The Devil's bed

Bo took a good ten minutes to make his way up the slope, fighting through a tangle of undergrowth. As he drew nearer, he saw that the freeze and thaw of a lot of winters had created deep fractures in the outcropping. The ground around the base was littered with talus, great chunks of stone that had broken away from the main body of the rock. By the time he stood on the flat top of the outcropping, he was sweating heavily and breathing hard. He stood looking across the river at Wildwood, and he allowed himself a moment of triumph. He was certain this was the place.

Many pieces had to come together in his thinking. There was what he believed about NOMan, that for whatever reason the organization was intent on assassinating the First Lady and that Tom Jorgenson was probably a target as well. There was the information given by Moses about the weaponry he’d been forced to handle, the sniper rifle, the. 308 Winchester rounds, and the Trijicon scope. With. 308 loads, the M40A1 would be effective to a range of a thousand yards. Although he didn’t have a range finder with him, Bo calculated the bluffs at Wildwood to be no more than six hundred yards away. The Trijicon ACOG-Advanced Combat Optical Gunsight-was a night-vision scope with high magnification capability. It would not be difficult to sight a target on the bluffs across the river, especially in the light of a full moon. Kate had told Bo that the first thing Tom Jorgenson wanted to do when he came home to Wildwood was gather with his family on the bluff overlooking the St. Croix and watch the moon rise. For two nights, the sky had been rainy or overcast. But it was cloudless now and promised to stay that way. If someone wanted to kill Kate and her father, tonight when the moon rose would be the perfect time.

The question that lay before him now was what to do next. His instinct was to alert Calloway at Wildwood. If he was right, the Jorgensons had to be kept away from the bluffs. If he was wrong-and considering the amount of speculation involved, there was every possibility that he was-he’d just be giving them more evidence to use against him at a mental competency hearing.

What he also knew, and what was extremely troubling, was that NOMan had infiltrated most, if not all, government agencies, and the Secret Service had probably not been spared. Alerting the FLOTUS detail might also result in alerting NOMan. Bo had no idea anymore whom to trust.

It was sunny and quiet on the rock. A gentle breeze blew over the hillside from downriver, smelling vaguely of evergreen and dry prairie grass. Near the delta, a motor launch revved its engine, pulled away from where it had been anchored, and headed south with the current. Bo could hear the murmur of the Kinnickinnic as it tumbled over the last smooth boulders before it joined the St. Croix. He also was aware of voices coming from the observation platform thirty yards above him and hidden by the two spruce trees. As soon as he focused on the voices, a jolt of recognition hit him. They were male, two of them, and he’d heard them before. In O’Gara’s, offering to buy him a drink. And then on the High Bridge, coaxing him to the railing. And finally in Diana Ishimaru’s home after she’d been murdered. Between the limbs of the spruce trees, Bo could see a bit of movement on the platform. He shuffled to his right in an attempt to get a clearer view. He was perilously near the lip of the sandstone, and he could see the chunks of talus scattered below over the slope of the hillside. On the platform above him, something metal flashed in the sun. Bo edged farther to the right, desperate to see. The moment he did, he heard the sharp crack of stone. He glanced down and saw another piece of rock break away from the outcropping and plunge to join the talus below. Unfortunately, it was the piece of rock on which he stood.

chapter forty-five

The senator caned his way to a chair in the Oval Office and sat down. He wore an expensive gray suit, and he smelled of talc. He smiled like a man who’d walked into a parlor for an afternoon bourbon and a pleasant smoke.

“Glorious day, Clayboy. Makes me feel almost young again.”

Lorna Channing closed the door and positioned herself to the left of the senator. She folded her hands and waited for the president to speak.

Dixon rose from his desk and approached his father. He stood above the old man, looking down at that maddening smile.

“A few minutes ago, I spoke with John Llewellyn. I asked for his resignation.”

The senator’s smile collapsed. “You what?”

“It’s been clear to me for some time that we have many ideological differences.”

“Ideological? Ideology is for high school debates, Clayboy. This is the White House. This is the Super Bowl of politics. Here, you play to win, and winning is all that matters. Screw ideology. John Llewellyn knows politics.”

“His kind of politics. Not mine. Not anymore.”