chapter
eight
Midmorning the next day, Annie Jorgenson, the First Lady, and Earl headed to the hospital. The word on Tom Jorgenson was that his condition had stabilized, but he still had not regained consciousness.
Protective detail was among the most important of a Secret Service agent’s duties, and also among the most tedious. Usually it entailed hours of doing nothing while trying to maintain a level of readiness to deal with the worst-case scenario. Bo thought the electronic sweep of Wildwood that hadn’t yet been done would be a good way to break the routine. At the briefing that morning, he discussed the possibility with Chris Manning. Manning vetoed the idea, pointing out once again that the purpose of the First Lady’s visit was personal, and that no state secrets were in jeopardy. Bo decided not to argue.
Shortly after the motorcade left, Bo put Jake Russell, the shift supervisor, in charge of the Op Center and left Wildwood. He checked in with the deputies posted at the entrance, Morgan and Braun, men he’d worked with before. Except for seeing the First Lady in person, it was dull duty. The news journalists in the cars and media vans that sat parked along the highway knew the drill. Cameras rolling when the First Lady appeared, but no access to Wildwood itself. Bo saw that there were more vehicles parked than he’d anticipated and heavier traffic on the usually quiet highway. Gawkers, hoping for a glimpse of Kathleen Jorgenson Dixon.
Bo drove toward Stillwater and headed to the office of the Washington County sheriff. He flashed his ID at the desk officer and waited a minute before he was buzzed through the security door.
Sheriff Douglas Quinn-Gruber was a big man with a wry smile and sharp, discerning eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He had a quick wit and an understanding of local politics that had kept him in office for three terms. He also had a taste for exotic beer. He brewed his own. Each Christmas for the last three years, Bo had received an assortment of home brews that tasted of raspberry or hazelnut or honey, and occasionally like beer. Bo’s own tastes were simple. He usually drank Pig’s Eye, brewed in St. Paul on the banks of the Mississippi River, but he appreciated the sheriff’s gesture.
“Hey, Bo,” Quinn-Gruber said, coming out of his chair. He reached out with a strong handshake. “I’m surprised to see you. I figured you’d be swamped at Wildwood.”
“Everything’s under control, Doug. We have a small army out there. How’s Mary Lou?” Bo always asked after the sheriff’s wife. He liked hearing what she was up to, always something interesting.
The sheriff laughed. “In two weeks, she turns fifty. Know what she’s planning on doing to mark the occasion? She’s going to canoe-by herself-the entire length of the St. Croix River.”
“You worried?”
“Naw. I called the counties up north and in Wisconsin, talked to a few fellow officers. They’re going to keep an eye on her progress. Discreetly. Have a seat.” He indicated a chair and sat back down at his desk. “So, what brings you here? I’m in touch pretty regularly with Stu Coyote. Everything seems fine.”
“It is, as far as the First Lady’s concerned. I wanted to ask about Tom Jorgenson’s accident.”
“A shame, that.”
“Doug, did any of your people investigate?”
“Investigate? An incident report was filed, but I don’t think anybody saw any reason to investigate. Why?”
“Something bothers me.” Bo explained his concern about the mystery of the stopped tractor.
“What are you saying? Tom wasn’t alone out there?”
“I’m not sure. But it kind of looks that way.”
“Are you thinking maybe it wasn’t an accident?”
“On occasion, Tom’s received hate mail because of the work he does with the Institute for Global Understanding. I’ve always been afraid he might end up a target someday. And you know how lax he’s always been about his own security at Wildwood.”
The sheriff removed his wire-rims and squinted through them. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the lenses. “That tractor was hauling a trailer. Maybe the extra drag on the engine made it stall.”
“I thought of that,” Bo said.
“I don’t want to take a chance where Tom Jorgenson is involved,” the sheriff said. “I’ll have one of my investigators look into it. Think we’d get anywhere dusting the tractor for prints?”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
“Consider it done.”
“Thanks.” Bo stood up. “I appreciate your help, Doug.”
“No problem. Hey, I’m trying a new recipe. Rhubarb beer.”
Bo grinned. “Can’t wait till Christmas.”
Less than two hours later, an investigator named Timmons showed up at Wildwood. He spoke with Annie. Just a routine follow-up, he told her. Then he checked in with Bo. Tom Jorgenson, Timmons reported, had had no threats in almost two years. One of the sheriff’s deputies admitted to moving the tractor ahead a bit so that the paramedics could work more easily on Jorgenson but couldn’t remember if the ignition had been in the “off” position, so there was no way of telling whether the engine had died on its own or had been turned off. Bo accompanied Detective Timmons to the tractor. While Timmons dusted for prints, he pointed out to Bo that in the last two months, Tom Jorgenson had suffered several minor accidents, due entirely to carelessness. “Everyone gets old,” he said with a shrug. “And sometimes forgetful.”
After the investigator had gone, Bo stood in the shade of the limb that had apparently knocked Tom Jorgenson into harm’s way, and he studied the line of the flatbed and the track of the wheels. Finally, he went to the Kubota and climbed into the seat. It was comfortably padded, with a soft, cushioned back. Bo sat and imagined the limb catching him in the forehead, knocking him backward. The seat back would probably have prevented him from toppling off. He thought awhile, then let himself tumble sideways into the soft orchard grass where he lay, looking back at the flatbed.
“Comfortable, Bo?”
The First Lady came around the tractor and stood gazing down at him. She wore a white T-shirt, jeans, and a dark blue ball cap withTwinsprinted across the crown. She carried her sandals, leaving her feet bare. She looked more like a country girl than the wife of the nation’s commander in chief. She was smiling. Not a large smile, but the first Bo had seen since she’d arrived. Two of Manning’s people trailed at a reasonable distance.
Bo stood up. “I was just admiring the machinery.”
“From every angle, I see. Do you know about tractors?”
“After I was arrested, Annie arranged for me to live with a foster family down in Blue Earth,” Bo said. “Farmers. I did my time on the seat of an old John Deere Model B.”
Her smile grew. “We had a Model B when I used to help my dad in these orchards. That was a monster. Not like this Kubota.” She put a hand on the tractor, but she pulled it back quickly from the sting of the metal that had turned hot in the afternoon sun.
“You know about the Kubota?”
“An M-series narrow. Specially built for orchard work. Hydrostatic power steering. Synchronized main and shuttle transmission. Three Vortex Combustion System diesel engine. Eighty PTO horsepower.”
Bo let the fact that he was impressed show. She laughed, and he liked the sound.
“I’m not as smart as I seem,” she confessed. “Dad and I talk on the phone almost weekly. He told me everything. He was so proud of his new toy. What interests you so much about the tractor?”
Manning had been explicit in his directive. The First Lady wasn’t to be worried.
Bo said, “On the farm, I fell in love with machines. The smell of grease and gasoline and field dust. I appreciate their purpose and their power.”
“But you didn’t become a farmer.”
“Wrong temperament,” Bo replied.
“Katie! Katie!”
