turned to face the onlookers.

“What you may not know,” she told them, “is that Caitie, and her sister, Abbie, and her brother, Kenny, have all had their lives threatened. The Secret Service finds these threats entirely credible. Just two days ago a threatening note was left in Abbie McGill’s school locker. It said, ‘There’s nowhere we can’t reach you.’ Because of this note, the McGill children were driven from their mother’s home, forced into hiding to protect their young lives.”

“I had
nothing
to do with that!” Godfrey boomed.

Sweetie and Caitie turned back to him.

“Nothing!”
he repeated, shaking a scolding finger at them.

“Reverend Godfrey, this threat is being made at this very moment in the name of your wife. It claims to be a threat of vengeance, but at the moment it’s more a means of vile coercion. If you have nothing to do with it, renounce it now. Tell those who make such evil threats that they sin against God just as surely as anyone whose views you condemn. Tell these people that they have no place in your congregation. Tell those who worship in good faith with you that they must reveal to the authorities any knowledge they have of these extortionists. These would-be child-killers.”

Burke Godfrey shook his head. “Erna must be freed!” he pronounced.

This time the echo from the crowd was but a few scattered voices. It was clear that a large majority of the congregation had not known that the murder of children was being threatened in the name of their cause. They’d seen Caitie’s face, and they could not countenance killing her.

“Free Erna with your prayers, Reverend,” Sweetie said. “Write to your congressmen, call your senators, march peacefully in the streets …
ask
if a majority of your fellow Americans agree that Erna Godfrey should be freed.”

“They do. They do, and you all know it.” Godfrey’s tone was beseeching.

“You don’t save children’s lives by taking them. Tell the people acting in your name, tell them now, Reverend Godfrey:
End your threats against the McGill children.”

At that moment the sky opened. Rain fell in sheets. Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. More than a few congregants fell to their knees and bowed their heads.

Reverend Burke Godfrey, though, stubbornly repeated, “Erna must be freed.”

No one heard him. The downpour had shorted out his soundboard.

The storm was intense but brief. And extremely localized. As Welborn Yates and Leo Levy drove down I-66 to Falls Church, Virginia, the roads were dry. The two men were lost in thought. Glancing at Welborn, Leo asked, “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I’m thinking my mother told me not to rile Jesus.”

Leo laughed. “I’m Old Testament myself, but that’s when God was
really
wrathful.”

“Heckuva thing that rain and lighting and thunder showing up just when it did.”

“Charlton Heston couldn’t have done better,” Leo agreed.

Welborn had gone to talk with Leo after receiving permission from McGill. The Air Force lieutenant had explained to the former NASCAR driver that he planned to arrest a Navy captain who might try to avoid being taken into custody.

“How’s he gonna do that?” Leo asked.

“In his Dodge Viper is what I’m thinking,” Welborn replied.

Leo grinned. “This Navy captain have any real driving experience?”

“Not professionally, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean. So he’s just your average Bubba with a whole lot of horses under the hood and a heavy foot.”

“That’s how I see it. I can get us the use of an Audi TT, if that’d help.”

“Don’t bother,” Leo said. “My ride’s a lot faster.”

“Faster than a Viper?”

“I’m really not supposed to say what top end is.”

But as McGill had suggested, Leo was interested in helping. After he took care of a little matter at Lafayette Square. Which was how Welborn had come to be present.

Leo took the Route 29 turnoff and dropped down to the Leesburg Pike. A few minutes later, he pulled smoothly to a stop in front of Arlene Cowan’s residence. The curtains were drawn, but a light was on downstairs.

“If Captain Cowan should pull up while I’m inside, place him under arrest.”

“As a duly sworn driver of the White House Transportation Agency?”

“As a citizen of the United States. Just put your gun on him and call out.” Welborn had already ascertained that Leo was licensed to carry. “I’ll be right there with my federal warrant.”

“And if he rabbits, I’m the hound.”

“And call the state police. I’ll be along shortly.”

Leo looked at a dark house across the street. “I’ll be over there in the driveway.”

“Thanks, Leo.”

“Thank you, brother. I’m hoping to have some fun tonight.”

Arlene Cowan had a spot of dust on her chin when she opened her door. Welborn was tempted to wipe it off, she looked so fetching. Her hair was piled up atop her head, strands poking out here and there. She wore a man’s white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the tails out. A pair of denim shorts did little to hide long legs shaped by lean muscle. Her feet were bare; her toenails painted a dusty rose.

Welborn offered her his handkerchief. His mother advised he always carry one.

“Your chin, Arlene. You smudged it a little.”

She tidied herself and gave him his hanky back.

“I’m not going to get my money, am I? From Dex, I mean.”

“His car’s worth about eighty grand; you ought to get that in the divorce. He won’t need it where he’s going.”

“Well, hell,” she said. “Come on in. There’s some champagne left. But if you don’t want any, I’ll drink it.”

They went inside. Boxes were stacked high and wide. The living-room rug was rolled up against a wall. The only place to sit was a love seat placed to look out a window on the backyard. Arlene plopped down, grabbed an open bottle of champagne from an ice-filled plastic planter.

“You sure you don’t want any?” she asked, holding the bottle up.

“I’m on duty,” he said. He sat next to Arlene, but not too close.

“Duty being to arrest my husband?”

He nodded.

“What’s the charge?”

“Homicide. Washington Metro PD found Captain Cowan’s fingerprints in a car used to run down a woman.”

“Oh, God.” She knocked back some wine.

“I need your help,” Welborn told her. He said Dexter Cowan still listed the Falls Church address as his official residence. The Navy had no other known domicile for him. “I’d like you to call your husband, have him come here, if you know how he might be reached.”

