The Devil's Bed

by William Kent Krueger

  The state, local police, and Secret Service had created a wide corridor for the president through the media crowded in front of the hospital. The First Lady was waiting near the elevator. They embraced and kissed briefly as the cameras clicked away, then they stepped into the elevator, accompanied by two Secret Service agents. The president and First Lady stood at the back. The agents stood shoulder to shoulder controlling the elevator doorway.

  “Kate,” he said. Without the blunt eye of a camera on him, he took her in his arms and held her tightly, full of gratitude that she was safe and alive. “God, it’s good to hold you.”

  Although she returned his embrace, he thought he detected a measure of reserve.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I’m just tired. It’s been hard.” She eased from his arms. “You didn’t bring Stephanie?”

  “I didn’t want her out here. Secret Service wasn’t exactly thrilled about my coming.”

  She nodded. “I suppose it’s best for now.”

  “She’s staying with Dad.” He saw her tense. “I know how you feel about him, but Stephanie loves her grandfather.”

  The two agents kept their eyes straight ahead, as if absolutely deaf to what transpired behind them.

  He studied her a moment. There was something different about her, about the way she wouldn’t meet his gaze. It troubled him. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Not really. It’s a strange thing believing you’re about to die. A lot becomes clear.”

  “Like what?”

  She didn’t have time to answer before the elevator doors opened onto the fourth floor, and the agents stepped out ahead of them. Ed McGill, who’d preceded the president to the hospital, was there to meet him.

  “Who’s first, Ed?”

  “We thought Agent Thorsen, then Manning, then the First Lady’s father. I’ve selected a few media people to observe. Believe me, Mr. President, this will play well in Peoria.”

  Clay Dixon stopped in midstride and turned angrily on his communications director. “I’m not interested in how this plays in Peoria, Ed. These men risked their lives in the line of duty.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President. I’ll keep the press back and their presence discreet.”

  Dixon strode into the room where Agent Thorsen sat carefully propped in a sitting position on his bed. The president knew he’d sustained a knife wound in his back, but the hospital gown covered any sign of tape and gauze. However, his left arm was bandaged, and the effect of his ordeal showed in his face, which was pale and drawn.

  “Agent Thorsen, this is a pleasure, indeed.”

  Thorsen shook the president’s hand. “I apologize for not getting up, Mr. President.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been better, sir.”

  “They tell me you’ll recover fully.”

  “They tell me the same thing.”

  Smiling broadly, Clay Dixon glanced at his wife and caught the First Lady staring at the wounded agent. Her face held a look that the president had not seen on her in a long time. Admiration, respect.

  “I owe you an enormous debt, Agent Thorsen. You saved my wife’s life at the risk of your own. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your actions.”

  He waited, expecting the man to say something self-effacing —Shucks, I was just doing my job— but the agent replied simply, “Thank you.”

  The president could see that Thorsen was the kind of man he’d loved on the playing field, a man who knew who he was and what he was doing and didn’t need to be told he was good at it.

  “When you’re better, I’d like to invite you for dinner at the White House, to thank you properly.”

  “I’ll be there, sir.”

  “Good. If you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way to visit Agent Manning.”

  “I’m honored that you stopped by, Mr. President.”

  “The honor is mine.” He meant it.

  Manning was in bad shape. He’d taken a bullet in the chest, very near his heart. He was hooked to tubes and wires, looked bloodless, and was barely able to respond. The press took no pictures.

  The final stop was Tom Jorgenson’s room. The old man appeared frail, but it was obvious he was on the mend. When the president offered, “God seems to have been watching over the Jorgensons,” the former vice president replied, “I’m sure the Lord has more important things to see to. Like making sure the nation survives your foreign policy.”

  Both men laughed, although Jorgenson’s laugh turned into a small cough. The press got photos of the president smiling down at Tom Jorgenson, offering his father-in-law his best wishes for a speedy recovery.

  At the elevator, Clay Dixon said to the agents who shadowed him, “Gentlemen, the First Lady and I will ride down alone. We’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  “Mr. President—” the agent named Dewey began to object.

  “I said I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  The two Secret Service agents looked unhappy but accepted the president’s dictum.

  In the elevator, Clay Dixon said to his wife, “You said that things had become clear to you. What things?”

  “Can we talk about this later?”

  “What’s wrong with now?”

  “For one thing, the elevator doors are going to open any moment.”

  Dixon reached out and punched the Stop button. The elevator lurched to a halt.

  “Secret Service will love that,” Kate said.

  “Forget Secret Service. What exactly has become clear?”

  She closed her eyes a moment. “The things that are important, Clay.”

  “Important to whom? You?”

  “Mr. President,” a voice called from a few feet above. “Are you all right?”

  “We’re fine,” he shouted.

  “We’ll have the elevator moving in a minute.”

  Dixon turned and faced his wife. “Tell me about these important things and what they have to do with us.”

  “In the two minutes we have before they get this car moving again?” She gave him an exasperated look. “Do you ever hear anything except what you want to hear?”

  “You’re answering a question with a question. You’re trying to evade something. What?”

