The Devil's bed

Bo lay down on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. Jonetta Jackson. Hamilton Gaines. William Dixon. These were people who, in the service of their country, had placed their lives in jeopardy. They deserved to be honored. Yet they were involved in an organization that was not at all what it seemed and that may have been responsible for the murder of Robert Lee. To what end did they betray their honor, if indeed betrayal it was?

That was a question Bo couldn’t answer, but he was pretty certain he knew who could. He used the hotel phone, called Northwest Airlines, and made a reservation on a flight the next morning that would take him back to Minnesota. Then he picked upThe Testament of Timeand began to read.

chapter thirty-seven

As the 747 dropped low over the Minnesota River valley and Bo saw the wetlands sliding beneath him, he was, as always, happy to be home. He took a shuttle to the remote lot where he’d parked his car and from there drove directly to the St. Croix Regional Medical Center in Stillwater. It was late morning when he arrived. Tom Jorgenson was awake. The stroke had left him weakened, particularly on the right side of his body, but no permanent damage had been done. He greeted Bo with a smile, albeit a lopsided one. The black around his eyes that the E.R. doctor had called battle signs had faded to the point where the shadows simply made him look exhausted.

“Invitation to the White House,” Jorgenson said. He spoke slowly.

Bo sat down beside the bed. “I’ve been there a lot of times, but never as a guest.”

“How’s Clay?”

“I’d say he’s having a tough time right now.”

Jorgenson nodded gravely.

Bo held up the copy of Jorgenson’s autobiography that he’d purchased in D.C. “A fine book, Tom. Just finished rereading most of it.”

“Nothing better to do?”

“I was especially intrigued with the section in which you discuss your experience on the U.S.S. Indianapolisduring World War Two. When it was torpedoed and sank, nearly a thousand men went into the ocean, is that correct?”

“Nine hundred.”

“Without lifeboats, food, or water. After four days, after countless shark attacks, after the effects of exposure, only what, three hundred survived? It must have been a nightmare.”

“It was hell.”

“In the book, you blame the military command. A Japanese submarine was in the area, but that information was never communicated to the ship’s captain. After the torpedoes hit, the ship’s distress signal was ignored. And nobody seemed to notice or to care that theIndianapoliswas long overdue for docking.”

Jorgenson shook his head. “Criminal neglect.”

“You were bitter.”

“A waste of fine men.”

“Still bitter?”

Jorgenson seemed surprised by the question. “What are you getting at?”

“Do you know a man named Hamilton Gaines?”

Jorgenson’s eyes, only tired before, grew wary.

“Now there’s a man with plenty of reason to be bitter,” Bo said.

“Senator William Dixon, too. What do you suppose men like that do to deal with all that bitterness? Do they maybe find ways to get even?”

Jorgenson waited. “Some of them,” he finally replied.

“Not all?”

Jorgenson shook his head. “Not all.”

Bo leaned over the edge of the bed. “Tell me about NOMan.”

Jorgenson didn’t reply.

“Did you know that while you were in a coma, Hamilton Gaines was here, asking questions about you?”

Jorgenson’s face, already the color of biscuit dough, went even whiter.

“That’s right,” Bo said. “What do you suppose that was about? Could it be NOMan was afraid that in your weakened state you might give away secrets?”

Bo moved even closer, so that as he spoke his breath rippled the casing of the pillow.

“Don’t play dumb, Tom. You cosponsored the legislation that created NOMan. You and I both know that what NOMan appears to be and what it is are two very different things. NOMan scares me. And looking at you right now, I’m guessing it scares you, too. Talk to me.”

Jorgenson closed his eyes. “I don’t know anything.”

“NOMan assassinated Robert Lee.”

The blue eyes opened a crack.

“I’m certain of it, Tom. I just don’t know why. I think more people are going to die, but unless I can figure NOMan’s motive, I don’t know who those people are or how to help them. I need answers and I need them now.”

Jorgenson spoke in a voice quieter than could be accounted for by his weakness alone. “I can’t help. NOMan and I parted ways a long time ago.”

“Tell me about that.”

Jorgenson stared at the ceiling.

“Please,” Bo said.

Jorgenson finally gave an almost imperceptible nod. “NOMan. Woody Gass loved that name. You know your Greek mythology, Bo? The Cyclops Polyphemus demands to know the name of the man who outwitted him. Odysseus replies, ‘No man.’ Gass loved the idea of a normal man defeating a giant.”

“For Gass, what giant?”