mantel beyond her right shoulder, George Washington seemed to look down on her sternly. The broadcast was live from the Library of the White House. Barbara leaned forward, her face a study of deep concentration as she listened. She nodded, then she spoke, but soundlessly because Nightmare had muted the volume to nothing. Finally she smiled, totally unaware that on the television screen, dead center on her forehead, was a red dot from the laser sight on Nightmare’s Beretta.
A different camera angle. The eyes of the man whose face now filled the screen were like two copper pennies, solid and dependable. Every hair of his reddish brown mane was under perfect control. He wore a beautifully tailored blue suit, a crisp white shirt, a red tie knotted in a tight Windsor and dimpled in a way that mirrored the dimple in his chin. Daniel Clay Dixon, president of the United States, faced the camera and the nation. When his lips moved, Nightmare could imagine that voice, the soft accent that whispered from the western plains, not so pronounced that it might prejudice a listener into thinking of an ignorant cowpoke, but enough to suggest a common man, a man of the people, the kind of man whose example encouraged children to believe they could grow up to be anything they wanted, that nothing in this great land of opportunity was beyond anyone’s reach.
Nightmare had no interest in the words the silent voice spoke. They would be lies, he knew. Anyone who rose to the top in a government always rose on a bubble inflated by lies. He concentrated on keeping the red laser dot steady on the black pupil of the president’s left eye.
After Clay Dixon talked awhile, he glanced at something to his right, off-camera at the moment, but obviously of tremendous importance to him.
And then it happened. What Nightmare had been patiently waiting for all week, had been considering in almost every moment of his thinking.
The First Lady appeared.
In the soft dark, Nightmare wrapped himself around a hard vengeance.
Kathleen Jorgenson Dixon’s eyes were pale gray-blue. Although she looked composed, there was something immeasurably sad about those eyes. To Nightmare they seemed like two unhealed wounds. She’d been hurt, he could tell. But that didn’t matter. Her suffering was nothing compared to the suffering she’d caused. He was glad for the ritual of the blood and the ash and the pain, because it kept him strong.
“For the murder of David Moses,” Nightmare pronounced, “your sentence is death.”
He sighted the Beretta. The laser dot settled in the dark at the back of the First Lady’s throat. Slowly he squeezed the trigger, and grimly he whispered,“Bang.”
chapter
two
As Daniel Clay Dixon strode into the Oval Office, the members of his senior staff who waited there stood up.
“Great job, Mr. President.” Communications Director Edward McGill stepped forward and shook Dixon’s hand.
“You think so, Ed?” Clay Dixon grinned back at him. “Did we play well in Peoria?”
“Peoria, Poughkeepsie, Patagonia. That was a telecast for the world.”
“They can’t vote for me in Patagonia, Ed.”
“I’d guess the polls will continue their swing this week,” Patricia Gomez, Dixon’s press secretary, said.
“Let’s not guess. Do what you can, okay? Work that hoodoo you do so well.” Dixon looked to his chief of staff, John Llewellyn. “What do you think?”
Llewellyn was a tall, gray-haired man in a gray suit. He had a long face where deep lines like empty gullies ran. The irises of his eyes were so dark they ate his pupils. “I remember a game you played against Tampa Bay a couple of years before you retired. At halftime you were down twenty-four points.”
“Twenty-seven,” Dixon said.
“Second half you engineered four unanswered touchdowns. Went into the locker room on top. Mr. President, you’re going into the locker room tonight a winner.” Although he smiled, nothing but that hard darkness showed in his eyes.
“Thanks, John.”
“You want me to contact Wayne White? See if he’s ready to concede?” McGill asked, grinning.
“That poor son of a bitch,” Dixon said. “You know, I feel genuinely sorry for him.”
Wayne White was a third-term congressman from Ohio. A war hero and a widower. He was well respected in Washington and had been his party’s choice to run for the presidency. No sooner was he out of the starting blocks, however, than a scandal sheet got hold of the record of a domestic abuse charge that had been lodged against him twenty years earlier. Before the information became public, Wayne White had held a significant lead in the polls. Clay Dixon resolutely declined to use the opportunity against his opponent, and Americans seemed to appreciate that kind of decency. The polls had begun to reflect it.
“Your father sends his congratulations.”
“I guess that’s the icing on the cake, isn’t it?” Dixon laughed. “Has Lorna finished her report yet?”
“Any minute now,” Llewellyn said. “We’ll all have copies first thing in the morning.”
“Will you have her call me when it’s ready. I want to see it as soon as possible.”
“We won’t be meeting with the legislative staff until Wednesday.”
“I want Kate to have a look at it.” Dixon glanced at his watch. “Well, folks, it’s been a long day. I don’t know about you, but I intend to relax with a glass of sherry. I’ll see you in the morning.”
As his staff began to leave, Dixon said, “Bobby, would you stay for a minute.”
Robert Lee held back.
“Close the door,” Dixon said. When they were alone, he asked, “So, Bobby, what’s on your mind?”
Officially, Robert Lee was the White House chief counsel. More than that, he was Clay Dixon’s oldest friend. He had a face the press perennially and unimaginatively characterized as boyish, and a smile the cameras loved, all dimples. Because he had a relaxed feel about him and because his eyes were soft brown and a little lazy-looking, people sometimes thought the mind behind them was simple. That was a mistake, for Bobby Lee was a man of immense intelligence and could be a formidable opponent when he had to be. But he was also a careful man, a considerate man, a gentleman.
“Kate,” Lee said.
The president sat in one of the armchairs, crossed his legs, and looked up at Lee. “She’s fine, Bobby.”
Lee sat down, too. “She doesn’t look fine.”
“She’s tired, that’s all. Under a lot of strain. She’s facing a long political campaign. That’s enough to make anyone want to cry.”
Lee didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push the issue. He folded his hands on his lap. “I got an early look at Lorna’s report. Llewellyn’s not going to like it.”
“I didn’t ask for the report in order to please him.”
“Will you go ahead with a legislative proposal?”
“Not until after the election.”
“I think delaying would be a mistake. In this campaign, you need to take the initiative.”
“We all discussed this at length. You were the only one who disagreed.”
“That doesn’t mean I was wrong.”
There was truth in that, and there was a gentle barb in the way the truth was spoken.
“I still think the advice is sound, Bobby. I don’t want to launch anything controversial at this juncture.” The president loosened his tie and undid his shirt collar. “I can tell there’s more on your mind. Spit it out.”
“I’m wondering more and more what I’m doing here. There was a time I thought you relied on me, for more than just legal counsel. Lately I’m feeling like I’m moving my lips but not much is getting through to you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Ever since Carpathian died, it’s Llewellyn who has your ear, Clay. And more often than not Llewellyn is just an echo of your old man.”
