"It is only because of Ms. Irwin's thoroughness that these proofs even exist. All the other copies have been . . . well, let's just say they're missing . . . the chief of staff's and Ms. Irwin's. And I'd be willing to bet all the copies at the publishing house have been conveniently lost. This is the only copy they didn't get, because they didn't know about it."

"They, sir? Who are they?"

"That doesn't matter," the president said gruffly, still gripping her arm. He spoke like a man possessed. "Listen carefully, Miss Kraft. Get a message to Grant. Tell him that under no circ.u.mstances is he to go to San Diego. Is that clear? Hog-tie him if you have to, but keep him away from San Diego."

"Yes, sir. But sir, if I may ask-"

The lights overhead flickered and came to life.

"There you are!" The president's wife, wearing a robe, rushed into the room. "We've all been worried! Are you all right?" she cried.

Two Secret Service agents were close on her heels. They flanked Christina and pulled her to her feet as though she was a threat. At that moment Christina was very much aware of the piece of paper in her hand that threatened the life of the president of the United States.

"I'm fine! I'm fine!" The president waved off the attention as he would a pesky fly. "I just wandered off for a little stroll and got a little woozy, that's all. Probably the new medication . . ."

His wife helping him to his feet, he zeroed in on the two Secret Service agents. "Back off, you pit bulls. Miss Kraft found me and was kind enough to come to my aid. She's working late, one of Ingraham's overworked subordinates."

The president's wife bent down and picked up the proofs.

"Those belong to Miss Kraft," the president said, directing his wife to hand the proofs to her.

Christina took them gratefully. "Thank you, Mr. President."

The president stood erect now, dignified, looking very presidential, even in his pajamas and bare feet.

CHAPTER 14.

The last thing I expected to be doing the day after Christina's espionage mission at the White House was driving the long I-15 stretch in Montana. But then, I never expected I'd be accused of plotting to a.s.sa.s.sinate the president of the United States either. I guess it just goes to show you never know what you're going to step in on any given day.

After a hasty trip to the airport, I hopped my way to Great Falls by way of Charlotte and Minneapolis in just under eleven hours, the last leg of the journey in one of those small-plane commuter flights where every seat is a window seat. The first thing I did after bouncing around at a high alt.i.tude hour after hour was to invest in one of those inflatable doughnuts for my sore backside.

It was my first trip to Montana and it didn't take long to learn one fact about the state. Its roads stretch to forever and beyond. The people who live here must be the deepest thinkers in the world. What else is there to do while traveling mile after endless mile?

The drive gave me plenty of time to mull the improbable scene of Christina holding an impromptu meeting on the White House floor with a pajama-clad president. That's an image I'll not forget anytime soon.

The weird part about the scene was that the scene itself wasn't the weird part. Not only did the president know that Christina was coming, he knew what she was looking for. How was that possible? Christina and I were the only two people who knew about our plan, and I'd spoken to no one.

Then, when she returned to my apartment with the proofs, we lined up all thirteen chapter-heading pages on my bed and studied the handwriting to see if we could discover who was framing me.

We quickly ruled out the president, Ingraham, and Ms. Irwin. We also ruled out Margaret, Ingraham's secretary. Christina would have recognized her handwriting instantly.

Who did that leave?

Every White House staff member who worked for the president, Chief of Staff Ingraham, Ms. Irwin, or Margaret. In other words, anybody could have recorded the changes on the pages, but at whose instruction?

We were back to square one. Whoever they were remained a mystery. My only consolation was that the president wasn't behind it. From what Christina told me, he was surprised and upset when he learned what they'd done.

Personally, my money was on Ingraham. While I had no hard proof and I didn't have a motive, he was in the position not only to make the changes, but also to revoke my access privileges to the White House and cut me off from everyone in the West Wing. The fact that he played the role of a n.a.z.i when he demanded to listen to Christina's cell phone messages was proof enough of his guilt.

