The Devil's bed

chapter
fourteen

The first time, he wasn’t even fourteen years old.

The basement of the old farmhouse was home to Nocturne. In summer, the walls were cool and damp, home also to potato bugs, spiders, and centipedes. In winter, it was a cold, drafty place despite the ancient oil-burning furnace that heated water for the radiators upstairs. The basement was full of boxes stuffed with broken things and items that had belonged to Nocturne’s grandmother and that the old man had put down there in order to forget. Nocturne’s mother told him his grandmother had been a school-teacher. Some boxes held books, some held magazines. Some were packed with clothing, others were full of small broken electrical appliances-a mixer, an iron, a table lamp, a heating pad, and the like. On her good, lucid days, his mother read to him. Although books and magazines were available, she always read from the Bible, always from the Old Testament. Sitting beside her, watching her finger move under the printed words, the boy had learned early to read on his own, and he loved it. In the long days by himself, he eventually went through all the printed material contained in the boxes, mostly elementary textbooks and stacks ofNational Geographic. He practically memorized every word of the books of the Bible. He devoured cover to cover a set ofEncyclopedia Britannicawith moldy pages. His favorite book was a sketchy biography of Harry Houdini. He also loved to fiddle with the old electric appliances so that he might understand their construction and make them run again. His mother was a reluctant conspirator. After he’d asked her many times, she sneaked him wire and tools. She cautioned him fearfully never to mention any of this to his grandfather, and Nocturne obeyed her absolutely.

There was an old RCA radio console in one corner that he worked on for weeks until he coaxed voices from the airwaves. From what he heard on the radio and read in his books, he formed ideas of the outside world. Although he loved the dark of his basement, he longed to see more. He sensed that his life was odd and that he must be odd to be living it. Yet, there were people in the world stranger even than he, people with lips like dinner plates and necks stretched like giraffes and green tattoos over every inch of their faces. In such a world, one more freak would hardly be noticed. Locked in the basement, Nocturne dreamed of those places and people. On the nights his mother released him and they walked outside in the dark, he imagined they were in Africa, and in the trees gorillas slept, and somewhere out of sight a village of big-lipped, long-necked, tattooed people were waiting to welcome him. He loved the night and the walks, and he hated waiting to be released. So he began to plan his escape.

There was a laundry chute, no longer used, that dropped from the second-floor bathroom to the basement. Although he’d often stared up into the black of the shaft, he was nine years old before he thought of it seriously as a way out. One night he piled crates and boxes high enough beneath the opening so that when he stood on the top box, his torso fit inside the chute. It was a square, fifteen inches on each side, lined with smooth tin. He tried to pull himself up, but there was nothing to grasp. He pressed against the tin sides and only felt himself slip. He realized his clothing allowed him no traction. He climbed down, stripped naked, then mounted once again. This time when he pressed against the sides of the chute, his body held. He inched upward, pushing with his palms, holding with the press of his legs. He made progress, but it was hard work, and he soon gave up, exhausted after moving only a few feet.

He began to exercise, to strengthen his body and keep it supple. The pipes that hung from the basement ceiling and that carried water to the sinks and radiators above him served as an obstacle course. He climbed over them and around them, slipping between the metal and the beams and the floorboards. He made a game of it, timing himself with a clock he’d found broken in one of the boxes and had repaired. At first, he was covered with splinters from the ragged beams, but as he progressed he could move swiftly and safely. Within a few weeks, he was strong enough to inch his way up the chute all the way to the second-floor bathroom. The first time he eased out of the opening upstairs, he wanted to shout in triumph. It was the middle of the night, however, and not far from where Nocturne stood, the old man was sleeping. He discovered immediately that with every step the old floorboards creaked, crying out his presence. That first night, all he did was stand at the bathroom window, staring out at the night and the stars, listening to the crickets and breathing the air of freedom. The next night, he made it through the window, across the roof, and down the porch supports to the ground. After that, any time he wanted, he could be free. Over the years, as his body grew, he practiced a discipline of concentration and patience and learned how to fold his body into that small chute and move upward by expanding and contracting the appropriate muscles, much like a snake.

He never told his mother. He understood that unlocking the basement door for him was the only gift she had to offer. Because he learned to move as silently as a breath of air, his grandfather never knew.

But his grandfather did discover eventually that Nocturne had other talents.

