The Multiple Man

FOURTEEN

Only twice in my life have people close to me died. Both times by chance I was out of town when it happened. And I stayed away. I avoided the wakes, the funerals, the sobbing relatives and somber friends. It all seemed so pointless, so futile. Maybe I was scared, deep inside. Maybe I saw myself in the coffin, or was afraidI would.

I stayed for Peña’s funeral. I’m not sure why, but I stayed. The General’s people did it all very swiftly and efficiently. The old man was buried in the woods behind the General’s main house. They had to clear off the thinning layer of snow that was still on the ground to dig the grave. The soil was frozen; the digging was hard work.

It was a very small band of mourners. The General, Robert Wyatt, a few of the General’s hired hands, Peter Thornton from North Lake—trying not to look pleased that he was now in charge of the lab—and me.

And the President.

A local minister said a few hushed words and they lowered Peña’s coffin into the ground. I knew instinctively that there were already three other graves under the snow, with flat little markers that said “J. J. Halliday.” A fourth one would be dug soon.

That night the General, Wyatt, the President, and I ate a quiet dinner together. Thornton had flown back to Minnesota immediately after the burial service. The President turned out to be James Jeffrey, the specialist in defense policy.

I still couldn’t quite get it through my skull that he was one of eight identical clone brothers; one of four remaining brothers. Hell, he was the President! Every bone, every fold of skin, every gesture, every nuance of voice: the President. His eyes, the way his hair flopped over his forehead, the kind of grin he gave me as he kidded me about reading the old Watergate tapes for a lesson in how not to cover up a White House secret. He was the President, the only one I’d known. There couldn’t be another one just like him. My brain and guts and soul refused to accept the idea. He couldn’t be one of a set of eight. Or seven. Or four. We were pretty somber as we sat down to eat in the oak-paneled dining room. But as that same robot-like Oriental butler served us steaks, Jeffrey began telling his father about the arguments he had been having with his brothers over the Iran-Kuwait war.

“We’ve got to be ready to go in there,” he said fervently, “in force. We’ve got to be able to protect our own interests.”

The General nodded agreement. I worked on my steak and kept quiet.

“But do you think Johnny understands that?” Jeffrey grumbled. “He’s more worried about losing a few votes in Congress than losing the whole Middle East.”

“John knows the political infighting,” the General said. “If he doesn’t think…”

“I’ve made my own assessment of the politics,” Jeffrey interrupted. “I’ve dealt with the Senate committees. And the House, too. I could swing the Hill, if John would give me a chance to try.”

The General looked up from his plate. “It’s John’s job to make the political decisions. If he thinks the Congress would block you, you’d better go along with his estimate of the situation.” Jeffrey cocked his head slightly to one side. Just like the President. Dummy! I hollered at myself. He isthe President. One-eighth of the Presidency, at least.

With that smile I knew so well, the smile that meant he was going to say something unpleasant but didn’t want you to get upset about it, Jeffrey answered his father. “I don’t think John’s qualified to make this decision. He doesn’t understand the details of the military situation as well as I do. Nor the economic situation, for that matter.”

They discussed—or argued, depending on your boil-over threshold—the situation right through dessert. Just a quiet little family debate. Like father and son arguing over who’s going to use the family car tonight. Except that the son was the President of the United States, the subject was whether or not we will enter the Iran-Kuwait war, and the men he was arguing against were his identical clone brothers who were back in Washington.

My brain was telling me that I had to accept the reality of the situation. But the rest of me still didn’t want to deal with it. You can know something is true, intellectually, and accept it and even deal with the reality as part of your world-view, on which you base your work. But that doesn’t mean you believe it’s true, down at the deepest level of your existence. Inside me, in that special subbasement where I keep all my old Sunday school lessons and nightmare terrors and fantasy desires, down there the real, secret, deepest me hadn’t yet accepted what my brain had already filed away in one of its neat little storage cabinets. I knew the President had been cloned, and there were four identical brothers in the White House. I knew there had been seven, up to a few months ago. I knew it.

