The Devil's Bed

  “Your father never knew the truth?”

  “He figured it out later and confronted Roland. It’s the only physical fight I know of that my father was ever in. He was no match for Roland, with all those muscles from his metal work. But Roland wouldn’t fight back. He just let my father hit him. Then he got himself drunk and he drove his car into a tree.

  “It sounds so sordid, I know.” She finally looked at him, turning her back to the sculpture, her face fully shadowed. “What do you think of me now? Hardly heroine material, huh?”

  “I think it was a mistake,” Bo said. “And I think it was a long time ago, and far behind you.”

  “I thought so, too. Until David…” Even in the shadow, her tears somehow managed to glisten as they rolled down her cheeks. “All those people, Bo. He killed them because of me.”

  “No, he killed them because of who he was, not you.”

  “It feels like it’s my fault.” She bent her head, and her shoulders shook as she wept.

  Bo went to her, took her in his arms, and held her. He laid his cheek against her hair and closed his eyes. He felt an ache himself, as if her pain were his own. He wished he could make her hurt go away, that somehow he had the power to absolve her. And he knew that he loved her. He knew it beyond all doubt.

  She drew away. Her nose was running, and she wiped at it with the back of her hand. “What do you do with a confession like this, Bo?”

  “I’m trained to keep secrets.”

  She reached up and touched his cheek. “Whenever you’re with me, I feel safe.” She stood on her toes and gently kissed his lips.

  “Thank you.”

  The door of the guesthouse opened again, and this time the dark form of the agent there came forward.

  “It’s late,” Bo said.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Dinner.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  She left him. Bo watched her disappear into the shade of the porch. He saw her once more briefly in the light as she opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Thorsen.” It was Stan Calloway who, in the absence of Chris Manning, now headed the FLOTUS detail. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? My God, that’s the president’s wife. We’ve got that kiss on tape.”

  Bo knew Calloway from his days in D.C. A good agent. A little humorless, but solid in the right ways.

  “The kiss wasn’t my idea, Stan.”

  Calloway put a hand to his forehead. “Jesus, what am I supposed to do with this?”

  Bo reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys. “Do whatever you feel you have to do with it. I’m going home.”

  Calloway took his arm and held him back a moment. “A lot of people are looking up to you right now, Thorsen. Don’t blow it.”

  Bo glared at Calloway’s hand until the grip was released. He said, “Good night, Stan.”

  He got in his car, drove home to Tangletown, and readied himself for bed. Then he sat at the window in the dark, trying to find a place inside himself to lock away what he felt. It was too big, this affection. It was way out of hand. What not long before had been only a pleasant conceit was suddenly something with substance, real enough to cause him trouble. What was the point? He had Kate’s confidence, but he could never have her love. And even if by some miracle she were to feel the same way, what could she do? She was not just a married woman. She was the First Lady.

  “Christ, Bo, you’ve done it this time,” he whispered.

  chapter

  thirty-two

  It was well after dark by the time Clay Dixon returned to the White House. In the last forty-eight hours, he’d been to Atlanta, Miami, New Orleans, Houston, Dallas, and Oklahoma City, trying to drum up votes and campaign contributions for himself and the party candidates in those constituencies. He was tired, but he felt energized, as he usually did after working crowds. He loved that part of his job. He went directly to the Residence on the second floor of the White House. Although it was late, he decided to call Wildwood. He missed his daughter. And he missed his wife. He longed to have Kate back, to be able to talk with her about the campaign swing and how good he felt. Love was more about quiet things than about bedroom noise. It was something he’d always known, but he was feeling it deep down now where the real truths resided.

  Annie told him that Kate wasn’t there. She was out looking at the moon. She’d have Kate call him back when she returned.

  Dixon hung up feeling unaccountably anxious. He was tired, and knew he should go to bed. But he wanted to wait for Kate’s call. If it came. She was still angry with him. She’d made that clear in the few conversations they’d had recently. He thought about the report Lorna Channing had prepared, and that got him to thinking about one of its chief proponents, Bobby Lee. And thinking about Bobby got him to wondering what his friend had been able to scrape together on whatever it was that Senator William Dixon might be up to.

  The phone rang. Kate, he thought happily.

  “Mr. President, John Llewellyn is on the line for you.”

  “Put him on.”

  “Mr. President, I apologize for disturbing you at such a late hour,” Llewellyn said.

  “No problem, John. Where are you?”

  “In the West Wing, in my office.”

  “Working late.”

  “Mr. President, FBI Assistant Director Arthur Lugar is with me.”

  Dixon heard the tension in John Llewellyn’s voice. “What is it?”

  “It’s about Bob Lee, sir.”

  His first thought was scandal. But he knew Bobby Lee, and he’d never known a more decent man. “What about him?”

  “Sir, he’s dead.”

  Robert Lee had loved to sail. For twenty years, every Saturday that he could slip away, he’d taken his sailboat out onto Chesapeake Bay and spent the day cutting across salt water. Often his sons went with him, but that summer they were both gone, counselors at a camp in the Blue Ridge. Maggie, his wife, was prone to seasickness. So lately, Robert Lee had been sailing alone.

