Jack and Harry took the seats facing the president, and the chief of staff stood quietly to the side.

  “How is—”

  “Harry,” the president said before he could ask about Grayson, “how long have you and I known each other?”

  Harry had to think about it. “I’m sure we shook hands long before this, but the first real sit-down-and-get-to-know-each-other conversation I can recall was at the national governors’ conference in Milwaukee.”

  “And I recall taking an immediate liking to you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Much the same way I felt about Sunny Phil.”

  Sunny Phil was the nickname Harry had given his friend for his “always sunny” disposition. “He hated that name,” Harry said, smiling.

  “But it fit.”

  “Yes. As long as I’ve known him.”

  “You boys go way back,” said the president. “Both of you All-Southeastern Conference athletes in college, I understand.”

  “Well, different decades, and definitely with different loyalties. He was a Georgia Bulldog. I was a Florida Gator.”

  The mention of a “gator” just hours after the vice president had been plucked from the Everglades triggered a moment of awkward silence. The president dug into the bowl of cashews on the tray table, then thought better of it. He had the body of a man who exercised and watched his weight.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, Harry. But Phil Grayson has passed.”

  Jack felt goose bumps, and instinctively he took his father’s hand. It was shaking. Harry started to speak, then stopped to gather his composure. He was normally not one to express emotions, but it was as if the events of this overwhelming day—hunting alligators, battling the Everglades, working through a friend’s medical emergency, and now his death—had struck him down. For the first time in his life, the sixty-four-year-old former governor truly looked old to his son.

  “Sorry,” said Harry, reeling in his emotions. “How’s Marilyn?”

  “Twenty-eight years of marriage. About what you’d expect.”

  Jack said, “Are you okay, Dad?”

  Harry nodded.

  The president said, “The White House will release a statement in about twenty minutes. I’ll make a public television address from the East Wing this evening. I’ll order flags to fly at half-staff for thirty days. It’s appropriate that we mourn as a nation. But I don’t want that period of mourning to turn into national anxiety over Phil’s replacement. The Twenty-fifth Amendment to the Constitution doesn’t say how quickly I have to move, but I plan to make an announcement on a vice presidential designate as soon as possible.”

  Jack bristled. Talk of a replacement so soon after death was a bit unseemly. But most everything about Washington struck Jack that way.

  “That’s wise,” said Harry. “As you know, I’m retired from politics, but if I can be of any help formulating a short list, I’d be honored.”

  The president cast a half smile in the chief of staff’s direction. “Didn’t I tell you Harry’s the most humble guy around?”

  “You did, sir,” she said.

  The president said, “You’re a good man, Harry. You were certainly a huge help in delivering Florida for the Keyes-Grayson ticket in the last election.”

  “That was my pleasure, sir.”

  “Hard to believe we’re less than two years away from another election. Florida will be a key state again.”

  “It’s the political story of the twenty-first century: Florida, Florida, Florida.”

  “You’re one of the most popular governors that crazy state has ever had. If it weren’t for term limits, I would have put my money on a third term for you.”

  “Thank you for saying that, but I have no regrets about moving on.”

  “Well, you have certainly kept moving. As you should. You’re a young man.”

  “Not as young as you, sir, and getting older every day.”

  “Hell, you’re not even eligible for Medicare yet. The bipartisan leadership role you’ve played in disaster relief efforts since your exit from politics has been nothing short of amazing.”

  “It’s fulfilling work.”

  “Not to mention high-profile. Everyone from Floridians and their hurricanes to Californians and their earthquakes has taken notice.” The president leaned forward in his chair, looking Harry in the eye. “Voters have taken note.”

  “Sir—”

  “The work you and Phil were doing in the Everglades shows your commitment to the environment. And who knows more about dealing with the burdens of immigration and illegal aliens than a former governor of Florida? Another hot-button issue.”

  “Sir, I’m retired, and I—”

  The president silenced him with a slow but firm shake of his head.

  “I’m not taking no for an answer, Harry. I went through this short-listing exercise a year ago when Phil had his heart surgery. My list hasn’t changed since then. I want Governor Swyteck to be my new vice president.”

  “Whoa—” said Jack. It was purely a reflex.

  “Double whoa,” said Harry.

  Chapter 5

  Washington was dressed in black. Flags were flying at half-staff. The country was in an official period of national mourning.

  It had nothing to do with Jack approaching forty.

  “The nation has lost a great and faithful servant,” President Keyes said in a televised address from the White House, “and I have lost a dear friend.”

  William Grayson was the eighth U.S. vice president to die in office, only the second since the passing of President McKinley’s would-be successor in 1899—and the first to be chomped by an alligator. The official cause of death was myocardial infarction, which gave his loved ones the comfort of believing that he’d probably never felt the removal of his right foot and ankle.

