The President's Shadow Read online

  “I just wanted to see how you were doing. And to tell you that in two weeks, after Riestra gets his due, you’re being transferred back to my detail. We want you back in the one-spot.”

  A.J. leaned forward, nearly bursting with excitement. “Th-That’s amazing. Thank you…thank you so much, sir. I won’t let you down.”

  “You won’t let me down again.”

  “I won’t let you down again,” A.J. agreed. “I swear to you.”

  The President said nothing, staying locked on the Michigan game.

  “Sir, I know I screwed up. It’s just that Director Riestra—”

  “Director Riestra is a pain in my ass. But based on what we now know, he was just doing his job. This is me doing mine,” the President insisted. “You know how vital it is to be surrounded with people you trust.”

  A.J. nodded, feeling the words like darts in his chest.

  “So I take it things will be smoother from here on in?” the President asked, though it wasn’t a question.

  “Sir, I know how things looked, but when I let Beecher go—”

  “You think I care about Beecher? What I care about is how you got us into this mess. You went out on your own! You ignored everything we said!”

  “You told me to be proactive.”

  “Yes. Proactive. As in—” The President cut himself off, knowing the dangers of his own anger. Pressing his lips together, he studied the TV. “A.J., see these basketball teams here? Every player on these teams is expected to be proactive. That’s how you win. But even when these players feel like they’ve got a hot hand, you don’t see them flinging the ball in wild half-court shots. Now why do you think that is?”

  A.J. sat there, smart enough to stay quiet.

  “It’s because there’s a playbook,” Wallace explained. “And in that playbook, there’s one unwritten rule: Every shot needs to be smart.”

  “Sir, I swear to you, I was trying to be smart. Back when Ezra first broke in, you said you didn’t trust the Service anymore—that if someone here let him in, we should loop in Beecher and the Ring. Coming to the rescue is exactly what the Ring’s been doing for centuries. But even you agreed Beecher would never help us…”

  “…not unless he had a personal reason. I remember. But that doesn’t mean you take two severed arms and bury them in the damn Rose Garden and Camp David! Forget about nearly giving my wife a stroke—how can you possibly think the best solution is one where the highest levels of the Secret Service are now putting a microscope on everything we do?”

  “You said last time, the Knights had infiltrated the Service. Wasn’t that the priority: trying to figure out how deep Ezra had burrowed?”

  Wallace couldn’t argue with that. When Ezra got inside the White House with his Lee Harvey Oswald fake ID…they didn’t know if he’d single-handedly sidestepped security, or if someone inside the Service had been holding the door open for him.

  “With the buried arms, I just— I thought it’d tell us what side Riestra and everybody else was on,” A.J. explained. “And then…like you wanted…we’d get Beecher and the Ring back on our side instead of against us. And that’s what happened, isn’t it?”

  Onscreen, one of the Iowa players went in for an easy lay-up. “A.J, you’re a good investigator,” the President finally said. “You were able to track Ezra from the moment he first broke in here. You dissected his life; you found his dead roommate; you even figured out where he had buried him. But when it came to Beecher, the only reason he decided to join us was because I lied and said that an old penny was in your overdramatically buried hand.”

  On TV, one of the Michigan players sank a beautiful three-pointer. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” the President added. “The goal was to stop Ezra from rebuilding the Knights. The goal was to learn who else Ezra was working with. And yes, the goal was to stop Beecher from biting at my ass instead of being on my leash. But in the end, that 2.5-gram, copper-plated penny did far more to get me what I wanted than you recklessly going out on your own, stupidly digging up a dismembered corpse, and putting the top tier of White House security on high alert.”

  “We needed them on high alert. What if Ezra and his Knights decided to come for you? We had no idea who he was working with! You want to call in Beecher, that’s fine. Again, that’s what the Ring is there for. But I still don’t understand why you thought the Culper Ring could protect you more than I could. No offense, sir, but you asked me to solve an aggressive problem. I thought it needed an aggressive solution.”

  The President didn’t say anything, still locked like a laser on the TV.

