Only a moment before, there had been the suggestion of a smile on her lips, but it vanished in an instant.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Forgive us our trespasses. It’s on his grave.”
She opened her mouth, a dark hollow in all that hard, artificial light, but she didn’t speak.
“I talked with Father Cannon,” Bo said. “He took me to the grave of David Moses. He showed me the note from the anonymous donor. The handwriting on the note matches the handwriting of the inscription in the book you gave me. You paid for the plot and the stone and the burial of the man who tried to kill you. Why?”
She folded her hands and put them to her lips.
Bo said, “I’ll tell you what I think, then. I think you lied all those years ago about what happened on the bluff that night. I remember something I read in your father’s autobiography, The Testament of Time. He wrote that he went through a dark period after Myrna died, after he came back to Wildwood, and he turned to drinking as a way of forgetting. Was he drunk that night? Did he attack you while he was drunk? Did David Moses tell the truth? Did you frame an innocent man?”
Her fingers spread now, like the pickets of a fence across her mouth, preventing any words from escaping. But something crept out at last, a whisper. “Yes…and no.”
Bo stepped back and waited.
“Yes, I lied,” she said slowly. “David didn’t attack me. He was trying to help. It was just that he saw everything wrong.” She turned from him and walked away a bit, wading into the light that spilled off the sculpture. “It wasn’t my father with me.”
“Who was it?” Bo asked.
“I’m not sure there’s any way to explain it. I can tell you how things were. Maybe that will help you understand.
“When we came back to Wildwood, my father was devastated. He was lost to us in a lot of ways. He’d begun drinking, yes. We were all a little lost, Ruth and Earl and me. I was afraid. It felt like our whole world had collapsed. Annie did her best to hold us together, but she had her own judicial career, and we needed something more than she could give, the kind of strength my father used to have. We found it. Or for a while thought we did. It came from Roland.
“He was ten years younger than my father, different in so many ways. Not reserved or cautious. He was bold, exciting. He and Dad had never been close. We seldom saw him before we came back to live at Wildwood. But we all fell in love with him. He was like this wonderful, blazing sun. Wildwood was his studio, so he was here for us all the time. We loved his energy, his enthusiasm, his attention to us. He seemed so strong, in so many ways. Those great hands of his. His laugh. He could be very gentle. You should have seen how he was with Earl.”
She stared at the glowing metal sculpture.
“You and your uncle?” Bo said. “An affair?”
She still wouldn’t look at him, but she nodded. “I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t care. I was so in love, so…in need, really. After a while I began to see the flaws, the faults. He could be selfish, manipulative, possessive. Then I began to consider the consequences, the dangers, and I knew it had to end. That’s what I was trying to do on the bluff that night, the night David discovered us. I’d told Roland it was over. He was furious. We argued. David blundered in. They struggled. It was terrible. I was so scared. David was lying there unconscious. I begged Roland to go. If the truth were ever known, I mean, incest, my God. On top of what Dad was already dealing with. Roland went back to the house, I tore my clothes and, God forgive me, I accused David. And he accused my father. It was a nightmare. I’ve told myself over the years that if they’d prosecuted David, I would have told the truth. But I don’t know. He just…went away, and it was fixed. Roland and I were over. It all became the past. The terrible past.”
“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 alwa
ys 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 Bobby 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.”
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