“John, if I wanted someone else in your office, I’d let you know. I probably should have told you about Kate, but there are some things I want handled by Bob Lee, and that will never change. If you can’t live with it, then do what you need to do.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Right now, I don’t know who in the hell to trust.”
Llewellyn shook his head. “Then God help you, Mr. President, because you can’t run this country alone.”
As soon as his chief of staff was gone, Dixon went to the door of the Oval Office and spoke to his secretary. “Maryelizabeth, get Bobby in here now.”
“He’s waiting for you with the others in the Roosevelt Room,” Maryelizabeth Hart said. “The meeting to discuss the summit.”
“I didn’t ask you where he is. I said get him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And tell the others the meeting will be delayed awhile.”
A long minute passed before Robert Lee stepped into the Oval Office.
“Close the door, Bobby.”
Lee did as he’d been asked.
“Sit down.”
Lee took a chair.
“Who did you talk to about Kate, Bobby?”
“No one other than those you asked me to speak with.”
“One of them talked.”
“What makes you think so?”
“My father was just in here, and he knows, Bobby. He knows.”
“No one I spoke with would breach your confidence, Clay. They’re our people, not the senator’s.”
“Well somebody sure as hell said something. My father’s surprising in a lot of ways, but I assure you he isn’t psychic.”
“Clay, if you start distrusting those closest to you, you’ll end up trusting no one. Is it possible Kate is the source?”
“She hasn’t even told her father.”
“You’re positive?”
“She was definite.”
Lee put an index finger to his lips and thought a moment. “You talked with Kate on the phone from the Residence.”
“Yes.”
“And we talked here.”
“That’s right.”
“And I met with the others in my office. I know it sounds crazy, Clay, but maybe we’ve been bugged.”
“The Secret Service is supposed to make sure all my communications are secure.”
“Maybe we should have them do a full security sweep,” Lee suggested.
“I agree,” Dixon said.
He buzzed Maryelizabeth Hart. “Get Rich Thielman here and get him here now.” He was speaking of the head of the Secret Service Presidential Protective Detail. He turned to the window behind him. The day was still weighted with the gloom that had settled after the morning storm. “Bobby, I have something I want you to take care of. My father made a comment that concerns me. It sounded like a threat, as if he intends to intervene somehow to save my presidential ass and the family name. I’d like to know exactly what he’s up to.”
“What do you want?”
“He’s a man of amazing resources and little reserve when it comes to getting what he wants. And he doesn’t want me to lose this election.”
“More dirty tricks?”
“I don’t know, but it would be good to keep tabs on him. I’ve had enough surprises already. Can you handle this?”
“I’ll get someone on it.”
“No, I want you on it personally. I know you’re busy, but until we clear up the question of security around here I don’t want this moving beyond you and me.”
“All right,” Lee said. “I’m on it.”
“Be discreet when you’re poking around, Bobby. The last thing I want is for the senator to know we’re digging.”
“When was I not the soul of discretion?” He smiled that charming smile the press loved.
chapter
twenty-seven
Ronnie Salone stepped into Bo’s hospital room. He was a new agent, on temporary assignment from the Chicago office. In the wake of the incident at Wildwood, security measures had proliferated, requiring additional agents. Secret Service had assigned a detail to cover Tom Jorgenson and Bo while they were in the hospital, although officially neither man was eligible for such attention. Salone escorted a visitor.
“This him?” Salone asked.
“Yeah, Ronnie. Thanks,” Bo said.
The agent left.
Otter shook his head. “Seeing you is like trying to get into Fort Knox. How’re you doing, Spider-Man?”
“I’ve been better, Otter. Good to see you, man. Pull up a chair.”
Otter sat down at Bo’s bedside. He wore a green Hawaiian shirt, faded jeans, and old sneakers. He was clean-shaven, and he’d swept his long, graying hair back in a neat ponytail. There was nothing to be done about the beating his face had taken from alcohol and a tough life, but for Otter, he looked pretty good.
“I hope they didn’t give you a hard time,” Bo said.
“Made me sign in, give ’em an official address, show an ID. That was just the hospital security. Then your guys frisked me. The nurses, man, I think they wanted to disinfect me or something.”
“You look good,” Bo said.
“That job you told me about. The church janitor. I took it. It’s working out. Got a nice room in the basement. And Greg, the pastor, he’s in AA, too.”
“I know.”
“Thanks, Spider-Man.”
“No problem.”
Otter leaned his chair back and laced his hands behind his head. “First Lady. Man, you travel in some company these days. Who would’ve thought?” His gaze went distant for a moment. When it came back, he said, “Look, you need any plants watered at your place or anything taken care of while you’re here?”
“They’re artificial.”
“I wish there was something I could do.”
“In the drawer there.” Bo pointed to the stand beside his bed. “There are some cards.”
Otter reached in and pulled out a deck that Bo had been using for solitaire.
“Remember in the old bus, playing gin rummy for pennies?” Bo asked.
“Do I? You were terrible.”
“That’s because the cards had pictures of naked women on them.”
Otter laughed. “Yeah, I used that deck because I knew it was a distraction for you.”
