Awake in the dark one night, he got up to take some Xanax. He settled in front of the television and caught a late-night news program on cable. It was called “Profile of a Madman” and was subtitled “The David Solomon Moses Story.” In the wake of the attack on Wildwood, most networks had thrown together reports, profiles, documentaries of one kind or another. In most respects, the one Bo watched seemed a rehashing of what he and everyone else already knew by now. Moses, the brilliant, troubled man with a horrendous history. The romantic obsession for Kathleen Jorgenson. The assaulton Kate after she made it clear to him that she didn’t return his affection. The choice between prison and military service. There were a couple of new twists. While in the army, David Moses had served with Special Forces. There were positive comments about him from superior officers who felt he’d distinguished himself during a number of assignments. His history after his discharge was vague but included rumors of psychiatric treatment in several VA facilities across the country prior to his arrest for manslaughter in Minneapolis. Bo thought about the alphabet boys. CIA, NSA, DOD. They had the resources to create a smoke screen past for Moses, a man whose association with them, if indeed there’d been one, they would certainly want to hide. Of course the documentary chronicled yet again all the bloody spectacle at Wildwood, which was explained (this was the popular theory) as an adolescent obsession finally finding an outlet in the adult fury of a deranged man.
The profile ended with footage of a simple burial in a cemetery in River Falls, Wisconsin. The final shot was a lingering image of Moses’s gravestone. The marker was small. Chiseled there were his name, the date of his death, and a brief inscription: Forgive us our trespasses.
The only man Bo knew who’d befriended David Moses while he was alive had presided over his final rest in death. Father Don Cannon.
In the morning, Bo called the priest and arranged to meet with him.
“I made the request for disposition of the remains,” Father Cannon said. “Nobody else wanted him.”
They were having coffee in the priest’s home in River Falls. They sat on a patio in the backyard. There was a feeder on a pole at one corner of the patio, and a hummingbird hovered there with its long beak thrust into the tiny tube from which it sucked colored sugar water.
“I would never have believed that the boy I knew could be capable of such brutality,” the priest said.
“People change, Father. Or they fool us. Especially when we’re inclined to want to believe the best.” Bo sipped his coffee, a good dark French roast brewed from beans the priest had freshly ground. “It looked like you were alone at the service.”
“There were no mourners, if that’s what you mean. A lot of reporters unfortunately, stumbling over gravestones and one another. I’d hoped to keep it quiet, but newspeople…” He shook his head, and his wild beard brushed his chest.
“Did you pay for the plot and stone?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“An anonymous donor.”
“Anonymous,” Bo said. “Understandable. How were you contacted?”
“A card that contained the money.”
“You still have the card?”
The priest gave Bo a wary look.
“Sorry, Father. Instinct.” He waited a moment, then asked, “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Could I see it?”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe I’m looking for some kind of closure. What would be the harm, if it’s anonymous?”
The big priest considered, then stood up. The hummingbird shot away from the feeder, fast as a bullet. In a few minutes, Father Cannon was back, the card in his hand.
It was a simple note asking to be allowed to contribute to a resting place for David Moses. In return, the donor requested that, if possible, the gravestone contain an inscription. Forgive us our trespasses. Except for the inscription, which had been handwritten in a florid script, the text had been typed.
“You granted the request,” Bo said.
“The contributor was more than generous. And the only one. And I quite liked the sentiment.”
“Do you still have the envelope it came in?”
“If I did, Bo, I wouldn’t let you see it. Anonymous, remember? I don’t want you speculating from a postmark.”
“The inscription is handwritten. Risky for someone who wants to remain anonymous, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure it was never meant to be seen by anyone but me. Please don’t make me regret I showed it to you.”
“I’m sorry, Father.” Bo watched the priest put the note away in his pocket. “By the way, is the cemetery plot hard to find?”
The middle of a hot August afternoon wasn’t, apparently, a popular time to visit the dead. Except for a groundskeeper on a small tractor mower that moved lazily along the fence, Bo and Father Cannon were the only signs of life. The priest directed Bo to drive toward a far corner of the cemetery. As they approached, Bo saw a mounding of fresh earth under a lofty ash tree.
“Moses?” Bo asked.
The priest nodded.
Bo parked, and they walked together to the grave. Long before they reached it, the priest exclaimed, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
Across the polished stone, someone had spray painted in black: MURDERER!
Standing beside the grave, Bo felt no sorrow for Moses. The memory of the agents killed at Wildwood and of the First Lady kneeling for execution, as well as the ache of Bo’s own wounds, were all painful reminders that for Moses, dead was best.
After a while, the priest asked, “Enough?”
“I guess,” Bo said. “I don’t know what I was hoping for. Answers only he could give.”
“The only answer you’ll get is right there in front of you. And it’s not a bad one.”
Bo looked at the vandalized stone. The black paint nearly obscured the inscription.
