Siobhan said, “what is tomorrow night and the nights thereafter going to be like if we turn this down?”
“I can’t tell you how many times I passed the fishing hole and saw myself with my son. How many times we were at the ball games together. How many times…these things are always complicated, aren’t they, Father?”
“Life is complicated.”
“All right, Siobhan, we have a son,” Dan said.
“I’m glad, and let his life begin the moment he steps foot on the ranch. I caution you that sometimes a child’s drive to find his birth parents is insatiable. The only thing you can do is raise him with wisdom and love. His life can be made so full, his need to know may simply fade. Make it so he won’t want any parents but you.”
Dan leaned against the fireplace. The mantel, the picture gallery of all Irish homes, was empty.
“God has given us everything,” Dan said. “We can’t take our failings out on the child. What is his name?”
“The sisters call him Patrick.”
“That’s Irish enough.”
“Patrick O’Connell,” Siobhan said three times over.
“You know,” Dan said, “in the Corps we almost entirely knew each other by our last name. Do you suppose we might call our son Quinn Patrick O’Connell?”
“That was in my line of thinking as well,” his wifesaid.
Chapter 7
WASHINGTON, D.C., 2008
It is nearly three o’clock. Nothing makes time pass more slowly than waiting for a cold pot to boil.
“Get me Whipple,” I ordered over the phone.
“Whipple here, Mr. President.”
“What’s going on?”
“Just a few minutes ago the O’Connell people called a news conference for tomorrow at one P.M. Rocky time.”
“Sounds like O’Connell is burning the midnight oil.”
“Yes, sir. The press corps is heading for Troublesome Mesa en masse.”
“Contact my staff advisers. We’ll watch the press conference in the Situation Room. Christ, what’s going on?”
“A lot of rumors. One here is interesting. A New York Times correspondent, June Siddell, spotted someone she knew debarking at the Denver airport. She got to the manifest and confirmed the passenger was a fairly well-known police detective by the name of Ben Horowitz. He was met by O’Connell’s staff, and they headed from the airport in the direction of Troublesome Mesa. Reporters at Troublesome confirm Horowitz’s arrival, where he was taken straight up to the O’Connell ranch.”
“How does all this fit, Whipple?”
“Haven’t got a clue, Mr. President.”
“Have the FBI in New York find out who thisHorowitz guy is.” Before Whipple could complain about using the FBI for this, I tried moving on quickly: “Now, where is the veep?”
“Uh, sir, are you sure about the FBI?”
“We’ve got no goddamned time to fiddle-fart. Do it! Now, where’s the vice president?”
“Dallas.”
“Get him.”
Senator, now Vice President, Matthew Hope was my major concession to a very vocal Southern Christian coalition. Matt Hope was one of them, body and soul. Through him I could control that bloc. During the last stage of Clinton’s reign, several Christian denominations, Presbyterian, United Methodist, as well as the Catholic and Jewish clergy had come out with thorough anti-gun proposals. After Clinton left office, the gun lobby awakened and gained back most of their rights. Central to this was Matt Hope’s unquestioned hold on sixteen million Southern Baptists.
“Matt Hope speaking.”
“Matthew, what’s the rumor mill saying down in Dallas?”
“Not much, Mr. President.”
“We’ve got a little change of plans, Matt. Get back to Washington immediately. Be in the Situation Room by two P.M. Before we sign off, I want you to be thinking about some disturbing numbers I received from our pollsters a few hours ago. Since the big debate there has been slippage all over your territory.”
The vice president cleared his throat. “Oh, just a surge. There will be a more favorable adjustment picture as the line
“I can’t tell you how many times I passed the fishing hole and saw myself with my son. How many times we were at the ball games together. How many times…these things are always complicated, aren’t they, Father?”
“Life is complicated.”
“All right, Siobhan, we have a son,” Dan said.
“I’m glad, and let his life begin the moment he steps foot on the ranch. I caution you that sometimes a child’s drive to find his birth parents is insatiable. The only thing you can do is raise him with wisdom and love. His life can be made so full, his need to know may simply fade. Make it so he won’t want any parents but you.”
Dan leaned against the fireplace. The mantel, the picture gallery of all Irish homes, was empty.
“God has given us everything,” Dan said. “We can’t take our failings out on the child. What is his name?”
“The sisters call him Patrick.”
“That’s Irish enough.”
“Patrick O’Connell,” Siobhan said three times over.
“You know,” Dan said, “in the Corps we almost entirely knew each other by our last name. Do you suppose we might call our son Quinn Patrick O’Connell?”
“That was in my line of thinking as well,” his wifesaid.
Chapter 7
WASHINGTON, D.C., 2008
It is nearly three o’clock. Nothing makes time pass more slowly than waiting for a cold pot to boil.
“Get me Whipple,” I ordered over the phone.
“Whipple here, Mr. President.”
“What’s going on?”
“Just a few minutes ago the O’Connell people called a news conference for tomorrow at one P.M. Rocky time.”
“Sounds like O’Connell is burning the midnight oil.”
“Yes, sir. The press corps is heading for Troublesome Mesa en masse.”
“Contact my staff advisers. We’ll watch the press conference in the Situation Room. Christ, what’s going on?”
“A lot of rumors. One here is interesting. A New York Times correspondent, June Siddell, spotted someone she knew debarking at the Denver airport. She got to the manifest and confirmed the passenger was a fairly well-known police detective by the name of Ben Horowitz. He was met by O’Connell’s staff, and they headed from the airport in the direction of Troublesome Mesa. Reporters at Troublesome confirm Horowitz’s arrival, where he was taken straight up to the O’Connell ranch.”
“How does all this fit, Whipple?”
“Haven’t got a clue, Mr. President.”
“Have the FBI in New York find out who thisHorowitz guy is.” Before Whipple could complain about using the FBI for this, I tried moving on quickly: “Now, where is the veep?”
“Uh, sir, are you sure about the FBI?”
“We’ve got no goddamned time to fiddle-fart. Do it! Now, where’s the vice president?”
“Dallas.”
“Get him.”
Senator, now Vice President, Matthew Hope was my major concession to a very vocal Southern Christian coalition. Matt Hope was one of them, body and soul. Through him I could control that bloc. During the last stage of Clinton’s reign, several Christian denominations, Presbyterian, United Methodist, as well as the Catholic and Jewish clergy had come out with thorough anti-gun proposals. After Clinton left office, the gun lobby awakened and gained back most of their rights. Central to this was Matt Hope’s unquestioned hold on sixteen million Southern Baptists.
“Matt Hope speaking.”
“Matthew, what’s the rumor mill saying down in Dallas?”
“Not much, Mr. President.”
“We’ve got a little change of plans, Matt. Get back to Washington immediately. Be in the Situation Room by two P.M. Before we sign off, I want you to be thinking about some disturbing numbers I received from our pollsters a few hours ago. Since the big debate there has been slippage all over your territory.”
The vice president cleared his throat. “Oh, just a surge. There will be a more favorable adjustment picture as the line
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