The Devil's bed

chapter
thirty-nine

Otter opened the side door of the church and stared as if Bo were an apparition straight from a nightmare.

“Christ, Spider-Man, you look like shit. You’re soaked to the bone.”

Bo stepped in out of the night and the rain. Barefoot and dripping wet, he stood before his friend.

“What happened to your shoes?”

“I was in a hurry.”

Otter looked past him at the wet, empty street. “Where’s your car?”

“I walked.”

“From your place? Barefoot? In this rain?”

“I need to sit down,” Bo said.

Otter shut and locked the door. “Come on downstairs. We’ll get you into something dry.”

It was a big, stone church, quiet and deserted at that hour. They walked past vacant pews dimly illuminated by a single light above the altar. Otter opened a door to a stairway and they descended to the basement. They crossed through a large gathering room with a kitchen off to one side, then they snaked down a couple of hallways, past the boiler room, and through an open door that let them into Otter’s quarters.

The room, whitewashed cinder block, reminded Bo of a monk’s cell. A narrow bed, a table and two chairs, a chest of drawers straight from the Salvation Army, a small kitchen area with a compact refrigerator, a sink, and a short counter on which sat a microwave and an ancient-looking electric coffee percolator. Through a door at the other end, Bo spied a tiny shower stall and a toilet. Plants hung in every corner, Otter’s own touch that mitigated the austerity of the place. Despite what Bo knew must be a lack of direct sunlight, the plants seemed to be thriving.

“Get out of those wet things,” Otter said. “I’ll be right back.”

He left the room and Bo stripped off the sweats Ishimaru had given him. Otter came back in a few minutes with an armload of folded things that included pants, shirts, socks, tennis shoes, and even a clean pair of boxer shorts.

“You prayed up a miracle?” Bo asked.

“Donations. We’re collecting for a mission in Africa.” He took Bo’s wet clothes and hung them in the bathroom. “You look like you could use a cup of java.” Otter went to the cupboard above the sink and brought out a can of Folgers. He started coffee percolating.

“The police will be looking for me,” Bo said.

“You do something criminal, Spider-Man? Thought you’d outgrown that behavior.”

Over his second cup of coffee that night and dressed in his second ensemble of borrowed clothing, Bo laid out for Otter what had happened.

At the end, Otter shook his head. “And I thought I was the one who saw spooks everywhere.”

“I know it sounds crazy, Otter. I can imagine what the police would say.”

“You got to tell ’em, Spider-Man, no matter how crazy it sounds. You got to let somebody know.”

“Nobody’s going to listen to me. I’d end up in a locked cell, and right now I don’t want to be anyplace NOMan could find me.”

“What do you think they’re up to?”

Despite the coffee, Bo wanted to lie down. He felt weary in every muscle, his feet were bruised, and he knew his thinking was fuzzy and desperate.

“Otter, you mind if I sleep here for a while? Then I’ll figure things out.”

Otter waved toward the only bed.“Mi casaissu casa.”

“I owe you,” Bo said.

“It never worked that way, and it never will. Sleep, Spider-Man. I’ll stand watch.”

Bo laid himself out on the rumpled sheets of Otter’s bed and was asleep almost immediately.

Bo came out of his dreaming as if he’d been yanked. He grabbed the hand that had been laid on his arm.

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

Bo stared into Otter’s face.

“You were having a nightmare,” Otter said.

Bo released his grip and relaxed back down onto the mattress.

“You okay?” Otter asked.

“What time is it?”

“Almost four.”

“I didn’t sleep long.”

“Four in the afternoon.”

Bo realized that sunlight lit the opaque basement windows. Otter had put a fan on a chair, and it blew damp, basement-smelling air across the bed. The current also carried the aroma of coffee.

Otter sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. He studied Bo for a minute, then he said, “They’re looking for you. It’s all over the news.”

Bo sat up. “Have they been here?”

“Relax. You’re safe.”

“What are they saying?”

“‘Famous Secret Service agent wanted for questioning in the shooting death of his boss.’ There are reports of a fight yesterday in your field office.”

“Fight? I barely raised my voice.”

