William Krueger - The Devil's bed

As a gray light crept over the orchards at Wildwood, Bo left his bed and checked in with Nick Pappas, the agent on duty in the Op Center. It had been a quiet night. Bo changed into his sweats and went for a run. He headed to the edge of the orchard along the river bluff and ran the perimeter of the Jorgenson land twice, a total distance of two miles. The grass was covered with dew, and his leather running shoes were soaked by the time he returned to the barn. He took a pair of four-ounce fingerless bag gloves and a black leather heavybag from where he kept them stored in a long bin. He hung the bag from a hook he’d installed long ago in one of the crossbeams.

Along with hay bales and orchard implements, he shared the barn with a plasma cutter, an angle grinder, a heating torch, and several half-formed iron sculptures taken from the studio of Roland Jorgenson when it was converted into the guesthouse. The dusty unfinished pieces and the equipment were among the few reminders left at Wildwood that once a famous artist had been at work there. The sculptures were wild things that gave the feel of monstrous forces barely contained. He didn’t know much about Roland Jorgenson, but there was definitely something about the man’s work that Bo found disturbing. In the bin where he kept his heavybag, Bo had come upon a portfolio containing early sketches for the sculptureGoddess. Accompanying the sketch on one of the pages was a note scribbled in what he guessed was the artist’s hand: For Kathleen. Bo was no judge of art, but he thought the sculpture, if indeed it was supposed to represent Kate Dixon, did her no justice. He’d given the portfolio to Annie Jorgenson and had no idea what had become of it.

He donned the gloves and worked the bag for half an hour before Chris Manning appeared in the doorway, sunlight at his back.

“We just got a call from the sheriff’s office. One of the security guards at the St. Croix Medical Center fell down some stairs last night and broke his neck. Fatal.”

Bo pulled off the gloves and wiped the sweat from his face with his T-shirt, which was itself soaked with sweat. “Who?”

“Guy named Randy O’Meara.”

Bo’s gut twisted hard. “Give me the details.”

Manning explained that at the change of shift, the security guard had not checked in. The other guards did a search and found O’Meara’s body on the stairs.

“Which stairwell?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might. Did anybody see anything?”

“No, but it’s pretty clear what happened. There were some marbles lying on the floor just inside the stairway door. O’Meara must have slipped on them and taken a fall. The marbles came from an aquarium in the ICU. There’s an elderly patient-”

“Mr. Cooper,” Bo interrupted.

“Right. The sheriff’s people checked his room. The sleeve of his robe was soaked and there were some marbles in one of the pockets.”

“Did he admit to anything?”

“According to the sheriff, he claims he doesn’t remember taking the marbles.”

“Have they scheduled an autopsy?”

“Medical examiner’s doing it this morning.”

“You think it’s an accident?”

“Looks like.”

“Just like Tom Jorgenson’s,” Bo said.

Manning looked at his watch. “We’ve got a briefing in twenty minutes. Get a shower. We’ll talk more then.”

Twenty minutes later, Bo sat down at the table in the library of the guesthouse. Manning and his people, Stu Coyote, and the agents on the duty roster for the Op Center that day were all there. Manning began the briefing by explaining the incident at the hospital. He nodded in Bo’s direction, and his lips twitched in a way that was almost a smile. “Agent Thorsen, our own Oliver Stone, has scripted a conspiracy. He believes that the tractor accident wasn’t, in fact, an accident. And I’m guessing he believes that what occurred last night is somehow related to-what is it, Thorsen? An assassination plot?”

“I believe, Chris, that more may be going on than is apparent to us at this time.”

Any hint of a smile left Manning’s face. “Let’s assume for the moment what Agent Thorsen believes is true. This means that whenever the First Lady is in proximity to her father, we all need to be especially vigilant. Is that understood?”

“We should inform the First Lady,” Bo said.

“Absolutely not. No one’s going to mention a thing to her. She has enough to worry about.”

“Additional security for Tom Jorgenson would be appropriate.”

“Not our jurisdiction. Former vice presidents don’t get our protection.”

“Listen, Chris, if there’s even a remote possibility that I might be right-”

“Is there anyone here who feels as Agent Thorsen does?” Manning looked around the table. Not even Stu Coyote rose to Bo’s defense. Manning again addressed Bo. “I’m willing, for the sake of the First Lady’s safety, to grant you some leeway here and to take precautions as far as she’s concerned. But our responsibility ends there. Yourresponsibility ends there. If you lose your focus on the security here, I will have you removed from this detail. Do you understand? Now, you indicated you sometimes put agents in the orchard to patrol the perimeter.”

“Yes.”

“Do it,” Manning said.

During the rest of the briefing, Bo spoke no more about his concern. Afterward, Stu Coyote pulled him aside. “Sorry, Bo. Manning’s a jerkoff, but he’s right.”

“No,” Bo said. “I may be wrong, but Manning’s not right. Tom Jorgenson needs protection.”

The First Lady and Annie headed to the hospital at 10:00A.M. Shortly after that, Bo directed Jake Russell to take charge of the Op Center, then he went to see the Washington County sheriff. Doug Quinn-Gruber repeated what Manning had reported.

“Which stairwell was O’Meara found in?” Bo asked.

“South. Between the third and fourth floors.”

“That means O’Meara fell down the stairs from the fourth floor. That’s where Jorgenson’s room is,” Bo pointed out. “South wing.”

“And geriatrics, where Mr. Cooper is a patient, is on the third floor, south wing. Look, Bo, it all fits. The marbles. Mr. Cooper. Nobody saw anything unusual. And I got a call from the medical examiner a little while ago. O’Meara’s broken neck and other injuries are consistent with a fall down the stairs. Look, if someone were going to kill Tom Jorgenson, why not just kill him? Why kill the guard?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because this is Tom Jorgenson, I’ve been trying to keep an open mind. But there continues to be no concrete evidence of an assault, or even a motive for one. Still, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll put a deputy outside his hospital room, at least until we’re absolutely certain there’s nothing funny going on. How’s that?”

“Fair enough, Doug.”

“Detective Timmons is checking a few other possibilities. If he comes up with anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.”

Before leaving the sheriff’s office, Bo got an address for Maria Rivera, the head nurse in ICU the night before. She lived in a town house in one of the new subdivisions of Stillwater. Although it was a little past noon when he rang her doorbell, Bo was concerned that, because of her late working hours, she might still be sleeping. He needn’t have worried. When Maria Rivera opened the door, she looked as if she hadn’t been able to sleep at all.

“You’re Secret Service,” she said, squinting at him in the sunlight. She wore a white terry cloth robe, no slippers. Her black hair, streaked with silver, was unbrushed.

“Yes, I spoke with you yesterday afternoon,” Bo said.

“What do you want?”

“To ask a few questions, if you don’t mind.”