Boomsday

Chapter 26

“Well, what in the name of God does the FBI know?”

The president, in no good mood, as usual, spoke from an exercise treadmill. His physician-a four-star U.S. Navy admiral-had admonished him sternly about his blood pressure and sedentary regimen. Bucky Trumble, whose own BP and cholesterol levels were nothing to boast about, stood close by in the manner of courtier, having to raise his voice over the whirr of the rubber belt and rollers.

“They don’t think this Clumm character was taking orders from her. There are no phone records to or from. Or e-mails. Still, they want to look at her computers, but-”

“If there’s no e-mail on his computer, why would there be any on her damn computer?”

“Well, sir…” A gym, even one with only two people in it, not counting Secret Service, is no place for nuanced conversation, and what Bucky had to tell the president was all nuance, little black dandelions of scheming. “I was thinking that it might be interesting to see what’s on her computer. If you see what I mean.”

“Huh?”

“If you see what I mean. Sir.”

The president grunted. “You don’t have to shout. Yeah, yeah. Well, what’s holding them up? Seize the fucking computer. They’re the FBI, aren’t they? You get a warrant, you say, ‘Hand over the computer.’ What’s the big deal?”

“The Fourth Amendment?”

“Fuck the Fourth Amendment.”

“That would be the FBI’s view of it, sir, but her lawyer is maintaining a different interpretation.”

The president pressed “Stop” and climbed off the treadmill. He was breathing heavily and glistening with sweat.

“The problem, sir,” Bucky continued in a lower voice, grateful for the cessation of the machinery, “is that to the extent we-that is, the attorney general and the FBI-put her in the hot seat, it could impact on our friend the Reverend Payne.”

“Prick.”

“Yes, sir, but nonetheless, our prick. Turns out that his nursing home corporation, Elderheaven, owns a one-third stake in the Budding Grove home where the incidents took place-”

“Incidents? Place was a damn slaughterhouse.”

“Yes. And the families of the thirty-six dearly departed are making quite a hullabaloo.…”

A smile came over the president’s face. “Well, isn’t that a damn shame.”

“But let us bear in mind, sir, that his support among the pro-lifers and evangelicals is going to be critical next fall. We’re going to need every single vote. So to the extent-I’m speaking hypothetically here, you understand-to the extent that Cassandra Devine were…somehow linked to this madman…that would certainly take the heat off of Gideon.”

“Hm. Yeah. Go on.”

“And to the extent that Cassandra Devine was implicated in a serial murder investigation, well…it would collaterally implicate Senator Jepperson. Problems solved.”

The president gave Bucky an appreciative look. “Keep going.”

“Jepperson and Devine are intimately linked. There’s even talk that they might marry.”

“Buck, is this one of those situations where I don’t really want to hear the rest of what you have to say?”

“I don’t see any need to drown you in details,” Bucky Trumble said, smiling. “You’ve got a country to run.”

“Awfully good of you to come, Frank, on such short notice,” Bucky Trumble said to Frank Cohane.

“No problem,” Frank Cohane said without bothering to sound sincere. He was wondering why this urgently requested interview was taking place not in the Oval Office, or at least somewhere in the West Wing of the White House, but in a decidedly downscale restaurant of indeterminate Oriental orientation called Wok’n Roll, in a decidedly downscale neighborhood of Arlington, Virginia. From the characters outside on the sidewalk, it looked more like downtown Santo Domingo or Citй-Soleil than an exurb of the capital city of the United States. The place felt-uch-sticky. At this stage in his life, Frank was more accustomed to starred Michelin restaurants.

Frank leaned in toward Bucky across the table. His body language said, I don’t want to be here, so why don’t you get right to the point.

“Frank, you know all about computers.”

“Bucky,” Frank said, “I own a software company with a market cap of fourteen billion. So, yeah, I guess I ‘know all about computers.’”

“I was wondering if we might enlist your help on a somewhat sensitive matter.”

Frank listened to what Bucky Trumble proposed. Bucky managed to make it sound like just an elaborate fraternity prank.

“Jesus, Bucky.”

“Is it technically feasible?”

Frank stared back. “Yeah. And technically illegal.”

“One day President Theodore Roosevelt was discussing a matter with Philander Knox, his attorney general. Knox said, ‘Oh, Mr. President, do not let so great an achievement suffer from any taint of legality.’”

“That’s a really inspiring story, Bucky. And how did it turn out?”

