“Not really. It’s a strange thing believing you’re about to die. A lot becomes clear.”
“Like what?”
She didn’t have time to answer before the elevator doors opened onto the fourth floor, and the agents stepped out ahead of them. Ed McGill, who’d preceded the president to the hospital, was there to meet him.
“Who’s first, Ed?”
“We thought Agent Thorsen, then Manning, then the First Lady’s father. I’ve selected a few media people to observe. Believe me, Mr. President, this will play well in Peoria.”
Clay Dixon stopped in midstride and turned angrily on his communications director. “I’m not interested in how this plays in Peoria, Ed. These men risked their lives in the line of duty.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President. I’ll keep the press back and their presence discreet.”
Dixon strode into the room where Agent Thorsen sat carefully propped in a sitting position on his bed. The president knew he’d sustained a knife wound in his back, but the hospital gown covered any sign of tape and gauze. However, his left arm was bandaged, and the effect of his ordeal showed in his face, which was pale and drawn.
“Agent Thorsen, this is a pleasure, indeed.”
Thorsen shook the president’s hand. “I apologize for not getting up, Mr. President.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better, sir.”
“They tell me you’ll recover fully.”
“They tell me the same thing.”
Smiling broadly, Clay Dixon glanced at his wife and caught the First Lady staring at the wounded agent. Her face held a look that the president had not seen on her in a long time. Admiration, respect.
“I owe you an enormous debt, Agent Thorsen. You saved my wife’s life at the risk of your own. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your actions.”
He waited, expecting the man to say something self-effacing-Shucks, I was just doing my job-but the agent replied simply, “Thank you.”
The president could see that Thorsen was the kind of man he’d loved on the playing field, a man who knew who he was and what he was doing and didn’t need to be told he was good at it.
“When you’re better, I’d like to invite you for dinner at the White House, to thank you properly.”
“I’ll be there, sir.”
“Good. If you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way to visit Agent Manning.”
“I’m honored that you stopped by, Mr. President.”
“The honor is mine.” He meant it.
Manning was in bad shape. He’d taken a bullet in the chest, very near his heart. He was hooked to tubes and wires, looked bloodless, and was barely able to respond. The press took no pictures.
The final stop was Tom Jorgenson’s room. The old man appeared frail, but it was obvious he was on the mend. When the president offered, “God seems to have been watching over the Jorgensons,” the former vice president replied, “I’m sure the Lord has more important things to see to. Like making sure the nation survives your foreign policy.”
Both men laughed, although Jorgenson’s laugh turned into a small cough. The press got photos of the president smiling down at Tom Jorgenson, offering his father-in-law his best wishes for a speedy recovery.
At the elevator, Clay Dixon said to the agents who shadowed him, “Gentlemen, the First Lady and I will ride down alone. We’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“Mr. President-” the agent named Dewey began to object.
“I said I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
The two Secret Service agents looked unhappy but accepted the president’s dictum.
In the elevator, Clay Dixon said to his wife, “You said that things had become clear to you. What things?”
“Can we talk about this later?”
“What’s wrong with now?”
“For one thing, the elevator doors are going to open any moment.”
Dixon reached out and punched the Stop button. The elevator lurched to a halt.
“Secret Service will love that,” Kate said.
“Forget Secret Service. What exactly has become clear?”
She closed her eyes a moment. “The things that are important, Clay.”
“Important to whom? You?”
“Mr. President,” a voice called from a few feet above. “Are you all right?”
“We’re fine,” he shouted.
“We’ll have the elevator moving in a minute.”
Dixon turned and faced his wife. “Tell me about these important things and what they have to do with us.”
“In the two minutes we have before they get this car moving again?” She gave him an exasperated look. “Do you ever hear anything except what you want to hear?”
“You’re answering a question with a question. You’re trying to evade something. What?”
The elevator suddenly dropped an inch, then began a smooth descent. Dixon reached out and punched the Stop button furiously but to no avail. In a few moments, the elevator ceased moving and the doors glided open.
“We’ll continue this at the hotel,” Dixon said.
“I don’t think so. I’m not coming back with you.”
Dixon saw that in the lobby the throng of the press waited. He addressed his wife with quiet intensity, “Why?”
“I still need to think through a few things. When I’m ready to talk, we’ll talk.”
“Great,” he said. “Just great. The press will have a field day speculating on this one.”
“I’m sure Ed McGill can come up with a positive spin for you, something they’ll love in Peoria.”
“Fuck Peoria.” He stepped out of the elevator, hauling up a smile for the media.
The President dined with his closest staff. Over a good Caesar salad and rare prime rib, the business of the government was carried on, especially discussion of Lorna Channing’s report on national youth service. Although Clay Dixon’s personal enthusiasm had waned, he gave it his full attention. Afterward, he asked Lorna to stay. He poured brandy for them both and lit a hand-rolled cigar, and they reminisced for a while about growing up on the Purgatoire River. She told him the smell of the cigar reminded her of sitting on the porch with her father after dinner and looking at the evening sky. It was a good memory, she said.
“Kate hates the smell of cigars,” Dixon told her.
“Most women do, I think. You keep looking toward the door,” Lorna finally noted.
“I thought Kate might come.”
“Give her time, Clay. She’s been through a lot.”
“Time isn’t the issue.” He got up from the sofa and walked to the window. The sky outside was the color of blackberry jam and seeded with stars. The city lights were split by the dark curve of the river. “When did you know your marriages were over?”
“It can’t be that serious,” she said.
“When she looks at me, its like she’s seeing me through a wall of ice. It’s been like that for a long time now.”
“I’m sorry.”
He put the cigar in an ashtray and turned to look at her. “You have friends in D.C., Lorna?”
“Yes. Many.”
“Me, I feel like I’ve got practically none. I have more acquaintances, more advisers, more hangers-on than I can keep track of. But friends?” He sighed heavily. “Bobby Lee, you, and Kate. And now I don’t have Kate.”
“You still have Bobby. And you still have me.”
She left the sofa and walked toward him. Her feet made a softhush-hushon the carpet as she came. He could
