The Devil's bed

He accompanied her down the hall to the master bedroom of the presidential suite. Inside, she continued toward the dressing room. Dixon followed but hung back at the doorway, watching as she opened a bureau drawer and began to gather a few things.

“Do we need to talk some more?” he asked.

“I don’t know what else there is to say.”

“That you understand would be good. You haven’t said that yet.”

She bowed her head, thought, then turned to him. “Do you remember the night Alan Carpathian came down to the ranch and asked you to run for governor?”

“Of course.”

“We sat on the porch until midnight, the three of us, drinking scotch.”

“We talked until sunup. You were on Alan’s side. You encouraged me to run, Kate.”

“I couldn’t stand watching you mope. When you retired from football you were lost.”

“That night on the porch you said I could do great things.”

“And you saidwecould do great things. That you wouldn’t do anything unless we did it together, remember?”

“I remember.”

“Four years ago when Alan finally convinced you to run for the White House, I thought we made the same deal.”

“Things have changed. Alan’s gone. I have other advisers now. Rooms full of them.”

“Your father’s people.”

“They know what they’re doing.”

“Do they? It was on their advice you ambushed Wayne White.”

“It wasn’t an ambush. It was a political maneuver.”

“Dredging up an allegation twenty years old? Anybody who knows Wayne White’s history knows that his wife was an alcoholic then. What the truth of the incident really was, God only knows. The woman has passed away and can’t help her husband refute the sordid aspects of the story. And Wayne White, God bless him, is too fine a man to defend himself by sullying her memory. All very convenient for you. And I love how the information just happened into the hands of a tabloid. And that awful picture of her with the bruises. My God, where did that come from?”

“Nothing that came out wasn’t the truth. And it’s not as if Wayne White isn’t above a little slander himself. I quote, ‘It’s hard to believe this nation has chosen as its leader a gridiron gorilla who barely made it through college.’”

“There was a time when you thought ‘gridiron gorilla’ was a compliment. And it’s true that you were no scholar. Besides, Wayne White said those things long before he put his hat in the ring. He’s been quite civil since.” She turned back to the bureau. Her hands moved quickly, selecting then discarding with an angry motion. “Your father was the architect of all this duplicity. But you, you’re worse because you pretend you’re not like him. I think you even believe it.”

Dixon quit the dressing room and walked to a small rosewood table near the window where he kept a decanter of sherry. He poured himself a glass.

“Tell me something,” she said, her voice coming disembodied from the dressing room.

“Anything.”

“During the primaries, when opponents in his own party questioned Wayne White’s war record, did the senator have a hand in that? Did he feed the information?”

“That’s a crazy question.”

“Is it? After what’s happened, I don’t think so. The senator seems to know anything bad about anybody. Was he already at work trying to torpedo the man’s campaign, even then?”

“There was good reason to doubt the congressman’s claims about his military service.”

She stepped into the bedroom, looking stunned. “You knew.”

“The questions that were raised were reasonable questions.”

“They were inflammatory. My God, Clay.”

“What would you have me do?”

“A public confession would be good for starters.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Maybe I’ll leave you instead.” She vanished into the dressing room again.

“Walk out on me? Because we disagree on tactics?”

“Because I don’t like who you’ve become. And because I hate being used.”

“Used?”

She came back out, clutching a handful of clothing. “Do you have any idea how hard it was for me sitting there tonight, keeping my mouth shut while you postured and looked so full of integrity. The perfect First Family.”

He sipped his sherry. “Why didn’t you say something? You certainly had the chance.”

“Because despite everything, I still love you. I keep hoping there’s a way to salvage something of who you used to be.”

“I am who I’ve always been.”

She stared at him, her face pallid and disappointed. “This is just another game to you, isn’t it? You have to win no matter what. You know, I’m beginning to wonder if you’ve sold your soul, maybe the soul of this nation, just because you never got a Super Bowl ring.” She looked at the clothing crumpled in her hand and shook her head. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

“Lorna Channing’s finishing her report. Would you like to see it?”

She hesitated, almost taking the bait. Then she said, “I don’t care anymore.”

Dixon moved to the bedroom doorway and stood, barring her way for a moment. “Sleeping in the Lincoln Bedroom again?”

“I used to sleep in a great man’s bed. I want to remember what that was like.” She glared at him until he stepped aside. Then she walked down the center hall and never looked back.