The President's Shadow by Brad Meltzer

he’s definitely running. “Away from the White House,” Marshall points out.
    “And away from Secret Service headquarters,” I say as we take off after him.
    I don’t care how fast you run, Andy Warhol.
    We see where you’re going.

15
    Twenty-nine years ago
Lawton, Oklahoma
    S ome people think they know when they’re going to die. Alby White was one of them. Naturally, h e wasn’t so sure of the how —whether it’d be by fire, car crash, or heart attack—but at twenty-two years old, he believed one thing: that he would die when he was young.
    Today was Alby’s first time on an airplane (which he liked). It was also his first time in first class (which he liked even more). It would also be his first time in a plane crash.
    “…should be touching down in the next ten minutes for an on-time arrival in Oklahoma,” the pilot announced, his voice calm as a grandfather’s. “Current weather shows light winds, temperature a gorgeous eighty-five degrees. Flight attendants, please prepare for arrival. Welcome to a beautiful day in—”
    “—the United States Army!” the loudmouthed Irish kid with a mop of rust-colored hair called out across the aisle. Alby had met him when they were boarding—or rather, tried to meet him. The Irish kid brushed him off, choosing to make small talk with the square-shouldered all-American recruit who was standing first in line at the boarding gate. Both looked a few years younger than Alby. Just kids out of high school. But some things never changed. Cool kids always found cool kids. And cool kids never found Alby.
    From twelfth grade, t o junior high, even down to his first years in grade school, Alby had never been bullied. He was relegated to the even lower rung of unpopularity: He was ignored . Worse, he knew he was ignored. Whenever kids were reminiscing in his Minnesota school, someone would say, “I didn’t even realize you were in that class with us.”
    In Alby’s mind, that was life—until he met Teresa, the first girl who ever really noticed him. On the first day of school, pinned to her jean jacket, was a Charlie Chaplin button with two arts-and-crafts googly eyes glued to Chaplin’s face. By the tenth day of school, the button was on Alby’s chest. Teresa knew Alby was shy, but as she told him, Chaplin was proof that even the quiet ones can still be stars. Alby laughed at the sappiness. But he kept wearing the button.
    Alby’s mom had told him to be careful, but like so many small kids from a small town, he and Teresa had big plans—until right after prom, when she peed on a plastic pregnancy test and saw a plus sign. Minnesota was a liberal state. Teresa’s family wasn’t. Within four years, Alb y and Teresa had two girls and a newborn. A little boy named Beecher.
    It wasn’t until one of Alby’s daughters broke her collarbone and Alby’s mother was hit with Parkinson’s that Alby thought about the army. Most jobs let you add your wife and children as dependents; the military lets you add your family and your diaper-wearing mother whose tremors are getting so bad she can no longer hold a fork. But that wasn’t Alby’s only reason for becoming an army man.
    “So off to basic training, huh?” a gate agent with a pointy face and equally pointy breasts had called out from the check-in kiosk.
    “How’d you know?” Alby asked.
    “Envelope,” the gate agent said, pointing to the wide manila envelope he was clutching to his chest. There were three other recruits on the flight. All were doing the same: all pretending to be calm; all dressed in T-shirts; all four hugging the envelopes with their enlistment orders for Oklahoma’s Fort Sill. “My brother served for two years,” the gate agent added, handing Alby a surprise upgrade to first class. “Enjoy the extra legroom.”
    As Alby said his thanks and headed down the Jetway, he felt in his pocket for the googly-eyed Chaplin button. He had brought it with him when all three of his kids were born. You