The Grid

by Nick Cook

  Lefortz is sitting in the corner. He slides a bottle of water at me.

  Despite the best efforts of the double-glazing, the drone from the overpass drowns out the Rita Hayworth movie playing on the TV above our heads.

  He chinks my glass and takes a pull of his beer. ‘You all right?’

  I nod. It’s been a long day, and from the look on his face I can see that he doesn’t want to be here any more than I do. I ask him what Cabot wanted to speak to him about after the meeting.

  ‘Well …’ He tugs at the tip of his moustache. ‘He sure has a fuckin’ bee buzzing around in that darkly suspicious bonnet of his.’

  ‘Who was the jumper, Jim?’

  ‘MPD still don’t know. But they’re working on it.’ He shakes his head. ‘You know what they say about this place. Too damn small to be a state, but too large to be an asylum.’

  I nod. Something like that. I tell him about the many uneasy feelings I have, not least Guido’s use of No Stone Unturned.

  ‘A common enough expression.’

  ‘But it was like he knew me.’

  ‘Well, maybe he did.’

  I shake my head. Burns or no burns, I remember every single one of my patients.

  We sit in silence for several moments. I know Lefortz. He won’t admit to being troubled, unless he can quantify it with names, dates and places. But he is. It’s all over his face. I’m about to ask him which of the four investigations into the shooting is likely to report back first, when he asks me about Hart.

  ‘She’s … intriguing.’

  He laughs. ‘And then some.’

  ‘Where’d you come across her?’

  ‘She used to be in Presidential Protection. Got herself into some trouble, which I helped to … resolve. Transferred to the intelligence division. She’s a one-off.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because in this city of monuments to power and loss, Josh, she’s about the only person I’ve come across I can trust.’

  He looks at his watch. ‘We just got word. Thompson’s on his way back.’ He drains his glass and sets it down on the table. ‘Got to go.’

  There’s more snow coming and he needs to assign Thompson extra security because of what’s happened. It’s going to be another long night.

  ‘Reuben’s going nuts,’ he says. ‘And it’s my ruby wedding on Wednesday.’

  He gets to his feet.

  ‘Why, Jim?’

  ‘Because we’ve been hitched forty fuckin’ years.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Why did I ask to see you?’ His smile disappears. ‘Because I’m sorry about what happened, Josh. If I’d known, I’d never have …’

  He doesn’t finish. As I watch him go, I think about those rumors. Lefortz’s deeply lined face masks things I haven’t seen in him before.

  If it is true he was at the Oklahoma Building, only now do I gain some insight into some of the truly terrible things he must have witnessed.

  8

  I FULLY INTEND TO DO SOME WORK BEFORE I GO TO BED.

  Three weeks ago, shortly before the holiday, Thompson announced his administration’s determination to forge better relations with Russia and its new president – a bold play, given the contempt with which every spook, diplomat, soldier and politician holds what they have come to stand for these days. So I now have to ensure that the medical safety nets are in place for a Moscow summit in April. My team has drawn up a shortlist of hospitals capable of treating the President in an emergency, and tomorrow I’m due to discuss the protocols with Colonel Dmitri Sergeyev, their defense attaché.

  I flip open my laptop and catch up on the damage inflicted by the storm: the counties left without power around the capital; a train that’s derailed somewhere south of Baltimore; Thompson’s impending return to D.C., just announced, following the re-opening of Joint Base Andrews and the city’s airports; and, of course, the Guido shooting.

  The chief of the MPD announces what everyone else seems to have known for most of the day – that, pending the results of ongoing investigations, the MPD’s actions are ‘99.9 per cent likely’ to have been responsible for the death of ‘the peace protester’ and that a single tactical officer – not the entire squad, as had been tweeted earlier – has been suspended while the inquiries continue.

  There’s a smattering of foreign news. A bomb has gone off in Oslo, stock markets all over the world have been veering wildly on the year’s first day of trading, and China has unveiled a solar farm the size of a small city.

