The Devil's bed

That afternoon, Nurse Rivera urged him out of bed and sent him walking. Bo’s leg was sore from the kick Moses had delivered, his back ached from the knife wound, and his left arm throbbed. But he was glad to be up and moving. He walked from one end of the hallway to the other. Agent Salone was on duty, monitoring the activity on the floor. Other agents were posted downstairs. Although Bo’s injuries weren’t critical, the decision had been made to keep him in Trauma ICU along with Tom Jorgenson and Chris Manning so that security was easier. He was on his third round when Salone called to him, “Thorsen, Dreamcatcher’s on her way up.”

He never knew when Kate was coming. Secret Service varied her visits, the time of day, the length, to keep things unpredictable. Bo returned to his room as quickly as he could and checked himself in his bathroom mirror. It was ridiculous, he knew, but he found himself eager for her visits and always a little nervous. She came, of course, to see her father, but she always dropped in to talk with Bo awhile. Her visits had become the highlight of his days.

Through his door, he watched the First Lady step into her father’s room. She glanced his way, and she waved and smiled just before she vanished.

A little while later Earl, all awkward motion and big grins, bounced into Bo’s room.

“Hi, Bo.”

“Hey, Earl. How you doing?”

“I’m real good. I’m real good.” Earl had taken a deep interest in Bo’s injuries and checked the scabbed wound on his forearm whenever he visited. “Does it still hurt?”

“They give me pills that keep it from hurting too much.”

Earl seemed to think that sounded fine. “Can they give Katie some pills? She hurts an awful lot, Bo. She cries all the time, and I don’t understand. Dad’s better now.”

“People hurt in lots of ways and for lots of reasons, Earl. Sometimes the wounds don’t show.”

Earl looked at him without fully comprehending. “I’m going home today.” He was talking about returning to the group home in St. Paul.

“You like it there?” Bo asked.

“Oh yeah. My friends are there.”

“Good, Earl. I’m happy for you.”

“Bye,” Earl said.

“Bye,” Bo echoed.

In parting, Earl squeezed Bo’s hand like he was crushing a rock.

Nearly an hour after she’d arrived at ICU, the First Lady stood in Bo’s doorway. She was dressed for the summer heat, in a light cotton skirt, a sleeveless yellow blouse, sandals. Her gold hair was pulled back casually, held by some clasp he couldn’t see. At the sight of her, Bo felt a little stumble of his heart.

“How’s your father this morning?” he asked.

“Good. He slept well. He tells me you drop by now and again to say hello. He appreciates that, Bo. So do I.”

“He’s good company. I get bored easily around here.”

“Maybe I can help with that.” She offered him a gift that was wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with a blue bow. “I wasn’t sure in what direction your tastes might run. I hope I guessed correctly.”

He undid the tissue and found a book.

“I considered getting you crossword puzzles,” she said.

“I’d rather read.”

The book wasThe Witness of Combinesby an author named Kent Meyers.

“It’s about a young man on a farm who’s forced to grow up too soon. Have you read it?” she asked.

“No.”

“I thought about you and that farm you spent some time on when you were younger. I thought maybe you’d appreciate the story.”

“Thank you.” He put the book on the stand beside the bed. “I still spend time at the farm occasionally. Whenever I need to get away from everything for a while and just think. It’s not that far.”

“Blue Earth, right?”

“Right.”

“And the Thorsens, are they still there?”

“Nell, yes. Harold passed away two years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

Her eyes seemed suddenly grayer and her mood as well, as if talking about the dead had saddened her. She walked away from Bo and moved nearer the window. The sun hit her at a slant. Half her body glowed, while the other half lay in shadow. “They tell me David Moses is dead.”

“They seem pretty certain.”

“I suppose I should be relieved. But all I feel is sad.”

“With something like this, it’s best to put it behind you.”

“I’m not sure I can.” She turned back to Bo. Her right hand came up, as if she meant to offer him something. “I feel so sorry for him.”

“Forgive me if I don’t grieve for the man,” Bo said.

He realized he’d spoken harshly and that he’d shattered a fragile moment between them. He wished immediately he could do something, say something that would bring back the feeling he’d had before either of them spoke about death.

“I should let you rest.” She moved toward the door.

“I’m fine.”

She smiled, but it was cordial, forced. “My daughter’s arriving from D.C. this afternoon. I want to get a few things ready for her.”

“Sure.”

“Good-bye.” She took his hand, then gave him a soft kiss on the cheek as well.

After she’d gone, he opened the book she’d given him, and he found the inscription she’d written by hand.

To Bo, my guardian angel.

I will never say a prayer of thanksgiving without your name upon my lips.

Kate