Long before he reached the bridge, he dragged his port oar as a rudder, dug in on the starboard side, brought the shell around, and pointed the bow north. He started back upriver against a wind that rose with the sun, working his arms and legs hard, keeping his heart rate well elevated, sweat flying off his face. Although he exercised in many other ways, the morning workout on the river was his favorite. He was always disappointed when he reached the rowing club. It meant that he had to climb out of the beautiful chasm carved by the Father of Waters and rejoin a world of people in which he’d been trained to see mostly menace.
He stowed the Aero at the club and headed back toward his apartment, the rented upper of a duplex in a fine old section of St. Paul called Tangletown. It was an area that derived its name from the chaotic weave of narrow streets nestled among the city’s east-west grid of traffic. The homes were old, several-storied, and beautifully maintained. As he stepped from the garage where he’d parked his Contour, he saw a man sitting on the back steps of the house, a tall man with a long, graying ponytail and a hollowed, haunted face. He wore dirty jeans, ragged running shoes, and a T-shirt with an image across the chest so old and faded Bo couldn’t tell what it had been.
“Hello, Otter,” he said.
The man called Otter stood up. “Hey, Spider-Man. Working out, huh?”
“Rowing,” Bo replied. “Come on in.”
Otter followed him around to the front of the duplex, inside, and up the stairs. Bo unlocked and opened the door. “Make yourself at home. I’m going to shower.”
When he was clean and dressed in the dark blue suit and tie that were his normal working attire, Bo stepped into the kitchen and found Otter sitting at the table, eating toast.
“Mind?” Otter asked.
“No. How about some eggs with that?”
“I’d eat some eggs,” Otter said.
Bo took off his suit coat and hung it over the back of a chair. He started some coffee brewing, then went to work at the stove. “What happened this time?”
“Somebody’s been dipping from the cash register. Of course, they blamed the guy who goes to AA. They didn’t even give me a chance to defend myself.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Last couple of nights at the Union Gospel Mission.”
Bo added cheese to the scrambled eggs, then cut a grapefruit in half. He put the food on two plates and gave one to Otter. He poured coffee for them both and joined Otter at the table.
“I saw Freak again,” Otter said, chewing fast, his mouth full.
“Freak’s dead.” Bo ate his own food slowly.
“I saw him. He was standing in the mouth of a culvert down on the river near the High Bridge. He was saying something, but I couldn’t hear it. What do you think it means, Spider-Man?”
“Nothing, Otter. It doesn’t mean a thing.”
“It does. It all means something. It all connects.”
“Not in any way I’ve ever been able to see,” Bo responded.
Otter aimed his empty fork at Bo. “You know, that’s always been your trouble. You only see what’s in front of you. But the important stuff, it’s never where your eyes are looking, Spider-Man. You think I saw Freak with my eyes? I’ve been seeing a lot lately, but none of it with my eyes.”
“Don’t get spooky on me, Otter.”
“I’m telling you, Spider-Man. It means something.”
“Eat,” Bo said.
When they’d finished the food and their coffee, Bo wrote something on a piece of paper and gave it to Otter.
“What’s this?”
“Job and a room, if you want it.”
Otter read the note. “Church janitor?”
“Only if you want it.”
“Thanks, Spider-Man.”
“I’ve got to go,” Bo said.
They stepped out, and Bo locked the door. They went downstairs and outside into the morning sunlight.
“Need a lift?” Bo asked.
Otter shook his head. He reached out and hugged Bo.
“Great,” Bo said. “Now I’m going to smell like you for the rest of the day. Are you going to check that out?” He nodded at the piece of paper in Otter’s hand.
“I don’t know.”
“Whatever,” Bo said. “Next time you see Freak, tell him hello for me.”
Otter didn’t smile. He looked at Bo as if he were disappointed, turned, and walked away down the winding streets of Tangletown.
As Bo headed toward the garage in the alley where he parked his car, the cell phone he’d picked up in his bedroom gave a jingle. He saw from the number that it was Stu Coyote calling from the field office.
“This is Thorsen.”
“You dead?” Coyote said. “Or just your pager? We’ve been paging you for two hours. And trying your cell phone every half hour.”
Bo glanced at the pager clipped to his belt. “Pager’s showing nothing. Must’ve broken in the scuffle yesterday when we took down Holtz.”
“We’ve got a situation.”
“What?”
“Tom Jorgenson had an accident last night.”
“How bad?”
“Bad. The First Lady’s flying out.”
“Shit.”
“I know.”
“I’m on my way.”
Bo took Snelling Avenue, merged with the morning rush on I-94, and laid on the gas pedal, heading into downtown Minneapolis.
The field office of the U.S. Secret Service was located in the United States Court building on South Fourth Street. Bo parked his Contour in the ramp underground, passed through security on the main level, and took the elevator to the seventh floor. He tapped in the code on the key lock and entered the suite of offices.
Citations of merit and photographs of agents standing post as they protected various presidents decorated the hallway walls. Presidential protection was the most visible of the responsibilities entrusted to the Secret Service, but it was not, in fact, the department’s raison d’etre. The Secret Service had been established at the close of the Civil War in order to combat the proliferation of counterfeit paper currency. Not until 1901, following the assassination of President William McKinley, did Congress direct the Secret Service to provide protection for the nation’s commander in chief. In 1917, the directive was expanded to include the entire First Family. Shielding the vice president didn’t come about until 1962, and in 1971, Congress voted to provide Secret Service protection to visiting foreign heads of state. Although it was with these protective responsibilities that most Americans associated the Secret Service, the vast majority of special agents continued to be assigned to investigation of counterfeiting and other federally punishable fraud. Most often Bo dealt with currency crimes. Unless the Twin Cities was expecting an important visitor.
He could feel the timbre, the tense energy that preceded all high-level visits. Coyote was already seated in the office of Special Agent-in-Charge Diana Ishimaru.
Stuart Coyote was a block of granite chiseled into a man. He had a broad face that broke easily into a smile, coal black hair, and skin that was a soft-toned earth color, the genetic legacy of the coupling of his Kiowa father and his French mother.
As Bo stepped in, his boss glanced up from a document she was scanning.
“Get yourself a new pager,” Ishimaru greeted him. “Today, if not sooner.”
“How’s Tom?” Bo asked.
“Unconscious but alive. Sit down.”
Bo pulled up a chair beside Coyote. “What happened?”
“He was on his tractor in the orchard last night,” Coyote said. “Hit a branch and got knocked off. The flatbed he was hauling ran over him, crushed his pelvis. He hit his head, too. In a coma now.”