  The Middle East remains ablaze, with several moderate Arab countries teetering on the edge of conflict as warring factions in the remainder of the region continue to tear each other apart.

  American warplanes have bombed a terrorist camp in northwest Africa …

  It’s coming up to 2 a.m. when I shake myself awake.

  I step into the bathroom, splash my face, run my fingers through my hair, and marvel at how so much can be going on behind my eyes that the world never gets to see.

  I move – as I do on restless nights – to the smaller of the two guest rooms and push back the door.

  The portrait of Jack is mounted on its easel. Hope never got to complete it, but captured the essence of him as he was in the days before his death – quiet, composed, still. His shoulder-length hair is the color of gunmetal, and his old Shawnee blanket is wrapped around his shoulders. An ankh, the cross with a loop beloved of the hippy community, is hanging from his neck at the end of a leather cord, alongside his ‘tree of life’, framed within a circle, and a star, also in a circle, which he told people was some kind of Native American good luck charm. Hope depicted the three pieces of jewelry in intricate detail, unlike the rest of the painting, so they always catch my eye.

  With his clapped-out Chevy Impala, they amounted to his sole possessions, aside from the clothes he stood up in. Well into his sixties, Jack hadn’t carried an inch of slack. He was part Shawnee on his mother’s side, and for all his kindness and otherworldliness, there was something hard and primal in his spirit, too – something of his ancestors.

  He’d grown up on a reservation someplace in the Midwest and taken refuge there after Vietnam, until the day he’d climbed into the Chevy and found his way to the care home owned and run by Hope’s mother in Pennsylvania. He soon became part of Pam’s furniture – a Mr Fixit who did the books, paid the wages, mended the electrics and tended to the yard.

  Over time, he also became Hope’s surrogate dad, and taught her how to paint. I didn’t think there was anything going on between him and her mom, but seeing them together, you could be forgiven for disagreeing.

  Standing there in front of Jack, I can still smell the oil and the paint thinner and see Hope, too, as she was the day she began work, standing on the porch she used as a studio when the breeze off the ocean allowed.

  I came home early, snuck in the side gate and made for the fridge we kept by the hot tub, where three or four beers would provide the prelude to oblivion.

  But something about her that day had made me stop and catch my breath. Something about the way her hair caught the wind and the light. Something about the way she was focusing on the brushwork, head tilted to one side.

  It was like seeing her for the first time.

  She was crying, and smiling too. As if, in the midst of that stillness, she was having a conversation with him.

  Tattered and leached of almost all its color – except around the border where the green and yellow threads in the running motif seem as vivid as the day they were stitched – Jack’s blanket is now draped on the back of a nearby armchair. I haven’t been able to bring myself to throw it out.

  A part of me is tempted to go and sit in the chair, to wrap myself in it and conjure up Hope’s serene presence; to see if I can drift back to sleep as I gaze at her finishing Jack’s unfinished portrait.

  But I head for bed instead, where the dark will cocoon me until another day begins, another day when the thing that I do thank God for – my wo
rk – stands between me and the mind-numbing relief offered by the Triazolam in my bathroom cabinet.

  I have no idea how long I have been out when my phone goes.

  It takes me a second to realize where I am, a beat longer to focus on the screen, the time and the caller ID. It’s Reuben. And I’ve been asleep for less than an hour.

  ‘It’s happening again,’ he says. ‘How long till you can get here?’

  He doesn’t do panic, but there is an edge to his voice I haven’t heard in years.

  9

  LIGHT SPILLS FROM THE ELEVATOR INTO THE CENTER HALL ON the ground floor of the Residence. Reuben is holding it open with one hand, with his phone in the other. He hangs up as soon as he sees me.

  When there is business to attend to, he sleeps in a room next to the east stairwell, across the hallway from the Master Bedroom. He is the only member of the inner circle allowed on the second floor at night.

