of being scared off, Pruitt had snapped.
With no light, Angie ran at a cautious jog, weaving through the tall pines, palmetto thickets and moon shadows. The long khakis protected her arms and legs, but random twigs and thorny vines clawed at her face. She wasn’t concerned about running up on a wild animal because she’d dealt hands-on with every species from bears to rattlesnakes. However, she was worried about Joel, who had no experience with nighttime transit in deep woods. When her cell began ringing, she pulled it from her pocket and knelt behind a tree. Joel was on the other end of the line.
“Tripped over a damn log,” he reported. “I’m pretty sure my ankle’s broken.”
“How far’d you get from the road?”
“I dunno. Maybe twenty yards.”
“That’s all?” said Angie. “Then keep your voice down. He’s gonna hear you.”
“The prick already took off. Can’t you see the flames?”
“No, but I smell smoke.”
“That’s your truck burning,” Joel said.
“Well, I’m not surprised.”
“Whatever he threw at us went off like a grenade.”
“Probably homemade.”
“That’s still fucked up, Angie.”
“Stay where are you are. Don’t move,” she told him.
“Duh. I actually can’t walk.”
“I’ll find you.”
“You won’t need a flashlight,” Joel said. “It’s a big-ass fire.”
* * *
—
Paul Ryskamp spent part of his Sunday afternoon interviewing Diego Beltrán at the county jail. Despite the uptight presence of a lawyer from the Public Defender’s Office, Beltrán seemed eager to answer questions from the Secret Service agent, who came away convinced that the young Honduran had no role in the death of Katherine Pew Fitzsimmons. Ryskamp expected the Palm Beach police chief to confirm Beltrán’s exculpatory revelation that the chief had found a second conch pearl along the railroad tracks.
Later, at the office, Ryskamp gathered the other agents and handed out the Potussies directive from the head of Mastodon’s security detail.
“These are all elderly white females,” one agent observed as he skimmed the roster, which included dates of birth.
“That’s correct,” Ryskamp said. “Mastodon requested that each of these individuals receive round-the-clock protection, beginning tomorrow. Washington has promised to send us warm bodies to fill the shifts.”
“Does Washington understand how ridiculous this is?” asked another agent, reflecting the mood of the room.
“Of course they understand,” said Ryskamp. “No one’s pretending this assignment is anything but a colossal waste.”
“Paul, what does ‘Potussies’ even mean?”
“It stands for ‘POTUS Pussies.’ The name might suggest they’ve got a sense of humor, but I’m told they take themselves quite seriously. They’re infatuated with Mastodon, and they’re getting a ton of media since his press conference.”
A third agent spoke up: “The deceased woman—has anyone got a speck of evidence she was really murdered by terrorists? Or that the Guatemalan kid they busted, Diego Whatever-the-fuck, is connected to a radical cell?’
“The answer to both questions is a hard no,” said Ryskamp. “And the young man is from Honduras, not Guatemala. I just spent two hours interviewing him.”
“So where did Mastodon come up with this crazy conspiracy shit?”
“He just pulled it out of his ass, like everything else. Plays huge with his fans.”
“Paul, how long do we have to hang with these old birds?”
“The memo says indefinitely, but that could also mean short-term.”
Ryskamp was trying to sound an optimistic note, for he was sensitive to the demoralizing effect of Mastodon’s antics. As a price for her silence, one of his West Coast mistresses demanded to be met by the Secret Service every time she flew into Dulles. The ride to the White House always included a leisurely stop at a luxe mall in Chevy Chase, where the woman would hang full shopping bags on the arm of whichever miserable agent had been assigned to accompany her. If nosy GAO investigators ever asked to examine the duty logs, that particular guest of the President would show up as a visiting niece of the Taiwanese ambassador, not the twice-divorced manager of a wine bar in east San Francisco.
After Ryskamp ended the briefing about the Potussies, a female agent named Jennifer Rose stayed behind in the room. She told him she had something to report from Casa Bellicosa.
“Just a rumor, but you need to hear it,” she said.
Ryskamp closed the door. “Is this a security issue?”
“Potentially. There’s a new hire on the wait staff, a South African named Spalding. Yesterday I overheard him tell another server that Mockingbird is having a ‘super-sloppy hot affair.’ He claimed he saw the man.”
“The First Lady’s sleeping with someone here in Palm Beach?”
“Worse. On the property.”
“Oh, fun.”
“Up at the White House, too,”