Long Live the Queen

Beth sat down on one of the settees in the Center Hall—obviously a girl with nothing but time. “It’s okay if you can’t. I’m just wondering why.”

  Christ, was she stupid? “They can see me,” Meg said.

  “What, from the street?” Beth asked.

  Meg nodded, the thought so terrifying that, even in the windowless Center Hall, she felt exposed. Afraid.

  “We always sit out there when I come,” Beth said. “And we never see anyone.”

  Meg hunched a little in the wheelchair. “We see people walking.”

  “We see little tiny shapes far away,” Beth said. “Besides, I thought that’s why your parents have the lights kept low out there.”

  Meg shook her head. “That’s to save energy.”

  “And here I was, thinking it was for privacy,” Beth said.

  Which was, of course, exactly what it was for. Meg sighed.

  Beth got up from the settee. “If you don’t like it, we can come right back in.”

  “This is pressure,” Meg said.

  “Yeah, but just barely.” Beth guided her wheelchair into the Yellow Oval Room and over to the combination window-and-door which led to the balcony. As she opened the door, fresh summer air blew into the room, feeling warm and clean. “Hey, it’s nice out.”

  Less humidity than usual, for Washington. Meg nodded, hoisting herself onto her crutch, concentrating on not being afraid. Or, at least, not letting Beth see that she was afraid.

  “Need help?” Beth asked.

  Meg shook her head, tremblingly making her way outside. Outside. She lowered herself onto the white wrought-iron couch—which had thick green cushions to make it more comfortable.

  Beth dragged over one of the smaller white chairs and set it in front of her. “Here.”

  Meg lifted her leg onto it. “Thanks.” Also, if there was trouble, she could take—slight—cover behind it, which might have been Beth’s strategy.

  Or not.

  “No problem,” Beth said. “You want me to go get some soda or something?”

  And leave her alone out here? “No,” Meg said quickly.

  Beth paused, halfway to the door. “I’d only be gone a minute.”

  “Please don’t,” Meg said, ready to panic.

  “Okay.” Beth sat down in a heavy wicker chair. “No problem.”

  Meg took a few deep breaths, trying to relax. To get the courage to look up.

  “Maybe it’s a little chilly out here,” Beth said, very casual. “You want to go back inside?”

  “I’m fine,” Meg said, gripping the iron arm of the couch with her good hand. This was the White House; they were safe. No one could see them. They couldn’t be much safer than where they were, even if—she opened her eyes. “I-I am kind of thirsty. Would you mind getting us something?”

  Beth looked at her, then nodded. “Sure thing. Be right back.”

  Alone on the balcony—maybe safe, maybe not—Meg could feel herself shaking. Feel her heart beating. Nothing was going to happen. Not here, anyway. She forced herself to look up and out at the view: the West Wing and the OEOB to her right, and then, straight ahead, the bright fountain near the end of the South Lawn, the iron fence, where there were still piles of flowers and cards strangers kept leaving, the Ellipse, the Washington Monument, and the Jefferson Memorial beyond that. She couldn’t see them, of course, but the Capitol was down the Mall to the left; the Lincoln and Vietnam Memorials, to the right. And off in the distance, obscured by the night sky, was the Tidal Basin, the Potomac beyond.

  She took some deep breaths. No one could see her. Maybe no one was even looking. And if they tried, she had the chair back in front of her, and the big white columns, and some huge pots of geraniums. And there were security devices—most of which, she barely even knew about. Sensors and cameras and detectors and stuff. So, if anyone tried to—

  “Hi,” Beth said, her voice muffled by the bag of tortilla chips between her teeth. She put two glasses of lemonade and some napkins down on the glass end table. “Look good?”

  Meg nodded, letting out her breath.

  Beth moved her chair, so that they were perpendicular to each other—and could both reach the drinks and chips. “Nice out here.”

  Realizing that her hand was cramped from gripping the arm of the couch, Meg let go. “Yeah.” She picked up her glass, and they sat there for a minute.

  “You can talk or not,” Beth said. “Whatever the hell you want.”

  “Not,” Meg said.

  Beth shrugged, opening the bag of chips. “Whatever you want.”

