Born to Run

Chapter 21

Paulette Sparks returned to Washington on Tuesday night. Chloe’s funeral had left her completely drained.

She wondered if her father would ever recover.

Paulette’s relationship with Chloe’s mother had never amounted to much, but it killed her to see their father suffer. Chloe had caused him so much heartache in her teenage years-drinking and driving, hitting the party scene, not coming home at night. Paulette resented her for that, but it was nothing compared to Chloe’s resentment toward her. As the older sister, Paulette had done everything before Chloe. Chloe was riding a bike when Paulette learned to drive. Chloe was in middle school when Paulette started college. At the funeral, Paulette recalled an argument they’d had years earlier, when just by coincidence Chloe’s acceptance to journalism school was completely overshadowed by Paulette’s landing a job with CNN.

“I hope you die before I do, too!” Chloe had screamed at her.

Her sister hadn’t gotten her wish.

“Seventh Street,” Paulette told the taxi driver.

“Where?”

It was a dark and drizzly night at Reagan International Airport, and the only sound in the car was the wump-wump of the windshield wipers.

“Columbia Bowling Alley. You know it?”

“Yeah. Do you?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Funny,” said the driver. “You don’t look the bowling type.”

“Looks can be deceiving.”

“I hear you. But you know, if you’re going to the alley looking to soothe the beast, I could probably help you find whatever you-”

“I’m not looking for drugs. I’m going bowling.”

“Okay, sure. If you say so, lady.”

Paulette was only half lying. No, she wasn’t looking for drugs. But she wasn’t going bowling. She was on a mission. Instinctively, she reached inside her purse and touched the envelope, just to make sure it was still there. It was.

Chloe’s letter had landed in their father’s mailbox on the morning of her burial. The poor man had nearly fainted. He gave it to Paulette to read it to him. The very idea of getting a letter from a daughter he had just laid beneath the earth was too painful for him to handle. Chloe had mailed it just one day before her death. The timing was not mere coincidence.

Paulette opened the envelope and read it one more time in the backseat of the taxi, the dim reading lamp giving her barely enough light:

Dear Dad,

I can’t remember the last time I snail-mailed a handwritten letter to you, but don’t be alarmed. This is good news. Mostly good news. I am working on the biggest story of my life right now. This one goes all the way to the White House.

I’ve been dealing with a confidential source for a couple weeks now. He hasn’t told me everything, but I know enough to understand that this could be dangerous stuff. That’s why I’m writing you this letter.

I have been making copies of all my notes on this story. In case something happens to me-I’m not saying it will, but just in case it does-I want you to know where they are. Take the key that’s in this envelope. It’s to locker number 23 at Columbia

Lanes Bowling Alley on 7th Street. You’ll find everything in the locker.

I know you probably think this sounds crazy or even paranoid. If you’re sharing it with Paulette, she’s probably rolling her eyes right now. But this is serious stuff, Dad. It’s going to be big. Bigger than anything you can imagine. You are going to be so proud of me.

Love, Chloe

The taxi stopped at the curb in front of the bowling alley. The orange neon sign on the door said they were “PEN,” the letter “O” burned out. Paulette paid the driver and stepped onto the sidewalk. She tried to put one foot in front of the other, but something stopped her. The cold night air hit her in the face, unleashing swarms of butterflies in her stomach.

Not until that moment-as she stared at the entrance to the Columbia bowling alley-had Paulette even considered the possibility that the locker might hold some kind of journalistic treasure. She’d promised her father to check it out and take whatever was inside the locker to the police. Knowing Chloe, she expected the locker to be empty. The girl just wasn’t well.

Two men with bowling bags passed her on the sidewalk, and Paulette followed them inside. It was a league night, lots of men dressed in baby blue shirts with short sleeves and their names stitched onto the pocket. Paulette was strangely reminded of her midwestern roots-the winter days of Ping-Pong after school in the basement and bowling on weekends. Chloe used to throw a fit when their father told her to use the bumpers to keep the ball out of the gutters. She had always insisted on competing straight up with her older sister.

Paulette walked past the counter toward the women’s lounge. The lockers were in a separate room adjacent to the bathroom. She double checked the number on the key and found locker 23 in the second row. She stepped toward it, inserted the key, and turned the handle. It opened. The butterflies returned; the locker wasn’t empty.

You never cease to surprise me, little sister.

Paulette took the expandable folder from the locker and went to the wooden bench in the center of the room. She untied the string and peeked inside. It contained notes, just as Chloe had explained in her letter. Some were handwritten. Others were typed. Paulette was certain that the handwritten notes would be utterly unintelligible. She took a closer look at the typewritten pages, which were stapled together and better organized. They appeared to be a rough draft of an article.

The first line was a grabber: When should a president no longer be president?

Paulette almost smiled. She read on.

In dark times, this country has asked that question before. The Keyes presidency, however, presents an entirely unique question in American history: When should a president never have become president in the first place?

Paulette’s adrenaline was pumping. She kept reading-couldn’t stop reading. By the fourth paragraph she had to put it down and catch her breath. She went right back to it, read some more, and instinctively brought the papers to her chest, as if to prevent her pounding heart from exploding.

My God, Chloe.

A wave of paranoia suddenly came over her-a taste of what her sister must have felt at the end of her life-and Paulette checked over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching. No one else was in the room. She gathered up the papers, stuffed them back into the file, and closed up the locker. Chloe’s notes were hers now. This story was too important to sit on the shelf inside some locker in a bowling alley. Someone had to run with this. She would do it for Chloe-maybe even give her a posthumous co-byline. All Paulette had to do was verify a few facts.

And then one way or another, this story would rock the White House to its political core.