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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

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BOOK: Long Live the Queen
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Her mother nodded. “Very much like that, but a great deal more extensive.”
Jesus. Because the piles of tributes left for her mother had been
huge
.
“Anyway,” her mother said, “all of these are from people we know.”
“Okay.” She didn't have the energy to read, or even ask to see, the cards. “Those, um, animals are going to look nice in my bedroom.”
Her parents actually grinned.
“It was my first thought,” her father said.
Which was pretty funny. Vanessa, who was occasionally on the destructive side, would probably like nothing better than the chance to batter those bunnies around. Then, she thought of something. “Do people like Beth know I'm here? That I'm all right, I mean?”
Her mother nodded. “Would you like to call her? WHCA”—the White House Communications Agency—“has everything all set—”
Meg shook her head. “I'm too tired. Later, maybe.”
“Would you like to sleep some more?” her father asked.
Yes
.
WHEN SHE WOKE up, instead of her parents, she saw Preston sitting in the chair by the bed.
He smiled at her. “Hey.”
She smiled back, very happy to see him. “Hi.”
He got up, gave her a kiss on the forehead, then sat down again. “How you doing?”
“Okay.” Sort of. She noticed another large bouquet of roses. “Where did those come from?”
“I don't know,” he said. “Maybe it was the Flower Fairy.”
Meg smiled shyly. “They're really pretty.”
Neither of them said anything for a minute, then Preston grinned.
“Phre
no
logy?” he said.
She relaxed, feeling a little sheepish. “They told you that?”
“They told
everyone
,” he said.
Which was embarrassing, so she studied what he was wearing for a minute. A slouchy grey suit—the jacket unconstructed, a pale yellow shirt, and a grey-and-yellow paisley tie. His pocket handkerchief was a brighter yellow.
“Armani?” she said.
He shook his head. “Ah, would that it were. Versace.”
Which was still pretty damn good. She checked his shoes and felt her grin widening. “Are you wearing little
boots
?”
He stretched his legs out, and she caught a glimpse of grey socks—a shade lighter than his shoes, but darker than his suit—above the ankle-high boots. “Indeed I am,” he said.
For some reason, she found that hilarious—even more so than
the black-and-white zoot suit shoes he sometimes showed up to work in—and it took a great effort not to laugh. “You know what would have been one of the worst things about getting killed?”
“I don't know, Meg,” he said, sounding much more serious.
She gestured to indicate his entire ensemble. “Not seeing any more of your outfits. I mean, your outfits are usually the high point of my day.”
He laughed.
“I'm serious,” she said.
“Well, maybe we should work on making your days a little more stimulating,” he said.
She laughed, too, feeling an immediate, nearly gasp-inducing twinge in her ribs.
“How you feeling?” he asked.
To lie, or not to lie. “I don't know,” she said. “Kind of terrible.”
He nodded. “At least you look better than you did the last time I saw you.”
She frowned, trying to remember. “I saw you?”
“In the emergency room,” he said. “I brought your brothers to see that you really
were
all right.”
She frowned more, not remembering any of that. “My brothers were there, too?”
“You were pretty much out of it,” he said.
Jesus, she
must
have been. “Was I talking to you?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“I talked to you on the phone,” she said, suddenly remembering
that
much, at least.
He nodded.
“Did I make any sense?” she asked.
“You weren't really saying anything at
all
, kid,” he said. “I was pretty worried.”
“I was so tired.” She sighed. “I'm
still
so tired.”
He started to get up. “You want me to—?”
“No, I'd rather talk to you,” she said. “Or, you know, have you stay here.”
He nodded, and reached over to pick up her hand, Meg noticing—again—how strange and nice it was to feel safe.
“Where are my parents?” she asked.
“Thought they looked pretty tired themselves,” he said.
She hadn't seen either of them sleep so far, so they definitely must be. “You mean, they're resting?”
“I think your father might be,” he said. “Your mother's in a meeting.”
The latter, not being at all surprising. “She worked the whole time I was gone,” Meg said, “right?”
Preston nodded.
Because not negotiating would mean much less, if the government noticeably stopped functioning. And she wondered what the country thought about that—but didn't
really
want to know. Aware that Preston was looking at her intently, she let out her breath. “My father thinks the FBI's stupid.”
“It's been a pretty frustrating time,” he said.
Preston was a master at non-answers. Although he was usually pretty straight with
her
. “I guess if they don't come up with something, heads'll roll?” she asked.
“Heads have
already
rolled,” he said. “Believe me.”
A phrase which, taken literally, was terrifying.
“What?” Preston asked.
She shivered, not sure if she wanted to let go of his hand—or hang on more tightly. But, she didn't want to fall apart in front of him—or anyone else—so, she forced the image out of her mind. “I can ask you stuff, right? And you'll tell me?”
He nodded.
“I asked those FBI guys and everything, but they wouldn't really—” She swallowed. “What happened at the school?”
Preston hesitated—which was an answer in itself.
“I saw them both go down,” she said.
He nodded.
“I wish—” Now, on top of everything else, she was about to cry, too. “I really liked Chet. I liked him a lot.”
His other hand came over so that he was holding her hand between both of his. “The thing you have to remember, Meg, is that
none
of it was your fault. It's terrible, but it wasn't your fault.”