The old man seldom visited the basement except to check on the ancient furnace that sometimes faltered. Nocturne kept to the far corners whenever his grandfather came down. In addition to trying to hide himself, he tried to keep secret all the tinkering he did. To that end, he was careful never to turn the volume on the old radio console much above a whisper. One night as he was attempting an adjustment, his fingers slipped, and the sound of the Beatles belting out “Twist and Shout” seemed to shake the walls. It scared the hell out of Nocturne, and he panicked, fumbling desperately with the knob. It was too late. He heard the boom of his grandfather’s boots across the floor above him. The padlock rattled, and the basement door flew open. The steps shook as the old man stomped down. He grabbed the string on the light and yanked. Nocturne stood exposed, quaking beside the old radio.

“What the hell, boy?” He glared at Nocturne and the console.

Nocturne expected his grandfather to hit him. Instead, the old man seemed to notice for the first time all the accomplishments hidden in the dark of Nocturne’s world, all the electrical appliances pulled from the boxes and restored to life. He said nothing, no word of praise or encouragement for a boy who, from books and his own imagination, had unraveled the mystery of the old machines and much more. He simply grunted, turned, and returned to the world above. The next day, Nocturne received another visit. This time his grandfather brought with him a book. In the light of the basement’s twenty-five-watt bulb, the old man opened the book to a page and stabbed a yellow fingernail at a picture. “Can you build this?” he asked.

Nocturne looked at the picture. It was a diagram, a blueprint labeled with words such asdetonator, fuse, andtimer. He recognized it immediately for what it was, a fairly simple device. He gave his grandfather a nod. The old man turned away without another word and left.

That night, the basement door opened and the old man called him up. He handed Nocturne a jacket, and he started outside. Nocturne’s mother cowered in a chair in the kitchen, looking at her son as if she were terribly afraid for him, but she said nothing to stop the old man. Nocturne followed his grandfather across the yard to the barn. They went inside to a room that held a workbench and tools and the book lying open on a stool. The old man pulled a cord and the light came on-a hundred-watt bulb that made Nocturne blink.

“You got everything you need here,” his grandfather said. “Let me know when you’re done.” The old man left him.

Nocturne constructed the device in little more than an hour. He left it in the room and stepped into the barn. He’d been there many times since he’d conquered the laundry chute. To a boy whose only physical recreation had been pipes in a basement, the barn was a great playground. Although it was a dilapidated structure with gaps between the wallboards and in the ceiling, it had beams and rafters and posts and great height, and Nocturne often spent hours climbing and swinging there throughout the night. He knew he was supposed to tell his grandfather he was done with the bomb, but the temptation of the barn was tremendous, and Nocturne gave in, telling himself he would climb once to the roof, then go see his grandfather.

He was on a beam twenty-five feet above the floor when the old man walked in. Nocturne froze. He watched his grandfather cross to the room, open the door, and step inside. The old man came out holding the bomb.

“Boy!” he hollered.

Nocturne didn’t want to answer, but he knew the old man would find him eventually. “Here,” he said in a small voice.

The old man’s eyes rose upward and grew large when he saw the precarious perch his grandson straddled.

“How’d you get up there?”

“Climbed.”

“Then climb back down. Now.”

Nocturne quickly obeyed. He stood before the old man with his eyes downcast. His grandfather said, “Look at me.”

Nocturne did. With his opened hand, the old man struck him hard across the face.

“You do what I tell you, understand? No more, no less.” The old man’s voice was cold, but didn’t sound angry.

Nocturne fought tears, and he nodded.

The old man held the bomb. “Will it work?”

Nocturne hadn’t considered the question before. He saw clearly his grandfather expected an answer, and he quickly assessed the device he’d constructed. “Yes,” he said. Then he added in almost a whisper, “But I would have built it different.”

The old man looked up at the rafter, then down at Nocturne. “Get plenty of sleep, boy, you hear? We got work tomorrow night.” He shoved his grandson ahead of him toward the house.

Nocturne was waiting when the old man came down the next night. His grandfather had a big rolled sheet of paper. He turned on the light and spread the paper on the basement floor. It was a crude drawing of a building.

The old man said, “This is a bad place, and you and me are going to do something about it. That thing you built yesterday, we’re going to put it right in here.” He pointed to a window on the third floor of the building. “You’re going to put it in front of a bunch of filing cabinets-metal cabinets with lots of drawers, understand?”

Nocturne nodded.

“Good. Let’s go.”

