William Krueger: The Devil's bed

Looking into her eyes, he said, “I have a confession.”

“What?”

“I didn’t vote for him.”

“No? Why not?”

“I thought he was just a jock.”

“For a while, I thought so, too.”

“I’ll vote for him this time.”

“I’ll let him know. I’m sure it will please him.”

A White House aide appeared at the end of the hedge and motioned.

“My car’s here,” Bo said.

Kate got up and wheeled him forward. As she neared the end of the hedge, she slowed, as if they were coming to the end of a road she was reluctant to abandon.

“I plan to visit Wildwood as soon as the election is over,” she said.

“If I’m not in jail, I’ll stop by.”

“You know they won’t bring charges, Bo. Not after everything that’s come to light.”

“Then I’ll see you for sure.”

“I’m already looking forward to it.” She bent and kissed his cheek.

“Good-bye.”

The aide took her place behind the wheelchair, and she headed away. A moment before the shadow of the White House swallowed her, she turned and waved to Bo one last time.

He caught a late flight out of Dulles, and as the plane climbed to a cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet, Bo caught a glimpse of the setting sun. At first, the country below him was on fire, but the nearer he came to Minnesota, the more the land settled into the deep, peaceful blue of evening. By the time he landed, it was solid night and a moon was rising, nearly full.

“You heard the news?” Coyote said when he met Bo at the airport.

“Chris Manning’s had a change of heart. Dropped all his allegations about your handling of Wildwood.”

“They told me.”

“There’s talk they’re going to put you in charge of the field office,” he said as he slung Bo’s bag and crutches into the backseat.

“I’m not doing anything until I’ve had a long rest. It’s almost harvesttime. I’m thinking of heading down to Blue Earth, maybe give a hand on the farm for a while.”

“With that leg?”

“I’ll find some way to help.”

“But you’ll come back,” Coyote said.

“I don’t know. Worrying about something as simple as drought and hail and tornadoes sounds pretty appealing right now.”

Coyote hit Highway 5 heading into St. Paul. “You’ll never give up the Secret Service.”

“Why’s that?”

Even in the dark, Bo could see Coyote’s big grin. “You’d miss me too much.”

Coyote helped him out of the car in front of the duplex in Tangletown. “Let me give you a hand with that bag.”

“I can handle it. But thanks anyway.”

“Get some rest, okay? And stay in touch.”

“Thanks, Stu.” Bo leaned on his crutches and watched until the taillights of Coyote’s car were lost around a wide curve.

The night was clear, the moon butter yellow. It washed the stars from the sky and cast hard shadows across the ground. As Bo started up the walk, a dark shape separated itself from the deep shade under the porch awning and came at him, startling him so that he instinctively raised a crutch to defend himself.

“Take it easy, Spider-Man. It’s only me.”

Otter stepped into the moonlight. “Coyote told me he’d be dropping you off. I thought you might want a little company. Hoped you would, anyway.”

“A little company would suit me just fine, Otter.”

Otter looked up at the sky. “Nice night. Okay if we sit for a bit while I have a smoke.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

They settled themselves on the front steps. Otter lit an unfiltered Camel. “You know, I haven’t seen Freak for a long time now.”

“Maybe the dead have finally gone to rest.”

“They never do, Bo.”

He thought about the dead who were with him now and who always would be, and he knew Otter was right.

Otter put an arm around his shoulder. “Good to have you back, Spider-Man.”

“Good to be home,” Bo said.

They sat a long time while the moon climbed toward the middle of the sky, and the shadows shrank to puddles, and Otter smoked his cigarette, and Bo, who reminded himself that he was not alone, for a little while let himself be happy.