She left him. Bo watched her disappear into the shade of the porch. He saw her once more briefly in the light as she opened the door and stepped inside.
“Thorsen.” It was Stan Calloway who, in the absence of Chris Manning, now headed the FLOTUS detail. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? My God, that’s the president’s wife. We’ve got that kiss on tape.”
Bo knew Calloway from his days in D.C. A good agent. A little humorless, but solid in the right ways.
“The kiss wasn’t my idea, Stan.”
Calloway put a hand to his forehead. “Jesus, what am I supposed to do with this?”
Bo reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys. “Do whatever you feel you have to do with it. I’m going home.”
Calloway took his arm and held him back a moment. “A lot of people are looking up to you right now, Thorsen. Don’t blow it.”
Bo glared at Calloway’s hand until the grip was released. He said, “Good night, Stan.”
He got in his car, drove home to Tangletown, and readied himself for bed. Then he sat at the window in the dark, trying to find a place inside himself to lock away what he felt. It was too big, this affection. It was way out of hand. What not long before had been only a pleasant conceit was suddenly something with substance, real enough to cause him trouble. What was the point? He had Kate’s confidence, but he could never have her love. And even if by some miracle she were to feel the same way, what could she do? She was not just a married woman. She was the First Lady.
“Christ, Bo, you’ve done it this time,” he whispered.
chapter
thirty-two
It was well after dark by the time Clay Dixon returned to the White House. In the last forty-eight hours, he’d been to Atlanta, Miami, New Orleans, Houston, Dallas, and Oklahoma City, trying to drum up votes and campaign contributions for himself and the party candidates in those constituencies. He was tired, but he felt energized, as he usually did after working crowds. He loved that part of his job. He went directly to the Residence on the second floor of the White House. Although it was late, he decided to call Wildwood. He missed his daughter. And he missed his wife. He longed to have Kate back, to be able to talk with her about the campaign swing and how good he felt. Love was more about quiet things than about bedroom noise. It was something he’d always known, but he was feeling it deep down now where the real truths resided.
Annie told him that Kate wasn’t there. She was out looking at the moon. She’d have Kate call him back when she returned.
Dixon hung up feeling unaccountably anxious. He was tired, and knew he should go to bed. But he wanted to wait for Kate’s call. If it came. She was still angry with him. She’d made that clear in the few conversations they’d had recently. He thought about the report Lorna Channing had prepared, and that got him to thinking about one of its chief proponents, Bobby Lee. And thinking about Bobby got him to wondering what his friend had been able to scrape together on whatever it was that Senator William Dixon might be up to.
The phone rang. Kate, he thought happily.
“Mr. President, John Llewellyn is on the line for you.”
“Put him on.”
“Mr. President, I apologize for disturbing you at such a late hour,” Llewellyn said.
“No problem, John. Where are you?”
“In the West Wing, in my office.”
“Working late.”
“Mr. President, FBI Assistant Director Arthur Lugar is with me.”
Dixon heard the tension in John Llewellyn’s voice. “What is it?”
“It’s about Bob Lee, sir.”
His first thought wasscandal. But he knew Bobby Lee, and he’d never known a more decent man. “What about him?”
“Sir, he’s dead.”
Robert Lee had loved to sail. For twenty years, every Saturday that he could slip away, he’d taken his sailboat out onto Chesapeake Bay and spent the day cutting across salt water. Often his sons went with him, but that summer they were both gone, counselors at a camp in the Blue Ridge. Maggie, his wife, was prone to seasickness. So lately, Robert Lee had been sailing alone.
According to the only eyewitness, Lee had been in a small, isolated inlet on the sound of the Choptank River. It was early evening. The wind had shifted. The boom, as it swung around, caught Lee squarely on the side of his head, and he went overboard. The eyewitness sailed immediately to that location, but Bobby Lee had already gone under.
Divers from the Talbot County Sheriff’s Department had been called out. They arrived near twilight and began a search for the body, which they quickly found. It took them a bit more time to make the ID, to be certain that Robert Lee, to whom the sailboat was registered, was also the drowned man. The FBI had been notified immediately.
“Is the eyewitness reliable?” Clay Dixon asked. He sat in John Llewellyn’s office with Llewellyn and the assistant director of the FBI.
“Former ATF agent, sir,” Arthur Lugar replied. “Received a citation as a result of Waco. A longtime sailor. Totally reliable.”
“Does Bobby’s family know?”
“Not yet, Mr. President.”
“How about the media?”
“We haven’t released any information.”
“Can you wait until morning?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Thank you,” he said to the assistant director in a tone that indicated they were finished for the moment. “I want to be kept apprised of your investigation.”
“Of course,” Lugar said, and he rose to leave.
When they were alone, Dixon said to Llewellyn, “I’ll need new counsel.”
“Why don’t you go with Ned Shackleford? He’s always been Bobby’s right hand.”
Dixon knew he was shoving his feelings down, pushing the grief to the back while he dealt with the business of keeping things under control, making sure his administration moved forward whatever the circumstances. Nonetheless, he felt a deep emptiness in his heart and a profound absence at his side. As soon as he was certain everything was in order, he would allow himself to grieve long and hard for his friend Bobby Lee.
“Did you tell my father?”
“I’ve told no one but you, sir.”
“Good. I’d like to be alone for a while, John.”
“Certainly, Mr. President.”
Dixon rubbed his eyes, feeling more tired than he’d ever been. “Don’t say anything to the press. I’d like to make the call to Bobby’s wife myself. And one more thing. Let me tell the senator in my own way.”
“Whatever you prefer.”
When Llewellyn had gone, the president lifted his phone and spoke to the White House operator. “Get me Lorna Channing. If she’s not in her office, try her cell phone.”
“Oh, Clay. I’m so sorry.”
Lorna Channing put her arms around Dixon and held him for a moment. They were alone in the president’s study in the Executive Residence. She’d come immediately after she’d received his call.