“I’m just telling you what they’re saying on the news.”

A knock at the door made them both fall silent. Otter motioned Bo toward the small bathroom. Bo slipped in and closed the door. He listened, but all he could hear was the low murmur of voices.

Otter tapped at the bathroom door. “You can come out now, Spider-Man. The coast is clear.” When Bo stepped out, Otter said, “That was Sandie Herron from the church office. She asked me to help her with a computer problem.”

“Do you know anything about computers?” Bo asked.

“Not much.” Otter smiled shyly. “I think she likes me.”

Bo came back with a grin of his own. “Well, good for you, Otter. Sandie, huh? Nice name.”

After Otter had gone, Bo put some toothpaste from the bathroom cabinet on his finger and did a quick rub of his teeth. He poured himself coffee from the electric percolator, opened one of the windows a crack, and peeked out at the sunlight. The wet smell of the earth near the window was the only evidence of the heavy rain the night before. He couldn’t see much. An old Victorian home across the empty parking lot. Patches of blue sky between big elms. Probably a lot like the small square of the world a prisoner would see from the window of his cell.

Bo turned on Otter’s radio alarm clock and tuned in KSTP, a Twin Cities all-news station. He sipped his coffee and didn’t have to wait long before a report about Ishimaru came on. It didn’t sound good. Nor did it look good, him dropping off the face of the earth while he was being sought “for questioning.”

He wondered if he should try to contact Lorna Channing. The slip of paper with her number on it was in the clothing he’d left at Ishimaru’s place. Any attempt to go through White House communications would end up with Secret Service involved. And maybe NOMan. As well informed as NOMan seemed to be, he couldn’t even be certain that using the code name Peter Parker would be safe.

He had to think, to sort everything out.

Someone had tried to kill him, probably because of his investigation into Robert Lee’s death. He was pretty sure that the someone was NOMan. But what was the broader picture? What specifically had Lee’s probing, and now Bo’s, threatened? Uncovering the connection between NOMan and Senator Dixon was too simple a reason in itself, and too simply explained if brought to light. There was something darker in the works, something that questions, any questions at this point, might jeopardize. But what was that something?

In half an hour, Otter was back. He knocked and announced himself. When he came into the room, he said, “I’ve been thinking, Spider-Man. These NOMan people, they seem to know what you’re up to. That means that they probably know who you’ve talked to, right?” Otter poured himself some coffee. “I’m wondering about Tom Jorgenson. I mean, if he knows things and talked to you, wouldn’t they want to shut him up?” Otter sipped from his cup. “He’s got Secret Service and all, but they don’t know about NOMan.”

“Jesus,” Bo said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“The last few hours haven’t been exactly normal for you.”

“I need to call the field office.”

“If you call from here, won’t they trace it?”

“I need wheels.”

Otter hesitated. “Well, the church has a van. And I know where they keep the keys.”

He called from a phone booth outside a liquor store at the intersection of two busy streets, Snelling and University. When Linda Armstrong, the receptionist, answered, Bo said, “Who’s in charge there, Linda?”

“Bo?”

“Who’s in charge?”

She hesitated a long time, as if she were debating answering at all. “Assistant Director Malone, for the moment.”

“Any of our people around?”

Another long pause. Then a different voice came on the line, a voice unfamiliar to Bo and attached to a name he didn’t know.

“This is Special Agent Greer.”

“You’ll have to do. You listen to me and listen good, Greer. Tom Jorgenson is the target for a hit. An attempt will be made on his life very soon. You should get him out of the hospital and back to Wildwood, where security is tighter.”

“Who’s going to make this attempt?”

“I don’t know. I just know that it will happen.”

“Come in, Thorsen, and we’ll talk about it.”

“No.”

“How do you know this information?”

“It’s too complicated to go into over the phone.”

“Then come in.”

“I can’t.”

“Where are you?”

“Do it, Greer. His life is in your hands.”

“Thorsen-”

“Just do it.” Bo hung up.

Otter was waiting in the van with the engine running.

“They buy it?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t want to take any chances. We’re going to Stillwater, Otter. Step on it.”