  They sat there for a long time, long enough to finish the lemonade and half of the chips.

  “Neal’s room is right there,” Meg said, gesturing towards the window to their right.

  “You know he can’t hear us,” Beth said. “Besides, he sleeps like a rock.”

  Which he did. Sometimes, even when Steven did obnoxious stuff like dump water on him, Neal didn’t wake up.

  “I can’t talk to anyone,” Meg said. “I mean, I told the FBI stuff, but—” But, nothing personal. “I mean, I didn’t lie to them, but—I don’t know.”

  “‘Just the facts ma’am,’” Beth said.

  Meg nodded.

  “What about your parents?” Beth asked.

  Meg shook her head. “They’re so upset that I don’t want—I mean, my mother, especially.”

  “She must feel pretty guilty,” Beth said.

  Meg nodded.

  Beth started to say something, then stopped.

  “No,” Meg said, anticipating the unspoken question. “I’m not all that mad at her. Just sometimes.”

  Beth nodded.

  It was quiet, but she stiffened when she heard movement down in the grass, not relaxing until she saw that it was an agent patrolling the top of the South Lawn with a K-9 dog.

  “I can’t seem to talk to Josh, either,” Meg said. “I mean, about anything.”

  Beth shrugged. “You guys were having trouble talking before this even happened.”

  True. Meg nodded.

  “It’s probably better that you’d already broken up,” Beth said. “This would have really messed things up.”

  Meg nodded. “I still want to try and be friends with him, though. I mean, you know.”

  “So, we’ll have him come over while I’m here,” Beth said. “Maybe that’ll make things easier.”

  Maybe. Meg nodded, looking up at the underside of the balcony ceiling—the edges of which kind of needed a fresh coat of white paint, frankly, and out at the dark night and the bright monuments. Then, she looked at Beth, who shrugged. Receptively.

  “How much do you know?” she asked. “About what happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Beth said, uncertainly. “I mean, you know, everything that was in the papers and Newsweek and on the Internet and all.”

  Meg frowned. “I haven’t seen any of that.” Although she was pretty sure that the White House would have released the simplest version possible. Just enough to be plausible. “Did my mother tell you stuff?”

  “A little,” Beth said, nodding. “Preston did, too.”

  She didn’t like to think of people talking behind her back. “When was that?” she asked stiffly.

  “He was with the car that picked me up at the airport,” Beth said.

  Oh. Well, okay, that made a certain amount of sense. But still. Meg frowned. “So, basically, you know what happened?”

  Beth nodded.

  Of course, she hadn’t even told her parents everything. None of the more—personal—things. She checked to make sure that Neal’s room was still dark—which it was—and then looked over at Beth, who shrugged again.

  Oh, hell. “I got drunk with him,” she said. Something no one knew.

  “One of—them?” Beth asked.

  “Just this one guy,” Meg said. “He was the only one I ever really saw.” Except for the faceless gunmen.

  Beth nodded.

  “It was after he ripped my knee up—I
don’t know how long.” Meg stopped. Getting into this was a mistake. Maybe she should just go inside to bed, and—

  “What happened then?” Beth asked.

  Meg shook her head, looking out at the South Lawn.

  “Come on, Meg,” Beth said. “You have to tell someone.”

  The Truman Balcony—probably—wasn’t bugged. She hoped. She took a deep breath, then released it. “I got drunk with him. He had this bottle of Laphroaig, and he wanted me to have some, too.”

  Beth nodded.

  “My parents drink that,” Meg said. Which had made it that much more disturbing. “I don’t know what his motive was. I mean, maybe he thought I’d get sick, and he could laugh, or—I don’t know.”

  “Pretty weird,” Beth said.

  Yeah. “I got literally drunk. I mean, I never have before.” She looked over uneasily. “You think there’s something wrong with me?”

  “For not getting drunk before?” Beth asked.

  Meg shook her head. “No, for—talking to him.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you had much choice,” Beth said.

  “No, but—” Meg shivered. Thinking about this was—“I was so sure he was going to rape me.”

  Beth didn’t say anything, but Meg saw her shoulders hunch up.

