A Hideous Beauty (32 page)

“Nice sign, Grant,” Semyaza said.

He'd popped in from nowhere to mock me. “I have to admit, you have proven to be a formidable adversary. A protest sign. We never saw it coming. Stunning tactic. Lucifer and all his generals are huddling in a desperate attempt to come up with a strategy to stop you.”

I lowered my sign. “Does your presence mean it's going to happen tonight?” I asked.

The president's helicopter was approaching, stirring the macaws. The squawking jacked up to deafening decibels.

The helicopter was so far distant it looked the size of a sparrow. It hovered, suspended between earth and heaven, without incident. After it landed, there was a seamless transition as the president climbed into a limo and was whisked away.

Semyaza vanished without further comment.

Somewhere—wherever journalists were flocking—Jana was doing her part. Not only was she covering events, but trying to get word to the president on my behalf through the press corps. I watched her reports each evening on the nightly news.

Christina reinserted herself into the White House staff during the Del Mar visit after one of the event coordinators became sick from shellfish she ate in Tijuana. While Ingraham proved an insurmountable obstacle between her and the president, at least she was able to give us inside updates, on average, thirty minutes before the press got them.

The president left Del Mar the same way he came. In a helicopter and without incident.

The convention center fund-raiser was even a worse waste of time. The designated protest area was conveniently tucked away and well out of sight.

That night Jana reported on the news that the convention center fund-raiser had been a huge success. Douglas was nothing
if not charismatic. To party officials he was the golden goose.

In the mornings, as the professor suggested, I read the call-to-arms verse every day and portions of the Gospel accounts. While I was familiar with some of the more recognizable accounts of Christ's life, I had never studied the Gospels in depth. And while I couldn't share in the world's salvation, I saw in Jesus a heroic figure. While he couldn't be my Savior, I determined he could be my hero.

According to the professor, Abdiel and many of the other angels refer to the historical Jesus as the Divine Warrior. I could see it.

On the third day I awoke early with a sense of quiet desperation. This would be my last chance to get the president's attention.

According to the itinerary that had been given to the press, the president's motorcade would travel south on Harbor Boulevard past the county courthouse that had been dedicated by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and then over to Coronado for a farewell rally, after which he would board Air Force One at North Island Naval Air Station.

The way I saw it, I had two chances. The motorcade route and the rally. Once the president was aboard Air Force One it was all over.

The rally would be a last-ditch effort. I'd promised Jana, Sue Ling, and Christina that under no circumstances would I go over to the Coronado side of the bay. They were afraid that once events were set in motion, there would be no stopping them and I would be swept up in history.

I intended to keep my promise, if possible. But I could think
of at least one scenario that could land me on Coronado Island—by invitation of the president. If he saw my sign it was conceivable he could ask me to accompany him to the rally where we could talk, or to join him on Air Force One.

And if he didn't see my sign?

I'd cross that bridge—pun intended, would you expect any less?—when I got to it.

I parked at Horton Plaza and walked to the bay. Finding a parking place on Pacific Coast Highway was a hit-and-miss proposition on a normal day, wishful thinking on a day like today.

When I reached Harbor Boulevard, I groaned with frustration at what I saw. A mistake from the night before had germinated and bloomed.

At the convention center a goofy-looking, bald-headed guy had struck up a conversation with me. He asked me about my sign. I made the mistake of telling him that the sign wasn't so much a protest, but a step toward getting an invitation to a private meeting with the president.

“You know something, don't you?” he said.

“Something like that.”

“You really think it will work?”

“I wouldn't be standing here if I didn't think so.”

Now, as I crossed the street to the bay side of Harbor Boulevard, I saw five signs identical to mine:
DOC PALMER IS ALIVE
held by the goofy-looking bald guy and what looked like his wife and three children. When he saw me, he waved at me with a gaptoothed smile.

Trying to make the best of a messed-up situation, I distanced myself from my competition farther down the motorcade line. While their signs had the same message, I was the exclamation point. The fact that I knew Doc Palmer was alive put teeth in the message.

I know. I was grasping at straws. But when life gives you straws, the lemonade's going to taste lousy.

