Page 73 of The First Gentleman

She smiles and pats my hand. “Good to know I still have the touch.” She eyes me over the rim of her coffee mug. “What about your work?”

“I’m still on sabbatical from Yale.”

“No, I’m talking about your book, the one you and Garrett were working on.”

I put down my fork and push my plate away. “The book is dead, Mama. It died with Garrett. Anyway, Nottingham canceled the contract.”

She gives me a quiet nod.

“Besides, I’m afraid working on that book is what got Garrett killed.”

The first few hours after I saw his dead body are a blur. The Brattleboro police questioned me twice, once at the scene, once at the station.

Of course I told them about Tony Romero, the thug from Providence. About how he’d beaten up Garrett over a book we were writing. They took down his name and contacted the Providence police. Naturally, Romero had an alibi. He had been in his private club, Raymond’s Tavern, the whole day.

I had as many questions for the cops as they had for me. For one thing, where was Garrett’s laptop? He never went anywhere without it. Were there any tire prints by the cabin? Did anybody else see anything? And even though it hurt me to ask: Exactly how had Garrett died? They told me it was a single gunshot. Said it would’ve been over in a second. I’ve chosen to believe that. I can’t bear the thought of him suffering.

They asked if Garrett did drugs. I said nothing stronger than Tylenol. They told me that there were drugs on a table in the cabin. High-grade coke. Looked like it was being cut and repackaged for distribution. I told them it was obviously a setup, which meant it had been a planned execution. They ordered a tox screen anyway.

I didn’t tell them about Garrett’s meeting with the First Gentleman. I believed that it had happened, but I didn’t have any proof, and I was afraid of coming off as some kind of governmentconspiracy nut. I was worried that they’d sic the Secret Service on me. When the detectives asked what our book was about, I told them it was about politics. A work in progress. I said we didn’t even have a publishing deal.

Enough.

After breakfast with Mama, I toss my sweats in the hamper, take a shower, and put on a pair of jeans and a blouse. I don’t feel normal. But at least I kind of look it. One step at a time.

CHAPTER

70

Walter Reed National Military Medical Center

Walter Reed may be one of the world’s finest medical institutions, but it’s still a hospital, and the scents and sounds make Burton Pearce queasy. For good reason.

Five years ago, he watched his younger sister waste away from kidney disease at Union Memorial in Maryland. His mother died from stomach cancer at Georgetown University Hospital three months later. Not long after, his dad went to Mount Sinai in New York for a routine angioplasty and died on the table.

He gets off on the seventh floor and heads for Vice President Ransom Faulkner’s suite. This is a solo visit, timed right after morning rounds. Thanks to a couple of well-placed phone calls from Pearce, Rachel Bernstein is on her way to a conference of Virginia mayors. She’ll be gone all day.

Pearce nods to the two Secret Service agents outside the suite. He pushes the door open—and almost walks right back out.

He didn’t realize it had gotten this bad.

Faulkner is gaunt, his chin coated with gray stubble, an oxygencannula below his nostrils. The metal stands at his sides are filled with monitors, humming and beeping. An IV bag hangs at the head of the bed. One of the most dynamic men he’s ever known—a generational political force—reduced to fluids in, fluids out.

Pearce drags a chair over and sits down.

The noise wakes the VP. He blinks and turns his head on the pillow.

“Burton,” he says weakly. “Nice surprise.”

“Good to see you, Chief. Can I get you anything?”

A wan smile. “About six feet of clean colon, if you can spare it.”

Pearce laughs. “I was thinking more like ice chips.”

“Only if they’re floating in a tumbler of scotch,” says Faulkner. He coughs. “What’s up, Burton?” he croaks. “You’ve got better things to do than visit the sick and infirm.”

Pearce rests one hand on the bed rail. “We’re getting close, Mr. Vice President. I want to keep you in the loop.”

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