Long Live the Queen Read online

  “Tip your head back,” he said.

  Feeling dizzy, she lowered it more.

  “Come on, tip your head back,” he said, sounding impatient. “You want to bleed for the next week?”

  She looked up slightly. “What’s it to you?”

  He frowned, moving away from her. “Hey, if you enjoy it.”

  “Not as much as you enjoyed doing it.” But, she tipped her head back, feeling the blood run down somewhere inside her head. Afraid that she was going to cry some more, she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to distract herself. Talking was a hell of a lot better distraction, though. “Don’t I have to have my picture taken, or have you film me begging and kneeling, so you can put it on the Internet and everything?” While he and the others presumably stood nearby in hoods and masks, brandishing their weapons.

  “Watch a lot of television?” he asked.

  “Well—yeah,” she said.

  He nodded. “Thought so.”

  “Well—” She frowned, forgetting how much it was going to hurt. “I wouldn’t do it, anyway.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she said, trying to sound defiant. Fearless, even.

  He took a quick step towards her, his right fist up, grinning when she flinched. He lowered the fist. “Okay. If you say so.”

  “Yeah, well—I wouldn’t.” Actually, if they hurt her badly enough, she probably would. Which was a humiliating thought. “You, um, you must want something. I mean, otherwise, what’s the point?”

  “Thought you said I wouldn’t get anything anyway,” he said.

  “Well, yeah, but—” None of this was making much sense. She tilted her head to look up at him. “I mean, it seems like sort of a waste.”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t affect me.”

  “I don’t—” How the hell could it not? Unless—she thought for a second. “You mean, you’re working for someone?”

  He grinned, firing his hand at her as though it were a gun, the gesture frightening—and also mildly amusing.

  “You were supposed to say ‘Bingo,’” she said.

  His grin broadened.

  “Well—who are you working for?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer, taking out a Swiss Army knife and cutting the light pull so that it would be out of her reach. He saw her watching and hefted the knife ominously, before grinning again, and putting it away.

  A knife. There were a lot of terrible things he could do to her with a knife. She forced herself not to gulp. “Do they know how totally stupid this is?”

  He shook his head, looking very amused.

  “Well—” Christ, he could, at least, talk—“who are they?” she asked.

  “Right,” he said.

  “Are we like, in their headquarters or something?” she asked, mentally crossing her fingers.

  “Hmmm,” he said. “Now, where’s the first place you think they’d look?”

  That gave her some hope, but she was careful not to show it. “You mean, they’re letting people know who they are?”

  He shrugged affirmatively. “The only thing they can get out of this is publicity.”

  That meant that someone would find her. The FBI, the CIA, a counter-terrorism unit, someone, would find her. All they had to do—

  “Before you get all excited, my”—he gave the word extra irony—“‘employers’ don’t know who, or where, I am.”

  Hell. Naturally. “Going to be tough to send you that W-2 form,” she said.

  He started to laugh, but stopped himself.

  “How did they hire you, if they don’t know who you are?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Word gets around.”

  Looking at him, she could believe it. She’d hire him, if she wanted a really difficult crime committed. “Did they pay you a lot?”

  He nodded.

  “How much?” she asked.

  “Right,” he said, and shook his head.

  She studied him, wondering if money were the only motivation. Surely, it had to be more complicated than that. “It must be a hell of a lot of money. Or do you like, hate the government or something?”

  “Hard to resist the challenge,” he said.

  And, clearly, he had risen to the occasion. What a waste of ability. “You know, if you were nice,” she said, “you could really accomplish a lot.”

  He laughed. “Oh, undoubtedly.”

  “You could really help people,” she said.

  He nodded. “Unh-hunh.”

  Undoubtedly. He sure didn’t sound like a terrorist. At least, not her image of one. She narrowed her eyes. “Did you go to a good school?”

  He laughed again. “Want to see my class ring?”