They got into the old man’s truck. Nocturne had never ridden in a vehicle before and the sensation was wonderful. It was fall and the night was cool. The old man had the windows wide open, and the air blew through with a force that thrilled the boy. The fields flew by. The yard lights that were all so distant from his grandfather’s isolated house rushed toward them, then past. His grandfather said nothing, didn’t even look in Nocturne’s direction, just kept his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road lit in the headlights. The device was in a small backpack between them on the seat, but Nocturne hardly noticed. He was out in the world at last.

They came to a place with many houses set closely together. Every corner had a bright light like the yard light of a farm. His grandfather drove down an empty street between brick buildings with glass windows that had writing on them. Stores, Nocturne recognized. Shops and businesses. He realized they were in a real town. Although he’d wandered as far as he could in the nights when he escaped the basement, the farmhouse was so distant from everything that a tiny crossroads called Higgens consisting of a bar, a gas station, and half a dozen houses was the nearest he’d ever come to a community. He wanted to know what town this was but was afraid to ask. They drove past a building of gray stone blocks, standing by itself in the middle of a patch of lawn. Carved into the stone above the door were the words COUNTYCOURTHOUSE. His grandfather backed into an alley and parked facing the stone building.

“That’s it,” the old man said.

Nocturne looked at the building. It was three stories, taller even than his grandfather’s barn. The barn had wood supports to shinny up, but the stone building looked flat and solid. How did the old man expect him to climb to the third floor?

As if he’d read his grandson’s mind, he said, “There’s a drainpipe. See it?” He pointed to a black line that ran down the side of the building from the gutters along the roof. “That’s your way up.” He handed the backpack to Nocturne. “I put a steel pipe in there. Use it to break the window. Don’t worry about alarms. Only the first-floor doors and windows have ’em. I’ll wait here.”

There was no moon. Where the streetlamps threw light, Nocturne ran quickly from shadow to shadow-a trash can, a bench, a maple tree-until he reached the side of the building. The bottom of the drainpipe was lost among bushes, and Nocturne merged with the dark there. His heart pounded wildly. He was so scared he thought he might wet his pants. He reached for the drainpipe. The metal was cold, but it was ridged and easy to grasp. Nocturne looked up. The third floor seemed impossibly far away.

Climbing proved easier than he’d imagined. Hand over hand, he pulled himself up the pipe, using the indentations between the stone blocks for toeholds. Concentrating on his task, he forgot his fear, and when he reached the place where the drainpipe ran beside the third-floor windowsill, he looked around him. He was higher than anything else in the town except the water tower. He felt as if he could reach out and grab a handful of stars.

The headlights on the truck flashed once, reminding Nocturne of his task. Holding to the drainpipe with his right arm, he reached back with his other and drew out the length of one-inch black steel pipe to break the window. The pane shattered with a crash that seemed to break the night itself. Nocturne pressed against the cold stone and waited for something terrible to happen. Nothing did. Sharp, jagged shards were left framing the window. He used the pipe to tap them out, then he eased himself through. Inside, he found the bank of filing cabinets, and he put the device in front of them. He set the timer, then left the way he’d come.

When he reached the truck, the old man asked, “It’s done?”

Nocturne nodded.

The old man drove out of the alley, down the street between the closed shops, past the dark houses, out where the farmland began. He pulled into a lane between fields of harvested corn and turned off the engine. He drew a pocket watch from his overalls and checked the time.

Nocturne sat as silent as his grandfather, looking toward town. He wasn’t worried. He knew the device he’d built would work. He’d done just as his grandfather asked. It was now only a matter of waiting, and that was something he was very good at.

After a few minutes, Nocturne felt the old man stiffen. “It should have gone off by now.” His grandfather’s fierce eyes settled on him with a look that froze the boy’s heart.

“Your watch,” Nocturne offered timidly. “I think it’s fast.”

At that moment, the sound of a muffled explosion rolled across the open field. The old man’s head jerked around, and he watched as an orange glow slowly bloomed in the dark among the buildings and the trees of the town. Without a word, without a sign that he was pleased with the boy’s accomplishment, he started the truck and drove home.

Nocturne’s mother waited at the back door. He could see that she’d been crying, but she didn’t speak as he entered with his grandfather. The old man hung his coat on a peg near the door. He looked at the boy.

“Tomorrow, we’ll move you to a room upstairs.”

“I like the basement,” Nocturne said.

The old man shrugged and started from the kitchen. He turned back before he left and said to his daughter, “Don’t lock the basement door no more.”

