Although my mind races with questions, something just won't let me ask Bill the inevitable.
How could he have known so fast?
Are they tracking my movements?
How will he do it?
Is Lamar safe?
Who am I kidding? If they've got me, Lamar and Richard are probably already down a vat of acid. I hate how vividly I can imagine that now.
The swing and clink of Bill's machete connecting with bone. The slicing silver stench of blood as it spatters on a plastic surface.
Or maybe he sawed them in half. I'm afraid to know. So I listen to the drive. Unspeaking. Unsure and accepting.
The rolling grip of tyre to asphalt reverberates around the car. A sound I'd welcome on most nights.
Outside there's not much traffic. I wonder how far I'd make it if I rolled out.
My body has plotted so many escape routes, turned over the million reasons I'd give him to not kill me. I'm so caught up inside my head that I barely register where we're going
It's only as the thin air of the surrounding countryside awakens me that I see the all too familiar retreat.
For the first time in 30 minutes I let out a sigh of relief. Like a pressure valve opened, I exhale out loud as we start into the winding forested paths of Catoctin Mountain Park, Maryland.
If Bill was going to kill me, he wasn't going to do it at Camp David.
***
I've been here twice before. Once with my father and then again at the the request of outgoing President Wheelan. Yet the charm of the rustic getaway never fails to take my breath away.
It was a surprisingly simple cabin. Simple but no doubt expensive. With custom-made classic wood furnishings. An oversized window bathed the spacious lounge in ample light, even though it was closer to the evening. Two white lamps stood as sentinels on each side adding a sense of warmth to an imposing room. They reminded me of my own. Made it seem less - presidential.
It wasn't anything to write home about. In fact it looked more like grandma's 50s design - with a floral single seater and turquoise sleeper couch. I'm sure Eleanor will be redecorating as soon as it was possible.
The view of the countryside is panoramic from the President's cabin at the top of a hill. But that beauty is lost to the room of seven people stuffed inside the secured cabin. Myself, Andy, Eleanor and Will, Abigail and her new bodyguard and Bill sat stone-faced from each other facing the black coffee table in the centre of the room.
There were two glossy sheets which Andy had separated and placed on the table for everyone to see. Two very obvious, sharpened video stills, clearly taken from a cellphone.
The first was innocuous. Abigail's bodyguard stood at the end of a hallway. Bored and inconspicuous.
The second spotted a glamorous Abigail. Draped in the shimmery halter-neck of the inauguration ball. Her profile was visible as she closed a hotel room door. Obviously leaving whatever tryst she'd just come from.
These weren't cctv. No, someone had gotten these with their phone. Another minister perhaps. It doesn't matter. What matters is that these existed and anyone could easily put two and two together. What was the president's daughter doing leaving the DA's room at four o'clock in the morning?
"How the hell did they get this!?" Abigail fumed.
Aptly summing up my very thoughts. What angers me the most is that someone had been a silent witness to the one moment of solace we'd been able to steal. What was a beautiful end to an exquisite evening was being turned into something ugly.
