After the director left, Dixon turned to Lorna Channing. “What do you think? Has Thorsen gone over the edge?”
“It certainly appears so.”
“I’m thinking that nothing anymore is the way it appears.”
“It’s hard to imagine this has all been orchestrated. And to what end?”
“I don’t know, Lorna. But I’m sure my father’s hand is behind all this. I don’t know how he’s done it, but it’s him all right. I can feel it.”
He walked to the middle of the room where presidents before him had stood and had faced the crises that made them great or marked them to be all but forgotten. He felt the weight of history on his shoulders. The burden was his. Not Carpathian’s or Llewellyn’s or William Dixon’s. It was his call, the way everything would go from that moment forward. It was a daunting realization, but he wasn’t afraid. In fact, he felt the tremble of an old excitement flowing through him, the kind that had been so familiar on the playing field.
“Lorna, get our people together, all of them, here. We have work to do. And get my father here first thing in the morning.”
“What do I tell him?”
Dixon thought for a moment. “Tell him it’s fourth and long. And his son has decided to go for it.”
chapter
forty-four
Bo had breakfast at a small greasy spoon on West Seventh called Oscar’s, not far from the river. It was full of people who shopped the Salvation Army regularly, guys who’d hustled enough change to cover the $1.99 two eggs, hash browns, toast, and coffee special. Bo fit right in. He could have used a shower, a shave, and a clean change of clothes. However, all things considered, he was in good spirits because beyond a few drops, it hadn’t actually rained the night before, and he was still a free man. The coffee tasted as if it had been made from mud scooped off the bottom of the Mississippi, and the egg yolks were like clay. Bo ate every last bite and sat for a while at the counter, bent over his coffee mug, trying to figure out what to do next.
In his possession was the weapon that had killed Diana Ishimaru. He’d argued with her at the field office in front of witnesses. And there’d been witnesses, too, who had placed him at the murder scene, apparently drunk. That was plenty for a good prosecuting attorney. Probably even a bad one. What did he have for a defense? A pathetically paranoid-sounding tale of conspiracy for which he had not a single shred of solid evidence.
He was pretty well screwed.
NOMan’s desire to assassinate Kate was a greater concern to him, but he was stumped. Wildwood was so tight now a snake couldn’t crawl in without being detected. Moses had told him about the sniper rifle. If that was the way they’d go, where would they try the hit? The buildings at Wildwood were protected by orchards. The wooded hills along the highway to Wildwood offered a number of good opportunities, but the First Lady’s car was armored and nothing short of a direct missile hit could penetrate it.
Bo noticed a sudden rippling and exodus among the clientele of Oscar’s. Several hard-looking customers dropped money on the counter or their tables and left. Within a couple of minutes, the place was half empty.
“What’s up?” Bo asked the man at the grill behind the counter.
The guy wore a shirt that may have been white once. His belly hung over his belt, obscuring his buckle. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fry his own fat along with the bacon. He was in worse need of a shave than Bo. “Cops,” he said, scraping a layer of grease off the griddle. “Come in here every morning at eight-twenty-five. Like clockwork. The cockroaches take a hike, come back around nine when the boys in blue are gone.”
Bo dropped three bucks on the counter, picked up his bedroll, and slid off the stool. The guy at the grill gave a short laugh and shook his head.
The cruiser pulled up as Bo stepped outside. He turned and walked away from Oscar’s at an easy pace.
Like clockwork.
He took the corner and hunkered in the shadow cast by a video store advertising “the finest erotic collection in the Twin Cities.” An old woman passed him by, pushing a grocery cart full of discarded aluminum cans. Bo stared at the big smokestacks of the Minnesota Brewing Company a few blocks down West Seventh.
Like clockwork.
He thought about the sniper rifle and the nightscope. He mulled over the question of opportunity, and he considered the tenet that anybody involved in protective services knew: Routine was the deadliest enemy of all.
Like clockwork.
Bo had a pretty damn good idea of how NOMan would make the hit.
