My King The President (2 page)

Besides, as funerals go, this one was a disaster. Worse than any I had ever attended. Even my mother’s. But I had been only a five year-old then, and didn’t know how to be miserable. Only scared and bewildered. Exactly the way Abby’s twins looked now. I couldn’t see behind her black veil, but it was breaking my heart to imagine what she had to be going through, and I gradually became aware of something besides rain running down my cheeks. This was rapidly turning into the worst labor of love I’d done in a long time, and believe you me, that’s exactly how I thought of it. A labor of love.

I gritted my teeth, wishing I were home, or at least somewhere else. I hadn’t been back in Washington forty-eight hours yet, but found myself already missing my smug, Carolina-sunny privacy aboard
LAST WORD
, or maybe having an afternoon beer over the chessboard with Cal at Tyson’s Bait Shop.

The weather here was rotten. The whole atmosphere was rotten, and no one else seemed to be reacting to it any better than I was. How the hell are you
supposed
to act at the funeral of an old friend who had shot the President twice in cold blood, then swallowed the hot barrel and pulled the trigger again? When I surreptitiously looked up from the toes of my soaked shoes, I could tell the other people were obviously feeling pretty much the same emotions; those pitifully few who were stoically paying their last respects to Mac McCarty. My writer’s mind fished for a word to fit the scene. After a minute it came to me. . .

Ignominy.

I ground my teeth again. It might have helped if I had known more of the others, all standing like motionless wet crows in a plowed field, but I recognized only two faces in the small crowd, a few polite steps apart from Abby and the boys; the priest, and Special Agent Frye. At first I felt instantaneous resentment at Thurmond Frye’s presence there, but quickly surmised the FBI wasn’t about to let Abby McCarty out of their sight for a moment, even to bury her husband. There were probably one or two more agents waiting in the discreet dryness of their unmarked car.

Ignominy
.

What was worse than the dank surroundings and the small knot of Mac’s old Chelsea friends was the absence of those who could have (make that should have) been there and weren’t. Nowhere to be seen was the former first lady, Abby’s mother, nor was there one man there who looked as though he might have been a Secret Service agent. I had counted fewer than thirty shoe-tops altogether.

A couple of men had been foresighted enough to bring umbrellas. Bright stripes and patterns over the bowed heads of their women provided the only, incongruous, color against black of dress, white of face, and gray of day. Most, like myself, were bareheaded, including the thin old priest, whose wisps of cotton hair strung down into his face like the way frayed threads of a storm-beaten flag clings to its wet pole.

Ignominy
. The word wouldn’t let go of me. The priest must have been thinking of the same word, or some professional simile. What could he be thinking now of his church’s ridiculous rules about consecrated ground? Why could Robert McCarty not be buried in Chelsea, next to his parents? A Catholic murderer could be forgiven his deadly sin and be buried properly, and even with some dignity, but a suicide could not.

What could Father Tim Flaherty be thinking, not to be allowed to say a word at this sham of a service? We were standing in a shabby indigent cemetery miles from his own parish. What effect were the perfunctory words (uttered in a monotone dreary as the rain by a Unitarian mercenary) be having on this old man who had performed rites of baptism, confirmation, and marriage for the man in the closed coffin? He was standing there bawling unashamedly, holding the hand of a gorgeous young woman who looked vaguely familiar. I couldn’t place her, though, and dropped my eyes back down to my Wingtips.
Why, Mac? Why did you do it? Doesn’t make sense. You were no murderer
.

Lost in those confused thoughts, I almost didn’t hear the final flat cliché the Unitarian hired gun used to close the service. “…dust to dust… Amen.” Suddenly, I was shuffling along with the rest, who had formed the sheep line filing past the widow, mumbling soft condolences. “Abby, I’m so sorry.”

“Been a while.” Minimal words. Hint of a smile. Neutral handshake. Same old ice man. I hadn’t seen him since Mexico, but he hadn’t changed a bit, except that the coat he had on and the suit beneath it was of much better quality. He must have gotten a promotion. “Didn’t know you were in Washington, now,” I added. “We’ll have to have a drink sometime.”

“Sure, Jeb.”

I moved away. The crowd was dispersing, fading into the rain like fishing boats in fog. I felt a tug on my sleeve. “You have a car, Mr. Willard?”

Call it writer’s habit or whatever; I felt the need to fix the scene in my memory-bank, so I took one last glance back as we trudged away from the cemetery. The coverall-clad grave-digging crew had materialized and was already at work shoveling mud into Mac’s grave.

What a way to go. I’ll never forget it…

I had not forgotten the way to the grungy Irish neighborhood of Chelsea, nor to the equally drab church where I’d been only once before—for Mac’s wedding to Abby. During the drive, around most of Washington, the windshield wipers made the only sound. Father Flaherty said not one single word. Sharing his grief, I kept my own mouth shut, though I wanted to ask him about the girl who had stood beside him at the funeral. When we reached St. Michaels’ parking lot, he surprised me. “Come in, son. I have to tell you something.”

Wondering why he couldn’t tell me while still in the car, I got out and followed him inside. He led me straight to the confessional box, opened the door and said, “Have a seat.” It was a command, not a suggestion.