Forgive us our trespasses.
chapter
thirty-one
A few days into his recovery, Tom Jorgenson suffered a stroke. Although not severe, it left him, according to Annie, weak and a little disoriented. Bo stayed away from Wildwood and spent his time reading and sleeping and thinking about Kate. The article in the National Enquirer had generated a lot of furor, and Bo’s phone rang constantly. He monitored caller ID. One of the few calls he answered was from Stu Coyote, who told him if he wanted to escape the limelight for a while, he was welcome to come down to Oklahoma. “And feel free to bring your girlfriend,” Coyote said. Bo didn’t see the humor.
Finally, he knew he had to get away. One afternoon, he left the city behind and headed south through farmland thick with tasseled corn, squat milo, and fields of soybeans made silver-green by the bright sunlight. He could have driven the interstate a good deal of the way, but he stuck to back roads where he often found himself crawling behind a big farm implement lumbering between sections of land. He loved the smell of the country, especially in the late summer when the long hot days of August brought everything to ripeness. He passed acres of freshly mown alfalfa laid out in rows to dry in the sun, and the smell took him back instantly across two decades to the summers in Blue Earth when he worked with Harold Thorsen cutting, baling, and bucking hay, summers that were absolutely the best in all his memories.
It was nearing evening when he pulled onto the dirt lane that led to the Thorsen farmhouse. He bumped over a set of railroad tracks, then crossed a narrow bridge that spanned a creek lined with cottonwoods. Beyond the creek, tall corn walled the lane, blocking Bo’s view of almost everything except the big red barn topped with a weather vane, the roof of the two-story white house surrounded by elms, and the blue sky that pressed gently against the land, holding all things in place like the hand of God.
Nell Thorsen was waiting on the porch. She was a small woman dressed in cornflower blue shorts, a white cotton shirt, and sneakers. Her legs were thin and tanned. Her hair had been recently done, short and silver. Although she look
ed out at the world through thick glasses, her eyes didn’t miss a trick. She was seventy-nine and gave the impression she intended to live forever.
“Right on time,” she said as she hugged him and kissed his cheek. She smelled of lilac bath powder. “I just finished setting the table.”
Nell had grown up on a farm in South Dakota cooking big dinner meals served at noon for the hired hands and the threshing crews. Ham and beef and salt pork, three kinds of potatoes, beans, squash, corn bread and biscuits, everything drowned in gravy. Her father died of a heart attack at fifty-one. By the time Bo joined the Thorsen household, Nell was cooking with an eye toward health. Meats were lean, vegetables profuse and al dente, potatoes served with butter sparingly. What she’d prepared for supper with Bo was chicken salad on a bed of lettuce accompanied by a section of cantaloupe and a croissant. She offered him iced herbal tea from a big pitcher moist with condensation.
The mantel above the fireplace in the living room was crowded with photos of the Thorsen foster children. There’d been nearly thirty in all. Occasionally when Bo visited the farm, he bumped into one of the others who happened to drop by. He was happy only Nell was there that day because mostly he’d come to be alone.
Nell asked about Tom Jorgenson and Annie and the First Lady. She mentioned the awful incident at Wildwood only to say that she’d got on her knees and thanked God when she heard Bo would be all right.
“I got the flowers,” he said. “They were lovely.”
“I’d have come to visit but my damn sciatica was acting up so I could barely move.”
Later, after he’d cleared the table and helped with the dishes, he took a walk alone along the creek. The summer had been dry, and the creek had narrowed to a thin trickle between flats of mud that had hardened and cracked. He’d spent a lot of time there when he was a teenager, wading in the water in search of crawdads and box turtles. Once he’d come out of the creek with a big black leech suckered to the skin between his toes. He was a kid fresh from the city then, and he had no idea what to do. He hobbled back to the farmhouse where Nell got the Morton’s box, covered the leech with salt, and simply plucked it off. He’d been impressed with her practical knowledge and her nonchalance.
He went back to his car and took out the book he’d brought with him, the one Kate had given him, then he went to the barn and climbed into the loft that was filled with hay bales. From there he could see a good part of the farm and beyond. In the pasture to the northwest, cattle grazed. Three miles south rose the water tower in Blue Earth. All around were other farms nestled among their own fields, neighbors all deeply connected by more than just those distant property lines, connected by the land itself and the life it dictated. When he’d lived with Harold and Nell, he often sat in the loft after his work was done. Sometimes he had a book and he read. Sometimes he just sat and drank in the beauty of the place. Sometimes Harold joined him and they talked. He’d been a gorilla of a man, a blond gorilla, with a chest that had seemed to young Bo big as the grille of a Cadillac. Mostly he was quiet, but when he laughed it was a huge sound, like the earth rumbling, and it always filled Bo with happiness. He’d never known his own father. The fathers of the other kids he’d run with in St. Paul were men careless in their parenting. Or worse, brutal. If it hadn’t been for Harold Thorsen, Bo would have grown up believing that being a man was a harsh and selfish thing.
“You up there?” Nell called from the bottom of the ladder.
“Yes.”
“Figured. I’ve got some coffee made if you’d like some.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Bo picked up his book and headed down.
Nell served the coffee on the porch where there was a small wicker table and two wicker chairs. It was a warm evening, early yet for mosquitoes.
“Were you reading in the loft?” she asked.
“Remembering mostly.”
“Good memories?”
“I was thinking about the time I stormed up there and threatened to run.”
