My King The President (3 page)

“The General? Just fine, but not at first. It was an uphill fight for Mac and Abby before they got married. Jean Tyndall was sympathetic right from the start, but the General was a roaring Baptist bear. Only thing was, he didn’t
know
Mac, and he certainly had no idea that Mac was just as stubborn as he was himself. Mac wanted his overprotected, only daughter and she wanted Mac. It was that simple, and Mac and Abby were that determined. General Tyndall didn’t like it but he lumped it like a man. Still, after the wedding, he never let his precious little girl get too far away from the nest. How do you think Mac got that cushy White House assignment in the first place?”

“Could that be it? Maybe Mac hated the General because of how he’d muzzled Abby?”

“No, son. Mac McCarty never hated anyone in his whole life. Wasn’t put together that way. That’s why he knew he’d never make it as a professional football player. Didn’t have that headhunter, killer instinct. That’s also why I don’t have any more of a clue than anybody—”

“I thought I’d find you both here.”

We had been so absorbed in conversation; neither of us had noticed her until she spoke.
The girl at the funeral
.

That was an understatement! The braces had done their job. Her smile was terrific, set in an angelic face beneath the same dancing brown eyes Mac had. Her hair was dark, almost black, and long, and the severe mourning clothes she wore did nothing to disguise either a fantastic figure or the considerable height she’d reached since I’d last seen her. My mind jumped forward again, just as fast—to the last line in Mac’s note:
Also, please look after Liz.

“I’m sorry, Liz,” I said. “Really. Please have a seat.”

“No, I can’t. My car’s running outside. Too many things to do before I go back to school. Great to see you again, Uncle Tim. Thanks for holding me up today. It was pretty grim.”

“You held
me
up, child,” the priest replied. “Call me when you can.”

“I will.” And then she was gone.

Tim Flaherty sat back down, still smiling. “Surprised?”

“Very. She was just a
kid
!”

“Not any more, and she doesn’t stay in one place long enough to cast a shadow. Mac knew what he was doing, including her in his note. I’m getting much too old now to keep up with her any longer. Now, a young fella like you—”

I laughed. “Next month I’ll be watching the sun come up on the other side of forty. You call that young?”

“At my age, you call everybody young. So, what are your plans?”

“Whoa, Father. I don’t have any plans. At least not yet. Before I can make any, or even decide whether I really want to dig into this thing, and since I can’t pry any more out of you, I think I’d best go home and talk all this out with another Wom.”

Chapter 2

I love this little spot I’ve always called my “think place.” Found it when I was about twelve, hunting stew squirrels to sell to the black ladies in the Oldfield neighborhood for a dime apiece. Little over a mile north of Tryon’s Cove, on top of the rocky ridge called King’s Point. Nothing here but a few flat rocks surrounded by tall pines, but from it, I can look south and see the entire half-moon bay and my home town as far as the white sand beach of Queen’s Point. As a kid, I could easily imagine I was Prince of the Sky, sitting on one tip of a crescent moon and looking over my little world to the other. The domain of my youth. Before I learned that I could talk through anything with Cal, I’d climb up here and try to sort out whatever problem was bothering me; acne, wet dreams over Edith Conway, fanning three straight times in yesterday’s game. Teen stuff. So, so long ago.

While I was an undergrad at UNC, I’d occasionally stop here briefly on my way home from Chapel Hill to figure out how I was going to tell Cal I was broke again, or why my grades had dropped, or which girl I had fallen desperately in love with that particular week. College stuff. Also a long time ago. Still later, after I’d made my journalistic bones overseas and between the fast lanes of the D.C. beltline, I’d still sneak up here every now and then, just to climb back into slow sanity. Touch base again with roots and reality. Level my keel.

I looked out over the shallow, shimmering cove at my boat.
LAST WORD
was gently riding at anchor, her dinghy trailing behind like an obedient puppy. From where I sat, I could see little stick figures moving along the waterfront, up and down Front Street. Between the contesting spires of the First Baptist and First Methodist I could almost make out the
Tyron’s Cove Telegram
building; not a house, but the only home I had ever known. Speaking of boats, Cal used to say his paper, also born in that brick building, was a “Tiny Republican tug chugging through a big Democratic sea.”

The thought brought a smile—and a reminder that I’d better take his Ford back to him. Or was it a Chevy? I’d been so entangled in thoughts about Mac’s funeral and his letter, I hadn’t noticed what car Cal was driving this year, which he’d loaned me to get to the Raleigh/Durham airport. Old Cal Willard is no fool. He trades cars every two years, alternating Fords, Chevys, and Chryslers, which keeps all three of the local dealers happy. No favorites, Republican, Democrat, or other.

I got to my feet, not exactly a happy camper. This time, my think place had failed. Maybe I’d come to rely on it one time too many. Maybe the last time I was here I had used up all its magic; the day I had decided to leave Washington for good, a casualty of industrial strength burnout. Did I really want to go back to that? Even for an old friend? Was there really some kind of nasty-ass conspiracy and possible cover-up concerning President Tyndall’s death? Rusty as I was now, did I stand any chance at all of finding out? Should I even try? I was no closer to making a decision than before. On the fence. Brain telling me to forget it, gut telling me Mac’s soul wouldn’t rest until I ran out for his last pass. Well, Cal could help. Always has, always will, usually spouting more dry logic than Spock ever irritated Kirk with.

