Long May She Reign

  Mr. Gabler’s eyebrows came together. “The toughest?”

  She was supposed to believe that he wasn’t monitoring the security logs regularly? Highly unlikely. “The nightmares,” she said.

  Mr. Gabler nodded now, so he must be fully up to speed on her tendency to wake everyone up in the middle of the night.

  “He’s handled it very delicately, and professionally—and I appreciate it,” Meg said. Granted, all of her agents had been kind to her during the late-night—and, sometimes, mid-afternoon—encounters, but Martin was her favorite, by far. The most comforting one.

  “Well, that’s good to hear.” Mr. Gabler made a quick note in a small leather-bound book, then returned it to his inside jacket pocket.

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to this, but—“How’s the, um, chatter lately?” she asked. Threats, intelligence, extremist groups bragging and preening.

  Mr. Gabler didn’t blink, but also didn’t respond immediately. “I would characterize it as being within expected levels,” he said.

  Not terribly consolatory. Meg nodded. “You mean, the elevated number of crackpots and whack jobs we now take for granted since I turned into sort of a touchstone for terrorism?”

  Mr. Gabler winced.

  That could legitimately be described as a big yes.

  “Everything is being very closely monitored, Meg, and I can assure you that we’re not unduly concerned at the moment,” he said.

  Unduly. “Preston says you guys kind of like it when the press flocks around me, because it can actually help security,” she said.

  He nodded in his careful way. “On occasion, members of the media have voluntarily come to us with observations and information about some of our protectees, and we welcome their input.”

  She could only hope that that journalistic response would be the norm, and not the exception.

  “Is there anything else you want to discuss with me?” he asked.

  Yes, even though it was embarrassing. Meg glanced around to make sure that no one—not even Preston—was listening. “Have you run a full background check on Jack Taylor?”

  “The Frisbee kid?” Mr. Gabler asked, and she nodded. “Several, actually. Why?”

  That sounded ominous. She looked at him nervously. “Did he come through okay? I mean, is there anything I should know about?”

  “Not from a security standpoint, no.” Mr. Gabler was a very serious, all-business type, but he suddenly cracked a smile. “But—well—”

  “What?” Meg asked, dreading the answer.

  “He may be a cad, Meg,” Mr. Gabler said.

  Not exactly a shocking revelation. Meg grinned, too. “Figured that out by myself, sir.”

  “In which case, you’re entirely on your own with this one,” Mr. Gabler said.

  The first good news she’d had all day.

  She hadn’t eaten anything at the lunch meeting, and Preston wanted to stop at Paresky and pick up something before they left, but she refused. The sooner they got to the hospital, the sooner she would find out how badly she’d injured herself. He frowned, but didn’t argue.

  “How much does it hurt?” he asked, once they were in the car.

  Finally, she was alone with someone around whom she could be completely honest without a second thought. “It’s god-damn killing me.”

  Preston nodded, and looked worried. “I was afraid that was going to be your answer.”

  The one possible upside was that she might get prescribed some slightly effective painkillers, at least for a week or two.

  “It’s terrible about the soldiers,” she said.

  He nodded.

  The last she had heard, there were now ten KIA, and seventeen injured, most of them seriously. Terrorists were claiming responsibility, but the White House’s public position was that the crash was a tragic accident and had been the result of unforeseen mechanical and weather-related difficulties. She had no idea whether this was true or not.

  Her knee seemed to be locked in place again, and she absentmindedly slapped the side of her leg and shook it loose to try and get herself into a more comfortable—or, anyway, less excruciating—position.

  “Your hand broke my heart,” Preston said.

  She frowned at him.

  “There you are, storming around in the snow, not even noticing that you’re trashing your knee, and the whole time,” he demonstrated with his own hand, “you have your poor little hand cupped in front of you.”

  Swell. Meg set her jaw. “In other words, I looked pathetic.”

  “You looked like the Avenging Angel,” Preston said. “Your hand just made me sad.”

