Bo had been in charge of security at Wildwood on numerous occasions. Although former vice presidents were not accorded Secret Service protection (a benefit enjoyed only by former presidents), the Secret Service did have the responsibility of protecting visiting heads of state. Jorgenson was famous for putting his guests to work in the orchards, regardless of their rank. Prime ministers, premiers, presidents, and sultans propped and pruned and picked the fruit. While they sweated at a labor as old as mankind, they talked with Tom Jorgenson and with one another. And while they talked, Bo and his fellow agents kept them safe.
The house, nestled in the orchards, was a big place, three stories, white frame, half a dozen gables, and a wraparound front porch. Forty yards south stood the guesthouse. There were two outbuildings, one a sturdy red barn and the other an equipment shed, and near the main house a small swimming pool.
Bo parked on the gravel drive in front of the house, under a sycamore. Annie Jorgenson must have been expecting him, because she opened the door as he stepped onto the porch.
“Hello, Bo.” She gave him a hug and kissed his cheek.
“How is he, Annie?”
“Not conscious. They tell me it could go either way.”
Annie Jorgenson was in her early sixties. A slender woman, she stood nearly as tall as Bo, and when she spoke to him, her crystal blue eyes were level with his own. Bo had always admired the intelligence and beauty in those eyes. Now he saw tears there.
“Ruth’s with him,” she said, speaking of Jorgenson’s youngest daughter.
Someone called from inside, “Annie?” Bo had been on detail at Wildwood often enough to recognize that the voice belonged to Sue Lynott, who prepared the meals for the Jorgensons and their guests, and also for the Secret Service agents while they were on protective duty at Wildwood. Her food was considered one of the true perks of the job. “Shall I fix you and Bo some tea?”
“Thank you, Sue,” Annie called back. “That would be nice.”
They sat in the porch swing.
“How did it happen?” he asked.
She shook her head. “He was going down to the river bluff to look at the moon. You know his ritual. He’s been taking the tractor lately because he twisted his knee a couple of weeks ago. When I finished the dinner dishes, I went out to join him and there he was. A branch had knocked him off his seat and the flatbed had run over him. He must have been careless.” Her voice, by the end, had broken.
“Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Not much.”
“The team will be here soon to set up. I’ll keep things quiet if you’d like to try to get some rest.”
“I’m fine, Bo.”
Sue brought them tea, said hello to Bo, then went back into the house. From the orchards came the sound of a meadowlark. Annie’s eyes seemed to try to track the source of the song, and for a while she simply stared at the apple trees and drank her tea.
“If there’s anything I can do,” Bo finally said, “let me know.”
She smiled. “You’re doing it.”
When Special Agent Jake Russell arrived with the rest of the operations detail, Bo left Annie and headed out to prepare the guesthouse.
Originally a carriage house, the structure had at one time served as the home and the studio for Roland Jorgenson, who’d been a famous metal sculptor. After Roland’s death, the structure was remodeled to accommodate the visitors who journeyed to Wildwood seeking Tom Jorgenson’s counsel. The frequent presence of foreign heads of state necessitated installation of permanent security equipment. Behind the kitchen was an area originally designed as a sunroom, but that had become the Operations Center. Although Tom Jorgenson understood the need for security measures during these high-level visits, he never allowed the devices to be operable at any other time. Part of Bo’s responsibility was to run a check of the system and ensure that every piece of apparatus was functioning properly. He directed some of the agents to check the monitors that were connected to cameras mounted around the building. Jake Russell took part of the team into the orchard to calibrate the sensors of the motion detectors and infrared cameras on the stone wall around the orchards of Wildwood. Bo secured the weapons and the additional equipment in the Op Center lockers. Once the perimeter security system was functioning, he had his team run a test to make sure the signals were firm and all the equipment was transmitting properly.
Near the end of the setup, he received word that the First Lady’s plane had arrived and she was en route to the hospital. Shortly after, a Washington County sheriff’s deputy dropped by to say two officers had been posted at the entrance to Wildwood to control traffic and access from the main road. Media vans were already gathering along the St. Croix Trail. Bo thanked him and did a final check of everything.