  For a moment, A.J. sat there, glancing around the Solarium. “Sir, not to change the subject, but do you remember what the last emergency in this room was?”

  Again, Wallace didn’t answer.

  “It was when George W. Bush choked on a pretzel. Remember that? He was here in the Solarium, watching baseball and throwing back pretzel nuggets like they were peanuts. Suddenly, one of the pretzels goes down too fast and Bush falls to the ground, purple and unconscious. Just imagine: We’ve got dozens of terrorist groups who want to cut his throat, and the leader of the free world is about to be taken out in the private Residence by some Rold Golds.”

  “Make your point, son. Quickly.”

  “My point, sir, is that in the weeks following, the Secret Service did a vast months-long investigation about how to stop something like that from ever happening again. And y’know what their solution was? That,” A.J. said, pointing to the wall, at the small button that looked like a doorbell. “They installed a push-button alarm system. If a President feels like he’s getting sick, he goes and pushes the button. But what’s the problem with that?”

  “It doesn’t stop someone from choking on a pretzel.”

  “Exactly,” A.J. said. “That’s all I’m trying to say, sir. With some problems—especially human problems—there’s no easy solution. I humbly apologize for putting Mrs. Wallace through that.”

  “She wanted to kill you. I mean it. She’s still not sleeping right.”

  “And that’s on me. It was an unforgivable error. But that doesn’t mean I’m not killing myself to make sure that you and your family are safe.”

  On TV, the Iowa coach was screaming at one of the referees as Michigan began pulling away. “A.J, why do I treat you differently than everyone else?” the President asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “I have thousands of agents. Why do I treat you differently?”

  “Because you trust me, sir.”

  “Because I trust you. So if you go off the playbook again—”

  “I won’t.”

  “But if you do—”

  “I promise you, sir. I won’t.”

  The President nodded, still watching the game. “I’m glad we understand each other. Welcome home.”

  Getting up from his wicker chair, A.J. thanked the President, quickly leaving the room. For a few minutes, Wallace sat there in silence, until it was halftime in the game.

  From his pocket, the President pulled out his phone and headed for the Solarium’s wide glass windows. Ignoring the perfect view of the Washington Memorial, he looked straight down, focused on the now-dark South Lawn.

  Unlike the White House itself, except for the fountain, the lawn wasn’t lit at night. But as the President dialed one of the few phone numbers he knew by heart, he couldn’t help but squint down toward the Rose Garden.

  From this angle, he couldn’t see it, but he could feel it. His wife was kneeling there in the dirt, once again working on her garden. Things were back to normal. On all fronts.

  “How’d it go?” Francy asked, picking up before the first ring was done.

  “He said everything right. He was doing his best. I just wish he had never buried the arms.”

  “So you’re worried he’ll share the story elsewhere?”

  “It’s the one thing I can’t ignore,” the President of the United States said, squinting down toward his wife.
What were the words A.J. used? An unforgivable error. “If he does, it would be the end of us.”

  Francy didn’t say anything else. She just hung up the phone.

  103

  Two hours later

  Old Town Alexandria, Virginia

  So they gave you a promotion?”

  “Not a promotion,” A.J. said, propping his phone on his steering wheel and talking into the speaker as he blew past the bars in Old Town. “More like a reinstatement. In a good way. Worth celebrating.”

  “Ah. So that’s why you’re calling?” Angela asked. “To claim a celebration and see if I’ll let you take me home?”

  “Don’t be so jaded. I’m a modern man. If you want, you can take me home.”

  On the other end, Angela was silent.

  “Angie, that was a joke.”

  “…he said, realizing he hadn’t called this beautiful and oh-so-patient decorative painter in two weeks.”

  She was right about that. With everything going on, A.J. had made the one mistake every White House employee makes: He let the President’s life become his own life. Tonight, though, he was determined to change that. “I’m not gonna make an excuse. All I’ll say is this: The Basin Street Lounge has live jazz, and we can go make fun of everyone there wearing a turtleneck. Then I’ve got a pint of raspberry chocolate chip custard from the Dairy Godmother. I rest my case.”

