The Devil's bed

“I don’t really remember. The lights were on, I do recall. I could see them when I stood out there in the yard. I think…” She closed her eyes and put a hand to her forehead as she concentrated. “It seems to me that it was very quiet when I got to him. So I guess the tractor was turned off. But I couldn’t really say for sure. Everything was so rushed and confused.”

“I understand, Annie.”

“Agent Thorsen.” Chris Manning’s voice brought Bo around. Manning materialized from a shadow and stood at the bottom of the porch steps. “I’m sure the First Lady and her family appreciate their privacy.”

Annie said, “That’s quite all right…Chris, isn’t it?”

“Special Agent Christopher Manning, ma’am.”

“Yes. Chris. Bo and I are old friends. He’s no intrusion.”

“Actually, Ms. Jorgenson, I need to take him from you. There are a few security issues we need to discuss.”

“Very well. ’Night, Bo.”

“Good night, ladies,” Bo said. “’Night, Earl. Say hi to Joanie Bones for me.”

“Joanie Bones,” Earl said, laughing.

Manning walked briskly toward the guesthouse. When he believed, apparently, that they were out of hearing range of the porch, he turned angrily to Bo. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“As much as possible, Agent Thorsen, we become the woodwork. We remain unobtrusive. In carrying on conversations with our protectees, we not only intrude in their affairs, but we lose our vigilance and risk their lives.”

“Look, Chris, I was just-”

“I don’t care, Thorsen. The First Lady’s safety is my responsibility. I won’t have that responsibility compromised by your incompetence. I’m noting this in my report.”

“Do what you feel you have to, Chris. You always have.”

Manning left him and went into the guesthouse.

From the dark of the porch, Annie’s voice carried to him. “Sorry, Bo.”

“No problem, Annie.”

The guesthouse door opened again, and Coyote came out. “Whoa, is he steamed. What did you do? Hit him again?”

“Let’s go to the barn, Stu,” Bo suggested. “I want to run something by you.”

They stepped into the opened doorway. The yard light cast their shadows inside where they merged with the dark of the barn.

“That Manning is some piece of work,” Coyote said.

“Forget about him. He’s just doing his job. Listen, Stu, something about Tom Jorgenson’s accident has been bugging me all day.”

“Yeah? What?”

“When the limb knocked Jorgenson from his seat, the tractor should have kept on going, but it didn’t. When Annie found him, she thinks the tractor was turned off, although she’s not absolutely certain. But suppose she’s right.”

Coyote said, “Then the question would be, if Jorgenson didn’t turn the tractor off, who did?”

“Right.”

“Does this have anything to do with the First Lady’s safety?” Coyote asked.

“Not directly. Not in any way that I can see.”

“Then forget it. Look, it’s been a long day. I’m heading home.” Coyote put a friendly hand on Bo’s shoulder. “Do me a favor, will you? Manning’s gunning for you. Don’t give him any ammunition.”

After Coyote left, Bo stood in the yard and looked toward the west. The setting moon, only a couple of days past full, cast a brilliant glow over the apple trees. He knew that Tom Jorgenson would see beauty in that bright light. Bo saw mostly advantage. It always meant that anyone moving among the orchard rows could be more easily seen.

chapter seven

When he saw the two agents head toward the barn, Nightmare switched to the camera he’d concealed in a hay bale in the loft two days earlier.

In the weeks before, access to Wildwood had been easy. The grounds were large, and unsecured. Tom Jorgenson liked to think of himself as a man of the people, and unless a dignitary was visiting, he didn’t believe in extensive security measures. Nightmare had scaled the stone wall dozens of times, coming and going in the night as he studied the layout of the buildings and the equipment the Secret Service would eventually use to create the illusion of safety. While the Jorgensons slept, or while they were absent, Nightmare had walked their rooms undetected. He felt like a ghost, and he liked the feeling. He would show them what the dead could do.

The two agents stood in the open doorway of the barn. On Nightmare’s monitor and seen through the sunglasses that he wore even in the dark, they were black shapes against the glare of the yard light. He turned up the microphone and listened as they discussed the concern of the one called Thorsen.

The tractor. It was a small detail. Why hadn’t he let it run off the cliff? The answer was simple. Too much noise. Too great an announcement of the event. Nightmare had always been an operative who appreciated the quiet and the dark. Execute and evaporate. Gone before anyone knew he’d ever been there.

But this Thorsen was observant and smart. Nightmare knew he would have to watch the man, and eliminate him if necessary. Not difficult. Nightmare had dealt with dozens like him, men who thought they were too smart to get killed.