In all the time I spent at the White House, I had never warmed to Ingraham, nor he to me. But then, I don't think anybody did. The man was pure political power in a three-piece suit. Working with him was like working with nuclear fusion. He could produce a lot of energy to forward a career, or he could burn you to a crisp. You had to respect the man, but you never felt comfortable around him.

That Ingraham was part of the they, if not their leader, I had no doubt.

But it was a comment the president made that sent me winging to Montana. I asked Christina to repeat it several times to make certain she'd heard correctly.

"Why Grant? Doc Palmer, maybe. But Grant?"

The musings of a president on the floor in his pajamas. The thing that made it so odd was that Doc Palmer was dead. He had been for over a year. Why would anyone want to frame a dead man for a future a.s.sa.s.sination attempt?

On the car seat next to me was a research folder from the book project. I'd taken out the news clipping from the Shelby Reporter.

RICKY "DOC" PALMER Ricky Michael Palmer, 65, a Shelby resident and former Lewistown physician, died late Friday afternoon, October 26, in the Marias Care Center from injuries sustained in a single vehicle accident. Graveside services will be held Tuesday, Oct. 30, at Mount Calvary Cemetery. Visitation is Monday, Oct. 29, in Twin Oaks Chapel. The Twin Oaks Funeral Home is in charge of arrangements.

Just as I had been preparing to fly to Montana to interview Doc Palmer for the book, this newspaper clipping was handed to me.

Palmer and the president had been in the same platoon in Vietnam. After the war, Palmer was the president's personal physician, retiring at the conclusion of the first term.

In some ways, selfishly I suppose, the news came as a relief. The deadline for my book was fast approaching and I really didn't have time to squeeze in a trip to Montana. I'd interviewed a host of other survivors in the president's platoon and had more than enough information and quotes to write the chapter which culminated in the presentation of a Distinguished Service Cross.

It was Ingraham who made me want to interview Palmer when he called me into his office to tell me I was wasting my time, and then again when he summoned me after learning I was going to Montana despite his advice.

I don't like people telling me how to do my job. Besides, I wanted this book to be my best writing. How often does a man get an opportunity like this one? And I didn't want some moldy old history professor at Yale or Harvard using me as an example in his lectures as a historian who publishes prematurely with incomplete research.

Two days later Ingraham slaps the obituary notice on my desk. He didn't send it by messenger. It was important enough to him to deliver the coup de grace himself.

That pretty much settled it. I mean, what kind of person would I be to suspect the president's chief of staff of such duplicity that he would manufacture a phony obituary notice just to win an argument with a n.o.body freelance writer?

So I didn't bother calling to confirm Palmer's death.

At least for an hour.

Both the Shelby Reporter and Twin Oaks Funeral Home confirmed the obituary notice. Apparently Palmer flipped his truck on Interstate 15. They estimated he was traveling over a hundred miles per hour. Alcohol-Palmer's lifelong personal demon-contributed to the accident.

Which brings me back to the president's pajama party. Why would he think that Doc Palmer would be a better frame than me if Palmer was dead?

With more than an hour to drive, I shifted the inflatable doughnut to a more comfortable position. Maybe all that would come of this trip would be a visit to Doc Palmer's grave. But I had to see for myself. I still had Palmer's home address. I figured I'd start there and work my way to the grave.

I stepped out of the car into a dust cloud of my own making. If my directions were correct, this was the Palmer place. If I'd taken a wrong turn, this was probably Idaho, because there weren't many turns and the roads were long.

The house and barn had seen better days. Both showed evidence of being punished by strong winds and extreme temperatures. The barn had once been red. Now, it was weathered gray with red streaks.

"h.e.l.lo?" I shouted.

The double barn doors gaped wide open. There was no sign of life anywhere. Same with the house. While the door was closed it looked like it had been dead for over a year.

"Just like its owner," I muttered.