But I didn’t believe it.

I flew back to Washington that night in one of the General’s private supersonic jets with the President. We sat side by side in the most luxurious reclining chairs I’d ever flown in, and watched the television screen built into the forward bulkhead of the passenger compartment. The President was delivering a speech, live, from the White House. He was signing the new Economic Incentives Act, and taking the opportunity to coax the Congress for even more action on his domestic programs.

At forty-two thousand feet above the prairie wheat basket of the nation, I sat beside the President and watched the President on TV, live.

“…and although this act will go a long way toward turning urban adults into taxpaying, productive citizens rather than welfare recipients, we still have a long way to go on education and day care facilities for the young people of the core cities…” Carrot and stick. That patented Halliday smile and the constant urging to do more, go further, dare higher.

“They say the poor are always with us,” the President concluded. “Perhaps that’s because those who are not poor have never put their whole hearts and minds to the task of eradicating poverty. We have the wealth, we have the technology, we have the knowledge to lift the blight of poverty from our cities and countryside. The question is, do we have the heart, the soul, the will to do it? That is a question that not even the President can answer, my fellow citizens. Only you can answer it. Thank you. Good night and God bless you.”

I turned my head as the image faded on the screen and saw the President grinning to (at?) himself. “He’s got style, John has,” Jeffrey told me. “I’ve got to deliver a speech on defense policy next week at West Point. I’ll never be able to put it across the way he does.” He sounded almost wistful.

“Look at it this way,” I suggested. “Nobody’s noticed the difference between you.”

That made him happy. I tried to get him to talk about the deaths of his brothers, whether he felt they were natural or not. He evaded my attempts, finally cranking his chair back and closing his eyes in a convenient nap.

When we landed, I saw how ridiculously easy it is for a man who looks exactly like the President to get through National Airport and into the White House without being detected. The plane merely taxied to a small private hangar, and we stepped from the jet’s hatch to a waiting limousine. The only people in the hangar were the plane’s two-man crew, the chauffeur, and two armed security guards. All of them were General Halliday’s hand-picked employees.

Jeffrey dropped me off at my apartment building before going on to the White House. The limousine had one-way windows, so no one could see into it, and he stayed back in the shadows when I opened the door and quickly hopped out. Barring an automobile accident, there was no way for anyone to see him. The chauffeur drove slowly, and he had Secret Service credentials; the limousine was built like a tank, and its license plate bore the special White House code. They’d have to run over Abraham Lincoln before anyone could pry The Man out of the back seat. And there were unmarked cars gliding along in front and behind us as well. No noise, no sirens. But the limousine was well escorted.

When I finally stumbled into my apartment, I felt suddenly drained, emotionally and physically washed out. I let my flight-weight travel kit clunk to the floor of the living room, made my way to the bathroom for a fast leak, and was already halfway out of my suit when I turned on the bedroom light.

Vickie was in my bed, rubbing her eyes like a kid who’s been awakened by her loutish parents’ party.

“You’re back…” she mumbled sleepily.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I’m nothing if not gracious when surprised.

She pulled herself up to a sitting position. She was wearing a nightgown, but it was flinty, transparent.

“I thought this would be a safe place. With you out of town, nobody’d think to look for me here.”

I sat on the bed beside her.

“Besides,” she said, “I wanted to be here when you got back.”

She leaned slightly toward me, and I kissed her. I didn’t feel tired anymore.

“I was worried about you,” she said.

“I called the office every day.”

“But you didn’t talk with me.”

“I thought it’d be better if I didn’t.”

All this while I was holding her, kissing her, and squirming out of my clothes at the same time. If I didn’t wrench my back then, I never will.

Between making love and making talk, bringing her up to date on what had happened at Aspen, it was damned near dawn before we fell asleep. And Vickie hadn’t shut off my radio alarm. It started floating Beethoven at us at 730 sharp.

We showered together, I shaved while she dried her hair, I dressed while she put on makeup, and I flailed the last four eggs in the refrigerator into breakfast while she dressed. For kicks I sliced the butt end of an old pepperoni and tossed it in with the eggs. Start the day with a bang.