“Deal ’em,” Bo said. “I’m not distracted now.”
They played a dozen hands before Stuart Coyote walked into the room.
“Sorry,” Coyote said. “I didn’t realize you had company, Bo. I’ll come back.”
“No, stay. Otter, this is Stu Coyote, my sometimes partner. Stu, this is Otter, my oldest friend.”
“Bo’s told me a lot of stories about you and him and an old bus,” Coyote said, extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure finally meeting you. Say, is he much of a cardplayer?”
“The worst,” Otter replied. He looked from Coyote to Bo. “Looks like you’ve got business. I’ll be on my way.”
“How’d you get here?” Bo asked.
“Hitched.”
“I’ll get you a ride back.”
Otter lifted his hands to decline. “You just worry about getting better. Nice meeting you, Coyote. Always good rubbing fur with another animal.”
Otter left, grinning.
Coyote took the vacant chair. “You heard about Moses?”
“Heard what?”
“They found him last night. Washington County sheriff’s office got a call at 0200 hours. Somebody reported a burglary in progress on an empty houseboat at a marina downriver, this side of Hastings. Cops show up. Shots fired. All of a sudden, the houseboat goes up in flames. When the fire’s put out, they find a burned body. There’s body armor, too, and a handgun. They got prints from the grip. They match Moses.”
“Cops kill Moses? Or did the fire do that?”
“Neither. He ate a bullet.”
“They’re sure it’s his body?”
“They’re checking his
files at the State Security Hospital for dental records to match. His military file, too. They’re being careful about making any public statement until they’re sure. But it’s him, Bo.”
Bo should have felt relief, but he was reluctant to let his guard down until he was absolutely certain the man was dead and buried.
“Ishimaru make a connection with Moses and those two alphabet guys who posed as Secret Service when they talked to Dr. Hart?”
“Not yet. She’s had her hands full.”
“How are things at the office?” he asked.
Coyote’s face took on a sour look. “Investigators everywhere. The press is thick as locusts. It’s understandable, but it’s a grand pain in the butt.”
“You don’t have to tell me. I talk to a dozen different investigators from half a dozen jurisdictions every day. What about Diana? She holding up?”
“If she were food, she’d be hard tack. She’s tough as they come.”
“You look a little weary,” Bo noted.
“Things feel pretty weird right now. Jake, Jon, the others, dead. Strange faces in the office. Everything we’ve done being questioned. The truth is, I asked for some time off. I’ve got vacation days, use or lose. Figured I’d take them.”
Bo nodded. If he could hide for a while, he’d do it, too. “Going anywhere?”
“Home.”
Meaning Oklahoma. Somewhere near the Wichita Mountains.
“When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll be gone by the time you hobble out of here. You’ll be okay?”
“I won’t be throwing any punches for a while, but I’ll be fine.” Bo held out his hand. “Take care of yourself. Rest up.”
Coyote stood and clasped Bo’s hand tightly. “You, too.”
There was a moment of awkward silence, and a reluctance to release their grip on each other. Bo felt as if he were letting go of the last of all that was familiar to him and safe.
That afternoon, Nurse Rivera urged him out of bed and sent him walking. Bo’s leg was sore from the kick Moses had delivered, his back ached from the knife wound, and his left arm throbbed. But he was glad to be up and moving. He walked from one end of the hallway to the other. Agent Salone was on duty, monitoring the activity on the floor. Other agents were posted downstairs. Although Bo’s injuries weren’t critical, the decision had been made to keep him in Trauma ICU along with Tom Jorgenson and Chris Manning so that security was easier. He was on his third round when Salone called to him, “Thorsen, Dreamcatcher’s on her way up.”
He never knew when Kate was coming. Secret Service varied her visits, the time of day, the length, to keep things unpredictable. Bo returned to his room as quickly as he could and checked himself in his bathroom mirror. It was ridiculous, he knew, but he found himself eager for her visits and always a little nervous. She came, of course, to see her father, but she always dropped in to talk with Bo awhile. Her visits had become the highlight of his days.
Through his door, he watched the First Lady step into her father’s room. She glanced his way, and she waved and smiled just before she vanished.
A little while later Earl, all awkward motion and big grins, bounced into Bo’s room.
“Hi, Bo.”
“Hey, Earl. How you doing?”
“I’m real good. I’m real good.” Earl had taken a deep interest in Bo’s injuries and checked the scabbed wound on his forearm whenever he visited. “Does it still hurt?”
“They give me pills that keep it from hurting too much.”
Earl seemed to think that sounded fine. “Can they give Katie some pills? She hurts an awful lot, Bo. She cries all the time, and I don’t understand. Dad’s better now.”
“People hurt in lots of ways and for lots of reasons, Earl. Sometimes the wounds don’t show.”
Earl looked at him without fully comprehending. “I’m going home today.” He was talking about returning to the group home in St. Paul.
“You like it there?” Bo asked.
“Oh yeah. My friends are there.”
“Good, Earl. I’m happy for you.”
“Bye,” Earl said.
“Bye,” Bo echoed.
