“That’s another issue, Agent Thorsen,” Malone said. “One we need to discuss.”
“I’m through discussing,” Bo said. He stood up.
“Agent Thorsen,” Ishimaru said. “Sit down. We’re not finished.”
“I am.” Bo walked out the door.
He was halfway down the hall when Ishimaru caught up with him.
“Agent Thorsen, at the moment my patience is dangerously thin and your actions are very close to insubordination. We need to talk.”
“Talk about what? You know everything that happened at Wildwood. What more is there to say? From now on, Diana, if you want to talk to me, you go through my lawyer.”
“Bo-”
He didn’t stay to hear what else she had to say. If he’d remained a moment longer, he’d have put his fist through the wall.
chapter
thirty-eight
Bo drove to his apartment in Tangletown, the whole way battling against rage. Losing control of himself now was the last thing he needed. When he mounted the stairs to his apartment and discovered his door was unlocked, his mood didn’t brighten any.
Fortunately, it was Otter he found inside.
“Used the key you hide in the garage,” Otter said. He saw Bo’s dark look and added without apology, “You told me anytime.”
“Yeah,” Bo said, relenting. “I did.”
Otter was at the kitchen table with some playing cards spread out before him.
“How was the trip?”
“It was fine.”
“You sure? You look like you just drank spoiled milk.”
“Bad day,” Bo said.
He went to the phone and dialed Wildwood, the direct number for the main house. The call was intercepted by Secret Service. When Bo identified himself, he was told politely that he couldn’t be connected.
“Shit,” he said as he hung up.
Otter looked up from his cards. “What’s the problem?”
“Everywhere I turn, somebody’s dropping a wall in front of me.” Bo sat down at the table. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought you could use something to keep you busy during your convalescence. So I brought you a little gift.”
Otter got up and went to the living room. He lifted a plant in a terra-cotta pot and held it up for Bo to see.
“It’s a dieffenbachia,” Otter said. “A real one. I know you like the artificial things because they don’t require your attention, but they don’t give you anything either. Now this dieffenbachia, you take care of it, water it, talk to it, it’ll give you something in return, Spider-Man. It’ll grow for you.”
Otter put the plant back in the sunlight.
Bo went into the bedroom, set his overnight case down, and laid his garment bag on the bed. He walked to the closet, cleared his shoes from the floor, and pulled back a flap of carpet. There was a safe built into the floor underneath. Bo worked the combination, lifted the door, and pulled out his Sig Sauer. He took the holster from where it lay on the closet shelf, snugged the weapon into place, and clipped it to his belt. When Bo returned to the living room, Otter took a look at the weapon on his hip and whistled.
“Big gun, Spider-Man.”
“I’m beginning to think not big enough. Look, Otter, I’ve got to run.”
“That’s okay.”
“You sticking around for a while?”
“Just long enough to water your plant.”
“Lock up when you leave.”
It was late afternoon when Bo headed to the St. Croix Regional Medical Center for his second visit with Tom Jorgenson. He never made it to Jorgenson’s room. A Secret Service agent, one of the new ones, stopped him as soon as he stepped off the elevator.
“Sorry, Thorsen. You’re not allowed up here now. Orders.”
“Ishimaru?”
“These came from Assistant Director Malone himself.”
Bo was only yards from the room, but he knew he’d get no closer now. It was useless to argue. He went down to the lobby and used a pay phone.
“St. Croix Regional Medical Center.”
“Would you connect me with room four-twenty-two B, please?”
“Just one moment.”
More than a moment passed. Bo didn’t recognize the voice that came on the line.
“Yes?”
“I’m trying to reach Tom Jorgenson.”
“Your name?”
“How about yours first?”
“This is Special Agent Pederman, Secret Service.”
“My name’s Gaines,” Bo said, figuring it was a name Jorgenson would respond to. “Hamilton Gaines.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Gaines.” Bo waited another moment that wasn’t. “I’m sorry, you’re not on the list of authorized callers.”
Bo hung up without the courtesy of a good-bye.
He stood at the pay phone, trying to get a handle on the situation. Was this really about the incident at Wildwood? Or was the ubiquitous hand of NOMan behind the stone wall he’d encountered? His head ached, and he realized he hadn’t eaten all day and he was hungry. He decided he could think better with a little food in his stomach. He left the hospital and headed for St. Paul.
The sun was setting as Bo parked in the lot of O’Gara’s, a popular Irish bar on Snelling Avenue. The place was crowded, but he found an empty booth in the back and sat down. He had to wait a few minutes before a waitress spotted him, then he ordered a Leinie’s and a Reuben. The beer came, and he settled back. While he waited for his sandwich, he tried to put together in a coherent way the pieces of information that he had.
It was clear his worst suspicions about NOMan were correct. Tom Jorgenson had confirmed the dark turn the organization had taken, but Bo had no solid proof of its current nature, nor of a conspiracy to murder Robert Lee. The testimony of a man like Tom Jorgenson might be enough to generate a full, formal investigation, but who knew how deep the darkness of NOMan ran or how broad the shadow it cast?
He needed a way to get back to Jorgenson. Every avenue so far had been blocked. But what if the contact came from someone else, someone of higher authority than Bo, from the White House itself? It was time to call Lorna Channing and brief her. He’d had no contact with her since before he left D.C. She didn’t even know he was in Minnesota. He took out his cell phone and from his wallet pulled out the slip of paper on which she’d written her number.
“Excuse me.”
Bo folded the paper and slid it into his shirt pocket, then he looked up.
Two men stood at his table. They wore jeans and sleeveless T-shirts, a little dirty, and work boots. They both held beer mugs in their hands. They looked like construction workers drinking after a day on the job.
“Me and my buddy here have a bet,” one of the men said. His hair was long and sandy colored, and he had a scraggly mustache of the same color. “I say you’re that Secret Service guy who saved the First Lady’s ass. My buddy bets I’m wrong.”
“Your buddy wins,” Bo said. He put the cell phone in the inside pocket of his sport coat.
“Told you,” the other man said. “Come on, Lester.”
“Now wait a minute. I seen your face on the cover of theNational Enquirer, and I never forget a face. It’s…Thorsen, right?”
“Leave him be, Lester.”
“That must’ve been something out there. I mean, taking a bullet for the First Lady.”
“It was a knife,” Bo said.
“There, see. See, I told you it was him. Your glass is almost empty, man. Let me buy you a drink.”
The other guy offered Bo a look of sympathy. “Better do it. He’ll pester you till you do.”
“What’ll it be?” Lester asked.
“Leinie’s.”
“Leinie’s it is. Curtis, get this man a beer.”
Curtis headed off toward the bar. Lester sat down in the booth across from Bo.
“So. What was it like?”
“Look, Lester, your drink I’ll take. Your company I’d rather forgo at the moment.”
“Drinking alone? Bet it’s the pressure of the job does that. Seems to me I heard the rate of alcoholism and suicide is pretty high with you guys.”
“That’s dentists,” Bo said.