The question that lay before him now was what to do next. His instinct was to alert Calloway at Wildwood. If he was right, the Jorgensons had to be kept away from the bluffs. If he was wrong-and considering the amount of speculation involved, there was every possibility that he was-he’d just be giving them more evidence to use against him at a mental competency hearing.
What he also knew, and what was extremely troubling, was that NOMan had infiltrated most, if not all, government agencies, and the Secret Service had probably not been spared. Alerting the FLOTUS detail might also result in alerting NOMan. Bo had no idea anymore whom to trust.
It was sunny and quiet on the rock. A gentle breeze blew over the hillside from downriver, smelling vaguely of evergreen and dry prairie grass. Near the delta, a motor launch revved its engine, pulled away from where it had been anchored, and headed south with the current. Bo could hear the murmur of the Kinnickinnic as it tumbled over the last smooth boulders before it joined the St. Croix. He also was aware of voices coming from the observation platform thirty yards above him and hidden by the two spruce trees. As soon as he focused on the voices, a jolt of recognition hit him. They were male, two of them, and he’d heard them before. In O’Gara’s, offering to buy him a drink. And then on the High Bridge, coaxing him to the railing. And finally in Diana Ishimaru’s home after she’d been murdered. Between the limbs of the spruce trees, Bo could see a bit of movement on the platform. He shuffled to his right in an attempt to get a clearer view. He was perilously near the lip of the sandstone, and he could see the chunks of talus scattered below over the slope of the hillside. On the platform above him, something metal flashed in the sun. Bo edged farther to the right, desperate to see. The moment he did, he heard the sharp crack of stone. He glanced down and saw another piece of rock break away from the outcropping and plunge to join the talus below. Unfortunately, it was the piece of rock on which he stood.
chapter
forty-five
The senator caned his way to a chair in the Oval Office and sat down. He wore an expensive gray suit, and he smelled of talc. He smiled like a man who’d walked into a parlor for an afternoon bourbon and a pleasant smoke.
“Glorious day, Clayboy. Makes me feel almost young again.”
Lorna Channing closed the door and positioned herself to the left of the senator. She folded her hands and waited for the president to speak.
Dixon rose from his desk and approached his father. He stood above the old man, looking down at that maddening smile.
“A few minutes ago, I spoke with John Llewellyn. I asked for his resignation.”
The senator’s smile collapsed. “You what?”
“It’s been clear to me for some time that we have many ideological differences.”
“Ideological? Ideology is for high school debates, Clayboy. This is the White House. This is the Super Bowl of politics. Here, you play to win, and winning is all that matters. Screw ideology. John Llewellyn knows politics.”
“His kind of politics. Not mine. Not anymore.”
The senator pursed his lips, and wrinkles spread out like a newly spun web. “All right. We can deal with this. Who’s your new chief of staff?”
The president looked toward Lorna Channing.
The senator snorted. “I’m sure there’s never been a woman in that position.”
“Then it’s time there was.”
William Dixon craned his neck and looked askance at the new chief of staff. “I remember you on your first horse down on the Purgatoire. You fell off a lot.”
“I ride well now, Senator. I never fall off.”
The senator nodded slowly. “All right then. We can do this. We can still win this election.”
“Not we, Senator,” the president said.
The elder Dixon lifted his head, his nose high, as if sniffing something in the air. “Cutting the old man loose, too?”
“Since Alan Carpathian died, this presidency has had no heart. No soul. For all intents and purposes, this room has been empty.” He crossed the Oval Office and took his seat at his desk. “It’s not empty anymore.”
“Carpathian. The man was a fool.”
“I’d rather follow a hopeful fool than a man on the road toward hell.” He spread his hands flat on the desktop. “I’ve scheduled a press conference for this afternoon. I’ll announce the change of the White House staff, and I’ll also announce a new legislative initiative based on the report Lorna delivered to me.”
“Based on Kate’s foolish notion, you mean.”
“I don’t think it’s foolish. I’m taking back the presidency, Senator. I’m going to do all I can to help this nation find its heart again.”
“They’ll slaughter you.”
“Then I’ll go down fighting for something worthwhile. I’m through fighting just to win.”
The senator drew himself up slowly and turned away from his son. The rubber tip of his cane made a small squeak on the nap of the rug at every step. At the door, he paused.
“You don’t realize it, but you need me now more than ever. I’ll still be there for you when you come to your senses.”
“Senator, good day.”
The old man shook his head, turned, and his huge hand enveloped the knob.
That evening after the cameras had ceased their click and whir and the press corps had rushed to file their stories, Clay Dixon stood near the window in his private study on the second floor of the White House. In his hands he held the cup he’d received as the MVP when he played in the Rose Bowl with Bobby Lee. The sun had set and the sky held a golden afterglow. The longer he stood, the more the light through the window, reflected in the long curve of the trophy, faded. It seemed to Dixon like an eye closing on the glory of a time long before.
He looked up and found Lorna Channing standing in the doorway.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“That’s all right. Come on in.”
Channing stepped into the room. “A shining moment.”
Dixon nodded, gazing down at the trophy. “It was.”
“I was talking about the press conference.”
“Shining moment? I may have sealed the coffin on my presidency.”
“For what it’s worth, you’ve never been more a president in my eyes than you are at this moment.”
Dixon smiled. “Thank you, Lorna. That means a lot to me.” He looked out the window. Above the trees on the White House lawn, he could see the Washington Monument reflecting the last light of evening. “I never realized until now how much I love this country.”
“You proved that this evening.” She was quiet for a few moments.
“Are you all right?”
Dixon turned to her. “Better than I’ve been in quite a while. For the first time in my life, I’m not concerned about losing.”
“You haven’t lost yet. Americans are an unpredictable bunch. Forget the pollsters and the pundits. God alone knows what the future holds.”
“I like your optimism.”
“I’m just saying what Alan would have said, and Bobby.”