“Forgive me if I don’t grieve for the man,” Bo said.
He realized he’d spoken harshly and that he’d shattered a fragile moment between them. He wished immediately he could do something, say something that would bring back the feeling he’d had before either of them spoke about death.
“I should let you rest.” She moved toward the door.
“I’m fine.”
She smiled, but it was cordial, forced. “My daughter’s arriving from D.C. this afternoon. I want to get a few things ready for her.”
“Sure.”
“Good-bye.” She took his hand, then gave him a soft kiss on the cheek as well.
After she’d gone, he opened the book she’d given him, and he found the inscription she’d written by hand.
To Bo, my guardian angel.
I will never say a prayer of thanksgiving without your name upon my lips.
Kate
It was very nice, Bo thought. Full of gratitude. Then he chided himself for wishing it were full of something more.
chapter
twenty-eight
Late that evening, the president sat in a stuffed chair in his residence, sipping a cup of decaf mocha and trying to concentrate on revising the address he was to deliver at the Pan-American summit. The speech was weak. But his mind kept drifting to another subject, one far more threatening to him than the idea of delivering a less than perfect address.
His father.
Dixon put down his papers and thought about the only man who could anger him without speaking a word. What had shaped William Dixon, in what hellish forge his character had been hammered, Clay Dixon could only guess.
His father had been another man once, or so Clay Dixon’s mother claimed. When he was seventeen, he’d been a lean, long-boned young man with stiff, dusty hair and a cocky smile. He wore dirty jeans and scuffed boots and old western shirts. He’d been one of the hired hands on the Purgatoire River Ranch. And he’d been in love with the rancher’s daughter. He didn’t have a chance of marrying her in those days. The rancher was a tough, wealthy man, and he had no intention of giving his daughter’s hand to a cowboy who had nothing to offer her but an appealing face and more self-assurance than his circumstances merited.
Pearl Harbor changed everything. Billy Dixon, along with thousands of other young men, enlisted in the marines. He trained at San Diego and was among the last of the armed forces to reach the Bataan Peninsula in the Philippines before the Japanese cut off the islands. He distinguished himself in the fighting that ensued over the next three months. When Bataan fell, he and seventy-five thousand other American and Filipino soldiers, most ill with malaria and weak from hunger and thirst, were marched along a sixty-five-mile stretch of jungle road on what would eventually be known as the Bataan Death March. He spent several months in the Cabanatuan prison camp before escaping with nine other men. They stole a small launch from a coastal town and, making their way by night, eventually reached Borneo and the Aussie forces there. But the war wasn’t over for Billy Dixon. He saw action at Tarawa, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa, earning himself two Purple Hearts and a Silver Star in the process. When he was discharged in the late summer of 1945, he came home to Las Animas County, Colorado, a bona fide hero.
Whenever she spoke of the war, Clay Dixon’s mother spoke of it sadly. Billy Dixon had gone away a cocky boy whom she couldn’t help loving. But the man who returned to a hero’s welcome and who was given her hand in marriage had become a stranger in many ways. Hard inside and distant. Although his mother never said as much, Clay Dixon believed that she’d married hoping she might somehow be able to resurrect the boy the war had killed. It never happened.
The ranch didn’t interest William Dixon. It wasn’t long before he ran for Congress and easily won. A few years later, he moved into a Senate seat.
Growing up, Clay Dixon seldom saw his father. He went to boarding school in Denver, St. Regis. Summers he spent on the Purgatoire River Ranch with his mother, who’d gone from being the quiet daughter of an overbearing father to the silent wife of an unattentive, powerful politician. She smiled little, drank much, and cried often, but always in the privacy of her home. Nothing was public then. She died young. Dixon never saw his father shed a tear of grief. He’d thought then that the senator had no soul. He believed something different now, that long ago in the body of a cocky cowboy his father had possessed a soul, but Senator William Dixon had readily exchanged it for the currency of power.