  Well, it was sad. Especially, she assumed, for someone who had known her when she was still herself. “You know, you’re the only one who can look me in the eye. You and Beth.” She sighed. “And, strangely enough, Susan McAllister.”

  Preston nodded. “I noticed that about her.”

  His cell phone rang then, and it was her father, checking in. They were always cautious about the security of cellular transmissions, so they were both intentionally vague, on the off-chance that the conversation might be intercepted. But as far as she could tell, her mother was Not Happy, and he was still talking about the possibility of them both flying up to see her, even though they had all already agreed that it would only magnify the situation that much more, and should probably be avoided. She decided not to mention that, at the moment, she was Not Happy with him, either.

  “How bad are the stories?” she asked, after she’d hung up. She had steadfastly avoided turning on her television, looking at a newspaper, or hitting her usual haunts on the Internet for about eighteen hours now—which might well be a personal record.

  “Not as bad as they could have been,” Preston said. “The New York and Boston tabloids really went to town, and apparently, Fleet Street is getting ready to have a field day, too. But we were able to get it buried reasonably well with most of the print media, and it didn’t get too much play on the airwaves outside the Northeast and the Beltway. The blogs are working overtime, but that isn’t anything new. You can pretty much count on seeing a fair number of ‘where are they now’s and features following up on the murders for the next week or two.”

  “And the same about me,” Meg said, “only more so.”

  Preston’s phone rang and he glanced at the number on the display, but didn’t answer it. “Unfortunately, Meg, there’s too much file footage of you out there to suppress it all. And—well, more and more, you just look and sound too damn much like her, so they can’t resist, especially when something like last night comes along.”

  When she had thrown any political enemy her mother had a golden opportunity to make mischief and sow dissent. Christ, she needed some sleep. Meg closed her eyes. “How much damage did I do?”

  “Not that much at all,” he said. “I mean, yes, it’s too bad that, seeing the gestures and hearing the inflections, anyone watching immediately gets a very vivid image of the President blowing her stack, but the media isn’t exactly a much-loved institution, so not that many people are likely to be upset about your taking them to task. And, arguably, you may actually have done her some good.”

  Meg opened her eyes. Preston was a master of spin, but this one was going to be worth her full attention.

  “Think about it,” he said. “A lot of people out there are angry at her about what happened to you, but now they have some absolutely undeniable evidence that you’re not only not off languishing somewhere, but that you might even be thriving.”

  Oh, yeah. Big-time thriving.

  “It’s true,” Preston said. His cell phone rang again, but he turned it off without even checking the display this time. “Anyone who wants to assume the worst of her probably has a picture of you as a traumatized little victim, but what they saw last night was strength, and confidence, and total fearlessness. Which has to make them wonder how bad a parent she can be, if she has a daughter who bounces back from sheer hell so effor
tlessly.”

  “Effortlessly,” Meg said.

  Preston grinned. “Well, on camera, anyway.”

  Which, today, did matter more than reality. “It’s going to make it much harder for Beth to spread her rumors, though,” Meg said.

  Now, Preston laughed. “See? There’s always a silver lining.”

  Although she had a funny feeling that, even at this very moment, Beth was all over the Internet thwarting rumors.

  “Do you think that son-of-a-bitch saw it somewhere?” she asked.

  Preston didn’t answer right away. “Odds are. Depends on how far underground he’s gone.”

  Not very, was her guess—which did not, in her opinion, improve the chances that the FBI was ever going to find him. “How do you think it would have made him feel, seeing me like that?” she asked.

  Preston frowned.

  “Please tell me the truth,” Meg said. “I count on you for that.”

  Preston nodded, but still took his time before responding. “I think part of him was probably kicking himself because he shouldn’t have left you alive, but a bigger part felt a grudging respect.”

  A reasonable guess. “Maybe not so grudging,” Meg said.

  Preston looked at her thoughtfully. “Maybe not.”