  Automatically, she looked at his hands. No rings, of course. An expensive, but plain, Rolex. Nothing distinctive. She tried to read the time, and he immediately took the watch off, tucking it into his pocket.

  Damn. “Well—how do you communicate with them?” she asked. “I mean, how are you going to know what to do to me, or anything?”

  He smiled, very slowly looking her over. “Oh, I have a few ideas of what I’d like to do to you.”

  She couldn’t help shuddering, moving her arm to try and cover herself.

  “More than a few,” he said.

  Yeah, fine, whatever. She nodded stiffly. “I get the point.”

  “The point,” he said, “is that once I have you, it’s my show. They can do or say whatever they want, but the deal was autonomy.”

  Meg frowned. “So, they take all the credit, yank everyone around thinking they have me, but really don’t have anything to do with it?”

  “Bingo,” he said.

  7

  WHEN HE WAS gone, with a mocking “Sleep well,” she couldn’t stop shivering. It seemed even colder and darker sitting on the floor and, with a lot of effort, she managed to pull herself up onto the bed. Spots of color seemed to be bouncing against her eyes, and she closed them, the throbbing in her nose joining her jaw and her head. Moving around had started a fresh rivulet of blood, and she tilted her head back against the wall. Her whole face felt sticky, and she wondered—for the first time—if her nose was actually broken. Jesus Christ.

  She closed her eyes more tightly, praying that the pain would fade. People got beaten up all the time and still managed to—Christ, Steven had come home with so many black eyes and bloody noses over the years that they—Steven. Was her family safe? And Josh? She was almost sure that he had been lying about Josh being—but, what if he wasn’t? What if—thinking wasn’t going to help much. And, if she started crying, it wasn’t going to help at all. The important thing was to stay cool, and—why the hell hadn’t they ever briefed her about something like this? All of that god-damn security—and here she was, lying in some place, and—weakest link, they were probably saying to her mother. Human error. Lack of precedent. We’re really sorry. One thing for sure—all hell must be breaking loose.

  The blood seemed to be stopping and cautiously, she brushed at it with her sleeve. Talk about gross. Her eyes seemed to be swelling shut, which was going to make it even harder to stay awake. But, she couldn’t sleep—she had to be ready. He—or someone else—might come in, and—and—it was hard to decide which would be worse: them coming in to kill her, or coming in to do something—obscene. Something—her stomach literally seemed to turn over and she made herself swallow, not wanting to throw up. Not that there was much of anything inside. Jesus, what a day to decide to skip lunch.

  Not that she was hungry. Exactly. But, she was definitely thirsty. All she could taste was blood, and everything hurt, and—okay, okay, she had to focus. He’d said “Sleep well,” so he probably wasn’t coming back until the morning to bring her food or whatever. Which meant that maybe he was lying about not negotiating. Otherwise, it would have made a lot more sense just to execute her—Christ—or—the only thing she could tell for sure, was that he seemed to be feeling pretty safe. Seemed, to a degree, to be playing this
by ear. So, all she could really do was wait. He was cocky as hell, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t about to be rescued. Except that the longer this went on—unless it stretched into days, and they could get intelligence—weeks?—the less likely it was that they would be able to find her.

  Unless he was stupid enough to have her right in downtown Washington. Yeah. Sure.

  The smart thing, was not to do anything to make him mad. Turning on that light was the stupidest thing she’d done since—well, since not telling her parents that Dennis made her nervous, and asking if she could have a different agent put on the detail. Christ, if only she’d—but, it was too late to be worrying about that. What she had to do, was get this guy to like her. If he liked her, then he wouldn’t want to hurt her, or kill her, or—just thinking that word made her stomach twist again. But, if she could make him like her—the Stockholm Syndrome, that’s what they called it. On—well—television, they were always talking about the Stockholm Syndrome. Which had happened in some bank—in Stockholm, no doubt—where the hostages had started identifying with the robbers, and—oh, yeah, like she was going to end up liking this guy. It would be a long, cold day in hell before—Patty Hearst. Jesus Christ, this was going to be even bigger than the Patty Hearst—maybe that’s why he wasn’t killing her yet, maybe he was going to try and terrorize her into—aware that she was sitting rigidly, muscles tensed, waiting for him to come bursting in again, she made herself relax.

