“Night,” Moses said in a soft voice as if he were dreaming.
Bo wasn’t sure what that meant.
Above them, from the direction of the picnic area parking lot, came the sound of car doors slamming, muffled pops that reminded Bo of the silenced rounds that had taken out the assassins.
“Dark,” Moses said a few moments later. “Blessed dark.”
Bo glanced up where fingers of light poked through the trees on the hilltop.
Moses took three short breaths, air grasped desperately from the night, then he uttered the final word of his life. “Home.”
Bo saw him yield, saw his body go slack and relax into the earth. He waited and watched, looking for a twitch that would give away Moses’s charade, if charade it were. He heard crickets now, felt the kiss of a breeze, saw how lovely the river was, strewn with diamonds of light thrown down by the moon.
The pain of his knee gradually drew all his attention. He slid to the ground and sat propped with his back against the rock. He was sitting this way when the men with drawn weapons swept down the hill and gathered atop the sandstone outcropping.
“Down here,” Bo called.
Several powerful flashlight beams played across him.
“Police! Freeze!”
Bo didn’t move.
“It’s Thorsen, for God’s sake.”
Bo recognized the voice of Stu Coyote. A minute later, Coyote was at his side.
“You hurt, Bo?”
“S’okay,” Bo said. “I’m getting pretty used to it. What’re you doing here?”
“I located Otter,” Coyote said. He gently took the gun from Bo’s hand and sat on the ground beside him.
Special Agent Stan Calloway joined them and directed the beam of his flashlight toward the body. “Who’s this?”
“Moses,” Bo said.
“David Moses?” Calloway threw the beam up to the outcropping.
“How about up there?”
“The enemy,” Bo said.
Calloway looked him over and said, “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Bo said.
Calloway headed back up the hill.
“Otter sent you?” Bo said to Coyote.
“In a way. I came back as soon as I heard about Diana. I figured you’d turn to a friend, and the only friend of yours I ever met was Otter. I got his address from the visitor’s log security kept during your stay at the hospital.”
Bo smiled grimly. “You and Moses.”
“What?”
“Never mind. So you put two and two and two together?”
“That’s pretty much it. I talked to Calloway at Wildwood. We kept the First Lady off the bluff tonight.”
“And then you came over here because you thought he’d try the hit from here.”
“Not exactly. We got a call from the St. Croix County Sheriff’s Department. A farmer a mile north of here found a pickup truck parked on his land. Truck was full of ordnance. Had a Minnesota plate.”
“Let me guess,” Bo said. “Registered to Luther Gallagher.”
Coyote nodded. “We were up there investigating when we got the call on shots fired here.”
“Agent Coyote, I have to ask you to step away.” A man in a dark suit stood looking down at them. “This man is still wanted for questioning in the death of Diana Ishimaru.”
“FBI,” Coyote said to Bo. Before he stood up, he said, “Need anything?”
“A doctor would be nice. My knee’s pretty screwed up.”
Coyote glanced up at the federal agent. “Get paramedics down here.”
“We’ll take care of everything.”
Bo looked across the river. The bluffs at Wildwood were so bright in the flood of moonlight that even from this distance he could make out details. But it was not what he saw that made him smile even in his pain. It was what he did not see.
chapter
forty-seven
Bo lay on the hospital bed, staring up at the ceiling light in his room. A casing of wire mesh protected the bulb. Tendrils of cobweb fuzzy with dust hung from the mesh like unraveled threads. Although there was no breeze that Bo could feel, the tendrils gently waved in some high current of air.
They’d transported him to the nearest medical facility, the St. Croix Regional Medical Center. They’d done a CAT scan to make sure there was no internal damage from his fall. They’d x-rayed his knee, had found bone chips, and had immobilized the joint pending surgery. They’d cleaned and dressed the wound on his head. Then they’d isolated him in the Psychiatric Unit. No one had come to see him since he’d been taken into custody and had told his story. He hadn’t been read his rights, nor had they given him an opportunity to make a phone call. He was not under arrest, they said. Since they’d locked him in the room hours before, he hadn’t seen a living soul.