  According to the only eyewitness, Lee had been in a small, isolated inlet on the sound of the Choptank River. It was early evening. The wind had shifted. The boom, as it swung around, caught Lee squarely on the side of his head, and he went overboard. The eyewitness sailed immediately to that location, but Bobby Lee had already gone under.

  Divers from the Talbot County Sheriff’s Department had been called out. They arrived near twilight and began a search for the body, which they quickly found. It took them a bit more time to make the ID, to be certain that Robert Lee, to whom the sailboat was registered, was also the drowned man. The FBI had been notified immediately.

  “Is the eyewitness reliable?” Clay Dixon asked. He sat in John Llewellyn’s office with Llewellyn and the assistant director of the FBI.

  “Former ATF agent, sir,” Arthur Lugar replied. “Received a citation as a result of Waco. A longtime sailor. Totally reliable.”

  “Does Bobby’s family know?”

  “Not yet, Mr. President.”

  “How about the media?”

  “We haven’t released any information.”

  “Can you wait until morning?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Thank you,” he said to the assistant director in a tone that indicated they were finished for the moment. “I want to be kept apprised of your investigation.”

  “Of course,” Lugar said, and he rose to leave.

  When they were alone, Dixon said to Llewellyn, “I’ll need new counsel.”

  “Why don’t you go with Ned Shackleford? He’s always been Bobby’s right hand.”

  Dixon knew he was shoving his feelings down, pushing the grief to the back while he dealt with the business of keeping things under control, making sure his administration moved forward whatever the circumstances. Nonetheless, he felt a deep emptiness in his heart and a profound absence at his side. As soon as he was certain everything was in order, he would allow himself to grieve long and hard for his friend Bo
bby Lee.

  “Did you tell my father?”

  “I’ve told no one but you, sir.”

  “Good. I’d like to be alone for a while, John.”

  “Certainly, Mr. President.”

  Dixon rubbed his eyes, feeling more tired than he’d ever been. “Don’t say anything to the press. I’d like to make the call to Bobby’s wife myself. And one more thing. Let me tell the senator in my own way.”

  “Whatever you prefer.”

  When Llewellyn had gone, the president lifted his phone and spoke to the White House operator. “Get me Lorna Channing. If she’s not in her office, try her cell phone.”

  “Oh, Clay. I’m so sorry.”

  Lorna Channing put her arms around Dixon and held him for a moment. They were alone in the president’s study in the Executive Residence. She’d come immediately after she’d received his call.

  “It’s such a terrible thing. Such a tragic accident.”

  He spoke against her cheek. “It wasn’t an accident, Lorna.”

  She leaned away from him and looked into his face.

  “I’d asked Bobby to keep an eye on my father. The old bastard’s up to something. Next thing I know, Bobby’s dead. It’s no coincidence.”

  “You’re saying your father is responsible?”

  “I’m not sure what I’m saying.” He went to the phone. “Get me Senator Dixon.” A moment later he said, “Thank you.” He put the call on speakerphone so Lorna could hear.

  “Mr. President, it’s late.” It was the tone of a tired, grumpy father.

  “I know, Dad. I just got some terrible news. Bobby’s dead.”

  There was a pause at the other end.

  “Lee? How?”

  “An accident.”

  “I’m sorry, son. I know how close you two were.” There was the squeak of bedsprings, the rustle of linen. “Have you thought who’ll replace him?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “The choice seems obvious to me. Shackleford.”

  “John thought the same thing.”

  “Good. Then we’re on the same page. Does Lee’s family know?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Tragic business,” the senator said. There was the sound of scratching, the flare of a match, the old man’s huffed breath as he lit a cigar. “Shackleford will do just fine.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “’Night, Clayboy. Get some rest. I reckon you’ll need it.”

  When the call was ended, the President looked at Lorna Channing.

  “Ned Shackleford,” he said. “There’s our leak. Jesus, when did he go over to their side?”

  “Your father already knew about Bobby,” she said. “Even I could hear it in his voice.”

  Dixon nodded. “How do you suppose that came to be?”

  “He heard it on the news?”

  “The press hasn’t been informed yet.”

  “Llewellyn?”

  “He promised to say nothing.”

  “Maybe he broke his promise.”

  “Or never intended to keep it in the first place.” All the possibilities seemed dark in his thinking. “Could it be they both knew about it, knew even before it happened?”

  Lorna put her hand on his cheek. “Clay, I can understand mistrusting your father and Llewellyn, but I’d caution against looking for conspiracy. I guarantee that if you look for it, you’re going to see it. Everywhere.”

  Dixon took a deep breath and sat down. “If I don’t trust someone, Lorna, I’ll go crazy.”

  “You have me,” she said.

  “Standing by me could be dangerous.”

  “I’ll take the risk.”

  “We need someone else to take up where Bobby left off, someone who knows how to find out things and how to watch his back.” The president closed his eyes and tried to think. Everything seemed black and hopeless. “Christ,” he said, “isn’t there anybody in this city we can trust?”

  chapter

  thirty-three

  Bo got the call Sunday morning. He was trying to read, but he wasn’t able to concentrate. All he could think about was Kate.