She blinked, some of the tears spilling over. “I stopped walking. I
know
I'm not supposed to—”
“You were told to stop,” Preston said. “Anyone would have.”
Meg looked up. “They heard that?” Her back-ups—in some form or other.
He nodded. “Took a second for them to realize that it wasn't just a reflex on his part.”
It had seemed so—benign. As though he was looking out for her. “The guy said they almost made it with the stun grenades and stuff,” she said.
Preston nodded again.
It was
way
too soon to be thinking about any of this. Ideally, she didn't
ever
want to think about it. “Shouldn't Dennis have
figured
they'd kill him?” she asked. “For knowing too much?”
“He talked a little,” Preston said, and she was glad he left off the “before he died” part. “I guess he thought they were just going to wound him.”
Christ, there must have been an
unbelievable
amount of money involved, from start to finish. “And then later, they would have like, retired him, because of the stress of it all?” she asked, a few more pieces of the whole thing falling into place.
Preston shrugged. “I don't know, maybe. No point in thinking about it
now
, though.”
Well, he was definitely right about that. In fact, there were a lot of details she'd just as soon never know. Which didn't make it any
less her fault. “I
knew
I didn't like him,” she said. “I knew there was something—”
Preston shook his head. “If anything, Meg, you thought he was
over
protective.”
Which was true, but—“I know,” she said. “But if I'd told you, or maybe my father, or—”
“Yeah, your buddy Josh was all worried about that, too. Says he knew you weren't going to tell anyone, so he should have,” Preston said. “But—initially, at least—the reality is that he probably would have just gotten a warning to back off a little. Give you some space.”
It was nice of him to try and let her down easily, but that didn't make it true. “He
probably
would have been taken off the detail,” Meg said.
“Maybe,” Preston said. “Not necessarily.”
She disagreed—but, okay. What she wanted to do, was stop asking questions, but there was still so much that she didn't know. “Were other people—” She
really
didn't want to know the truth about this one. “I mean, people in my class, or teachers, or—”
Preston shook his head. “No. There were some minor injuries from glass fragments, and the ricochets, and so forth, but—well, thank God you warned them all to get out of the way.”
What? She frowned at him. “I didn't do that.”
He nodded.
Well, she was the one who had been there—and she was damned sure that that hadn't happened. “What about, you know, the terrorists?” she asked.
“Your back-ups brought down three of them,” he said.
Jesus. “Were they—?” she asked.
“Two of them,” Preston said, nodding. “The other one's in a prison hospital, for now.”
She didn't want to know whether extraordinary rendition, or anything like that, was in his future. “Is he like, plea-bargaining?” she asked.
“I don't think he
knows
much. Whoever planned the thing was—” He stopped.
“Pretty god-damned brilliant,” Meg said. And then some.
“Well, no one's
that
smart,” Preston said. “They'll get him.”
Not bloody likely. She shook her head.
“The Agency's reputation was pretty tarnished by this one,” he said. “
All
of the security agencies, actually. I think they'll do everything it takes.”
Yeah, right. Meg narrowed her eyes at him—which pulled at her stitches. “You sound like a
press
secretary.”
“Wonder why,” he said, and grinned at her.
Well, yeah. But, even so. “You
know
they're not going to get him,” she said.
He shrugged. “They got the damn group that
funded
the thing.”
She perked up. “Really? When?”
“I don't know,” he said. “I guess it was the third or fourth day.”
Third or fourth day. It was the third or fourth day when they had panicked—or whatever it was that had happened, and—“Did it leak?” she asked.
Preston nodded. “Hit the Internet first, and then most of the networks started running with it.”
Great. It was impossible to keep the Internet in check, but, because of some television networks grubbing for extra ratings—and, she assumed, advertising dollars, she'd ended up chained in a mine shaft in the middle of nowhere. “That was
stupid
,” she said. “They almost got me killed.”
“I don't think your mother's going to forget it anytime soon, either,” he said.
Big deal. Meg shrugged. “Well, it's not like she can do anything. I mean—”
“Would
you
want to be a major news organization the President had a grudge against?” he asked.
No. Meg looked at him uneasily. “All she can really do is restrict access, or—”
“That's a lot, Meg,” he said.
But not
enough
, considering the way it had played out. Feeling very thirsty, she reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. “She can't actually come right out, and—”
“They'll get the message,” he said.
A person didn't get to be the President without learning how to handle enemies somewhere along the line. “My father's even less forgiving than she is,” she said.
Preston nodded, pouring some fresh ice water into her glass. “Especially where his family's concerned.”
Yeah. “Who were they?” she asked. “The terrorists, I mean.”
Preston scowled, and she was surprised to see his right fist tighten. “Some new damned Islamofascist splinter group.”
Swell. “Are they in jail?” she asked.
“Some were detained; others were deported,” he said. Cryptically.
Foreign policy was always scary, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to know any more details. “Was it—” She hesitated. “State-supported?” Christ, a
war
could be started over this.
He shook his head. “Doesn't look that way.”
“Thank God for
that,
” she said.
The tension in Preston's face eased slightly. “Yeah, I'd say so.”
BOOK: Long Live the Queen
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