In parting, Earl squeezed Bo’s hand like he was crushing a rock.
Nearly an hour after she’d arrived at ICU, the First Lady stood in Bo’s doorway. She was dressed for the summer heat, in a light cotton skirt, a sleeveless yellow blouse, sandals. Her gold hair was pulled back casually, held by some clasp he couldn’t see. At the sight of her, Bo felt a little stumble of his heart.
“How’s your father this morning?” he asked.
“Good. He slept well. He tells me you drop by now and again to say hello. He appreciates that, Bo. So do I.”
“He’s good company. I get bored easily around here.”
“Maybe I can help with that.” She offered him a gift that was wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with a blue bow. “I wasn’t sure in what direction your tastes might run. I hope I guessed correctly.”
He undid the tissue and found a book.
“I considered getting you crossword puzzles,” she said.
“I’d rather read.”
The book was The Witness of Combines by an author named Kent Meyers.
“It’s about a young man on a farm who’s forced to grow up too soon. Have you read it?” she asked.
“No.”
“I thought about you and that farm you spent some time on when you were younger. I thought maybe you’d appreciate the story.”
“Thank you.” He put the book on the stand beside the bed. “I still spend time at the farm occasionally. Whenever I need to get away from everything for a while and just think. It’s not that far.”
“Blue Earth, right?”
“Right.”
“And the Thorsens, are they still there?”
“Nell, yes. Harold passed away two years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
Her eyes seemed suddenly grayer and her mood as well, as if talking about the dead had saddened her. She walked away from Bo and moved nearer the window. The sun hit her at a slant. Half her body glowed, while the other half lay in shadow. “They tell me David Moses is dead.”
“They seem pretty certain.”
“I suppose I should be relieved. But all I feel is sad.”
“With something like this, it’s best to put it behind you.”
“I’m not sure I can.” She turned back to Bo. Her right hand came up, as if she meant to offer him something. “I feel so sorry for him.”
“Forgive me if I don’t grieve for the man,” Bo said.
He realized he’d spoken harshly and that he’d shattered a fragile moment between them. He wished immediately he could do something, say something that would bring back the feeling he’d had before either of them spoke about death.
“I should let you rest.” She moved toward the door.
“I’m fine.”
She smiled, but it was cordial, forced. “My daughter’s arriving from D.C. this afternoon. I want to get a few things ready for her.”
“Sure.”
“Good-bye.” She took his hand, then gave him a soft kiss on the cheek as well.
After she’d gone, he opened the book she’d given him, and he found the inscription she’d written by hand.
To Bo, my guardian angel.
I will never say a prayer of thanksgiving without your name upon my lips.
Kate
It was very nice, Bo thought. Full of gratitude. Then he chided himself for wishing it were full of something more.
chapter
twenty-eight
Late that evening, the president sat in a stuffed chair in his residence, sipping a cup of decaf mocha and trying to concentrate on revising the address he was to deliver at the Pan-American summit. The speech was weak. But his mind kept drifting to another subject, one far more threatening to him than the idea of delivering a less than perfect address.
His father.
Di
xon put down his papers and thought about the only man who could anger him without speaking a word. What had shaped William Dixon, in what hellish forge his character had been hammered, Clay Dixon could only guess.
His father had been another man once, or so Clay Dixon’s mother claimed. When he was seventeen, he’d been a lean, long-boned young man with stiff, dusty hair and a cocky smile. He wore dirty jeans and scuffed boots and old western shirts. He’d been one of the hired hands on the Purgatoire River Ranch. And he’d been in love with the rancher’s daughter. He didn’t have a chance of marrying her in those days. The rancher was a tough, wealthy man, and he had no intention of giving his daughter’s hand to a cowboy who had nothing to offer her but an appealing face and more self-assurance than his circumstances merited.
Pearl Harbor changed everything. Billy Dixon, along with thousands of other young men, enlisted in the marines. He trained at San Diego and was among the last of the armed forces to reach the Bataan Peninsula in the Philippines before the Japanese cut off the islands. He distinguished himself in the fighting that ensued over the next three months. When Bataan fell, he and seventy-five thousand other American and Filipino soldiers, most ill with malaria and weak from hunger and thirst, were marched along a sixty-five-mile stretch of jungle road on what would eventually be known as the Bataan Death March. He spent several months in the Cabanatuan prison camp before escaping with nine other men. They stole a small launch from a coastal town and, making their way by night, eventually reached Borneo and the Aussie forces there. But the war wasn’t over for Billy Dixon. He saw action at Tarawa, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa, earning himself two Purple Hearts and a Silver Star in the process. When he was discharged in the late summer of 1945, he came home to Las Animas County, Colorado, a bona fide hero.
Whenever she spoke of the war, Clay Dixon’s mother spoke of it sadly. Billy Dixon had gone away a cocky boy whom she couldn’t help loving. But the man who returned to a hero’s welcome and who was given her hand in marriage had become a stranger in many ways. Hard inside and distant. Although his mother never said as much, Clay Dixon believed that she’d married hoping she might somehow be able to resurrect the boy the war had killed. It never happened.