“Based on Kate’s foolish notion, you mean.”
“I don’t think it’s foolish. I’m taking back the presidency, Senator. I’m going to do all I can to help this nation find its heart again.”
“They’ll slaughter you.”
“Then I’ll go down fighting for something worthwhile. I’m through fighting just to win.”
The senator drew himself up slowly and turned away from his son. The rubber tip of his cane made a small squeak on the nap of the rug at every step. At the door, he paused.
“You don’t realize it, but you need me now more than ever. I’ll still be there for you when you come to your senses.”
“Senator, good day.”
The old man shook his head, turned, and his huge hand enveloped the knob.
That evening after the cameras had ceased their click and whir and the press corps had rushed to file their stories, Clay Dixon stood near the window in his private study on the second floor of the White House. In his hands he held the cup he’d received as the MVP when he played in the Rose Bowl with Bobby Lee. The sun had set and the sky held a golden afterglow. The longer he stood, the more the light through the window, reflected in the long curve of the trophy, faded. It seemed to Dixon like an eye closing on the glory of a time long before.
He looked up and found Lorna Channing standing in the doorway.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“That’s all right. Come on in.”
Channing stepped into the room. “A shining moment.”
Dixon nodded, gazing down at the trophy. “It was.”
“I was talking about the press conference.”
“Shining moment? I may have sealed the coffin on my presidency.”
“For what it’s worth, you’ve never been more a president in my eyes than you are at this moment.”
Dixon smiled. “Thank you, Lorna. That means a lot to me.” He looked out the window. Above the trees on the White House lawn, he could see the Washington Monument reflecting the last light of evening. “I never realized until now how much I love this country.”
“You proved that this evening.” She was quiet for a few moments.
“Are you all right?”
Dixon turned to her. “Better than I’ve been in quite a while. For the first time in my life, I’m not concerned about losing.”
“You haven’t lost yet. Americans are an unpredictable bunch. Forget the pollsters and the pundits. God alone knows what the future holds.”
“I like your optimism.”
“I’m just saying what Alan would have said, and Bobby.”
“Thanks, Lorna. Thank you for standing with me.”
“I’ll be down in my office if you need me. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“And I can’t think of anyone who’d do it better.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
Alone again, Dixon sat down. He hadn’t turned on a lamp. Along with the world outside, the study was sliding toward night. He looked around him at the plaques and trophies and other darkening mementos of a time when he’d believed he was golden in a way, when the future was bright and full of promise, when he’d known that greatness awaited him. He was a different man now. Older. Tired. But still hopeful. Except the greatness he wanted was not for himself but for the people he served, for the nation he deeply loved.
As he stood up to leave, the phone rang. He answered it.
“Yes?”
“Mr. President, the First Lady is on the line.”
“Thank you. Hello, Kate.”
Her voice came to him across a thousand miles, sweet as the first breeze of the first dawn.
“Clay, I love you.”
He smiled and closed his eyes. And he whispered, “I love you, too.”
chapter
forty-six
Pain brought Bo to consciousness. Pain, and the knowledge that he had an absolute duty left undone. That understanding had never deserted him, not even in the confusion of his fevered nightmares. His first thought when he came to, even before he groaned in agony, was that Kate was in terrible danger.
Ropes of fire twisted down his leg. He gritted his teeth, and a soft moan escaped his lips.
“What was that?”
The voice came from high above him. He opened his eyes to the dim gunmetal gray and stark black hues that were the colors of early night. The trunks of the trees were obsidian pillars. The slope of the hillside on which he lay was solid charcoal.
“I didn’t hear anything,” the other voice, which Bo recognized as Lester’s, said. “Must be your nerves.”
“Christ, I hate this waiting.”
“You won’t have to wait much longer.”