  But, as news events went, this one must be really big. The 24-hour cable stations would be going crazy over the whole thing. Hell, by now, they had probably composed theme music. And had experts filling air-time speculating about whether she was still alive, or if the government was engaged in clandestine negotiations, and if there was any chance that such a sheltered, coddled, delicate young woman like the President’s exclusive-private-school-attending daughter would be able to withstand the various forms of pressure and terror she was almost certainly facing. With luck, none of them would actually say anything like, “So, do you think she’s being raped, or what?” on the air.

  And she had no control over any of that. Over much of anything at all, actually. She maybe didn’t want to sit alone in a dark room and wait, but she didn’t have much choice. All she could do was try to keep her cool—and try even harder to god-damn well withstand absolutely everything that happened to her, no matter how unspeakable it was.

  She closed her eyes, trying to think some soothing thoughts. Things could be worse. She could be dead already. She could have been shot and in even worse pain. She could be lying here without the unfamiliar sweatshirt and sweatpants. The concept of which was too horrible to pursue. Both arms and legs could be chained, she could be gagged, or blindfolded, or—she could have her period. That, would be a nightmare. And she had just gotten over it, so as long as they didn’t keep her for several weeks—these were not comforting thoughts.

  She pulled in a deep breath, slowly letting it out. The air hurt the hole where her teeth had been, but using her nose to breathe hurt even more. Still, she had to relax. Stay calm. Think productively. Continue taking slow, measured breaths. Sleep was a very tempting idea. But, the door might open when she least expected it, and realistically—she must be getting under control, she was thinking about this calmly—if they were going to kill her soon, it would be stupid to sleep the rest of her life away. She shouldn’t waste it like that.

  Which, unexpectedly, struck her funny. What was she going to do—sit here and compose poetry? Make peace with Her God? Although, if she was in this situation, Her God was obviously on vacation. Probably still not back from the one he took the day her mother got shot—although that was pretty blasphemous, and she found herself glancing up at the ceiling. That’d really make her day, if she saw a lightning bolt right around now.

  She should probably be praying. Seemed like an appropriate time for it. But—well, that kind of foxhole stuff always seemed stupid to her. Like, when her mother had been shot, she didn’t pray, because she never did. If she were God, people who only prayed when they wanted something would really bug her. To be able to justify praying in a situation like this, she should pray every day. Thank God for sunshine, and whiskers on kittens, and all. And, as for the old “if you get me out of this, I’ll never yell at Steven and Neal again, or be cranky, or selfish, or—” Yeah, right. She’ll probably make it about six hours.

  So, she wouldn’t pray.

  On the other hand, maybe it was worth a try.

  She had to grin, amused by the convenient little mind reversal there. When in doubt, rationalize. Not that she was going to turn around and suddenly embrace religion—but, it was funny that part of her wanted to.

  Damned if she wasn’t calm. Calmer, anyway. God’s work, perhaps? The thought of which almost made her laugh. Be pretty amusing if she came out of this a born-again Christian or something.

  “When God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window,” she said solemnly, being the Mother Superior in The Sound of Music, and this time, she did laugh.

  There was a movement out in the hall, and she sat up straight. Was he out there, listening to her? Or, if not him, someone who was guarding her? She could imagine the guy reporting in: “I don’t know, boss, she’s just sitting in there, laughing her head off.”

  The movement stopped, but she stayed alert, waiting for whatever might happen. Not that she should be surprised that someone would be out there. If—when?—the place got raided, the guy would want to be in position to use her immediately as a hostage.

