One Knight Only

by Peter David

  There.

  A clicking of heels on the sidewalk behind her.

  Instantly, taking a breath and steeling herself for whatever she might see, Nellie spun to face whoever it was that was pursuing her.

  The street was empty. There, illuminated not only by the streetlamps but also the full moon hanging in the cloudless sky, Nellie could see that she was the only one around.

  She let out a deep, unsteady breath and quickly walked the rest of the way to her front door. She pulled her keys out of her coat pocket, but her hand was still shaking a bit from the near-incident manufactured by her own imagination, and so she dropped the keys. They clattered to the ground and she started to kneel to get them.

  A gloved hand reached out and scooped them up before she got to them, and a rough voice said, “I got ’em.”

  She jumped back, letting out a startled shriek, her hand clutched to her bosom to still the racing of her heart. Her eyes were wide as she saw a familiar, square-jawed face grinning at her. “Dammit, Baumann!” she snapped out. “What the hell are . . . ?”

  Nellie looked hurriedly right and left to make sure they were unobserved. Then, with an angry grunt, she snatched the keys out of his open palm. Fred Baumann was grinning at her nervousness. “What, you worried Eyewitness News is gonna come roaring up?” he asked.

  “Shut up,” she said tersely, turning the keys in the lock. “Go away.”

  “Just wanted to talk.”

  “Go away!”

  “Thanks for the invite,” he said, and as she opened the door, he stepped right in behind her, bracing it with one hand so she wouldn’t be able to slam it in his face. At first she tried to push it shut against him, but then with a low, frustrated groan she stepped away and allowed him to enter behind her, giving one last look to make certain they were unobserved.

  The moment the door was closed behind them, she turned to face him, her hands on her hips. “Okay, Baumann, what the hell do you want?”

  He looked aggrieved at her tone. “Is that any way to treat your bestest friend in the whole wide world?” He sauntered across the room, hands in the pockets of his battered overcoat. Nellie glared at him in a manner that she hoped would flay the skin from his bones. Unfortunately he didn’t appear to notice and remained distinctly unflayed. At least he didn’t remove his coat, which gave her a modicum of hope that this would not be an extended visit.

  “You going to offer me anything to drink?” he asked. He glanced around. “Dark in here. Trying to save money on electricity?”

  “I don’t want to put on the lights because I want to lessen the chances of anyone seeing you here. And what the hell are you doing here?” Mail was scattered on the floor, having been pushed through the mail slot at the bottom of the door and now kicked around because of the hurried way in which she’d entered the front hallway. With an angry hiss of air between her teeth, Nellie knelt down and started gathering up the mail. “You called me a month ago and I told you nothing was happening. What part of ‘nothing’ was unclear?”

  “You’re not trying.”

  She stood, grasping the mail and putting it on a small table near the front door. In the darkness of the room, she gaped at his indistinct outline. “Not trying! Look, Baumann,” and she strode toward him while shaking a finger in his face, “what the hell do you want from me? I can’t manufacture an inside story for you. I can’t pull something newsworthy out of my ass. The simple fact is that today was like the day before, and the day before that, and the chances are spectacular that tomorrow’s going to be just like today. All that’s going to happen is that Arthur sits around, talks to Gwen while she lies there and doesn’t hear him, answers a few letters, and that’s the day. He doesn’t go out. He doesn’t do lectures. He. Just. Sits.” She let out a deep breath and then shook her head in disgust. “You ask me, it’s a waste of material. There’s a lot more he can be doing about so many things. But it’s like he’s . . . he’s lost the will to do anything about it.”

  “What are you saying?” Baumann asked, his voice rising in eagerness. He’d pulled a notepad from his inside jacket pocket and clicked out a pen to scribble. “That he’s suicidal? Is that it?”

  “No!” she said in frustration. She stepped forward and batted the notepad out of his hands, sending it to the floor. Baumann glowered up at her as he leaned down to get it. “God, for a minute I forgot who I was talking to. Would you just get out, please?”