Doubt etched itself across Arlene Cowan’s features. She was ready to divorce her husband, but that was open and aboveboard. Betrayal was underhanded and at odds with her upbringing. There were some things to which a lady just didn’t stoop.

Welborn understood her dilemma and sought to help her resolve it.

“Arlene, there could be a question as to whether Captain Cowan came by his newfound money honestly. I mean, the funds he used to buy his new car and other assets of which you may be unaware. It’s possible the government might seize his belongings. Possibly some of yours, too, if the title is held jointly.
Or
in appreciation for your help, it might relinquish everything he has to you.”

Her upbringing certainly hadn’t prepared her for this mess.

“My new job,” she said, “the salary’s quite good. But I found this really great house back home. It’s just wonderful. There’s even land to keep a horse. But I was counting on the money from Dex to swing it.”

“Disappointment can be a trial,” Welborn said.

Arlene nodded and drained her bottle. It was stooping time, after all.

“Dex gave me a new cell phone number a while back. When I thought he wanted me to catch him cheating.”

“Have you ever used it?”

“No, but if you promise to tell everyone how cooperative I was, I’ll give it a try.”

“Why don’t you do that, Arlene?”

McGill had no sooner gotten Caitie back to the White House than the phone rang in the residence. He was relieved to have his daughter safe, but before picking up he prayed:
Please, please, please. Let it be Carolyn.

It wasn’t. Patti was on the phone.

“Sweetie was wonderful,” she said. “I wish there was some kind of medal I could give her. She almost got Godfrey to confess.”

McGill knew just the moment to which Patti referred, when the reverend looked as if he might swallow his tongue.

“Caitie was a picture of strength, too,” Patti added.

“She wants your job,” McGill told her.

His youngest was in a guest room on another phone, talking to her friends back home, asking excitedly if they’d seen her on television.

“The next time I campaign, we’ll take her along. A month on the rubber-chicken circuit should cure her of that.”

McGill could only hope. “You think we accomplished anything tonight?” he asked. “Godfrey didn’t exactly call off the dogs.”

“I think we’ll know about that shortly. But you did what people in my business always threaten to do to each other. Go over each other’s heads and speak directly to the people. I don’t know what headway we’d have made with Sweetie by herself, as great as she was. But when those people in the park and everyone watching on TV saw Caitie’s face, it had to drive the point home: There’s no justification for killing this child.”

There was no justification for killing Andy Grant, either, McGill thought, but that didn’t stop the SOBs. He kept that last bit to himself. Instead, he asked, “Is your foreign endeavor set to commence soon?”

“I expect I’ll be hearing shortly.”

McGill paused, then brooked the subject that was uppermost on his mind.

“The FBI knows you’re at Camp David, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you still haven’t —”

“I’m sorry, Jim. Not a word about Carolyn and Lars.”

Two minutes after McGill said good-bye to Patti, the phone rang again.

Carolyn!
he thought.

It wasn’t her. A woman was on the line. McGill didn’t recognize her voice. Which was passing strange, because yet another benefit of life at the White House was that you didn’t get wrong numbers or telemarketing calls, not even from charities or politicians.

To direct-dial the residence, you needed to know not only the root number but also a special suffix code. The chance of hitting the right sequence randomly was nil.

Yet: “Mr. McGill, you are there?”

“Yes, who is this?”

For one stomach-churning moment, he thought it was an unlikely-sounding kidnapper; Carolyn had the code to call the residence.

“I am Siran Missirian. You know my husband, Dikran.”

Dikki Missirian. His landlord on P Street. To whom McGill had given his number at the White House in case of dire emergency. Such as his office catching fire.

“Yes, Mrs. Missirian, is everything all right?”

“No, not all right at all.”

McGill could hear her anxiety now.

“Dikki not come home tonight,” she said.

It was a complaint he’d heard countless times as a cop. Most were of no consequence; others were very serious. He placed Mrs. Missirian’s call in the latter category.

“What time were you expecting him?”

“Seven o’clock, Dikki tell me.”

McGill looked at his watch. It was nine fifteen.

“You called the Metro police?”

“Yes.”

“And they told you it was too soon for them to do anything.”

“Yes.”
She broke down, and the tears came.

McGill gave her a moment. “Did Dikki let you know if he had to stay late? If he had any unusual business.”

She did her best to compose herself. “He tells me this, yes. A man is meeting him to sign lease for his new building. He says this take fifteen, thirty minutes most; fifteen more, he be home.”

McGill had never met Mrs. Missirian, but Dikki had shown her picture to him. She was young and quite pretty. McGill didn’t think for a moment that Dikki was out fooling around.

“Mrs. Missirian, you’ve tried calling your husband’s office?”

“Yes, and mobile phone. Phones only ring and ring.”

“Did you go by his office in person?”

“No, Dikki not like me to go out alone at night.”

“Did your husband tell you the name of the man he was waiting for?”

“Yes, the man is a doctor.”

“Did you get the doctor’s name?”

“I have it written. Wait, please … doctor’s name is Benjamin Casey.”

Benjamin Casey? A doctor?
Dr. Ben Casey?

McGill not only remembered the show, he recalled the star’s name: Vince Edwards. Likened to Rory Calhoun, he was in touch with that era of pop culture.

“Mr. McGill, please. You are detective. You will help me find my husband?”

Deke had already taken off on his well-deserved personal time. McGill had lent Leo out to Welborn. Sweetie had said she was going out to eat with Putnam Shady, but hadn’t said where. He was sure he could get Celsus to provide him with someone, but he’d be damned if he’d owe that stiff a favor.

He could simply play it safe and extend his regrets to Mrs. Missirian.

Only he knew just how she felt: the same way he did about Carolyn.

“Mrs. Missirian, I’m leaving for P Street right now. I’ll let you know what I find.”