  Her left arm was numb again, and she clenched and unclenched her hand, trying to get the blood circulating. Which reminded her how much her jaw and nose and head hurt, and how cold it was—and how much calmer she had felt before. Any second now, they might come in here, and—oh, Christ. Oh, Christ, oh, Christ, oh, Christ. He was going to kill her, in some horrible, violent, scary way, and there wasn’t anything she could—oh, Christ. What was he going to do? Just like, open the door, take out his gun, point it at her, and—or, Jesus, what if they were planning to behead her, the way so many other—oh, God. God, no.

  She wanted to cry—to whimper—but, they might hear her. Of course he was going to kill her—he wasn’t wearing a mask. And no one was going to show up and rescue her. That was movie stuff. This was—the panic faded into slight amusement. Real life, she’d been going to think. Speaking of movie clichés.

  She slouched back against the iron frame—he could have given her a damned pillow, at least—and let her eyes close.

  Time for some more deep breaths.

  SHE MUST HAVE fallen asleep at some point, because when the key turned in the door lock, she had to wake herself up. Everything hurt more than ever, and she groaned, trying to find a less excruciating position. Her eyes wouldn’t open quite right and she squinted in the direction of the door, seeing the same man.

  “It’s Prom Day,” he said, with a Jack Nicholson grin.

  Josh. Tears instantly in her eyes, she looked away.

  “What’s the matter?” He came over to the bed, prodding her shoulder. “Got a—problem?”

  She turned away as far as she could, blocking the exposed side of her head with her arm, in case he decided to hit her again.

  “Giving me the silent treatment?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer. The idea of making him like her worked a lot better in the abstract.

  “I see,” he said, and folded his arms. It was quiet for a minute, then he spoke again. “The President gave a brave angry speech last night.”

  Meg looked up.

  “Thought that might interest you,” he said.

  Meg swallowed, her throat so dry that she wasn’t sure she would be able to speak. “What did she say?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” He bent down so that his face was at a level with hers. “That your life is a sacrifice someone in her position has to make. That it’s too bad, but”—he snapped his fingers—“those are the breaks.”

  Even the P
resident wasn’t that tough. Meg shook her head.

  The man grinned. “She said to hell with it, and to hell with you.”

  Meg just shook her head, staring at his eyes to try and read the lie.

  “Okay.” He straightened up. “How about ‘can not, have not, and will not negotiate with terrorists’?”

  That, she probably said. “Probably just because they’ve already figured out where you are, and they’re going to get you,” she said.

  “Unh-hunh.” He sat on the bed, Meg moving away from him as far as possible. “She’s got balls, your mother,” he said conversationally. “After she told the country that she didn’t care what happened to you, she said that what terrorists wanted more than anything was publicity, so she was requesting a complete news blackout.”

  Jesus. Serious grist for the Beltway mill. “Did they go for it?” Meg asked.

  “Fuck, no,” he said. “Are you kidding me? They’re already out there falling all over each other.”

  So much for patriotism. Although some of the more reputable outfits were—she hoped—being more responsible. Her head was really aching, and she rubbed her temples with her free hand. “That just means that everyone in the media is looking for you now, too, and you’re going to be that much easier to catch.”

  He nodded. “I know. Hell, I’m already booked on CNN tonight.”

  He had to be kidding, but it was kind of shocking that, for a few seconds, she almost believed it.

  Then, to her horror, he reached out and ran his hand across her stomach. Underneath her sweatshirt. “No one really seems to be upset about you, but a lot of them sure are torn up about what happened to your boyfriend.”

  She tried to jerk away from him, but was caught short by the handcuffs, and the wall—and the idea that Josh really might not be okay.

  “Saw an interview at your school, and they were all crying and wailing,” he said. “Turns out, he got shot about ten times.”

  Oh, Jesus. “Before, you said five,” she said, hearing her voice tremble.

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t make him any less dead.”