After breakfast we grabbed our respective hand-bags and went to the elevator. Vickie reached for the Lobby button, but I pushed her hand away and punched R, for roof. She started to ask me why, but I put a finger to my lips.

When we got to the roof and stepped out into the fine spring morning, I walked her to the parapet at the edge, as far from the door, and any listening devices, as we could get.

“I want to bring Hank Solomon up to date on what’s happening, but I’ll be damned if I know how to get in touch with him without tipping off whoever’s watching us. They most likely know he’s in with us, but still…”

Vickie shaded her eyes from the sun. “Do you think we’re still being bugged?”

I nodded. “This thing isn’t over yet. Far from it. Peña’s death may have been natural, but none of the others was. Maybe it wasn’t the General who did it, but it’s somebody close to him.”

“Wyatt?”

“Could be.”

“Why?’

“If I knew that, I’d know for sure if it was him or not.”

“So what do we do?”

“That’s what I want to ask Hank about. He ought to know more about this kind of thing than we do.”

“He told me he’d find a way to contact you. You shouldn’t try to reach him.”

“You saw him? When?”

Vickie grinned. “Very tricky stuff. I got a letter at the office, addressed to me personally. All that was inside was a clipping from the newspaper, with ads for the movies on it. One theater’s selection was circled in red, and the time of the showing was underlined. The envelope was from the Treasury Department, so I assumed it was from Hank… Secret Service is in Treasury.”

“So he met you at the theater.”

“That’s right. For about three minutes. He told me he was keeping a watch on me. And that he’d get in touch with you when you got back.”

I found myself taking a deep breath and half wishing I had stayed in Boston. Not even Beacon Hill politics was as devious as all this.

We drove to the office together, and by the time the elevator had stopped at our floor, Vickie had put on her office personality. Just a sunny smile and a “Have a good day!” Not that I made a grab for her. I had my office personality on, too. It had been warm and good in bed; it was great to have her there when I got home, rather than an empty apartment. But don’t start to expect it, I warned myself.Or depend on it.

I got a lot of kidding from the press corps at the morning briefing about being a gentleman of leisure. But no undercurrent of worry or rumor that my recent absences might be a symptom of something cooking inside the White House. If a Cabinet officer or a Pentagon official started playing hookey, then there’d be rumbles of interest from the newshawks. But the press secretary? Nobody cared.

As the briefing broke up, His Holiness told me that The Man wanted me in the Oval Office at 5:30. I made a mental note and went back to the Aztec Temple to plow through the accumulated paperwork on my desk.

Hank Solomon was one of the security guards down at the inspection post under the West Wing that afternoon. He winked at me, and I did my best not to make it look as if I knew him as I stepped through the sensor arch that screened me for identification and weapons.

The President was behind his big, curved desk as I stepped into the Oval Office. Wyatt was sitting in my favorite chair, the Scandinavian slingback, so I took his usual standby, the rocker next to the fireplace.

The Man watched me as I sat down. He grinned. “I can see exactly what’s going through your mind,” he said.

“Sir?”

“You’re wondering, Which one is he? Right?”

I grinned back at him. “Yes… that’s right.”

“I’m James John, the one whose hand you shook when you agreed to take the job.”

Somehow I felt relieved.

“It’s no use staring at him,” Wyatt groused. “You won’t be able to tell the difference between them. I can’t, for God’s sake, and I’ve known them since childhood.”

“What’re we going to do about this?” I blurted.

The President’s smile faded. “The deaths, you mean.”

“The murders,” I said. “Somebody’s killing you—your brothers, one by one.”

Wyatt stirred uncomfortably. “That’s not…”

“Don’t give me that ‘natural causes’ crap again!” My voice was rising. So was my blood pressure. “Maybe the General believes that, but I don’t. Peña didn’t either. I was there when he tried to convince the General.”

“Peña was an old, old man,” Wyatt said. “I think maybe he went senile, right there at the end. Too many shocks. After all…”

“He would know better than anyone else,” I insisted.