The president felt bile rising in his throat, and the anger that brought it up was not just at the senator but also at himself. Not long before, Kate had accused him of selling his own soul and that of the nation to the devil simply because he’d never made it to the Super Bowl. He was beginning to be afraid that maybe she’d been right.
The phone rang. It was Rich Thielman, head of the POTUS detail.
“Mr. President, the Technical Security Division has finished its sweep of the White House, as you requested.”
“And?”
“Nothing, sir. They found absolutely nothing. I checked the roster for the White House Communications Agency last night myself. The personnel on duty are impeccable in their credentials. There’s no evidence of a breach in the security of the communication line itself. I had Secret Service in Minnesota check the line at Wildwood. Nothing there either.”
“I see,” the president said.
“Sir, if you’d be willing to share the cause of your concern, I might be able to offer more assistance.”
“Thanks, Rich. I’ll think about it.”
Dixon called Bobby Lee at his home on the Potomac outside Alexandria.
“Thielman just reported on the security sweep. No bugs, Bobby.”
Lee hesitated before replying. “Which leaves us with the probability that someone talked.”
“And that brings me back to my original question. Who knew, Bobby?”
“Only Sherm, Megan, and Ned Shackleford. Our people. We were sure we could trust them.”
“Megan,” Dixon said, speaking of his congressional affairs adviser. “She’s good, but sometimes that Harvard mouth of hers moves way out ahead of her brain.”
Lee said, “If I had to guess, Clay, my vote would be Ned. He’s a little too ambitious for my taste.”
Dixon hated this. Skewering the people he trusted, wondering about his own judgment. “What do you think, Bobby?”
“I think we need to know what the senator is up to.”
“If we can figure that, maybe we’ll have an idea how he’s been getting his information.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“Just keep an eye on him, Bobby. And make absolutely certain none of his people know you’re watching.” Dixon paused a moment, then said, “Jesus.”
“What is it?”
“Our people, his people. My God, how did I let my presidency come to this?”
“You can still fix things, Clay. It may be late in the game and we may be deep in our own territory, but hey, you’re Air Express. You’ve still got the arm.”
For the first time in days, Dixon allowed himself to smile.
chapter
twenty-nine
Tom Jorgenson was built like a Viking, big and raw-looking. He’d lost most of his hair young. The thin, silver fringe that remained he kept bristle short. His eyes were Scandinavian blue and clear in the way of someone who’d come to terms with what he was and what he wasn’t and had found a measure of peace.
On the morning Bo was scheduled to be released, he made his last visit to Tom Jorgenson’s room. Kate’s father was lying down, slightly propped by pillows. A tube came out the side of his chest, draining fluid that still collected in one of his lungs. He was clean-shaven, courtesy of the nursing staff, and he smelled faintly of lime aftershave, a nice contrast to the medicinal odor that permeated the room. He reached toward a glass of water on the stand beside his bed but in the end needed Bo’s help.
“You and Kate seem to have become good frie
nds,” Jorgenson said after he’d sipped. “You like her?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“I’m her father. I’m allowed to ask all kinds of strange questions. It’s a simple one. Do you like her?”
“Everybody likes the First Lady.”
“I’m not asking about everyone.”
“Yes,” Bo said. “I like her. What are you getting at?”
Jorgenson said, “I think Kate’s a little vulnerable right now. She’s been through an ordeal. She’s tired. She may not be thinking clearly about some things. That’s all I’m saying.” Bo waited for something more, an admonition perhaps, but apparently Jorgenson had said all he meant to. He reached out to shake Bo’s hand in parting. “Thanks again for saving her life.”
Ishimaru was waiting near the nurses’ station. “Your discharge is official,” she said.
“I thought you were going to have an agent drive me to Wildwood so I could get my car.”
She said, “That would be me.”
