A Hideous Beauty (33 page)

“Poor Grant,” Sue said when she heard the news.

The professor said nothing. He stared intently at the screen as though he was trying to see things that weren't there.

Jana's cell phone rang. She smiled when she saw
CHRISTINA
on the display, her newest addition to her phone list. The two women had hit it off famously from the moment they met in the hotel hallway. “I hope you have good news,” Jana answered.

“Where are you?”

“Stuck on the on-ramp to the bridge. Traffic's backed up.”

“It's not traffic. The bridge is closed.”

“Closed? Already?”

“The time schedule has been moved up. We're on the freeway,” Christina said. “Is there another way for you to get to Coronado?”

Jana looked around her. She was boxed in. “I'd have to hop a freeway divider, hitch a ride south down to Imperial Beach and come up the strand.”

“Hop the freeway divider? Do you do that here in California?”

“If I remember my high school civics lessons, I think there's a law against hopping freeway barriers while wearing high heels.”

“You've been spending too much time with Grant,” Christina said. “You're beginning to sound like him.”

“Sorry. I'm frustrated that I'm stuck here.”

“What's ahead of you?”

“It's hard to tell, the road curves onto the bridge. There are probably twenty cars between me and where it merges with the southbound ramp.”

“The one the motorcade is taking?”

“Yes.”

“Jana, get up there. I'll . . . try to think of something. Just be ready to jump in a black limo if the opportunity presents itself.”

“You got it, girlfriend, just remember I'm in heels.”

Abandoning her car, Jana Torres took two steps, stoppped, slipped off her shoes, and ran past a traffic sign that indicated she was on the road that would take her across the bay bridge into Coronado.

Standing on the wharf, I gazed dejectedly across the bay to Coronado Island and the profile of the aircraft carrier USS
Ronald Reagan,
where the farewell rally would take place. The final farewell rally in all probability.

There were two ways to get over there. The bridge, or drive all the way down to Imperial Beach, then come up from the south by way of the strand. The bridge was closed to traffic and the longer route was, well, longer. On normal days there was a ferry service, but the Coast Guard had shut it down until the president was away.

All I could do now was wait for the bridge to reopen.

Staring across the bay, I wondered what the next hour would hold. Douglas always had a flair for the dramatic. It would be
just like him to throw his own farewell party as a kickoff to his assassination.

With the water lapping the pilings several feet below me, I'd never felt more helpless. Telling myself I'd done all I could was hollow comfort. How could I have not seen what was really happening at the Douglas White House? And how could I have allowed myself to be spoon-fed the research that resulted in a glamorized account of Douglas's war record? I should have trusted less and dug deeper.

Despite the damage it would do to my career as a writer, when this was all over I was going to return to Montana and convince Doc Palmer to come forward and set the record straight.

“I'll tell you one thing,” I muttered. “If I do write a final chapter to the biography, it won't be the one Myles Shepherd or Semyaza or whoever he is wants me to write. It'll be the truth.”

I glanced across the bay again and wondered how much of the final chapter I'd be able to see from here.

That's when I saw him.

Semyaza.

It was as though I'd summoned him by speaking his name.

He stood just a couple of hundred yards away from me on the flight deck of the USS
Midway,
which was now a floating museum docked at Navy Pier. He just stood there looking across the water at me, his pants legs flapping in the breeze.

Eyes fixed on him, I made my way along the wharf to the pier, walking, then jogging, then running. I sprinted down the pier and up the gangplank, past a startled ticket-taker.

“Hey! You need a ticket to get in!” he shouted at my back. “You need a ticket!”

I burst onto the hangar deck looking for stairs or a ladder up to the flight deck. I found myself in an enormous metal cavern with several different aircraft on display.

At the far end, to my right, I saw a man in a Hawaiian T-shirt heading up some stairs. By the time he huffed and puffed his way to the top, I was right behind him.

The deck was a display area for nearly two dozen jets and helicopters. I started jogging in the direction where I saw Myles last, looking around fuselages and wings and rotors as I ran. Passing the island superstructure, I found him standing at the far end of the deck.

I stopped running a hundred yards before reaching him, reminding myself of who he really was. Even now, without a ceiling overhead, I glanced up to see if there were any gargoyle demons close by.

His back was to me. He stood casually as though he was admiring the bay. “Glad you could make it,” he said. “You're right on time. Predictable to a fault.”

He was just trying to goad me and I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. I'd boasted that I would stop him and had failed. Just like in high school, he'd bested me. But I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of getting my goat.

I followed the line of his gaze.

A chill sliced through me and not from the breeze.

Semyaza wasn't looking at Coronado.

“Beautiful, isn't she?” he said. “I've always liked her graceful lines.”

He was looking south at the bridge spanning the bay, a blue ribbon stretched over a series of arches, suspended between earth and heaven.

CHAPTER
27

H
er lungs were feeling the burn. With shoes in hand, Jana rounded the bend of the on-ramp, which looked more like a parking lot than a freeway. Bored drivers whistled, honked, or shouted suggestive comments as she ran by them. At the top of the ramp a pair of California Highway Patrol motorcycles blocked access to the bridge. Beyond them the upward slope of the roadway was empty of traffic in both directions.

