Читать книгу The Last Daughter - Thomas Mahon - Страница 18

Caitlin Prescott stepped from the curb of the upper school, rubbed her hands briskly together and glanced up at the gray clouds rolling overhead. Her Secret Service Detail waited patiently behind her. She tightened her grip on the worn leather book-bag she’d been hauling around since August and picked up her pace. She hurried into the school’s parking garage, finding the limousine in its usual location. The traffic on Wisconsin Avenue buzzed just beyond.

Agent Jim McManus stood next to the armored Cadillac limousine, his hand resting on the door handle. As Caitlin approached, he nodded and yanked open the door she was told weighed as much as the cabin door to a 747. “Good afternoon, Miss Prescott,” McManus said mechanically. “How are you—“

“Has there been anything from Lisa Wong?”

She had called and texted the teacher a couple dozen times since first hour.

“We have nothing yet, Miss Prescott.”

The first daughter stepped into the limousine, then motioned to McManus. The agent leaned in. “Take me to St. Ann’s.”

“St. Ann’s Catholic Church?”

She nodded. “I won’t be long.”

McManus frowned, then radioed the agent up front. They spoke in hushed tones for the next minute. Caitlin knew they were debating this unexpected turn of events. Eventually McManus shut the heavy door, and they were soon speeding up Wisconsin Avenue.

They found a curbside parking spot along Yuma, a street lined with shady oaks and maples. The first daughter stepped from the limousine and paused on the sidewalk. The church stood to her right, and was connected to a beige three-story building.

In the Joint Operations Center, located on the top floor of the Secret Service Headquarters on H Street and 9th, Caitlin Prescott’s designation, FDOTUS (First Daughter of the United States) appeared on the large satellite image projected on the far wall. “We have you,” said the agent manning the center consul. The agency had a term for unexpected diversions such as this one; it was known as a pop-up, and they were often annoying and unsettling. Jim McManus answered back, “We’ll make this as brief as possible.”

“Please do,” answered the agent.

Back on Yuma, McManus joined Caitlin Prescott on the curb. McManus sent Kiel and Wells to the church rectory. Their job was to announce the first daughter’s arrival and secure the area.

He turned to her. “I’d sure like to know what we’re doing, Miss Prescott.”

There was no need to answer him just yet. “We ready?” she asked.

“This way,” he said.

They passed through a Gothic-style archway, and then through a set of wooden doors. Kiel and Wells stood at opposite ends of the short hallway. The rectory staff stood frozen, staring at the first daughter as she entered the building.

Caitlin smiled. “Excuse us. We won’t be but a minute. Do you think I might borrow a piece of paper and a couple of envelopes?” she asked, motioning to a nearby desk. A wide-eyed secretary immediately obliged. “Thank you.” Caitlin took a few steps up the hallway, then turned to McManus. “Where is the Counseling Room?”

“The Counseling Room?” he repeated.

“You do work here, don’t you?

McManus exhaled, motioning for the other two agents to hold their positions. “Very well. Follow me.”

There was nothing remarkable about the room—just four plaster walls and two sofas that faced one another, along with a dated a/c window unit used mainly during the summer months. The first daughter and the agent took seats opposite one another.

“What are we doing, Miss Prescott?” McManus asked.

Caitlin held up her hand, ripped the piece of paper she had obtained from the secretary into three strips, and then scribbled something on each of them. She stuffed each of the two envelopes with a piece of paper, sealing them with several licks of the flap. The third strip of paper she kept next to her on the sofa.

She regarded McManus. “I need to talk to you.”

“Miss Prescott, I’m a Secret Service agent. As much as I’d like to be, I’m not one of your friends.”

“But you are a permanent deacon here at St. Ann’s.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes, I am. When I have a few hours on the weekend.”

“That makes you an ordained minister.”

“That’s right.”

“Who is sometimes called upon to counsel people.”

“Miss Prescott, I see where you’re going with this but—”

“I need counseling.”

“Right now?”

“Yes. I’m speaking to you as my counselor. You’re off the clock as an agent.”

He sat up. “Miss Prescott I am not off the clock.”

