The Devil's bed

chapter
five

Bo always kept a suitcase packed and ready. He spent less than ten minutes in his apartment in Tangletown, then took I-94 east out of St. Paul, eighteen miles to the St. Croix Trail exit, where he headed south through the little river town of Afton. A couple of miles beyond, he turned east onto a private drive. He passed beneath a stone arch with the name WILDWOODset in big tile letters. The drive threaded between tall cedars for a quarter mile, then approached the gate of a seven-foot-high stone wall. The gate was open at the moment and the gatehouse deserted. That would change as soon as the rest of the protective detail arrived. Beyond the wall lay the orchards of Wildwood.

After his wife passed away, Tom Jorgenson had come home to the estate to retire, but he didn’t retire long. Within two years of his return, he’d established, in conjunction with the University of Minnesota, the Myrna Jorgenson Institute for Global Understanding, a think tank for world peace and prosperity. An invitation to his annual Symposium on World Unity was a highly sought-after prize, and his home had become a destination for leaders of nations all over the world. A full decade after abandoning the politics of Washington, D.C., he’d proved instrumental in negotiating the Abu Dhabi Accord, which clearly enunciated the guidelines for humane treatment of international refugees. Because of his efforts he’d been short-listed for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Bo had been in charge of security at Wildwood on numerous occasions. Although former vice presidents were not accorded Secret Service protection (a benefit enjoyed only by former presidents), the Secret Service did have the responsibility of protecting visiting heads of state. Jorgenson was famous for putting his guests to work in the orchards, regardless of their rank. Prime ministers, premiers, presidents, and sultans propped and pruned and picked the fruit. While they sweated at a labor as old as mankind, they talked with Tom Jorgenson and with one another. And while they talked, Bo and his fellow agents kept them safe.

The house, nestled in the orchards, was a big place, three stories, white frame, half a dozen gables, and a wraparound front porch. Forty yards south stood the guesthouse. There were two outbuildings, one a sturdy red barn and the other an equipment shed, and near the main house a small swimming pool.

Bo parked on the gravel drive in front of the house, under a sycamore. Annie Jorgenson must have been expecting him, because she opened the door as he stepped onto the porch.

“Hello, Bo.” She gave him a hug and kissed his cheek.

“How is he, Annie?”

“Not conscious. They tell me it could go either way.”

Annie Jorgenson was in her early sixties. A slender woman, she stood nearly as tall as Bo, and when she spoke to him, her crystal blue eyes were level with his own. Bo had always admired the intelligence and beauty in those eyes. Now he saw tears there.

“Ruth’s with him,” she said, speaking of Jorgenson’s youngest daughter.

Someone called from inside, “Annie?” Bo had been on detail at Wildwood often enough to recognize that the voice belonged to Sue Lynott, who prepared the meals for the Jorgensons and their guests, and also for the Secret Service agents while they were on protective duty at Wildwood. Her food was considered one of the true perks of the job. “Shall I fix you and Bo some tea?”

“Thank you, Sue,” Annie called back. “That would be nice.”

They sat in the porch swing.

“How did it happen?” he asked.

She shook her head. “He was going down to the river bluff to look at the moon. You know his ritual. He’s been taking the tractor lately because he twisted his knee a couple of weeks ago. When I finished the dinner dishes, I went out to join him and there he was. A branch had knocked him off his seat and the flatbed had run over him. He must have been careless.” Her voice, by the end, had broken.

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Not much.”

“The team will be here soon to set up. I’ll keep things quiet if you’d like to try to get some rest.”

“I’m fine, Bo.”

Sue brought them tea, said hello to Bo, then went back into the house. From the orchards came the sound of a meadowlark. Annie’s eyes seemed to try to track the source of the song, and for a while she simply stared at the apple trees and drank her tea.

“If there’s anything I can do,” Bo finally said, “let me know.”

She smiled. “You’re doing it.”

When Special Agent Jake Russell arrived with the rest of the operations detail, Bo left Annie and headed out to prepare the guesthouse.

Originally a carriage house, the structure had at one time served as the home and the studio for Roland Jorgenson, who’d been a famous metal sculptor. After Roland’s death, the structure was remodeled to accommodate the visitors who journeyed to Wildwood seeking Tom Jorgenson’s counsel. The frequent presence of foreign heads of state necessitated installation of permanent security equipment. Behind the kitchen was an area originally designed as a sunroom, but that had become the Operations Center. Although Tom Jorgenson understood the need for security measures during these high-level visits, he never allowed the devices to be operable at any other time. Part of Bo’s responsibility was to run a check of the system and ensure that every piece of apparatus was functioning properly. He directed some of the agents to check the monitors that were connected to cameras mounted around the building. Jake Russell took part of the team into the orchard to calibrate the sensors of the motion detectors and infrared cameras on the stone wall around the orchards of Wildwood. Bo secured the weapons and the additional equipment in the Op Center lockers. Once the perimeter security system was functioning, he had his team run a test to make sure the signals were firm and all the equipment was transmitting properly.

Near the end of the setup, he received word that the First Lady’s plane had arrived and she was en route to the hospital. Shortly after, a Washington County sheriff’s deputy dropped by to say two officers had been posted at the entrance to Wildwood to control traffic and access from the main road. Media vans were already gathering along the St. Croix Trail. Bo thanked him and did a final check of everything.

He spent another hour preparing before he was satisfied that all was in order. Finally, he stepped out into the yard and stood looking down the orchard lane that Tom Jorgenson always took when he went to watch the moon. At the far end, Bo could see the tractor.

He walked slowly between the rows of trees. The apples were a nice size but still green. The branches sagged, in need of propping. Bo had to walk a crooked line and bend occasionally to make his way. When he reached the idle machine, he circled it, then stood looking back for the branch that had thrown Tom Jorgenson into harm’s way. The most likely candidate was a thick limb a few feet back of the flatbed. It hung low, but not so low, Bo thought, that it couldn’t easily have been avoided. Bo climbed onto the tractor seat, looked back, and confirmed his assessment that if Jorgenson had made the slightest effort, he’d have missed the limb. Bo had known Tom Jorgenson long enough to believe that he was a man with great presence of mind. What could have distracted him? The moon? As he dismounted, he spotted a silver Thermos wedged under the seat. He unscrewed the cap and sniffed. Coffee and-maybe this explained a lot-whiskey.

Bo walked to the edge of the bluff thirty yards in front of the tractor. A sheer sandstone cliff fell fifty feet to a rocky, tree-covered slope that ran down to the St. Croix River. The river was a silver sparkle of sunlight a half-mile wide, edged on both sides by tall, wooded bluffs. Sailboats and power launches skimmed over the water. Bo turned back, stared at the tractor, and wondered about something. He returned to the Kubota and checked the ignition. The key was still there, but the ignition was in the off position. He was pretty sure Tom Jorgenson didn’t have time to kill the engine before he fell to the ground. So probably the ignition had been switched off by someone in the aftermath of the accident. Still, the elements of the situation felt odd to him.

He puzzled only a brief moment before he heard his name called over the walkie-talkie he carried, and the cryptic message, “Dreamcatcher is en route to Mount Olympus.”

Communicating over the airwaves, even when using a scrambled signal, Secret Service always employed code names to designate protectees. Dreamcatcher was the First Lady. Mount Olympus was Wildwood.