  “Every time he came in, I thought—only then, I—” Meg stopped. “Don’t tell anyone this.”

  “I won’t,” Beth said.

  Not strong enough. “Don’t tell anyone,” Meg said. “Not about any of this.”

  Beth reached out and started to touch her arm, pulled back—probably because of the splint, and patted her right knee reassuringly, instead. “You know I won’t, Meg.”

  Which she did know. She and Beth never broke each other’s secrets. Never had. “I kind of—” This was going to be humiliating, and Meg couldn’t look at her. “I offered to—I asked him if my, you know, would keep him from—well—”

  “Sounds smart to me,” Beth said.

  Meg shook her head, ashamed all over again.

  “He was going to kill you,” Beth said.

  Which might have been preferable.

  “What happened then?” Beth asked, after a pause.

  Meg swallowed. “He, uh, said it wouldn’t make any difference.”

  “That was honest of him,” Beth said.

  Meg looked up. “He was honest.” Like about Josh? “I mean—I can’t explain it.” Beth didn’t say anything, and she took a deep breath. “I would have done it. I mean, if I thought—” She met Beth’s eyes. “Don’t ever tell anyone. They’d think I—”

  “I’m not going to,” Beth said, “but everyone would understand. I mean, if something’s going to save your life, you do it.”

  Meg nodded, automatically looking at her hand.

  “Yeah,” Beth said, following her gaze. “Like that.”

  Yeah. Meg looked away from the splint, and pins—and deformity. “I think that night saved my life. I mean, talking to him and all. I think he kind of—I think he liked me.”

  Beth nodded.

  Meg looked around, even though she knew—hoped—they were alone. “Can I tell you something worse?”

  “Sure,” Beth said.

  “I liked him.” She felt herself blushing. “I don’t mean I liked him”—yeah, she did—“but, he—he reminded me of Preston.” Horribly enough.

  Beth’s eyebrows went up. “Of Preston?”

  “Yeah.” Despite the fact that it was July, Meg felt cold, and she folded her good arm around herself. “I mean, not exactly, but—” But what? “Like if he had an evil twin.”

  Beth laughed. “An evil twin?”

  Meg didn’t laugh. “I’m serious.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Beth said. “I just—Preston?”

  Meg tried to think of a way to describe it. “He was really smart. I mean, really smart. And really—calm. And—a little amused all the time, you know?”

  Beth nodded.

  “He got my jokes,” Meg said.

  Beth nodded again. “Ah. No wonder you liked him.”

  “I didn’t like him, I—” That was a lie. “Yeah, I did. I—” She frowned, searching for a better comparison. It was too upsetting to associate him—in any way—with one of her favorite people in the world. “Like, if you had a really sadistic big brother, who you followed around anyway.”

  “Jesus,” Beth said.

  “I know I’m not explaining it right.” Meg glanced over, trying to read her reaction. “He could have killed me. He should have.”

  “Yeah, but—” Beth shook her head. “He didn’t exactly put you on a bus to Washington.”

  “No,” Meg said slowly, “but—”

  “Preston would have killed you,” Beth said.

  Meg stared at her, instantly afraid. “What?”

  “I don’t mean Preston would hurt you,” Beth said. “Ever. I just—he wouldn’t leave someone like that. Leave them to suffer.”

  “Yeah, but—” Meg blinked a few times, trying to digest that. “I got away.”

  “He didn’t plan it that way,” Beth said, looking very grim. “I mean—he chained you up. He nailed you in. I mean—Jesus.”

  She hadn’t really thought about it like that before—and it was awful. Stomach-turning. And sort of too much to absorb. “You mean, he wanted me to die like that?” Meg asked. “Really badly?”

  “I don’t know,” Beth said. “But, I wouldn’t be grateful to him for something you did yourself.”

  Meg thought about lying in the cold, hard dirt, the heavy chain clamped around her wrist, slowly, slowly feeling her life disappear. Hour by hour—minute by minute, even—she’d felt herself—“I guess it wasn’t very—humane.”

  “I guess not,” Beth said.

