BooksBarbecue
Back 3 a.m.
Chapters (67)
  1. :01
  2. :02
  3. :03
  4. :04
  5. :05
  6. :06
  7. :07
  8. :08
  9. :09
  10. :10
  11. :11
  12. :12
  13. :13
  14. :14
  15. :15
  16. :16
  17. :17
  18. :01
  19. :02
  20. :03
  21. :04
  22. :05
  23. :06
  24. :07
  25. :08
  26. :09
  27. :10
  28. :11
  29. :12
  30. :13
  31. :01
  32. :02
  33. :03
  34. :04
  35. :05
  36. :06
  37. :07
  38. :08
  39. :09
  40. :10
  41. :11
  42. :12
  43. :13
  44. :14
  45. :15
  46. :16
  47. :00
  48. :01
  49. :02
  50. :03
  51. :04
  52. :05
  53. :06
  54. :07
  55. :08
  56. :09
  57. :10
  58. :11
  59. :12
  60. :13
  61. :14
  62. :15
  63. :16
  64. :17
  65. :18
  66. :19
  67. 3:46 a.m.

“How long until the cavalry shows up?” I ask.

It’s closing in on 3:40 a.m.

“I called my contact at the FBI and he’s rounding up the troops.”

She explains how tricky the situation will be, at least from a jurisdictional standpoint. Technically, my dad’s house is in Annandale, which is within the Fairfax County Police Department’s jurisdiction. Technically, they should have been informed and would likely have jurisdiction as far as the double homicide went. But as a kidnapping was involved — and not just any kidnapping, but the kidnapping of the most powerful man on planet Earth — the FBI would take the lead. Then with ISIS in the mix, you had the Department of Homeland Security, the DOD, even the CIA. And with Red being Secret Service, who knew what their involvement would be.

“I can’t believe they aren’t here yet,” she mutters. “Friggin’ blizzard.”

::::

I return to Bonnie’s at 3:50 a.m.

A snowplow, actually five snowplows, have made their way onto my father’s street and are clearing the snow away for what I guess will be absolute chaos in the coming hours.

I expect Bonnie’s to be a frenzy, everyone buzzing about what has happened, but mostly everyone is exhausted — not to mention traumatized — and many have found their way to a bed.

No one is playing Cranium.

Ingrid’s father is sitting in a chair in the living room, sipping a glass of brown liquor. His wife is asleep on the couch. Don asks how Ingrid is doing and I tell him she is doing well, that she is getting her game face on, and I suspect she won’t get much sleep for the next forty-eight hours.

He nods solemnly.

He, like everyone else, appears emotionally spent. Hollowed out by the preceding twenty-four hours.

Isabel and Bonnie are in the kitchen, cleaning dishes. I give them both hugs and ask them how they’re doing. Isabel was able to get in touch with her sister who was watching their children, so she is relatively calm. Bonnie also seems remarkably okay. Maybe she is still in shock. Maybe in three weeks she will wake up with night terrors, then spend the next two years in therapy combating PTSD. But for now, she seems fine. She tells me to take a seat and that she’ll get me some food.

I join my father, Minister Robert, and Jorge at the kitchen table. There are clean plates in front of all three, each marked by residual tomato sauce.

“How are you guys doing?” I ask.

“I still can’t believe it,” says Minister Robert, rubbing his wrists which are red and raw from the zip ties.

“Sort of hard to wrap your head around,” my dad says. “Terrorists crashing your son’s wedding and kidnapping the President of the United States.”

“Loco,” quips Jorge.

Bonnie and Isabel descend on me with all manner of food and drink: two slices of lasagna, a big glass of milk, some Oreos, an apple, and some sort of pink juice.