For an hour, Nightmare watched the monitor and listened as Kathleen Jorgenson Dixon sat with her communications director, Nicole Greene, in the office of the main house and discussed the commitments that had to be rescheduled due to her extended stay at Wildwood. She outlined correspondences to be written on her behalf, giving the other woman specific instructions regarding content and tone. She spent an hour on the telephone-briefly with her husband, then for a longer time with her daughter, then with the White House chief of staff, with a reporter for theLos Angeles Times, with her lawyer, and finally with the president of Harvard University, who was obviously a good friend. Except for her daughter, to whom she spoke gently and lovingly, she communicated in a manner that conveyed power. Nightmare liked that. Bringing down powerful people had always made his work more satisfying. Before he himself had been betrayed and left for dead, he’d been assigned to kill for many reasons, and sometimes for no reason that he could see. He never wondered about a sanction he carried out against someone in a powerful position. Power was itself reason enough to draw a sanction. It was when he was told to kill someone who was no one that he wondered. Why end a life that was no life at all?

In South Africa once, he’d tracked a man for a month to learn the patterns and rhythms of his life. He did it to make a clean kill. In his surveillance, he found a lowly government clerk with a wife and three children, a man who liked bow ties, who drank Indonesian black tea under a kapok tree at lunch while he read the LondonTimes, who visited his mistress every Wednesday afternoon, and who, in his position, wielded only the power of a rubber stamp. He also discovered that the wife was herself a mistress to an important political figure. He killed the clerk with poison, a few milligrams of aconitine in his black tea, and he was out of the country on an afternoon plane. The killing didn’t bother him. By then, there’d been so many. It was the why of it, to remove a small man from the path of a greater man’s desire, that ate at him. Murder as a political favor, granted as easily as an invitation to an embassy ball.

On the monitor, he watched the First Lady head upstairs. He switched to the camera he’d put in her room two weeks earlier, on a bookshelf, inside a hollowed-out copy ofLittle Men. He watched her undress, prepare to take a bath, and stand for a moment in front of the mirror on her vanity. She turned and studied her profile, drew in her stomach, lifted her breasts, shook her head in a disappointed way, and relaxed. She stepped toward the bathroom and out of range of the camera lens.

Nightmare sat back patiently. He was used to watching and waiting. However, he knew that on this kill, waiting could be a problem. The First Lady wouldn’t stay at Wildwood indefinitely. And there was Thorsen. The man was a complication, one Nightmare would have to consider carefully. He would probably have to neutralize Thorsen. But later. Now he had to focus on his purpose, which was to sanction the lying abomination called Tom Jorgenson and his daughter Kate, whom Nightmare had once called his friend. It had been his intention to kill them both together at the hospital with the C-4 explosive. Because the security guard had caught him, the plan was ruined. At first, he’d been angry with himself. Weakness, he’d chided. After further reflection, he decided he’d unconsciously sabotaged his own strategy because he wanted the man and his daughter dead in a different way. Most of his life, he’d killed for reasons tied to politics, to economics, to the expediencies of closet diplomacy. This was different; this was personal. He wanted to confront the man and the daughter face-to-face before they died. Not to gloat, as he had at Jorgenson’s bedside. That was a mistake. No, he wanted to be sure they went to their deaths with a full understanding of their guilt. This would probably mean killing them separately, and probably Thorsen somewhere along the way.

A knock on the van door startled him.

“Open up. Police.”

Nightmare quickly turned off the monitor, shoved his Beretta into his belt at the small of his back, and opened the back doors of the van. Outside, it was twilight. The sheriff’s deputy stood looking at Nightmare, his thumbs hooked over the leather of his gun belt. Behind him, at the side of the highway, stretched a line of parked vehicles, mostly media vans and cars.

“ID.” The deputy held out his hand.

Nightmare gave the deputy his wallet.

“MCC,” the deputy said. “Never heard of that one.”

“Metro Cable Communications,” Nightmare replied. “Usually we stick with city council and school board meetings, but this is too big to pass up.”

“Parking here all night?”

“Unless the First Lady leaves.”

“You know the rule. You let her motorcade pass, then you can follow at a reasonable distance.”

“I know.”

“All right, Mr.”-he double-checked the ID-“Solomon. Good evening.”

The deputy moved to the next vehicle in line, a white van that carried the call letters KSTP on the side. Like Nightmare’s van, it had a small satellite dish mounted on top and a short broadcasting antenna.

Nightmare glanced across the road at the entrance to Wildwood. A Washington County Sheriff’s Department cruiser was parked behind the stone arch, controlling access. Nightmare smiled at the futility of the effort.