“Everyone lived happily ever after, prospered, and died in their sleep, old men.” Bucky stood and put out his hand. “The president said to give you his very best, Frank, and to let you know how grateful he is for your continued support. He also said to tell you how much he’s looking forward to showing you just how grateful he is.” Bucky winked. “At the start of Peacham version two. Thanks for making the trip east.”

Thus Frank Cohane, billionaire entrepreneur, was left to contemplate his stale bowl of kung pao seagull or whatever it was congealing in the bowl, in a dingy restaurant 2,500 miles from his coastal California Xanadu, where the air had the tang of salt and kelp and pine.

What a thing to ask a father to do, he thought. The nerve of these people.

Allen Snyder arrived at the office of Tucker Strategic Communications wearing an expression that did not augur good news. He told Terry and Cass that the FBI would be arriving shortly with a federal warrant authorizing seizure of Cass’s desktop and laptop computers. The judge had assented to the U.S. attorney’s argument that Cass’s scribble on the photo-“Keep up the good work!”-constituted probable cause to investigate whether she had directly influenced the Death Angel of Budding Grove.

“Bye, bye, autographs. Jeez,” Cass said.

Terry said, “At least we were able to delete some of the sensitive client-related stuff.”

Allen frowned. “Terry, there are certain things I’d rather you not tell me.”

“Whatever,” Terry said.

“I’ve done some research into data storage,” Allen said. “The bottom line is that there’s really no such thing as delete. There’s something called ‘hard drive mirroring.’ You think you’ve deleted it, but it lives on in some server in Kuala Lumpur. And it’s gettable. You remember the Abramoff e-mails, the Enron e-mails. Those were all deleted, too.”

Terry blanched. “Oh, my God.”

“I’ll do everything I can to limit the search. Under Rule 41 I can try to insist on being present during the search.”

The FBI arrived. As they were unplugging Cass’s desktop, Terry pulled Allen aside and whispered to him, “If you see any file names labeled ‘North Korea’ or ‘Otters’ or ‘Mink Ranchers’…”

The FBI agents left, Allen following.

“Well, gosh willikers,” Terry said, clapping his hands together, “what a great way to start the week. So, did you sign autographs for any other interesting people? Osama bin Laden? The Taliban?”

“Oh, relax, Terry. They didn’t seize your computers. No one cares about your sea otters.”

“Oh yeah? I promise you, my little senior vice president of Tucker Strategic Communications, that ExxonMobil will definitely care about our sea otter proposal-if they read about it on the front page of The Washington Post.”

“All right,” Cass said. “I’ll activate Randy. What’s the point of having a U.S. senator for a boyfriend if he won’t intervene with the FBI for you?”

Terry snorted. “I hear the galloping hooves of cavalry.”

“Honey bun,” Randy groaned, “I can’t meddle with an FBI investigation. For heaven’s sake. I might be appointed vice president of the United States. How would it look?”

“I’m not asking you to meddle. Just to call up the director of the FBI and tell them not to leak client-related stuff to the press.”

“I’ll think about it. By the way, how’re you coming with those volunteers-the ones who said they’d testify as willing to kill themselves at age sixty-five?”

“Transition. Try, please, to get used to the word. But wait a minute. Why can’t you call him? I didn’t commit any crime. There’s a principle involved. Even if it’s not a principle you can cash in on right away.”

Randy sighed. “I…What if I do and they leak it that I called? You’re my girlfriend. How will it look?”

“Like you cared about the girlfriend?”

“Awkward,” Randy muttered. “Damn awkward.”

“Okay.” Cass shrugged. “I just hope they find the diary file where I quote you calling your mother a ‘cunt.’”

“What? You wrote that in your diary?”

“It’s a diary.”

“Why would you…Oh, my God. Cass. What else did you put in there?”

“Well, let’s see. Stuff about our sex life. How you like to take cherries and-”

“Cass!”

“What can I tell you, sweetheart? I’m a girl. Men look at themselves in mirrors. Girls write in their diaries.”

“Jesus. I don’t believe this. What were the names of these FBI agents?”

“Antrim and Jackson. They looked kind of lean and hungry. One of them kept touching his gun.”

Cass hung up. Terry had been sitting next to her throughout the phone call.

“Did you really put all that in there?”

“As if. Please.”

