The Last Daughter. Thomas Mahon
Terry kept me up again, showing me his latest scrapbook from Malaysia. He put his hand on my knee at least six times. He sat very close to me. I hate it when he—
I hear something. Noises. They’re coming from the front lawn below my second story bedroom window. Did I hear a muffled cry and the sound of someone shutting a car door? I’m moving toward my window, which is thrown open on this first cool night of fall. A soft light from across the street spills into the room, breaching the darkness, and the curtains rise and fall with the gentle breeze. I can hear crickets. My feet are cold, and my toes grip the carpet beneath me. I inch up to the window and gaze down at our front lawn and driveway. Shadows stretch across the lawn in a chaotic pattern. I see footprints in the fresh dew. But I’m confused. Uncle Terry’s silver Mustang is still parked out front. How can that be? He left at eleven—right after he put his hand on my hip and hugged me a little too tight and kissed me—
I see a man. It’s not Uncle Terry. He’s a tall man in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. He’s hunched over the driver’s side with his head inside the Mustang. Who is he? What is he doing? He’s pulling himself out of the car window. He’s turning around. I’m afraid. I’m so afraid. I pull back behind the curtains. Slowly, I count to ten and edge back to the window. My heart leaps against my chest. The man is looking up at me, but I can’t see his face beneath the sweatshirt’s hood. He is staring at me with his large hands hanging at his sides. I gasp and stagger back. Now I’m praying. Please, God. He didn’t see me. He didn’t see me. But I know he did. Please, God. I want to scream until I hear the sound of truck’s engine. I summon the courage to look back out the window in time to see a black pick-up truck accelerating down our street. I no longer see the man in the hooded sweatshirt. As I catch my breath and try to calm my racing heart, I study the Mustang below. The driver’s window is down, but I can’t tell if anyone’s inside.
Downstairs, I get a different perspective on Uncle Terry’s Mustang. His windows are darkly tinted, so I still can’t tell if there’s anyone inside. I’m afraid of the man in the hooded sweatshirt. I remain at the front window for a full twenty minutes until I’m certain the pick-up truck is not going to return. Though I’m not allowed outside after my parents have gone to bed, I know the security code: 12-88-99. I ease open the door and step out. I shiver. I’m stupid; this is not smart. I spend another ten minutes on the front porch looking for the hooded man and the pick-up truck. He is nowhere to be found. I shiver again as I edge my way across the lawn to the driveway and the Mustang. As I approach, I can see Uncle Terry inside. His head is thrown back and his mouth is open. He’s asleep. I’m afraid. I know he’ll want to talk to me. And put his hands on me. And kiss me. I’m afraid, but something is not right. I can’t put my finger on it. I slip over to the driver’s side. I look in.
I cringe and begin to tremble. Oh my god. Oh my god.
“Seriously, Caitlin,” said the boy. “I think you should lie down.”
Her ears were ringing. The room began to tilt to the right. Her vision blurred. She leaned left, and began sliding out of her desk. Everything went black.
“Sit up, honey,” said the nurse, her voice echoing inside of Caitlin’s head. She was shoving a container of juice in her direction. “I want you to sip this slowly.”
Caitlin took small sips. She breathed deeply, feeling the fog begin to lift. Her vision had returned, and there was no more ringing in her ears.
I fainted.
The nurse leaned in close and said, “Honey, you fainted.”
Yes, I kind of figured.
She looked past the nurse to Agent Jim McManus. He was on his cell phone, stealing furtive glances her way. She guessed he was trying to reach her mother at the White House. Her other detail agents, Kiel, Ivy and Wells stood back against the wall. They hadn’t been with her detail more than a few weeks. She’d heard rumors about an upheaval of sorts in the agency to address a recent rash of early retirements and medical leaves but what did she know? They didn’t tell her much.
“I’m okay. I feel fine.”
“Take another sip, honey,” insisted the nurse.
She felt the blood pressure cuff being secured around her left arm. It was cold. The cuff tightened steadily, then hissed, loosening bit by bit. Caitlin could feel a strong pulse beating in her arm. At length, the nurse ripped off the cuff. Agent McManus pocketed his phone and edged over to the bed.
“Blood pressure is on the low side of normal,” said the nurse, looking up at the agent. “Her color is back. Pulse is okay.”
The agent nodded. “Good.”
The first daughter heard the bell ring, and the rush of students in the hallway outside the clinic. A moment later, the door opened and in came Tessler. He was carrying her books. McManus and Tessler nodded to one another. The teacher approached the bed.
“I thought you looked a little funny.” He turned to McManus and the nurse. “I have this effect on lots of women.”
Everyone chuckled.
McManus said, “Was it something that was said in class that got you upset, Miss Prescott?”
Caitlin thought about the question and took her time in answering. “I didn’t eat much of anything this morning.”
“Hypoglycemia,” the nurse reassured her. “You’ve got to have something in your stomach before you come to school, honey. Has this ever happened before?”
Caitlin caught McManus’s look. She couldn’t decide if he was buying the hypoglycemia angle or not. “I think I passed out once when I had walking pneumonia. I was dehydrated.”
“What were you talking about in class?” the nurse asked Tessler, “Knowing ‘Ole Blood and Guts’ here, it probably had something to do with brain surgery.”
Tessler recapped the class discussion and the notion of repression. McManus mentioned that he had known Father Mulcahy, the topic of the class discussion, and that the priest was a tough Irish boxer from the old school. The agent thought the charges were completely absurd. “Mulcahy was as heterosexual as could be. He may have smacked a few kids around in his time. That’s how they did things back in the Sixties and Seventies. But sexually abused them? Not on your life.”
The nurse shoved a granola bar at Caitlin. “In the studies I’ve read, sexual orientation has little to do with who becomes a pedophile.”
“Well, if you knew Mulcahy like I did, you’d know the accusations were way off base.”
The nurse sighed. Clearly, she was not interested in debating. “What do we want to do with our little angel, Agent McManus?”
“I’m fine,” insisted the first daughter. “Seriously.”
“Are you sure?” asked the agent.
Caitlin swung her feet out of bed. “Don’t piss me off!”
McManus turned to the others. “She’s fine.”
Chapter 14 Terminal B Gate 21 12:35 PM
Maestro sat and faced the large terminal window. He watched the jetliners come and go. His aircraft had arrived fifteen minutes earlier. GSE buzzed about the plane, and workers casually pulled luggage from the underbelly while locking a fueling line into the right wing.
His cell rang. “Yes.”
“Is your flight on time?” asked the pale man.
“It is. We board soon. I’m looking at two hours and forty minutes in the air.”
“I have been assured that you have a car waiting at the other end, along with everything you’ll need.”
The assassin paused and thought about timing. Timing was everything. Though he had left very little to chance,