Before he left, Bo took a moment to drop by Chris Manning’s room. Manning was fighting a severe infection that was the result of his wound, and no visitors were allowed. Bo stood at the door watching the agent’s restless sleep. As nearly as he’d been able to tell, being near death hadn’t changed Manning’s perspective or personality, nor had it altered Bo’s own disaffection for the agent. Still, he hoped sincerely that Manning would pull through.
He had one last stop. He found Nurse Rivera in the fourth floor lounge, scanning the pages of Better Homes and Gardens while she took a break. At the sight of him, she got up, clasped his hands, stood on her toes, and kissed his cheek. “Vaya con Dios, Bo.” He wondered if she said good-bye to all her patients in this way.
Ishimaru’s Sable was in the parking lot. It was hot from sitting in the sun. Bo eased the window down to let in the breeze until the air conditioner could start cranking out something cooler.
“So what do you want to talk to me about?” he asked.
“What makes you think I want to talk?”
“Because you could have any agent do this.”
Ishimaru pulled out of the lot and headed toward the highway along the river.
“Take a look at this,” she said, tapping a folded newsprint publication that lay between them on the seat. “It’s due to hit the stands tomorrow.”
Bo picked it up. It was a tabloid, the National Enquirer. He was surprised to see on the cover a photograph of him and the First Lady standing together at his hospital window. Although sunlight reflected off the glass, Kate’s image was quite clear, and she was quite clearly laughing. Bo’s image was not so definite. It could have been almost anyone. The headline read “ROMANCE BLOOMS AT HOSPITAL BEDSIDE.” Bo glanced through the text that chronicled the First Lady’s daily visits to his room, quoted unidentified hospital staff about the intimacy of their relationship, and hinted that rumors of an as yet undisclosed indiscretion on the part of the president were sending his wife into another man’s arms.
“Rumors? What rumors?” Bo asked.
“A rag like that doesn’t need facts. It relies on innuendo and unfounded conjecture. So what about it?”
“You mean Kate and me?”
“Kate?” Ishimaru glanced at him, her eyes full of concern.
Outside Stillwater, they headed south toward Wildwood. They picked up the St. Croix Trail, which was less trafficked than it had been after Kathleen Jorgenson Dixon first arrived. Even considering the attack at Wildwood, she was already becoming yesterday’s news. Bo knew the tabloid story would probably change that.
Ishimaru said, “The rag got the facts all screwy, but I’m thinking they may not have missed the target by much. She’s beautiful, she’s bright, and if there’s any substance to those rumors about the president, she may be vulnerable right now.”
“I’m nothing to her,” Bo said. “Believe me.”
“You underestimate your charm.”
“Are you talking to me as my boss?”
“At the moment, as a friend. Think about what you’re feeling and then think about what you’re doing. And most of all, think about her.”
Bo looked out at the wooded hills. For a while he rode in silence.
“You look tired,” he said finally.
“Lots of people outside Secret Service are poking their noses into the incident at Wildwood. We’re not getting a lot of support from above.”
“You think someone’s going to get hung out to dry?”
“I can’t see it. I’ve reviewed everything, and we’re clear on protocol.”
He thought he noted some hesitation in her voice. He asked, “They want a scapegoat?”
“You just worry about getting yourself healthy,” she replied. “And keeping your face off the front page of tabloids. I can handle the rest.”
Just before they reached the turn to Wildwood, Ishimaru said, “By the way, military dental records for Moses arrived. Washington County ME says they’re a match. The body on the houseboat was definitely him.” She pulled into the drive, pausing a moment for the deputies there to ID her and Bo. At the gatehouse, an agent unfamiliar to Bo was standing post. After they’d passed through, he saw a newly dug trench running along the inside of the stone wall around the orchard.
“Underground, motion sensitive cable,” Ishimaru explained.
Bo understood. Nobody wanted a repeat of the tunneling Moses had done. It was a measure Bo himself had suggested several times, but Tom Jorgenson always vetoed the proposal. “I live behind enough of a wall already,” he’d complained. “And we both know that no matter how many security measures you put in place, someone bent badly enough on killing will find a way.” Which, as it turned out, was undeniably true.
