"Did you alert flight personnel?"

"I did."

"And how did they respond?"

Clearing my throat, I said, "According to the flight attendants, Myles Shepherd was never on the flight."

Agent Cunningham sat back with a groan.

Agent Phillips rolled his eyes.

A chair sc.r.a.ped.

Agent Phillips left the room.

Agent Cunningham continued the interrogation. "In your opinion, is Shepherd capable of a.s.sa.s.sinating the president? Does he have the means? Access?"

"Yes, he's definitely capable of it. Most definitely. He's boastful, compet.i.tive, highly intelligent, opinionated, and Machiavellian."

"Machiavellian?"

"Scheming. Immorally ruthless. While I was in his office, he drugged me."

Agent Cunningham showed surprise for the first time. "Drugged you? With what drug?"

Before I could answer, Agent Phillips returned. His lips were pursed. His jaw set. He slapped a manila folder down on the table and took a seat. "I made some preliminary calls," he said, not bothering to ask if he was interrupting. "I spoke to-" He looked inside the folder for the name. "Fred Benson. Do you recognize that name, Mr. Austin?"

"He's the vice princ.i.p.al at Singing Hills High School."

"According to Mr. Benson, Myles Shepherd is dead. Are you aware of this, Mr. Austin?"

"Dead?" Agent Cunningham blurted.

Agent Phillips didn't wait for me to reply. "Mr. Benson says you were standing next to him when he learned of Shepherd's death. That the car accident in which he was killed was broadcast live on local television."

Two pairs of experience-hardened Secret Service eyes bored into me, waiting for an answer.

"That wasn't his body in the car!" I said, defending myself. "Besides, that doesn't change anything, does it? There are others involved in the plot and they're still out there. They use code names."

Agent Cunningham said in all seriousness, "These coconspirators. Are they dead too?"

Agent Phillips's pad and pen appeared again. "Do you have the names of these coconspirators?" he asked.

"I have possible code names."

"Go ahead."

"Shepherd's code name was Semyaza." I spelled it for him. "As for the others, well, it's conjecture based on research."

Agent Phillips sighed.

"You see, Semyaza is the name of a lieutenant in an ancient organization, and from that I have deduced the name of the mastermind."

"Which is?"

Hesitation. Again with the hesitation.

The agents waited. Expressionless.

"Most likely," I said, "the code name of the head of the organization is . . . is Lucifer . . . Satan."

Agent Phillips's pen dropped onto the table. He didn't write the name down.

After an uncomfortable silence, which to me was doubly painful because the place where the dog bit me was burning, Agent Phillips asked, "Did Shepherd give you any indication as to the ident.i.ty of Satan?"

I smiled. The question sounded funny. "Actually, yes," I said, fidgeting, which hurt like crazy, "he told me that it was a waste of time to inform the president of the a.s.sa.s.sination plot because . . ." This is the part I hadn't told anyone. But I had to tell the Secret Service, didn't I? While I didn't believe it was true for a moment, the information might provide a clue that could lead to the conspirators. "Because the president already knew about it."

The agents exchanged glances.

Phillips said, "OK, I'll bite . . ."

I laughed at the unintended joke despite the pain.

They didn't laugh with me.

"Exactly how would this information have reached the president?"

"Before answering that," I said, "you have to remember I'm just reporting what I heard."

"Noted."

"According to Myles Shepherd, the president knows about the a.s.sa.s.sination plot because he's the mastermind behind it."

Neither man blinked. It was amazing.

"President Douglas is plotting his own a.s.sa.s.sination?" Agent Cunningham said.

"You're saying President Douglas is Satan?" Agent Phillips added.

"I know how this sounds," I said.

"Tell us about how Shepherd drugged you," Agent Cunningham said.

"Drugs?" Agent Phillips shouted. He was out of the room when I'd mentioned drugs.

I told them how I suspected Shepherd might have used peyote, which has hallucinatory qualities. Then I described everything that happened in Shepherd's office.

