"They're helping me out a little bit, and the next thing I know, Royal Dalton calls and wants to know if I play golf. He says Hutchins is looking for a partner for Thursday morning during a quick campaign layover in D.c." and would I be available? If I play, he says, I might be able to lob him a question or two on the pardon issue."
Martin nodded, then asked the obvious question. "Did you?"
"Never got the chance," I replied. "I was waiting to do it after the round, and there was this small matter of getting shot."
I was so tired I could barely speak. Mid-conversation, I faded in and out of consciousness. I vaguely recall a doctor coming in, checking my pulse, fooling with the machines around my bed, talking softly with Martin. Two other visitors stepped into the room and showed the doctor badges. "FBI," I heard one of them say, the guy with the trench coat.
Looked like he was from central casting. The other was a younger woman with luxuriant black hair and a business suit. I could barely hold my eyes open, but as I did, I saw her smile at me, a nice smile that showed sweet dimples on a face that looked vaguely familiar. The doctor chatted with them a while, and then they left. Martin then left with the doctor, giving my forearm a quick pat on the way out.
Half-asleep, I remembered my earlier mysterious telephone call, a man's voice, a stern warning. Lies, everyone's telling lies. And I faded out again, this time to a place so blissful I would never find it again.
three
Friday, October 27
There is that final scene in The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy regains consciousness in her farmhouse in Kansas, surrounded by her farmhands and neighbors-all of whom resemble the characters in her dream visit to the Emerald City. That's what I felt like, only it was the Bethesda Naval Hospital, not Kansas, and gathered around me were a pair of FBI agents, the hospital public relations director, Peter Martin, my pal Gus Fitzpatrick, a man in a white laboratory coat, who my deductive skills led me to believe was my doctor, and a few assorted friends from college and the paper. Everyone, it seemed, but the joint Chiefs of Staff.
Martin stepped toward the bed and tossed the Friday-morning Record into my lap. "President Survives Assassination Attempt," the headline screamed, stripped across the top of the front page in big block letters. "Secret Service Kills Gunman; Believed to be Militia Member.
11th Hour Election Turmoil Expected." And under that, over two separate stories, "Record Reporter, Injured by Gunfire, Witnesses Event." And above another: "Hutchins: I Will Not Bow to Threats."
"We're the best paper on the biggest story in the country today,"
Martin said, absolutely exhilarated. "Forget country. In the world.
We're being quoted all over the networks, all over the wires. You're a celebrity. The publisher and editor both wanted me to come down and thank you and ask if there's anything the paper can do for you during your recovery."
Martin paused, and the hospital public relations man spoke from the back of the room. "Sir," he said, "Keith Madigan, with Naval public affairs. I still have a room of about sixty reporters downstairs, and every one of them keeps asking when you're coming down to talk."
He had barely finished his sentence when the female FBI agent spoke out. "Samantha Stevens, special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Kent Drinker, assistant director. Before you go anywhere, we need to speak with you about the events of yesterday."
From the back of the room, the doctor was next. "Look, before anyone does anything, I have to talk some things over with Mr. Flynn and do some tests. I'm going-"
He wasn't quite finished, but I had already had enough. "Before I do anything, could I just get a moment alone with-" I looked around the room real fast for someone to talk to who could just give me a breather and explain how upside-down my world had become. I thought of Martin, but quickly backed away from the idea. Too nervous. If I chose any of my friends, the others would be insulted. "Gus," I said. "It will just be a minute, and then we'll take care of everything else. Doctor, I'll be ready for you right afterward. Agent, I have all the time you need, obviously." And I looked at the hospital PR man, forgetting his name. "And sir, if you could just tell my colleagues that I'll be down within an hour, well before deadline. Explain that I'm tied up right now with my doctor."
I noticed that all of the blinking, beeping machines had been pushed away from my bed, and the needles and tubes had been pulled out of my arms, replaced by small bandages covering gauze pads. I was glad I hadn't been awake for that. I felt better, physically. My chest still had the sensation that someone quite heavy was nonchalantly standing on top of it. But I didn't have that queasy, groggy feeling of the night before, and truth is, the pain wasn't all that bad and I felt quite rested.
As everyone but Gus slowly shuffled out of the room, politely pausing at the door to let each other go, the telephone rang, a penetrating ring that almost caused me to jump up out of my bed. I grabbed it before anyone else could, having a nagging, almost subconscious sense of who might be on the other end. The FBI agent, Stevens, must have sensed a change in my voice, because she shot me a quizzical look as I spoke my greetings.
"Mr. Flynn," the voice said, clear as a bell again, dignified, with impeccable pronunciation, like some sort of headmaster at a private school. I looked out the window as I held the receiver to my ear and noticed that the sun was shining brightly, illuminating a rich blue sky that marked what must have been another perfect autumn day. "Mr.
Flynn, this is not a joke. This is not a game." He spoke those two sentences as if they were one, barely pausing, speaking dramatically, maybe even reading from something prepared.
"There are things happening all around you that you must learn," the man said. "I will help you, but I can only do so much. You will be leaving the hospital tomorrow morning. I will telephone you tomorrow afternoon, at your house, when you will have more time and privacy to talk."
How on earth did he know when I was leaving the hospital? I wondered.
I didn't even know when I was leaving the hospital. I looked over in the direction of the door, trying to act as casual and unassuming as I could, and saw Stevens still standing there, overtly staring at me, almost as if she was trying to peer through the phone lines to see who was at the other end. I'm not sure why I immediately hid this caller from anyone. Maybe it was my lifelong distrust of authority. Maybe it was my knee-jerk need for privacy. Perhaps it was my simple love of secrets, especially ones that I could someday report in the pages of the Record. Regardless, I spoke in a loud, cheerful tone that sent a clear message to the caller that I was protecting him, and a contrary message to anyone in my room-read: FBI agents-that I had a friend, or at least an acquaintance on the line.
"I'll look forward to that," I said in a booming voice, with a forced smile. "It's really good to hear from you again. I can't believe you were this nice to call. Take care."
I hung up, and everyone kept walking out the door, except for Gus, who I think was both confused and delighted by my request that he stay behind.
"Gus, what is going on here?" I asked, cutting to the chase once everyone was gone. "Am I all right?"
"All right? You're a star, kid. You're not just going to be all right, you're going to be better than you ever were before. Your performance in today's paper is the talk of the country."