Long Live the Queen Read online

  Oh, God. He was lying. He had to be lying. Josh was so sweet, so—so nice. Not someone who deserved—not that anyone deserved—there was no way that he was telling the truth. In fact, he was probably lying about everything, just to try and keep her from being able to think clearly, or fight back, or—

  “So, the Prom,” he said, and patted her stomach, very cheerful. “Tonight the night you were finally going to sleep with him?”

  She hunched down, not looking at him.

  “Now, you must really regret waiting,” he said pleasantly, sliding his fingers down towards her hips. “Being a good little girl.”

  Bastard. She knocked his hand away. “For all you know, I’ve slept with half of Washington.”

  “Really?” He pretended to look shocked. “Men and women?”

  Whatever else he was, he was smart. Smarter than just about anyone she had ever met. “And pets,” she said, spitting the words out.

  He looked away, but she saw a little grin. “I’ll leave you to your memories,” he said, and got up.

  “Aren’t you going to bring me some food?” she asked.

  He paused, halfway to the door. “Why?”

  “Well—I mean—” Why, when she was going to be dead, anyway. She swallowed. “Y-you aren’t?”

  “Would you trust it?” he asked.

  No. “No,” she said.

  He nodded. “Smart girl.”

  Jesus Christ, they weren’t even going to feed her? “Well, wait,” she said, as he opened the door. “Could I at least have a book or something? Or a radio? Or—”

  “No,” he said.

  For some reason, the flatness in his voice brought tears to her eyes, and she had to blink a couple of times to keep them back. “Well—what about a pillow? I mean, I really—”

  He shook his head.

  “Could I have a blanket, at least?” she asked, feeling panicky. “It’s so cold in here, I—”

  The door slammed, and she was alone again.

  8

  HOURS PASSED. AND it was cold. And she was tired, and hungry, and thirsty. She slept on and off, but mostly just sat in the darkness, her brain feeling both numbed and as if it were on fast-forward. She didn’t want to think—especially about the future. Especially about the present. Which just left—everything else she didn’t want to think about.

  Her head felt so thick and dull, that she couldn’t seem to put any logical thoughts together, anyway. Just flashes, really. Their house in Massachusetts. How quiet it was, how safe. The smell of the Vicks VapoRub their housekeeper—and adopted grandmother—Trudy had always put on her late at night, when she had nightmares. She’d had a hell of a lot of bad dreams when she was little. Mostly, not being able to find her parents, not being able to go somewhere with her mother, and—ironically enough—being grabbed and taken away. Although, in the dreams, it was always monsters.

  Which was also ironic. Like, just because this guy was civil, he wasn’t a monster? Yeah, right.

  Her handcuffed arm felt completely dead, and she squeezed it with her other hand, trying to get the circulation back in. It didn’t matter what position she sat in—it still fell asleep after a few minutes. Not that it really mattered, since she’d be lucky if she ever got a chance to use it again. If he wasn’t going to feed her, he obviously wasn’t planning on keeping her around too long.

  But, she wasn’t going to think about that. There was no point in—unless it was going to be something horrible. Something barbaric, something—it wasn’t fair, this shouldn’t be happening to her. He was right—if her god-damned mother loved her, this never would have—no, damn it. She wasn’t going to think that way. It wouldn’t solve anything. Christ, worrying about the pain in her head and face—and, increasingly, her stomach—would accomplish more.

  She huddled against the wall, shivering in the thin sweatshirt. It wasn’t that she was cold, so much as—she just couldn’t stop shivering.

  Okay, she needed to concentrate on something else. Anything else. Except, all she kept coming back to now was her mother. The way their lives had always revolved around whether she was home or not. When she was coming back, what they would do when she got there. It was always so strange, sitting—for example—in Beth’s kitchen, and watching Mrs. Shulman make dinner or whatever. After the divorce, Mrs. Shulman had dated a lot of significantly younger men, and then married a much older man—but, at least she was always there. There for meals, there for holidays, sometimes even there after school.