Bo lay on soft ground, hard up against one of the chunks of sandstone that had long ago fallen from the outcropping. He felt through the material of his pants, felt the swelling at his knee. Bruised, torn cartilage maybe, maybe even broken. His eyes were shut against the pain, and for a few moments all he saw were fireworks. When he looked again, he saw the river below him, flat and slate-colored, reflecting a sky lightly salted with stars. He gazed upslope. The fall from the rock had been maybe twenty feet, and he must have rolled after he hit the ground, for he now lay a dozen yards below the base of the outcropping. Lucky even to be alive, he thought. He took inventory of the rest of his body. His right eye was swollen half shut, and above it he felt a crusty mass of dried blood. The knife wound across his left forearm had not reopened, but the wound on his back ached, and when he touched his shirt there, he could feel that the fabric was wet. Bleeding, but not dead. Not yet. His right shoulder was sore. Although most of his body ached, his leg seemed to be the worst of his injuries. He was surprised to find that the rope that held the bedroll was still slung over his shoulder. He checked the blanket. The Sig was still tucked safely inside.
For a little while, he lay perfectly still. Night was falling, with moonrise not far behind it. On the cliff above him, the two men who’d hunted him in the city were poised for an assassination. If they knew their business, and probably they did, they’d been there for hours, citing landmarks on the bluffs at Wildwood that would give them range guidance when the moon was up and it was time for the shot. They’d be dressed in Ghillie Suits, uniforms onto which had been sewn clusters of burlap strips that broke the outline of their bodies to help them blend into the hillside. If the agents at Wildwood scanned this side of the river, the snipers would be all but invisible. There was no time, no way to get word to Calloway. If someone were going to intercede, Bo was it. Fire raged through his right leg every time he moved, but there was nothing to be done except endure. He clenched his teeth, dug his left heel into the ground, and with his good leg, began to shove himself upslope toward the rock.
He moved in inches. The hillside was thick with undergrowth and alive with mosquitoes that buzzed incessantly around Bo’s head. Probably, they were lighting and feeding, but he hurt too much to care. He crawled among the chunks of talus and realized how fortunate he’d been not to have hit one in his fall.
Although he took less than five minutes to reach the base of the outcropping, he felt the time as an eternity. When he finally leaned his back against the sandstone to rest, he was soaked with sweat.
Far below and to the south, he could see fires on the beach of the Kinnickinnic delta where boats had anchored for the night. He heard distant laughter, and even an occasional word he could almost discern. He thought of those people, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that was about to unfold above them. He envied their ignorance and their lack of involvement.
He inched along the ragged juncture where the sandstone met the hillside, hugging the rock. His bum leg was nothing but dead weight. Worse, it was fiery dead weight that sent constant, wrenching spasms through him. Bo fought a constant battle against his urge to cry out.
He made it three-quarters of the way before he paused, nearly exhausted. Every muscle burned with fatigue, and hi
s brain was getting fuzzy. The last of the faint evening light was gone, and night was solidly on the land. He tried to figure out what to do when he reached his goal, how to play his position, but he couldn’t get beyond focusing on making the last few yards up the hill to the top of the rock.
“How long?” one of the voices asked. Curtis.
“Couple minutes.”
“See anything?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll be glad when this is over.”
“It’s never over.”
They were quiet after that.
Then Lester said, “Wait a minute. I see someone.”
“Her?”
“Can’t tell yet. It’ll be easier once the moon’s up. Keep your eye on that scope.”
Bo eased the bedroll off his back and brought it to where he could reach for his Sig. His fingers touched the grip.
“Someone else now,” Lester said.
“Who?”
Bo inched upward as they talked, and he worked at pulling the weapon free.
“A guy. Secret Service, I’d guess.”
“Is she anywhere?”
“Not yet.”
The rock above Bo dripped with bright light. He glanced at the hilltop and saw the rising moon fragmented through the trees. He looked across the river where the highest branches of the orchard at Wildwood were now gilded in silver. There was no time left. He prepared for a hopeless rush toward the top, bum leg and all.
