to St. Ann’s, her mother caught Caitlin just as she was dragging herself and her over-stuffed book bag out of the limousine. The first lady motioned for her to get back into the car, climbing in after her. The limo sped back through the White House gates and onto Pennsylvania Avenue, with the first daughter hostage in the back seat.
Caitlin and her mother met the president at the French Embassy. There they dined with the ambassador and his wife, followed by a little after-dinner conversation. Since she couldn’t drink (not even a sip of wine; her mother was an ogre when it came to underage drinking), Caitlin found the whole affair a complete bore. The ambassador, a Parisian through and through, was a charming man. His wife was another story altogether. Twenty years his junior, she had very little to say; only nodding and smiling on occasion—the transatlantic version of a ditz, Caitlin thought. She and her mother gave their regrets and left at 10:15, while her father remained for another round of drinks and cigars.
A few blocks from the White House, Caitlin began to rub her temples
“Headache?” asked her mother.
“I’m fine.”
“You ate this morning, didn’t you?”
Give it a rest, Mother. “My usual: two pancakes and a piece of toast. The carb express.”
“I thought so. What could have caused you to faint in class today? Was it something the teacher said? Did anything strike you as frightening or disturbing?”
Caitlin glanced out the bullet-proof window. The city lights shot by in a blur, just like the past few days. Honestly, she didn’t know which end was up anymore. Hell, she didn’t even know who she was. “What happened to the iBook I used to have back in Florida? The one you and Dad gave me for my thirteenth birthday?”
The first lady frowned. “You and your random thoughts. I don’t know. I think it crashed about three or four years ago. We had trouble with it and brought it to the Apple Store. I think it worked for maybe a week after that, then gave up the ghost completely.”
“Didn’t we back up the files on CD after we picked it up from Apple?”
“I’m sure we did. You were pretty adamant about saving the journal you used to keep on that thing.” Her mother glanced her way. “If you’re asking where the CDs are, I haven’t a clue.”
Though she hadn’t seen the CDs in years, Caitlin still remembered them. They were Memorex disks. Silver with light blue lettering. “I used to keep them in a folder behind the glass doors in Great Granddad’s Secretary.”
The limousine eased into the White House North Portico and pulled to a stop. Julie Prescott gathered her belongings and slid toward the door. “Well, they’re not there anymore. I cleaned out that old thing before we moved here to Washington.” The limo door swung open, and the first lady stepped out. “Upstairs. Time to get some sleep.”
This is a long shot, she thought.
Just outside the Treaty Room in the Center Hall, the mahogany secretary towered above the first daughter. Her eyes travelled, in a reverent manner, from the broken arch pediment top, past the glass doors and serpentine front to the ball and claw feet. She tried to imagine her great grandfather, a man she’d only seen in pictures, sitting at the desk crafting letters by candle light or reading Moby Dick. What would he say if he knew the old secretary now occupied a prominent place in the upstairs White House? Eventually, she let her gaze settle on the three drawers where her mother used to store her knitting supplies. She glanced to her right, toward the West Sitting Hall. Her mother had retired to her bedroom, and, most likely, would not emerge until morning. And god only knew when her father would return home from the French Embassy. As usual, she had the entire second floor to herself.
Caitlin crouched down and pulled open the first two drawers. They were empty. She dropped to her knees and grabbed the brass handles to the last drawer. It resisted only slightly, as it slid open inch by inch. Her mother was right; there was nothing inside— nothing but a musty-wood aroma from a bygone era, a simpler time. Her heart quickened, but she was unsure as to why. Instinctively, she reached out and patted the bottom of the drawer. Then, sliding her hand along the drawer’s front edge, she tore back the red fabric. She blinked incredulously. Two Memorex disks sat on the bottom of the drawer. Both silver with blue lettering. Caitlin stared at them for a full minute before picking them up by the edges. I don’t believe it. The first daughter put her hands up to her head and squeezed her eyes shut. Tears began trickling down her cheeks. She trembled and began to feel dizzy, just like she had that afternoon in Tessler’s class. She could still see the hooded man lurking on the front lawn. Staring up at her.
Taking a deep breath, she stood and staggered through the door to the Treaty Room. She turned the disks over in her hands, refusing to believe they were real.
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