For decades his grandfather had worked the coal seams inside this mountain, or rather his crew of underpaid men had. As a child Quarry had come here with his ancestor. Back then they had traveled here by a road that had been accessible until a day ago when Quarry had blocked it off. It was by this road that the dump trucks had carted away the coal when the mine was in operation, and he had used the same route to ferry by truck all the supplies he'd needed up here. They wouldn't have fit in his little plane.
This chunk of mountain hadn't always been a mine. Cavernous rooms had been created over time by the corrosive force of water and other geological muscle. In these spaces, long before any coal was ripped out of it, imprisoned Union soldiers had slowly and horribly died here during the Civil War, eking out their final days without sun and fresh air as the flesh fell off their bodies, leaving only glorified skeletons on the day they stopped breathing.
The shafts were now set up with lights, but Quarry didn't use them unnecessarily. The power came from a vented generator and fuel was expensive. He used an old flashlight to see. The same one, in fact, that his father had used to hunt down "uppity" blacks-as his daddy had called them-at night in the swamps of Alabama. As a child he'd spied on his old man coming home at night, all giddy about what he and his comrades in hate had done. Sometimes he would see the blood of the old man's victims on his father's sleeves and hands. And his daddy would cackle as he sucked down his whiskey, in sick celebration of whatever it was he thought he was accomplishing by killing folks who didn't look like him.
"Old hateful bastard," Quarry said between clenched teeth. He reviled the man for all the misery he'd caused, but not enough to throw out a perfectly good flashlight. When you didn't have much, you tended to keep what you had.
He opened another door set against a rock wall off one of the main shafts. He grabbed a battery-powered lantern from a shelf and switched it on, setting it on a table in the middle of the room. He looked around, admiring his handiwork. He'd framed out the room with sturdy two-by-fours and put the Sheetrock up himself; every wall was plumb and painted a therapeutic light blue. He'd gotten all the materials for free from a contractor buddy of his who had supplies left over from jobs with no place to store them. Behind the walls was the solid rock of the mountain's innards. But anyone looking around the room would think they were in a house somewhere. That was sort of the idea.
He walked over to one corner and studied the woman who sat slumped in the straight-backed chair. Her head rested on her shoulder as she slept. He poked her in the arm, but she didn't react. That wouldn't last.
He rolled up her sleeve, pulled a sterilized syringe from his knapsack, and stuck her in the arm. That did drive her awake. Her eyes opened and then slowly focused. When they settled on him, she opened her mouth to scream, but the tape across it prevented this.
He crinkled a smile at her even as he efficiently filled two vials with her blood. She stared down in horror at what he was doing but the restraints held her tightly to the chair.
"I know this must seem strange to you, ma'am, but believe me, it's all for a good cause. I'm not looking to hurt you or anybody else, for that matter, really. Do you understand that?"
He pulled the syringe free, dabbed the wound with a cotton swab doused with alcohol, and carefully placed a Band-Aid over it.
"Do you understand that?" He gave her a reassuring smile.
She finally nodded.
"Good. Now, I'm sorry I had to take some of your blood but I really needed to. Now, we're going to feed you and keep you clean and all that. We won't keep you tied up like this. You'll have some freedom. I know you can see that was necessary at first. The tying-up part. Right?"
She found herself locking gazes with him and, despite the terror of her situation, nodding once more in agreement.
"Good, good. Now, don't you worry. It's going to turn out okay. And there won't be any funny business. You know with you being a woman and all. I don't tolerate any crap like that. Okay? You have my word." He gently squeezed her arm.
She actually felt the edges of her mouth curl up in a smile.
He put the vials in his knapsack and turned away from her.
For a moment she imagined him whipping back around and, with a maniacal laugh, firing a bullet into her brain or slitting her throat.
Yet he simply left the room.
As Diane Wohl looked around she had no idea where she was, why she was here, or why the man who'd kidnapped her had just relieved her of some of her blood. She had gone shopping at Talbot's, he had been in her car with a gun, and now she was here, wherever here was.
She began to sob.
CHAPTER 7
SEAN KING SAT in the dark. The light blazing on made him lift a hand to shield his eyes and squint up at the intruder.
"Sorry, didn't know you were in here," Michelle said, though she didn't actually sound apologetic.
"I slept here," he explained.
She perched on the edge of his desk. "Going off in a pout? Refusing to answer questions? Sleeping at the office? Sitting in the dark? Do I sense a pattern?"
He slid a newspaper across to her. "Did you see the story?"
"Read it online already. Got most of the facts right. You seemed appropriately thoughtful in the photo."
"It's a file shot they pulled from my Secret Service days."
"I thought you looked remarkably youthful."
"Had a bunch of reporters calling. I kept hanging up."
"They're not just calling. They're parked out in front of our office. I came in through the back. I think someone spotted me, so that exit's probably covered now too."
"Great. So we're trapped in here."
He stood and paced, his long feet kicking out angrily.
"You want to talk about it now?" she asked.
He stopped, flicked a piece of carpet fuzz with his loafer. "It's a tough situation," he answered.
"Which part? Finding a woman cut up and a kid gone? Or something going on inside your head?"
He just started pacing again, his chin tucked to his chest.
"You said you knew the First Lady. How? You were long gone from the Service before Cox was elected. Come on, fess up."
He was about to say something when the phone rang. Sean turned away, but Michelle snatched it up. "King and Maxwell. We snoop so you don't have to." She stopped dead. "What! I… Oh, yeah, sure. Here he is."
She held the phone out.
"I don't want to talk to anybody."
"You will to this person."
"Who is it?"
"Jane Cox," she whispered.
Sean cupped the phone against his ear. "Mrs. Cox?" He listened and, giving a quick, embarrassed glance at Michelle, said, "Okay, Jane."
Michelle did an eyebrow hike and watched her partner closely.
"I know. It's truly a tragedy. Willa, yes, of course. Right. That's right. You understood correctly. Have you spoken to Tuck? I see. Of course, I understand that. What?" He checked his watch. "Certainly, we can make that." He glanced at Michelle. "She's my partner. We do work together, but if you'd rather… Thank you."
He hung up and looked at Michelle.
She snapped, "If you clam up and start pacing again I swear to God I'm going to pistol-whip you. What did she say?"
"She wants us to come by to see her."
"See her? Where?"
"At the White House."
"Why? What does she want us for? To tell her what we saw the other night?"
"Not exactly."
"Then what exactly?"