He didn’t mind the isolation. It gave him time to think. And what he thought about was David Solomon Moses.
Moses had done terrible things. Killed many times over. Murdered agents Bo knew and respected. That he’d lived, according to Dr. Jordan Hart, in a world that he perceived to be in a constant state of war, much of it directed against him, didn’t alter greatly Bo’s impression of the man. He’d hunted Moses as he would an animal, a sick, dangerous animal. He’d thought of him as hate stuffed into a thin sheath of flesh. Yet on the cliff, with Kate on her knees, Moses had offered her a chance at life. Why? And later he’d killed the men whose assignment it was to assassinate her. Had that been for his own dark reasons? Or had Bo, in that St. Paul church, actually convinced him to let go of vengeance? Father Don Cannon claimed people came into the world with much of their spirit already formed. If that was true, then maybe something had been in David Moses when he was born, some possibility of goodness that all the cruelty and betrayal in his life hadn’t managed to destroy completely. Bo would never know for sure. Moses had taken all the answers with him.
Like the ceiling light, the windows in the room were covered with heavy wire mesh. Above the door a security camera was mounted to the wall. Bo guessed he was being watched. By whom was a concern, for he knew all too well that NOMan was everywhere. They could shoot him in that room and make it look like anything they wanted to. He had refused the pain medication the medical staff offered. If he was going to die, he wanted to be awake for the event.
They came for him after many hours. There were three of them, men in dark blue suits, accompanied by an attendant in a white uniform. It was the attendant who unlocked the door, and who brought a wheelchair.
“Let’s go, Thorsen,” one of the suits said.
“Where?” Bo asked.
“Shut up,” another suit said.
Bo didn’t want to give them any reason to kill him if that’s what they were looking for. He went without protest.
They didn’t go far. He was wheeled into an adjacent room, this one with a table and three chairs and no window. Most of one wall was reflecting glass, a two-way mirror. Two of the chairs were already occupied by other men in suits. One suit was light gray, the other a charcoal pinstripe. Bo was positioned across the table from the two men. The gray suit nodded to the blue suits, who left the room.
“Do you know who I am?” the gray suit asked.
“No.”
“I’m Assistant Director James Norton, Secret Service.”
Bo knew the name, although not the man.
Norton nodded toward the pinstripe. “This is FBI Assistant Director Hector Lopez.”
Lopez said, “We’ve been looking into the story you told. Your allegations concerning National Operations Management are, quite frankly, pretty crazy. We’ve done some preliminary investigating, and we can find nothing to indicate that NOMan is anything other than what it purports to be.”
Norton said, “You contend that NOMan wanted the First Lady assassinated, and you’ve alleged that Senator William Dixon is involved. Yet you have no evidence of this. Nor can you give us any reason why any of these people would instigate
such an action.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Bo said. “My guess is that it has something to do with the president’s reelection. Newly widowed, Dixon would be hard to beat. And NOMan could lay the blame on Moses.”
“I’ve got to tell you, Agent Thorsen,” Lopez said, “this conspiracy theory of yours sounds like paranoid raving. The raving of a man already wanted in connection with a murder in St. Paul. As a matter of fact, we believe there is sufficient evidence at this point to seek an indictment against you, should we choose to advise the federal attorney to do so.”
“An indictment would never hold up in court,” Bo said.
“Wouldn’t it?”
“Is this a threat?”
“It’s a potential, Agent Thorsen,” Norton said.
“Funny, it sounds just like a threat.”
Norton put on a pair of half glasses and lifted a cordovan attaché case from the floor beside his chair. He snapped it open and pulled out several pages of typed documents that he slid across the table to Bo.
“This is your statement of the events leading up to the death of David Moses.” Norton cast a look at Bo over the flat rim of his half glasses. “The most recent death.”