I had never been inside one before. Bemused, thinking of a dozen old B movies I had seen, I sat in the near darkness and waited. Momentarily, I heard the door on the opposite side close, and the lattice-like screen slide back part way. I didn’t know exactly what to say, and for a fleeting moment, was tempted to blurt out “Forgive me, Father” but I repressed that silly urge, knowing the old man had some good reason for putting me in there. “I’m not Catholic, Father Flaherty. You didn’t have to—”

“Be quiet, please. This place is probably still safe. Read this.”

Through the crack in the thin partition, he passed me a single sheet of ordinary typing paper. “Here, use this.” Now the hand held a cheap cigarette lighter. It took three or four tries before it worked. Ignoring the sudden acrid smell, I held it close to the paper and read:

Jeb,

There was a deep conspiracy. I couldn’t prove anything, but you might. Start with the saint who saw the turning wheel. End with Old Sarge. Also, please look after Liz.

Nice catch in the State game. Bird dog blue, left, on two.

Mac

Astonished, I read the note twice, then a third time before taking my thumb off the lighter. The voice on the other side came back. “Did you read it all?”

I complied, and turned toward the connecting panel as I saw the flame flicker again, then flash, instantly realizing he was burning the note. It didn’t take long, and then I heard him stomping on the ashes. A couple of minutes went by before he said, “You remember where Sean Reilly’s place is?”

And drove around Washington suburbs for an hour in the drizzle. When did Mac give him that note? During a confession? It was no phony, either. It was from Mac, all right. No one else could have known the UNC playbook call for that touchdown pass he threw me to beat the Wolfpack that Saturday a hundred years ago. What kind of “deep conspiracy” could he have meant? One thing was certain. Father Tim Flaherty knew something about Mac’s last few days on earth. Maybe a lot more.

Something in the back of my brain sent up a red flag. Told me to walk away from this
. Go home, Jeb. Let the FBI find out about any conspiracy. Your days as an investigative reporter are long over. You’ve been away from the Washington scene for years. Be sensible for once. It’s not your problem. But that note was Mac McCarty’s request. Possibly his last request. You don’t turn your back on an old friend. Never have. Not even a dead one. Not even if he
shot the President. Won’t hurt to talk to the priest. Just a little talk, Jeb
.
Nothing
more. Nothing less. No harm- no foul
.

I spotted him at a back booth at Reilly’s Bar and Grill. Letting my eyes adjust to the bright interior light, I took off my raincoat and casually ran the olfactory gauntlet of pungent hamburger grease and stale cigar smoke, passing by only a handful of customers bent over their beers and arguments. Father Flaherty either hadn’t touched the glass of red wine on the table before him, or he’d ordered a refill. He was staring into the glass, toying with the stem, and I thought he hadn’t noticed my approach until he raised his head to signal both the bartender and me. “Sit. What’ll you be drinking, Mr. Jeb Willard?”

“Vodka on the rocks. Absolut if you have it,” I said to the portly man who had hurried over. He frowned at my order, and left, snorting.

“That could be a mite sophisticated for this joint,” Father Flaherty said, grinning. “And I hope you won’t expect olives, either, but Sean might drop in a bit of lemon peel, since you’re with me.”

“That’s okay. Anything’s fine. Looks like you haven’t touched your wine.”

“Can’t, much as I’d like to. Had a slight problem with the old ticker a while back. Since then, I come in here every day just as I have for years and Sean serves me the same as always. I just sit here for a while, savoring how I used to enjoy it. Old habits are hard to break, you know. I think Sean pours it back into the bottle after I leave, but it doesn’t matter.”

He started to say something else, but waited for his friend to deliver my drink, which did have a piece of lemon peel floating on top. In a quiet brogue, he told me that because I had been to Mac McCarty’s funeral, it was on the house. “Mac was well thought of around here, mister,” he said.

Father Flaherty waited until Reilly was out of earshot. “Mr. Willard—”

“Jeb, please.”

“All right. Jeb. “I’m well aware that you and Mac were close college friends, and I remember you were best man at his wedding, but there are a few ground rules we’d better establish right now. I also know you’re a newspaper man—”

“Ex-newspaper man.”

“What’s the difference? So you write books now instead of articles, but a guy like you would never be able to ignore what Mac asked you to do. Now, What
I
am is Mac’s uncle—and his priest. I will help you all I can because I loved him as if he were my own son. I don’t want his name and memory dragged through any more shit than it already has been, no matter what he did, pardon my language. I know you’re dying to ask me questions, just like the police and the FBI did, but there are some things I can’t tell you, and some things I won’t.”

“I hope so. Otherwise, you’ll be wasting your time and mine, and I don’t have much of that left. Mac asked me to do what I did and I did it, in strictest confidence. Beyond that, I owe you nothing.”

“No, I can’t. I don’t
know
why.”

“Surely you must have some idea.”

“If I did, it’s not you I’d be telling. I’m not even sure I could talk that over with God.”

Not wanting to push him too hard, I tried my drink. Sean Reilly apparently didn’t stock Absolut. This tasted more like American-made stuff. Well, there was no law I had to finish it. I took another couple small sips and looked across the table again. “How’s Abby holding up?”

“How would you think? She’s devastated. Standing on the wrong edge of a breakdown.”

“I can imagine.”

“You can? I doubt it. Losing your husband and your father like
that
? Maybe your journalistic work has hardened you to life, and God knows as a priest, I’ve seen some awful things, but never anything like this. And those poor kids. It’s terrible. Worse than terrible.”