He spent another hour preparing before he was satisfied that all was in order. Finally, he stepped out into the yard and stood looking down the orchard lane that Tom Jorgenson always took when he went to watch the moon. At the far end, Bo could see the tractor.
He walked slowly between the rows of trees. The apples were a nice size but still green. The branches sagged, in need of propping. Bo had to walk a crooked line and bend occasionally to make his way. When he reached the idle machine, he circled it, then stood looking back for the branch that had thrown Tom Jorgenson into harm’s way. The most likely candidate was a thick limb a few feet back of the flatbed. It hung low, but not so low, Bo thought, that it couldn’t easily have been avoided. Bo climbed onto the tractor seat, looked back, and confirmed his assessment that if Jorgenson had made the slightest effort, he’d have missed the limb. Bo had known Tom Jorgenson long enough to believe that he was a man with great presence of mind. What could have distracted him? The moon? As he dismounted, he spotted a silver Thermos wedged under the seat. He unscrewed the cap and sniffed. Coffee and—maybe this explained a lot—whiskey.
Bo walked to the edge of the bluff thirty yards in front of the tractor. A sheer sandstone cliff fell fifty feet to a rocky, tree-covered slope that ran down to the St. Croix River. The river was a silver sparkle of sunlight a half-mile wide, edged on both sides by tall, wooded bluffs. Sailboats and power launches skimmed over the water. Bo turned back, stared at the tractor, and wondered about something. He returned to the Kubota and checked the ignition. The key was still there, but the ignition was in the off position. He was pretty sure Tom Jorgenson didn’t have time to kill the engine before he fell to the ground. So probably the ignition had been switched off by someone in the aftermath of the accident. Still, the elements of the situation felt odd to him.
He puzzled only a brief moment before he heard his name called over the walkie-talkie he carried, and the cryptic message, “Dreamcatcher is en route to Mount Olympus.”
Communicating over the airwaves, even when using a scrambled signal, Secret Service always employed code names to designate protectees. Dreamcatcher was the First Lady. Mount Olympus was Wildwood.
chapter
six
The First Lady arrived in a dark blue Lincoln Town Car escorted by two state patrol cars and by two Regals from the field office, each carrying several of the agents on permanent FLOTUS duty. Bo stood just behind Annie Jorgenson as the limousine stopped in front of the house.
Special Agent Christopher Manning emerged first. He wasn’t tall, just under six feet, nor remarkably broad in chest and shoulders, yet in his compactness there was something powerful. He’d always reminded Bo of a jack-in-the-box, tense and ready to spring. He wore his red-blond hair in a neat crew cut. To Bo, the most remarkable feature of Manning’s face was that it usually displayed all the emotion of a bowling ball.
The woman who stepped out after Manning, Bo had met only once in person, when she was seventeen. During all the operations Bo had overseen at Wildwood, Kathleen Jorgenson Dixon had been absent, either in Colorado as the state’s First Lady or in Washington, D.C., bearing the same title for the nation. He’d seen the family pictures, of course, framed inside the Jor
genson house, and along with most other Americans, he’d been treated to more than enough television, magazine, and newspaper coverage to know the basics of her life story. It was of a vivacious young woman, always smiling, eyes bright, raised in an international arena. There were pictures of the Jorgensons in Paris, Rome, London, Amsterdam, many posed with leaders of great renown. In them, Kate Jorgenson, the oldest of the children, usually stood holding hands with her sister, Ruth, and her brother, Earl.
Kate had grown into a Nordic beauty, tall, large-boned, blonde, with striking gray eyes. Although Bo had always been impressed with her composure and with the strength of her character, when he saw her emerge from the limousine, it was, much to his own chagrin, her long and slender legs that he noted. He considered wryly whether this might somehow be a breach of his patriotic duty.
“Aunt Annie.” The First Lady sounded near tears.