Jana slowed to a walk as she passed a school bus of screaming children, first- or second-graders from the looks of them. They were unattended. The door to the bus was open. The engine was turned off. The driver's seat was empty.

Between the front line of cars and the roadblock a drama with five actors was taking place, featuring two CHP officers and three women. The hoods of cars served as front row seats for bystanders who had nothing else to do while waiting for the motorcade.

Of the actors, the most animated was a woman with close-
cropped, black hair, barely five feet tall and shaped like a fire hydrant. She stood toe to toe with the officers, waving a piece of paper under their noses. Two taller women who were dressed like elementary-school teachers—conservative style, comfortable shoes—backed her up. From the brunette's trucker vocabulary, Jana concluded she was the bus driver.

“Look at it!” she screamed. “Look at it! This is my pass! An invitation . . . on White House stationery!”

The CHP officers stood shoulder-to-shoulder presenting a united front. With their helmets, reflective sunglasses, and headset microphones, they looked like Storm Troopers from
Star Wars.

The taller of the officers said, “Lady, I don't care if you have a letter signed by Abraham Lincoln, we're not letting you through.”

The brunette's solo turned to a trio as the women behind her added their voices to the argument. The CHP officers remained unmoved, unfazed by the barrage of arguments.

“But we have an invitation!”

“Explain that to a busload of kids!”

“They've been practicing for more than a month!”

“I want to speak to your supervisor.”

“. . . a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

Reclining on the hood of a blue Ford Mustang, a young couple looked on with amusement. Other drivers from the line of cars behind them had filtered forward and were standing around with arms folded, some shielding their eyes from the sun.

Jana moved among them, doing her best to blend in. She glanced in the direction of the motorcade route, a crazy scenario playing in her head of a black limousine slowing, the back door flying open, and Christina yelling from inside for her to jump in. It was a ridiculous idea, she knew, but nevertheless she
positioned herself near the front, hoping that one or two of the bystanders would unintentionally run interference for her.

“Here he comes!” the man on the Mustang shouted.

All eyes turned toward the motorcade route as an assortment of limousines and oversized SUVs snaked up the freeway toward them. Six CHP motorcycle officers led the motorcade, their emergency lights flashing.

To Jana it looked like a funeral procession. She spotted the presidential limousine, marked with furiously fluttering flags that bore the presidential seal.

She tightened the grip on her shoes. Her heart hammered as she readied herself for whatever would happen next.

To cheers from the northbound ramp audience, the lead motorcycles zoomed by them impressively.

Then, to everyone's surprise, the motorcade slowed and stopped. Doors to three limos flew open, disgorging big men in dark suits with dark sunglasses and one attractive blonde in a red skirt and matching jacket.

Christina.

“You go, girlfriend!” Jana muttered, impressed.

All but two of the Secret Service detail surrounded the presidential limousine, looking outward, vigilant, their heads in constant motion. The other two agents approached the roadblock. While they were still a good distance away, the brunette bus driver began making her appeal to them directly.

“Tell these Nazi thugs to let us through! We have an invitation,” she shouted, waving the letter as though it was a historic proclamation backing a noble cause.

While everyone else was watching the drama unfold, Christina caught Jana's eye. With a tilt of her head she motioned Jana toward the school bus. Jana signaled she understood with a nod. Turning, she wove her way through the crowd toward the bus.

She could hear Christina's voice behind her. “Officers, we need those children at the rally.”

A deep male voice said, “Ma'am, we'll take care of this. Please get back in the car.”

The now-familiar protest of the bus driver started up again, prompting a response from the CHP officers. The Secret Service agent played referee.

With everyone engrossed in the Jerry Springer–type drama, Jana was able to wander unnoticed to the school bus. Slipping on her shoes, she casually climbed aboard as though she belonged with the children. Only when she was inside did she risk a glance back at the motorcade through the windshield.

She saw Christina climbing into the limo as the stout brunette thrust her fists skyward to a smattering of cheers and applause. The CHP officers mounted their motorcycles to move them out of the way. And the Secret Service agents returned to the motorcade, one of them bending down to give a thumbs-up sign to the back window of the presidential limo.

Maybe it wasn't Christina's doing after all. The president wants this bus at the rally. Why?

The driver and two teachers were making their way back to the bus. Jana turned and made her way down the aisle toward the back.

Curious eyes watched her. Some of the children smiled and waved. She smiled and waved back.

“We're going to sing for the president of the United States!” one girl told her proudly.

“I know!” Jana replied. “Sing pretty for him, OK?”

“Teacher! Manuel hit me!”

Next to the window a boy with innocent brown eyes was sitting on his hands.

“Stop hitting her!” Jana scolded him. Manuel didn't fool her for a second.

Jana made it to the back row just as the trio of adults was boarding the bus. She slid down low, displacing a skinny little boy from the back corner.