“Alright, so you’re on two clocks.”

McManus checked his watch. “Miss Prescott, I can have one of the parish priests make an appointment with you. I know them well, and they’d be happy—”

“No. I want you.”

“Why me?”

“Jim McManus. B.S. in Biology from U. Penn, 1984. Masters in Psychology and Counseling from Duquesne, 1988. Ordained permanent deacon by Theodore Cardinal McCarrick, Archbishop of Washington, in 2005.” McManus did not respond. Obviously, she’d made her point. “What’s discussed in this room is protected, right?”

The agent nodded. Very well, then. Caitlin cleared her throat.

“I’m adopted.”

She watched the agent digest the statement. “What makes you say that?”

Caitlin held up her two pinkies, placing them next to each other. They formed a grotesque Y shape when juxtaposed.

“Clinodactyly,” said McManus.

She put down her hands. “Exactly. Nobody in my family has this: parents, grandparents, siblings, cousins, aunts or uncles. Nobody.”

“You’ve examined all their pinkies.”

“That’s right.”

McManus crossed his legs. “If memory serves, this is an anomaly associated with a host of genetic syndromes, Downs being the most prominent. It’s also quite prevalent in the general population. Miss Prescott, do you know how common Clinodactyly is?”

“It’s found in roughly twenty percent of people.”

“So, you’ve done your homework. I’m also assuming you’ve studied up on the genotypic and phenotypic realities of traits? Family members may not express traits phenotypically, that’s outwardly, but may be carriers of a trait, which is the genotypic end.”

“I have.”

“Then what does Clinodactyly prove?”

Alright, fair enough, she thought.

“They gave me the Wechsler when I was seven. I’m not bragging, but I’m off the charts. Anyway, I found my brother’s scores and he’s stone average. I mean really average.”

“I.Q.s have been known to vary from sibling to sibling. Consider—”

“I have unattached earlobes, but the president and first lady have attached lobes.”

McManus nodded, then smiled. “You ever work a punnett square?” He motioned. “Hand me that piece of paper.”

“That’s really not necessary. I know how it’s done.”

Caitlin realized that if her parents were both heterozygous, which meant having different alleles, she’d have a twenty-five percent chance of having unattached lobes. McManus was a sharp cookie; he was everything she’d hoped he’d be. She continued, saying that she was leggy, while her parents and brother had elongated torsos but shorter legs. Caitlin was the only one in the family diagnosed with Allergic Rhinitis, and she certainly found that odd.

McManus said, “That could be viral. Check with your ENT.”

Caitlin leaned forward. “I have no baby book, nor have I been able to find any pictures of my mother while she was pregnant with me. There’s nothing from the hospital—you know, feet prints, hospital bracelet, pictures, or video.”

“Do your parents have an explanation for this?”

“Everything was lost in a fire when I was one. Mom said the blaze gutted four rooms in the house.”

“Have you thought about contacting the city?”

“The fire department never responded to a fire at that address, and the insurance company has no record of any such claim.”

“Interesting.”

She sat back. “I have Type A blood.”

“So?”

“My parents are both Type B.”

The agent frowned and rubbed his chin. “And you know this how?”

“I did a little snooping. I grabbed my parents’ blood donor cards when they came in the mail about two years ago. Both have Type B.” She watched the agent’s eyebrows arch. “What does your little punnett square say about that?”

McManus readjusted himself on the sofa. “Your parents have blue eyes; so do you. You share your mother’s blonde hair and skin tone. The blood revelation, if it’s accurate, is curious, that’s for sure. However, the rest of your evidence can be explained individually.”

“Can it be explained together?”

McManus exhaled and stared out the window. He finally shrugged and shook his head slightly. “But let me say this: you don’t seem too terribly upset about your alleged adoption. I would think this would be an emotional moment for you, yet you’re talking about it like it’s yesterday’s news.”

“I’ve known about this for a while, and I’ve been through the whole Kubler-Ross thing left, right and sideways. Several times. I keep my feelings buried. It’s easier that way, believe me.” The first daughter cleared her throat, “But this really isn’t why I brought you here today.”