  And suddenly Baumann had walked right up to her, and he wasn’t grabbing her or making any physical contact, but there was almost no room between them, and Nellie backed up, bumping into the table as she did so. There was anger, and also a bit of fear, in his voice. “Okay, look, Nellie,” he said, and although the phrasing sounded friendly, there was definite threat in his tone. “I got my own problems, okay? I’m a goddamn freelancer, peddling my papers wherever I can, and the only thing I got going for me is you being able to give me a heads up on anything Penn might be up to. But for months now you’ve been giving me nothing.”

  “There’s nothing to give! There’s no stories of any interest having to do with Arthur Penn or his wife!”

  For a long, uneasy moment, Baumann said nothing. And then, very quietly, he said, “Ohhhh yes there is. And we both know it.”

  She took another step back, knocking over the small table completely. Back onto the floor fell the letters, but at that moment she didn’t care at all. “No,” she said. When he nodded, her voice fell to a hoarse whisper. “Look . . . I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked, cooperated, done you favors . . .”

  “Let’s make something clear, kiddo,” Baumann said sharply. “I’m the one who did you a favor. You and Arthur and Gwen. I’ve known about this story since before Penn became mayor, and I could’ve blown it wide open then. And in defiance of every good journalistic ethic in existence, I didn’t do it. Do you know why?”

  “Because for a brief moment, you had a conscience?” said Nellie, her eyes momentarily flashing in defiance. “Or because you figured that if you kept it under wraps, you could use it to land bigger fish down the line?”

  “No. Because I liked the guy, and I liked her, and I wanted them to win, so I sat on it. Never even told my editor.”

  “You’re a prince,” she said sarcastically. “Prince of darkness.”

  He smiled lopsidedly at that, but then his face darkened once more. “I’ll go with the story if I have to. I still have the photographs.”

  “We had a deal!”

  “All deals come with expiration dates, and I have my own problems.”

  Nellie had never been a violent woman, and she had no idea from where the impulse came. Nevertheless her arm suddenly swung as if on its own, and she punched Baumann in the face. She’d been aiming at his nose, but she was hardly any sort of accomplished pugilist, and all she managed to do was have her knuckles glance off his cheekbone. It barely staggered him, but her intent was clear, and Baumann rubbed his face in irritation. “I should go with the story right now just because of that,” he snarled. “Luckily for you . . . I’m a nice guy. I need some decent material, Porter. Give me something useful, within the month, or I’ll go with what I have.”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Without another word, he turned, opened the door, and strode out, not even bothering to close the door behind himself. She kicked the door closed, and then tried not to cry out with the anguish she was feeling for fear that he might hear her, and she had no desire to give him that satisfaction.

  CHAPTRE THE SIXTEENTH

  THE SQUALL HAD come in unexpectedly. It wasn’t much earlier that Arthur had been gazing out upon the Atlantic Ocean and seeing a body of water that was as calm as its sister ocean on the other side of the continent. But then dark clouds had rolled in through the night sky, and far off there were flashes of lightning, and the ocean was roiling up as if a great hand had reached in and started stirring it about.

  The temperature had dropped considerably as well, but
despite the chill of the night air, Arthur sat on the back porch and wasn’t the least bit discomfited by it. The screen around the porch protected him from the rain that was sweeping through as well, but even if the moisture had been soaking him to the skin, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. He had, after all, grown up in the harsh climes of Britain, and it took a considerable amount of ill weather even to get his attention, much less make him feel uncomfortable.

  As he watched the storm out at sea, and wondered if it was going to move closer to land, Arthur leaned back in his recliner and speculated about what was going on in the world. What new crisis was presenting itself in the Oval Office? What new dictator was rising up from the ashes of his predecessors to wreak destruction and havoc? What country was experiencing drought or famine or war? Somewhere out there, there was want and need and deprivation, and none of it was his concern anymore.

  Except he couldn’t help but feel that it was his concern. It was just that he was no longer capable of doing anything about it.