The President shook his head. “Meric… murder has got to have a motivation. If somebody’s killing us, who is it? And why?”

I swear the words were out of my mouth before I realized that my mind had come to that conclusion. “It’s one of your brothers,” I said. “The one who wants to be the only President of the United States.”

For what seemed like fifteen minutes there was absolute silence in the Oval Office. Wyatt sat like a marble statue, completely unmoving and emotionless. The President looked thoughtful; then his face clouded darkly. And my own brain was telling me,Yes! That’s the answer! It’s the only possible answer. One ofthem is killing the others. One of them wants this office, this power, this nation all for himself One of them is insane.

Wyatt finally stirred himself. “If you think…”

But the President silenced him with the slightest lift of one finger. “Robert, it’s the same conclusion I came to weeks ago.”

The old man looked truly shocked. “What?”

“I think it’s time we brought this all out into the open,” the President said. “Time to clear the air.”

He pushed his chair back from the desk and got to his feet. We automatically got up, too.

“Come with us, Meric,” said The Man.

Wyatt seemed to understand what he was going to do. “Wait up a minute… he’s not family.”

The President smiled sardonically. “He is now. He knows as much about us as anyone. Come on, Meric.”

We went out the side door of the office, down to the basement, past the inspection station where Hank still stood on duty, and along the West Wing to the private elevator. Wyatt pushed the button, the doors slid open as if the machine had been waiting all day to be called on, and we followed the President into the tiny, redwood-paneled elevator cab.

There were no tourists in the White House at this hour of the afternoon, of course, but we rode in the windowless elevator past the ground and first floors and got off in the quiet main corridor of the second floor, the sacrosanct living quarters for the President and his First Lady.

Wordlessly, The Man paced along the richly carpeted hallway and led us to the Lincoln Sitting Room. I had never seen it before, although I knew which room it was, right next to the Lincoln Bedroom. I had seen both of them in photographs.

But when the President opened the door, it wasn’t the fin de siècle furniture or the ornate draperies that hit me. Three more James J. Hallidays were already in the room: one by the window, sitting in a green velvet-covered chair; another at the scroll desk, tapping out something on a computer terminal’s keyboard; the third standing by the portrait of Chester Arthur that hung on the far wall.

I gulped.

The President—the one I had come upstairs with—grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me toward the middle of the room. Pointing, he introduced: “That’s Jeffrey, scowling alongside President Arthur. And Jackson, jiggling the national debt figures. And Joshua, by the window. You’ve met all three of them before.”

They nodded or smiled at me. But Joshua said nervously, “Why bring an outsider into this? There’s been enough trouble already, hasn’t there?”

“Meric’s not an outsider,” John said. “And if we want to keep our troubles out of the public view, we’re going to need Meric’s continued whole-hearted cooperation.”

Joshua didn’t reply, but it was clear that he wasn’t happy to see me up there in their private clubroom.

“What’s going on, John?” Jeffrey asked. “Why the melodramatics?”

I was still goggle-eyed. All of them looked exactly alike. Their voices were the same. The trim of their hair. The way they gestured with their hands. The only discernible difference was their clothing. Jeffrey, the defense expert, was wearing a simple one-piece tan jumpsuit. Jackson, the economist, wore a more conservative dark blue shirtjac and slacks, while Joshua—whose main interest was natural resources and agricultural policy—had a yellow sportshirt over pseudosuede jeans. A soldier, a banker, and a farmer. I tried to fix them in my mind that way. James John—the President, I kept thinking—wore his usual work clothes: dark slacks, comfortable boots and an open-neck light shirt.

Wyatt took a chair near the door and I drifted, weak-kneed, toward the windows as James John answered.

“We’ve all been trying to hide from the facts. I think it’s time we faced up to them. The deaths haven’t been natural. They were murders.”

Jackson looked up from his computer keyboard. “No way, John. If Peña couldn’t find any signs…”

“Peña was convinced it was murder,” John said. “He couldn’t figure out how it was done, but he knew it was murder.”

