The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol (22 page)

“Isn’t it odd that she did it to every room in which POTUS might have had some meeting except for Drucker’s?” I ask.
 

“Not necessarily. She knew of the animus between the two men. Knowing Lee would rarely set foot in there, perhaps she thought it wasn’t worth the hassle.”
 

“Another reason could be that he’s Quorum,” I counter.

Ryan shakes his head at the thought. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I hope not! I really don’t want to go there. I’m hoping this is a simple case of political ambition. In any event, we lucked out. Such a conversation happened right outside his door.”

“With whom?” I ask.

“Just watch.” Arnie clicks the button.
 

On the screen, Drucker is coming out of a meeting in the Roosevelt Room. The halls are bustling, but when he passes Gordon Soames, the White House photographer, he nods and smiles. They stop to exchange small talk—something about the Washington Nationals’ losing streak. But then you hear Gordon say, “They’re meeting now.”
 

Drucker softly asks: “On Hercules?”

Gordon gives barely a nod.
 

“Is it in place?” Drucker asks.

Gordon gives another imperceptible nod.
 

They then go their separate ways.

“By ‘it,’ do you think they meant a drone?”

“We don’t think it; we know it,” Ryan declares. “Eileen’s cloud has a file with the drone’s footage of Lee and Marcus Barnham’s meeting in the Oval Office. Its timestamp matches the date of this audio feed.”

“When will you break the news to Lee?”

“First thing tomorrow. By then, Jack will have gotten the unadulterated verification we need from the suspect.” He rubs his face wearily. “That is to say, Gordon. If need be, Jack will detain him, or bring him here to Los Angeles. I’m sure the president has a few questions for him as well.”
 

“It’s going to be interesting to see what Lee wants to do about Drucker.”

“My guess is nothing—at least at first. But it’s a card he can play when the right time comes: either with the party bosses, or against Drucker himself, criminally—if you’re right and he’s Quorum.”

“We may never know.” Emma’s voice comes from the doorway. Her face looks strained. Nicky sleeps in her arms. “Drucker is in a coma.”

“What?” Ryan and I shout in unison.
 

Emma lays her son in his father’s arms. “It happened twenty minutes ago. His motorcade was hit after he left Hilldale to go back to LAX. Mrs. Drucker is confirmed dead, as are the security detail who were in her car with her. The media is reporting it as terrorism, but no one has claimed the hit, so we don’t know if it’s a domestic or international cell that caused the chaos. The president and his family are now in lockdown, in Lion’s Lair.”

“That means all of Hilldale will be secured as well! I should get home! Mary, Evan, Jeff, and Jean-Pierre are still awake, and they’ll have so many questions—”

“Donna, wait! I think you’ll want to know about the hit on the Spooks Anonymous group at the Hilton.”

Emma’s words stop me short. “Yes, of course.”

“As you suspected, there were two attackers. Frankly, I’m surprised there weren’t more dead and injured in the melee, but they seemed to have targeted just the man talking.”

“They could have taken him out after the meeting,” Ryan points out. “They also used this opportunity to send a message to the spook community.”
 

“Who exactly is ‘they’?” Arnie wonders aloud.

“Hard to say,” Emma replies. “They dodged security well enough. The only thing I know for sure is that one is a woman and one is a man. Both were dressed casually. She had on a sunhat and glasses. He wore a baseball cap, false facial hair, and dark glasses.” Emma scans through the camera footage for us to make her point. “I tracked them to their vehicle, and then picked them up via satellite surveillance.”

She fast-forwards to Acme’s SatCom feed as it follows the car—

Which hits the 405 and goes south, into Orange County.

It gets off a few exits before Hilldale, taking a two-lane back road instead. It’s on one of the less traveled routes used by Lee’s security detail to deliver him and other dignitaries to Lion’s Lair.
 

The suspects pull the car off the road, behind a shed that keeps it from being seen from either direction. The car is close enough that they can climb onto the shed from the car’s roof. When they jump out, they are both wearing ski masks. They leap up there with a couple of big boy toys—in this case, MANPADs: shoulder-launch surface-to-air missiles.
 

Half an hour later, their target comes into sight: the convoy of limousines and SUVs that made up Vice President Drucker’s motorcade.
 

They allow the first few cars to go by before taking out one of the limos. When the missile makes impact, the explosion sends metal, glass, and carnage in all directions including toward other cars.
 

“That must have been the one with Mrs. Drucker,” I whisper.

The other limos swerve at the sight in front of them. The larger security cars make a half-moon around the other three limos in an attempt to shield them.
 

They succeed, but at the expense of yet more brave agents.
 

A second blast from one of the terrorist’s MANPADs tosses an SUV in the air; when it lands, debris shatters the glass in one of the limousines as it attempts a U-turn.
 

Still, the limo screeches away.
 

The others speed off after it.

The terrorists must know an SOS went out because they leap off the shed.
 

Their SUV detours around the disabled vehicles and the fire-ravaged debris, taking them in the opposite direction from where they came.
 

“If they wanted to assure themselves of the kill, why didn’t they wait until Drucker was safely ensconced on Air Force Two?” I ask. “One of the missiles would have had no problem taking it down.”

“Perhaps they felt a closer proximity would guarantee a hit,” Ryan muses.
 