Their response was to give me a ride home. They suggested I sleep it off.

And they told me not to come anywhere near the president or the White House again.

Ever.

CHAPTER 12.

A note was pinned to my front door.

Stop trying to contact me!-C I tore it down and unlocked the door, wondering how long the note had been up there, how many times the mailman had seen it.

With a mail slot on the front door, whenever I'm gone even for a few days the acc.u.mulation of mail on the other side makes opening the door an experience. Glossy magazines are slipperier than ice.

Steering around the pile of mail on the floor, I tossed my bag onto the sofa and opened windows to air out the place. Then I returned for the mail. I bent over and felt like I'd been bit all over again.

The bite that keeps on biting, I lamented.

Through trial and error I found that bending over didn't hurt as much if I was on my knees. Just as I was reaching for the electric bill, my phone rang. The display said it was Jana.

"Hi, it's me," she said softly.

"Hi. I'm glad you called."

"I apologize for not returning your calls last night," she ventured.

"No . . . not at all."

"It's just that-"

"We both had a rough day," I said. "I just wanted to take you to dinner and apologize."

"Well . . . how about today? Are you free for lunch?"

I groaned.

"I understand . . ." she said.

"No! No, it's not that . . . it's . . . well, I'm on my knees here."

"Grant, you don't have to beg . . . after all we've been through together?"

I laughed. "It's not that, I'm on my knees in my apartment, picking up the mail."

"Your apartment?"

"In D.C."

"Oh! Now I feel foolish. With cell phones you never . . ."

"Yeah . . . you never know where you're calling."

"I don't know why I a.s.sumed you would be staying in San Diego longer," she said.

"It was important I get back here."

"I guess I keep forgetting what an important man you are now," she said.

"Not so important."

"Is San Diego on your itinerary anytime soon?"

I sighed. "At the moment I don't have an itinerary, everything's sort of up in the air. I don't know when I'll be out West again."

"OK . . . I understand . . . I was just hoping to clear the air a little, to talk with you when I wasn't so emotional . . ." She paused. "And to tell you that I overreacted about Christy-"

"Christina."

"I really don't know why I acted like I did, it's not like we've been seeing each other or anything, I mean, it's been years! But the way you held me on the freeway . . . it brought back a lot of old feelings and they surprised me."

"About Christina . . . we're not-"

"Really, Grant, it's none of my business. Oh! And I hear you met Sue Ling! Small world, huh? Isn't she special?"

"Yeah . . . special. She thinks the world of you."

"It's mutual. She's the smartest person I've ever met! Well, I'm sure you have a thousand things to do . . . Oh, are you going to come to Myles's funeral? It's next Tuesday."

A dozen quips leaped to mind regarding Myles, none of them kind, or appropriate. I went for the simple answer, "I don't think that will be possible."

"Well, if things change, you know? I know he would have wanted you there. It looks like the whole city is going to be there. The mayor. Chief of police. You know, honoring the former teacher of the year . . . The station tried to get me to cover it, but I don't think I'll be in any shape to do a broadcast."

"My thoughts will be with you."

"Keep in touch, Grant, OK? And the next time you're going to be in San Diego, try giving a girl a little advance notice."

Closing the phone, I slipped it into my pocket. There are no feelings like old romantic feelings. I gathered my mail in an emotional fog.

I stood in the shadows of Christina's three-story, brick apartment building in Adams Morgan. My usual place to wait for her is parked on the street within sight of her parking s.p.a.ce in the rear of the building. Circ.u.mstances suggested a change of tactics. I was afraid if she saw me while she was still behind the wheel, she'd rabbit. So I parked two blocks away on Mintwood and waited in the shadows beside the steps.

Actually, the shadows weren't necessary. I stood there because I couldn't sit. The side of the steps gave me something to lean against. I had no idea how long I'd be waiting.

People who work in the West Wing live in the West Wing. Their apartments are little more than walk-in closets and staging areas for the next meeting, party, or event.