  “Yeah, well, your mother may not be around,” Beth had always said, “but at least, when she is, she has a clue.”

  “If she had a clue, she’d be around,” Meg would say, and they would agree to disagree.

  She thought about her father teaching her how to ride a bicycle, Trudy taking pictures so that her mother would be able to see them later. About all of the plays and tennis matches and assemblies and teachers’ conferences her mother had never been able to come to—big vote on an appropriations bill, or something otherwise stupid—and how it was sometimes even worse if she did come, because the press would almost always show up, too, and waste a lot of time asking The Congresswoman, or The Senator, or The Candidate, or whatever the hell she was that particular year—damn her.

  And damn that bastard out there for making her feel this way. Her family had spent a lot of time trying to work through these very things. Accepting them, in fact. Her mother was a difficult person, she was a complicated person, but she was a good person. And she did love them; she always had. So, Meg was god-damned if she was going to let this son-of-a-bitch change any of that.

  She had to concentrate on good memories. About Christmases they’d had, or times they’d gone skiing, or even how much closer they had all gotten since moving into the White House. Suddenly, her mother was there for meals, and birthdays, and just plain old conversations. She worked harder than she ever had, but then again, she worked right downstairs. Obviously, she still had to travel constantly, but as a rule, especially when the trip was overseas, the family went with her. All in all, things had gotten much better since she’d been inaugurated, and during the past year, it was the outside world that had been making things terrible. First, her mother’s shooting, and now—but, she was not going to think about it. She wasn’t. Period.

  Only, that naturally made her think about something else she was avoiding. Someone else. Josh. The guy couldn’t have been telling the truth—but, what if he was? What if—she’d seen poor Chet, and god-damn Dennis, and all the blood—and Josh could easily have—good things. “Think good thoughts,” her father had often said, “life is short.” He certainly had that one right.

  She slouched lower, very close to crying. Josh was so nice. So nice to her. If only she’d broken up with him completely, so that there was no chance that he would have been anywhere near her, and no chance that he—or not broken up with him at all. Not done anything to make him unhappy. If, yeah, she’d slept with him. She should have—oh, Christ. She knew she had Secret Service agents, and she knew she had them for a reason—letting Josh be a target was at least as bad as her mother letting her be one. If anything had happened to him—now, she was crying again, and she pressed her face—nose be damned—into her arm.

  She was still crying when she heard the key in the lock, and quickly sat up, wiping her face off with her sleeve so he wouldn’t be able to tell.

  The man came in, cocky as ever. “Keeping yourself amused?” he asked.

  She didn’t say anything, blinking as the light came on, and he smiled when he saw her face.

  “Now, did I have you pegged as a crier, or what,” he said.

  “Fuck you,” she said, and whisked her sleeve across her eyes again.

  He shook his head. “Those manners sure are going downhill.”

  She hated him. She hated this arrogant son-of-a-bitch. Smelling food suddenly, she realized that he was holding what was left of a hamburger. A Big Mac. A delicious, beautiful Big Mac. Without meaning to, she lick
ed her lips, which—judging from his grin—he found very funny.

  He sat down in the wooden chair. “Give me a minute to finish this, and you can go to the bathroom.”

  The hamburger smelled so good that she couldn’t look at him, her stomach hurting so much that she had to resist the urge to hold it with her uncuffed hand.

  “All of this excitement makes me hungry,” he said.

  Bastard. The smell was almost dizzying, and she hunched over, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of watching.

  He took his own sweet time, but just before finishing the last bite, he stopped. “I’m sorry—did you want some of this?”

  She shook her head, to his obvious amusement.

  “I mean, if I thought you were hungry, I would have brought you something.” He came over to the bed, going through the handcuff routine until she was free of the bed frame, her hands cuffed in front of her. “Okay, let’s go.”

  Her legs were stiff and weak, and each step was an effort.

  “Come on, move already,” he said, and shoved her so hard that she fell into the wall.