They passed a number of agents Bo didn’t know. Ishimaru said, “The field office has been temporarily relieved of responsibility for security here. All our agents are back on normal duty.”
“Punishment?”
“Not necessarily. We’ve been under a lot of strain.”
“Diana, do you think I—”
She didn’t let him finish. “You were the only thing that stood between Moses and the First Lady. In the end, you were all that kept her alive.”
Not quite, Bo could have said. For Moses had offered the First Lady a chance at life. All she had to do was beg forgiveness for a sin he imagined she’d committed. Despite all his careful planning, Moses had hesitated. And that moment of hesitation was Bo’s opportunity and the First Lady’s salvation. Bo had written all this in his incident report, and he was sure Ishimaru knew it, so he said nothing.
She let him off at the guesthouse, where his car was parked. “Stay in touch,” she said.
A couple of agents came out to greet him—Cole Dunning, with whom he’d worked briefly while on assignment with the Dignitary Protection Division during the years of George Bush Sr., and Mack McKenzie, who’d gone through training with him. They shook his hand, and laughed, and they called him a hero. They said it lightly, but they meant it.
He found the First Lady sitting under an apple tree, the last in the row. Before her, the orchard grass ran ten yards to the edge of the bluff. Far below lay the sweep of the river. It looked peaceful and unmoving from that distance, a blue snake sleeping in the sun. Kate stared at the water.
“Hello,” Bo said.
She was startled, but she smiled when she saw him. “Bo. What are you doing here?”
“Came to get my car.”
She stood up. He saw that her feet were bare.
“They finally let you exchange your hospital gown for civilian clothes,” she said. “You look good.”
He almost said, So do you. Instead he indicated an area far to her right where a pile of stone and sacks of dry mortar lay. “What’s going on?”
“They’re putting up a wall. Dad finally gave his okay. It’ll ruin the view.” She stared again at the river. “They told me the body’s been definitely identified. It was David Moses.”
&
nbsp; “Yes. It’s over, Kate.”
She gave her head a faint shake. “Once a thing happens, it’s never really over. It’s always there in your memory. In your nightmares.”
Bo thought about his own nightmares and knew that what she said was true.
Another smile brightened her face. “By the way, you’re invited to Sunday dinner. I hope you haven’t already made other plans.”
He decided she must not know about the tabloid story yet. He thought he should tell her, but he liked seeing her happy, and he liked feeling happy himself.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
He pulled into the garage behind the duplex in Tangletown. He climbed the stairs to his apartment and unlocked the door. Inside, he felt a little disoriented, as if he’d been gone on a long trip. He knew that in a way he had.
He put his things away, popped on a Miles Davis CD, and stood at the window in his living room. The street was quiet, full of sunlight and the shade of big trees. Down the block, a teenager ran a gas mower across a lawn. Nearer, a man in jean cutoffs hosed the suds off his car in the driveway. Bo could see kids on a swing set visible in one of the backyards. It all looked so normal, and it all felt so alien.
You’re just tired, he told himself. He went to the bedroom to lie down. With him, he took the book she’d given him. He opened it and read again the inscription she’d written. “…your name upon my lips.”
He closed the book.
“Kate,” he whispered.
It felt very good on his own lips.
chapter
thirty
The doctor had sent Bo home with pills. Penicillin to fight infection. Codeine to deal with residual pain. And Xanax to help him sleep. Bo sometimes had nightmares about Wildwood. The faces of the men and the woman who had died there haunted him. Often, in the nightmares, he relived the confrontation on the bluff with Moses. Sometimes in the nightmares, it was Bo who went over the cliff, and as he fell, he realized Kate was going to die, too. That nightmare always wrenched him from his sleep.
The Devil’s Bed Page 20