Before he could move, he heard the muffled report of a silenced gunshot. It came not from the outcropping but from the hillside above. In the next instant came another muffled shot. Bo hesitated, hunkering in the shadow of the ledge. Lester and Curtis were quiet. After a moment, he eased himself up and peered over the lip of the rock.
Because the moonlight was scattered in its passage through the trees, the flat sandstone was a patchwork of shadow and light. Bo could see two prone, unmoving human forms near the far edge. Their outlines were fuzzy, the effect of the Ghillie Suits. Between them was a squat mound Bo supposed was the sniper rifle on its bipod, camouflaged with burlap. Each man lay in a small dark pool that glistened in the moonlight. Bo heard a shiver among the bushes up the hill, and he slid down, hidden behind the outcropping.
The figure came forward, a black shape that had separated itself from the larger black of a tree trunk. It made its way carefully to where the dead men lay. Like the sandstone, the figure had become, in the tattered moonlight, a crazy quilt of shadow and light.
Bo swung his Sig over the top of the rock and used the glowing dots of the tritium sight to level the barrel on the figure’s heart.
“Police,” he shouted. “Drop your weapon.”
The figure made no move to comply, simply turned its head in Bo’s direction.
“Thorsen,” David Moses said, sounding not at all surprised.
“Drop your weapon.”
Moses nodded toward the men at his feet. “NOMan.”
“Drop your weapon now or I’ll shoot.”
Moses looked at him, his face glowing in a shaft of light. He seemed a little bewildered. “Do you think I came to kill her? Then why did I take these two out? Why not just let them go about their business?”
“Because this is your kill.”
“You’re right there. If I still wanted her dead.”
“How’d you know they’d be here?”
“The same way you did, I imagine. Putting two and two and two together. It didn’t take a genius.”
“I’ll say it only once more. Put the weapon down.”
Moses moved very slowly, turning so that all he presented to Bo was a profile, a slender target.
Bo said, “I’m betting you don’t have armor this time. This time you thought you had all the advantage.”
“There’s no reason to shoot me,” Moses said.
“Putting the First Lady aside, there are the four agents you killed at Wildwood.”
“They were soldiers in a war. Their choice.”
“I’m a soldier in the same war. I’ll take you out without a second thought.”
“The world is hard. Be strong. Is that it?”
“Don’t test me.”
For the briefest instant, a smile touched his lips. “How could I not? You’re the best I’ve ever come across.”
Moses stood stiff as a soldier doll. The moon glinted off his face as if his skin were white porcelain. His eyes, too, were like glass, dark and unblinking. His mouth was a fine, thin line that seemed merely painted on.
Yet when he moved, he moved with a speed that was almost more than human.
But this Bo had anticipated, because he’d seen Moses react before, on the bluff at Wildwood. The logical tactic was for Moses to lurch toward the cover of the trees uphill. However, the moment Moses broke from his stance, Bo swung his Sig in the other direction, toward the dark emptiness beyond the edge of the rock. Moses did exactly as Bo had expected. He took a running leap off the sandstone toward the river. As Moses’s airborne body crossed his gun sight, Bo pulled off a round. He followed with two more as Moses arced down toward the slope below, but he had little hope either slug would hit its mark. He heard the heavy thump as the man hit ground, and then the crackle of the underbrush as he rolled toward the river. Or ran. Bo couldn’t be sure which. He dragged himself across the outcropping to the lip and shoved the barrel of his Sig over the edge. The sounds below had stopped. He peered at the patches of moonlight littered among the trees. He scanned the river, but the water remained a broad silver-gray sheet with not even a ripple to warp the surface.
A slice of rock leapt out an inch from his cheek. Bo realized that the moon at his back made him a perfect, silhouetted target for Moses. He slithered back a foot to safety and listened. If Moses were moving among the bushes below him, he did it quiet as an ant.
