My King The President (13 page)

“Now,” he continued, “as to your personal predicament, I do keep up with things. I read many newspapers, including your old one, and watch a few choice television programs, plus, I am privy to other sources of information which are usually more reliable, so I happen to know of your recent loss, but I assure you I had nothing to do with it. Nothing whatsoever. It is true I was one of Koontz’s dwarfs. Don’t misunderstand me, at the time, I did not particularly think it was a smart move, but Tyndall did seem a better choice, and I owed the Judge a personal debt you don’t need to know about. So, after Tyndall was elected, I never had anything further to do with either man. It cost me millions, but Koontz and I were quits. Even.”

This time he waved Bruno away and lit his third Camel himself. “I am telling you all this because it bears directly on why you have come here. I have heard of this man who calls himself Hemiola, but may God strike me dead where I sit, he has never worked for me. I have no reason to see you dead, and since I owe Koontz nothing, he could not have persuaded me to do you harm either. You asked for proof. Come, I’ll show you some.”

With some effort, he stood. Smiling, he motioned for me to accompany him down the path through the rear of the garden. Bruno was three steps behind. The path led past a row of tall shrubs and palm trees to the private dock behind the mansion. “What do you think of her?” he asked, pointing.

The yacht was ninety feet if she was an inch. Gorgeous. Modern. Even had a helicopter deck. The sight of such a vessel could take the breath away from anyone who admires boats. “She’s magnificent.”

“She’s a custom built Hatteras. Named for my beloved Anna, God rest her soul.”

He looked at me, his eyes softening a little. “I happen to know you also love boats, and I am sorry you lost yours. Next to the woman you love, there is nothing in this world more desirable than a beautiful, well-built boat. I would never have taken it away from you. Not like that.”

I stared at him hard. No matter what he had said before, I knew,
knew
he was telling me the truth. I felt it deep in my gut.

“One other thing, young man. As I told you before, I enjoy your writing. You also showed a fair amount of intelligence and cleverness getting away like you did, not to mention one big pair of balls coming here to accost me. Who was the man killed by mistake?”

I told him about Walt, and why he was working with me.

“My regrets. So, my final words: I like you, Jeb Willard, and once more assure you I had nothing to do with that untidy mess. I doubt there was any conspiracy behind that boy’s shooting Tyndall, either, but if it will make you happy, come back here exactly one week from today and as final proof of my sincerity and innocence, I will give you two things.”

“What things?”

“If you promise you will take a bath beforehand, I’ll take you out on the
ANNA B.
for a little fishing trip, and, I will give you the names of the other six dwarfs.” He chuckled at my speechless reaction, and then signaled to his man, Bruno, who fished a wireless phone from his pocket, turned, then spoke into it. Cancelossi looked at me again. “There will be transportation for you at the front gate. Do we have a date?”

“You bet we do,” I said. The three of us started back toward the garden, and I couldn’t resist adding, “There’s one other thing I’d like to know.”

“And that is?”

“Why didn’t you like my second book?”

He stopped. Laid a hand on my arm. “Your first book was written in a breezy, fast-moving style. Like a thriller. The book about the Mexican rebellion was just the opposite. You were obviously trying to write like an intellectual. It was terribly sophomoric. I have no doubt your third one will be better.”

“If I live long enough to write it.”

“According to the national media, you’re already dead, and if I were you, I would stay buried for a while. There are times to move and times to go to ground. Invoke the Custer rule.”

“The what?”

His throat emitted a wheezy cackle. “Poor General Custer proved only one thing with his headstrong, stupid bravery at Little Big Horn—a good run is much better than a bad stand. Lie low for a while longer, and come go fishing with me next week.”

Chapter 12

I can’t say I enjoyed the ride back to Knoxville any more than the one to Miami, except that on the return trip, I had plenty of reading material. Before boarding, I bought two Miami papers, and at every stop, bought a local paper along with any national papers available. It wasn’t until the bus stopped briefly at Chattanooga that I was able to find a copy of the
Post
. I don’t know why, but I felt just a little miffed that the story of my “murder” and the accompanying brief obit, doubtlessly written by my old boss, was buried better than I was, on page five. (It didn’t even make any of the other papers.) But there was a good reason for it. The front pages of every paper were devoted to the Koontz Commission Report.

I wasn’t surprised at the “conclusion” reached, although I felt like a dog with a chicken bone stuck in his throat while I read it; the most asinine string of paragraphs I’d ever seen: Mac McCarty was the sole person responsible for President Tyndall’s death… No one else involved… No conspiracy… No cover-up… Several other Secret Service agents had testified Mac had been despondent, not quite himself, for a long time. That he may have harbored some kind of personal grudge against Buford Tyndall… Tyndall may have blocked a promotion? Transfer?… Friends (
which
friends??) had testified that over a period of time, Mac had dropped them, one after the other.

But the worst lie of all was that his wife, Abigail, now “in seclusion in an undisclosed location” had told the Commission that her husband had been depressed, more and more withdrawn from her and their children for the past four years, and that she had been afraid he might take his own life.

The whole thing made me sick to my stomach.

When I got to Knoxville, I was able to buy a copy of both the
News and Observer
and the
Charlotte Observer
, and read them on the local bus to Asheville. The front pages of both those major Carolina papers were filled with much the same, but there was a little more written about me as well. It was quite an odd feeling, reading my own obituaries. I never knew I was so important! The story of my death was about what I had expected, neatly spun out by Cal before he’d left Washington; tragic series of events… Shot to death in downtown Washington hotel… Robbery the obvious motive. No mention of Walt or poor Cecil.

