The Devil's bed

When they’d finished the food and their coffee, Bo wrote something on a piece of paper and gave it to Otter.

“What’s this?”

“Job and a room, if you want it.”

Otter read the note. “Church janitor?”

“Only if you want it.”

“Thanks, Spider-Man.”

“I’ve got to go,” Bo said.

They stepped out, and Bo locked the door. They went downstairs and outside into the morning sunlight.

“Need a lift?” Bo asked.

Otter shook his head. He reached out and hugged Bo.

“Great,” Bo said. “Now I’m going to smell like you for the rest of the day. Are you going to check that out?” He nodded at the piece of paper in Otter’s hand.

“I don’t know.”

“Whatever,” Bo said. “Next time you see Freak, tell him hello for me.”

Otter didn’t smile. He looked at Bo as if he were disappointed, turned, and walked away down the winding streets of Tangletown.

As Bo headed toward the garage in the alley where he parked his car, the cell phone he’d picked up in his bedroom gave a jingle. He saw from the number that it was Stu Coyote calling from the field office.

“This is Thorsen.”

“You dead?” Coyote said. “Or just your pager? We’ve been paging you for two hours. And trying your cell phone every half hour.”

Bo glanced at the pager clipped to his belt. “Pager’s showing nothing. Must’ve broken in the scuffle yesterday when we took down Holtz.”

“We’ve got a situation.”

“What?”

“Tom Jorgenson had an accident last night.”

“How bad?”

“Bad. The First Lady’s flying out.”

“Shit.”

“I know.”

“I’m on my way.”

Bo took Snelling Avenue, merged with the morning rush on I-94, and laid on the gas pedal, heading into downtown Minneapolis.

The field office of the U.S. Secret Service was located in the United States Court building on South Fourth Street. Bo parked his Contour in the ramp underground, passed through security on the main level, and took the elevator to the seventh floor. He tapped in the code on the key lock and entered the suite of offices.

Citations of merit and photographs of agents standing post as they protected various presidents decorated the hallway walls. Presidential protection was the most visible of the responsibilities entrusted to the Secret Service, but it was not, in fact, the department’s raison d’etre. The Secret Service had been established at the close of the Civil War in order to combat the proliferation of counterfeit paper currency. Not until 1901, following the assassination of President William McKinley, did Congress direct the Secret Service to provide protection for the nation’s commander in chief. In 1917, the directive was expanded to include the entire First Family. Shielding the vice president didn’t come about until 1962, and in 1971, Congress voted to provide Secret Service protection to visiting foreign heads of state. Although it was with these protective responsibilities that most Americans associated the Secret Service, the vast majority of special agents continued to be assigned to investigation of counterfeiting and other federally punishable fraud. Most often Bo dealt with currency crimes. Unless the Twin Cities was expecting an important visitor.

He could feel the timbre, the tense energy that preceded all high-level visits. Coyote was already seated in the office of Special Agent-in-Charge Diana Ishimaru.

Stuart Coyote was a block of granite chiseled into a man. He had a broad face that broke easily into a smile, coal black hair, and skin that was a soft-toned earth color, the genetic legacy of the coupling of his Kiowa father and his French mother.

As Bo stepped in, his boss glanced up from a document she was scanning.

“Get yourself a new pager,” Ishimaru greeted him. “Today, if not sooner.”

“How’s Tom?” Bo asked.

“Unconscious but alive. Sit down.”

Bo pulled up a chair beside Coyote. “What happened?”

“He was on his tractor in the orchard last night,” Coyote said. “Hit a branch and got knocked off. The flatbed he was hauling ran over him, crushed his pelvis. He hit his head, too. In a coma now.”

Ishimaru took it from there. “The First Lady’s been notified. She’s flying in this afternoon. ETA is twelve-fifteen. She wants to head immediately to the hospital, of course. After that, she’ll be driven to Wildwood. Stu will be liaison with local law enforcement and public service. Bo, you’re on rotation to be in charge of the Operations Center this time. Jake Russell’s signing out the ordinance and perimeter equipment. He’ll join you at Wildwood. Additional agents are coming from Fargo and Sioux Falls to help. They’ll be in this afternoon.” Ishimaru looked down at the top document on her desk. “Tom Jorgenson was admitted to the St. Croix Regional Medical Center. I’m sure the First Lady will want to visit regularly. I have the contingency plans for routes and hospital security. Here.” She handed both agents a copy of the document. “I’ll be in touch. Any questions?”

“Just one,” Bo said. “Is Chris Manning still in charge of the FLOTUS detail?” He used the common acronym for the First Lady of the United States.

“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”