“Or maybe it brought back too many memories of the last failure,” Emma replies.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Keep watching,” she warns me.

We see the terrorists’ SUV zig and zag through Orange County’s catacomb of neighborhoods.
 

Suddenly, I realize it’s headed toward Hilldale.

They change their mind when they see the lineup of law enforcement waiting at the entry. Instead, they turn around and head back toward the 405. When they get to the exit, they pull over into a strip mall, where they ditch their vehicle for two others.
 

The woman, back in her disguise, jumps out of the car first, from the passenger side. She grabs both MANPADs, stuffs them in the trunk of a station wagon, and drives off.

The bearded man jumps into a sports car: the Jaguar F-type. Before he peels off, we watch by his side view mirror as he pulls off his beard:

It’s Carl.

But…
how?

“I’ve…I’ve got to get home!” I stumble out the door.

There is no time to lose.

The police blockades on the way to Hilldale add another hour to what is usually just a half-hour commute. All the while, I hit a round robin of telephone numbers on my speed dial, hoping to reach Mary, Jeff, or Evan, but no luck. The lines are jammed. I’m sure this is part of the security measures Homeland Security has taken in response to this crisis. When I hit the barricades at Hilldale’s entry gate, I use my security clearance to get inside.

I pull into my drive to find a dark house. I run inside, shouting, “Mary? Jeff? Evan?”

Mary runs out, a finger to her lips to silence me. “Mom! Shhhh! Trisha is still asleep! What’s wrong?”

I collapse in relief. “I couldn’t get through to anyone’s cell phone! There was an attack on the vice president. All of Southern California is in lock-down, specifically Hilldale.” I’m talking so fast that my words come out in fits and stops.
 

By now, Jeff, Evan, and Jean-Paul are hovering over me. I stare back, incredulous at their silence to this news. “Weren’t you aware of any of this?”

They exchange shamed glances. “Um…no! We were too busy trying to solve the issue with the ghost,” Evan explains.

“The
ghost
?” I squeal. “What the heck are you talking about?”

Jeff grabs my hand. “Come here! You have to see it!”

He’s got his laptop set up in the great room. The screen shows Trisha, asleep in her bedroom. “While you were out of town, I set up a few security cameras in Trisha’s room,” Jeff explains. “I’ve been monitoring her sleep, just like I promised. Well, tonight
, he came
.”

Jeff hits the fast forward button.

Carl walks into Trisha’s room. He moves toward her bed, staring down and watching as she sleeps. He’s about to lean down to kiss her cheek when he looks over to the door as if he heard a noise.

The next minute, he’s gone.

As awestruck as I am, all I can mutter is, “She was right!”

“What do we tell Trisha?” Mary asks.
 

“I…I don’t know. Your father will be home tomorrow morning. I want to wait until he’s here and discuss it with him.”

I wish he were home now. I hate the thought of sleeping alone.
 

Then again, it’s not as if Carl comes to me. It took him long enough, but he finally realized he wouldn’t find me eager to see him in any form he takes.
 

I head for the stairs, but not for the master bedroom.
 

Tonight, I’m bunking with Trisha.

Chapter 12

Haunted House

How do you know you live in a haunted house? That’s easy!

• When you pass mirrors and you catch glimpses of wraiths that dissipate, like a fine mist, before you get a second glance. (Thankfully, they don’t look like anyone you buried in the backyard.)
  
• You hear whispers and crying and pleading coming through the walls, at all hours of the night—and it’s not coming from your dungeon’s guests. (That’s what a good ball gag is for…)
  
• Doors open and shut, and stairs creak, even when no one else is there. (Most certainly not the cops! Why would anyone suspect little ol’ you of murder, torture, and mayhem?)
  

If you can’t shake the feeling of dread, ask yourself: “Is it time I sell my house?”
 

Well now, that depends. Is it in an appreciating neighborhood? Is it in an excellent school district? Can you at least recoup the cash you’ve already put into it? Then, by all means, do it!

As for potential buyers who oooh and ahhhh over the vibrant colors of your legacy peonies, no need to point out the reason: bone meal and organ mulch.

Oh—and, don’t worry about the dungeon. Some buyers consider it an ideal entertainment space.
 

I feel an eerie presence in the room.
 

It’s not Trisha. Her little arm hugs my waist.

Which begs the question: Can I smash in the head of a ghost with the baseball bat that now lies under Trisha’s bed? Doubtful. Despite what we’re led to believe in movies, ectoplasm doesn’t really splatter. If it did, more ghosts would duck out of the way when we run into them—or
through
them, for that matter.
 

The head of my very live ex is another thing. What I saw on the satellite feed was a very real, very alive Carl—

So how can it be he was also in Trisha’s room at exactly the same time?

Better to take my chances that he’s back from the dead.
 

I drop to the floor, grab the bat, and swing—

My assailant grunts as he kicks something: apparently, it’s my daughter’s Furby, which declares, “Trisha is so much fun to play with!”

I’m about to swing again when I hear Jack hiss, “Damn, Donna! What the…
You almost broke my knee cap!”

The flashlight app on his cell phone goes on.

“Don’t put that thing under your head,” I grumble. “You look like a ghost. Speaking of which—”