He used fifteen bucks of the money Otter had given him, and he took a taxi. He got out a block away from the church and stood at a safe distance, looking for any sign of police presence. On that sunny Friday morning, with doves cooing on the gutters along the eaves, everything seemed fine and peaceful. Bo didn’t trust appearances anymore, so he circled awhile, casing the building. Finally, he knew he had to take a chance. He went in the front door and walked through the sanctuary. He passed the suite of offices that were used for administration, and he heard a copy machine running. Quickly, he made for the stairs to the basement and headed down to Otter’s room. The door was locked. He knocked lightly. No answer.
Damn. He hadn’t counted on Otter being gone. He spent a moment considering, then climbed the stairs and walked quietly toward the door that opened onto the suite of administrative offices. The sound of the copier had stopped. The desk in the reception area was unoccupied at the moment. A hallway behind the desk ran to the end of the wing, and several doors along it on either side were open. From one of them came the sound of voices deep in conversation. Bo crept toward the desk. He opened the bottom left-hand drawer and drew out a small metal box. Inside, he found the van keys he’d seen Otter borrow the day before. He took the keys and dropped them in his pocket. He put the box back, closed the drawer, and began to back out of the room. He didn’t make it.
A woman stepped into the hallway. Seeing Bo, she smiled and came quickly forward. “Hello,” she said brightly, as if the presence of an unkempt man in her office were an everyday occurrence. “May I help you?”
She was dressed casually in jeans and a yellow sweatshirt, and she wore tortoiseshell glasses that complemented her eyes and her hair. In her hands, she held what looked to be half a ream of copied paper. She saw him eyeing the copies.
“The bulletin for Sunday services,” she said.
“Ah,” Bo replied. He nodded a few times, stalling. Then something occurred to him. “Sandie Herron?”
“Why yes? Do I know you?”
“I’m a friend of—” He hesitated, wondering whether people here called Otter by his real name.
“Otter,” she finished, as if to say of course. She set the papers on her desk and shook Bo’s hand.
“I’m…Spider-Man,” he said. “I’m looking for Otter.”
“He’s not here at the moment.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Not for a while. At least that’s what he said when he left.”
“Did he leave alone?”
“I don’t know. I was busy in the copy room. Was he expecting you?”
Bo shook his head.
“Would you like to wait?”
“I can’t, thank you.”
“May I give him a message?”
“Yes. When you see him, tell him I hope I haven’t gotten him in too much trouble. Tell him I’m sorry.”
“Well,” she said, puzzling this. “Sure.”
Bo turned to leave but paused a moment. “You don’t happen to know what time the moon rises tonight?”
“No, I’m sorry.” Sandie Herron looked at him, and added with sincerity, “It was nice meeting you, Spider-Man. God bless you.”
Bo could see in her the same goodness that Otter obviously saw, and he was happy for them both. He said good-bye. Then he went out to the parking lot and stole the van.
• • •
In the last fifty miles of its flow, before it d
elivered itself into the sweep of the Mississippi, the St. Croix River cut among heavily wooded hills. Along many of the steep slopes, the topsoil had eroded away, exposing the underlying sandstone in long wall outcroppings or in solitary pinnacles. Ten miles south of the interstate bridge at Hudson, a little river called the Kinnickinnic cut its own way through the rock strata. It was a clear, fast flow favored by anglers because of the trout that swam in its shaded pools. In order to protect and preserve the beauty of the waterways and the unique landscape surrounding them, the state of Wisconsin had set aside the area at the confluence of the Kinnickinnic River and the St. Croix River as a state park.
Bo didn’t need to read the brochure the ranger had handed him after she’d taken his entrance fee. He pretty well knew these things already. Or the important part anyway. The sandstone formations. The brochure did tell him something he didn’t know. That the park closed at 10:00 P.M. And the ranger herself had told him something else. That the moon would rise at 10:06. A moon nearly full. A shame, she’d said, that no one would be in the park to enjoy it.
