The Devil's bed

Camera eight, mounted on the north side of the main house, went dead as Bo was studying the fax. He left the Op Center to check it out. A squirrel lay on the ground directly beneath the camera, stunned but not dead. It had happened before. For God knew what reason, the squirrels liked to chew on the camera cables. When they bit through the insulation, they shorted out the connection and zapped themselves in the process. He’d suggested to the Jorgensons that something be done to get rid of the squirrels, but they rejected the idea. The squirrels, Annie pointed out, were there long before the Jorgensons. Bo radioed to the Op Center and said he’d fix the cable himself. He spent half an hour installing new wire. In the meantime, the squirrel staggered to its feet and stumbled off into the orchard.

Bo had just finished and was folding up the ladder when Diana Ishimaru drove up and parked in front of the guesthouse. Jake Russell followed in his own car. Bo hung the ladder in the barn, then headed to the Op Center, where he found his boss, Manning, and Russell in conference.

“A change of plan, Bo,” Ishimaru said when he joined them. “I’m pulling you off Wildwood. Agent Russell will be assuming responsibility for the Op Center.”

“Why?” Bo asked.

“I’m reassigning you.”

“To what?”

“Investigating Tom Jorgenson’s accident.”

Bo glanced at Manning, who gave no sign of how he felt about this turn of events. “I thought we’d agreed that wasn’t our jurisdiction.”

Ishimaru replied, “When the director of the United States Secret Service calls us personally and gives an order, we find a way to make it our jurisdiction.”

Bo thought about Annie’s final comment as he left the main house late that afternoon: You don’t know Kate. It was true. He didn’t know Kathleen Jorgenson Dixon. But he was beginning to.

“While the First Lady is at Wildwood, any concern regarding Tom Jorgenson’s safety is to be viewed as a concern that involves the First Lady’s safety as well.”

“When do I start?” Bo asked.

“Immediately.”

Russell offered his hand. “Good luck, Bo.”

“Thanks.” Bo flashed Manning a brief smile. “Looks like you got your wish, Chris. I’m out of here.”

“Looks like you got yours, too,” Manning said.

Bo gathered his things. Diana Ishimaru accompanied him to his car.

“Are you okay with this, Bo?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll be working with Sheriff Quinn-Gruber. He’s been notified. If any jurisdictional disputes arise, direct them to me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was almost dark. The yard light was on. Ishimaru stood near Bo, and she shook her head. “I don’t like this feeling that I’m authorizing a wild goose chase.”

“Things don’t add up, Diana. Somebody should be finding out why.”

She took a deep breath of resignation. “Keep me posted,” she said as she turned to her car.

Bo went directly from Wildwood to the St. Croix Regional Medical Center. It was 10:30P.M., and a security guard was locking the front doors. Bo flashed his Secret Service ID and was allowed to enter. The guard relocked the doors behind him.

“The First Lady’s not coming tonight, is she?” the guard asked. His name badge read: H. BLOCK.

“No. I’m checking on another matter. Mind if I head down to the laundry?”

“Be my guest. I’m closing up shop here and going down to the E.R. station. If you need me, that’s where I’ll be. My partner’s finishing his rounds.”

Bo took the elevator to the basement and followed the tunnel to the laundry building. The lights were on, but the laundry was deserted. Bo remembered that Ableman made a final trip to gather soiled linen near the end of the shift, so he waited. The laundry seemed a harsh place. The machines were huge, and the fluorescent lights glinted off the metal with a sterile gleam. The linen-folding tables were empty. They reminded Bo of rows of autopsy tables. The ceilings were high and full of pipes. The whole place had a cold industrial feel.

The laundry elevator began to climb from the basement. Bo waited. But it wasn’t Ableman pushing the cart that emerged. This man was older and heavier. He stooped in his labor, and he eyed Bo with a sour look. “Who’re you? What’re you doing here?”

Bo offered his ID. “I’m looking for Max Ableman.”

“Makes two of us.” The man pushed the cart past Bo.

“I thought he worked evenings,” Bo said, following.

“I thought so, too. Guess maybe he thinks different. Didn’t show, didn’t call. If I didn’t need him so bad, I’d fire his ass.” He positioned the cart between two big washers.

“Did you try calling him?”

“Hell, yes. No answer.” He was wearing yellow rubber gloves, and he began to reach into the cart and sort out linen into different machines. Some of it was blue surgical linen heavily bloodstained and still wet. Some of it was bedding, badly soiled. The strong smell of blood and human waste rose from the cart, and Bo could understand why the job was a hard one to hire for and to keep filled.

“Has he pulled this kind of stunt before?” Bo asked.