“No, I don’t believe that,” Jackson said. “Peña was just emotionally unable to accept the fact that his work… well… it’s failing.”

Jeffrey said tightly, “Each of us might go just as the others did.”

“No,” John said. “I don’t believe that.” It was like hearing an echo of Jackson’s words from a moment earlier.

“Sure, you can afford to disbelieve it,” said Joshua. “You’re the natural, the firstborn. Whatever it is probably won’t affect you.”

“That’s not so,” John answered. The voice was still calm, but there was an edge to it.

Wyatt said, “You’re all genetically identical. What happens to one of you, as far as your body chemistry is concerned, will happen to you all. Lord, you all got the mumps at the same time when you were kids, and it lasted exactly the same number of days for each of you. Like clock-work. John’s not immune to anything that the rest of you are susceptible to.”

“That’s only theory, Robert,” Jeffrey said. “Everything about cloning processes is totally new… nobody’s done it before with human beings. We’re the first.”

I was starting to see differences among them. Slight differences in nuance, in character. They were four identical brothers all right. But just like identical twins, although they looked alike on the outside, they saw the world differently, and the insides of their heads were far from identical.

Wyatt was saying, “We could keep you in a germ-free environment, back at the lab. Then you wouldn’t have to worry…”

“That’s impossible!” Jackson snapped. “How in hell can we function in the Presidency from a germ-free cell at North Lake? It’s tough enough playing this seven-man shuffle—”

“Four-man shuffle,” Jeffrey corrected. “We’re down to four now.”

John was still standing in the middle of the room. He raised his hands for silence.

“Now, listen,” he said. “I’ve been giving the matter a lot of thought. The deaths were not natural. They were murders.”

Jackson shook his head but kept silent. Joshua seemed to tense forward in his chair. Jeffrey, who was nearest me, asked quietly: “So what are we going to do about it, John?”

“Find out which one of us is the murderer.”

I think my heart actually stopped beating. For what seemed like an eternity, nothing stirred in the room. Not even the dust motes in the slanting sunlight from the windows seemed to move. Everything froze.

Finally Jeffrey found his voice. “What… did you say?”

I’d never seen such an expression on the President’s face before. It must have been the way Lincoln looked when he learned of the carnage at Gettysburg.

“It’s one of us,” John said, his voice deceptively level. “No one else could be doing it. One of us is systematically killing the others. One of us wants to be the sole occupant of that office down in the West Wing.”

They looked back and forth among themselves. No one spoke. Wyatt seemed to be in a state of shock, ashen-faced, immobile, staring at the floor. I could see the wheels working inside those four identical heads. They recognized the truth of it. Maybe each of them had suspected it from the first, but pushed it away. Now it was out in the open. They could no longer ignore it.

“One of us wants to be the only President of the United States,” John repeated.

“I can’t…” Joshua started, then lapsed back into silence.

“It does make some sense,” Jackson admitted.

Jeffrey said, “But… killing his own brothers. It’s horrible… he’d have to be insane.”

John nodded. “I suppose so. But power can corrupt, we all know that. There’ve been enough murderous families in history to drive the point home. And we’ve done a few kinky acts here and there… we’re not immune to the disease.”

“It can’t be!” Joshua said firmly. “I just won’t believe it. Not unless you can show me how the murders were done. Hell, we don’t even know that they were murders.”

“Wrong, Josh,” said John softly. “I know.”

Wyatt looked up at him. “Tell me. Tell me how it was done and make it convincing, because I don’t think I could ever believe that one of you boys is killing the others.”

“It’s very simp1e,” John said. “I merely asked myself how I’d go about killing the rest of us. Once I became convinced that they were murders, I tried to work out in my head what I would have done if I’d wanted to murder my brothers. It didn’t take long to figure it out. Just the past few days… that’s all the time I needed.”

“And?”

“The key was Jesse.”

“He died nearly forty years ago.”

“Yes, but how did he die?’

