The Devil's bed

The woman who stepped out after Manning, Bo had met only once in person, when she was seventeen. During all the operations Bo had overseen at Wildwood, Kathleen Jorgenson Dixon had been absent, either in Colorado as the state’s First Lady or in Washington, D.C., bearing the same title for the nation. He’d seen the family pictures, of course, framed inside the Jorgenson house, and along with most other Americans, he’d been treated to more than enough television, magazine, and newspaper coverage to know the basics of her life story. It was of a vivacious young woman, always smiling, eyes bright, raised in an international arena. There were pictures of the Jorgensons in Paris, Rome, London, Amsterdam, many posed with leaders of great renown. In them, Kate Jorgenson, the oldest of the children, usually stood holding hands with her sister, Ruth, and her brother, Earl.

Kate had grown into a Nordic beauty, tall, large-boned, blonde, with striking gray eyes. Although Bo had always been impressed with her composure and with the strength of her character, when he saw her emerge from the limousine, it was, much to his own chagrin, her long and slender legs that he noted. He considered wryly whether this might somehow be a breach of his patriotic duty.

“Aunt Annie.” The First Lady sounded near tears.

“It’s all right, Katie,” Annie Jorgenson said as they hugged. “We’re all together now. It will be okay.”

“He looks so broken.”

“Come on in, sweetheart, and we’ll get you settled. Then, if you’d like, we’ll go back and see him together.”

Two more agents stepped from the Town Car, along with a woman whom Bo knew from report and reputation, Nicole Greene, who functioned as the First Lady’s communications director.

“Agent Aguilera,” Manning instructed one of his team, a tall woman, “you’re with the First Lady. Gooden, give a hand with the luggage.” He turned, finally, to Bo. “I’ve been in communication with Diana Ishimaru in the Minneapolis office. She indicated you have the Operations Center ready.”

“The guesthouse,” Bo replied, pointing toward the maples. “We’ve checked the security cameras and radio equipment. We still need a frequency cleared for emergency communication, but we should have that momentarily.”

“Good,” Manning replied with a nod.

Stu Coyote, who’d driven one of the Regals, joined them. “County deputies are stationed at the entrance to Wildwood. State patrol’s assigned us these two units for the duration of the First Lady’s visit.” He indicated the burgundy-and-tan patrol cars. “Anywhere she goes, they clear the way.”

Manning said, “We’re going to try to limit her traveling to between Wildwood and the hospital. According to the contingency report I have, there’s only one main road to Stillwater.”

“The St. Croix Trail. The road we just traveled,” Coyote said. “That’s it.”

“I don’t like the idea of keeping to a single route.” Although his words betrayed concern, Manning’s face didn’t show it. “Show me the Op Center. Carter, Searson, Jones,” he called to the other agents. “Get your things.”

Bo led him to the guesthouse. On the lawn in front, secured to a concrete slab as if it were being held captive, stood a huge, twisted sculpture of stainless steel. As they passed the polished metal, a blast of reflected sunlight blinded Manning, and he lifted his hands to block the glare.

“Jesus, what the hell is that?”

“Don’t you recognize great art when you see it, Chris?” Bo said. “That’s a bona fide masterpiece, or so I’ve been told. The guesthouse used to be the studio for Tom Jorgenson’s infamous brother, Roland. A true eccentric, from what I understand. Died twenty years ago in a car accident. Drove his Porsche into a tree. Created his final sculpture, a heap of metal with him at the heart. Goddesshere is the only piece left at Wildwood. Everything else is in museums.”

“Goddess?”Manning said. “My ass.”

Bo shared the lack of enthusiasm. The sculpture was a wild thing that gave the feel of monstrous forces barely contained. The polished steel itself was beautiful, but to Bo it had always seemed like a dream that had been warped by a dark subconscious into a nightmare.

“You learn to ignore it,” Bo said and led Manning inside.

Bo briefed him on the layout and the bedrooms. Manning made assignments for his team. Then they went down to the Op Center, where Bo’s people were already at work. Manning checked the sweep of the cameras. “Nothing that looks beyond the buildings,” he said. “At night, you could hide an army in those orchards.”

“We have motion detectors and motion-activated cameras on the wall around the orchard,” Bo told him. “During periods of heightened security, I have agents patrolling the perimeter around the clock.”

“What about the river bluff?” Manning said. “No wall there.”

“Tom Jorgenson won’t let anything ruin the view of the river. We’ve had to settle for mobile tripods that we set up each time we come out.”

“How about duty shifts?”