CHAPTER 4 Sampson
Sampson
LIFE AS A SINGLE parent is not easy. But it has its moments.
One of my most treasured rituals is walking my daughter, Willow, to school, her small hand dwarfed in my own big mitt. I know the time will come when she’ll be too grown up to hold Daddy’s hand. I’m not looking forward to that day.
But at this moment, I’ve got something else to worry about.
Our morning ritual was just interrupted by an unexpected phone call from Alex Cross. Damon, he tells me, is apparently missing down in North Carolina.
Willow walks ahead and starts talking and giggling with her friends as I stand outside her school, holding my phone tight to my ear. “Alex, have you talked to the Chapel Hill police or campus security?”
My feet feel rooted to the concrete sidewalk. I’m trying to stay grounded, not to jump to any worst-case scenarios. Bad things have happened to the Cross family before. But I’m hoping this is just some kind of mistake or miscommunication.
“Not yet,” he says. “Bree and I will be in Raleigh in just over two hours. We’ll get a rental and head to campus. We want to meet with the police in person. You know what it’s like—it’s hard to ignore somebody who’s sitting right in front of you.”
“I agree. In person is best. Look, I can be down there later today.”
“Can you really?” asks Alex. “I didn’t think you had any vacation time left.”
“I’ll find the time. You get there safe, start your search, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
A brief pause from the other end of the line, then: “I love you, John Sampson.”
“I know you do, and I love you too, Alex, and everyone else in your family. If you don’t think it would be too taxing on Nana Mama, I’ll have Willow stay at your house while I’m down there with you two.”
“I’m sure that will be fine. You know Nana Mama just loves your little girl. And Ali … well, he can be a handful, but Willow’s like a little sister to him, and she can hold her own,” Alex says. “Gotta go, we’re pulling up to the airport now.”
“Later. You two travel safe.”
I disconnect and walk over to Willow. She looks up at me with that 1,000-watt smile and hugs me.
My baby is tall—she takes after her daddy—but her head still barely reaches my midriff.
I decide not to say anything to her now.
I’ll set everything up and tell her about Damon later, when I pick her up this afternoon, I think.
No need to have her spend the day worrying.
“Daddy?”
“Right here,” I say.
She laughs. “Remember you said you’d get me a new backpack? This one is still too heavy.”
I pat her hair. “Sure. I guess I can do that.”
“Yay!” Then her voice gets serious: “Daddy, when are we going to see Rebecca again? Are we still getting married?”
Her question makes me wince a little. I can’t help it.
Rebecca is Rebecca Cantrell, the U.S. attorney for Northern Virginia. She’s been an important part of my life, and Willow’s too. When I’d asked Rebecca to marry me, Willow had cried out, “And me!”
But since then, Rebecca’s put things on hold. It’s been painful, but she has her reasons, and I have a hard time arguing with them.
“I’ve seen your scars, John,” she told me. “And I know the way you work. You were first to make entry at that hostage situation at Fort Dupont Dwellings. You got shot twice and your vest saved you. I can’t go through that again. Please, just give me some time.”
So that’s what I’m doing.
I look down at Willow. “We’re just taking a little break from each other, that’s all. I’m sure it’ll all work out in the end.”
I hope.
“Okaaay,” says Willow. The tone of her voice tells me she doesn’t quite trust what she’s hearing.
I kiss the top of her head and nudge her toward the school entrance. “You run in, now, sugar. Don’t be late.”
Willow waves and heads through the door, her backpack hanging low.
I’m sure it is heavy, but I’m not ready to replace it just yet.
Willow doesn’t know it, but that backpack has bullet-resistant panels sewn into the fabric.
I bought it for her a little while back, when DC and the country seemed to be trembling on a knife-edge, violence breaking out everywhere for no apparent reason.
I wanted to give my daughter some protection if a shooter ever attacked her school. Sign of the times. A sad one.
Still, it’s been peaceful and quiet in DC recently. Maybe I’m just being a paranoid parent. Maybe it’s time to replace her tactical backpack with the old-fashioned kind, something fun and appropriate for a little girl, without all the bulletproofing.
My phone rings. What I hear next makes that hopeful thought disappear like a spiderweb caught in a high wind.
“John!” It’s my supervisor, Detective Sergeant Moore Taylor. “Get over to N Street and Thirteenth Street Northwest, quick as you can!”
“On my way. What’s up?”
Taylor’s voice is tight and hard: “Bombing. Multiple victims. Fire and EMTs are en route. I need you to get over there and take charge!”
There goes my peaceful, quiet city.
Up in flames again.