Wyatt answered, “From a breakdown of his body’s immunological defenses. He lost his immunities to disease germs. The only way he could have been saved would have been to put him in a germ-free chamber, but we didn’t recognize that untilit was too late.”

John nodded agreement. “And Joe, Jerry, and Jason all died the same way. All body immunities suddenly gone. Common cold germs became fatal to them.”

No one moved. No one answered. We all focused on John so intently that an ICBM attack could have hit Washington and we’d never have known it.

“I checked with North Lake a week ago,” John said. “Put in a scrambled call to their contracts department. They gave me a list of the research contracts they’re now working on for the Defense Department. One of them is for the development of a mutated virus that breaks down the human body’s immunological systems, like AIDS, only faster. It’s top-secret work. Access to information about it is limited to only a handful of people in the Pentagon.” He almost smiled, sadly. “I had to remind the man I spoke with that I’m the Commander-in-Chief.”

“A virus that breaks down the body’s immune systems?”

“Non-traceable,” John said. “Apparently the Defense Intelligence Agency wants to develop the virus as a standby for perfect assassinations. No visible cause of death. The victim just stops living. Any germs in his body can multiply out of control and kill him in less than a day.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And you’ve known about this for a week?” I asked.

John gave a helpless shrug. “I’ve worried over it for a week. I guess I didn’t want to face reality. You forced me to bring it out into the light of day, Meric.”

“This virus is being developed for the Defense Department?” Joshua asked.

“I didn’t know anything about it,” Jeffrey snapped.

“Nobody’s saying you did,” John answered.

“This virus,” Wyatt asked, “it’s been tested? It works?”

“It’s been used on primate apes and other lab animals. Totally successful. One hundred percent fatal. The North Lake people haven’t tried it on human beings, for obvious reasons…”

“But you’re saying,” Wyatt’s voice trembled badly “that one of you boys—one of you in this room—got his hands on samples of this virus and used it…used it to…” His voice cracked altogether. He buried his face in his hands.

John stepped over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “We have to face the facts, Robert. It’s what I would do, if I wanted to be the only resident of this house. And we all think pretty much alike, don’t we?”

“That’s for sure,” Jackson said.

“So—what do we do?” Joshua asked, his voice pitched higher than the others.

Jeffrey gave a sharp, bitter laugh that was almost a cough. “It’s simple. We wait until there’s only one of us left, and he’s the guilty one.”

“Or,” John countered, “we let the guilty one know that we’re aware of what he’s doing, and how he’s doing it, and we ask him to come forward and admit it.”

They looked uneasily at one another.

“I think we all know that whoever’s doing it is mentally unbalanced,” John said. “We won’t punish him. We want to take care of him, cure him. Whichever one of us it is, he’s our brother. We want to help him, not punish him.”

No one moved, except to search one another’s eyes for an admission of guilt.

Finally Joshua said, “We’d better bring the General out here. Maybe he can get to the bottom of this.”

Wyatt shook his head. “No… he’s an old man. He’s not as tough as he pretends to be. If he ever found out about this…”

Jackson said, “If he ever finds out that we went through this without bringing him in on it, it might kill him.”

Jeffrey grinned ruefully. “Or he might kill the rest of us.”

John said to Wyatt, “Robert, you’d better go out to Aspen and tell him about this. In person. No phone calls. See what he wants to do.”

“He’ll come boiling back here at Mach Five,” Wyatt said.

“All right. If that’s what he wants to do, we won’t stand in his way.” He turned to his brothers. “Right?”

“No way we could stop him,” Jackson admitted.

“Someone should check out North Lake Labs,” Joshua said. “It might be possible to find out who took the virus samples.”

“Ridiculous!” Jeffrey snapped. “Even if one of us was foolish enough to acquire the virus cultures in person—which I doubt—he wouldn’t have given his correct name. None of the lab people can tell us apart. Not even Peña could.”

“I suppose so,” Joshua admitted. “We used to play all sorts of tricks on him,” he said to me wistfully.

But John said, “We should check out the lab, though. I’ll get Pournelle at the FBI to take charge of that end of things personally.”