  Funeral services began the following Monday on Capitol Hill, where Grayson’s body lay in state in a flag-draped oak casket atop the Lincoln catafalque. Family, friends outside the Beltway, and a short list of dignitaries assembled on Thursday to pay their final respects in the vice president’s hometown of Madison, Georgia. The flu kept Mrs. Swyteck from traveling, so Harry brought Jack.

  “Name, please,” the Secret Service agent said.

  Jack and his father were standing where the taxi had dropped them, outside an iron gate at the entrance to a long and winding brick driveway.

  Madison was the historic Georgia town that Union general William Tecumseh Sherman had refused to burn in his march to the sea. The Graysons lived in one of the surviving antebellum mansions, and it was mildly ironic that Phil Grayson became the first vice president to die in office since James Sherman, a relative of the scorched-earth general who had spared the Grayson home. It was a handsome Greek revival–style mansion with a sloping front lawn that was a leafy blanket of kudzu beneath a forest of oaks, magnolias, and dogwood trees. Jack imagined that in spring it would have been a colorful setting, but today’s skies were fittingly gray, and a cool mist in the air was turning colder by the minute. Jack had heard that north Georgia could be balmy even in December, but there must have been some kind of meteorological law against it whenever a thin-blooded Floridian showed up with no coat or umbrella.

  “Jack and Harry Swyteck,” his father said.

  The agent checked the printed guest list and then double-checked by radio communication. The gate opened, and a black Town Car took them up the driveway to the front door. An attendant escorted them inside. An old friend immediately pulled Harry into a circle of guests, and Jack let him go it alone, opting out of the “this is my son” tour.

  The first thing Jack noticed was not the period antiques or priceless artwork, but the fragrance. The interior French doors that connected the foyer, parlor, and living rooms had been opened to create the effect of one continuous room that ran the length of the house, and it was a bower of southern smilax, green palms, white roses, and chrysanthemums.

  The second thing he noticed was the tall brunette across the room. She was downright stunning, even dressed in conservative funeral attire, but her eyes showed signs of fatigue, as if broadcasting to the world that she was Phil Grayson’s daughter.

  Jack’s cell vibrated in his pocket. He checked the number. Theo—the guy had a sixth sense for interesting women. Jack stepped outside onto the porch to take the call.

  “Dude, how’s it going?” said Theo.

  Bar noises from Sparky’s Tavern were in the background, and Jack knew instantly that this was another one of those pointless calls that Theo made from work just to pass the time.

  “It’s about what you’d expect,” said Jack.

  “That bad, huh? Any babes?”

  “Theo, I’m at a funeral.”

  “That sounds like a yes to me. Who is she?”

  It was one of Theo’s favorite games—getting men in committed relationships to admit that they could identify every beautiful woman in any room they ever entered, whether it was a wedding or a funeral. Jack could never fool him, so he just gave it up.

  “All right. You got me. Grayson’s daughter is a knockout.”

  “You gonna get her number?”

  “No.”

  “Jack, Jack. You disappoint me.”

  “First of all, I’m dating Andie. So why are we even having this conversation?”

  “Because you’re not married, and you automatically assume that a gorgeous woman is off-limits. That’s wrong.”

  “Look, even if I wasn’t seeing Andie, and even if this wasn’t Phil Grayson’s funeral, she’s in her twenties and I’m, you know”—Jack could barely say it—“hours away from forty.”

  “Dude, you don’t understand. Every man her age has been addicted to Internet porn since high school and truly believes that the only conceivable way to pleasure a woman is to lay back and let her give him a blow job. You could be the Clark Gable to an entire generation of Sara Lees.”

  “Sara Lee is a pound cake, moron. The actress was Vivien Leigh.”

  “No—Tara Lee, wasn’t it?”

  “No, Tara was the plantation that Scarlett—”

  “Forget Clark Gable. You’re Steve McQueen with a new Mustang.”

  “Right. I gotta go.”

  “Loser.”

  “Pound cake.”

  Jack closed his flip phone and tucked it into his pocket. The mist had turned to a light drizzle, and Jack took a moment on the covered porch to listen to raindrops falling on kudzu. A door opened at the far end of the long porch. It was the vice president’s widow stepping out for air. Jack didn’t want to intrude on her quiet moment. He could scarcely imagine what the past five days had been like for her—the phone call from the Everglades, the emergency flight down from Washington, the rush to a Miami hospital, the news of her husband’s death. And that was only the beginning. From there it was nonstop public appearances that left no time for private grief.

