Oak and Dagger (5 page)

And he'd done a nice job of backtracking, but if he'd simply been talking about gardening, why did he say,
Given your past . . .
And why was he suddenly looking at me like that? Like I was a cracked porcelain figurine about to crumble at his feet?

What did he really know about my past? Who would have told him? Naturally, the Secret Service knew all about the tragedy, but they were professionals at keeping secrets. At least one member of the press knew about my family's history, but she'd promised not to report on it.

My heart started to beat an uneven tattoo. I usually did a good job of keeping my past locked up, but on stressful days like today, it sometimes exploded in a blinding burst of emotions.

I had to fight to catch my breath if I was to have any hope of keeping the budding panic attack from hitting me with full force.

Breathe slowly.

In.

Out.

“Are . . . are you okay, Casey?” Nadeem lowered his voice and leaned in so close I could smell his sandalwood-scented aftershave. He lifted my hand into his.

I nodded as I concentrated on making sure a slow, steady stream of air filled my lungs. “I just need to breathe,” I wheezed.

Focus on something safe.
Like how there was an expertly trained Secret Service agent stationed in a tiny white hut at the edge of this garden.

“Nadeem.” It was a struggle to catch my breath. If I could find out more about him, I might be able to calm the fear pulsing through my body as if I'd swallowed a sparking live wire. “That's an interesting name. Where are you from?”

“East Lansing,” he said without blinking.

“Michigan?” I'd expected Pakistan or Iran.

“Yeah, Michigan. I know. That's not what anyone expects. My childhood . . . it wasn't anything exotic or exciting,” he said with a shrug. “A simple, um, ranch house in the middle of the burbs.”

The burbs. A normal guy. “So you really were just talking about gardening?”

“What—What did you think I was talking about?”

“Casey? Casey, there you are. You left a message you needed to talk with me?” Jack, my warrior in black, surged into the garden like an avenging angel.

He quickly zeroed in on Nadeem and how the new assistant was holding my hand. He moved in with the same efficiency the agents had used when rescuing President Bradley from the broken irrigation line and got my hand out of Nadeem's grasp without even appearing he'd done it on purpose. But I knew better. Nearly every move Jack made was done with precision and forethought.

“Casey?” Jack's dark brows furrowed with concern. “Is everything okay here?”

“I . . .” I took a couple of deep breaths and was able to find my mental footing again. “Mm-hm, I'm good.” I bit my lip to keep the anxiety out of my voice.

I briefly made introductions. The two men didn't look pleased to meet one another.

“You're new here,” Jack said to Nadeem.

“Yes. This, um, past spring I graduated from the University of Washington's museology program.”

“You
just
graduated?” Jack rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

“It's, um, a second career.” Nadeem tried out his disarming smile on Jack. It had no effect.

“And your first career?” Jack pressed.

“I was a fact-checker.”

“A fact-checker?” Jack crossed his arms over his chest. “That's not a career.”

“I, you know, worked for the federal government.” Nadeem's smile never wavered. “I occasionally pushed papers around, too.”

Jack kept his mouth pressed in a grim line as his gaze stayed locked with Nadeem's.

“My . . . my landlord”—Nadeem turned away from Jack—“told me that a young, beautiful gardener from the White House lived in the townhouse above me. And well, do you think he, um, meant you, Casey?”

We compared addresses while Jack's tough-guy grimace turned into a very real snarl.

“I'm glad someone from the White House rented that place,” I said. “It's been vacant for as long as I've lived there.”

“I'm glad I rented it, too. Well, um, I'd better go get ready for this afternoon's meeting. I'm already running late. I look forward to working closely with you, Casey, and getting to know you better,” he said. “Special Agent Turner,” he added with a frosty nod.

“You're
glad
he rented the place?” Jack's brows rose after Nadeem had left.

“What? I was being friendly.”

“I know the type. He was playing you.” Jack folded his arms over his chest and looked delectably cranky. I don't know why, but I'd always thought a little jealousy was damn sexy on a man.

“Nadeem is too shy to play games. Besides, you heard him. We're neighbors. It might be nice to have someone to walk with to work.”

Jack grabbed my hand. “I've told you this before, Casey. I'd be more than happy to walk with you to the White House, or pick you up and drive you.”

“You don't live anywhere near me.” I wiggled my hand free and gave his arm a teasing punch.

“I'd be more than happy to fix that.”

“By going on a date with me tonight?” I asked.

“Tonight is . . . complicated.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I could—”

“I should go help Gordon,” I blurted out in a desperate attempt to change the subject. Although we'd been dating for three months, he hadn't found the time to invite me over to his house. Not once. And yeah, that did bother me. It bothered me just as much as his canceling our dates without a good explanation lately.