“You’re not going to tell him about us?” Jackson asked sharply.

“Of course not,” John said. “But I want to find out who made off with that virus sample.”

“If anybody did.”

“Somebody must have. And Pournelle’s people can find out who and when. Then we find the man and talk to him ourselves.”

“If it was a man,” Jackson said, with a slight smirk. “You’re lapsing into male chauvinism, Johnny. Don’t do that in front of the voters.”

They all laughed. Somehow, it annoyed me.

“Hold it!” I heard myself shout at them.

They stopped and turned toward me, four identical looks of polite amusement, four faces saying, What’s the hired man doing, yelling at us?

“It’s not good enough,” I said.

“What’s not?”

I had to face them down. All of them. “You’re still treating this as if it’s a family squabble.”

“Isn’t it?’’

“Hell, no! It’s still a plot to kill the President, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Meric, we’re taking the strongest action we can,” John said. “You don’t want us to do anything that will tip off the press to our… brotherhood, do you? That would ruin everything. I’d have to… we’d have to resign the Presidency.”

“That would put Lazar in the White House.”

“This nation’s not ready for a Jewish President.”

“Not with the Middle East at war again.”

I stood my ground. They were making me sore, tinkering with the Presidency, the nation, the whole goddamned world as if it were a private family affair.

“I don’t care what you say,” I told them. “This isn’t enough. Checking North Lake Labs and sitting around here chatting with each other. For Chrissakes, one of you has killed three of your brothers!”

“That’s our business,” Jeffrey said, glaring at me.

“The hell it is! It’s mine, and every other citizen’s, too.”

“What are you trying to say, Meric?”

I really didn’t know, but as usual my mouth worked faster than my brain. “It just isn’t going to be enough. The steps you’re taking… they won’t tell you a goddamned thing. Not until it’s too late. The murderer can wipe out all three of you overnight, if he wants to, while you’re still futzing around checking records at North Lake or consulting with the General.”

Jackson started to say something, but John hushed him.

“What do you suggest?” John asked.

“No suggestion. Action. I’m going to call a press conference in forty-eight hours. Two days from now. And I’m going to spill my guts to whoever’ll listen. Unless you’ve got the murderer before then.”

“You can’t do that!” Jackson snapped.

“Try and stop me.”

“The murderer will try,” John said almost sadly. “I think, Meric, for your own safety’s sake, you’d better reconsider.”

I could see differences in their faces now. Joshua looked scared. Jackson was blazingly angry. Jeffrey was angry, too, but the smoldering kind that builds slowly and waits its chance for revenge. John looked sad, and something more—relieved? Glad that the end was in sight?

I shook my head. “No. There’s no other way. Either you flush him out or I break the story. Otherwise he’ll have the rest of you dead and sit down in that Oval Office all by himself. And that’s what I’m really afraid of.”

“He’ll have to kill me, too” Wyatt said.

“What makes you think he wouldn’t?” Jackson answered. The old man sagged back in his chair. But I had a different thought. I could see Wyatt serving the last remaining James J. Halliday, right there in the Oval Office, burying the fact that the President was a multi-murderer under a ton of justifications about family duty and the nation’s needs.

John took a couple of steps toward me. Quietly, he said, “Meric, if we can’t talk you out of this, the least I can do is give you a Secret Service security guard. If you’re going to set yourself up as a target, we might as well try to protect you.”

“All right,” I said. “How about Hank Solomon? He and I get along pretty well.”

He looked at me quizzically. If I’d been really sharp, instead of just dazzled by all the high drama going on, I would have realized that mentioning Hank’s name removed any doubt from the murderer’s mind about who the third member of my pitiful little gang was.

But right at that moment I wasn’t thinking about that at all. As I mentioned Hank’s name, somehow it popped into my mind that there was one person involved in this affair that not even one of Halliday’s brothers had mentioned. Neither Wyatt nor the General had ever brought up her name.

Laura. The First Lady. What did she know about all this? And whose wife was she?