I’m still processing all that’s happened. Why don’t you call me after your meeting with Mr. Madison?”
Josh spent the morning catching up on reading journal articles he’d brought home for that purpose and then neglected. He wasn’t hungry, but forced himself to eat part of a sandwich for lunch. The day seemed to drag, but at last it was time to leave for the airport.
At Love Field, Josh discovered that access to the former president required being cleared past a number of checkpoints, even if your presence had been requested. “I’m supposed to meet Mr. Madison’s plane,” Josh said for what seemed like the hundredth time. This time he was speaking to a security guard at a door leading to the tarmac. Through the windows that flanked the doors Josh saw private planes sitting in staggered rows like rank upon rank of soldiers awaiting orders. Several hundred yards away he could barely discern the runway on which Madison’s plane would land.
The guard consulted a clipboard. “I don’t see your name.”
“Mr. Madison’s staff was supposed to—”
“Hang on,” the guard said. “Here it is. It was added at the bottom of the list.”
“Thank you,” Josh said. “Shall I wait here?”
“In there with the others.” The guard inclined his head toward a nearby room where several men and women sat waiting. All but one of them were studying their smart phones, scrolling through messages and posts as though the fate of the free world depended on their up-to-date knowledge. The one exception was a man who sat staring quietly into space.
The solitary individual was a husky middle-aged man whose off-the-rack medium brown suit did little to conceal the slight bulge under his left armpit. His thinning hair, mainly brown with some gray at the temples, was combed across his scalp in what was apparently an attempt to cover a bald spot. The man’s thick-soled, brown lace-up shoes were scuffed and slightly run-down at the heels. Josh recognized him as the detective to whom Rachel had talked last evening at the airport—a common name, what was it? Williams? West? Warren. That was it—Detective Stan Warren.
“Mind if I take this seat?” Josh asked.
“Suit yourself,” the detective said, with no hint of recognition.
“We met last night.” Josh offered his hand. “I’m Dr. Josh Pearson. I was with the nurse, Rachel Moore, who reported the . . . whatever you call it when someone steals a body.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m not sure what the legal term is, but I call it body snatching, and we’re investigating it. I’ve heard lawyers called ambulance chasers, but I’ve never before heard of crooks being hearse chasers.” Warren displayed a brief, crooked grin.
The detective reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of gum, and offered it to Josh, who declined. “Trying to quit smoking,” Warren said. “I go through these things faster than I ever smoked cigarettes. But they don’t cause cancer.” He shoved a stick of gum into his mouth and returned the pack to his coat pocket.
The security guard stuck his head into the room and said, “The plane has just arrived.”
Warren pushed to his feet. “Well, I’ve got to report our progress—or, more accurately, our lack of progress—and then get back to work.” He looked toward the men and women who’d been waiting. “Madison will have to speak to these reporters after he deplanes.” He pushed his sleeve back and consulted his watch. “You’ve probably got half an hour to wait. See you.”
Josh followed Warren out of the room where they’d been waiting. He stood at the window and watched as the former president appeared in the open doorway of the private jet. Madison looked almost like the pictures Josh had seen of him—a tall, silver-haired man, usually with a faint grin on his face, the perfect image of a kind grandfather or a respected political figure. The main difference was that today the grin was absent. Instead, Madison’s features were fixed in a somber countenance. It was a sad day, and his demeanor reflected it.
Detective Warren met Madison at the foot of the jet’s stairs. The detective, with a few gestures including shrugs and uplifted palms, gave his explanation and, Josh figured, assured Mr. Madison that the police were on top of the disappearance of Ben Lambert’s coffin. After Warren shook hands with Madison and started away, the ex-president walked briskly through the gathered reporters, trailing “no comments” behind him. When he spotted Josh, Madison detoured toward him. “You must be Dr. Pearson. Thanks for meeting me. Come on. We can talk in the limo.”
A man in a navy blue suit, his red hair cut short, a look of utter concentration on his face, strode ahead of Josh and Madison toward a stretch limo idling nearby. Josh realized this was the man who’d preceded Madison through the crowd of reporters, parting them like Moses at the Red Sea. He opened the passenger door, stuck his head inside, and looked around. He did the same for the back of the limousine. Then he stood back and motioned for the two passengers to enter. Once they were inside, the man climbed into the front seat and the car pulled away.
“Who’s that?” Josh asked, indicating the red-haired man who now sat in the passenger seat of the limo.
“That’s Jerry . . . Agent Jerry Lang. He’s the head of my Secret Service detail. I’d better introduce you since you’ll probably be seeing a lot more of him.” Madison leaned forward and tapped on the glass partition separating him from the front seat. When it slid back, he said, “Jerry, this is Dr. Josh Pearson. He’ll be taking over as my personal physician.”
Lang extended his hand across the seat. “Doctor, good to meet you. Can we come by your office tomorrow and dispose of a few formalities before you see Mr. Madison—things we need to know about you and vice-versa?”
“Sure. Shall I—”
“We’ll make the arrangements. Don’t worry.” And Lang slid the panel closed.
“Things moving a bit too fast for you?” Madison smiled. “Get used to it. What Jerry can’t arrange, Karen can.”
“Karen?”
“Karen Marks. She was my chief of staff when I was in the White House, and she followed me into retirement . . . although neither of us seems to have slowed down much.”
“Was she on this flight with you?” Josh asked.
“No, she’ll be coming back later. I’ve returned early because of recent events. And that’s why I wanted you to meet my plane.”
Josh decided he might as well ask the question that had been foremost in his mind since talking with Rachel last night. “Sir, why do you need to see me so urgently?”
Madison looked up to make certain the partition separating them from the driver and Lang was closed. Then he leaned close to Josh and said in a soft voice, “Because I think someone is trying to kill me. And I’ll need your help to make certain they don’t succeed.”
***
Rachel studied her reflection in the mirror in the front hall of her apartment. She wondered if there was any truth in the old wives’ tale about people turning gray overnight. If so, she was an ideal candidate to have at least a few strands show up. She fluffed her short hairdo and saw no light strands among the brown ones—not yet, at least. Her hazel eyes were still a bit red rimmed, but she could fix that with a few drops of Visine. As for the dark circles under them . . . well, maybe a good night’s rest