Terry nodded in the way of a pleased mentor. One of his maxims, imparted to all his protйgйes, was: Never tell a small lie when a big one will suffice.

“So what’s with the cherries?” Terry said.

“Wouldn’t you love to know.”

“This meeting is called to order.”

“Mr. Chairman,” Gideon Payne said, “I wish to make a statement.” Gideon did not look well. His jowls sagged, and he had small blue circles under his eyes. He looked awful.

“Go ahead, Reverend.”

Gideon adjusted his spectacles and read. It was a lengthy and somewhat rambling excoriation of Arthur Clumm, Death Angel of Budding Grave-Grove-ending with a somewhat tedious, solemn, and verbose reaffirmation of the value of human life. Gideon normally ran on high-test; today he rattled, as if running on diesel.

“Mr. Chairman, may I say something?” Cass said.

“Yes, Ms. Devine,” the chair said cautiously.

“As we proceed to investigate the feasibility of Voluntary Transitioning, I too think it would be appropriate to have a moment of silence-for the victims of Budding Grove, who were involuntarily murdered. By Mr. Payne’s employee.”

“Damn you!” Gideon exploded. “He’s no ’employee’ of mine! And you, madam, are a she-devil! A she-devil! And I cast you out!”

Cass raised an eyebrow and said quietly, “Mr. Chairman, I was under the impression that I was in the hearing room for a presidential commission. I seem to have wandered by mistake into the chamber reserved for exorcisms.”

PAYNE CALLS DEATH DIVA DEVINE “SHE-DEVIL”AS TRANSITION HEARINGS DEGENERATE

“Geedeeon,” Monsignor Montefeltro said, looking worried, “dear friend. How does it go with you?”

Monsignor Montefeltro knew very well that it was not going well for his dear friend Gideon. He, along with everyone else in the country, had been glued to the proceedings on TV, and he had seen Gideon’s tantrum. The chair had had to adjourn the session. Some said that Payne’s fulminations were a disguised attempt to derail the proceedings. But if it was an act, it certainly looked very convincing. Gideon looked like a man on the verge of a heart attack. To be sure, he was under terrible strain owing to the lawsuits against Elderheaven. Lawyers were circling. He’d been served with papers by the ones representing the first wave of aggrieved families.

Cassandra Devine, meanwhile, had sat there at the dais, arms crossed, coolly rolling her eyes, an almost bemused expression on her face.

The two men sat in their usual meeting place, the monsignor’s house in Georgetown. The grandfather clock in the hall beat a calming metronomic tick-tock in contrast with Gideon’s agitation. It was cool and air conditioned, but Gideon kept having to mop perspiration from his glistening brow with his silk handkerchief. He downed the first two glasses of chilled 2001 Gaia amp; Rey briskly, gulpingly, as if trying to put out a fire that was smoldering somewhere within him.

For his part, the monsignor was in a pleasant frame of mind, having that week persuaded four wealthy Catholic widows to leave practically all their earthly possessions to Mother Church. The Vatican was well pleased.

“Massimo. It’s been the most awful time,” Gideon said. “This Clumm maniac…I’m being sued by the families for…tens of millions…and on top of it this woman, Cassandra-she’s got me all twisted up. Did you watch today?”

“Eh, no,” the monsignor lied whitely, “I was busy. I’m sorry.”

“Well, I made a fool of myself today. A terrible, pluperfect fool, and in front of the whole world.”

Gideon poured himself a third glass of wine. “She knows where all my buttons are, and she presses them every time. I-I can’t help myself.” A look of panic crossed his face. “The truth is, Massimo…do you want to hear the truth of it?”

“Yes, Geedeon. Of course.”

“I love her.”

Monsignor Montefeltro’s eyes widened. “But Geedeon. How can this be? She attacks you at every opportunity.”

“I can’t explain it.”

“Try.” The monsignor, known as one of the silkier confessors in Rome, filled Gideon’s glass.

It poured from Gideon like water sluicing from an overburdened dam. He loved Cassandra Devine, loved everything about her. He loved her first name, her last name (“I know it’s spelled differently”), her looks, the way she abused him just the way his mother used to. (Is Dr. Freud in?) She made Gideon “all goosey.” The monsignor made a note to look up the word in his Dictionary of Modern American Slang, but he had a good idea what it meant. The man was a wreck.

By the time Gideon was finished, he’d gulped down several more glasses of wine. He was glassy-eyed and spent, but calmer.

