Long May She Reign (88 page)

“Not Jack,” Beth said.

Oh. And no, she
wasn't
letting him win. No way in hell. And
fuck her
for even thinking such a thing.

“You are, Meg,” Beth said. “Every time the guy sees a new picture of you, he must laugh his head off. Maybe he didn't have the guts to do it himself, but he's getting to watch
you
do the job for him.”

She didn't believe that for a second—except that, the very idea made her feel as though she couldn't move, or breathe—or think.

Beth put the magazines back on her lap. “Look at the pictures,” she said, her voice very gentle. “Really
look
at them. Objectively. And then, tell me what you think.”

Meg shook her head, feeling very panicky. “I don't want to look at the pictures.”

“Look at them anyway,” Beth said.

Except, the truth was, she didn't
have
to look at the pictures. Because—she already knew.

But, she wasn't going to cry. Not a chance.

Or, anyway, not much.

Beth sat down on the bed next to her. “Look. I didn't come up here to upset you, I just—Jesus, Meg. I'm
worried
about you.”

And probably should be. “It's not anorexia,” Meg said. “It really isn't.”

Beth nodded. “I know. I think it's mostly depression.”

Yeah. And fear. And shame. And embarrassment. And shattered confidence, and all of the other garbage that ruled her life now.

Christ, she was tired. It was hard to believe that there had ever been a time in her life when she wasn't tired.

Beth sighed. “And yeah, you're right, I
do
have an exam tomorrow.”

What, and now that was her fault, too? “So, go back,” Meg said. “I don't want you to screw up your classes.”

Beth shook her head. “No, it's okay. I emailed my professor and told him I had a family emergency.”

Which was stupid, because if she got caught lying, she would get in trouble. “It's not an emergency,” Meg said.

“Well, I actually think it is,” Beth said, “but either way, it's
definitely
family, for me.”

Oh.

“You want to know something else?” Beth asked.

Jesus, after the last twenty minutes or so? She'd heard just about as much as she could handle. “Nothing personal,” Meg said, “but,
no,
not really.”

Beth laughed, and luckily, it was a normal laugh. A friendly laugh. “I think there isn't a single chance in the world that you're
actually
going to let the son of a bitch win.”

God, she hoped that was true.

“And even if it didn't work out, the fact that you dated Jack at all means you're a million times better than you were the last time I saw you,” Beth said.

Then, considering how she felt now, she must have been in
indescribably
bad shape back at Christmas. “I liked Jack,” Meg said. “I really liked him a lot.”

Beth shrugged, and moved to sit at the bottom of the bed, so they were facing each other, the way they had always sat together—since they were five damn years old. “So, tell me about it.”

Hmmm. “Only if you tell me all of
your
dirt, too,” Meg said.

Beth laughed again. “Deal,” she said.

After that, they both relaxed enough to talk about regular, everyday things which—other than Jack or Nigel—weren't stressful, or upsetting.

Depending, that is, upon how one felt about Boston's current four-game losing streak.

“So,” Beth said finally. “Are we going to eat here, or do you want to take off somewhere?”

The possibility of doing anything other than trudging over to one of the dining halls hadn't occurred to her. And, okay, she wasn't actually hungry, even though she wouldn't
dare
admit it right now. “Take off?” Meg said uncertainly.

Beth nodded. “Yeah. Someplace where we don't know anyone, full of cranky New Englanders who won't give a damn even if they
do
recognize you.”

Which sounded enticing enough for her to call Garth, and ask if her agents knew of any places like that, and if so, could they go there. The answer to both questions was, of course, yes, and they ended up being driven to some diner in a little town off Route 7A, up well past Bennington. She had tucked most of her hair under a Patriots cap, and put on one of her pairs of clear glasses, but, as it turned out, there were only about half a dozen other customers, none of whom gave them a second glance, and as a further recommendation for the place, the television in the corner was tuned to the Red Sox game.

Paula and Larry had come in ahead of them, and were sitting in a nearby booth, giving no indication that they knew her, looking like an ordinary couple going out for a quick supper. Of course, they had their earpieces on, but, surprisingly often, civilians assumed that they were wearing hearing aids, and would go out of their way not to stare. The rest of her security was outside, although Garth came in and got a couple of cups of coffee to go.

“I think the pastrami might be frightening here,” Beth said, looking at the menu.

Safe bet. “Ask for it with mayonnaise,” Meg said, “and you might be able to pass.”

“What's scary,” Beth said, “is that I think you people actually
like
it that way.”

She would never admit it—or order it with anything other than mustard—but, yeah, she kind of
did
. The same way that, if left entirely to her own devices, she could thoroughly enjoy a large wedge of iceberg lettuce covered with bottled Thousand Island dressing as a salad course.

When the waitress meandered over, Meg asked for a grilled cheese sandwich, a large order of french fries, and coffee, while Beth looked around to see what all of the locals were eating, and then ordered the chicken croquettes special, which came with rolls, peas and carrots, mashed potatoes and gravy, and either Jell-O or chocolate pudding with whipped cream for dessert.

They talked some more about Nigel—who, alas,
was
a terrible schmuck, and then, about Jack briefly, but for most of the meal, they were pretty quiet, Meg leaning back to check the game every so often, having to lower the tortoiseshell-frame glasses to read the score clearly. It was one of those grinding, lead-changing affairs, moving from 2–1, to 3–2, to 5–3, to 6–5, in a matter of a couple of innings.

“Should we have tried to go to the same school?” she asked, shaking pepper onto her fries.

“I don't know,” Beth said. “Sometimes, I think yes, and sometimes I think we'd get in each other's way, and should wait and go to the same law school together, instead.”

Meg tucked the ketchup bottle under her right arm and unscrewed the cap with her good hand. “I'm not going to law school.”

