“His kind of politics. Not mine. Not anymore.”
The senator pursed his lips, and wrinkles spread out like a newly spun web. “All right. We can deal with this. Who’s your new chief of staff?”
The president looked toward Lorna Channing.
The senator snorted. “I’m sure there’s never been a woman in that position.”
“Then it’s time there was.”
William Dixon craned his neck and looked askance at the new chief of staff. “I remember you on your first horse down on the Purgatoire. You fell off a lot.”
“I ride well now, Senator. I never fall off.”
The senator nodded slowly. “All right then. We can do this. We can still win this election.”
“Not we, Senator,” the president said.
The elder Dixon lifted his head, his nose high, as if sniffing something in the air. “Cutting the old man loose, too?”
“Since Alan Carpathian died, this presidency has had no heart. No soul. For all intents and purposes, this room has been empty.” He crossed the Oval Office and took his seat at his desk. “It’s not empty anymore.”
“Carpathian. The man was a fool.”
“I’d rather follow a hopeful fool than a man on the road toward hell.” He spread his hands flat on the desktop. “I’ve scheduled a press conference for this afternoon. I’ll announce the change of the White House staff, and I’ll also announce a new legislative initiative based on the report Lorna delivered to me.”
“Based on Kate’s foolish notion, you mean.”
“I don’t think it’s foolish. I’m taking back the presidency, Senator. I’m going to do all I can to help this nation find its heart again.”
“They’ll slaughter you.”
“Then I’ll go down fighting for something worthwhile. I’m through fighting just to win.”
The senator drew himself up slowly and turned away from his son. The rubber tip of his cane made a small squeak on the nap of the rug at every step. At the door, he paused.
“You don’t realize it, but you need me now more than ever. I’ll still be there for you when you come to your senses.”
“Senator, good day.”
The old man shook his head, turned, and his huge hand enveloped the knob.
That evening after the cameras had ceased their click and whir and the press corps had rushed to file their stories, Clay Dixon stood near the window in his private study on the second floor of the White House. In his hands he held the cup he’d received as the MVP when he played in the Rose Bowl with Bobby Lee. The sun had set and the sky held a golden afterglow. The longer he stood, the more the light through the window, reflected in the long curve of the trophy, faded. It seemed to Dixon like an eye closing on the glory of a time long before.
He looked up and found Lorna Channing standing in the doorway.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“That’s all right. Come on in.”
Channing stepped into the room. “A shining moment.”
Dixon nodded, gazing down at the trophy. “It was.”
“I was talking about the press conference.”
“Shining moment? I may have sealed the coffin on my presidency.”
“For what it’s worth, you’ve never been more a president in my eyes than you are at this moment.”
Dixon smiled. “Thank you, Lorna. That means a lot to me.” He looked out the window. Above the trees on the White House lawn, he could see the Washington Monument reflecting the last light of evening. “I never realized until now how much I love this country.”
“You proved that this evening.” She was quiet for a few moments.
“Are you all right?”
Dixon turned to her. “Better than I’ve been in quite a while. For the first time in my life, I’m not concerned about losing.”
“You haven’t lost yet. Americans are an unpredictable bunch. Forget the pollsters and the pundits. God alone knows what the future holds.”
“I like your optimism.”
“I’m just saying what Alan would have said, and Bobby.”
“Thanks, Lorna. Thank you for standing with me.”
“I’ll be down in my office if you need me. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“And I can’t think of anyone who’d do it better.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
Alone again, Dixon sat down. He hadn’t turned on a lamp. Along with the world outside, the study was sliding toward night. He looked around him at the plaques and trophies and other darkening mementos of a time when he’d believed he was golden in a way, when the future was bright and full of promise, when he’d known that greatness awaited him. He was a different man now. Older. Tired. But still hopeful. Except the greatness he wanted was not for himself but for the people he served, for the nation he deeply loved.
As he stood up to leave, the phone rang. He answered it.
“Yes?”
“Mr. President, the First Lady is on the line.”
“Thank you. Hello, Kate.”
Her voice came to him across a thousand miles, sweet as the first breeze of the first dawn.
“Clay, I love you.”
He smiled and closed his eyes. And he whispered, “I love you, too.”
chapter
forty-six
Pain brought Bo to consciousness. Pain, and the knowledge that he had an absolute duty left undone. That understanding had never deserted him, not even in the confusion of his fevered nightmares. His first thought when he came to, even before he groaned in agony, was that Kate was in terrible danger.
Ropes of fire twisted down his leg. He gritted his teeth, and a soft moan escaped his lips.
“What was that?”
The voice came from high above him. He opened his eyes to the dim gunmetal gray and stark black hues that were the colors of early night. The trunks of the trees were obsidian pillars. The slope of the hillside on which he lay was solid charcoal.
“I didn’t hear anything,” the other voice, which Bo recognized as Lester’s, said. “Must be your nerves.”
“Christ, I hate this waiting.”
“You won’t have to wait much longer.”
Bo lay on soft ground, hard up against one of the chunks of sandstone that had long ago fallen from the outcropping. He felt through the material of his pants, felt the swelling at his knee. Bruised, torn cartilage maybe, maybe even broken. His eyes were shut against the pain, and for a few moments all he saw were fireworks. When he looked again, he saw the river below him, flat and slate-colored, reflecting a sky lightly salted with stars. He gazed upslope. The fall from the rock had been maybe twenty feet, and he must have rolled after he hit the ground, for he now lay a dozen yards below the base of the outcropping. Lucky even to be alive, he thought. He took inventory of the rest of his body. His right eye was swollen half shut, and above it he felt a crusty mass of dried blood. The knife wound across his left forearm had not reopened, but the wound on his back ached, and when he touched his shirt there, he could feel that the fabric was wet. Bleeding, but not dead. Not yet. His right shoulder was sore. Although most of his body ached, his leg seemed to be the worst of his injuries. He was surprised to find