  The three children are looked after by Jennifer’s widowed mother. When the dreams took hold, they were all moved into the East and West Bedrooms on the third floor.

  The door slides open. I turn left and immediately right. The drapes in front of the half-moon window in the West Sitting Hall are backlit by the mute glow of the West Wing. The decor is Texan Chic, a reflection of the pastel hues of the Lone Star State.

  The President is sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. He seems to be staring at his feet. His chest rises and falls rapidly. His T-shirt is ringed with sweat. The bedclothes lie in a heap on the floor. His head must have barely touched the pillow when it happened. Was his lack of sleep following the flight up a factor in this?

  The First Lady emerges from the bathroom, dressed in a red silk robe and holding a glass of water. Her hand is shaking so badly that several drops spill on the carpet by her husband’s feet. Without her make-up, she looks frail, ghostlike and ten years older.

  I sit beside Thompson and take hold of his wrist. ‘Mr President? Joshua Cain here. Your physician, sir. Can you hear me?’

  I gently raise his head with my free hand. He holds it there like an automaton. His eyes are open, but glazed. The seconds tick by on my watch. His pulse is high, but regular. One hundred forty beats per minute, ten short of ‘severe’.

  I listen to his heart, then take a flashlight out of my case and shine it in both eyes. They move from side to side, metronomically. The good news is that the pupils are equally sized, which means his oxygen levels are as they should be. His heart is functioning normally; he has experienced no irregular or missed beats.

  I switch off the light and snap my fingers. Thompson remains listless. He stares straight ahead.

  ‘Mr President? I need you to tell me where you are and who is in this room.’

  ‘Water,’ he whispers, so softly I barely hear it.

  Jennifer raises the glass but his eyes remain unfocused. She lifts it to his lips, but the water dribbles down his chin.

  Wherever he is, the drink that he needs is there, not here.

  I take the glass and put it on the floor. I then look her in the eye and tell her that, frightening as this is, her husband’s life isn’t in any danger.

  I slip a cuff onto his arm and pump up the pressure. I wait till I get a reading. It’s 150 over 100: officially Stage One hypertension, just short of Stage Two. Stage Three is when you call the paramedics.

  Thompson is a fit man of forty-three, with little excess weight. His normal BP is 120 over 80. I release the pressure and remove the cuff. I ask him again, but still don’t get a response. His head drops onto his chest. His eyes close.

  I take my flashlight again, lift a lid, and get the same rapid eye movement. I glance up when Reuben touches my arm. ‘He’s in REM state – still dreaming.’

  Reuben swears softly. The President had been doing well – three months, by my count, of good, solid sleep since the last bout.

  I haven’t seen anything like this before. It’s like a night terror – the thing kids get when they are awake but not awake and paralyzed by something only they can see. Night terrors, however, are different from dreams. They occur when you wake abruptly from non-dream sleep. Thompson is very clearly in dream sleep.

  Jennifer isn’t handling it well. I’m about to suggest to Reuben that he remove her to the living room when Thompson’s body shudders and his left arm flails so violently that the back of his hand hits my face.

  The President throws back his head, his body arches and every muscle goes taut. His eyes open and he stares at the crystal chandelier above the bed. The muscles of his face contort.

  He takes down a lungful of air and hurls himself backward, but not before he has expelled a single word at the top of his voice across the room.

  ‘Bomb!’

  I suspect that the dream is an expression of a deep-seated fear playing out with the intensity of a flashback. Flashbacks and dreams are different animals. Flashbacks are predominantly daytime events; dreams rarely, if ever, incorporate flashbacks. There is very little science on the point where the two meet. I have no idea what’s going on, but the clues will be held in the dream itself, so I ask him to describe it – everything he can possibly remember.

  Thompson gets to his feet and makes his way to the wing-backed chair to the left of the concealed door that leads to the living room. Jennifer and I remain seated on the edge of the bed. Reuben moves to the stool in front of the dressing table between the windows.