  “Don’t dwell on it,” he said to himself, sinking his hands into the pockets of his cardigan. He slouched a bit, looking as if he was withdrawing into himself.

  “Don’t dwell on what?”

  He instantly chided himself for being so inattentive that he had actually permitted someone to approach him unawares. What a ghastly error for one who had once prided himself on being a warrior king . . . particularly since the new arrival was making no attempt whatsoever at stealth. The fact that anyone at all was present was hardly cause for alarm, because any new arrival would have had to be cleared through the Secret Service agents who were permanently assigned to the former President. And the voice, even the footstep of the new arrival was instantly identifiable to Arthur. Still, he had let himself become unaccountably sloppy. He had to watch that.

  He slid easily up out of the recliner and extended his hand to welcome Ron Cordoba, not allowing the slightest hint of his personal annoyance at his own ineptness to be reflected on his face. “Ron,” he said genially. “The chief of staff takes time out of his busy schedule to meet with a former boss? I’m flattered.”

  “The storm shut down Newark Airport, so I’m stranded for a bit. Plus, I’m only chief of staff, I suspect, through your good graces,” Ron said evenly.

  Arthur made a dismissive sound. “You tendered your resignation in good faith and took your chances. President Stockwell’s choosing to keep you on was his decision, fair and square. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No thanks, I’m good.”

  He studied Ron closely, not immediately releasing his grasp on the man’s hand. Ron was impeccably dressed in a crisp navy blue, double-breasted suit, with a heavy black coat over it. He had grown a pencil-thin mustache, which Arthur had to admit he wasn’t particularly impressed by.

  No, what struck him was Cordoba’s overall appearance. Cordoba apparently noticed the way that Arthur was looking at him, because he said warily, “Everything all right, sir?”

  Arthur let his hand go then and gestured for him to sit in a chair identical to his situated nearby. As Cordoba sat, Arthur assured him, “Everything’s fine, Ron. It’s just . . . well, you look a bit more haggard than I remember. The demands of the office wearing you down a bit?”

  Cordoba laughed. “Sir, they were already wearing me down back when you were running the show. It’s just that you didn’t notice because you were right there beside me, getting worn out along with me.”

  “Yes . . . yes, that’s true,” Arthur allowed. “And how do I look now?”

  “Refreshed. Relaxed.” He paused and then added, “Regretful . . .”

  “No,” said Arthur firmly, shaking his head as he gazed out at the ocean. He interlaced his fingers on his lap and, as if working on convincing himself, he said again, “No. No regrets, Ron. That way lies madness. I did what I had to do.”

  “I know you believe that . . .”

  Arthur fired a look at him. “Are you patronizing me, Ron?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, good.”

  A long moment passed in uneasy silence then, and Arthur was suddenly feeling confined, even useless in his recliner. He rose from his chair smoothly, uncoiling like a great cat, and the movement made him realize just how much he’d been sitting around lately. It was as if old muscles, long unused, were just begging to be pressed back into service. “Why are you here, Ron? Yes, I know, you said the airport was closed, but still . . . certainly there are more important things you could be directing your time towards than hanging about the residence of a former president.” Try as he might—and admittedly, he wasn’t trying all that hard—he was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

  “There’s no ulterior motive here, sir,” Cordoba assured him. “I just wanted to see you and her, and see how you’re doing. I . . .” He laughed softly. “I feel like . . .”

  He was clearly having trouble articulating it, and Arthur glanced over his shoulder at him. “Feel like what?”

  “I feel like your story’s not done.”

  Arthur made a low, annoyed growl in his throat. “You’ve read too many fantasy tales, Ron. I’m no storybook hero . . .”

  “But you are,” Ron insisted, and he got up from his chair with considerably less grace than Arthur had displayed. “I know. When I was a kid, I read the storybooks, and there you were in them.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Arthur replied softly. “It was this . . . construct that storytellers cobbled together. Bits and pieces of legends, strewn through history, endlessly interwoven and reinterpreted for new generations. I was young or old, wise or witless, knowledgeable or just damned lucky, depending upon the needs of the narrators. Who I really was, what I truly hoped to accomplish, my own wants and desires . . . none of them truly knew.”

