We Know

I grabbed my left sneaker from the tub and shook it-the rattle was still there. Charlie's key. I pinched my eyes, rubbing hard. Kanji script appeared in the darkness behind my lids- Charlie's TRUST NO ONE tattoo. Okinawa. War buddies. I recalled his rasping words: I trusted Frank. I trusted him with my life.

I found a remote on the nightstand, clicked on the overhead TV. The morning news showed helicopter clips of the car chase down the 405, but only stock footage of San Onofre; the airspace over the nuclear power plant must've been cleared last night. Standing on the Culver City street where the shoot-out had taken place, the reporter didn't mention my name or Charlie's, merely claiming that a high-speed pursuit had ended in a standoff at San Onofre and that the terrorist had been killed. A whirl through other channels revealed similar footage and vagueness.

MSNBC, however, was running highlights from the presidential debate. Not surprisingly, they were largely of Senator Caruthers. Caruthers had made changes since the days Frank helped protect him. The move to Capitol Hill was the most obvious, but there were subtle refinements, too. He wore his razor-sharp suit more casually, the soft power-green tie picking up his striking eyes. A slight lean on the podium now offset his perfect posture. Despite being the heir to a textile fortune, he managed to project a man-of-the-people image. He was who we'd want to be if we were rich.

"Since I've promised a transparent campaign," Caruthers said, "let's state the obvious. Why are we in Harlem? We're both courting the black vote. The difference between me and my opponent is, I've actually come here to meet with community leaders numerous times in the past decade under circumstances far less contrived. How many times has my opponent?"

A cutaway to Andrew Bilton in his gray suit, lips pursed as if in amusement at youth's folly, though he and Caruthers were both in their sixties. An old, bitter rivalry, reaching back a decade and a half to when Bilton, as rising-star California governor, had acted as party hatchet man against the fiery then-vice president, cutting down Caruthers's first bid for the Oval Office.

I remembered my disappointment back then, watching Bilton paint Caruthers as too progressive for the time. Sneering from talk-show couches, riling up packed union halls, Bilton was paying his dues by acting as the public face of his party's negative campaigning, while allowing the nominee to remain above the fray. And Caruthers had failed to preempt and respond in the fashion he'd now perfected. There'd be no catching him short this go-around.

From the TV Caruthers continued, "Well, Mr. President, this is your first visit to Harlem, is it not?" A welcoming smile. "I'd recommend the deep-fried catfish at Sylvia's on Lenox."

Before the erupting crowd, Bilton wore the same postsurgical expression that had frozen Quayle's face after Lloyd Bentsen told him he was no Jack Kennedy. I'd seen it live, but the replay was just as enjoyable.

Bilton produced his same even smile, and I almost felt sorry for him. A dutiful front man for his party, he was a pleasant-looking guy who filled out a suit nicely, spoke in clean, on-message paragraphs, and gave off an old-fashioned, subdued authority. But against Caruthers's aquiline nose, brilliant green eyes, and explosive charm, he seemed reduced to a divorce lawyer playing himself in a commercial.

I checked the clock again. Did I have to wait for the doctor before I could get out of here?

To soothe myself, I clicked over to Cartoon Network. A favorite-Bugs as a snake charmer teased an electric razor out of a clay bowl to pursue a hapless Elmer Fudd across an opera stage.

I love Looney Tunes. I love how Acme makes everything from flypaper to disintegrating pistols. I love how when a character goes through a wall, he leaves behind a perfect silhouette. I love how steaks are always shaped the same and make everyone drool.

I love how no one really dies.

A tap at the door and Reid Sever entered. I stiffened, unsure and a bit rattled. The door sucked closed behind him, and he took note of my reaction and smiled-not an expression that came naturally. "Congratulations, hero."

Telling my muscles to relax, I pulled my ruined clothes into my lap.

"We'll pick you out something nice from the gift shop. Or we can send an agent to your place, get whatever you need. Hell, after what you did for us?" Sever gave a little shrug. The civilian clothes accented his solid build. "Your bill's covered, too. We understand that your COBRA insurance isn't the greatest." He waited for a reaction, but I didn't give him one. "Listen, I have a couple questions I need to run through with you. I'm sorry to do it so shortly after you've come to, but…"

"Go ahead."

"Did the terrorist give you a fake last name also?"

I dug through the pajama bottoms, found my money clip in the pocket. "I'm not following."

"The nurse said you referred to him as Charlie. Did he give you a last name?"