“It’s all right, Katie,” Annie Jorgenson said as they hugged. “We’re all together now. It will be okay.”
“He looks so broken.”
“Come on in, sweetheart, and we’ll get you settled. Then, if you’d like, we’ll go back and see him together.”
Two more agents stepped from the Town Car, along with a woman whom Bo knew from report and reputation, Nicole Greene, who functioned as the First Lady’s communications director.
“Agent Aguilera,” Manning instructed one of his team, a tall woman, “you’re with the First Lady. Gooden, give a hand with the luggage.” He turned, finally, to Bo. “I’ve been in communication with Diana Ishimaru in the Minneapolis office. She indicated you have the Operations Center ready.”
“The guesthouse,” Bo replied, pointing toward the maples. “We’ve checked the security cameras and radio equipment. We still need a frequency cleared for emergency communication, but we should have that momentarily.”
“Good,” Manning replied with a nod.
Stu Coyote, who’d driven one of the Regals, joined them. “County deputies are stationed at the entrance to Wildwood. State patrol’s assigned us these two units for the duration of the First Lady’s visit.” He indicated the burgundy-and-tan patrol cars. “Anywhere she goes, they clear the way.”
Manning said, “We’re going to try to limit her traveling to between Wildwood and the hospital. According to the contingency report I have, there’s only one main road to Stillwater.”
“The St. Croix Trail. The road we just traveled,” Coyote said. “That’s it.”
“I don’t like the idea of keeping to a single route.” Although his words betrayed concern, Manning’s face didn’t show it. “Show me the Op Center. Carter, Searson, Jones,” he called to the other agents. “Get your things.”
Bo led him to the guesthouse. On the lawn in front, secured to a concrete slab as if it were being held captive, stood a huge, twisted sculpture of stainless steel. As they passed the polished metal, a blast of reflected sunlight blinded Manning, and he lifted his hands to block the glare.
“Jesus, what the hell is that?”
“Don’t you recognize great art when you see it, Chris?” Bo said. “That’s a bona fide masterpiece, or so I’ve been told. The guesthouse used to be the studio for Tom Jorgenson’s infamous brother, Roland. A true eccentric, from what I understand. Died twenty years ago in a car accident. Drove his Porsche into a tree. Created his final sculpture, a heap of metal with him at the heart. Goddess here is the only piece left at Wildwood. Everything else is in museums.”
“Goddess?” Manning said. “My ass.”
Bo shared the lack of enthusiasm. The sculpture was a wild thing that gave the feel of monstrous forces barely contained. The polished steel itself was beautiful, but to Bo it had always seemed like a dream that had been warped by a dark subconscious into a nightmare.
“You learn to ignore it,” Bo said and led Manning inside.
Bo briefed him on the layout and the bedrooms. Manning made assignments for his team. Then they went down to the Op Center, where Bo’s people were already at work. Manning checked the sweep of the cameras. “Nothing that looks beyond the buildings,” he said. “At night, you could hide an army in those orchards.”
“We have motion detectors and motion-activated cameras on the wall around the orchard,” Bo told him. “During periods of heightened security, I have agents patrolling the perimeter around the clock.”
“What about the river bluff?” Manning said. “No wall there.”
“Tom Jorgenson won’t let anything ruin the view of the river. We’ve had to settle for mobile tripods that we set up each time we come out.”
“How about duty shifts?”
“Eight hours for everyone but me. Until the First Lady’s visit is over, I’m here twenty-four, seven. The only thing we haven’t done yet is run an electronic sweep. We had such short notice.”
Manning shook his head. “Forget the sweep. We’re not holding a summit meeting. It would be too disruptive for the First Lady at this point.”
“A sweep is standard protocol at Wildwood,” Bo said.
“When heads of state meet here, of course. But no state secrets are going to be discussed this visit. Let’s keep it simple and focus on the First Lady’s safety.” Manning took a last look around. “Everything seems in order, Thorsen.”
“I have a print of the hospital layout if you want to go over it.”
