Once, they even sent the military honor guard to our offices at the Manning Library to practice carrying the casket that would eventually hold him. I tried to keep Manning from coming to his office that day. But there he was, watching from his window as they carried his flag-covered weighted-down casket to the meditation garden in back. “I look heavy,” he’d joked, trying his best to make light of it. Still, he was quiet as they passed by. He’s more quiet now.
“Mr. President, I’m not sure that’s the best idea anymore. After last night—”
“That was her own doing, Wes. You know that. Her own doing. And her undoing as well,” he says as his voice again breaks. He’s trying hard to be strong — to be the Lion — but I can see that he’s gripping the back of his brown leather chair to stand. However it happened, it’s still his wife. Looking like a shell of the man I used to know, he sighs and sits down. We both sit there in silence, staring at Lincoln’s fist.
“Did the Service say anything about Nico?” I finally ask.
“His fingerprints were all over the car. The blood in the backseat was his. No question he pulled the trigger. But as far as where he disappeared to, they’re still looking,” he explains. “If you’re worried he’s coming after you, though, I’ve already asked the Service to—”
“He’s not coming after me. Not anymore.”
Manning looks me over. “So in the cemetery… you spoke to him?”
“Yes.”
“You made peace with him?”
“Peace? No. But—” I pause to think about it. “He’s not coming back.”
“Good. I’m glad for you, Wes. You deserve some peace of mind.”
He’s generous to say it, but it’s clear his mind is elsewhere. That’s fine. So is mine.
“Sir, I know this may not be the best time, but I was wondering if I could—” I stop right there, reminding myself I don’t need his permission. I look up from Lincoln’s fist. “I’d like to talk to you about my status.”
“What status?”
“My job, Mr. President.”
“Of course, of course — no… of course,” he says, clearly caught off guard.
“I thought that under the circumstances—”
“You don’t have to say it, Wes. Regardless of the end result, you’re still family to us. So if you’re wondering if the job’s still yours—”
“Actually, Mr. President, I was thinking it’s time for me to move on.”
Our eyes lock, but he doesn’t blink. I think he’s most shocked by the fact it’s not a question.
Eventually, he offers a small, gentle laugh. “Good for you, Wes,” he says, pointing. “Y’know, I been waiting a long time for you to say that.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“And if you need help finding a job or a recommendation or something like that… don’t forget, it still says President on my stationery, and let’s hope there’re still a few people out there who’re impressed by that.”
“I’m sure there are, sir,” I say with my own laugh. “Thank you, Mr. President.” The way he nods at me — like a proud dad — it’s a truly sweet moment. A warm moment. And the perfect moment for me to leave. But I can’t. Not yet. Not until I find out.
“So what do you plan on doing next?” he asks.
I don’t answer. Shifting in my seat, I tell myself to forget it.
“Wes, do you have any plans f—?”
“Did you know?” I blurt.
He cocks an eyebrow. “Pardon me?”
I stare right at him, pretending they’re not the most awkward three words to ever leave my lips. Steeling myself, I again ask, “Did you know about the First Lady? About your wife?”
Across from me, his fingers lace together, resting on the desk. I know his temper. The fuse is lit. But as he sits there and watches me, the explosion never comes. His lips part, and the lacing of his fingers comes undone. He’s not mad. He’s wounded. “After all our — you really think that?” he asks.
I sink in my seat, feeling about three centimeters tall. But that doesn’t mean I’m not getting my answer. “I saw the crosswords — your ratings — even from the earliest days, you were obviously worried. So does that—? Did you know she was The Fourth?”
At this point, he has every right to wring my throat; to argue that she was tricked and innocent. But he just sits there, pummeled by the question. “Wes, don’t cast her as Lady Macbeth. She was many things — but never a mastermind.”
“I saw her last night. Even in the best light — even if she didn’t know who The Roman was when he first approached her — once Boyle got shot, all these years, and she never said anything? Doesn’t sound like someone being manipulated.”
“And I’m not saying she was. My point is simply that what you found in those puzzles… even what you saw firsthand yourself…” He cups a hand to his mouth and clears his throat. “I’m not a moron, Wes. Lenore is my wife. I’m well aware of her weaknesses. And when it came to staying in the grand white castle — c’mon, son, you saw it too. You were there with us — when you fly that high, when you’re looking down on all the clouds, the only thing that scared her was losing altitude and plummeting back to earth.”
“That didn’t give her the right t—”
“I’m not defending her,” Manning says, practically pleading for me to understand what’s clearly kept him up all night. He can’t share this with the Service or anyone else on staff. Without his wife, he’s got no one to tell but me. “You know how desperate she was. Everyone wanted that second term. Everyone. Including you, Wes.”
“But what you said… with the clouds, and knowing her weaknesses… if you knew all that—”
“I didn’t know anything!” he shouts as his ears flush red. “I knew she was scared. I knew she was paranoid. I knew that in the early days she used to toss details to reporters, like the early internal arguing, or the fact she wasn’t consulted for redecorating the Oval — because she was convinced that if she could make them like her, they wouldn’t kick us out and take it all away. So yes—that part I knew.” He puts his head down and massages the front of his forehead. “But,” he adds, “I never ever thought she’d let herself get dragged into something like this.”
I nod like I understand. But I don’t. “After you left office and it all calmed down, why’d…?” I search for softer words, but there’s no other way to say it. “Why’d you stay with her?”
“She’s my wife, Wes. She’s been by my side since we were hand-painting campaign posters in my mother’s garage. Since we were-” Finally lifting his head, he closes his eyes, struggling hard to reclaim his calm. “I wish you could put that question to Jackie Kennedy, or Pat Nixon, or even the Clintons.” He looks back at the photos with his fellow Presidents. “Everything’s easy… until it gets complicated.”
“So when Boyle was shot…”
He stares at me as I say the words. He doesn’t have to tell me a thing. But he knows what I’ve given him all these years. And that this is the only thing I’ve ever asked in return.
“We knew it might happen, but had no idea when,” he says without even hesitating. “Boyle approached me a few weeks earlier and told me about his offer from The Three. From there… well, you know how fast the Service moves. I did everything I could to protect my friend. They gave him a vest, stocked his blood in the ambulance, and did their very best to keep him safe.”