The Devil's bed

“Otter, you mind if I sleep here for a while? Then I’ll figure things out.”

Otter waved toward the only bed.“Mi casaissu casa.”

“I owe you,” Bo said.

“It never worked that way, and it never will. Sleep, Spider-Man. I’ll stand watch.”

Bo laid himself out on the rumpled sheets of Otter’s bed and was asleep almost immediately.

Bo came out of his dreaming as if he’d been yanked. He grabbed the hand that had been laid on his arm.

“Take it easy, Spider-Man. It’s just me.”

Bo stared into Otter’s face.

“You were having a nightmare,” Otter said.

Bo released his grip and relaxed back down onto the mattress.

“You okay?” Otter asked.

“What time is it?”

“Almost four.”

“I didn’t sleep long.”

“Four in the afternoon.”

Bo realized that sunlight lit the opaque basement windows. Otter had put a fan on a chair, and it blew damp, basement-smelling air across the bed. The current also carried the aroma of coffee.

Otter sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. He studied Bo for a minute, then he said, “They’re looking for you. It’s all over the news.”

Bo sat up. “Have they been here?”

“Relax. You’re safe.”

“What are they saying?”

“‘Famous Secret Service agent wanted for questioning in the shooting death of his boss.’ There are reports of a fight yesterday in your field office.”

“Fight? I barely raised my voice.”

“I’m just telling you what they’re saying on the news.”

A knock at the door made them both fall silent. Otter motioned Bo toward the small bathroom. Bo slipped in and closed the door. He listened, but all he could hear was the low murmur of voices.

Otter tapped at the bathroom door. “You can come out now, Spider-Man. The coast is clear.” When Bo stepped out, Otter said, “That was Sandie Herron from the church office. She asked me to help her with a computer problem.”

“Do you know anything about computers?” Bo asked.

“Not much.” Otter smiled shyly. “I think she likes me.”

Bo came back with a grin of his own. “Well, good for you, Otter. Sandie, huh? Nice name.”

After Otter had gone, Bo put some toothpaste from the bathroom cabinet on his finger and did a quick rub of his teeth. He poured himself coffee from the electric percolator, opened one of the windows a crack, and peeked out at the sunlight. The wet smell of the earth near the window was the only evidence of the heavy rain the night before. He couldn’t see much. An old Victorian home across the empty parking lot. Patches of blue sky between big elms. Probably a lot like the small square of the world a prisoner would see from the window of his cell.

Bo turned on Otter’s radio alarm clock and tuned in KSTP, a Twin Cities all-news station. He sipped his coffee and didn’t have to wait long before a report about Ishimaru came on. It didn’t sound good. Nor did it look good, him dropping off the face of the earth while he was being sought “for questioning.”

He wondered if he should try to contact Lorna Channing. The slip of paper with her number on it was in the clothing he’d left at Ishimaru’s place. Any attempt to go through White House communications would end up with Secret Service involved. And maybe NOMan. As well informed as NOMan seemed to be, he couldn’t even be certain that using the code name Peter Parker would be safe.

He had to think, to sort everything out.

Someone had tried to kill him, probably because of his investigation into Robert Lee’s death. He was pretty sure that the someone was NOMan. But what was the broader picture? What specifically had Lee’s probing, and now Bo’s, threatened? Uncovering the connection between NOMan and Senator Dixon was too simple a reason in itself, and too simply explained if brought to light. There was something darker in the works, something that questions, any questions at this point, might jeopardize. But what was that something?

In half an hour, Otter was back. He knocked and announced himself. When he came into the room, he said, “I’ve been thinking, Spider-Man. These NOMan people, they seem to know what you’re up to. That means that they probably know who you’ve talked to, right?” Otter poured himself some coffee. “I’m wondering about Tom Jorgenson. I mean, if he knows things and talked to you, wouldn’t they want to shut him up?” Otter sipped from his cup. “He’s got Secret Service and all, but they don’t know about NOMan.”

“Jesus,” Bo said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“The last few hours haven’t been exactly normal for you.”

“I need to call the field office.”

“If you call from here, won’t they trace it?”

“I need wheels.”

Otter hesitated. “Well, the church has a van. And I know where they keep the keys.”

He called from a phone booth outside a liquor store at the intersection of two busy streets, Snelling and University. When Linda Armstrong, the receptionist, answered, Bo said, “Who’s in charge there, Linda?”

“Bo?”

“Who’s in charge?”

She hesitated a long time, as if she were debating answering at all. “Assistant Director Malone, for the moment.”

“Any of our people around?”