The Devil's bed

Robert Lee had loved to sail. For twenty years, every Saturday that he could slip away, he’d taken his sailboat out onto Chesapeake Bay and spent the day cutting across salt water. Often his sons went with him, but that summer they were both gone, counselors at a camp in the Blue Ridge. Maggie, his wife, was prone to seasickness. So lately, Robert Lee had been sailing alone.

According to the only eyewitness, Lee had been in a small, isolated inlet on the sound of the Choptank River. It was early evening. The wind had shifted. The boom, as it swung around, caught Lee squarely on the side of his head, and he went overboard. The eyewitness sailed immediately to that location, but Bobby Lee had already gone under.

Divers from the Talbot County Sheriff’s Department had been called out. They arrived near twilight and began a search for the body, which they quickly found. It took them a bit more time to make the ID, to be certain that Robert Lee, to whom the sailboat was registered, was also the drowned man. The FBI had been notified immediately.

“Is the eyewitness reliable?” Clay Dixon asked. He sat in John Llewellyn’s office with Llewellyn and the assistant director of the

FBI.

“Former ATF agent, sir,” Arthur Lugar replied. “Received a citation as a result of Waco. A longtime sailor. Totally reliable.”

“Does Bobby’s family know?”

“Not yet, Mr. President.”

“How about the media?”

“We haven’t released any information.”

“Can you wait until morning?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said to the assistant director in a tone that indicated they were finished for the moment. “I want to be kept apprised of your investigation.”

“Of course,” Lugar said, and he rose to leave.

When they were alone, Dixon said to Llewellyn, “I’ll need new counsel.”

“Why don’t you go with Ned Shackleford? He’s always been Bobby’s right hand.”

Dixon knew he was shoving his feelings down, pushing the grief to the back while he dealt with the business of keeping things under control, making sure his administration moved forward whatever the circumstances. Nonetheless, he felt a deep emptiness in his heart and a profound absence at his side. As soon as he was certain everything was in order, he would allow himself to grieve long and hard for his friend Bobby Lee.

“Did you tell my father?”

“I’ve told no one but you, sir.”

“Good. I’d like to be alone for a while, John.”

“Certainly, Mr. President.”

Dixon rubbed his eyes, feeling more tired than he’d ever been. “Don’t say anything to the press. I’d like to make the call to Bobby’s wife myself. And one more thing. Let me tell the senator in my own way.”

“Whatever you prefer.”

When Llewellyn had gone, the president lifted his phone and spoke to the White House operator. “Get me Lorna Channing. If she’s not in her office, try her cell phone.”

“Oh, Clay. I’m so sorry.”

Lorna Channing put her arms around Dixon and held him for a moment. They were alone in the president’s study in the Executive Residence. She’d come immediately after she’d received his call.

“It’s such a terrible thing. Such a tragic accident.”

He spoke against her cheek. “It wasn’t an accident, Lorna.”

She leaned away from him and looked into his face.

“I’d asked Bobby to keep an eye on my father. The old bastard’s up to something. Next thing I know, Bobby’s dead. It’s no coincidence.”

“You’re saying your father is responsible?”

“I’m not sure what I’m saying.” He went to the phone. “Get me Senator Dixon.” A moment later he said, “Thank you.” He put the call on speakerphone so Lorna could hear.

“Mr. President, it’s late.” It was the tone of a tired, grumpy father.

“I know, Dad. I just got some terrible news. Bobby’s dead.”

There was a pause at the other end.

“Lee? How?”

“An accident.”

“I’m sorry, son. I know how close you two were.” There was the squeak of bedsprings, the rustle of linen. “Have you thought who’ll replace him?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“The choice seems obvious to me. Shackleford.”

“John thought the same thing.”

“Good. Then we’re on the same page. Does Lee’s family know?”

“Not yet.”

“Tragic business,” the senator said. There was the sound of scratching, the flare of a match, the old man’s huffed breath as he lit a cigar. “Shackleford will do just fine.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“’Night, Clayboy. Get some rest. I reckon you’ll need it.”

When the call was ended, the President looked at Lorna Channing.

“Ned Shackleford,” he said. “There’s our leak. Jesus, when did he go over to their side?”

“Your father already knew about Bobby,” she said. “Even I could hear it in his voice.”

Dixon nodded. “How do you suppose that came to be?”

“He heard it on the news?”

“The press hasn’t been informed yet.”

“Llewellyn?”

“He promised to say nothing.”

“Maybe he broke his promise.”

“Or never intended to keep it in the first place.” All the possibilities seemed dark in his thinking. “Could it be they both knew about it, knew even before it happened?”