The Last Daughter. Thomas Mahon
This next email would certainly smoke Caitlin Prescott out of hiding. That’s precisely why he had saved it for last.
Eight words. That’s all he typed. That’s all he needed to type. The message was so simple, yet would be so powerful in its effect. It truly was a stroke of genius. He paused, then hit Enter. The assassin felt the message rocketing toward the first daughter. There. The wheels were now in motion, and there was no turning back. A minute passed without an answer from Caitlin Prescott. Then two. He began to wonder if she’d even gotten the message. Maybe she was too stunned to answer. On the other hand, perhaps— He heard a smattering of applause coming from the plasma. From what he could gather, the woman at the podium was wrapping up her painful monologue. That meant back stage producers would be maneuvering Caitlin and her mother into position.
“Now it is my distinct pleasure,” said the woman at the podium, “to introduce our nation’s first daughter, Caitlin Prescott, and Julie Prescott, our beloved first lady.”
The assassin leaned forward, scrutinizing the plasma as Caitlin Prescott and her mother slipped through the gold curtains and into plain view. The audience applauded enthusiastically. Photographers snapped pictures as the two women smiled and waved to their guests. He studied Caitlin Prescott from top to bottom. How very sensible to be wearing a knee-length sleeveless dress. And black was a wise choice of colors—trendy, yet conservative. Very nice.
Caitlin stepped to the podium after the applause died down. The camera angle and zoom were a bit more distant than he would have liked, but that was C-Span for you. The news network was not known for sophisticated camera angles, and that irked him. If he was hoping for an extreme close-up of the first daughter’s face, he probably wasn’t going to get it. Still he did his best to study the girl as she thanked at least a dozen people who had worked with her on the shoot. Her voice had a noticeable tremble to it, but he had no idea if that was just nerves or something else—like the unpleasant discovery of his latest email. The first daughter ended with an uneasy smile, and then stepped to the right as Julie Prescott took command of the podium.
“It’s been our pleasure to work with the good people at Vogue. We’re grateful that many of the proceeds from the sale of this month’s issue will go to benefit…”
The assassin tuned out the first lady and focused on Caitlin standing to her right. Gone were the smile and radiance of a few minutes earlier. The girl was now looking down at her shoes. She seemed to be blinking excessively—a sure sign of uneasiness. Suddenly, Caitlin turned to her mother and whispered something. Julie Prescott pulled away from the microphone, leaning over to hear what her daughter had to say. The two women spoke briefly, then Caitlin turned abruptly and left the stage through the gold curtains. A distinct murmur settled over the room. The first lady lost her place only momentarily. She quickly cleared her throat and continued to speak.
“Caitlin and I were very pleased to work with such a classy group of people such as Melissa Jenkins, Mary Lunde, not to mention—”
The laptop chimed. It was an email from the first daughter.
He thought, Good girl. That was quick. He brought up the message.
-who is this? i know you’re not wendy.
The assassin made no effort to respond. Another message came directly on its heels.
-answer me.
He smiled. That’s right. Get angry. You don’t have to take this sitting down.
The emails from the first daughter kept rolling in.
- so help me god I’ll get the feds on your ass and you’ll regret this.
- answer or don’t you have the guts?
Satisfied the game was proceeding according to plan, he shut the laptop. It was late and he intended to get at least eight hours of sleep. The assassin knew Caitlin Prescott was about to experience the most momentous week of her life. She just didn’t know it yet.
For his part, he had to be ready.
He could leave nothing to chance.
Chapter 5 White House Family Quarters 9:03 PM
Caitlin and her mother stepped into the Family Elevator just west of the Entrance Hall. It was getting late. The whole Vogue gig lasted much longer than the first daughter had anticipated. The first lady slapped the button for the second floor, and leaned against the back wall. The numbers began to blink overhead.
“That went well,” Julie Prescott sighed, now staring down at her Blackberry. “Take a look,” she said, extending the phone to Caitlin.
It was a news capsule from CNN’s Breaking News page. First Daughter Abruptly Exits Stage at Own Media Event. How was that for instant news? And they were already running videos of the Vogue event on Fox and CNBC. She handed the phone back to her mother.
“I’m sorry. I had to get off that stage.”
“I told everyone you had to use the bathroom. I apologized to the Vogue people.” Julie Prescott shook her head, as she pocketed the phone. “Is it stage fright, Caitlin?”
“No.”
“Social Anxiety Disorder, I think they call it.”
“Mother…”
“Because if it is, we’re in trouble. You’ll end up like that NFL player who was doing locker room interviews while wearing his helmet.”
“I’m not Ricky Williams.”
“And where will it end, huh? Smoking joints? Popping pills? Yoga lessons? Running off to Burma so you can find yourself in some field? Is that where this is going?”
“I just have things on my mind, that’s all.”
Julie Prescott gazed up at the ceiling. “Whatever.”
Caitlin’s mind was a whirlwind. The last email message, just before she and her mother took the stage, came from out of the blue. Whoever sent the first several messages, had certainly decided to switch his or her tone with the last transmission. Was this a grown person, or a teenager pulling some kind of a twisted prank?
“Mother, I have a question I need to ask you.”
“I’m really not in the mood to field your questions, Caitlin.”
“What happened to Uncle Terry?”
The elevator stopped and the door eased open. Julie Prescott held the door, while turning to her daughter as if she’d just curtsied the palace housekeeper instead of the Queen. “I beg your pardon? Where is this coming from?”
“I don’t know. I’m just curious, that’s all. I don’t remember much about him.”
“That’s odd. You and Terry spent a lot of time together.”
“What was he like?”
“Caitlin…this is strange, okay? You’re acting like you have amnesia or something. I don’t appreciate this at all.”
“Please, mother.”
Julie Prescott stepped onto the second floor, a series of stately rooms connected by a center hallway. This floor was home to the first family. Caitlin followed her mother through a set of doors. The first lady turned right, and took a few steps toward the West Sitting Hall. She stopped and glanced back.
“Your Uncle Terry was a good man, a regular guy. He flew cargo jets for Fed Ex.”
“How did he die?”
Julie Prescott inhaled deeply. “You know very well how he died. He had a massive heart attack in his St. Cloud condo. You were thirteen, not three so don’t feed me a line that you don’t remember.” She took a few more steps up the hall. “It’s late. I’m packing off to bed.”
News flash, lady. I don’t remember. That’s