He drove the van along a narrow road that threaded its way among meadows of tall prairie grass and stands of white-barked poplars. There were parking areas that afforded access to hiking trails among the hills. Finally he entered a forest that was a mix of oak and evergreen. A half mile beyond that, the road ended at a picnic area perched on a hill overlooking the place where the Kinnickinnic spilled into the St. Croix. A dozen cars sat in the lot, gleaming under the hot August sun. Bo pulled into a slot away from the other vehicles. He took his bedroll with the Sig stuffed inside, and he left the van. A few families were gathered at the shaded picnic tables. Bo could hear the squeals and laughter of children somewhere out of sight toward the river. He walked a path that took him beyond the picnic area to a wooden observation platform constructed at the precipitous lip of the hill. The orientation of the platform was to the south. Far below, he could see the little blue-white thread of the Kinnickinnic snaking toward the grand sweep of the St. Croix. Over thousands of years, a curving delta of sand had formed at the confluence of the two rivers and a stand of tall cottonwoods had taken root. Several pleasure boats lay anchored along the shore of the delta, and Bo saw people strolling the beach. Beyond the delta, the river made a slow curl southeast. A few miles beyond, far out of sight, the St. Croix finally fed itself to the Father of Waters.
What lay to the south didn’t interest Bo. It was what crowned the bluffs directly across the river that had drawn him there. The orchards of Wildwood.
Two tall spruce trees blocked any clear view a visitor might have of Wildwood from the platform itself. Bo left the observation area and scouted along the crest of the hill, peering among the trees, carefully eyeing the slope. He stumbled upon a trail that cut down to the St. Croix, and he followed it, arriving quickly at a protected inlet with a beach and a swimming area full of children. This was the source of the laughter he’d heard from the hill above. As he approached the beach, the parents who lounged on blankets there gave him a wary look. He realized how out of place he appeared in his long, borrowed pants and shirt, his too-small shoes, his bedroll, with his hair uncombed, and his face unwashed and unshaven. They probably thought he was a vagrant, maybe a predator. He hurried on, lest they alert the park authorities to his presence.
He made his way along the bank of the river, studying the broad hillside as he went. It didn’t take him long to spot what he’d been looking for. A beige outcropping, three-quarters of the way up the hill, almost directly below the observation platform. Wedge-shaped, maybe fifteen feet from side to side, it thrust out a dozen feet or more from the hillside. Because trees walled the outcropping on three sides, it was invisible from the picnic area on the hilltop, but it had a perfect, unobstructed view of Wildwood.
Bo took a good ten minutes to make his way up the slope, fighting through a tangle of undergrowth. As he drew nearer, he saw that the freeze and thaw of a lot of winters had created deep fractures in the outcropping. The ground around the base was littered with talus, great chunks of stone that had broken away from the main body of the rock. By the time he stood on the flat top of the outcropping, he was sweating heavily and breathing hard. He stood looking across the river at Wildwood, and he allowed himself a moment of triumph. He was certain this was the place.
Many pieces had to come together in his thinking. There was what he believed about NOMan, that for whatever reason the organization was intent on assassinating the First Lady and that Tom Jorgenson was probably a target as well. There was the information given by Moses about the weaponry he’d been forced to handle, the sniper rifle, the .308 Winchester rounds, and the Trijicon scope. With .308 loads, the M40A1 would be effective to a range of a thousand yards. Although he didn’t have a range finder with him, Bo calculated the bluffs at Wildwood to be no more than six hundred yards away. The Trijicon ACOG—Advanced Combat Optical Gunsight—was a night-vision scope with high magnification capability. It would not be difficult to sight a target on the bluffs across the river, especially in the light of a full moon. Kate had told Bo that the first thing Tom Jorgenson wanted to do when he came home to Wildwood was gather with his family on the bluff overlooking the St. Croix and watch the moon rise. For two nights, the sky had been rainy or overcast. But it was cloudless now and promised to stay that way. If someone wanted to kill Kate and her father, tonight when the moon rose would be the perfect time.
