“Enemies? Clayboy, you’re so concerned about keeping all those trophies of yours polished that you wouldn’t know a friend if he bit you on the ass.
“I’ll tell you something, Mister President. You can shut down the agency. You can draw up a mountain of indictments. But an organization like that can’t be stopped. Its people are everywhere. You go forward with all this, and I swear you’ll be nothing but history’s whipping boy.”
“Are you finished?”
“Not by a long shot.”
“I think you are.”
“We’ll see,” Dixon said. “We’ll just see.” He stood and turned toward the door, but found his way blocked by a man in a wheelchair whom Lorna Channing had quietly brought into the room.
The president said, “Senator, I’d like you to meet Bo Thorsen. In my estimation, a great patriot. This man risked everything, his reputation and his life, for his country. I wanted you to see him and him to see you. In war, you should look into the face of your enemy and understand that it’s human. Bo, I’d like you to meet Senator William Dixon. One of the fathers of NOMan, and my father as well.”
The senator fixed Bo with a stony glare. “When I look at you, it’s not a patriot I see.”
Bo replied with a pleasant smile, “You know, you’re much smaller than I imagined.”
chapter
forty-nine
Kate wheeled him through the Rose Garden. She wore a yellow dress that made her look, among all those flowers, like a flower herself, the loveliest of them all, Bo thought.
It was a mild afternoon, a beautiful day, early September. In a few weeks, the green would drain from the trees and the leaves would turn to fire. A wonderful chill would slip into the morning air. Winter would follow, probably too soon, but Bo knew that for a brief while the world would seem perfect.
As if she’d read his mind, Kate said, “We’re heading into my favorite time of year.”
“Election?”
“Funny.” She laughed lightly. “I love the fall. Full of sweet nostalgia.”
Her hand, warm as the sunshine, lit on his shoulder. She wheeled him to a stone bench in the shade of a hedge, turned him toward the White House, then she sat down.
“Mind if I ask you something?” Bo said.
“Go ahead.”
“Have you really forgiven the senator?”
“If he’d succeeded in having me killed, believe me, I’d have no compassion.” She smiled briefly. “The courts will judge him, I’m sure. As for me, how could I not forgive him? I think about David Moses and all he forgave me.”
“You’re being generous. I was with Moses in his last moments, and I’m still not sure what drove him, what was in his heart at the end.”
She looked away, and her gray-blue eyes reminded Bo of a November sky, hinting at winter. “I think the human heart’s a mystery only God knows the answer to.”
Bo followed her gaze, which had settled on the colonnades outside the Oval Office. “It’s a big place,” he said.
“The human heart?”
“I was talking about the White House.”
“Oh.” She laughed again, and her mood brightened. “You get used to it. By the way, I have a gift for you.”
Earlier, she’d hung a canvas bag over one of the handles on Bo’s wheelchair. She pulled from it a package wrapped in white tissue paper tied with a red bow. Bo took the gift and carefully removed the wrapping. It was a picture frame, scuffed gold metal. Bo grinned when he saw that it framed the photograph that had appeared on the cover of the tabloid not long before, the photo showing him and Kate together at the hospital in what was rumored to be a burgeoning romance.
“It was Clay’s idea,” she said.
“He never took me seriously as a threat, huh?”
Kate put her hand out and cupped Bo’s cheek. “You’re a very special man, Bo Thorsen. The best guardian angel anyone could ask for.”
Looking into her eyes, he said, “I have a confession.”
“What?”
“I didn’t vote for him.”
“No? Why not?”
“I thought he was just a jock.”
“For a while, I thought so, too.”
“I’ll vote for him this time.”
“I’ll let him know. I’m sure it will please him.”
A White House aide appeared at the end of the hedge and motioned.
“My car’s here,” Bo said.
Kate got up and wheeled him forward. As she neared the end of the hedge, she slowed, as if they were coming to the end of a road she was reluctant to abandon.
“I plan to visit Wildwood as soon as the election is over,” she said.
“If I’m not in jail, I’ll stop by.”
“You know they won’t bring charges, Bo. Not after everything that’s come to light.”
“Then I’ll see you for sure.”
“I’m already looking forward to it.” She bent and kissed his cheek.
“Good-bye.”
The aide took her place behind the wheelchair, and she headed away. A moment before the shadow of the White House swallowed her, she turned and waved to Bo one last time.
