The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [193]
“Sir, I’m sorry about—”
“The funeral’s Wednesday,” he says, still scanning his shelves as if some brilliant answer were there among the peace prizes, bricks from the Hanoi Hilton, and imprints of the Wailing Wall. Across from him, I also stare—at the bronze casting of Abraham Lincoln’s fist that sits on the edge of the desk.
“We’d like you to be a pallbearer, Wes.”
He still doesn’t face me. The snag in his voice tells me how hard this is. The way his hand’s shaking as he shoves it in his pocket shows me the same. As President, Leland Manning buried three hundred and two American soldiers, nine heads of state, two senators, and a pope. None of it prepared him for burying his wife.
“A pallbearer?” I ask.
“It was her request,” he says, trying to pull it together. “From her checklist.”
When a President and First Lady leave the White House, as if they’re not depressed enough, one of the very first things they’re forced to do is make arrangements for their own funerals. State funerals are national events that need to be mounted in a few hours, almost always without any notice—which is why the Pentagon gives the President a checklist of all the gruesome details: whether you want to lie in state in the Capitol, if you want a public viewing, whether you want the final burial at your library or in Arlington, how many friends, family, and dignitaries should attend, who should do the eulogies, who shouldn’t be invited, and of course, who should be the pallbearers.
Once, they even sent the military honor guard to our offices at the Manning Library to practice carrying the casket that would eventually hold him. I tried to keep Manning from coming to his office that day. But there he was, watching from his window as they carried his flag-covered weighted-down casket to the meditation garden in back. “I look heavy,” he’d joked, trying his best to make light of it. Still, he was quiet as they passed by. He’s more quiet now.
“Mr. President, I’m not sure that’s the best idea anymore. After last night—”
“That was her own doing, Wes. You know that. Her own doing. And her undoing as well,” he says as his voice again breaks. He’s trying hard to be strong—to be the Lion—but I can see that he’s gripping the back of his brown leather chair to stand. However it happened, it’s still his wife. Looking like a shell of the man I used to know, he sighs and sits down. We both sit there in silence, staring at Lincoln’s fist.
“Did the Service say anything about Nico?” I finally ask.
“His fingerprints were all over the car. The blood in the backseat was his. No question he pulled the trigger. But as far as where he disappeared to, they’re still looking,” he explains. “If you’re worried he’s coming after you, though, I’ve already asked the Service to—”
“He’s not coming after me. Not anymore.”
Manning looks me over. “So in the cemetery . . . you spoke to him?”
“Yes.”
“You made peace with him?”
“Peace? No. But—” I pause to think about it. “He’s not coming back.”
“Good. I’m glad for you, Wes. You deserve some peace of mind.”
He’s generous to say it, but it’s clear his mind is elsewhere. That’s fine. So is mine.
“Sir, I know this may not be the best time, but I was wondering if I could—” I stop right there, reminding myself I don’t need his permission. I look up from Lincoln’s fist. “I’d like to talk to you about my status.”
“What status?”
“My job, Mr. President.”
“Of course, of course—no . . . of course,” he says, clearly caught off guard.
“I thought that under the circumstances—”
“You don’t have to say it, Wes. Regardless of the end result, you’re still