  Which hurt. A lot.

  She took as much time in the bathroom as she could, enjoying the change of scene. Rinsing her nose and mouth set off jagged shocks of pain, but she didn’t stop, drinking from her cupped hands, and washing her face over and over again.

  He threw the door open. “I say you could stay in here this long?”

  She gave him an “ask me if I care” look, and kept drinking.

  “Get out of there.” He yanked her into the hall, Meg too tired to fight him, water splashing all over her sweatshirt.

  “What’s your hurry?” she asked, as he pushed her back into the room. “The boys putting together a stir-fry?”

  He grinned—almost laughed. “We’re making our own sundaes.”

  She came very close to laughing, too—much to her own disgust.

  “How’s the news blackout going?” she asked, as he cuffed her back to the bed.

  He gave her wrist a sharp tug, checking the locks. “As far as I can tell, your loving mother got up this morning—and went right back to work.”

  She was almost sure that most of the things he had told her so far weren’t true, so that probably wasn’t, either. At least, not the way he was making it sound.

  “Didn’t even look like she lost any sleep,” he said.

  Not likely. She moved her jaw, wondering if she could trick him. “Your employers must be all upset, and yelling at you and everything.”

  He put the handcuff keys in his pocket. “They don’t know where I am, Meg,” he said, pleasantly.

  Meg? She scowled at him. “You can’t call me that.”

  He smiled. “I can do whatever I want.”

  “Yeah, well, you can’t call me that,” she said.

  “Right.” He paused. “Meg. Anything you say.” Then, he snapped off the light, and walked over to the door.

  “When are you coming back?” she asked, hating herself for it.

  The door closed.

  IT WAS A long night. The longest night she could ever remember. Longer than Election Night ever thought of being. The only smart thing to do would be sleep, but she was too tired. Too hungry.

  She curled uncomfortably on her side, bringing her knees up as high as she could for warmth, trying to use her shoulder as a pillow. It wasn’t like her arm wasn’t already dead. Lying in the dark and thinking would be a disaster, so she tried to remember the title of every book she’d ever read. Every movie and television show she’d ever seen. Every single song in her music collection. The words to the songs.

  It was so boring, that she managed to doze off for a few minutes here and there, but it wouldn’t last, and she’d be staring into the darkness again.

  The only thing she was sure of, was that the next time he came in, she would have to make her move. He was going to kill her, anyway, so she might as well try. Also, she hadn’t actually seen anyone else, so if she could elude him, she might be able to get away. That corridor had to go somewhere.

  It was so quiet that when he came down the hall, endless hours later, the sound woke her up. By the time the key was in the lock, she was ready, slumping into an exhausted, defeated position. He opened the door, grinning when he saw her.

  “Tough night?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer, not even raising her head, wanting to make it obvious that she had given up completely.

  “Knew you wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer.” He cuffed her wrists together and uncuffed her from the bed. “Bathroom?”

  She shrugged dully.

  “You expect me to carry you, or something?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Then, get moving,” he said.

  She took her time pushing herself up, using the wall for support, giving her legs a chance to get some strength back. She took a couple of steps, then sagged down so he would think she could barely walk.

  “For Christ’s sakes,” he said, sounding impatient.

  “I’m trying,” she said weakly, all of her weight against the wall.

  She waited until she was sure he was too annoyed to be paying close attention, then shoved past him and out into the hall. Running with handcuffs was awkward, but he’d reacted late and she was already around the corner, well ahead of him, when two men with stocking masks and machine guns snapped into position in front of her. She skidded to such a fast stop that she fell, landing hard on her hands. At first, she was stunned, then she looked up at them, still too surprised to be scared. The situation seemed unexpectedly ridiculous, and she laughed.

  “Yeah,” she said to them, out of breath, gesturing with the handcuffs. “I’d be scared of me, too.”

  Neither of them reacted, and she turned over onto her back to find the other man standing there with his gun leveled at her, his eyes colder than usual, his hand quivering slightly.