Bo scanned the document. “This isn’t my story. This makes no mention of NOMan. It says Moses acted alone.”
“This is the statement we want you to sign.”
“This is bullshit.”
“Agent Thorsen,” Norton said, “consider the impact of your accusations. If the American people believe your story, imagine the erosion of public confidence, the chaos.”
Lopez said, “The Bureau is already at work very quietly assessing the true threat of NOMan. If this organization is anything that you contend it is, don’t you think we want to combat it as much as you? I’m an assistant director of a federal agency, but I’m an American citizen first and foremost. I love this country. I have every intention of preserving its laws and the integrity of the system that governs it.”
“If there is any truth at all in what you say, we have to consider how to address this situation,” Norton said. “At the moment, we feel that silence on your part is the best way.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
Lopez said, “Charges will be brought against you, and the federal government will do its best to prove, in the case of the People v. Bo Thorsen, that you did willfully murder Special Agent-in-Charge Diana Ishimaru.”
“No jury would convict.”
“Do you want to take that chance? And in the meantime, drag your name through the dirt?”
“And alert NOMan and contribute in no small way to that organization’s ability to cover its tracks.”
Bo stared at the pages on the table. “It says here that I believe David Moses killed Diana. That’s not true.”
“It may have to be true. For now.”
“There’s a greater good that needs to be considered, Thorsen.”
Bo read the final page of the documents. “This is a letter of resignation.”
Norton said, “We feel it’s best if you step out of the picture entirely.”
Bo studied the men. Things began to blur, not just his thinking but his vision. He felt a little faint. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a decent night’s sleep. Or a good meal. Or felt as if the weight of an enormous responsibility didn’t rest on his shoulders alone. He glanced at the mirror, wondering who would be there if he stepped through the looking glass. There seemed nothing real to hold to anymore. No one to trust. Were these men connected to NOMan? Or were they really trying to control the damage that might be wrought if the public knew that such an organization had so effectively infiltrated the entire federal government?
He looked down at the pen that Norton held out to him, and he took it. He poised to sign. Before he did, he leveled his eyes once more on the faces of the men across the table.
“You both were field agents once?” he asked.
His question seemed to puzzle them.
“We were,” Norton said.
“If you were in my place, if you’d seen Diana Ishimaru, a good agent and a good friend, murdered, would you sign this document?”
A moment passed, then Norton said, “Yes.”
But what he said didn’t matter. Because between the question and the answer, Bo had seen the truth in the eyes of both men.
Bo put down the pen. “Gentlemen, we remain at odds.”
“You’re making a mistake, Agent Thorsen,” Norton said, but it sounded more like words than belief.
“If so, it’s a mistake of my own choosing. And I’ll take my chances.”
• • •
They finally fed him. He’d grown accustomed to the pain, to the constant throb deep in his knee. He was tired, but he fought sleep. Whenever he started to drift off, he jerked his leg to the side and gave himself an eye-opening jolt of agony. Even so, his thinking was beginning to get as fuzzy as the wire mesh over the light fixture.
He had no idea how long he’d been isolated like this when the door of his room opened and Lorna Channing stepped in, alone.
“You should have called me,” she said.
“When I needed you, I didn’t have the number,” Bo replied.
“For want of a nail, the shoe was lost.”
“We won the battle,” Bo pointed out.
“And we’re going to win the war, Agent Thorsen.”
Channing walked to the window and touched the heavy mesh with her hand. It was day outside, late afternoon Bo judged from the position of the sun in the sky. Channing’s shadow fell across the floor behind her, stretching all the way to where Bo lay.
“Before she was killed, Diana Ishimaru made a telephone call,” Channing said. “She called the hotel room of Secret Service Assistant Director Bill Malone who, I’m sure you’re aware, was in the Twin Cities ostensibly to oversee the investigation into your actions at Wildwood. Malone immediately placed a call to a cell phone number. The number’s been traced to one of the men shot dead last night, one of the men you claim was preparing to assassinate the First Lady. I’m guessing it wouldn’t surprise you to learn that years ago Assistant Director Malone was the Secret Service liaison to NOMan. Although he’s unaware of it at the moment, we now have him under constant surveillance.” Channing turned back to Bo.