“Wait,” Jack said. “You're angry.”

“No, well, maybe a little. But I do have to go. Nadeem said Frida was heading to the Children's Garden.”

“So?” Jack asked. “Is that a problem?”

“Gordon is working in the Children's Garden. I should get there before the two of them kill each other.” I'd never seen anyone get under Gordon's skin like Frida had this morning.

The intermittent raindrops were coming more often as I scooped up my trimmings and dropped them in a small bucket I carried with me. I then hurried diagonally across the South Lawn.

Jack followed along with me. “You'd said in your voice mail you needed to talk to me.”

“Yes, I could use some of your sidekick superpowers.”

“I'm not your—or anybody's—sidekick,” he grumbled. “Wait . . . you haven't called me your sidekick since Parker was murdered. What have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“This morning was not an accident. Not exactly. Look, it's complicated and I don't have time to talk about it now. Gordon needs me. He's had a rough day already. That's part of the reason I needed to talk with you, but you're busy tonight. I get that. I'll figure this out on my own.”

Jack grabbed my arm before we parted at the entrance to the Children's Garden, and he pulled me to his strong chest. “It's not that I don't want to be with you.” Jack's voice turned all gruff and sexy.

“You don't need to—”

He pressed a possessive kiss against my lips that stole my breath.

I stumbled a few steps on wobbly legs when he released me. He crossed the lawn back toward the West Wing like a man on a mission. As soon as I caught my breath, I went the other way, darting down the narrow pathway that led to the Children's Garden on a mission of my own.

President Johnson had given the garden to the White House as a Christmas gift in 1968. Its secluded location, tucked between the tennis court and southwest gate, had been purposefully selected to provide a place for the children and grandchildren of the presidents to play away from the prying eyes of the press or the public.

“Gordon!” I called as I jogged down a narrow stone pathway that led into the garden. The pathway had been paved with handprints of the children and grandchildren of past presidents.

“Gordon?” I called again as I reached the garden's interior.

No answer.

At least no one was shouting.

Within the intimate space there was an apple tree for the children to climb and a small pond filled with yellow and white koi fish to amuse the children.

As I entered the heart of the garden, my heart stopped dead in my chest.

Gordon—my patient mother hen of a supervisor—was lying facedown in the koi pond.

He wasn't moving
.

Chapter Four

One must not let oneself be overwhelmed by sadness.

—JACQUELINE KENNEDY, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1961–1963)

“
G
ORDON!”
I leapt into the shallow koi pond, grabbed both his arms, and lifted his head out of the water. His back, head, and arms were covered with water hyacinths. I brushed them away.

It took all of my strength to haul him out of the water. His body felt like dead weight.

No, no, no.
Not dead.

“Please, Gordon.” This couldn't be happening. Not to Gordon. Not to
my
Gordon.

I lowered him onto the garden's paved patio that surrounded the pond. And following first-aid training basics, I put my ear to his mouth. He wasn't breathing. I pressed my fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse.

“Gordon!” I shouted in his ear, trying desperately to get a response. “You won't die, you hear me? You can't die.”

I couldn't feel his pulse.

A ghostly white squirrel scurried down to a low-hanging branch of the nearby Winesap apple tree. The squirrel sat up on its haunches and made a series of
chee-chee-chee
noises as it watched the drama unfolding in the Children's Garden beneath it.

“You don't need to scold me,” I said as panic gripped my chest. “I'm hurrying. I'm hurrying.”

My fingers shook as I ripped my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed the White House's emergency line. “This is Casey Calhoun,” I said to the woman who'd answered. “I'm in the Children's Garden. Send a medical team. Gordon Sims isn't breathing. I can't find a pulse. Don't have time to provide more information. I'm starting CPR.”

Not bothering to hang up, I tossed the phone, sending it skittering across the patio's paver stones. Saving Gordon's life was my main priority.

With the flats of my palms, I gave thirty quick chest compressions on the center of his chest. I then pinched his nose closed and tilted back his neck before giving two strong breaths into his mouth. His chest moved with each one. Good. I was doing it right.

As air entered his lungs, he threw up water and muck from the pond. Good. That needed to come out . . . I hoped. I tilted his head to the side and cleaned out his mouth before starting again with chest compressions.

I don't know how long I continued with the CPR. My arms were burning. My throat ached as if I'd been screaming.

Jack put his hand on my shoulder. Our eyes met. I had to blink mine to chase away the tears.

“He's dying,” I whispered, terrified it was true.

“Not on my watch.” Jack dropped to his knees beside me and took over the chest compressions, counting softly.

Jack looked like a holy mess. His face was flushed red from running. His short black hair needed to be combed. It looked as if he'd dredged his fingers through it as he'd charged down the hill to find me. He probably had. It was a habit of his, I'd noticed, to dredge his hands through his hair whenever he was worried.