  The phone startled him, and he answered it quickly.

  “Thorsen here.”

  A woman at the other end of the line informed him that the president of the United States was calling.

  “Agent Thorsen, how are you?”

  Although surprised, Bo replied casually, “I’m fine, thank you, Mr. President.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ll come right to the point. I never had the opportunity to thank you properly for your valiant actions at Wildwood. I’m hoping you’ll accept an invitation to be my guest for lunch here at the White House.”

  “Of course, sir. It would be an honor.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Short notice, I understand. But I have this Pan-American summit coming up next week, and I’ll be gone for several days. I’ll have my staff arrange your flight and hotel accommodations.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “Great. One more thing, Agent Thorsen. I understand you’re on medical leave.”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that mean you don’t have to be back in the office for a while?”

  “Another ten days.”

  “But you still get around pretty good?”

  “Just fine, sir.”

  “Excellent. I’ll have my staff contact you with the details.”

  After the president had hung up, Bo sat for a moment, considering the president’s invitation. Surely Dixon’s staff had made the president aware of the article in the National Enquirer. Was that what this was about?

  When Bo arrived at Wildwood for the Sunday meal, he found Kate, her seven-year-old daughter, Stephanie, and her brother, Earl, tossing a football on the lawn.

  “You’re the one who saved my mother,” Stephanie said as she shook Bo’s hand. She crooked a finger, brought him down to her level, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said seriously.

  She had her mother’s long blonde hair and gray-blue eyes. She was tall, like her father, and seemed to possess a self-confidence beyond her years. He liked her immediately. The kiss on the cheek helped a lot, too.

  “Goody,” Stephanie said. “Now we can play a game.”

  “Mr. Thorsen’s recovering from serious injury, Steph,” Kate said.

  “I’m sure he’d rather relax.”

  “I’ll play,” Bo said. “As long as I don’t have to run much or get tackled, I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. In fact, doctor’s orders. I’m supposed to stay active. Helps promote healing.”

  “We won’t play long. Dinner’s in half an hour.”

  “You can be on my team,” Stephanie said. “All you have to do is just throw me the ball.”

  Earl grinned and pointed a finger at Bo. “We’re gonna cream you.”

  Kate gave him a marvelous smile. “Thanks, Bo. Steph’s been begging for a game since she got here.”

  Bo had dressed casually, a blue shirt with a white T-shirt beneath, and khakis. He took off his blue shirt and he faked a few warm-ups.

  “Who kicks off?” he asked.

  “I do,” Stephanie said.

  Bo was skeptical until he saw the football, a small thing of orange and black foam, grooved for easy spirals. They played on the grassy side yard, between the main house and guesthouse. The dirt lane that led from the barn into the orchards was the equivalent of the fifty-yard line. It was warm and sunny and the sky was a flawless blue. A perfect afternoon for football.

  Even at seven, Stephanie was quite a player. “My daddy used to be quarterback for the Broncos. They called him Air Express because he was so good at passing. I think it was more fun than being president.”

  “I’m sure it was,” Bo agreed.

  She called her own patterns—hooks, fade-outs, posts. She caught everything that ca
me near her. Her task was made easier by Earl, who defended against her. Mostly, he ran around waving his arms and laughing.

  Kate quarterbacked for the other team. She was better at it than Bo, but she got very little help from her brother, who couldn’t have caught a football even if his hands had been soaked in glue. He had a lot of fun whenever he somehow managed to get hold of the ball and Stephanie chased him, trying to make the tag. Kate was careful around Bo, obviously concerned about his injuries. When she tagged him, she did it gently. Even so, for a long time after, he could still feel the touch of her hands on him.

  Some of the agents on detail in the Op Center or on FLOTUS detail gathered along the sidelines and cheered them on.

  Twenty minutes into the game, Kate called, “Halftime!” and she fell in a heap onto the grass. Bo sat down with her while Stephanie and Earl went into the house to get something cold to drink.

  “Are you doing okay?” she asked.

  “A little sore, but nothing a couple of aspirin won’t cure.” He waited a moment, then told her, “I got a call this morning from the president.” He was conscious that he’d refrained from saying your husband.

  “Oh?”

  “He invited me to the White House. He says he wants to thank me properly for saving you.”

  “When are you going?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “So soon?”

  “You saw the article in the National Enquirer?”

  She nodded.

  “I wondered if maybe he saw it, too, and is planning on having me shot.”

  “Not Clay. Something like that, he’d want to do himself. He’d invite you to step outside and put up your dukes.” She looked Bo over appreciatively. “It would be a good match.”

  “You’re not angry? About the article?”

  She’d begun to pluck at leaves of clover growing among the blades of grass. “That kind of thing goes with the territory. How about you?”

  “I took some heat.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.” Bo swept his own hand idly over the grass. “I can’t imagine anyone believing what they read in those rags.”

  “I can’t imagine,” she said. She smiled at him and held out her hand. “Here. For you. A four-leaf clover.”