“I wouldn’t know about that, ma–Gloria.”
“You’ve spent a lot of time with him lately. Have you noticed anything
unusual about the President?”
“like what?”
“like has he appeared overly stressed or worried? More than the usual?”
Collin slowly shook his head, not knowing where this conyersation was
intended to go.
“I think we might have a slight problem, Tim. I think the President
might need our help. You’re ready to help him, aren’t you?”
“He’s the President, ma’am. That’s my job, to take care of him.”
Rummaging in her bag, she said, “Are you busy tonight, Tim? You’re off
at the regular time tonight, aren’t you? I know the President’s staying
in.”
He nodded.
“You know where I live. Come over as soon as you’re off duty. I’d like
to talk to you privately, continue this discussion. Would you mind
helping me, and the President?”
Collins answer was immediate. “I’ll be there, Gloria.”
JACK KNOCKED ON THE DOOR AGAIN. No ANSWER. THE BUNDS were drawn and no
light emitted from the house. He was either asleep or not home. He
checked the time. Nine o’clock.
He remembered Luther Whitney to rarely be in bed before two or three
A.m. The old Ford was in the driveway. The tiny garage door was shut.
Jack looked in the mailbox beside the door. It was overflowing. That
didn’t look good.
Luther was what now, mid-sixties? Would he find his old friend on the
floor, cold hands clutching at his chest? Jack looked around and then
lifted up a corner on a terra-cotta planter next to the front door. The
spare key was still there.
He looked around once more, then put the key in the door and went in.
The living room was neat and spare. Everything was stacked where it
should be.
“Luther?” He moved through the hallway, his memory steering him through
the simple configurations of the house.
Bedroom on the left, toilet on the right, kitchen at the rear of the
house, small screened porch off that, garden in the back.
Luther was in none of these rooms. Jack entered the small bedroom,
which, like the rest of the house, was neat and orderly.
On the nightstand a number of picture frames containing various photos
of Kate looked at him as he sat on the side of the bed. He turned
quickly away and left the room.
The tiny rooms upstairs were mostly bare. He listened intently for a
moment. Nothing.
He sat down in the small wire and plastic kitchen chair, looked around.
He didn’t turn on a light, but sat in the darkness. He leaned across and
popped open the refrigerator. He grinned. Two six-packs of Bud looked
back at him. You could always count on Luther for a cold brew. He took
one and opened the back door to step outside.
The small garden looked beaten down. The hostas and ferns drooped even
in the shade of a thick oak and the nelly moser clematis clinging to the
board-on-board fence was painfully withered. Jack looked at Luther’s
prized annuals flowerbed and noted more victims than survivors of the
Washington late-summer heat furnace.
He sat down, put the beer to his lips. Luther had clearly not been here
for a while. So? He was an adult. He could go where he wanted, when he
wanted. But something just felt wrong. But it had been several years.
Habits change. He reflected a moment more. But Luther’s habits would not
have changed. The man was not like that. He was rock-solid, as
dependable a person as Jack had ever met in his life.
Stacked-up mail, dead flowers, car not in the garage, that was not how
he would have voluntarily left things. Voluntarily.
Jack went back inside. The answering machine tape was blank. He went
back into the small bedroom, the musty air hitting him again as he
opened the door. He scanned the room once more, then started to feel a
little silly. He wasn’t a goddamned detective. Then he laughed to
himself. Luther was probably living it up on some island for a couple of
weeks, apd here he was playing the nervous parent. Luther was one of the