Night's Landing. Carla Neggers
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reassuring as she and Juliet Longstreet climbed out of the back of the government car that had driven them to the Marriott Marquis in the heart of Times Square. It wasn’t that far from the hospital, but Rob’s bosses didn’t want her walking. They’d made that clear. They didn’t say it was because a sniper was on the loose in the city and they were afraid Juliet or even Sarah might be his next target—they said it was because Sarah was obviously exhausted, emotionally wrung out and on edge.
But they all were tired and on edge, she thought. A steady stream of law enforcement and political types had stopped at the hospital to check on Rob and Nate and to greet her, to offer to do whatever they could for her. She’d sensed not only their concern for the injured officers, but their worry about the situation itself. The chief deputy, the district U.S. marshal, the FBI agent leading the investigation, the FBI assistant director in charge of the New York FBI office, the mayor—they’d all attended the news conference that had preceded the shooting. The shooter could have been after one of them instead and seized on Rob and Nate as a second choice, targets of opportunity—get someone, anyone, who’d been at the news conference.
The bottom line was clear. Two federal agents had been gunned down in daylight in Central Park, and the gunman was still at large.
“I’ll check you in,” Juliet said, briskly leading the way up the elevators to the eighth-floor lobby of the huge conference hotel.
She’d insisted on carrying Sarah’s bag, saying it was part of the job. Sarah wanted to ask about Juliet’s relationship with her brother, who’d only mentioned in one e-mail that he’d been seeing another deputy and it hadn’t worked out—but Juliet had cut off that topic.
When they arrived at the lobby, Sarah waited off to the side while Juliet checked her in. She’d never seriously considered imposing on her marshal escort—she liked the anonymity of the large hotel. She needed time to herself. Space. Rob’s doctors were guarded but not discouraging in their assessment of her brother’s condition. He’d lost a lot of blood but the surgery had gone well. The bullet could have done far more damage than it had, although the damage it had done was considerable. They’d watch him closely for complications from blood loss, a recurrence of bleeding, infection—he had a long way to go.
Without her having to plead, his doctors had allowed her peek in on him.
He was intubated and attached to a ventilator, hooked up to a myriad of IVs and tubes and unconscious. But he was alive, and that was what Sarah had tried to focus on as she touched him gently on the forehead and told him she was there and would see him in the morning. She hoped that on some subconscious level he could hear her, knew she was rooting for him and he wasn’t alone.
But when she left the I.C.U., she burst into tears and almost threw up. Juliet Longstreet had hesitated, obviously awkward and unsure of what to do, but the chief deputy—Mike Rivera, a stocky rock of a man—stepped forward and maneuvered Sarah into the waiting room.
That was when they all decided she shouldn’t walk alone to her hotel.
Juliet turned from the front desk with a small key folder. “Tenth floor okay?”
“Anything’s fine.”
“Elevators are over here.”
When they reached her room, Juliet used the card key and pushed open the door, then checked out the place, even pulling open the closet and drawers. Sarah caught a glimpse of her weapon, a reminder that her escort was a federal agent on duty. She wasn’t just being kind.
“Place looks clean and safe enough.” Juliet turned from the closet and frowned at Sarah. “You look beat. Take a bath and get some sleep. If there’s any news, someone will call you. Promise.”
Sarah sank onto the bed. Her room was clean and pleasant, a large window overlooking Times Square with its huge, flashing billboards. She was struck by the disconnect between here and her family home in Night’s Landing. Not that long ago, she’d been listening to a mockingbird and drinking tea punch.
She doubted she’d sleep, never mind the flashing billboards and sirens down on the busy New York street.
A cell phone trilled, but it took a moment for Sarah to realize it was hers. She fished it from an outer pocket of her tote bag.
“Sarah—Sarah, honey, it’s Wes.”
Fresh tears welled in Sarah’s eyes at the sound of John Wesley Poe’s familiar, caring voice. “Wes—I’m so glad you called. It’s been an awful day.”
“I know, honey. I heard about Rob. I am so, so sorry.”
“I saw him for a few seconds. He made it out of surgery. That’s a good sign.”
Juliet turned from the window, not hiding that she was listening. Sarah knew she couldn’t possibly explain that she was talking to the president of the United States. Deputy U.S. Marshal Juliet Longstreet’s ultimate boss. Rob’s boss. But to her, he was a friend, a neighbor, a man she’d known and adored all her life.
“Ev and I are thinking of you, praying for both you and Rob,” Wes said. “If there’s anything we can do, please, just say the word.”
“Thank you. Thank you for calling. Just knowing you’re thinking of him makes a difference. He’s—it’s tough, Wes. He’s on a respirator—the bandages—” Her voice faltered. “But I keep telling myself that at least he’s alive. He has a chance.”
“He’s strong, and so are you.” But beneath his soothing words, she heard the undertone of concern and fear, because for all his brilliance and compassion, Wes Poe didn’t know if Rob would live, either. “Where are you now?”
“A hotel in New York.”
“Alone?”
“I have a deputy marshal escort. Wes, don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
“What about your parents?”
“They’re waiting until morning their time before they decide what to do.”
“God love them. This has to be a parent’s worst nightmare.”
Wes and Evelyn Poe had no children. That it was a political liability was something Sarah had found distasteful. Evelyn had had four miscarriages and stillbirths before an emergency hysterectomy put an end to all hope of giving birth. Sarah remembered how distraught Wes was after that fourth and last loss. He’d come to Night’s Landing alone, so his wife wouldn’t see him mourn, so he could be strong for her when they were together. But even before that terrible day, Sarah had become something of a surrogate daughter to them. In some ways, they’d been more reliable and solid—more available—than her own parents.
“Sarah…the media…” Wes hesitated, a rarity for him. “They’ll zero in on my relationship with your family at some point. Right now, there’s no indication that Rob was targeted because of it.”
Sarah nearly dropped the phone.
Juliet Longstreet took a step toward her, her expression tight, alert.
“Wes!” Sarah choked, gripping the phone. “My God, that never even occurred to me!”
“I’m mentioning it only because it could come up as a theory, and I don’t want you to be blindsided.” The strain in his voice, famous for its ability to soothe yet sound commanding, was evident. “Honey, you just focus on being there for Rob. I’ll worry about the rest of it.”
“Thank you.” She didn’t know what else to say.
“Ev sends her love.”
“I love you both. Thank you for calling.”
After Sarah hung up, Juliet pulled the drapes. “Do you mind if I ask who that was?” she asked.
Sarah’s heart thumped painfully in her chest. Her eyes felt squeezed. In Scotland, for weeks—for most of John Wesley Poe’s first months in office—she hadn’t had to deal with the reality