The Devil's bed

“I thought so, too. Until David…” Even in the shadow, her tears somehow managed to glisten as they rolled down her cheeks. “All those people, Bo. He killed them because of me.”

“No, he killed them because of who he was, not you.”

“It feels like it’s my fault.” She bent her head, and her shoulders shook as she wept.

Bo went to her, took her in his arms, and held her. He laid his cheek against her hair and closed his eyes. He felt an ache himself, as if her pain were his own. He wished he could make her hurt go away, that somehow he had the power to absolve her. And he knew that he loved her. He knew it beyond all doubt.

She drew away. Her nose was running, and she wiped at it with the back of her hand. “What do you do with a confession like this, Bo?”

“I’m trained to keep secrets.”

She reached up and touched his cheek. “Whenever you’re with me, I feel safe.” She stood on her toes and gently kissed his lips.

“Thank you.”

The door of the guesthouse opened again, and this time the dark form of the agent there came forward.

“It’s late,” Bo said.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Dinner.”

“I’ll be here.”

She left him. Bo watched her disappear into the shade of the porch. He saw her once more briefly in the light as she opened the door and stepped inside.

“Thorsen.” It was Stan Calloway who, in the absence of Chris Manning, now headed the FLOTUS detail. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? My God, that’s the president’s wife. We’ve got that kiss on tape.”

Bo knew Calloway from his days in D.C. A good agent. A little humorless, but solid in the right ways.

“The kiss wasn’t my idea, Stan.”

Calloway put a hand to his forehead. “Jesus, what am I supposed to do with this?”

Bo reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys. “Do whatever you feel you have to do with it. I’m going home.”

Calloway took his arm and held him back a moment. “A lot of people are looking up to you right now, Thorsen. Don’t blow it.”

Bo glared at Calloway’s hand until the grip was released. He said, “Good night, Stan.”

He got in his car, drove home to Tangletown, and readied himself for bed. Then he sat at the window in the dark, trying to find a place inside himself to lock away what he felt. It was too big, this affection. It was way out of hand. What not long before had been only a pleasant conceit was suddenly something with substance, real enough to cause him trouble. What was the point? He had Kate’s confidence, but he could never have her love. And even if by some miracle she were to feel the same way, what could she do? She was not just a married woman. She was the First Lady.

“Christ, Bo, you’ve done it this time,” he whispered.

chapter thirty-two

It was well after dark by the time Clay Dixon returned to the White House. In the last forty-eight hours, he’d been to Atlanta, Miami, New Orleans, Houston, Dallas, and Oklahoma City, trying to drum up votes and campaign contributions for himself and the party candidates in those constituencies. He was tired, but he felt energized, as he usually did after working crowds. He loved that part of his job. He went directly to the Residence on the second floor of the White House. Although it was late, he decided to call Wildwood. He missed his daughter. And he missed his wife. He longed to have Kate back, to be able to talk with her about the campaign swing and how good he felt. Love was more about quiet things than about bedroom noise. It was something he’d always known, but he was feeling it deep down now where the real truths resided.

Annie told him that Kate wasn’t there. She was out looking at the moon. She’d have Kate call him back when she returned.

Dixon hung up feeling unaccountably anxious. He was tired, and knew he should go to bed. But he wanted to wait for Kate’s call. If it came. She was still angry with him. She’d made that clear in the few conversations they’d had recently. He thought about the report Lorna Channing had prepared, and that got him to thinking about one of its chief proponents, Bobby Lee. And thinking about Bobby got him to wondering what his friend had been able to scrape together on whatever it was that Senator William Dixon might be up to.

The phone rang. Kate, he thought happily.

“Mr. President, John Llewellyn is on the line for you.”

“Put him on.”

“Mr. President, I apologize for disturbing you at such a late hour,” Llewellyn said.

“No problem, John. Where are you?”

“In the West Wing, in my office.”

“Working late.”

“Mr. President, FBI Assistant Director Arthur Lugar is with me.”

Dixon heard the tension in John Llewellyn’s voice. “What is it?”

“It’s about Bob Lee, sir.”

His first thought wasscandal. But he knew Bobby Lee, and he’d never known a more decent man. “What about him?”

“Sir, he’s dead.”