The President's Son Ch. 03

With nothing more to do, James sat sideways, staring out the window, trying to find some slight landmass to pinpoint where he was being taken to. The plane hit some turbulence and James was pitched forward onto the floor. Pain shot up his arm from where he'd rammed his shoulder. His knee hit Alec somewhere in his belly, but he didn't get a single groan from him. Lying back, turning to his side to relieve the pressure from his newly bruised arm and the pain from having his hands tied behind his back, James settled down to try and get as comfortable as possible. Time seemed to pass quickly, and James slowly fell asleep.

From his prone position, James felt the plane touchdown, bouncing along the waves. Unable to see out any of the windows, except to the sky and stars above, James had no idea where they had landed, but could only guess, that they were far from Hawaii. It had been early morning when he'd been captured, and since it was night, he could only assume that they'd traveled either west or north, away from the setting sun and the perpetual daylight of the southern hemisphere.

As the plane settled and began to bob gently in the water, the cabin grew cold, as if chilled from the water. North. James definitely concluded they'd gone north of the warm waters of Hawaii. Alec remained unconscious by his side, either from a larger dose of the chloroform or sensitivity to it. Either way, his continued sleep concerned James. As the plane bumped, James figured they'd either docked or beached against something and mentally braced himself for his captor's return.

* * *

Malcolm stood on the roof of his Georgetown brownstone and faced the Washington Monument. The gleaming spire was lost to his eyes. Lost in thought, Malcolm turned and paced the rooftop before collapsing into a deck chair he'd placed there. Grabbing a beer from the bucket of them he'd brought up to the roof, Malcolm settled back into the chair. He'd refused to go to Camp David with the President and his family. Concern over his constituents had been the lame excuse he'd given, but it didn't touch why he really chose to go home. Before leaving the White House, he'd called and contracted for personal security, his physical safety wasn't that much of an issue. In fifteen hours, not a single other member of the McNeely family was approached let alone touched.

Clad in thick wool socks, navy, thick sweat pants, and a couple of shirts covered by a sweatshirt, Malcolm figured he could sit out on the roof, sipping beer until he was numb; from the cold, from the beer, from the thoughts that continually bombarded him, hounding him, making his pulse race and pound thickly in his chest. He had two desires and needs. He thought of the committee notes he had sitting in his briefcase in his office downstairs. He could go down into the warmth, sit in the rich leather chair and lose himself to the political and legislative files he needed to pore through. Perhaps he'd find surcease in the study on the annual rainfall and wind erosion of the outer channel islands of North Carolina. Perhaps he'd find refuge in the cost study of replacing the jetties in Grays Harbor County, Washington. And perhaps Malcolm would only read the same sentence over and over again as his mind relived every moment of his time with James.

Shutting his eyes and taking a pull off his third beer, Malcolm decided the legal papers waiting for him would have to wait. He couldn't focus. His mind was only concerned, could only focus on James and his concern over what he could be going through. Was he okay? Was he hurt? Malcolm's eyes squeezed tighter as he pushed it all away, forcing the images his over active imagination put before them far away. Standing, wiping his nose that had gone runny in the cold, Malcolm went to the edge of the roof and stared down at the naked trees, devoid of leaves on the street below.

Congress had been sworn in the day before, the committees were reconvening. Malcolm served on his father's seat on the Appropriations Committee. He didn't have time to stop everything and go to Camp David. He didn't have time to be worried about a man he just met after Christmas, which he'd first kissed under a sprig of mistletoe, that he'd had almost-sex with on New Year's Eve. Turning around, Malcolm hurled the beer bottle against the roof, watching it shatter into many pieces, the remaining few swallows bubbling on the roof, spreading quickly on the tar paper. Rubbing his eyes with his fingers, Malcolm groaned out loud, rubbing at his face, dismayed at the wetness on his fingers. Fucking crying. Jesus. What was the matter with him?

Sniffing deeply, Malcolm scrubbed his face with his hands, turning around and muttering, "fuck," quite loudly. Walking across the roof, Malcolm made his way down the ladder and realized how cold he was once the heat of the house enveloped him. Pulling off his sweatshirt, Malcolm walked down the stairs to the second story and his bedroom. Stripping off the rest of his clothing, Malcolm slipped naked between the sheets. He'd barely turned off the bed table lamp when his cell phone rang. Snatching it quickly, he flipped it open to read the display. "Hello?"

"Malcolm? It's Sam."

Malcolm swallowed deeply. "What's going on?"

He heard Sam's inhalation then sigh. "The FBI has gotten some new information. They know how he was taken and figured out where they left Hawaii. But they don't know where he is."

Malcolm shut his eyes in relief. "Have there been any demands?"

"Not yet."

Shutting his eyes, letting out his held breath slowly, Malcolm gripped the phone tighter. "Thank you for letting me know."

Sam chuckled lightly. "Yeah. No problem."

"How's the family?"

"We're going to be okay." A heavy pause ensued before he spoke again. "How about you?"

"I'm fine." He spoke too quickly, too fast to be believable. "I'm not, but I have to be."

"I hear you. I'll let you know if we hear anything more."

"Thanks." The phone became dead air. Malcolm lay back in the dark, and watched the shadows creep across the ceiling, sleep a far off possibility.