Just as quickly, her posture stiffens and shoulders rise. Like before, she buries the moment, a final sniffle patting the last bits of dirt on the grave of whatever previous emotion she momentarily let through. Even in solitude, even as her arm continues to tremble, the President’s wife refuses to suffer weakness.
Moving like she’s in a rush, she promptly folds up the memo or photo or whatever it is, and stuffs it between the back pages of what looks like a paperback on her desk. I almost forgot. Manning isn’t the only one the Madame Tussauds folks are here to see. With a final deep breath, the First Lady smooths out her skirt, dabs her eyes, and lifts her chin. Public mask back in place.
As she turns to leave the bedroom, she stares across the hallway, at the dark space where I am, pausing for half a second. I shrink back from the sliver of doorway, and she keeps moving, looking away just as quickly. No, no way. She didn’t see a thing. Hidden by the darkness, I watch as she plows toward me, cutting to my left as she reaches the hallway. Within seconds, her footsteps sound against the wooden stairs, fading with each step. I don’t even take a breath until I hear her footsteps disappear into the carpet at the bottom. Even then, I still count to ten, just to be safe. A swell of nausea already has me reeling. What the hell am I doing?
Trying to shake it, I flush the toilet, run the faucet, and step out of the bathroom as if everything’s normal. A quick scan of the hallway tells me no one’s there. “Dr. Manning?” I say softly. No answer. I’m all alone.
Through the open door of the Mannings’ bedroom, the antique writer’s desk is less than ten feet away. In all our years together, I’ve never once betrayed their trust. I tell myself that again as I stare at the book on her desk. It’s just sitting there. With the answer inside.
If I were Rogo, I’d do it. If I were Dreidel, I’d do it. If I were Lisbeth, I’d have done it two minutes ago. But I’m me. And therein lies the real problem. I know myself. I know my limitations. And I know if I go in there, it’s an action I can never take back. The old me would’ve never even considered it. But I don’t think I’m that man anymore.
Tightening my fists, I take four steps into the bedroom and up to the desk. The black book is thick with gold embossing on the cover. Holy Bible. I don’t know why I’m surprised.
As I pick up the Bible and thumb through it from back to front, the folded-up sheet practically leaps out. I unfold it so fast, it almost rips. I thought it was a photograph or some kind of official memo. It’s not. It’s a letter. Handwritten on plain, unmarked stationery. The handwriting is unfamiliar but precise — perfect tiny block letters undistinguished by any style or idiosyncrasy. Like it was written by someone who’s spent years perfecting ways to go unnoticed.
To be sure, I flip the sheet over to the signature on the back. Like the rest, the letters are simple, almost commonplace. The tip of the R drags longer than the rest. Ron. Ron Boyle.
Dear Lenore, I read as I flip it back, my brain hurtling so fast, all I can do is skim. Please forgive me… never meant to mislead you… I just thought, for everyone’s good… for all my sins… to finally protect those I hurt… My punishment, Lenore. My atonement. Please understand, they said it could be anyone — that it could’ve been you… And after there was no payment for Blackbird, when I found what he…
He? Who’s he? I wonder, still skimming. And Blackbird? Is that what they called the six-million-dollar—?
“Hey!” a female voice calls out behind me.
My lungs collapse and my body freezes. I’m already off balance as I spin back to face her.
The First Lady stands in the doorway, her leaf-green eyes on fire. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
81
You gotta be kidding me.”
“It’s bad?” Rogo asked, leaning in and reading over Dreidel’s shoulder.
On the worktable in front of them, Boyle’s datebook was opened to the week of May 22. In the square labeled Monday, May 23 was the handwritten note Manning in NY. On Wednesday the twenty-fifth was the note Elliot in the Morning interview. And on Thursday the twenty-sixth was the note Senator Okum fundraiser — Wash. Hilton—7 p.m. But what caught Rogo’s eye was the box for May 27, which was blacked out with a thick marker:
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
“They crossed it out?” Rogo asked.
“That’s the library’s job — read through all the files and figure out what can be released to the public.”
“I understand how. I just mean… Hold on—” he said, cutting himself off and reaching down to touch the right-hand page of the calendar. Even before he rubbed it with his fingers, Rogo could see it was made from a thinner and brighter paper stock than the off-white sheets that filled the rest of the datebook. “This isn’t even the original, is it?”
“Photocopy — that’s how redactions are done,” Dreidel explained. “They can’t ruin the original, so they make a second copy, black that out, and staple it back in the original’s place.”
“Okay, fine — so how do we get the original?”
“Actually, they usually— Here, lemme see,” Dreidel said, reaching for the datebook and flipping back to the front inside cover. Sure enough, folded up and stapled to the first page was another photocopied sheet of paper. As Dreidel unfolded it, Rogo read the words Withdrawal Sheet across the top.
“Anytime they redact something, they have to document it,” Dreidel said as they both read from the sheet.
DOCUMENT TYPE SUBJECT/TITLE DATE RESTRICTION
1. calendar Boyle schedule 1p., partial 5/27 B6
1. calendar Boyle schedule 1p., partial 6/3 B6
“What’s B6?” Rogo asked.
Squinting to read the tiny font, Dreidel skimmed through the list of restrictions at the bottom of the withdrawal sheet.
“B1 is when it’s classified… B2 is when an agency forbids it…”
“And B6?”
“Release would constitute a clearly unwarranted invasion of personal privacy,” Dreidel read from the sheet.
“So this is some secret from Manning’s personal life?”
“Or his own,” Dreidel clarified. “The meetings and the schedules may be work product of the White House, but if Boyle writes something… I don’t know, like his ATM PIN code or his Social Security number… that clearly has nothing to do with the presidency and therefore gets the black pen as well.”
Rogo flipped the book back to the May 27 redaction.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
“Looks like a few more letters than a PIN code.”
“Or a Social Security number,” Dreidel agreed.
“Maybe we can go back to the archivist, and you can pull rank on her again until she shows us the original.”
“You kidding? After everything we’ve said, she’s already suspicious enough.”
“Can we find it ourselves? Is it in there?” Rogo asked, pointing to the metal cage in the far corner of the room where at least another ten sets of shelves were piled to the ceiling with archival boxes.