They took I-94 east, then I-694 north, and finally shot east again on Highway 36 ten more miles to Stillwater. Otter pushed the van as fast as it would go, but it was in need of an alignment. Much over fifty and the chassis shook so badly Bo’s teeth rattled. Just outside the river town, they turned north again and scooted along the crest of the hills that fronted the St. Croix until the tall concrete tower that was the Medical Center burst into view.

“Park there,” Bo said, indicating a curb at the corner.

He checked his Sig Sauer. The clip still held six rounds. He shoved it under the waistband at the back of his trousers and let his shirttail hang over the butt of the firearm.

“What do you have in mind?” Otter asked.

“You stay with the van.”

“What about you?”

“I’m heading in. Play it by ear.”

“That’s your plan?”

“You got a better one?”

“You’re the professional. I just thought-”

“Wish me luck.”

“You got it.”

The sun was low in the west. It bathed the hospital tower in a tangerine hue and all the western windows had a glaring orange glint that made Bo think of a many-eyed beast watching him. The parking lot was full. He wove among the vehicles, working his way toward the entrance. The fire lane was lined with police cruisers, county and state. Uniformed officers were posted at the doors. Keeping to the cover of the lot, Bo headed toward the Emergency Room entrance on the south side. A police cruiser was parked there, too. He thought about the outside door of the laundry room in the building that adjoined the hospital on the northeast side. It was possible that door hadn’t been locked yet. He headed that way.

Even if he gained access to the hospital, he had no idea what he would do once he was inside. After his call to the field office, every law enforcement officer would be looking for him. But he was responsible for putting Tom Jorgenson’s life in danger, and he couldn’t simply sit and wait to see what move NOMan made. He followed a lilac hedge that bordered the hospital grounds, then trotted across the empty parking area behind the laundry building. He mounted the stairs to the loading dock and tried the door. It was locked.

As he stood considering what next, a chopper swung over the hill, hovered above the roof of the hospital tower, and descended toward the pad there until it was out of Bo’s sight. He could hear the thump of the blades slowing after it landed.

Down the hill overlooking the town, Bo saw a SuperAmerica gas station/convenience store at the next intersection, and he had an idea. He bounded off the loading dock, raced across the laundry parking area, and jogged down the sidewalk to the store. He found a pay phone near the pumps, but where the phone directory should have been there was only the dangling end of the chain that had once held it in place. He pushed through the door of the store and leaned on the counter, breathing hard.

“I need a phone book. It’s an emergency.”

The clerk, a kid with gold wire-rims and the look of a failed poet, said, “Be with you in a minute.” He reached to the cigarette bins above his head and pulled down a pack of Winston Lights for the customer ahead of Bo.

“I need that phone book now.”

“I said just a minute.” The kid gave him a stern glare weighted with all the authority of a clerk in charge.

Bo drew his Sig. “Give me the damn phone book.”

The customer, a balding man with eyes that had bloomed huge as two chrysanthemums, stepped out of Bo’s way.

The clerk kept his gaze on the barrel of the Sig, reached to the phone book that was on a stool near the register, and handed it to Bo.

“I’ll need fifty cents for the phone, too.”

The clerk rang open the register, fingered out two quarters, and handed them over.

“Thank you,” Bo said. He pushed out the door and ran to the phone.

As he looked up the number of the St. Croix Regional Medical Center, he heard the chopper lift off from the pad on the hospital roof. He glanced up and saw it zip away over the hills to the south. He dialed the hospital operator, gave his name as Doctor Lingenfelter, and asked to be connected to the nurses’ station in Trauma ICU. When he was connected, he asked if Maria Rivera was on duty. She was. He asked to speak with her.

“Hello, this is Nurse Rivera.”

He pictured her clean, white uniform, her kind eyes.

“Maria, it’s Bo Thorsen.”

She was quiet.

“I need a favor, Maria.”

“What?” she asked carefully.

“Just tell me if they’ve put additional security on Tom Jorgenson.”

She didn’t answer.

“It’s important, Maria. His life may be in danger.”