He caught a late flight out of Dulles, and as the plane climbed to a cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet, Bo caught a glimpse of the setting sun. At first, the country below him was on fire, but the nearer he came to Minnesota, the more the land settled into the deep, peaceful blue of evening. By the time he landed, it was solid night and a moon was rising, nearly full.
“You heard the news?” Coyote said when he met Bo at the airport.
“Chris Manning’s had a change of heart. Dropped all his allegations about your handling of Wildwood.”
“They told me.”
“There’s talk they’re going to put you in charge of the field office,” he said as he slung Bo’s bag and crutches into the backseat.
“I’m not doing anything until I’ve had a long rest. It’s almost harvesttime. I’m thinking of heading down to Blue Earth, maybe give a hand on the farm for a while.”
“With that leg?”
“I’ll find some way to help.”
“But you’ll come back,” Coyote said.
“I don’t know. Worrying about something as simple as drought and hail and tornadoes sounds pretty appealing right now.”
Coyote hit Highway 5 heading into St. Paul. “You’ll never give up the Secret Service.”
“Why’s that?”
Even in the dark, Bo could see Coyote’s big grin. “You’d miss me too much.”
Coyote helped him out of the car in front of the duplex in Tangletown. “Let me give you a hand with that bag.”
“I can handle it. But thanks anyway.”
“Get some rest, okay? And stay in touch.”
“Thanks, Stu.” Bo leaned on his crutches and watched until the taillights of Coyote’s car were lost around a wide curve.
The night was clear, the moon butter yellow. It washed the stars from the sky and cast hard shadows across the ground. As Bo started up the walk, a dark shape separated itself from the deep shade under the porch awning and came at him, startling him so that he instinctively raised a crutch to defend himself.
“Take it easy, Spider-Man. It’s only me.”
Otter stepped into the moonlight. “Coyote told me he’d be dropping you off. I thought you might want a little company. Hoped you would, anyway.”
“A little company would suit me just fine, Otter.”
Otter looked up at the sky. “Nice night. Okay if we sit for a bit while I have a smoke.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
They settled themselves on the front steps. Otter lit an unfiltered Camel. “You know, I haven’t seen Freak for a long time now.”
“Maybe the dead have finally gone to rest.”
“They never do, Bo.”
He thought about the dead who were with him now and who always would be, and he knew Otter was right.
Otter put an arm aro
und his shoulder. “Good to have you back, Spider-Man.”
“Good to be home,” Bo said.
They sat a long time while the moon climbed toward the middle of the sky, and the shadows shrank to puddles, and Otter smoked his cigarette, and Bo, who reminded himself that he was not alone, for a little while let himself be happy.
ALSO BY WILLIAM KENT KRUEGER
Northwest Angle
Vermilion Drift
Heaven’s Keep
Red Knife
Thunder Bay
Copper River
Mercy Falls
Blood Hollow
Purgatory Ridge
Boundary Waters
Iron Lake
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by William Kent Krueger
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Acknowledgments
It has been my experience that people are generous beyond measure. This is especially true when it comes to sharing knowledge. Those who have it tend to give it freely to those who do not. In my writing, and the writing of this book particularly, I have often been on the receiving end of that tremendous generosity.
Thank you: To Dr. Jordan Hart, who helped shape my thinking about the early development of the human mind and the resilience of the human spirit; to Tom Kremer, who squired me safely about the grounds of the Minnesota State Security Hospital and suggested unorthodox solutions; to Megan McCarthy, who taught me about trauma, hospitals, and ICUs; and to Sergeant Major Clif Evans, who trains men and women in how to disappear and be deadly, and who offered me the same.
I owe a tremendous debt to Jane Jordan Browne, Scott Mendel, and all those at Multimedia Product Development, Inc. for their insight, suggestions, patience, and above all their perseverance.
God smiled on me and gave me a great editor in George Lucas. George, I will justify your faith.
A special thank you to the United States Secret Service. Although I’ve taken some liberties in the writing of this story, I have tried to be true to the nature of the organization and to the spirit of the men and women who, as agents, risk their lives in service to their country.
To the Crème de la Crime—Carl Brookins, Julie Fasciana, Scott Haartman, Michael Kac, Joan Loshek, Jean Miriam Paul, Charlie Rethwisch, Susan Runholt, Tim Springfield, and Anne B. Webb—the best friends a mystery writer ever had, thank you.
Always last in my acknowledgment but first in my heart, Jim and Elena Theros and the staff of the St. Clair Broiler. Thanks, guys. How anyone could write a book anywhere else is beyond me.
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