The last few miles, I couldn’t help wondering how some other people might be reacting to my published demise. Ernie, for instance, and President Fordham. I was more concerned that Betty might have read about it, and dutifully reported it to her husband. I wasn’t too worried about how the good people in my home town might feel, since I knew I’d be resurrected one day, hopefully soon, and with a hell of a story to tell. For a few others, it was possibly just as well if they thought I was dead. Father Flaherty and the Reilly’s, who were known to have had some contact with me, would maybe be in a lot less danger now.

The bus dropped me off half a mile from Cal’s cabin gate. Twenty minutes later, I walked part way down the drive, turned one of its sharp curves, and practically ran right up the barrel of the shotgun Sammy Tyson was holding. “Jesus
Christ
, Jeb. I almost didn’t recognize you. I coulda shot you! Where the hell have you been, anyway? Your dad is goin’ nuts.”

Cal didn’t show much temper. “Take a
shower
, for God’s sake. I have an idea I know where you went, but we’re too busy right now to talk about it.”

I took the longest shower in history, but didn’t shave. Something in the back of my head told me that if I was to remain incognito for a while, I might as well alter my appearance some, not that it would matter much. No one was any more likely to spot me hiding up here than anybody had years ago when old Erik Rudolf dodged the FBI and local authorities for so long he had practically achieved folk hero status in these mountains Charles Frazier had written so eloquently about at around the same time. It was nearly dark when I emerged from the empty cabin and went looking for everyone. I was puzzled when I noticed that Pete Suggs’ pickup had been parked half way up the drive. I was even more curious to find out what he, Sammy, Cal, and even Liz were up to.

I stopped Cal, who was crossing the drive, carrying what looked to be a speaker and a spool of thin wire. “What’s going on? What are you guys doing?”

“You can help. We’re setting up a warning system. By the way, you had a beautiful funeral service. The whole town showed up. Not a dry eye in the bunch. But more about all that later. Here, give me a hand.”

I followed him through the dense bush to one of the pines he had set a ladder up against. I had to look closely to see the wires leading up the trunk. Quick as a spooked raccoon, Cal climbed the ladder, carrying the speaker, which he then hooked up to the wires. “There, that makes eight. Four to go.”

Before dark, my admiration grew a ton for my father, Sammy, and especially Pete Suggs, who had apparently learned a good deal about booby traps during his stint as a Navy Seal. The small cave was full of car batteries, wired separately to a DC sound system, and connected to several areas around the perimeter of the cabin, along with dozens of carefully camouflaged trip wires.

“When we’re done, not even a salamander could sneak up on your cabin,” Pete said, grinning. “And if your mister Hemiola shows up, he’s gonna get the biggest surprise of his life. I’ve planted small charges all over the place, and your Dad’s sound system would scare the living shit out of anybody trying to sneak in here.”

I went straight to the cave. Cal was busy wiring up three tape recorders to the batteries.

“Got the tapes from the radio station,” he told me. “Sound effects of small arms, shouting, whistles, sirens, you name it. If anybody trips over one of those wires, it’s going to sound like World War Three around here.”

“I’m impressed, Cal, to no end. But why do all this? Is there some problem I don’t know about?”

Cal straightened up, the look on his face dark. “A small one, but it could be disastrous. Liz was concerned that Professor Johnson and his wife would be out of their minds worrying about her, so she called to let them know she was okay.”

“Damn!”

“Don’t be too hard on her, pal. She didn’t realize… Anyway, Liz has worked like a Trojan to help us while you were so conspicuously absent. She’s quite a girl, that one.”

Since I had not done much of the hard work, I was the designated cook for the night, and managed not to burn the steaks Liz had thawed. The picnic table in the small clearing that served as the cabin’s front yard was quickly occupied by one hungry crew. Between bites, Sammy wanted to know what a Hemiola was. I nodded to Cal, who explained. “It’s mainly a musical term, Sammy. You’ve heard mariachi music in Mexican restaurants, I’m sure. They mix up their rhythms a lot, especially in three-quarter time. It alternates between two beats and three beats within the same measure. Ever heard Bernstein’s
West Side Story
?”

“I think so. Years ago, maybe.”

“Right. Well, he used it very effectively in one of the songs in the show.” Cal sang, in a reedy tenor, “
Life if all right in A-mer-i-ca

If you’re all white in A-mer-I-ca
.”

“You got that right,” Pete said. “We’ll be done by noon tomorrow, and starting tonight, we’ll go on military watch. Guard duty. Two at a time, four hours each.”

“Whoa!” I said, looking at him hard. “No way I’m going to let you hang around here. You’re going back to Tryon’s Cove. You and Sammy both. I’ve gotten too many people killed already.”

A lively argument erupted, and lasted half an hour. I lost.

I stood my midnight-to-four shift halfway up the path from the cabin, armed with Sammy’s twelve gauge and one of the Walkie-Talkies Cal had brought, glad I’d put on extra clothing plus an old gray wool turtleneck sweater. I was also glad that the rain had stopped, but the cold wind portended an early winter. I had no trouble staying awake, either. The roaring of the Quail, embellished by the fascinating cacophony of night creatures around me was plenty of company. That is, until Liz walked up the drive and sat down next to me.

I swear, if it hadn’t been so damn cold, I might have forgotten all about safety and ripped all the rest of her clothes off, but prudence prevailed over passion, and I tried to send her back with the longest kiss I dared chance.

“Okay, I’ll behave, but I’m not going back, Jeb. I’m staying here with you.”

It was an acceptable compromise. We sat there in silence, our warmth coming from each other, a long two hours before Sammy relieved me.

I gave Sammy his shotgun, clapped him on his broad shoulder, and led Liz back down to the cabin. I didn’t see either Cal or Pete, and figured right away that Pete was doing an extra watch somewhere, and Cal had gone to the cave where he’d already stashed a sleeping bag, and so his finger would be only inches from the switches, just in case.