“I’m thinking that nothing anymore is the way it appears.”
“It’s hard to imagine this has all been orchestrated. And to what end?”
“I don’t know, Lorna. But I’m sure my father’s hand is behind all this. I don’t know how he’s done it, but it’s him all right. I can feel it.”
He walked to the middle of the room where presidents before him had stood and had faced the crises that made them great or marked them to be all but forgotten. He felt the weight of history on his shoulders. The burden was his. Not Carpathian’s or Llewellyn’s or William Dixon’s. It was his call, the way everything would go from that moment forward. It was a daunting realization, but he wasn’t afraid. In fact, he felt the tremble of an old excitement flowing through him, the kind that had been so familiar on the playing field.
“Lorna, get our people together, all of them, here. We have work to do. And get my father here first thing in the morning.”
“What do I tell him?”
Dixon thought for a moment. “Tell him it’s fourth and long. And his son has decided to go for it.”
chapter
forty-four
Bo had breakfast at a small greasy spoon on West Seventh called Oscar’s, not far from the river. It was full of people who shopped the Salvation Army regularly, guys who’d hustled enough change to cover the $1.99 two eggs, hash browns, toast, and coffee special. Bo fit right in. He could have used a shower, a shave, and a clean change of clothes. However, all things considered, he was in good spirits because beyond a few drops, it hadn’t actually rained the night before, and he was still a free man. The coffee tasted as if it had been made from mud scooped off the bottom of the Mississippi, and the egg yolks were like clay. Bo ate every last bite and sat for a while at the counter, bent over his coffee mug, trying to figure out what to do next.
In his possession was the weapon that had killed Diana Ishimaru. He’d argued with her at the field office in front of witnesses. And there’d been witnesses, too, who had placed him at the murder scene, apparently drunk. That was plenty for a good prosecuting attorney. Probably even a bad one. What did he have for a defense? A pathetically paranoid-sounding tale of conspiracy for which he had not a single shred of solid evidence.
He was pretty well screwed.
NOMan’s desire to assassinate Kate was a greater concern to him, but he was stumped. Wildwood was so tight now a snake couldn’t crawl in without being detected. Moses had told him about the sniper rifle. If that was the way they’d go, where would they try the hit? The buildings at Wildwood were protected by orchards. The wooded hills along the highway to Wildwood offered a number of good opportunities, but the First Lady’s car was armored and nothing short of a direct missile hit could penetrate it.
Bo noticed a sudden rippling and exodus among the clientele of Oscar’s. Several hard-looking customers dropped money on the counter or their tables and left. Within a couple of minutes, the place was half empty.
“What’s up?” Bo asked the man at the grill behind the counter.
The guy wore a shirt that may have been white once. His belly hung over his belt, obscuring his buckle. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fry his own fat along with the bacon. He was in worse need of a shave than Bo. “Cops,” he said, scraping a layer of grease off the griddle. “Come in here every morning at eight-twenty-five. Like clockwork. The cockroaches take a hike, come back around nine when the boys in blue are gone.”
Bo dropped three bucks on the counter, picked up his bedroll, and slid off the stool. The guy at the grill gave a short laugh and shook his head.
The cruiser pulled up as Bo stepped outside. He turned and walked away from Oscar’s at an easy pace.
Like clockwork.
He took the corner and hunkered in the shadow cast by a video store advertising “the finest erotic collection in the Twin Cities.” An old woman passed him by, pushing a grocery cart full of discarded aluminum cans. Bo stared at the big smokestacks of the Minnesota Brewing Company a few blocks down West Seventh.
Like clockwork.
He thought about the sniper rifle and the nightscope. He mulled over the question of opportunity, and he considered the tenet that anybody involved in protective services knew: Routine was the deadliest enemy of all.
Like clockwork.
Bo had a pretty damn good idea of how NOMan would make the hit.
He used fifteen bucks of the money Otter had given him, and he took a taxi. He got out a block away from the church and stood at a safe distance, looking for any sign of police presence. On that sunny Friday morning, with doves cooing on the gutters along the eaves, everything seemed fine and peaceful. Bo didn’t trust appearances anymore, so he circled awhile, casing the building. Finally, he knew he had to take a chance. He went in the front door and walked through the sanctuary. He passed the suite of offices that were used for administration, and he heard a copy machine running. Quickly, he made for the stairs to the basement and headed down to Otter’s room. The door was locked. He knocked lightly. No answer.
Damn. He hadn’t counted on Otter being gone. He spent a moment considering, then climbed the stairs and walked quietly toward the door that opened onto the suite of administrative offices. The sound of the copier had stopped. The desk in the reception area was unoccupied at the moment. A hallway behind the desk ran to the end of the wing, and several doors along it on either side were open. From one of them came the sound of voices deep in conversation. Bo crept toward the desk. He opened the bottom left-hand drawer and drew out a small metal box. Inside, he found the van keys he’d seen Otter borrow the day before. He took the keys and dropped them in his pocket. He put the box back, closed the drawer, and began to back out of the room. He didn’t make it.
A woman stepped into the hallway. Seeing Bo, she smiled and came quickly forward. “Hello,” she said brightly, as if the presence of an unkempt man in her office were an everyday occurrence. “May I help you?”
She was dressed casually in jeans and a yellow sweatshirt, and she wore tortoiseshell glasses that complemented her eyes and her hair. In her hands, she held what looked to be half a ream of copied paper. She saw him eyeing the copies.
“The bulletin for Sunday services,” she said.
“Ah,” Bo replied. He nodded a few times, stalling. Then something occurred to him. “Sandie Herron?”
“Why yes? Do I know you?”
“I’m a friend of-” He hesitated, wondering whether people here called Otter by his real name.
“Otter,” she finished, as if to sayof course. She set the papers on her desk and shook Bo’s hand.
“I’m…Spider-Man,” he said. “I’m looking for Otter.”
“He’s not here at the moment.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Not for a while. At least that’s what he said when he left.”
“Did he leave alone?”
“I don’t know. I was busy in the copy room. Was he expecting you?”
Bo shook his head.
“Would you like to wait?”
“I can’t, thank you.”
“May I give him a message?”
“Yes. When you see him, tell him I hope I haven’t gotten him in too much trouble. Tell him I’m sorry.”
“Well,” she said, puzzling this. “Sure.”
Bo turned to leave but paused a moment. “You don’t happen to know what time the moon rises tonight?”
“No, I’m sorry.” Sandie Herron looked at him, and added with sincerity, “It was nice meeting you, Spider-Man. God bless you.”
Bo could see in her the same goodness that Otter obviously saw, and he was happy for them both. He said
