Читать книгу The Last Daughter - Thomas Mahon - Страница 8

Caitlin and her mother stepped into the Family Elevator just west of the Entrance Hall. It was getting late. The whole Vogue gig lasted much longer than the first daughter had anticipated. The first lady slapped the button for the second floor, and leaned against the back wall. The numbers began to blink overhead.

“That went well,” Julie Prescott sighed, now staring down at her Blackberry. “Take a look,” she said, extending the phone to Caitlin.

It was a news capsule from CNN’s Breaking News page. First Daughter Abruptly Exits Stage at Own Media Event. How was that for instant news? And they were already running videos of the Vogue event on Fox and CNBC. She handed the phone back to her mother.

“I’m sorry. I had to get off that stage.”

“I told everyone you had to use the bathroom. I apologized to the Vogue people.” Julie Prescott shook her head, as she pocketed the phone. “Is it stage fright, Caitlin?”

“No.”

“Social Anxiety Disorder, I think they call it.”

“Mother…”

“Because if it is, we’re in trouble. You’ll end up like that NFL player who was doing locker room interviews while wearing his helmet.”

“I’m not Ricky Williams.”

“And where will it end, huh? Smoking joints? Popping pills? Yoga lessons? Running off to Burma so you can find yourself in some field? Is that where this is going?”

“I just have things on my mind, that’s all.”

Julie Prescott gazed up at the ceiling. “Whatever.”

Caitlin’s mind was a whirlwind. The last email message, just before she and her mother took the stage, came from out of the blue. Whoever sent the first several messages, had certainly decided to switch his or her tone with the last transmission. Was this a grown person, or a teenager pulling some kind of a twisted prank?

“Mother, I have a question I need to ask you.”

“I’m really not in the mood to field your questions, Caitlin.”

“What happened to Uncle Terry?”

The elevator stopped and the door eased open. Julie Prescott held the door, while turning to her daughter as if she’d just curtsied the palace housekeeper instead of the Queen. “I beg your pardon? Where is this coming from?”

“I don’t know. I’m just curious, that’s all. I don’t remember much about him.”

“That’s odd. You and Terry spent a lot of time together.”

“What was he like?”

“Caitlin…this is strange, okay? You’re acting like you have amnesia or something. I don’t appreciate this at all.”

“Please, mother.”

Julie Prescott stepped onto the second floor, a series of stately rooms connected by a center hallway. This floor was home to the first family. Caitlin followed her mother through a set of doors. The first lady turned right, and took a few steps toward the West Sitting Hall. She stopped and glanced back.

“Your Uncle Terry was a good man, a regular guy. He flew cargo jets for Fed Ex.”

“How did he die?”

Julie Prescott inhaled deeply. “You know very well how he died. He had a massive heart attack in his St. Cloud condo. You were thirteen, not three so don’t feed me a line that you don’t remember.” She took a few more steps up the hall. “It’s late. I’m packing off to bed.”

News flash, lady. I don’t remember. That’s what’s freaking me out here.

“Wait. Do we have his obituary?”

Julie Prescott was now inside the archway to the West Sitting Hall.

“I believe it’s somewhere at the house in Florida.”

“Do you think I can find the obituary online?”

“No. Now get some sleep.”

Her mother padded off and was soon out of sight. Caitlin turned and glanced at her phone. She brought up her email inbox, and the message she received just prior to taking the stage.

I know about Uncle Terry and Mrs. Ponder.

She shivered, then went straight for her bedroom.