In sliding back, Bo had bumped into the camouflaged sniper rifle, and he remembered the weapon had a night sight. He stuffed his Sig into the waist of his pants, pulled away the burlap covering, and hefted the rifle. He drew the bolt back and found a chambered round. Scooting away from the edge of the sandstone, he crawled quietly toward the cover of the trees upslope. He veered south, keeping low, until he reached a place several yards to the left of the outcropping where a fallen tree gave him some cover. He brought up the rifle and directed the scope toward the area below the cliff.
At first, he saw nothing but underbrush and tree trunks and the pieces of fallen rock that littered the hillside. Then he saw the edge of one of those rocks move. He refocused the sight. There was Moses, with his back pressed hard against a big chunk of talus. Less than fifty yards separated them, and Bo had a clear shot. He knew the round in the rifle was unjacketed, that it would tear a hole in Moses a truck could drive through. But he hesitated. Moses should have been moving, trying for a different angle, changing his location. Instead, he was just sitting there. Bo saw him put a hand to his chest, then study his palm.
“I have the sniper rifle,” Bo hollered. “Night sight, remember? I’ve got a bead on you right now.”
Moses turned his head in the direction of Bo’s voice. A grin played across his lips. He lifted his hand and gave Bo the finger. After a moment, his other hand came up high. Bo could see the gun he held. With a weak toss, Moses threw the weapon away.
Bo pulled himself up and began to make his way down the hillside slowly, painfully. The moon, as it cleared the trees behind him, lit the slope, and he could see Moses clearly, even without the night sight. Moses watched him coming. Bo stopped a few feet away and stood with the barrel of the rifle leveled at Moses’s chest.
“If you try anything, I’ll open you up like a window,” Bo said.
Close now, he could see the blood soaking through Moses’s shirt.
“You were right.” Moses’s words were a slur. “I thought I didn’t need the armor. Didn’t expect you.”
“Did you come to kill her?”
Moses looked up at him, and an understanding came into
his eyes. “For you, there’s more to this than duty. Should have guessed.” He shook his head. “Love is for only a few, Thorsen. Don’t expect it.” His lids fluttered closed, and just when Bo thought he was gone, he opened his eyes again, no more than a slit. His voice was a whisper. “You and me, we’ll always be alone. The difference is that in a few minutes, I won’t care anymore.” He smiled faintly.
Bo took a half step back.
Just in time.
Moses swung his foot in a powerful kick that, had Bo not anticipated it, would have connected with his already pained and swollen knee. Missing its mark, the kick sent Moses rolling over where he lay facedown, panting.
“You burned me once with that possum routine,” Bo said.
“Not much left to work with.”
Moses tried to roll over, to get his face out of the dirt, but he didn’t appear to have the strength. Bo could see a ragged hole in the back of the man’s shirt and a dark soaking that spread huge around it like a continent on a map of the world. The exit wound with a river of blood coursing from it. Moses wasn’t lying about one thing; in a few minutes, he would undoubtedly be dead.
Bo limped to a nearby rock and sat down to await the end. Moses’s breathing was shallow and labored, and there was nothing Bo could do to help, even if he’d wanted to. He didn’t know what dead was, but he believed it couldn’t be any worse than what life had offered David Moses.
“Stars,” Moses, grunted. “Like to see the stars.”
Bo understood. If he were the one lying there with his life leaking out, he’d rather look at the stars at the end. But that would mean getting close again. Even now, with the man leaning into a long fall toward forever, Bo had nothing but respect for David Moses’s ability to surprise.
“Life’s not fair,” Moses whispered. “But some people are. Be one of them.”
Bo set the rifle down and pulled the Sig Sauer from the waist of his pants. “I’m going to turn you,” he said. He limped to Moses, put the barrel of the weapon against his temple, and rolled him over.
“Thanks,” Moses said.
Bo moved back to the rock where he’d been sitting. They were both quiet after that. Moses fought to breathe. His eyes grew glassy staring at the sky. Bo had seen dying only once before, the long vigil he’d kept at Freak’s bedside. This wasn’t any easier.
The Devil’s Bed Page 33