  Thinking about the enormity of being able to sit out on the balcony, quiet and safe, her family a few rooms away, Meg shivered again. Hard. “I’m really not supposed to be here, am I?”

  Beth seemed to shiver, too. “No.”

  There didn’t seem to be much else to say, so Meg leaned back, looking at the very few stars she could see beyond all the lights. Strange to think how many, many more there were up there.

  “You’re looking pretty tired,” Beth said.

  So, what else was new? Meg laughed, a little.

  “You want to call it a night?” Beth asked.

  Meg nodded, reaching for her crutch.

  31

  BETH SAT IN on the physical therapy sessions for the next several days. Often, she gave slightly skewed sports advice; otherwise, she just read whatever book she was holding, while Meg ground her teeth together and lifted and pulled and pushed the various weights. Edith was very pleased. Dr. Brooks and the various orthopedic surgeons were, too.

  After exercising, and sitting through the electro-stimulus therapy, Meg would take one of the uncomfortable showers on her bench, then get into bed with a very small lunch tray. Usually, as soon as she was finished, she would take a nap. Then, Beth would “convince” her to get up and have dinner with everyone, and later, they would watch a movie or a baseball game with her brothers. Generally, her father—or, sometimes, Preston—would sit up there with them, too. And, increasingly, Preston didn’t remind her of anyone but himself. Thank God.

  Things were getting enough back to normal so that Steven and Neal started having their friends over again. Steven’s best friends were Vinnie and Jim, who were both punks. Cute punks, but still punks. Neal’s closest friend was Ahmed, a nice little boy with thick glasses, who always wore a turtleneck. Always.

  Her parents and Trudy were around, but not obtrusively so. Her mother clearly had a lot of catching up to do, because she was working even harder than usual—which was probably a good thing. But, Meg also sensed that she was spending quite a bit of time sequestered with FBI agents and the like. They hadn’t made much progress so far, but they had done things like find the mine-shaft. Which turned out to be—not that Meg really wanted any details—precisely that: an abandoned mine-s
haft, way the hell in the middle of the wilderness, up in the mountains above a North Georgia town called Ellijay. And reporters were apparently annoying the hell out of the people who lived in the area, by tramping around constantly, looking for new angles and human interest stories, trying to goose a little more mileage out of the whole thing.

  Regardless, although the summit meeting in Geneva had been postponed until October—and they weren’t exactly having state dinners and things all over the place—at least, there were strong signals that the White House was back in business. So to speak.

  Late at night, after Steven and Neal went to bed, she and Beth would sit in the solarium, or out on the patio on the Promenade, or down on the Truman Balcony, talking or not. Beth didn’t push her, or press for details—so, Meg found herself telling her more than she might have otherwise. What had happened, how she felt, how afraid she had been. She never really talked about how afraid she still was, but Beth probably figured it out. Especially since she still refused to go down to the First Floor, even—forget outside.

  On Sunday morning—Dr. Brooks had decided that it could be a day of rest—Meg was the last one to get up. By a long shot. Late enough, so that it was prudent to eat lunch, instead of breakfast. On, happily enough, a tray. Beth appeared in her room shortly after the tray did.

  “What’s on for today?” she asked, wearing shorts, a wild blue-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt, and black Converse All-Stars.

  Meg shook her head. “You’re too cool for me.”

  Beth grinned. “Well, everyone knows that.” She sat on the bottom of the bed. “So. What are we going to do?”

  Her preference would be to rest quietly—but, odds were, Beth wasn’t going to let her get away with that. “I don’t know.” Meg made herself eat a bite of her Mexican omelet. “What do you want to do?”

  “It’s really nice out,” Beth said. “Let’s sit on the roof. Get some sun.”

  There was probably no point in arguing. Meg sighed. “Okay. Out on the Promenade, maybe?”

  “Sure,” Beth said. “Why don’t we call Josh, too? See if he wants to come over.”

  Ah, the ulterior motive. But Meg nodded, and reached for the phone.

  Josh, it turned out, had the day off from his job at the golf course, and so, the three of them ended up sitting out on the Promenade patio, on chaise longues, Meg feeling self-consciously pale in her shorts and t-shirt—and splint and brace.