"Is it important?"
"Very."
The door unlocked from within, and Vince Capezzi stepped in.
THE PRESIDENT of the United States wore shock on his face like a crumbling mud pack. He was looking out the window at the winter clouds, which reared up like gray-black mountains. He turned in his seat.
He wore a blue poplin windbreaker, the Presidential patch over his heart. There was still blood and brain matter on his shirtfront from the shooting.
"ANC has you dead," Capezzi told him.
The President of the United States snapped out of his spell. "Don't they know better than to go on the air with wild speculation?" The President caught himself. Since the day he took office, they had been tracking his political highs and lows as if he were some kind of fool IPO stock on NASDAQ.
"The other networks are sure to follow. It's a panic situation."
"Has the First Lady been told?"
"Yes. First thing. If she hears the bulletin, she'll know to discount it."
"And the wife of the agent who took the bullet meant for me?"
"No wife. No immediate family."
"Small comfort in that," the President said bitterly.
"He knew the risks of wearing his hair cut like yours and stepping out of the limo first, Mr. President. It was an invitation to take the first shot."
The President looked up. "What is it you boys call that duty?"
"Playing the designated goat, sir."
"I want his sacrifice made known to the American people."
"Sorry, sir. If we released those details, the next sniper will hold back that first shot until he's certain he has the right skull in his cross hairs."
The President made a tight fist. He rubbed his puffy eyes wearily. "I look like a low coward, running away like this," he said bitterly.
"Sorry. But in the event this is a conspiracy and not some lone agent, you have to be returned to the White House. It's for your own personal safety."
The President's eyes flared. "I needed to give that speech. You had no right to hustle me away like that! I'm the damn President of the United States."
"Our mandate to protect you supercedes your wishes," Capezzi said, trying to keep his voice calm. "You need to issue a statement, Mr. President, reassuring the nation."
The President seemed to deflate like a tire. "What I really need is a fresh shirt."
"I'll send your chief of staff in."
Vince Capezzi started to leave.
"Tell him to take his time. If the networks all go on the air with unsubstantiated rumors, they deserve to eat their broadcasts."
"Yes, sir," said Vince Capezzi, closing the door behind him.
Politicians, he thought. A good agent lay in his coffin, a bullet meant for the Chief Executive in his brain, and the true target still had the presence of mind to shuffle the deck before he dealt the next hand.
LIKE A REPEATING IMAGE, six stone-faced Secret Service special agents blocked Pepsie Dobbins's attempt to enter the Science Center at the University of Massachusetts Harbor Campus.
They were resealing the entrance doors with white barrier tape. Two ends of a broken seal hung from the spot where one of two sets of double doors came together.
"I'm Pepsie Dobbins," she said. "What can you tell me?"
"Get lost."
"I mean, what can you tell me about the conspiracy to assassinate the President?"
"Nothing."
"Ah-hah! Then there is a conspiracy."
Behind their aviator sunglasses the six stony faces grew long.
"Nobody said that," an agent said.
"Nobody has contradicted it, either," said Pepsie. She turned to her cameraman. "Did you get that on tape?"
The cameraman nodded. A mistake. Two burly agents strode up to him and relieved him of his Minicam. One said, "I'm confiscating this as evidence in an ongoing investigation" as the other slapped white protective tape over the cassette port.
"Don't you dare!" Pepsie snapped.
"It's done. And you have exactly thirty seconds to leave this campus or we'll confiscate you. "
"I still have my quote," Pepsie warned. "And if you people are involved in any cover-up, ANC News will be the first to see you hung."
"That's 'hanged,'" an agent said.
"How many people involved in the conspiracy?" demanded Pepsie.
"No comment."
"Hah! Another nondenial. Further evidence of conspirators."
"Get stuffed."
Pepsie stormed off campus saying, "We've got to get to the local affiliate."
"Why?" her cameraman asked. "You don't have film."