The Devil's bed

Twenty minutes later, Bo sat down at the table in the library of the guesthouse. Manning and his people, Stu Coyote, and the agents on the duty roster for the Op Center that day were all there. Manning began the briefing by explaining the incident at the hospital. He nodded in Bo’s direction, and his lips twitched in a way that was almost a smile. “Agent Thorsen, our own Oliver Stone, has scripted a conspiracy. He believes that the tractor accident wasn’t, in fact, an accident. And I’m guessing he believes that what occurred last night is somehow related to-what is it, Thorsen? An assassination plot?”

“I believe, Chris, that more may be going on than is apparent to us at this time.”

Any hint of a smile left Manning’s face. “Let’s assume for the moment what Agent Thorsen believes is true. This means that whenever the First Lady is in proximity to her father, we all need to be especially vigilant. Is that understood?”

“We should inform the First Lady,” Bo said.

“Absolutely not. No one’s going to mention a thing to her. She has enough to worry about.”

“Additional security for Tom Jorgenson would be appropriate.”

“Not our jurisdiction. Former vice presidents don’t get our protection.”

“Listen, Chris, if there’s even a remote possibility that I might be right-”

“Is there anyone here who feels as Agent Thorsen does?” Manning looked around the table. Not even Stu Coyote rose to Bo’s defense. Manning again addressed Bo. “I’m willing, for the sake of the First Lady’s safety, to grant you some leeway here and to take precautions as far as she’s concerned. But our responsibility ends there. Yourresponsibility ends there. If you lose your focus on the security here, I will have you removed from this detail. Do you understand? Now, you indicated you sometimes put agents in the orchard to patrol the perimeter.”

“Yes.”

“Do it,” Manning said.

During the rest of the briefing, Bo spoke no more about his concern. Afterward, Stu Coyote pulled him aside. “Sorry, Bo. Manning’s a jerkoff, but he’s right.”

“No,” Bo said. “I may be wrong, but Manning’s not right. Tom Jorgenson needs protection.”

The First Lady and Annie headed to the hospital at 10:00A.M. Shortly after that, Bo directed Jake Russell to take charge of the Op Center, then he went to see the Washington County sheriff. Doug Quinn-Gruber repeated what Manning had reported.

“Which stairwell was O’Meara found in?” Bo asked.

“South. Between the third and fourth floors.”

“That means O’Meara fell down the stairs from the fourth floor. That’s where Jorgenson’s room is,” Bo pointed out. “South wing.”

“And geriatrics, where Mr. Cooper is a patient, is on the third floor, south wing. Look, Bo, it all fits. The marbles. Mr. Cooper. Nobody saw anything unusual. And I got a call from the medical examiner a little while ago. O’Meara’s broken neck and other injuries are consistent with a fall down the stairs. Look, if someone were going to kill Tom Jorgenson, why not just kill him? Why kill the guard?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because this is Tom Jorgenson, I’ve been trying to keep an open mind. But there continues to be no concrete evidence of an assault, or even a motive for one. Still, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll put a deputy outside his hospital room, at least until we’re absolutely certain there’s nothing funny going on. How’s that?”

“Fair enough, Doug.”

“Detective Timmons is checking a few other possibilities. If he comes up with anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.”

Before leaving the sheriff’s office, Bo got an address for Maria Rivera, the head nurse in ICU the night before. She lived in a town house in one of the new subdivisions of Stillwater. Although it was a little past noon when he rang her doorbell, Bo was concerned that, because of her late working hours, she might still be sleeping. He needn’t have worried. When Maria Rivera opened the door, she looked as if she hadn’t been able to sleep at all.

“You’re Secret Service,” she said, squinting at him in the sunlight. She wore a white terry cloth robe, no slippers. Her black hair, streaked with silver, was unbrushed.

“Yes, I spoke with you yesterday afternoon,” Bo said.

“What do you want?”

“To ask a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

She stood aside and let him in.

It was a clean, well-kept home. White carpeting, vacuumed. Nice light-maple furniture. A new sofa, pastel floral design. A crucifix carved of dark wood hung prominently on one wall. Atop a bookcase sat framed photographs of what Bo imagined were children and grandchildren. In the center was a photo of a younger Maria Rivera with a handsome Hispanic man. They were smiling happily.

She saw Bo noticing. “My husband, Carlos. He passed away two years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He is in God’s hands now.”

As Bo had noticed the previous afternoon, she spoke with a slight accent. “I’d like to ask about last night,” he told her.

“I feel terrible. I should have insisted Mr. Cooper be restrained.”

“Did you see Mr. Cooper last night?”

“No. But often we don’t. He’s so quiet, like a cat. For an old man, so quick.”