that there might not be some rotten apples at the bottom of the barrel.’ And that’s all I’m asking: that you check for rotten apples.”
“The governor can speak to that. But you must have heard that some of us think that Bowe has gone on a little vacation, and is letting us twist in the wind.”
“We’re looking into that, too,” Jake said.
“Good.” Goines looked at his watch: “One minute: let’s go see the governor.”
4
The governor’s outer office was a large, cool room with gray fabric chairs and mahogany tables, decorated with bald eagles—wildlife paintings of the kind seen on postage stamps, eagles with talons extended, about to land on weathered branches, or soaring over lakes with white-capped mountains in the background. A two-foot-long bronze eagle launched itself off a stand in the center of the room; a bronze scroll of the U.S. Constitution was draped over the stand.
An elderly secretary and a blond college intern worked behind a double desk. The elderly woman called into the governor’s office, and the intern smiled at Jake and didn’t stop smiling.
“I’ll tell the governor you’re waiting,” the older woman said.
Arlo Goodman was a friendly guy, big white teeth, blond hair falling over his forehead, flyaway, as though he’d been running his fingers through it. He was in shirtsleeves, the sleeves rolled up. He stuck his head out of his office door, something Danzig would never have done with a subordinate, and said, “Hey, Jake, come on in. You want some coffee or water?”
“Coffee would be good,” Jake said. They did the Arlo Goodman left-handed shake—Goodman had taken a Syrian bullet in the right hand, and the bones had been shattered, leaving a knot of shrunken fingers.
To his secretary: “Jean, could you get that?”
She went off to get it and Goines said, “I’ll let you guys talk.”
Goodman nodded and led Jake into his office, asked, “What’ve you been doing about the limp, you gimpy fucker? You working the leg?”
“It’s about as worked as it’s going to get,” Jake said. Goodman had done research on him; he pretended not to notice. “I keep stretching it, but it’s maintenance. How’s the hand?”
Goodman grimaced: “Same as with your leg. Not much point. Too much nerve damage. I can poke a pen through, to sign my name, so that’s a benefit.”
A minute more of physical-rehab chatter, then Jean arrived with the coffee—plain, heavy earthenware cups— and when she’d shut the door behind her, Goodman said, “I’m scared to death about Lincoln Bowe, Jake. He’s a fool, but I wouldn’t want any harm to come to him—for my own sake, if nothing else. I’ve got all these rumors bubbling around me . . . I mean, Jesus.”
“What’s there to be scared about?”
Goodman was deadly serious now: “Come on, man.”
Jake shrugged. “All right.”
Goodman pointed him at a chair in a conversation group, slumped in one opposite. “Jake: I’m sure you’ve been researching me, so you probably know my stump speech. This country is at a crossroads. We are losing the thing that makes us American. The idea is what holds us together: the idea in the Declaration, the idea in the Constitution. But the people running the country now—not the president, he’s a good man—but the Congress, and these people flooding across our borders, the South Americans, the Caribs, the Africans, the Arabs, they have one thing in common: they’re out to rip this country for whatever they can get out of it. End of story. They don’t care about freedom of speech, freedom of religion, all the rest of it . . . Well, like I said, you know the stump speech.”
“I do.” Jake waited.
“We’re the counterpressure against those things. People are constantly trying to bring us down, to shut us up. Bowe was one of those people. And he wasn’t fair about it—he wasn’t willing to take you on in open debate. He’d use any little piece of dirt he could find, real or imagined, to malign anyone on the other side of the question. He’d do
“I’ve met her.”
“So have I,” Goodman said, grinning. “She’s quite the little package. Tits and ass and brains and, worst of all, professional camera training. Did you know she used to be a reporter here in Richmond? Pretty hot, too.”
“I saw something in her biography,” Jake said.
“And now, she’s your basic political nightmare, if you’re on the wrong end of things,” Goodman said. “If she’d married me, instead of Bowe, I’d be the president by now.” He laughed and turned back to his desk. Chatter done. “So what does Bill Danzig want? You’re doing what? An investigation? An inquiry?”
“A search,” Jake suggested. “Ordered by the president. Bowe is being used to hammer you and we’re getting the ricochets. It’s getting worse. We’ve got the convention coming up.”
“If there weren’t any ricochets, would they still be worried?” Goodman asked.
He was teasing, and Jake had to laugh. “Worried, but less worried,” he said.
“That’s what I figured. Danzig doesn’t take his eye off the ball,” Goodman said. “So, what specifically are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna find him—Lincoln Bowe—one way or another. I’m bringing in some FBI heavyweights. I may go to Homeland Security, the Secret Service, whatever. I’m going to squeeze. Some of your Watchmen, among other people.”
