White House June 26
Addis was in his office preparing to leave for the night. He had finished with the historians. In the White House Map Room, he had collected condolences, accepted best wishes conveyed to his parents, and nodded his head respectfully whenever one of the sages had cornered him to pass on political advice. Addis had buttonholed McGreer and asked if he could take off a few days. For what? the chief of staff asked. A trip to New Orleans, Addis replied. Not on that old business? McGreer asked, suspicion in his voice. No, Addis said, it was personal. McGreer raised an eyebrow. Have fun, he advised. Next, Addis took Kelly aside. Kelly displayed no interest in why Addis was heading out of town. Just make sure my office has a number for you, he said and separated himself from Addis to reclaim his position next to Mumfries.
As he left the West Wing, Addis was grabbed by the arm. Startled, he stopped walking.
“Keep going,” Dunne said.
Addis tripped over his feet and recovered his balance.
“Let’s go to your car,” Dunne said.
They walked past a military Jeep with a gun mounted on its back. Addis led Dunne to his Honda. Both men got into the car.
“What’s the matter?” Addis asked.
“She’s dead,” Dunne said.
“Who?”
“Gillian Silva. Just on local news. Got hit by a car while riding her bike.”
“Shit, Clarence,” Addis muttered.
“I know.”
Both were silent for a moment.
“What did you do after we …” Addis began to ask.
“Nothing. That is, nothing about this. Had to attend an orientation session for the training center. Filled out papers.”
“So what is this? An accident?”
“Car didn’t stop. No one saw the license plate. And an accident? How damn unlucky can two girls be?”
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“No one? No one at all? You got to let me know if you did, Nick.”
“No one, Clarence.”
“And you met her just before I saw you, right? She walked up to you? Like you said?”
“Like I told you, yes.”
“Maybe it was me,” Dunne said, more in the direction of the windshield than Addis. “Through me.” He was gripping his legs tightly.
“Maybe someone found her like you did,” Addis said.
“I don’t know … I was followed. Somehow or another.”
“So what does this mean?”
“There’s bad shit out there.”
“Clarence, maybe it’s time to share what we know—”
“No,” he interrupted. “If this is an accident, there’s not much to be done besides what I’m going to do. If it’s not an accident, then we can’t let anyone know.”
“This is getting kind of big to keep to ourselves.”
“You don’t have to. But you have to make me one promise.”
“What?”
“If you’re going to tell someone, you’ll let me know first.”
“Sure, Clarence, sure.”
Dunne reached into his coat.
“Take this,” he said.
He held out a gun.
“N-no, that’s alright, really,” Addis sputtered. “Besides, you probably need it more than I do.”
“Nick, be real. Don’t you think I have others? If someone killed her, they probably know we were there, that we know what she knows—or used to know.”
“I don’t want it,” Addis said of the gun.
“Take it—until we know more.”
Addis kept his hands at his side. Dunne opened the glove compartment.
“Don’t,” Addis said.
Dunne placed the gun inside the glovebox.
“I’m going out of town,” Addis said. “I don’t need it. And, Jesus, I’m not going through a metal detector carrying that thing.”
“Just have it nearby.”
“Fuck, Clarence. I don’t know how to use it. M. T.’s the shooter. I’m better with a cell phone. You think someone’s really going to take a shot at a senior White House—”
Addis stopped, realizing how stupid he sounded. You idiot, he told himself, someone killed the President. Dunne had the courtesy not to reply.
“Where are you off to?” he asked.
“New Orleans. It’s personal. Two or three days, I guess.”
“Lucky man.”
“Yeah. You going to be okay?”
“Me? Sure.”
“Clarence, I don’t like being part of a conspiracy.”
“You’re not,” Dunne said. “You’re part of the anti-conspiracy.”
“Isn’t it pretty to think so,” Addis replied.
Dunne considered putting a question to Addis: You’re a politico, the type always pushing an agenda to help your career or that of whomever you’re serving. So why are you going along with me, a politically radioactive has-been? Why not run to Mumfries—or Margaret Hanover or Jake Grayton—and tell them about this lead to the crime of the century? Dunne decided not to ask.
Addis wondered if the circular patch of gray hair on Dunne’s head had enlarged in the past week.
“I’ll see you when you get back,” Dunne said.
He left the car. Addis opened the glove compartment and emptied the gun of the bullets. He then folded a piece of paper around the ammunition and returned the gun and the bullets to the glovebox. He locked it and started the car engine.
Addis drove by the reinforced barricade at the rear of the parking area. Armed units were still patrolling the perimeter of the White House grounds. As Addis sat at a traffic light on Connecticut Avenue and gazed at a mobile soup kitchen, he noted to himself that in an hour he was going to see Holly Rudd for the first time in four years. Since she had moved to Washington, the two had not spoken. In this small, claustrophobic city, their paths had not intersected. But, then, he had not enjoyed much of a regular life. The White House had been all consuming. There had been the occasional dinner party in Georgetown, and a short affair with a famous fashion model. But he spent little time outside the White House bubble. And it had taken the assassination to prompt her to contact him.
The light changed, and a horn blared behind him. He shifted into first gear. Through the side window, he saw a homeless man take a sandwich and hurl it into the rush of cars heading out of the city.