  The elevator suddenly dropped an inch, then began a smooth descent. Dixon reached out and punched the Stop button furiously but to no avail. In a few moments, the elevator ceased moving and the doors glided open.

  “We’ll continue this at the hotel,” Dixon said.

  “I don’t think so. I’m not coming back with you.”

  Dixon saw that in the lobby the throng of the press waited. He addressed his wife with quiet intensity, “Why?”

  “I still need to think through a few things. When I’m ready to talk, we’ll talk.”

  “Great,” he said. “Just great. The press will have a field day speculating on this one.”

  “I’m sure Ed McGill can come up with a positive spin for you, something they’ll love in Peoria.”

  “Fuck Peoria.” He stepped out of the elevator, hauling up a smile for the media.

  The President dined with his closest staff. Over a good Caesar salad and rare prime rib, the business of the government was carried on, especially discussion of Lorna Channing’s report on national youth service. Although Clay Dixon’s personal enthusiasm had waned, he gave it his full attention. Afterward, he asked Lorna to stay. He poured brandy for them both and lit a hand-rolled cigar, and they reminisced for a while about growing up on the Purgatoire River. She told him the smell of the cigar reminded her of sitting on the porch with her father after dinner and looking at the evening sky. It was a good memory, she said.

  “Kate hates the smell of cigars,” Dixon told her.

  “Most women do, I think. You keep looking toward the door,” Lorna finally noted.

  “I thought Kate might come.”

  “Give her time, Clay. She’s been through a lot.”

  “Time isn’t the issue
.” He got up from the sofa and walked to the window. The sky outside was the color of blackberry jam and seeded with stars. The city lights were split by the dark curve of the river. “When did you know your marriages were over?”

  “It can’t be that serious,” she said.

  “When she looks at me, its like she’s seeing me through a wall of ice. It’s been like that for a long time now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He put the cigar in an ashtray and turned to look at her. “You have friends in D.C., Lorna?”

  “Yes. Many.”

  “Me, I feel like I’ve got practically none. I have more acquaintances, more advisers, more hangers-on than I can keep track of. But friends?” He sighed heavily. “Bobby Lee, you, and Kate. And now I don’t have Kate.”

  “You still have Bobby. And you still have me.”

  She left the sofa and walked toward him. Her feet made a soft hush-hush on the carpet as she came. He could smell her perfume when she drew near. The fragrance was a trigger for an explosive desire that had been building in him for some time. Impulsively, he took her in his arms and he kissed her. She didn’t resist.

  “That was nice,” he whispered against her lips.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, it was.” Very gently, she removed herself from his embrace. “And that’s all there will be.” She took a half-step back. “Clay, you’re the president, and I’m your adviser for domestic affairs. I don’t want that to be an ironic title. I know you’re feeling alone right now, but this isn’t the answer.” She put her hand on his cheek. “I’m not saying it’s not tempting. It’s just not right, and you know it. Talk to Kate. Work things out. I know you can.”

  The phone rang and startled them both. Reluctantly, Dixon answered it. He listened a moment and then said, “Thank you.” He looked at Lorna Channing. “Kate’s here. She’s on her way up.”

  “You see? Didn’t I tell you?” She smiled. As she left the suite, she paused long enough to give the president a kiss on his cheek. “Good luck.”

  He didn’t have much time to settle himself before Kate arrived. He was undoing his tie when she entered the room. She wore a lovely dress, black and sheer, and she looked wonderful in it.

  “I was under the impression you wouldn’t be here tonight,” he said.

  “I wanted to apologize for my behavior this afternoon. It’s been a difficult time for me.”

  “I’m sure it has.”

  She lingered near the door, as if not entirely certain she should be there with him. “Clay, we all make mistakes. Horrible mistakes, sometimes. And there’s nothing to be done about it except to hope we’re forgiven.”

  “Is that why you’re here? You’re going to offer me forgiveness. Kate, I don’t need—”

  “I need to know that I can trust you.”

  “You can.”

  “I’ve watched you change, Clay. I’m not sure what you believe anymore. Sometimes I’m not even sure who you are.”

  “I am who I’ve always been. A not-at-all perfect man. But one who loves you.”

  She stared at her hands and seemed concerned that they held nothing. “We haven’t been happy for a long time.”

  “We can find a way again.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “Then do, Kate. Believe it. Believe me. Trust is a leap of faith, isn’t it? Take that leap. Take it, and I swear I won’t let you fall.”

  She considered him a long time. Finally he moved to her, crossed the room slowly, put his arms around her, and held her tightly. He could feel her soft and yielding in his embrace. Then she went rigid.

  “Chanel,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You reek of it.” She pushed away from him.

  “Kate—”

  “I ran into Lorna Channing at the elevator. She bathes in Chanel.”

  “She was here, of course. She’s one of my advisers,” he explained calmly.

  She looked closely at his face, and her own face frosted over. “And what exactly was she advising you on? There’s lipstick smeared all over you.”

  “Kate, I swear nothing happened.”

  “Only because of my bad timing.”

  “Kate,” he said, and he reached for her.