But the concentration on his face paired with the steady movement of his arms as he kept Gordon's heart beating was the most wonderful thing I'd ever seen.

“What happened?” he asked in that no-nonsense tone he used when things got hairy around the White House.

I sat back on my heels. In halting sentences I told Jack how I'd found Gordon. I rubbed the tired muscles in my arms. “I don't know what happened. Did he get into an argument with Frida? If so, where is she? Why didn't she help him? Perhaps he was so upset that he tripped and fell into the pond.”

“Did he hit his head?” Jack asked.

“I don't see any blood.” I ran my fingers through Gordon's silver hair. “There isn't a bump or a bruise.” Would I see a bruise so soon after Gordon had hit his head?

There was what looked like smeared blood on the arms of his dark blue windbreaker. “Did he cut himself?” I asked just as the White House medical staff descended on the scene.

“We'll look him over for injuries,” one of the medical technicians assured as he gently nudged me out of his way.

Time seemed to move in a halting motion, fast one moment and painfully slow the next. The medical staff had brought with them a metal gurney, defibrillator, and all sorts of other equipment.

An older doctor with kind crinkles around his eyes took over for Jack, placing his hands where Jack's had been while the rest of the staff set up their equipment. Jack rose to his feet and moved out of the medical staff's way. He then put his arm over my shoulder. With a tug, he pulled me snug against his side.

“Jack, tell me Gordon is going to be okay,” I begged.

He pressed his lips together. Jack was straight as an arrow and had never—and would never—lie to me. “I don't know, Casey.”

“But I
can't
lose him,” I said, talking more to myself than to Jack. “I need him. He's more than the head gardener. He's . . .”

Through a steady veil of rain, I watched as the doctor ripped off Gordon's stained jacket and wet shirt, a shirt that was soaked for the second time that morning. Not able to watch anymore, I closed my eyes and focused on taking slow, steady breaths while I stood there twisting my hands together until they throbbed and burned.

Please, Gordon. Don't die
.

“We're going to transfer him to George Washington University Hospital now,” a soft female voice said after what felt like an eternity. A hand touched my arm. “They'll take good care of him.”

I opened my eyes and watched the medical staff lift Gordon to the metal gurney. The nurse who had touched my arm hurriedly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She then jogged to catch up with the doctors and fellow nurses who carried Gordon up the narrow pathway that led out of the garden.

“I need to go with them. I need to make sure Gordon's okay.” I tried to pull away from Jack.

“They don't need you in the ambulance.” Jack tightened his hold on my shoulder. “Once things are settled here, I'll drive you to the hospital. Let's get you inside.”

“Once things are settled here?” My voice broke. One minute Lorenzo, Gordon, and I were trying to figure out what had happened to cause this morning's irrigation line break. And now Gordon might not . . .

The ambulance's engine roared to life. Its siren cried out. “I need to be with Gordon. He shouldn't be alone.”

“He's not alone.” The special agent in charge of the Secret Service's Counter Assault Team, Mike Thatch, arrived with several other agents toting large black umbrellas.

Thatch met me head on. He squared his shoulders, which only made him seem taller than his already six-feet-plus height. “I've sent some of my men to go along with Gordon.”

“You did?” I asked. My voice sounded thick from the tears that were threatening.

Jack seemed surprised as well. His dark, sexy brows had practically shot up to his hairline.

Thatch was Jack's supervisor and, from what I could tell, dedicated to his job. But he openly disliked me and disapproved of my past assistance in solving mysterious happenings at the White House. At the moment, though, Thatch didn't look at all irritated. His shoulders weren't hunched. (He tended to hunch his shoulders a lot when I was around.) And the unhappy curl to his lips had relaxed . . . a smidge.

“We all care about our head gardener.” Thatch directed one of his men to come hold an umbrella over my head. I looked up at the umbrella's black canopy, not realizing it had started to rain so hard. “Until we understand what happened here, we're going to take every precaution available, especially considering how you're involved, Casey.” He kicked a pebble with the toe of his polished black shoe. It clattered across the pavers to hit my leather loafer.

“Now that's unfair.” I set my hands on my hips, ready to defend myself. “I have never intentionally set out to cause trouble.”

“Tell that to our sopping wet President.” Thatch seemed to fight the curl pulling at his upper lip.

“That wouldn't have happened,” I shot back, “if the schematic hadn't been stolen from the grounds office!”

“It doesn't matter.” He waved a hand in the air to silence me.

Doesn't matter?
Doesn't matter?
He thought my job performance, my reputation, didn't
matter?
I was so angry I sputtered a few meaningless sounds before giving up and shutting my mouth.

I set my hands on my hips as I glared at him.