  Thompson brushes a strand of his famously jet-black hair away from his startlingly blue eyes. ‘The first time I’m aware of the danger is when this guy stands up. Beard, dark hair. He’s several rows back from the stage. There are hundreds of people in the room, thousands maybe. The dream starts – my memory of it, at any rate – when I’m close to finishing my address.

  ‘My mouth goes dry. I look at the lectern and I know I’m there. That this is for real. There’s a glass of water in front of me and it’s so cold I can see every drop of condensation. It’s that real. I try to reach for it, but I can’t. I’m frozen to the spot. There’s absolutely nothing I can do.’

  He drops his gaze, plays with his wedding ring.

  ‘Suddenly I’m up near the roof. Everything is laid out below: the auditorium, the audience, the stage, the lectern. I can see me too. But I’m not just an observer. Everything I’m feeling onstage I can sense from that elevated perspective: the air conditioning chilling the sweat on my brow; my mouth bone dry. My fear. Because I know what’s going to happen.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘I’m going to die.’

  Jennifer gets to her feet. ‘Does he have to do this now?’

  ‘It’s better that he does, yes.’

  ‘Why?’ When she met Thompson, she was a human rights lawyer based a few blocks from here. She flashes me the kind of look that must once have decimated her opponents on the witness stand.

  ‘The precise memory of a dream doesn’t last.’

  Thompson stands up, walks over to his wife and wraps his arms around her.

  I ask him what happens next.

  ‘The guy makes his way down the aisle toward me.’

  ‘What’s he wearing?’

  ‘A suit. Open-necked shirt. Loose jacket. I’m fixated on the jacket.’

  ‘Because of what it might hide?’

  He nods slowly.

  ‘Can you see his face?’

  ‘No, not at this point, because everything now comes to me from this God’s-eye perspective.’

  ‘Where’s security?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And the audience?’

  ‘On their feet. Some don’t seem to notice he’s there. Others are transfixed.’

  ‘They don’t react?’

  ‘Not to begin with. Only when it’s too late.’

  ‘When’s that?’

  ‘When he gets to the stage. Then everything unfolds in slow-mo.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘There’s shouting, yelling. Panic. I�
��m just standing there, rooted to the spot, staring at this guy, who’s now no more than a meter and a half away. I want to speak, but I can’t. I’m hypnotized by what I’m seeing – from this view above the stage. The guy looks at me for a moment, then turns to the crowd and spreads his hands wide.’

  ‘Do you see the bomb?’

  ‘No. But I’m imagining straps and wires, duct tape. Some kind of device.’

  ‘Do you get to see his face?’

  He nods. ‘The guy has these killer eyes.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I have no idea. I have never seen this man before.’

  ‘And that’s when you scream.’

  He looks embarrassed, but nods. ‘A fraction of a second before he triggers it.’

  He takes a step away from his wife and stares into the gilt-framed mirror above the fireplace.

  ‘What the fuck’s happening to me, Josh?’

  ‘Nightmares are a survival mechanism, Mr President. Your brain may be running you through a host of imaginative threat scenarios in order to increase your vigilance. It is, in a sense, rehearsing you for something it believes may happen, based on a fear that at present is without form.’

  When I look up, the President is facing me again.

  ‘Is that good?’ His eyes plead with me.

  ‘It’s not real, sir.’

  ‘Lincoln dreamed of his assassination. He saw a corpse in the East Bedroom surrounded by a crowd of mourners. The corpse turned out to be his.’

  ‘It’s a story,’ Reuben says. ‘Nothing more.’

  ‘He’s right, Mr President. Your dreams are unusual in that they have the qualities of a flashback – the sights, sounds, smells, emotions of a traumatic event – except there’s been no traumatic event: no guy with a bomb-belt, no killer with an assault rifle, no assassin with a knife.’ I pause. ‘These are all projections of your subconscious. We need to know what’s projecting them.’