  They were pulling up to the hospital now, and Meg forced her expression into some combination of nonchalance and impassiveness, since she could already see that there were a few reporters and photographers waiting around outside.

  “Don’t worry,” Preston said. “I’ll take care of them, and then come in and find you.”

  Good.

  A group of doctors and nurses, along with Vicky and Cheryl, were waiting just inside the entrance, with a gurney. Surprisingly—or maybe not—one of the physicians was Dr. Steiner, her primary orthopedic surgeon from Washington.

  Nice to know that her parents, and the White House, weren’t overreacting or anything.

  And now, the fairly large press contingent outside made more sense.

  “Hi,” she said, and then hopped up onto the gurney before anyone could help her—which made almost all of them gasp.

  She had expected them just to look at her knee, and check the pulses in her leg and all, but after she was taken off for preliminary X-rays and had fluid aspirated from the joint and so forth, she ended up having a comprehensive physical, too.

  “Oh, come on,” she said impatiently, when they snapped one of those elastic tourniquets around her arm and started drawing blood. “I just twisted my knee, a little.”

  “Bob wants us to do a complete workup,” Dr. Steiner said. Bob, being Dr. Brooks. “The President was very concerned to see that you’ve lost so much weight.”

  Which her mother had already expressed to her, at length, after seeing a copy of the full video feed from some network or other the night before. Meg had tried to convince her that the cameras had actually taken away ten pounds this time, instead of adding it, but the argument hadn’t gone over very well.

  “I am not pleased with the President right now,” she said to Preston, who had come in to check on her between phone calls.

  “Maybe the President’s daughter should be sensible enough to wait and complain bitterly to the President herself later on,” Preston said pleasantly.

  Right. Meg nodded, and let them take four small tubes of blood without further comment.

  The X-rays hadn’t shown any evidence of new fractures—which hardly came as a shock, since she hadn’t fallen down, and there apparently weren’t any vascular problems, either, but Dr. Steiner seemed to be very worried about “noticeable instability in the joint,” as well as the significant swelling and edema, and the possible need for surgical intervention, if one or more of her ligament grafts had failed. So, the MRI she had anticipated was going to be a reality.

  There were a few other patients already waiting, and although she knew the doctors wanted to move her ahead in line, she refused and waited her turn, instead. Especially after two emergency cases arrived, following a car crash. Most of the time, Preston sat with her, but he was also taking and making calls, and he’d left to bring her back some lunch, and then another cup of coffee, too. She enjoyed the latter.

  Vicky had been hovering about unobtrusively all afternoon, which made Meg wonder what her other patients were doing, but it was still nice to have a familiar, and calm, medical face around, while everyone else was busy fussing and fretting.

  Preston was off yet again—Christ, he was jittery today—and Vicky came over to sit next to her. Meg had been forced to change into a hospital gown, but she had switched to a wheelchair, because she was damned if she was going to recline on a gurney the whole time. Also, if she did, the odds were too high that she might fall asleep.

  They were sitting there quietly—Meg was too tired, and okay, too nervous, to concentrate on a magazine or anything—and then, Vicky broke the silence.

  “You’re going to ski, Meg,” she said.

  Yeah, right. Meg shook her head.

  “No, you are,” Vicky said. Insisted, really. “I’d never seen you move when you weren’t consciously thinking about it, and—you must have been a really fine athlete.”

  She’d been a hell of a lot of things before—all of them significantly better than whatever she was now. The detritus that remained.

  Vicky opened the small bag of potato chips Meg had ignored earlier and offered her some. It seemed impolite to refuse, so Meg took a couple.

  “My husband said it was like watching an All-Pro running back move through that crowd,” Vicky said, helping herself, too. “It was mobbed, it was snowing, you didn’t have your cane, you were very upset, and you still kept your balance the whole time. You even dodged that camera that almost hit you without any hesitation.”

  And look where it had gotten her. “I’m about to go have an MRI, because I was walking around in front of my dorm, and my knee couldn’t take the stress,” Meg said grimly. “That’s not a person who’s going to be skiing.”