Manning dismissed Bo’s offer with a wave. “I had it faxed to me on the plane. Everything’s already under control.”
“Anything you need for covering the First Lady, just let me know.”
“All I need is for you to do your job.”
Later in the day, the Jorgenson family made another visit to the hospital. It was nearly dark when Annie and the First Lady returned to Wildwood. A while later, Tom Jorgenson’s other children, Ruth and Earl, arrived. Half an hour after that, as Bo stood near the sculpture outside the guesthouse, he saw the front door open, and all the Jorgensons stepped out. When the door closed behind them, they were lost in the dark on the front porch. A moment later, Bo heard the creak of the swing that hung there. When Wildwood had distinguished visitors, Tom and Annie often would sit with the guests in the evening, rocking in the porch swing and talking. Bo always waited until the guests had retired for the night, before turning on the porch light and activating the sensors that protected the house.
He gave them a few minutes, then he headed their way. Although he was reluctant to disturb them, he had a question that was begging for an answer.
“Evening, Annie. Ruth. Earl. Mrs. Dixon,” he said from the walk.
“It’s Bo,” Earl shouted. He leaped from the swing and bounded down the porch stairs, where he pumped Bo’s hand with great pleasure.
Earl was thirty-three, but his mind was still somewhere in childhood. Usually he lived in a group home in St. Paul, but his father’s accident had brought him back to Wildwood.
“How you doing, Earl?”
“I’m real good, Bo. Real good. I got a girlfriend.”
“Good for you. What’s her name?”
“It’s Joanie, Bo. Joanie Bones.”
“Bonds,” Annie said gently from the railing against which she and Ruth leaned. “Joanie Bonds, Earl.”
“I like Joanie Bones better. She thinks it’s funny.”
“Hello, Bo,” Annie said.
“Hi, Bo.” Ruth gave him a familiar little wave.
Annie said, “Kate, I don’t think you met Special Agent Thorsen this afternoon. He’s local Secret Service.”
“How do you do, Agent Thorsen?”
He couldn’t see her well. She was a light shade moving toward him and back with the slow rock of the swing.
“Fine, thanks,” he said. “I’m sorry about your father.”
Earl returned to the porch swing and sat beside his sister.
“Bo’s been our guardian angel out here many times in the last few years,” Annie said. “But Bo and I have known each other a lot longer than that. Twenty-five years, I believe.”
>
“Come September,” Bo said.
“Oh?” the First Lady said. “How’s that?”
Annie laughed quietly. “I made Bo’s acquaintance when he came before me in juvenile court.”
“You were in trouble?”
Bo smiled. “I didn’t see it that way.”
“He was living on the streets,” Annie said.
“Your parents?” the First Lady asked.
“By then I had none,” Bo replied.
“I’m sorry.” She sounded as if she were. Sincerely.
“I was lucky. I found my way into Annie’s courtroom.”
“He was arrested for theft,” Annie explained. “The police found him living with four other children in an abandoned school bus in a grove of trees on the Mississippi River. They were surviving mostly off Bo’s ability to steal.”
“What can I say?” Bo shrugged. “It was a gift.”
“Why have we never met before?” the First Lady asked.
“Actually, we have,” Bo said, “a long time ago. Just before I headed off to college, I stopped by Wildwood to thank Annie for all she’d done. I watched the moon rise with you and your father that night.”
“I’m sorry. I ought to remember.”
Bo laughed easily. “You were memorable. I was not. I didn’t come back to Wildwood again until after I was posted to the field office in Minneapolis. That was three years ago.”
“And you haven’t visited Wildwood since you moved into the White House,” Annie said to her niece with a note of mild criticism. “If we want to see you, we have to go to Washington. Bo, on the other hand, visits regularly. He and Tom have become good friends.”
Ruth held out her hand, indicating a tray on the table next to the swing. “Would you care for some iced tea, Bo?”
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“It’s no intrusion,” Annie assured him.
“I’ll skip the tea, but I’d like to ask you something, Annie. About Tom’s accident.”
The Devil’s Bed Page 4
