Forget the presidency — the most powerful cards to play are pity and guilt. One phone call later, recent donors and NBFs Victor and Cammie Sant were honored, just honored, to offer up their personal helicopter for the President and his staff. No questions asked, no flight plan to file, no possible way to be traced.
“Welcome to the Pequod,” Tommaso says as we reach the top of the metal stairs and climb on board the yacht. Across the sundeck-turned-landing-pad, he twists a latch and opens the door to the matching black and cream helicopter. “Ready to ride the white whale?”
“Palm Beach Tower, thees copter two-seven-niner-five-Juliett lifting off,” Tommaso says into his radio.
“Seven-niner-five,” a radio voice calmly crackles back. “Depart at your own risk.”
Lisbeth looks to me as she hears the words through the intercom, then raps her knuckles against the Plexiglas divider that separates our cabin — with its four leather club chairs — from the two seats up by the pilot. “At our own risk?” she calls to Tommaso, flipping a switch on the intercom.
“Is fine, miss. Regulation,” he explains as he pushes a button to start the first engine.
Behind us, just above our heads on the back of the helicopter, an exhaust pipe clears its throat, hacking itself awake. I jump at the sound, which rings louder than a gunshot.
A few seconds later, Tommaso hits another button, starting engine two. A second exhaust pipe explodes with a sputter. I jump again, searching over my shoulder, even though I know no one’s there. My eyes blink over and over and over.
“Take a breath,” Lisbeth says, reaching over from her seat and grabbing my wrist. The whole helicopter starts vibrating as the blades begin to spin. Vrrrrrrrr… rrr… rrr… like a race car whipping around the track.
“Just pretend it’s Marine One,” she adds, referring to the helicopter I used to ride at the White House.
I turn to the wide window on my right and hold my breath. It doesn’t help. A tidal wave of nausea pirouettes through my stomach.
Vrrrrrr… rrr… rrr… the blades pick up speed. Leaning closer to the window, I press my forehead against the glass. The blades whip so fast, they disappear above us.
“Wes, I swear to you, there’s no one out there. We’re in good shape.”
She thinks I’m staring at the lush grounds that lead back to the Sants’ Mediterranean mansion. Or that I’m scanning every tree, shrub, and Greek Revival statue looking to see if we were followed. But as the helicopter pitches forward and lifts off the landing pad, the only thing I see in the window is my own reflection.
“And you wanted to sit inside all day,” Lisbeth reminds me, hoping to reassure as we climb straight up into the blue sky and the Sants’ yacht shrinks below us. “Bye-bye, rich people with perfect lives who make me feel inadequate and fat — we’re off to endanger ourselves!”
Staying silent, I keep my forehead pressed to the window. At the sandy tip of the Palm Beach inlet, where Lake Worth flows into the Atlantic Ocean, the glowing blue-green water expands to the horizon, its colors more mesmerizing than a peacock’s tail. It barely registers.
“C’mon, Wes — you’ve earned a smile,” Lisbeth adds, her voice still racing. “We’ve got a lead on The Roman, some hints into the crossword, Rogo and Dreidel are on their way to dig up the scoop on Boyle, and we, in a mad stroke of your own genius, are now flying on a three-million-dollar whirlybird to the one person who was in the absolute best position to show us what happened that day. I’m not saying you should order the confetti and schedule the victory parade, but you definitely can’t just sit there and sulk.”
With my head still pressed against the glass, I shut my eyes and replay the video. She’ll never understand.
“Listen, I know it was hard watching that tape…”
I press even harder.
“… and just to see yourself without the scars…” Unlike most, she doesn’t shrink from the issue. I can feel her looking — not staring — right at me. The helicopter banks into position, heading south down the golden coastline, then quickly cutting right and heading inland, southwest over the carpeted green waves of the country club golf course. At five hundred feet, we’re about as high as a plane coming in for a landing. Golf carts scurry like tiny white ants across the grass, while the course’s sand traps dot the landscape like dozens of round beige kiddie pools. Within minutes, the beachfront homes and breathtaking yachts of Palm Beach give way to the mossy, mosquito-filled brown marshes of the Everglades. It changes so damn quickly.
“I’m just saying,” she adds, “whatever you’ve been through… it’s still the same you.”
Staring out the window, I watch as the tall strands of sawgrass peek out and sway in the Everglades’ shallow brown waters. “It’s not about my face,” I blurt.
Ignoring my reflection and pulling back slightly, I use the polish of the window to stare over my shoulder. Behind me, Lisbeth doesn’t move, still watching me carefully, with no hesitation as she studies my face.
“You saw the tape,” I add. “The way I stepped out of that limo… waving to the crowd… the swaggering sway in my shoulders…”
“You’re better off. You looked like Dreidel.”
“See, but that’s the point. When I see that tape… when I see the old me… I don’t just miss my face. What I miss — what I mourn—is my old life. That’s what they took from me, Lisbeth. You can see it on the tape: A twenty-three-year-old cocky kid strutting like only a twenty-three-year-old cocky kid can. Back then, when I imagined my future, from the White House to — I was rocketing so high, I couldn’t even pick the next coordinate. The whole damn world was possible. I mean, that’s the promise, right? I run and run and run this race — and then, in one stupid day, with one stupid ricochet…” My chin starts to quiver, but after all these years, I know exactly how to grit my teeth to bury it. “… I find out I’m never getting any further th-th-than… than halfway there.” The quivering’s gone. It’s not much of a victory. “That’s my life. Halfway there.”
In the reflection of the window, Lisbeth tucks a red curl behind her ear. “You got further than halfway, Wes.”
“Why, because I fetch the President’s Diet Coke and know which of his friends he hates? Rogo said it for years, but I wouldn’t listen. It was supposed to be a stepping-stone. Somehow it became a destination. Can you possibly fathom how pathetic you have to be to let that happen?”
“Probably as pathetic as settling for a local gossip job, even though the real dream was to challenge the world with risky, investigative news items.”
For the first time since we’ve taken off, I turn away from the window and stare at Lisbeth. “That’s different,” I tell her.
“It’s not,” she shoots back. “You saw my office — all those letters on the walls of my cubicle…”
“The ones to your dad.”
“Not to him. About him. Those letters are proof, Wes. They’re proof that you can use this job to change someone’s life for the better. They’re proof that there’s a power in reporting. And what do I do with that power? I spend every day trying to find twenty inches’ worth of local divorces, country club backstabbing, and all-around nail-biters, like who got stuck at the crappy table at Morton’s? When I took this job, I promised myself it was for a year or two, until I could properly feed my cats. That was seven years ago, Wes,” she says, more serious than ever. “And y’know what the worst part is?”