The question that lay before him now was what to do next. His instinct was to alert Calloway at Wildwood. If he was right, the Jorgensons had to be kept away from the bluffs. If he was wrong—and considering the amount of speculation involved, there was every possibility that he was—he’d just be giving them more evidence to use against him at a mental competency hearing.
What he also knew, and what was extremely troubling, was that NOMan had infiltrated most, if not all, government agencies, and the Secret Service had probably not been spared. Alerting the FLOTUS detail might also result in alerting NOMan. Bo had no idea anymore whom to trust.
It was sunny and quiet on the rock. A gentle breeze blew over the hillside from downriver, smelling vaguely of evergreen and dry prairie grass. Near the delta, a motor launch revved its engine, pulled away from where it had been anchored, and headed south with the current. Bo could hear the murmur of the Kinnickinnic as it tumbled over the last smooth boulders before it joined the St. Croix. He also was aware of voices coming from the observation platform thirty yards above him and hidden by the two spruce trees. As soon as he focused on the voices, a jolt of recognition hit him. They were male, two of them, and he’d heard them before. In O’Gara’s, offering to buy him a drink. And then on the High Bridge, coaxing him to the railing. And finally in Diana Ishimaru’s home after she’d been murdered. Between the limbs of the spruce trees, Bo could see a bit of movement on the platform. He shuffled to his right in an attempt to get a clearer view. He was perilously near the lip of the sandstone, and he could see the chunks of talus scattered below over the slope of the hillside. On the platform above him, something metal flashed in the sun. Bo edged farther to the right, desperate to see. The moment he did, he heard the sharp crack of stone. He glanced down and saw another piece of rock break away from the outcropping and plunge to join the talus below. Unfortunately, it was the piece of rock on which he stood.
chapter
forty-five
The senator caned his way to a chair in the Oval Office and sat down. He wore an expensive gray suit, and he smelled of talc. He smiled like a man who’d walked into a parlor for an afternoon bourbon and a pleasant smoke.
“Glorious day, Clayboy. Makes me feel almost young again.”
Lorna Channing closed the door and positioned herself to the left of the senator. She folded her hands and waited for the president to speak.
Dixon rose from his desk and approached his father. He stood above the old man, looking down at that maddening smile.
“A few minutes ago, I spoke with John L
lewellyn. I asked for his resignation.”
The senator’s smile collapsed. “You what?”
“It’s been clear to me for some time that we have many ideological differences.”
“Ideological? Ideology is for high school debates, Clayboy. This is the White House. This is the Super Bowl of politics. Here, you play to win, and winning is all that matters. Screw ideology. John Llewellyn knows politics.”
“His kind of politics. Not mine. Not anymore.”
The senator pursed his lips, and wrinkles spread out like a newly spun web. “All right. We can deal with this. Who’s your new chief of staff?”
The president looked toward Lorna Channing.
The senator snorted. “I’m sure there’s never been a woman in that position.”
“Then it’s time there was.”
William Dixon craned his neck and looked askance at the new chief of staff. “I remember you on your first horse down on the Purgatoire. You fell off a lot.”
“I ride well now, Senator. I never fall off.”
The senator nodded slowly. “All right then. We can do this. We can still win this election.”
“Not we, Senator,” the president said.
The elder Dixon lifted his head, his nose high, as if sniffing something in the air. “Cutting the old man loose, too?”
“Since Alan Carpathian died, this presidency has had no heart. No soul. For all intents and purposes, this room has been empty.” He crossed the Oval Office and took his seat at his desk. “It’s not empty anymore.”
“Carpathian. The man was a fool.”
“I’d rather follow a hopeful fool than a man on the road toward hell.” He spread his hands flat on the desktop. “I’ve scheduled a press conference for this afternoon. I’ll announce the change of the White House staff, and I’ll also announce a new legislative initiative based on the report Lorna delivered to me.”
The Devil’s Bed Page 32