“You won’t…,” he said faintly, “tell what I’ve told you, will you?”

“Of course not, Geedeon,” Montefeltro said, though strictly speaking, since Gideon was not a Catholic, there was no actual confessional bond of secrecy involved.

“Geedeon, with all respect for your feelings, I don’t in complete honesty think there is a future for you and this Cassandra Devine.”

Gideon sighed. “No, no. I know. Oh, hell’s bells, Massimo. I can’t account for my feelings. It makes no sense at all.” He sounded drugged. Well, the man had drunk six glasses of wine. “As long as I’m at it, Massimo, I got another confession for you. I’ve never been with a woman.”

“Ah.” Montefeltro nodded, rather hoping this was the last confession of the evening. It was one thing to listen to old Catholic biddies tell him they’d been rude to their chauffeurs, but he didn’t really care to go spelunking in Gideon’s soul. God knew what goblins lurked there.

“God loves you for your purity, Geedeon. You serve Him as the apostles served our blessed-”

“I would like to be with a woman.”

“Ah. Yes, well…” The monsignor nodded, now in full confession-hearing mode. “We all have certain feelings. This is natural. Even I from time to time-”

“I’m not attractive to women. I know that.”

“Nonsense! You are a…” Well, yes, true, you look like a frog. “A powerful man. People all over the country, the world, respect you. You are the Reverend Geedeon Payne. Friend of the president.”

“Everyone thinks I killed my mother.”

“No, no, no. Impossible.”

“If I were a girl, I suppose I wouldn’t want to get involved with a man who killed his mother.”

Monsignor Montefeltro shifted in his seat. His facial muscles were starting to knot. No more wine for Gideon. The white wine had a high sugar content.

“Geedeon-”

“Do you want to know what happened that day at Frenchman’s Bluff, Massimo?”

“Only if you desire to tell me. But if you don’t-”

“She tried to kill me.”

“Eh?”

“She wasn’t right in the head. The doctors had diagnosed a terminal brain tumor just three weeks before. I was driving. We stopped, just like we always did, for the view. Then suddenly she reached over and shifted the car into drive and put her foot down on the gas. I said, ‘Momma, what are you doing?’ I tried to brake, but we were on gravel, on a downslope. The car just kept going, sliding. I said, ‘Momma, what are you doing?’ She said, ‘I’m done living. We’re gonna meet Jesus together.’ I said, ‘Momma, but I’m not ready to meet Jesus!’ She said, ‘Well, he’s ready to meet you, boy!’ By then we were five feet from the edge. All I could do was open the door and roll out. The car went over with her in it.”

Monsignor Montefeltro stared.

“I made up that story about how the parking brake failed. I couldn’t tell everyone what really happened. That my own mother tried to kill me? And it ended with everyone thinking I killed her.” Gideon shook his head. “I’ve spent my whole life working on behalf of life. Crying over unborn babies, praying over the brain afflicted, keeping them alive. Preaching on the sanctity of every human being. And now…” He let out a long, plaintive sigh. “Now I’m in love with a woman who’s the poster girl for legal suicide. And on top of that, I got people suing me for tens of millions of dollars ’cause of some psycho male nurse!”

He glared at Massimo. Behind the exhausted eyes burned a bright, furious fire. “It ain’t right! It ain’t fair! You’re a man of God. You got a direct line to the Almighty. You got a switchboard at the Vatican, straight to heaven. Well, next time you and your cardinals are talking to the Lord, you ask Him: What did Gideon Payne do to make Him want to take a giant crap on him! You ask him that!”

Monsignor Massimo Montefeltro said to himself, Caution. Caution. You are dealing with a wounded creature of the American swampland. Speak very softly. Keep your fingers away from his mouth.

“Geedeon, what you tell me gives me the most enormous pain.”

“Well, it should! It damn well should!”

“Remember that it is only through suffering that we come truly to know God.”

“Aw, what a bunch of crap.”

“Geedeon. Please. It is the entire basis for our religion!”

“Not mine. Not anymore. This boy is done with suffering! This boy is going to party down and howl at the moon and get laid! I am going to know women! I’m going to know them every which way from Sunday! Now, you go get us another bottle of this fine Italian grape juice. You and I, Massimo, we’re going to get drunk tonight. We’re going to get good and truly and royally drunk. And then,” Gideon said, “you and I”-he belched-“we’re gonna get laid!”