I decided to try the house first. All three porch steps groaned when I stepped on them. Or was that me groaning? It had been a long trip. The paint on the screen door, what was left of it, was peeling. The screen was torn at the corner.

I knocked.

"h.e.l.lo?" I called. "Anyone home?"

With no answer I turned to the barn, but my chances of finding anyone there looked remote. This place was deserted. I'd made the trip for nothing.

Halfway to the barn a voice stopped me. "Hold it right there!"

I turned to see a man with a gun rounding the house. A faded red ball cap was pulled down tight, trimmed around the edges with ragged gray hair. His flannel shirt was wrinkled and his overalls were worn and dirty. He advanced until he was close enough to kill me without aiming.

I displayed empty hands. "I mean you no harm."

"That's the difference between us, then," he spat. "I mean you plenty of harm unless you jump in that car and go back to wherever you came from."

A huge black hole at the business end of a shotgun punctuated his point. For reasons unknown-other than that I have a tendency to see the ridiculous side of danger-I imagined myself getting a load of buckshot in the backside. My only hope was that it would hit the left cheek to balance the dog bite on the right and my limp would then be even.

Offering my friendliest smile to the man, I said, "There's no need to-"

BLAM!.

Shotgun thunder rent the air. With a practiced motion he pumped the next round into the chamber and leveled the sights at my chest.

"All right!" I shouted. "All right! I'm going!"

I began working my way around the front of the car.

"It's just that I came all the way from Washington, D.C., to-"

BLAM!.

Another round scattered the air. He reloaded and took two threatening steps toward me.

"I'm going! I'm going!"

Only for some reason I seemed to have forgotten how to open a car door. I clawed repeatedly at the latch but for some reason the combination of what to push and what to pull had suddenly become a mystery to me.

"What's your name?" the man barked.

Oh . . . great . . . not only couldn't I remember how to open a door, I couldn't remember my name. "Um . . . um . . . it's, um . . ."

Give me a second here, will you, buddy? Do you know how embarra.s.sing it would be to die because you couldn't remember your own name?

"I . . . um . . . ah . . . Ah! . . . Austin. Grrrr . . . Grrrant Austin."

"Who do you work for?"

"Actually, I don't work for-"

"WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?" he shouted.

"I'm a writer! Freelance! I wrote a book about the president."

His brow furrowed as he chewed on that.

"Step around the car," he said. He motioned in the direction he wanted me to go with the barrel of the shotgun.

I did as he instructed. I stepped around the front of the car until nothing was between me and the shotgun.

"Take your shoes off," he ordered.

"My shoes? What do my shoes-"

BLAM!.

Bending over, I pulled off my shoes without unlacing them.

"Socks too."

The socks flew off.

He blinked hard several times to focus on my feet with eyes so bloodshot I couldn't see any white in them. His tongue worked the inside of a cheek that was rough with salt-and-pepper whiskers. He tilted his head to get a better look at my feet. Then he leaned over even farther.

Do you know how hard it is not to wiggle your toes when someone is looking at your feet? He leaned so far it must have made him dizzy. He stumbled sideways, but caught himself. "Shuffle them in the dirt," he said.

I started to object, then figured the fewer times he pulled the trigger on the shotgun the better my chances of leaving here alive. I shuffled my feet in the dirt.

"Let me see the bottom of one," he said.

I lifted my right foot and showed him the bottom.

He nodded and seemed to relax a little, but he didn't lower the shotgun. "Austin, you say."

"Yes, sir."

"You're the idiot they paid to write all them lies about Douglas. Or maybe you were duped. You don't look like the mercenary type to me."

"I researched the book thoroughly," I insisted.

"Did you now? You wrote what they wanted you to write and that makes you a liar, only worse, since you sugarcoat the lies so nice that people smile when they swallow them."

"Listen," I said, my ire rising. "Just because you hold a weapon doesn't make you right. Who are you to pa.s.s judgment on what I wrote, or upon me for why I wrote it?"