“The murder of President Robert Constable was organized and arranged by the head of the Secret Service, Clarence Atwood. Mr. Atwood did not act alone. He was taking orders from either Irwin Russell or Hillary Constable or more probably both. As you know from today’s report, Robert Constable and his wife, along with Irwin Russell and former congressman Frank Morris, all took part in a scheme of bribery and corruption. Quentin Burdick, a reporter you all knew and respected, discovered this. He had an interview scheduled with the president. That interview never took place; the president was killed the night before. He was killed out of fear that he might talk, that he might try to blame everything on the others. That would have ruined everything, not just the president’s own reputation, but the political ambitions of his wife as well as the vice president’s career. They would all have gone to jail.”
As soon as Finnegan finished, the questions started, one on top of the other. Finnegan held up both hands, quieting the crowd, and then slowly, methodically, called on each reporter who raised a hand.
“How do you know? What evidence do you have that Clarence Atwood arranged the murder? What-?”
“Murders,” corrected Finnegan. “Robert Constable was not the only person he had killed. There was Frank Morris, then Quentin Burdick, and then the two in France: Aaron Wolfe and Austin Pearce.”
“But what evidence do you have?”
“First, he lied when he told Senator Hart that an investigation had started into the death of the president, and that both the FBI and the CIA were involved. Second, he knew that Senator Hart had started an investigation of his own, trying to find out who was behind the murder of Robert Constable. He knew it because Hillary Constable told him what Hart was doing, and because Atwood met with Hart to discuss it. Atwood framed Hart for the murder, fabricated evidence, because he had to discredit anything Hart might say about what he found.” Finnegan leaned closer toward the battery of microphones. “He framed Hart because then they could have him killed, shut him up forever, and claim, like they did with that paid assassin of theirs in New York, that he was trying to get away.”
“But Hart was trying to get away,” protested another reporter. “If he’s innocent, if Atwood did it, why is Bobby Hart still running?”
A cheerful grin broke unexpectedly across Charlie Finnegan’s slightly freckled mouth.
“That’s a damn good question. Why don’t we ask him?”
And with that, he reached behind him, opened the door to his office, and Bobby Hart stepped out in front of the cameras and an audience of reporters that for half a second was rendered speechless.
When it was over, after he had recounted most of what had happened and what he had learned, after he had patiently answered their questions, Hart went to his own office, where he found an exuberant and exhausted David Allen.
“We had a few defections,” said Allen in a wry, understated way. “But it’s always good to find out who you can trust.”
“A few?” asked Hart, as his eyebrows danced higher. He dropped into a chair on the other side of Allen’s perpetually cluttered desk. “There’s hardly anyone here.”
Allen’s look mimicked Hart’s own.
“Any minute now the calls will start coming in, all of them telling me how sorry they are, how stupid they were, that they never really believed you did anything like everyone else seemed to think you did. What do you want me to do?”
“Let them come back. There was a point I almost thought I must be guilty.”
Hart’s secretary, one of the few members of the staff who had not doubted his innocence, came rushing in, her hand trembling as she handed him a slip of paper.
“It’s Mr. Atwood. He says you need to call him right away. That’s his number. He sounded strange, unbalanced; desperate, I think.”
Hart took the number and went alone into his own office. He could feel the anger rising up inside him, rage at what Atwood had done, not just to him, but to Laura too. Why was he calling now? To ask forgiveness, to offer explanations, to try to make some kind of deal?
The voice at the other end answered on the second ring. The one-word greeting, that single “hello,” had the weak, lifeless quality of a man in mourning. “Oh, it’s you,” he added when Hart identified himself. Then there was nothing, a dead silence.
“You called me,” said Hart finally. “What is it you want?”
At first Hart thought that Atwood had started to cough, but then he realized that it was laughter, the bitter laughter of an angry, broken man.
“You think you have it all figured out, don’t you? You think you know what happened and why. Let me tell you something, Senator: you don’t have the first clue!”
Hart was not impressed.
“I’m really not worried, Atwood. It will all come out at your trial.”
“Trial? Is that what you think is going to happen?” There was another long silence, and then he added: “You want to know what is going to happen? Listen to this.”
There was a sudden, violent roar, an obscene, mind-numbing noise, and then there was no sound at all. Hart jumped out of his chair and ran to Allen’s office.
“Call the police. Clarence Atwood has just shot himself.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bobby pushed open the iron gate at the head of the drive and then stood there, taking in the view, the endless horizon of the blue Pacific gleaming in the late day sun, remembering how much Laura liked it here, how much he liked it here, away from all the glamour and glitter, the half-truths and lies, of politics and Washington. It was paradise, the Garden of Eden, and in what now seemed a singular act of stupidity, he had left it of his own accord, tempted by ambition. He was home, a place they both loved, but instead of telling Laura that they could stay here forever, that after everything that had happened, all the treachery and murder, all the hurtful false accusations, they could finally live a quiet, private life, he had to tell her something else. As he saw Laura open the door and start running up the drive, laughing and crying at the same time, he wished more than anything that he could tell her that, that things were now going to be the way they were at the beginning when every day was perfect and they knew nothing would ever change.
Laura threw herself into his arms and for a long time they just held each other and did not say a thing. With his arm around her shoulder they walked in silence to the house, lost in the simple irreplaceable comfort of being together again.
“I should have met you at the airport.”
“All I’ve wanted to do is see you here, alone, no one else around; no crowds, no reporters-just us.”
They went inside and Bobby laughed a little, surprised that everything was just the way he remembered it. He felt as if he had been gone for years, half a lifetime, nothing that could be calculated by the normal measurements of time. Things had moved at too quick a pace for that.
“You must be exhausted,” said Laura as she made him sit down. They were in a sitting room just off the living room, where they often spent their evenings watching the sun slip out of the sky and set the sea on fire. “I’ll get us something to drink.”
Content to breathe the familiar air of home, Bobby watched her walk away, and, watching, could feel what it felt like at night when she was lying next to him and there was nothing else he wanted to do and nowhere else he wanted to be. He was grateful that he had found her, grateful that he had never lost her.