“I remember that.”
“Harold followed me up. I figured he was going to—I don’t know—hit me or handcuff me or something. I told him he couldn’t keep me here, working me like a slave.”
“You weren’t the first he’d heard that from.”
“He sat down beside me. The sun was low in the sky, like it is now. I remember everything seemed very precise, either shadow or light. The fields were orange. The trees were black. But all I saw was red. Man, I was pissed.
“He didn’t say anything at first. We sat for a while. Then he said, ‘Give it a week. If you want to run after that, tell me where you want to go and I’ll take you there myself.’” Bo held his coffee mug in both hands and laughed softly. “Bet he said that to everybody.”
“Only the ones he was sure wouldn’t take him up on it.”
“I miss him.”
“We all do.” Nell lifted the book Bo had set on the table.
“A gift from a friend,” Bo said.
“Good?”
“I don’t know. She confuses me.”
“I meant the book.”
“Oh.”
“But tell me about the friend.”
“Nothing to tell.” Bo looked away. The sun lay on top of the cornfield, a red ball bleeding onto the green stalks. “She’s married.”
Nell put cream in her coffee and stirred. In the still air of evening, the spoon made little clinking sounds against the cup. “A blossoming bedside romance?”
Bo gave her a dark look.
“I live in the country, not outer space. We have tabloids at the checkout counters in Blue Earth, too. You wouldn’t believe the number of calls I’ve had from folks wondering if it’s true.”
“It’s not.”
Nell opened the book and read the inscription. “That’s a lovely thing for her to say, Bo. I’ve always liked her.”
She handed the book back, still opened to the page with the inscription. Bo looked down at the words, written in Kate’s beautiful, florid script.
Nell said, “Harold and I always hoped you’d find a nice girl someday. We just imagined it might be someone not married to the president.” She smiled.
In the elms around the house and in the cottonwoods along the creek, the cicadas began to sing. It was a one-note song, long and hypnotic. Just when it seemed the sound would go on forever, it suddenly died. Bo had been staring at the words written in the book, something almost coming to him for a long time. The moment the cicadas stopped singing, he had it.
“My God,” he said in the quiet.
“What is it?”
“Nell, I’m sorry, I have to go.” He stood up and wedged the book under his arm against his side. “Forgive me?”
“I could forgive you anything, Bo.” She gave him a parting kiss and stood on the porch, waving as he turned his car in the yard and headed back down the lane.
It was well after dark by the time he reached Wildwood. He’d called ahead on his cell phone, so he was expected. After he passed through security at the gate and parked his car, he hurried to the main house and knocked on the door. Annie answered.
“She’s upstairs with Nicole Green, working on First Lady business. She’ll be with you in a minute. It must be important if it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”
“How’s Tom?” Bo asked.
“Tough. Alive. Thank God it was a mild stroke. It could have been worse.”
Bo thought how Minnesotan that was. It could have been worse. How often had he seen tragedy dealt with in that way, a stoic comparison to a greater possible harm. He’d watched a news report earlier that summer after a tornado had ripped through central Minnesota. They’d interviewed an old Finn standing in front of the rubble that had once been his home. “I’m lucky,” he’d said. “I got insurance.” Then he’d glanced behind him toward the lake shore where a small structure still stood. “Heck, coulda been worse. Coulda lost the sauna, too.”
Annie went to a bookcase near the fir
eplace. From where it had been folded and shoved into a dark nook, she took a newsprint publication, and held it up.
“Bo?”
It was a copy of the National Enquirer.
“That’s garbage, Annie.”
“I know. I’d just like you to be careful. There’s so much at stake.”
“Am I still invited to Sunday dinner?”
“You’re always welcome here.” At the sound of feet on the stairs, Annie folded the tabloid and put it back into the dark place from which it had come.
The First Lady appeared, looking a little tired. She smiled when she saw Bo.
“I wondered if you’d like to take a walk with me,” Bo said.
“Now?”
“We need to talk.”
Kate glanced at Annie, who offered her only a brief shrug. “Of course,” she said.
They walked out onto the dark porch and down the stairs. The moon was almost directly overhead, a quarter moon dimmed by a high haze. However, the yard light mounted on the barn was bright, and in its glare, the asphalt of the drive shone like black opal and the grass blazed with a false flame. Bo headed toward the dark nearer the orchard.
“To the bluff?” Kate asked.
“No,” Bo said. “Secret Service will follow us there. I’d rather we talked alone.”
He paused at the rail fence that separated the compound from the apple trees. The door of the guesthouse opened and an agent appeared against the light inside.
“It’s okay,” Bo called. “We’re not going any farther.”
The First Lady waved. “Thank you.”
The figure held a moment longer, then closed the door.
In front of the guesthouse, the sculpture by Roland Jorgenson, the curled sheets of polished metal called Goddess, caught the harsh glare of the yard lamp and glowed as if white-hot. A long flow of reflected light spilled from it across the ground toward the place where Bo and the First Lady stood.
“All this sounds so serious, Bo. What is it?” Her face was a blur of pale skin and shadow.
“Forgive us our trespasses,” Bo said.
The Devil’s Bed Page 21