“I’ve just come from Wildwood. I had a long visit with the First Lady and her father. I gave them a copy of your statement. Your statement, not that crap Norton and Lopez tried to ram down your throat. We’ve spoken with Tom Jorgenson and he’s told us quite a lot. Pretty incredible things. According to him, NOMan was established to help mitigate the influence of incompetent leadership and to nudge the world away from aggression. Kate told him she didn’t consider her assassination a milestone on the road to peace.”
Channing allowed herself a brief smile.
“Information is power,” she continued. “Any organization with power and that operates under a cloak of secrecy and darkness becomes a breeding ground for monstrous abuse, no matter how good-intentioned the goals are initially. In the isolated beauty of his orchards, away from the microphones and the cameras, Tom Jorgenson accomplished miracles. William Dixon used NOMan in a different, brutal way. I think we’ll find as we dig deeper that NOMan has been used to advance all kinds of agendas, personal and political.
“The roots run deep, Agent Thorsen. The tendrils are widespread. We have a long, hard struggle ahead of us, but thanks to you, I’m confident we’ll be able to deliver a good old-fashioned butt-kicking.” She crossed the room and stood beside Bo’s bed. “The president sends his greetings, and has asked me personally to express to you his profound gratitude.” She offered Bo her hand. “As for me, I’m just glad you’re on our side.”
chapter
forty-eight
Lorna Channing opened the door to the Oval Office. “He’ll see you now, Senator.”
William Dixon came in, grinning as if he’d just arrived at a barbecue in his honor.
“Well, well,” he said, seeing the president and the First Lady standing together. “Now there’s a lovely family portrait. Good to have you back, Katie. Brought Stephanie home, I hope. I’ve missed that little girl.”
“Sit down,” the president said.
“Thank you, I believe I will. The leg’s been acting up a bit lately. Keeps me awake at night sometimes.” The senator eased himself onto the couch and settled his cane beside him. “Know what I do at night when I can’t sleep, Clayboy? I lie there remembering. Couldn’t tell you what I had for dinner last night, but I can tell you the color of your mother’s dress the first time we met. Blue, just like a Colorado sky.” He stared at the rug a moment, as if he were seeing woven among the threads an image from nearly sixty years before. Then he lifted his dark eyes toward his son. “I remember a lot of strange old things at night. I remember the first man I ever saw die. A kid named Jorge Rodriguez. From Spanish Harlem. A Jap sniper put a bullet right there.” He touched a spot below his left eye. “That was on my first day in the Philippines. I saw a lot more kids die after that. Too many to remember them all.”
“That’s war, Senator,” the president said.
“Know what I would like, Clay? I would like it if you called me Dad.”
“This isn’t—” the president began.
“I know what this isn’t.”
William Dixon looked steadily at his son, then at his daughter-in-law. Behind him, in that long moment of silence that fell over the room, Channing very quietly opened the door to the Oval Office.
“I’d like to tell you a story,” the First Lady said.
“I’m all ears, Katie.” William Dixon looked up at her with an indulgent smile.
“In Minnesota, the Ojibwe used to tell of a monster that sometimes came out of the woods to prey on villages. It was called the Windigo, a terrible beast with a heart of ice who fed on the flesh of the Ojibwe people. Because it was so large and so fierce, it terrified even the bravest warrior. There was only one way you could fight the Windigo. You had to become a Windigo yourself, submit to whatever dark magic was necessary to turn you into an ogre, too. But there was an awful risk. You had to be sure that someone who loved you was waiting with hot tallow for you to drink after you killed the monster. The hot tallow would melt your icy heart and bring you back down to the size of other people. If there was no one to help you in that way, you ended up staying a Windigo. You became forever the thing you set out to destroy.”
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