“Correct,” he affirmed. “We know it’s a small town in Butthole, Nowhere, that it used to smell bad, and that Elvis once played there. Or very nearby. It could be in Arkansas, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana … we don’t know.”
“What we do know,” Amanda said, studying the map, “is that if we stay on this interstate, we’ll end up in Miami—and we don’t want to do that. In about fifteen minutes we’ll be intersecting with Highway Forty, which heads west across the Great Smoky Mountains in the direction of … Nashville. From there, all roads lead south. I suggest we take Forty. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” he said. “And I suggest we make contact with your friend Shaneesa.”
“Really?” she said, surprised and pleased. It pained her greatly that her friend and protégé thought she was dead.
“She helped us find Harry, didn’t she? Maybe she can find out what the hell
bienvenue
means. Or be able to help us find our mystery town. At least she can narrow down the field. Otherwise we’re looking for a needle in the world’s largest haystack. Just as long as …” He trailed off, looking at her gravely. A lock of his blond hair had tumbled over his eyes, and she had to stop herself from reaching over and combing it back with her fingers. “What I mean is, can you trust her with your life? With both our lives?”
“I can trust her,” Amanda said confidently. “Just leave it to me.”
* * *
When the dented little Subaru turned off Interstate 95 and onto Highway 40, heading west, the Closer immediately reached for the cell phone and dialed, keeping both eyes on the road.
The Subaru was much easier to lose now that it was daylight. In the middle of the night, cruising down that nearly deserted highway in the darkness, its taillights had served as twin red beacons. It was a no-brainer, like tailing another ship’s lights at sea. A safe cushion of half a mile was permissible. Not anymore. Now there was morning traffic: trucks on the move, cars getting on and off. Plus the sun was low on the horizon behind them, sending glare off the oncoming windshields and chrome. And even the Closer’s eyes were weary after so many hours behind the wheel.
Still, fatigue was not an option. If necessary, the Closer could tail them for forty-eight hours straight without sleep, thanks to proper mental and physical conditioning. In the
Suburban’s glove compartment there was also a generous supply of a new and powerful designer amphetamine known on the street as Seven-Eleven. The Closer preferred not to take drugs of any kind, but the uppers were effective in an emergency and vastly outweighed the alternative.
“Hello, wha’ is it?” Lord Augmon’s voice on the other end of the phone was hoarse and sounded disoriented. It amused the Closer that the man was so obviously still in bed. How many times had he bragged to interviewers that one of the secrets of his amazing success was that he always rose at five A.M., no matter where in the world he found himself? Which, right now, happened to be in Washington.
“You asked me to phone you if there was any change.”
“Yes, yes,” Augmon responded quickly. “By all means. What is it?” He was alert and focused now, his crisp accent back in place.
“I don’t wish to alarm you, but they are heading in the direction of Nashville.”
The only sound from the other end was a slightly raspy sound of the man’s breathing. “I see.”
The Closer wondered what it was that this billionaire saw, but said nothing. It wasn’t the Closer’s job to wonder about such things.
“Well … then I suppose it’s time for us to take care of them. For
you
to take care of them.”
“Is that what you want me to do?”
“One moment, if you please.”
The Closer heard rapid-fire tapping noises now. Augmon was checking something out on his laptop computer, a device he reportedly took to bed with him every night—another one of his secrets to success. And when this one was revealed in a
60 Minutes
profile, millions of ambitious young executives all across America started imitation him. No doubt countless marriages had been ruined.
“By God,” he said excitedly. “Have you seen the overnights for
Need to know
?”
“No,” the Closer answered. “Somehow I missed them.”
“The ratings have gone through the proverbial roof! Up twenty-seven percent over last week.”
“And that’s good?” the Closer asked.
“Good? The only time they’ve been higher was the week of the O.J. verdict.” There was the sound of more fervent tapping. “Lord, Lord, Lord” the man now breathed. “Circulation is up in New York and Washington,
advertising
is up …” He was making excited clucking sounds now. “ANN as a whole is up over ten percent for the week.”
“In other word, leave them be for now?”