“He’s not here,” she finally answered. “A helicopter just picked him up and took him to Wildwood.”

“Thank God,” Bo whispered into the receiver.

“Bo, what can I do to help you?”

“You’ve done it, Maria. Thank you.”

“Be careful, Bo.”

He hung up. He looked back through the glass of the convenience store and saw the clerk on the phone. Calling the police, no doubt. Bo beat a hasty retreat.

Otter was still in the van, the engine idling.

“Let’s get out of here,” Bo said. “But slowly and carefully.” He crouched on the floor of the van so that he couldn’t be seen.

“How’d it go?” Otter said, signaling to pull away from the curb.

“If they thought I was crazy before, they’ll be damn sure of it now.”

By the time they returned to St. Paul, a gray evening light hung over the quiet neighborhood and the church. Otter pulled up to the back entrance and gave Bo a key.

“All the doors are locked. Nobody will disturb you. Go on in and wait for me. I’m going to gas up the van. Then there’s a good Greek place a mile or so up Snelling. How about I grab us a couple of gyros. I don’t know about you, but this spy stuff makes me hungry.”

“I’m starved. Thanks.”

Bo shut the van door, and Otter headed away.

Inside, the church was dark and deserted. Instead of heading to Otter’s room in the basement, Bo went to the sanctuary. He was still tingling from the adrenaline rush of his dash to Stillwater. He wanted to relax for a few minutes. The church sanctuary seemed as good a place as any.

It was a vast room with great stone arches that reminded Bo of a cathedral. There were a dozen stained glass windows set high in the walls along the sides and behind the altar. Probably when morning light streamed through them, they were dazzling. As it was, with the dark of night closing in behind them, they seemed lifeless. Aside from the red glow of the exit signs, there was only one light in the sanctuary, directly above the cross on the altar. Beyond the chancel rail, the light faded quickly so that the sides of the great room and the far back corners lay in a charcoal gloom. Bo walked to a pew near the rear of the church and sat down next to the center aisle. He removed the Sig Sauer that had been stuffed in the waist of his pants and laid it beside him on the pew. For a long time, he stared at the gold cross on the altar.

Until he went to live with Harold and Nell Thorsen, he’d never gone to church. They insisted that every Sunday he accompany them to Valley Lutheran. He went mostly because he grew to like the people who made up the congregation, people like Harold and Nell, farm families. But he never got the God part of things. In all his growing up, he’d never felt safe, protected, watched over, cared for in any but the most careless way. Although he knew she loved him, his mother had failed miserably in giving him any sense of security. Whenever Harold or Nell suggested to him that God’s hand had guided his way to their farm, he was clear in pointing out that it was the hand of the Minnesota justice system that had brought him there, and the judicial shoving of Annie Jorgenson in particular. As grateful as he was to Annie, he’d never been inclined to think of her as an angel of God. What he’d wanted in all those Sundays, demanded silently in church, was something on the order of a miracle. He challenged God, “Give me a sign, something I can’t miss, and I’ll believe.” The miracle never came. For Bo, church remained an experience based on community rather than religion. Eventually, in place of a religious doctrine, he established for himself a credo of his own, three simple dictates that he tried to live by.

1. The world is hard. Be strong.

2. Love is for only a few. Don’t expect it.

3. Life isn’t fair. But some people are. Be one of them.

Over the years, he’ d considered adding others-Laugh when you can; the opportunities are few; andWomen are easy; compliment their shoes-but he’d always kept it limited to the three he formulated in that small country church outside Blue Earth. He had no complaints. He suffered only when he broke one of his commandments.

With his eyes on the dull reflection off the cross he whispered, “The world is hard. Be strong.”

From directly behind his right ear came the click from the hammer of a pistol being cocked. Bo felt the cold kiss of a gun barrel against the bone at the back of his head.

“Two: Love is for only a few. Don’t expect it. Three: Life isn’t fair. But some people are. Be one of them.” A small laugh accompanied the recitation. “Briefer than the Ten Commandments and the Bill of Rights,” David Moses said, “but not a bad way to live, Thorsen. Not bad at all.”