  Pulling into the garage of his apartment building at the end of Fayette Street, A.J. didn’t have a pint of custard. He also had no idea if there was live jazz at the Basin. But if he’d learned anything during his year with Wallace, it was that there was no better way to get what you want than by helping someone else get what they want.

  “I’ll eat your ice cream,” Angie said. “That’s a literal statement, not figurative.”

  “I see your ice cream weakness, and I second it,” A.J. said, pulling into an open parking spot. “I just got home. Let me change out of my suit. Want to meet me at the Basin?” he added, shutting his eyes and hoping she didn’t call his bluff.

  “I’m in no mood to count turtlenecks. You bring the Dairy Godmother; I’ll supply the hot fudge. Again, literally. I have fudge. We can microwave it.”

  “Deal. Done. See you soon,” A.J. said, allowing himself a small fist pump. Shutting his phone and his car, he was still replaying his conversation with the President. Was it hard at times? For sure. But Wallace sat there; Wallace listened; and in the end, even Wallace couldn’t argue with the results. Ezra was stopped, Beecher was neutered, and for at least a day, there was actual peace. Best of all, A.J. was coming back to the one-spot. “Welcome home,” the President had said. Welcome home.

  Elbowing open his door and still hearing those words in his head, A.J. took a deep breath, so lost in the garage’s familiar gasoline smell he didn’t even notice the young man with the thick black hair who was waiting for him, syringe in hand.

  It was the last breath A.J. would ever take.

  Stabbing the needle straight into A.J.’s chest, Secret Service Agent Christian Deutsch pressed on the plunger.

  A.J.’s right arm went numb. His body went into spasm. Then the light left his eyes. That’s all it took.

  The chemical was fentanyl. Even an experienced medical examiner, unless they’re looking for it, will never find a trace of it. But they will find something that looks like a sudden heart attack. “Too much pressure at work,” his closest friends would say.

  Lowering A.J’s body back into the driver’s seat, Christian wasn’t proud of the decision. But he knew they wouldn’t have asked—and they especially wouldn’t have asked him—if there were another way. Christian’s father had gone to high school with the President, was like family with the President. Indeed, when Christian first applied to the Service, he’d never told anyone about his connection. He wanted to rise on his own. Just like A.J. all those years ago.

  Even now, Christian was replaying their words. There was no other choice, they’d explained. Christian understood. Peace wasn’t possible without loyalty.

  Pulling out his cell phone, Christian dialed the number that Francy made him learn by heart. It rang three times before someone picked up. The person didn’t say hello. Christian said nothing back. The message was clear. For now at least, their secrets were safe. And so was President Wallace.

  104

  Washington, D.C.

  How’s he doing?” I ask the nurse who likes poppy-seed bagels.

  “Same,” she replies, well aware it’s too late for bagels. “You okay?” she adds as I head for my usual spot in the ICU. “You look tired.”

  Sometimes I forget—nurses spot pain like no one else. “I’m good. Just one of those weeks at work.”

  “You’re a terrible liar, Beecher. But if it makes you feel better, I’m sure he appreciates you coming.”

  Nodding my thanks, I stop at the sliding glass doors of Room 355. Inside, Tot’s eyes are closed, his skin is gray, and as his palms face upward, his mouth is still open like a urinal: right where I left him. Taking a deep breath, I touch my Kenny Rogers belt buckle and…

  “Okay, who’s ready for the single greatest moment in country music history—and yes, I’m including the Dixie Chicks being naked on the cover of Rolling Stone,” I call out, marching into the room and approaching his bed.

  Tot’s only response is the automated hiss from his ventilator. A spitball of air shakes the accordion breathing tube in his neck.

  “No, okay, you’re right—this may not be better than Billy Ray deciding we needed an ‘Achy Breaky Heart Part 2,’ but just wait…this is up there,” I tell him. “For your listening pleasure: Kenny Rogers and Kris Kristofferson—together—in concert. It’s like A Star Is Born with two guys and no Streisand. It’s country music heaven.” From my pocket, I pull out an old silver iPod. I’m about to switch it with the black iPod in the sound dock on the rolling cart, but at the last minute, I stop myself.

