Bo lay awhile, thinking. He thought about the fact that in both interviews with law enforcement that day, he’d said nothing about the accusation David Moses had made twenty years before, an accusation Bo didn’t believe for an instant. He knew that if it came to light, good people could still suffer, even after all these years. But agents were dead, and didn’t death demand the truth? Wasn’t that part of his duty? He thought about his duty, wondering what exactly that was now. He thought about those who’d died at Wildwood and whether he could have saved them if he’d only put everything together a little faster. He tried to tell himself that had Chris Manning let him run the electronic sweep when he’d wanted to, maybe none of this would have happened. But Manning was lying in another room with a bullet hole in his chest. What good did blaming him do? It didn’t change anything. Let go of the blame, Nurse Rivera had advised him. Lose the self-pity, Diana Ishimaru had ordered. Bo wished he could. He wished that all the confusion in his mind would pass. He felt sad and angry and deeply responsible. He didn’t feel at all like a hero.
The sun went down. The sky grew dark. Bo buzzed the nurses’ station. When a woman in white appeared, he said, “I’m going to try to sleep some more. Could you wake me at tenP.M.?”
“Why?” the nurse asked.
Bo laid his head down on the pillow. “I’d like to see the moon.”
chapter
twenty-five
Air Force One touched down on Wold-Chamberlain Field and taxied to the north end of the runway system that the U.S. Air Force shared with the Minnesota Air National Guard and with Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. The president briefly addressed the gathered press, then proceeded to his hotel, the Riverfront Radisson in downtown St. Paul. John Llewellyn accompanied him. The rest of his staff were already at the hotel. Edward McGill was waiting in the president’s suite.
“You look positively ecstatic, Ed. Did you just get laid?” Clay Dixon asked. He moved to the window to take in the view of the Mississippi River as it curved through the city.
“The numbers are very good. For the first time, you’re up on Wayne White. By just two points, but that’s a gain of four over the last poll.”
“Because?”
“Well…”
“I’ll tell you. I’m climbing toward office on the bodies of the dead. You know how slimy that makes me feel, Ed?”
John Llewellyn spoke. “It’s not your fault, Mr. President. There’s certainly no shame in the fact that the American people have reacted to the heroism at Wildwood in a way that benefits you.”
“Will I visit Wildwood?”
“No, sir. The Secret Service is adamant.”
He nodded. He’d never felt particularly welcome there anyway.
“And the First Lady?”
“She’ll join you at the hospital where you’ll visit with the wounded agents and with Tom Jorgenson.”
“And then we’ll come back to the hotel?”
Llewellyn hesitated.
“What is it?”
“We haven’t been able to get confirmation from the First Lady that she’ll join you here.”
Dixon waved off any concern. “She’s stubborn, John, but she’ll be here, you can bank on it. What about the memorial service for the agents who were killed?”
“That will be tomorrow morning. After that you fly to Baltimore for the fund-raiser there.”
“Life as usual for us, while the families of those agents struggle with their losses. Christ, what a business.” He shook his head. “When do we leave for the hospital?”
“As soon as you like, sir.”
The drive to the medical center in Stillwater was brief. On the way, Clay Dixon thought about the last time he had been out that way, driving with Kate to Wildwood. It had been just before he announced his candidacy half a decade earlier. He’d come hoping in vain to secure her father’s endorsement.
The state, local police, and Secret Service had created a wide corridor for the president through the media crowded in front of the hospital. The First Lady was waiting near the elevator. They embraced and kissed briefly as the cameras clicked away, then they stepped into the elevator, accompanied by two Secret Service agents. The president and First Lady stood at the back. The agents stood shoulder to shoulder controlling the elevator doorway.
“Kate,” he said. Without the blunt eye of a camera on him, he took her in his arms and held her tightly, full of gratitude that she was safe and alive. “God, it’s good to hold you.”
Although she returned his embrace, he thought he detected a measure of reserve.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’m just tired. It’s been hard.” She eased from his arms. “You didn’t bring Stephanie?”
“I didn’t want her out here. Secret Service wasn’t exactly thrilled about my coming.”
She nodded. “I suppose it’s best for now.”
“She’s staying with Dad.” He saw her tense. “I know how you feel about him, but Stephanie loves her grandfather.”
The two agents kept their eyes straight ahead, as if absolutely deaf to what transpired behind them.
He studied her a moment. There was something different about her, about the way she wouldn’t meet his gaze. It troubled him. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Not really. It’s a strange thing believing you’re about to die. A lot becomes clear.”
“Like what?”
She didn’t have time to answer before the elevator doors opened onto the fourth floor, and the agents stepped out ahead of them. Ed McGill, who’d preceded the president to the hospital, was there to meet him.
“Who’s first, Ed?”
“We thought Agent Thorsen, then Manning, then the First Lady’s father. I’ve selected a few media people to observe. Believe me, Mr. President, this will play well in Peoria.”
Clay Dixon stopped in midstride and turned angrily on his communications director. “I’m not interested in how this plays in Peoria, Ed. These men risked their lives in the line of duty.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President. I’ll keep the press back and their presence discreet.”
Dixon strode into the room where Agent Thorsen sat carefully propped in a sitting position on his bed. The president knew he’d sustained a knife wound in his back, but the hospital gown covered any sign of tape and gauze. However, his left arm was bandaged, and the effect of his ordeal showed in his face, which was pale and drawn.
“Agent Thorsen, this is a pleasure, indeed.”
Thorsen shook the president’s hand. “I apologize for not getting up, Mr. President.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better, sir.”
“They tell me you’ll recover fully.”
“They tell me the same thing.”
Smiling broadly, Clay Dixon glanced at his wife and caught the First Lady staring at the wounded agent. Her face held a look that the president had not seen on her in a long time. Admiration, respect.
“I owe you an enormous debt, Agent Thorsen. You saved my wife’s life at the risk of your own. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your actions.”
He waited, expecting the man to say something self-effacing-Shucks, I was just doing my job-but the agent replied simply, “Thank you.”
The president could see that Thorsen was the kind of man he’d loved on the playing field, a man who knew who he was and what he was doing and didn’t need to be told he was good at it.
“When you’re better, I’d like to invite you for dinner at the White House, to thank you properly.”
“I’ll be there, sir.”
“Good. If you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way to visit Agent Manning.”
“I’m honored that you stopped by, Mr. President.”
“The honor is mine.” He meant it.
Manning was in bad shape. He’d taken a bullet in the chest, very near his heart. He was hooked to tubes and wires, looked bloodless, and was barely able to respond. The press took no pictures.