  “Stay away, Clay. I don’t want you near me.”

  The door of the suite shook as she slammed it behind her.

  Clay Dixon’s legs were shaky. He sat down. He felt as if he’d taken a long fall, and the wind had been knocked from him. He stared dumbly at the door, at the place where his wife had walked out on him. He understood quite well that at the moment, not only the fate of his marriage, but also of his reelection, perhaps even of his place in history, rested in her angry hands.

  chapter

  twenty-six

  Clay Dixon sat at his desk in the Oval Office, scanning a State Department memo that dealt with the upcoming Pan-American summit meeting. Beyond the window at his back lay a dripping sky. A storm front had moved through in the dark of early morning bringing with it a steady rain. Dixon’s whole body ached. Whenever a front moved through, it was a curse, and the old football injuries rose up inside him, working some kind of painful voodoo on his joints and bones.

  There was a knock at the open door. The president’s chief of staff, John Llewellyn, stepped in. Senator William Dixon stood just behind him.

  “Mr. President, may we have a few minutes of your time?” Llewellyn asked.

  The president put aside the memo. “In five minutes, we have a meeting to discuss the Pan-American summit, but until then I’m all yours, John.”

  Leaning on his cane, Senator Dixon entered the Oval Office with Llewellyn and sat down.

  The president sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You look like a delegation. What’s up?”

  “So she’s left you.” The senator’s words were rife with both satisfaction and disapproval.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No use denying it. Kate’s left you.”

  The president looked at his watch. “You have exactly three minutes, Dad.”

  “This won’t take long.” The senior senator from Colorado folded his hands atop his cane. They were huge hands. Although blemished by age spots, they still had a powerful, crushing look. “Was she worth it?”

  A sick feeling began to knot his stomach, but Clay Dixon tried not to let his face show anything.

  “Ms. Channing,” the senator clarified. “Was she worth throwing away the presidency?”

  “There’s absolutely nothing between Lorna and me except friendship and the work of this administration.”

  “If you say so.”

  “And the presidency is secure.”

  “Is it? What do you imagine Wayne White would do if he knew your wife had left you? He’d gut you like a fish, Clayboy.”

  Llewellyn stood behind the senator’s chair. He said, “Why didn’t you tell me, Mr. President?”

  “Because there’s nothing to tell, John. It’s a misunderstanding between Kate and me, and it’s under control.”

  The senator said, “Is the First Lady coming back?”

  “As soon as her father has recovered.”

  The senator smiled smugly. “My information is that she’s through with you, had all she can stomach.”

  “Kate’s angry right now, but she’s not stupid. She’ll calm down in a few days and we’ll talk things through. We’re handling it.”

  “We?” Llewellyn said. “You mean Bob Lee.”

  “Yes, John. I asked Bobby to help me on this one.”

  “I’ve got to tell you, Mr. President, I feel so far out of the loop I might as well be on the moon.”

  “This situation is personal not political.”

  Senator Dixon said, “In your position, there’s no separation. Don’t you understand that? What if she decides to tell the press the things she knows? Your presidency is hanging by a thread, son. And that wife of yours, she’s a sharp pair of scissors poised to snip.” He shook hi
s head and offered his son a look dripping with sympathy. “You should have told me right away. Haven’t I been there beside you all the way since Alan Carpathian died?” He spoke gently, in a tone probably meant to be fatherly but that struck Clay Dixon as foully patronizing.

  “Maybe I don’t need you there anymore,” the president said.

  “Don’t need me?” For a moment, the senator appeared stung. But he composed himself and laughed. “You go right ahead and think that if you want to. In the meantime, we’ll just go about the business of getting you reelected.”

  “How do you propose to do that? How much more slime do we all have to wade through?”

  “You listen to me, Clayboy, and listen good. I’m not speaking as your father now. There’s too much riding on this presidency for you to throw it away with your stupid sexual shenanigans or your little polished brass ideals.”

  “Take it easy, Senator,” Llewellyn said.

  “No, I won’t take it easy.” William Dixon sat back in disgust. “You want to know the truth? The best thing that could have happened was if that nut Moses had done what he set out to do.”

  The president went hot, fire in every cell of his body. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me. Dead, her lips are sealed, and you’re a widower. Huge sympathy vote factor.”

  “Bill,” Llewellyn said. “That’s enough.”

  The president stood. “Out of my office, Senator. I want you out now.”

  The elder Dixon cast his son a steely glare.

  “Now,” the president said.

  William Dixon took his time rising from his chair. He drew his rigid frame to its full, impressive height. “You may be willing to stand there and let fate smack you between the eyes, Clayboy, but I’m not going to let that happen, by God. I didn’t get you here just to have you turn the Dixon name into a national joke.” With a show of great dignity, he walked to the door and left the office.

  After the Senator had gone, Dixon turned angrily to Llewellyn. “How does he know about me and Kate? Where does he get his information?”

  “I don’t know. He just gets it. Mr. President, do you want my resignation?”

  “Your resignation? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s obvious I don’t have your confidence. Without that, I can’t do my job. Do you want my resignation?”