  I look over at Tot. The pale purple scar that curves down the side of his head looks as gruesome as ever.

  Stuffing the iPod back in my pocket, I pull out my phone and swipe to my own music. Enough with the Gambler. Time for something new.

  “Oh, stop complaining, you old fart. Just give it a chance,” I tell Tot.

  The ventilator pumps back his usual response.

  “And now…presenting the true fearsome four—the outlaws from Detroit who like to rock loud, like to wear makeup, and are prepared to melt your face off… I give you: KISS, live from the Los Angeles Forum—the 1979 Dynasty Tour!”

  With a cheering crowd and a steady haunting drumbeat, the song “Rock and Roll All Nite” begins to thunder from my phone’s tinny speaker.

  “You’re judging now, aren’t you?” I ask Tot. “Don’t. When they were getting inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, someone said that KISS was never a critics’ band; they’re the people’s band. In fact, at this concert, Ace Frehley shot rockets from the neck of his guitar. Real rockets—from a guitar! At one point in the show, a guitar would rise into the air, and then Ace would grab his rocket guitar and shoot the first guitar down! Let’s see the Gambler do that! It may be loud and childish, but sometimes you unapologetically need to be who you are.”

  “You drive us wild, we’ll drive you craaazy,” KISS sang from my phone.

  “You feel that? That’s not just nostalgia. That’s your heart pumping, screaming that you’re alive. Feels great, right?” I ask, sitting in the vinyl chair next to his bed and grabbing Tot’s open palm. “C’mon, Tot, this is your chance. I need you to squeeze my hand.”

  Tot doesn’t squeeze back.

  “You can do it. I know you can,” I tell him, gripping him a little harder.

  His hand feels dead in my own.

  “Fine, you leave me no choice. I bring you this…” From my coat pocket, I hold out a photo of a woman in a black sweater. “Verona. From Human Resources. Sweater tighter than ever,” I explain, wedging the photo into the faux paneling on the g
uard rail of his hospital bed. “I took it secretly with my phone, and I swear to you, there are four Archives employees who would pay for this picture. If you open your eyes right now, it will greet you like a big-bosomed sunrise.”

  Tot’s hand just sits there.

  Can’t say I expected any different. However long it takes, I’ll be here. “By the way, I met with Wallace today. As usual, he’s awful. His ego’s awful. He’ll always be awful. He even thinks he actually fooled me, as if I didn’t know he snuck that penny into the dead hand. But by playing along, at least for now, he’s done coming after us.” Leaning in close to Tot, I whisper, “Big secret? I’ll never stop hunting him.”

  The automated blood pressure cuff tightens around Tot’s arm. The rest of the monitors sing a song of beeps and pings.

  “Best of all, we stopped the real bad guy: Ezra and his so-called Knights,” I say, though as the words leave my lips, all I see is Clementine’s coffin from today’s funeral. No question, the Culper Ring has the potential for so much good. I just wish Tot had warned me it could also bring so much bad.

  “I know,” I tell him, still holding his hand. “And I do realize that the longer I talk to you, the more I’m like Nico with his imaginary friend.”

  In the middle of the KISS song, there’s an explosive boom. “Here we go…pyrotechnics!” I call out. The crowd erupts with raucous cheers that turn me into my twelve-year-old self, when Marshall and I used to listen to this in his treehouse.

  Back when Tot was first shot and the doctors told me to play him his favorite music, they explained that the reason people like old songs is because they know what’s coming. When that classic song starts playing and you know all the words, you mentally start singing along. According to neurologists, that feeling provides a true sense of safety that doesn’t exist in real life. In real life, there are so many unknowns.

  “Imagine it this way,” the doctor told me. “When you go down a slide, it’s usually a fun ride. But if I blindfolded you, and you didn’t know you were at the top of that slide, and I suddenly gave you a push, you’d scream, ‘Whoa! Hey! What the hell’s going on!?’ Same ride. Two different reactions,” the doctor said.