I picked my way back down the narrow path to his car, which was, by the way, a Chevy. Ten minutes later, I parked it at
Tyson’s Bait Shop
.

Sammy Tyson is the only living human being who has ever beaten Cal Willard at checkers. That happened a long time ago, and when Cal gave up trying to teach the burly proprietor of Tyson’s Bait Shop and Marina how to play chess, he started picking on me. I must have been about ten at the time. I never could beat him either, though I tried hard to back then, and on every visit home after I was grown. In recent years, our games have gotten longer and longer because of more serious talks, discussions, and arguments over the chessboard. I can’t even recall when we began this last one. Must have been two years ago. “…And that’s where I’m at, Cal. Any ideas?”

“Whose move is it anyway?” he asked.

“It’s your move, old man,” piped Sammy, from behind his patched glass counter. “Jeb’s white. He moved last.”

“How the hell would you know that?” Cal’s Adam’s apple bobbed over his green bow tie. “You can’t even remember what year you were born. Or maybe hatched in some catfish pond. From the way you smell, I’m inclined to think the latter.”

Sammy came right back at him. “You been here fifty years near bout, and still talk like a uppity Yankee. ‘Nuff to kill my worms and minnows.”

Sammy laughed at his own wit, and then turned to me. “I sure wish you’d come back home more oftener, Jeb. With you bouncin’ all over the world, all he’s got left to pick on is me, and I ain’t got the time to mess with him. I got a business to run.”

I winked at him as he left to walk the docks, and then turned my attention to the board. Moved a pawn. The game was back on. “So, what do you think? Could there have been an honest to God conspiracy, or do you think Mac simply flipped out? Played solo?” Cal had listened to my entire monologue without yet saying a word.

“Conundrum,” he said. “Isn’t your first and won’t be your last, but this is a tough one, no doubt about it. My advice is to wait a while. See which way the Washington wind blows. See if any of the official people think there is any real evidence of a plot, and if there is, you were right, the FBI will be all over it like blue flies on a cow pie. And if not, there’s no sense in going back up there and asking a lot of fool questions over nothing at all, making more enemies than you did before. President Tyndall and young McCarty are both dead. They’re in no hurry. Why should you be?”

“You really have a way with words, Cal. What about Mac’s note?”

“If, as you put it, he’d flipped out, that note would simply be another indication of his dementia. I’d just sit pat for a while.”

“You’re probably right. It’s just that I’d hate to let Mac down. Or Abby and the boys.”

“I know, pal, but if there’s nothing to that note, your meddling could only make it worse for them. What the hell, you’ve been back here less than three weeks, and already chafing at the bit again. I thought you’d given up all those damn-the-torpedoes full-speed-ahead shenanigans for good. Almost got your fanny shot off down in Mexico last time.”

“Twice.”

“Third time’s a charm, right? Relax. It’s good having you home again. I was getting powerfully tired of Sammy’s company. That’s some boat you’ve got out there.”

Cal, once he thinks a subject has been closed, can shift gears to a new one faster than a girl can pull up her pants. This time, I didn’t mind. I was happy to brag some more about
LAST WORD
. After that Mexican fiasco, I had left Santa Fe and taken a winter vacation in Key West. On the way down, I’d stopped at Ft. Lauderdale to boat shop. You can buy anything that floats there, and I’d seen this lovely 38-foot double-ender, sloop rigged, with an appealing name and (because she was part of an estate sale) a reasonable price tag. Buying her broke my bank. But I had to have her.

Cal had only one more thing to say. “Sammy thinks a storm is coming.” He took my rook with his remaining knight. “Better find yourself a hurricane hole. Your move.”

I took both the advice and the hint, not wanting to see any more of the most elaborate television coverage of a Presidential funeral since the one for JKF. Since the weather heads were warning that Hurricane Freddy was rapidly moving within worry distance of the Carolina coast, I took
LAST WORD
several miles inland to the hole I knew of at Minnesott Beach, where the Neuse river bends north, just upriver from Oriental. I waited there nearly a week, but it turned out Freddy was a fizzle, so back home I went, after spending two sleepless days and nights at Cape Lookout.

I had no more than set anchor when Sammy radioed me Cal wanted to see me,
ASAP
.

I rowed ashore, tied the dink, and walked to the
Telegram
building. Cal’s office looked exactly the same as when I had sat in there on my rocking horse while he’d banged away on his Underwood, a fixture which had only recently been replaced by a state of the art computer. While working, Cal wore an old-fashion green eyeshade, the same color of his bow tie. As always, he maintained the persona of a small town-small newspaper publisher. Only thing missing from his daytime wardrobe was arm-sleeve garters.

He looked up from the clutter, an impish grin on his face. “You’ve been getting a ton of phone calls here. Good thing you came back when you did, I—”

The phone’s ringing stopped him in mid-sentence.

If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the look on Cal’s face when he handed it over. “For you, Pal. The White House. It’s… It’s the
President!

It only took a moment before the familiar smooth voice came over. “Mr. Willard, this is Helene Fordham. You are one hard man to track down. Tell me, is it possible you might be back in Washington soon?”