“Yes sir. Enjoy your flight.”
He pocketed the cell, and flipped open his laptop. Maestro prepped the computer as he had done the night before. His return address was ready: WenAdams12@Eastl.edu. No thought as to what he would write was required. He had prepared immaculately for this moment. He typed the message.
-How is lunch?
He hit the Enter key and waited. Caitlin Prescott’s school schedule was as regular as clockwork. If he knew her, and he certainly did, she’d be in the cafeteria right about now. Whether she’d get his message on her phone or iPad was anyone’s guess. Really, what did it matter unless—
-what do you want?
That was quick. The assassin was very pleased she had answered. It told him she was still intrigued by their game of chess.
-Did I stir up some unpleasant memories concerning Terry?
- militia bastard.
The first daughter’s response was not quite up to her standards. He knew she had already done some research on his friends out west, but she’d failed to peel the onion’s next layer.
-Do you remember me?
-what are you talking about?
This was no act. Apparently she didn’t know. Yet.
-You saw me from the window.
The gate agent announced the pre-boarding for his flight to Oklahoma City. Maestro waited for a reply. One minute turned to two and then three. He had more to say, so much more. She had to answer. She had better answer.
His laptop chimed.
-let’s get one thing straight. i don’t know you. you don’t know me. got that?
The gate agent announced the boarding of first class passengers.
-Birthmark one-inch above right ear. Clinodactyly. Type B blood when first lady and president both have type A. You are experiencing an uptick in distractibility, irritability, even violent tendencies. Obsessive violent thoughts worry you. School is becoming more and more pointless. In a community of villagers and hunters, you’ve always believed you were a villager. Now you realize otherwise. And your most profound question is this: Who am I? You know, Caitlin. You know. You saw me from the window.
He waited another three minutes for a response. What he finally got was clumsy, but not unexpected.
-who are you?!
The assassin typed back quickly.
-I am no one.
-cut the shit!
Passengers in rows ten through twenty-five were told to board. His fingers raced.
-Wandering Child
So lost
So helpless
Yearning for my guidance.
He tapped the Enter key.
-last time i will ask this, asshole!
Maestro typed his final response, a response worthy of a maestro. A simple tap of the Enter key sent the final clue on its way. It was simply brilliant.
-I am Vader.
He shut the laptop and boarded his flight for Oklahoma City.
Chapter 15 Sidwell Friends 2:45 PM
Caitlin Prescott stepped from the curb of the upper school, rubbed her hands briskly together and glanced up at the gray clouds rolling overhead. Her Secret Service Detail waited patiently behind her. She tightened her grip on the worn leather book-bag she’d been hauling around since August and picked up her pace. She hurried into the school’s parking garage, finding the limousine in its usual location. The traffic on Wisconsin Avenue buzzed just beyond.
Agent Jim McManus stood next to the armored Cadillac limousine, his hand resting on the door handle. As Caitlin approached, he nodded and yanked open the door she was told weighed as much as the cabin door to a 747. “Good afternoon, Miss Prescott,” McManus said mechanically. “How are you—“
“Has there been anything from Lisa Wong?”
She had called and texted the teacher a couple dozen times since first hour.
“We have nothing yet, Miss Prescott.”
The first daughter stepped into the limousine, then motioned to McManus. The agent leaned in. “Take me to St. Ann’s.”
“St. Ann’s Catholic Church?”
She nodded. “I won’t be long.”
McManus frowned, then radioed the agent up front. They spoke in hushed tones for the next minute. Caitlin knew they were debating this unexpected turn of events. Eventually McManus shut the heavy door, and they were soon speeding up Wisconsin Avenue.
They found a curbside parking spot along Yuma, a street lined with shady oaks and maples. The first daughter stepped from the limousine and paused on the sidewalk. The church stood to her right, and was connected to a beige three-story building.
In the Joint Operations Center, located on the top floor of the Secret Service Headquarters on H Street and 9th, Caitlin Prescott’s designation, FDOTUS (First Daughter of the United States) appeared on the large satellite image projected on the far wall. “We have you,” said the agent manning the center consul. The agency had a term for unexpected diversions such as this one; it was known as a pop-up, and they were often annoying and unsettling. Jim McManus answered back, “We’ll make this as brief as possible.”
“Please do,” answered the agent.
Back on Yuma, McManus joined Caitlin Prescott on the curb. McManus sent Kiel and Wells to the church rectory. Their job was to announce the first daughter’s arrival and secure the area.
He turned to her. “I’d sure like to know what we’re doing, Miss Prescott.”
There was no need to answer him just yet. “We ready?” she asked.
“This way,” he said.
They passed through a Gothic-style archway, and then through a set of wooden doors. Kiel and Wells stood at opposite ends of the short hallway. The rectory staff stood frozen, staring at the first daughter as she entered the building.
Caitlin smiled. “Excuse us. We won’t be but a minute. Do you think I might borrow a piece of paper and a couple of envelopes?” she asked, motioning to a nearby desk. A wide-eyed secretary immediately obliged. “Thank you.” Caitlin took a few steps up the hallway, then turned to McManus. “Where is the Counseling Room?”
“The Counseling Room?” he repeated.
“You do work here, don’t you?
McManus exhaled, motioning for the other two agents to hold their positions. “Very well. Follow me.”
There was nothing remarkable about the room—just four plaster walls and two sofas that faced one another, along with a dated a/c window unit used mainly during the summer months. The first daughter and the agent took seats opposite one another.
“What are we doing, Miss Prescott?” McManus asked.
Caitlin held up her hand, ripped the piece of paper she had obtained from the secretary into three strips, and then scribbled something on each of them. She stuffed each of the two envelopes with a piece of paper, sealing them with several licks of the flap. The third strip of paper she kept next