“In precisely those words, my young friend. Leave them be. My instincts were right. The public absolutely loves this boy, especially now that they think he’s killed the only woman he’s ever loved. I’m beginning to love him a little myself.” He sounded downright jolly. “I’m afraid they remain vastly more valuable to us alive than dead. Until and unless they find out enough to be of serious danger. Is that understood?”
“Completely understood.”
“Can I get you anything?” The way he said this made it sound like he was offering the Closer a cocktail.
“Such as?”
“I could arrange to fly Payton down, if you wish.”
“I don’t.” Bringing Payton in as backup was the Closer’s worst nightmare. The ex-cop was a slob, a fuck-up. Hence the supply of uppers.
“Suit yourself,” the man said easily. “But whatever you do don’t lose them.”
“You can count on me.”
“If you ever get to know me better, and it is my sincere hope that you never will, you will discover that I don’t count on anyone. Good day.”
The phone went dead at the other end.
The Closer pushed the power-off button and resumed driving.
* * *
Jeremiah Bickford had always thought he’d be president of the United States.
He’d thought so when he was captain of the debate club at Taft Junior High School in Athens, Ohio, in 1944. He’d thought so when he was voted president of the Lincoln High School graduating class of 1947. Everything after that seemed only to reinforce his belief and his ambition: second team All-American offensive guard on the football team and top of his class at the University of Miami, Ohio; rising to the rank of captain in the air force; in the top tenth at Ohio State Law School. He was wooed and hired by one of the Midwest’s most prestigious law firms, was made a partner within five years, and when he was thirty-four years old was elected to Congress with an astonishing 69 percent of the vote.
Jerry Bickford took to Washington, D.C., as he’d taken to everything else in his life: easily and successfully. When Bickford was a rookie congressman, Lyndon Johnson took a shine to him and placed him firmly under his wing. Soon he was not only standing before LBJ as the president sat on the toilet and talked about his gall bladder scar, but sitting with his shirtsleeves rolled up drinking bourbon with John Connally and breakfasting at the vice presidential mansion listening to Hubert Humphrey complain that no one paid any attention to him.
For the next twenty years Bickford did his job supremely well, stayed in touch with his roots back home, made new friends in Washington, kept his enemies few and far between, and became one of the most respected, fair-minded politicians in the country. He fought with Nixon, shook his head at McGovern’s incompetence, pounded his head in frustration trying to cut through Carter’s inexperienced and arrogant entourage, and made the best deals he could with Reagan, never 100 percent certain that Ronnie actually knew who Bickford was.
It was 1988 when he first realized that he would never become president himself, and the realization came as somewhat of a shock.
The country was not interested in hard work and good deeds and genuine midwestern values. The American people had become enamored with sound bites, flashy ad campaigns, and vicious mudslinging to which Jerry Bickford could never stoop. He reacted to this sudden and stunning knowledge the way he’d always reacted: He took a step back, assessed the situation, shrugged, and went back to work, becoming a mentor to the new breed of congressmen and senators, or at least those who wanted to bother learning the ropes.
One of those who did want to learn was Tom Adamson. They’d met when Adamson was a brilliant twenty-something and Bickford was a respected forty-something. Bickford admired brilliance, and Adamson was desperate for respect. Their relationship quickly turned into something far more than a political partnership. They became close friends, hunting together, going on vacations with their wives as couples, spending long evenings over dinners talking about the Middle East and Social Security and interest rates. Both Jerry and his wife, Melissa, grew close to Elizabeth Adams, too. They admired Elizabeth’s intellect and confidence, and they helped her to grow more comfortable with herself and more poised in the glare of the spotlight. Elizabeth was such a dominant member of Adamson’s brain trust that Bickford spent almost as many evenings one-on-one with her as he did with her husband, tutoring her in the ways things worked behind the scenes and showing her how to befriend the press and, in general, win friends and influence the people on the Hill.
It was Jerry Bickford who got Tom Adamson elected president. He was the first of the old guard to back the southern outsider. He made campaign speeches for him, raised money for him, and showed the party that Adamson could not only lead the party but win the country. It was no surprise to anyone in Washington when Adamson asked his mentor to become his vice president. Nor was it a surprise when Bickford accepted. They were the perfect pair: the older man with his balance and wisdom, the younger man with his dynamism and charisma.