“You're not going to cry, are you?” Thatch jerked away from me as if he feared I would grab his shirt and sob into his collar. His quick movement made the gray in his hair flinch like a startled carp in the koi pond.

He thought I was going to cry? Me?

I huffed a frustrated breath before realizing Thatch had accomplished one thing I truly could feel grateful for. I hadn't cried. I surely would have given the pouring rain some good competition if he hadn't provoked me.

“Wait a minute. Did I hear you correctly? You said you sent agents to the hospital with Gordon? Why? You don't think someone attacked him, do you? I did see what looked like blood on his arms.”

“No! Good Lord, I don't think that at all,” Thatch said. “I sent my men to the hospital because I don't want our head gardener or his family to be overrun by the press.” Thatch's gaze scanned the confines of the small garden. “But I do need to know what happened here.”

As I explained how I'd found Gordon in the . . . in the . . . pond, tears burned in my eyes again. I blinked them away. “He is going to be okay?” I couldn't stop myself from asking.

“I'm sure he will be,” Thatch was quick to say. “Do you know what Gordon was doing out here?”

I had to think back to what Gordon had said before he'd left the office. “He'd said something about pruning.”

“I see,” Thatch said. “And was he pruning in this garden?”

“He . . . he . . .” I couldn't think. I needed to get to the hospital. I needed to make sure someone had called Gordon's wife, Deloris. I should talk with her. She would want to know firsthand what had happened, what I'd seen.

But what could I tell her? What had happened here?

I glanced around the small space. The Children's Garden, a private refuge from the hubbub of politics, was nearly completely enclosed with walls made from a hedge of prickly holly bushes and a roof created by a canopy of American elms.

At the center of the space was the koi pond crowded with water hyacinths. That was where I'd found Gordon. I moved over to the pond. The agent holding the umbrella over my head followed.

Swallowing hard, I crouched down beside the pond and dipped my hand in the chilly water. A gold-and-white carp nipped the tip of my finger.

I quickly pulled my hand back. “What was he doing here?” I wondered aloud.

“That's what we'd like to know,” Thatch said. “Hey, what's that?” he asked, pointing into the pond.

“Where?”

“In the water?” Thatch tugged on his suit pants before bending down beside me. He fished around in the pond and pulled out a cell phone. It was an older-style black flip phone.

“That's Gordon's,” I said. “He must have dropped it.”

“He might have been trying to call for help,” Thatch said as he stood.

I craned my neck to glance up at Thatch and Jack, who were both frowning as they watched me. Thatch looked anxious to get away from me. His brows knitted tightly and he bit his lower lip as if keeping snide remarks from shooting out his mouth was causing him physical pain.

“We don't need to stand out here in the rain,” he said.

I wasn't ready to go inside. I explained to them that Nadeem had seen Frida go into the Children's Garden, possibly to confront Gordon. “Frida had accused Gordon of stealing some historic papers from her office, which is insane. She must have realized how crazy she'd sounded because she'd backed off on her accusations. But she still seemed furious with him, which I don't understand. Where is she anyhow? I came down here to make sure they weren't arguing again. That's when I found him in the . . .”

I covered my mouth with my hand and, rising, walked out from under the protection of the umbrella and into the now driving rain.

Near the front of the garden, I spotted a freshly pruned elm tree. The cuts were the proper three-part cuts that a professional arborist would make. But . . . “I don't see any tools or branches on the ground.”

Just then I did spot something out of place. At the base of the nearby Winesap apple tree, the same tree the white squirrel had perched in, I found a small mound of upturned soil.

I dropped to my knees and dug around the loose dirt in the shallow hole. Whatever Gordon had used to dig the hole had damaged some of the apple tree's roots. That didn't make sense. Gordon would never have been so careless, especially since there was no obvious reason why he'd have dug the hole in the first place.

“Do you see a shovel anywhere?” I asked. “No, not a shovel. Something smaller. A trowel. Do you see one?”

The small team of agents wandered around the intimate garden space, peeking in the colorful drifts of golden chrysanthemums and purple salvias that edged the open space.

Surrounding the koi pond was the oval patio made from paver stones. White metal chairs, a metal bench, and a small white metal table were where they were supposed to be on the patio. Behind the seating area was an expansive flowerbed. Seasonal flowers had been planted in front of a hedge of azalea and holly bushes. Taller shrubs and trees formed a living wall at the back of the garden. Behind them, a seven-foot fence covered in landscape fabric ensured complete privacy from the outside world.

“There's nothing here,” Thatch said.

“I wonder if Frida took the trowel with her.” Brushing off my damp pants as I stood, I spotted what looked like a garden tool's yellow handle sticking out of a pile of mulch near the back of the garden. “Wait a minute.”