  Vicky smiled at her. “Meg, you’re going to ski again, even if we have to figure out a way for you to do it standing on one foot. You won’t be as good as you were before, but you’ll still be a skier.”

  Meg gestured towards the hall. “There’s a whole group of doctors out there who pretty much think that walking is going to be beyond me.”

  “The whole group of doctors doesn’t know you very well,” Vicky said.

  Today, she was feeling as though no one knew anyone else even remotely. “Do you?” Meg asked, out of genuine curiosity.

  Vicky shrugged. “I know that you’re stubborn, and determined, and you can fight through pain. And now, I’ve got a real sense of your athleticism, which, believe me, is going to help you.” She smiled again. “The temper isn’t going to hurt, either. All you have to do is figure out how to harness it.”

  It would be nice to think that all, or even any, of that was true.

  Vicky got up. “Stand on your good leg for a minute.”

  Meg checked the corridor, since she was supposed to be resting quietly, with her knee propped up in an immobilizing splint, until it was time for her MRI.

  “Just for a minute,” Vicky said.

  Slowly, Meg stood up.

  “Bend your right knee a little and lean forward,” Vicky said. “Use the cane to keep yourself steady.”

  Dr. Steiner surely wasn’t going to like this much—but, Meg did it.

  Vicky nodded, and stood close enough to be able to catch her if she started to fall. “Okay. Hold that for a minute, and then I want you to roll from the inside of your right foot to the outside, a couple of times.”

  She had to tap the floor lightly with her cane during one of the weight shifts to keep upright, but other than that, it was pretty easy.

  “Good,” Vicky said. “Now—quick!—give me a skid stop.”

  Without thinking, Meg pivoted to the side on her right foot, flicking the cane up with one reflexive movement of her wrist. It felt—whoa. She
blinked in genuine surprise and looked over at Vicky, who was smiling away.

  “Congratulations, Meg,” she said. “You just skied.”

  Son-of-a-bitch. She had.

  * * *

  AFTER THE MRI—which had, as usual, made her feel anxious and claustrophobic, the doctors gave every indication that they were going to spend the next couple of hours conferring and consulting with Washington, and just generally being cautious and conservative and careful. The wheelchair was an annoyance, but they didn’t want her putting any weight on her leg until they had confirmed a diagnosis and decided upon a treatment plan. She had been hearing words like “joint effusion” and “meniscus” and “bucket handle tear” tossed about, which all sounded pretty depressing.

  “I bet I’m going to spend spring break having surgery,” she said to Preston, who was sitting next to her looking tense—and half-asleep.

  He nodded.

  “That sucks quite a lot,” she said.

  He nodded again.

  She wasn’t very good at sleeping while sitting up, but she had seen her mother, on numerous occasions, close her eyes in the backseat of a car, or even lean against a nearby wall, sleep for five or ten minutes, and wake up completely refreshed. Sometimes, she could even finish the sentence she had been speaking at the moment she’d dropped off. It was kind of scary.

  Or, possibly, narcoleptic.

  Apparently, though, she and Preston both finally dozed off, because a nurse had to wake them up to let them know that the doctors were waiting for them to come down to a small conference room, and Meg rubbed her good hand across her face, trying to get re-oriented. Preston looked very disheveled by his standards—which meant that he wasn’t wearing his jacket and his tie was slightly crooked.

  “Time to get the verdict, I guess,” she said, and he nodded.

  The initial diagnosis was that she had a Grade 2 tear of her medial collateral ligament—which she hoped was a fancy way of saying “bad sprain,” and a torn medial meniscus. Surgery was a near-certainty, but not an emergency, and the orthopedists’ general inclination was to keep her leg immobilized until the swelling went down, and continue evaluating her over the next few days. But they were very concerned about “the structural integrity of the joint” and Dr. Steiner’s recommendation was that she remain in the wheelchair, for the time being, in order to avoid all weight-bearing activities.