  “Oh, come on,” she said, moving to a less vulnerable position, sitting against the wall. “Would you respect me if I hadn’t tried?”

  He didn’t answer, the gun pointed at—almost touching—her face, his arm visibly shaking.

  Jesus Christ, he was going to shoot her. This wasn’t like the other time, he was actually going to—“Hey, come on,” she said, her voice trembling as much as his hand was. “It’s not like I—”

  “Shut up,” he said, quietly. Viciously.

  She nodded. “I know, but—”

  “Shut up!” he said.

  She did, too scared to breathe, watching his left hand come over to steady his right. He was deciding whether or not to kill her, he was about to—she sat absolutely still, terrified that even the tiniest movement might set him off, watching a gun that was pointed at her face, a real, loaded—she looked at his eyes, seeing nothing rational, or even human, in them.

  They stared at each other for what might have been hours, unwanted perspiration blurring her eyes; then, slowly, he let out his breath and lowered his still-shaking arm, shoving the gun back into his jeans.

  She collapsed against the wall, the last minute or two having been the most exhausting of her entire life. She sat there, dazed, not quite believing that she was still alive. That he hadn’t pulled the trigger, that—the other two men were right behind him, gripping their guns, but she knew they wouldn’t fire unless he told them to.

  He was moving closer, and she lifted her head to see what was going to happen.

  “Look, I won’t do it again,” she said, almost not recognizing her own voice. “I just—”

  He didn’t answer, suddenly kicking the outside edge of her kneecap, Meg both feeling and hearing a scream tear out as the top and bottom halves of her left leg twisted in different directions. He kicked again, even harder, then stepped back as she crumpled over what looked—and felt—like a severe dislocation.

  He stood there, watching her for a second, then crouched down, resting his hand on it. “Next time,” he said, very softly, “I use a bullet. Understand
?”

  She didn’t say anything, breathing hard, covering her face with both cuffed hands so he wouldn’t see her crying.

  He increased the pressure, Meg trying—unsuccessfully—to keep from moaning.

  “Understand?” he asked.

  She nodded, the crying closer to whimpering.

  “Okay.” He straightened up, indicating for the others to return to their posts. “Now, get back to that room,” he said to her.

  She looked down what now seemed like a very long hallway.

  “If you don’t,” he said, “I’ll kick out the other one.”

  And he would. She knew perfectly god-damn well that he would. And if she still didn’t move, he would probably do the same thing to her arms, and then—she swallowed, pretty close to losing control.

  “Now,” he said.

  She swallowed again, the pain fading in and out of nausea, worse than anything she could ever remember. “C-can you at least uncuff me?”

  He shook his head, very slightly smiling.

  “Yeah, well, fuck you,” she said, and pushed against the floor with her good leg, struggling not to scream as her bad one stretched and jarred with the effort.

  It took a long time, using her right leg to propel herself inch by inch, and she kept her hands over her face, having to cry the whole way. She was too weak to get onto the bed, but he didn’t help her, just grabbing her wrists to recuff her to the frame.

  As he finished, she managed to look up, away from what had been her knee. “I ski, you bastard,” she said, hearing her voice shake with hatred.

  “Past tense,” he said, gave her leg another kick, and left the room.

  9

  IT HURT SO much that she couldn’t stop crying, every muscle stiff, her teeth digging into her lower lip. If he was going to kill her—and the reality of that was more and more obvious—then, why didn’t he—they—just do it? Instead, he left her lying here, hour after hour, her leg ripped to—she cried harder, making small animal noises she didn’t even know had existed inside of her.

  The floor was cold and hard, and she tried to drag herself onto the bed, the pain so intense that she almost fainted. But, she tried again, using her elbow for leverage, almost biting through her lip as her leg flopped in an impossible direction, her whole body reacting with a convulsive shudder. Arms trembling, she pulled herself the rest of the way up, tasting blood by the time she was on the mattress. She lay there, crying, praying for this to be over. For him to hurry up and kill her.