Positioning myself at Navy Pier, I settled in for the wait. This was my last chance. One way or the other, I was going to get the president's attention. I could think of one sure way. By stepping in front of the presidential limo.

Brake lights lit on a school bus as it negotiated the curve on the ramp from Interstate 5 north to the Coronado bridge. Jana Torres hoped they were just slowing for the curve. The last thing she needed right now was for traffic to back up.

Six months ago she'd committed herself to a breakfast speaking engagement in Chula Vista. Being a successful, articulate, and attractive Latina career woman made her popular with women's groups. Normally she enjoyed giving motivational speeches and the station encouraged her since it was good public relations for them. However, six months ago she hadn't known that the president would be in town and that there would be an attempt on his life.

She hadn't told anybody at the station about what she knew. She treated the knowledge as any other tip. She'd follow it up and if it played out, she'd be in the right place at the right time. If it didn't . . . it was just another tip that didn't pan out. At least that's what she told herself to calm her racing heart.

Officially, she hadn't been assigned to the story, though she had fought for it. The station wanted her to keep her speaking commitment. Assigned to cover the story were two news crews; one was on Harbor Boulevard for the motorcade and the other on Coronado for the festivities and departure.

After a morning of smiling, shaking hands, and thanking people for watching her report the news, Jana drove toward
Coronado. She believed Sue Ling was correct thinking that
between earth and heaven
referred to Air Force One, and she wanted to be there. If something dramatic happened, she could always grab an extra cameraman, or, if nothing else was available, a guy with a camcorder.

On the ramp ahead of her the single pair of brake lights became two, then six, then a dozen. She applied her brakes and slapped the steering wheel in frustration. Within seconds the entire ramp was at a standstill backing up onto the freeway.

She set her car radio to scan the channels in search of a news report. Flipping open her cell phone, she called her own station to see if there was an update on the president's itinerary. The news desk told her the itinerary hadn't changed. Neither had Christina, her inside source, left any messages.

She looked at her watch. There was still plenty of time. A couple hundred feet ahead of her the ramp curved sharply to the left, so she couldn't see what traffic on the bridge was like. It was probably backed up into Coronado like it was every morning, when military personnel reported for duty.

Jana drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She was not going to sit here stuck in traffic while the biggest news story of the century unfolded just a few miles away.

Broken bones and casts awaited me. Men had sacrificed far more for their country. I took a deep breath, ready to do my duty and step in front of the president's limo.

At the moment the street was empty of traffic. It had been rerouted for the motorcade.

I gripped my sign.

“What's the big deal about Doc Palmer?” the guy next to me asked.

My cell phone rang. “Hail to the Chief.”

“Excuse me, I have to take this,” I told him. “The president.”

“Grant?” Christina said on the other end of the line. “Change of plans.”

My heart sank.

“We're leaving the hotel right now and taking the freeway to Coronado. We're not going down Harbor Boulevard.”

“Really? Why?”

“They didn't say. Sorry.”

So that was it. The only other possibility was Coronado.

“Grant? You're not thinking of going to Coronado, are you? You promised.”

“Sorry, Christina. I can't talk now.”

Flipping the phone closed, I dropped my sign.

“He's not coming,” I said to the man next to me.

“Yeah, like you were really talking to the president.”

“Suit yourself, but I'm telling you his itinerary has changed. He's taking the freeway. He's not coming down Harbor Boulevard.”

The woman next to him, chewing gum and wearing an orange ball cap, pulled earphones out of her ears. “Radio says he's not coming,” she told her husband. “He's taking the freeway to Coronado.”

The man stared at me in disbelief.

I shrugged.

The professor and Sue Ling heard the news about the change in the president's route to Coronado from a news update on the television. She sat on the sofa and the professor sat next to her with the sofa arm separating them. They watched a small
thirteen-inch screen from a combination television/VCR tape player that was kept in a closet when not in use.

It was unusual that the television was turned on during the day. Its use was normally restricted to Friday nights. Sue insisted the professor take Friday nights off. It was their movie night. They would alternate between action/adventure movies and romantic comedies. The adventures for her, the romantic comedies for him.