Gretchen didn’t want to be a bitch. She wanted to be an asshole, a bastard, a ball-buster, but she had to admit that she was sometimes bitchy too. She knew that every slipup, every lapse, could lead to Tevon in his room watching an assassination on TV. This was another thing she had lived through as a kid (Dr. King in Memphis, Robert Kennedy in L.A. — blood looked black on the black-and-white TV her mother had in ’68, when the country went to hell). Tevon was her country now, the only country Gretchen knew, and he wouldn’t see the VP die on television, not while she was chief-of-detail. She drove her agents to protect her son, and if they didn’t like it, well, they could fuck themselves and go back to Crim, in more or less that order. This was Gretchen’s way, maybe not the best way, but she didn’t doubt that it had to be her way. Riding in the van, she was doubting something else. Was she a good mother? She thought of Tevon searching for himself in cyberspace. She saw him at the terminal, typing the same lonely search, Tevon Williams, T. J. Williams, Tevon Joseph Williams, trying it all-caps to see if this picked up some hits — it broke her heart. The search had led him to back to L.A. and to Carlton Imbry, and now they were talking, son and father, though she had forbidden it. She couldn’t let Tevon come to know his father because Carlton Imbry was one of those handsome, talented, weak men who hurt you in the end, and she couldn’t watch her son get hurt. She also didn’t want him to grow into that kind of man — she couldn’t watch that either. She had built a Dome named Gretchen Williams all around her son, his promise and his future, but she was tired and she couldn’t stand the fighting, or the silence on the phone, or the locked doors at the house, and maybe it was time to let it go.
The motorcade took the last corner like a centipede, in segments, van after van, arriving at the top of the jog route only twenty minutes behind schedule. On Gretchen’s order, the rotary was sealed by flashing cruisers. Traffic started backing up in three directions. Some commuters, running late already, tried to go around, following the side streets, which were also blocked. The VP and his party stretched on the shoulder. Gretchen watched them stretch, cell phone in her hand. Through the trees she saw the river, a blue police boat midstream, frogmen jumping backwards off the deck.
Gretchen took a deep breath. She punched a number in L.A.
A woman’s voice: “’lo—?”
Soft as a kitten’s, Gretchen thought. She stiffened. “Is this Bambi?”
“This is Brandy. Who is this?”
“This is Lead Agent Williams of the U.S. Secret Service. Is Carlton there?”
“He’s sleeping.”
“Is he sleeping there?”
“Yes but—”
“Wake his slick ass up, girlfriend. Tell him Gretchen’s on the line.”
There was fumbling and whispering in California. Brandy’s voice said, “Carl, Carl, Carl—” Gretchen heard what sounded like a drinking glass knocked over and a mattress being bounced on.
“Gretchen,” Carlton Imbry said.
Same old midnight DJ voice. He said her name a certain way, made it musical, a breathy sort of Gre, you barely heard the tch. It was as if no time had passed. Ten years had passed.
“I’ve been meaning to call you, Gretchen — damn, wow, how you been? Kind of early to be calling the West Coast, but, hey, it’s really great to hear your voice. You been good? You sound good. Tevon — well, I’m sure you know that we’ve been talking. He’s a great kid, Gretchen. He knows all about my cases. I really get a kick out of talking to him. Of course, the phone bills are a little steep, but it’s worth it, and Tev says you have a real cheap calling plan, so it’s not a big deal. You know, I think it’s time for you and me to sit down together, discuss a couple things, don’t you? I’ll be out east in a few weeks. I’m retired now. Over Christmas. We had a nice affair at Spago’s, the mayor came and everything. I’ve got a couple jobs lined up, reality consulting, Law & Order, and this new show, Black Dragnet for BET, which is based on me, on some of my big cases over the years. Anyway, you don’t want to hear all this. I’ll be in New York, let’s see, the week of the twenty-third. I thought I might bop down to Washington on the twenty-fifth. No, wait — I’m looking at my book — I’ve got dinner that night. What about breakfast, the twenty-sixth? My treat, you pick the place. What’s the best and most expensive place for breakfast in D.C.?”
“You’re a failure,” Gretchen said.
Carlton Imbry sighed. “This is about Tevon. Let’s try and think about what’s best for Tevon. He wants to come out here in the summer, spend some time, and I’d like to get your input. I mean it’s fine with me, it’s great, depending on some shoots we’re looking at for Dragnet, July and maybe August. How’s breakfast on the twenty-sixth look for you?”
Gretchen said, “I don’t want to eat with you. I don’t want to be sitting in a restaurant and say ‘Pass the salt’ and have you pass the salt. I don’t want a normal minute in your presence. ’Cause I’m past that now. Tevon can go to California in the summer if he wants. But I’m warning you, Carlton: if you hurt or disappoint that boy in any way, if you are for one lousy second anything less than the hero he’s created for himself, I swear to God I’ll come out there and burn your house down.”
It felt good, pressing END.
They were ready to start jogging on the river road, waiting only for the second press bus, which had missed a turn. Gretchen sent a cruiser for the bus as the comm techs in van four went operational, activating jammers to disrupt nonauthorized signals, including point-to-point voice communication, radio-controlled bombs, radio-controlled toys, cell and cordless phones, broadcast television, TV clickers, and automatic garage doors for a radius of about two thousand yards. The press bus appeared without the cruiser. Reporters piled out, cursing at the driver, who cursed back at them.
Two motorcycles led the way, crawling down the river road, followed by two cruisers, dome lights flashing. Van one, behind the cruisers, had the rugged look of a war wagon but inside the blacked-out windows it was empty except for a driver and a sideman looking out. Van two, next in line, held a driver, a sideman, backup troopers, and the SWATs. One SWAT was crouched low, pointing a.50-caliber machine gun out the side door at the woods. The other SWATs were kneeling on the last bench, pointing their machine guns out the back doors, keeping a visual on the bodies jogging in their exhaust. Herc and Bobbie were flanking the VP, who wheezed. Vi was at the VP’s heels, keeping to his awkward pace, not quite running, not quite walking, fending off photographers and cameramen who danced around the party, shouting “Over here!” and “Look this way!” and “Can I get a wave?” A few reporters followed too, shouting questions, holding their tape recorders in the air. Van three, behind the joggers, carried the extraction team for this event, Gretchen, O’Teen, and the troopers, Tashmo and Elias standing on the bumper, gripping the luggage rack. Behind the comm techs in van four was an ambulance followed by a cruiser and two motorcycles.