They were a political match made in heaven.
It was only late at night that Jeremiah Drew Bickford would question the path he’d taken with is life, staring up at the ceiling, lost in his own thoughts. Thoughts that he had come so close to fulfilling his dreams and yet was an eternity away from fulfillment.
He was thinking such thoughts now, even though it was not late at night. It was midafternoon and he was walking into the White House, about to have an informal tea with the president and First Lady.
“I just want you to know,” Tom Adamson said as Bickford strolled into the room, “that what you are requesting is totally unacceptable.”
“Maybe you should hear me out, Mr. President.”
“I’m not interested in hearing you out. And don’t call me Mr. President, you old bastard. It means you’re up to something. And since when don’t you kiss my wife when you come into the room? Isn’t she good-looking enough for you?”
Bickford glanced over at Elizabeth Adamson. She was wearing a red suit with a white silk blouse. Bickford thought she looked magnificent. She combined elegance with dignity as few women he’d ever seen.
“With all due respect, Mr. President, she’s far too good-looking for you. And I’m not kissing her because I’m not very kissable right now.”
“Let’s take a look, Jerry,” Elizabeth Adamson said softly.
That’s when the vice president frowned and pulled the handkerchief, the one he’d been holding up to his mouth, down to his side.
“Pretty bad, huh?” he said.
“Not bad enough to resign my friend,” President Adamson said gently. “Not bad enough to stop doing what you love. And what your country needs you to do.”
“I can’t do what my country needs me to do any longer, Tom,” the vice president said. “Look at me.”
Tom Adamson stared at his closest friend and almost wept. The right side of Jerry Bickford’s face, from the eyelid to the corner of his mouth, drooped, almost like the face of a basset hound. His speech was slurred, sounding as if he were drunk. His right eye was watering, and when he tried to smile reassuringly at the president and his wife, a little drip of spittle poured onto his lip and ran down his chin. Bickford immediately brought he handkerchief back up and wiped the saliva away.
It had been a little over a week since the vice president had developed Bell’s palsy, a not uncommon paralysis of the facial muscles. It had come upon him suddenly, with no warning, and the doctors had no explanation. He simply woke up one morning with a drooping face and a perpetual drool. He also found out, soon afterward, that he couldn’t taste his food. And sounds were disturbingly distorted, loud, and jarring.
The doctors said the disease would probably go away in a few months—if he was lucky, maybe six weeks. There was always the chance, of course, that it would never go away at all.
He looked like an old man who’d had a stroke—a drooling old man with slurred speech and slack muscles. Which was why he’d decided to resign as vice president. He would serve out his term, but he was there to tell Tom Adamson that three weeks hence, at the party’s convention, he would have to announce a new running mate.
“Looks were never your strong point, you know, Jerry,” President Adamson said quietly.
“It’s not just the damn palsy, Tom. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a sign, that’s what it is. A sign that I’m too damn old to be playing a young man’s game.”
“You’re the youngest man I know, Jerry,” Elizabeth Adamson said.
“And you’re the sweetest women. But you’re also a damn liar. And don’t pour me any of that tea shit. I’ll just slobber it down the front of my shirt. Give me a real drink, please.”
The president poured out a highball glass half-full of scotch and handed it to Bickford. Then he poured some for himself. When he looked at Elizabeth, she said, “Why the hell not,” and when she handed her glass, she joined them in a silent toast.
“Can we at least discuss this, Jerry?” Adamson asked.
“We can do anything you’d like. I’m here to serve you, you know that, Tom.”
“Oh, cut the crap. I want to know if I can talk you out of this. It’s not just important to me personally, it’s important to the country.”
“I’d be a drain on the campaign. You know I’m right. Even if I could do the job, which I’m just not sure I can anymore, think of the field day the media’d have putting this mug all over the front page. It’d be a freak show. ‘Next on CNN, listen to the vishe preshident try to shpeak!’ ”