  “Did you?”

  Arthur didn’t answer immediately, and then, finally, all he did was shrug. “I think I did once. But it was a very long time ago . . . and for some reason, it seems to matter very little to me now.”

  “So you’ve given up.”

  He took in a breath and let it out slowly. “I do not think,” he said to Cordoba, “that I appreciate the direction this conversation is going, Ron.”

  “Well, I’m sorry about that, but—”

  “No, I don’t think you are.”

  “Fine, I’m not!” Ron said impatiently. Arthur glared at him, but the forceful gaze of an ancient king simply wasn’t what it used to be, in the twenty-first century. “Dammit, Arthur, you were . . . you were on a quest! A quest to do great things! And you walked away from it!”

  “We had this all out at the time, Ron.”

  “Perhaps you did, sir. Me, I was pretty stinking drunk, and so don’t remember much of it.”

  “Yes. Yes, you were,” Arthur admitted. “I was a bit embarrassed for you, frankly. But none of that changes anything—”

  “Arthur—”

  “Ron,” he interrupted him before he could continue, “take a look at the world.” He made a wide, encompassing gesture. “It goes on just fine without me. It goes on whether I’m there or not.”

  “Just as Gwen would have.”

  His face darkened at that. “Leave her out of it . . .”

  “I wish I could.” He looked down, staring at the tops of his shoes. “I stopped in her room a minute ago before coming out here. She just lies there, withering away. Except she’s doing it on the outside, and I think you’re doing it on the inside.”

  “Don’t presume to know me, Ron.”

  “Well, you said it yourself, didn’t you? You hardly know yourself anymore, so why shouldn’t others take a whack at trying to figure you out.”

  Arthur turned toward him, suddenly seeming a good deal taller than he had before. In the distance, the thunder rumbled, mirroring his own mood. “What would you have me do, Ron, eh? Take back my position? Tour the world as some sort of ambassador of goodwill? Or perhaps I should hunt down a dragon or two to slay, eh? Rescue a few
damsels in distress? I could try to go out and catch a unicorn by the tail.”

  “Arthur—”

  “I don’t know what you want of me, Ron!” he exclaimed, pacing furiously. The confines of the screened-in porch suddenly seemed far too small for him. “I don’t know what any of you want from me. All the storytellers, all the fantasists . . . and even the realists such as yourself, who can’t help pinning heroic aspirations upon me because of tales they read in their impressionable youth. I’m just a man, Ron. A man who did the best he could with what was given him. A man who didn’t have his priorities in order, and once he realized what they were, it was too bloody late.”

  And to Arthur’s surprise, Ron’s response was heated. “I think you still have no idea what your priorities are, sir.”

  “Oh, really. And what, young man, do you think my priorities should be.”

  Ron took a deep breath, as if he were about to jump off a cliff, and then said, “I think you should be out on a quest.”

  Arthur stared at him, his eyebrows arched so high that they nearly came to the top of his scalp, and then he laughed. It was not a hostile laugh, but rather one of pure, almost joyous amusement. Ron looked suspicious, clearly unsure of how to gauge the former President’s reaction. He almost took a step back when Arthur’s hand came around, but he simply clapped it on Ron’s shoulder and smiled. “How very charming,” he said.

  “Charming, sir?” asked Ron.

  “I keep forgetting that I’m a legendary sort of fellow,” said Arthur. He leaned against his chair, gazing out at the ocean without really seeing it. “Most American presidents aren’t legendary. Formidable, yes. Famous or infamous, as circumstances may dictate. There have even been some who have bordered on bigger-than-life. And certainly those unfortunate few who were martyred, felled by assassins, come close to the legendary. But I am the true stuff of legend. Before me, you more or less have to go back to Thomas Jefferson. And because I am legendary, you naturally seek out a legendary means of finding a pastime for me.”