Beth laughed.

Why did everyone always do that? Meg poured some of the ketchup onto her plate. “Okay, fine, maybe I am. But,
you're
not going to law school.”

Beth looked embarrassed. “Don't tell anyone, but I love my constitutional law class. I sit in the library sometimes, and read case law on my own, even.”

Had she ever heard Beth, despite being a top student, say something positive about academia? Going all the way back to elementary school? “Seriously?” Meg said.

“Hey, you're writing an extra-credit paper,” Beth said. “I don't want to hear anything from
you
.”

She should never have told anyone—not even Beth—about that moment of weakness. Or competitiveness. Or whatever the hell it was. “Well, I
have
to do well in political science,” she said. “It would look terrible, otherwise.”

Beth laughed again.

The diner wasn't very busy, so the two waitresses hung out at the front counter, flipping through magazines and newspapers, and talking to a stocky man with grey stubble who was wearing an ancient Red Sox cap, eating chicken croquettes, and kept covering his face whenever Toronto scored another run. Every so often, someone else they all seemed to know would come in, and sit down on one of the green stools, or maybe just get takeout, and there would be some conversation, which managed to be both animated and desultory.

Their waitress drifted over every so often to see how they were doing, refill Meg's coffee, and ultimately bring Beth a thick white mug, too, along with her dish of chocolate pudding. And, for the hell of it, Meg ordered some apple pie. Jose and Kyle came in and were seated in a booth, and Paula and Larry paid their check and went outside, to take over their posts, Meg assumed. If she and Beth were still in here an hour or so from now, Garth and Ed would probably take the next turn.

“I'm supposed to be dead,” Meg said, once they were just sitting there with coffee.

Beth nodded. “I know.”

Yeah. Ten thousand times over, she knew. “So, how come I'm here?” Meg asked.

“Because that's what happened,” Beth said.

It couldn't be that simple, but maybe it was. But it seemed so—random. Arbitrary.
Terrifying
.

“Do you think God is just an artificial construct created to help nervous people make it through the day?” she asked.

Beth choked on her coffee. “I don't know,” she said, once she'd stopped coughing. “Probably. Is that where you are these days?”

Meg shook her head. “No, I'm still pretty sure the vengeful, malicious puppet-master version is the accurate one.”

Their waitress was heading over with more coffee and Beth politely waved her away.

“How much time do you think your mother spends wondering about what would have happened if the bullets had hit her two inches over?” she asked.

“A lot,” Meg said. Possibly every night before she went to sleep. And, for all Meg knew, she
did
have nightmares—and plenty of them.

Beth looked at her. “Honest opinion?”

What, like Beth was capable of anything else? Meg shrugged, but found herself gripping the edge of the table, not sure if she was prepared to hear it.

“I think they might have gone after you, anyway,” Beth said. “I guess you still would have had some protection, until you turned eighteen, but you wouldn't've had as much, and Mr. Kruger's kids are all grown up, and probably not as tempting as targets, so maybe they would have thought—I mean, imagine how people would have reacted if they grabbed the orphaned daughter of the dead President, and made a big violent splash doing it. It would have shocked the hell out of everyone, and—I don't know—been cruel in a whole different way.”

Jesus, this couldn't just be coming off the top of her head; Beth had to have
thought
about this before. At length. Which was disturbing.

“And, considering the circumstances, Mr. Kruger would almost have had to negotiate,” Beth said, “while your mother could say, ‘nope, my kid,
my
call, not a chance,' and there was no one around with the moral authority to stop her.”

Except for her father, who had failed in whatever efforts he had made. “Jesus,” Meg said. “Maybe you need a damn hobby or something.” Should spend more of her time reading about
Miranda
and
Griswold
, and such.

“You don't think that the extra-vicious spin on it would have appealed to the guy?” Beth asked. “Put the new President in a situation where he had to make decisions about an even more sympathetic hostage than you already were?”

That was a line of reasoning she would have to think over, because right now, she wasn't necessarily buying it. “And what,” Meg said, “he still wouldn't have had the sense to kill me, and it would have played out the same way?”

Beth shrugged. “I don't know. Too many variables. And maybe some money would have changed hands, behind the scenes, and you would have ended up being dumped by the side of the road somewhere.”

Alive, or dead? More to the point, maimed, or mostly intact? Besides, the guy had told her that he'd been paid in full up front, and had insisted on working with total autonomy, so any negotiations wouldn't have involved him—or probably even
interested
him, one way or the other. On top of which, Mr. Kruger would probably have taken just as hard a line against terrorist demands as her mother had, because even if he liked her personally, and felt very sorry for her father and brothers, she
wasn't
his child, and he would have been able to keep some objectivity—and make the right choice for the country, the same way her mother had. It was what Presidents
did
, or they god-damn well didn't have any business setting foot in the Oval Office.

Arguably, they shouldn't have children, either, but that was a subsidiary issue.

“I guess I'm still trying to say that it all already happened, no matter how many ways you try to change it in your head, and you'll make yourself crazy if you keep trying to force any of it to turn out differently,” Beth said.

Like she wasn't already less than sane? Her head was starting to hurt, and she reached into the front pocket of her sweatshirt to see if there might be a painkiller or two floating around loose in there. One ibuprofen, which would have to do. “If they'd come after me up in Chestnut Hill,” Meg said, taking it with what was left of her coffee, “there's a pretty good chance you would have been
with
me, at the time.” Since they'd been together, more often than not, especially at school.

Beth nodded. “A really good chance.”

So she'd run through that version mentally, too. And maybe she wouldn't have been able to duck in time, the way Josh had. Maybe—

“It's theoretical, Meg,” Beth said impatiently. “The only thing either of us knows for sure is that no matter who took you, or when, or where, you would have fought back like a rabid demon the whole time.”