  Jack remained at the porch rail, about fifty feet away from Marilyn Grayson. She dug into her pocketbook, foraged for a cigarette, and lit it. The patter of falling rain was almost hypnotic, and she was deep in thought, standing beside a pair of white rocking chairs, one of which had gone permanently still. Finally, she returned from wherever her mental journey had taken her, crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray beside the rocking chair, and walked over to thank Jack for coming.

  It was strange to finally meet someone you’d seen thousands of times before, but only on television. Invariably, they were taller or shorter, wider or thinner, meaner or friendlier than even your high-definition television had led you to believe.

  “You’re Harry Swyteck’s son, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” said Jack as he approached. “Agnes is sorry she couldn’t make it, but my father and I thought my coming might show how sorry the entire Swyteck family is for your loss.”

  “Thank you. It means a lot that you came to our home to tell me that.”

  She fell quiet and looked across the lawn toward a stand of fir and pecan trees. Jack got the distinct impression that the former Second Lady was positively tired of small talk, tired of all the ceremonies. She also seemed to appreciate the fact that Jack didn’t mind the momentary silence—didn’t feel compelled to spoil it with words that were just words.

  “Do you think your father is going to take the job?” she said.

  Jack was taken aback. No public announcement had been made, but of course she would have known about the impending nomination.

  “Honestly, I think it’s all up to Agnes. No one was happier about his retirement than she was.”

  “I can fully understand that,” she said, “though I can’t imagine a successor who would have pleased Phil more.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say.”

  “But your father needs to go into this with eyes open.”

  “Not to worry,” said Jack. “My father’s a good man, but he’s also a seasoned politician.”

  She turned to face him squarely, her voice lowering. “I will never say this directly to your father. From now on, I can’t say anything to him that I don’t want divulged in his public confirmation hearing. So I will tell it to you: I have serious questions about Phil’s death.”

  Jack struggled for words, not wanting to insult her intelligence. “Mrs. Grayson, your husband had a heart attack.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  She said the word they the way conspiracy theorists said it.

  “You have reason to doubt that?” said Jack.

  She considered it, then seemed to think twice about elaborating. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m grief-stricken, my judgment clouded. But I’ve a feeling that, with the direction your father is headed, you might have some questions, too. If you do,” she said, as she reached inside her pocketbook and removed her card, “call me.”

  She handed it to Jack, who had no idea how to respond.

  “As I say,” she continued, “I have serious questions. And I intend to get answers.”

  She stepped away, and Jack watched in stunned silence as she went back inside the house, ever gracious toward her guests.

  Chapter 6

  President Keyes and the First Lady took center stage with Harry Swyteck and his wife, as the world awaited the televised address from the East Room of the Executive Mansion. It was the largest room in the White House with the least amount of furniture, truly multipurpose over the course of history, the place where Teddy Roosevelt’s kids had once roller-skated and the body of John F. Kennedy had lain in repose before being moved to the Capitol. It took some temporary rearranging of Christmas trees and the traditional White House crèche to accommodate the invited guests, who were officially listed as the Keyes family, Governor Swyteck’s son, cabinet officers, congressional leaders, members of the diplomatic corps, and “other dignitaries.” A small number of White House correspondents were also invited, while the rest watched on a monitor from the press room in the West Wing.

  Chloe watched from her living room, alone.

  “My fellow Americans,” the president said into the camera. “A little less than one week ago this country suffered a terrible loss.”

  Chloe was no longer among Washington’s elite, no longer on anyone’s list of rising journalistic stars. As a college student at Columbia she’d dreamed of becoming a White House correspondent. Snagging a coveted White House internship with the Keyes administration in the spring of her senior year had made that long-term career goal seem entirely achievable. Chloe had certainly shown the required dedication. Some interns arrived at 9:00 A.M., went to lunch at noon, and headed out to see the sights at 5:00 P.M. Chloe was there before 8:00 A.M., took lunch in the cafeteria when she could get it, and left when the rest of the office staff left, usually around 8:00 P.M. Her assignment was to the White House press office, where she knew a late night lay ahead whenever the speechwriters came back from a briefing with their Chinese food orders ready. Chloe never complained. She quickly learned that the good stuff happened after 6:00 P.M. Sometimes, the bad stuff did, too—bad enough to get her fired. Some said that her career and her life in general had gone downhill since then.

  Chloe would have said it was more like falling off a cliff.

  “Upon Vice President Grayson’s death, I immediately met with the Speaker of the House and Senate majority leader and asked members of both houses of Congress to submit the names of possible nominees for the vice presidency.”

  Chloe poked at her dinner, a bowl of microwave popcorn and a tangerine. She was already too thin, down to one hundred pounds of anger and bitterness, and the mere sound of President Keyes’ voice was enough to kill what little appetite she had. Her office had been in the Old Executive Office Building, next door to the White House, but before getting fired she’d earned herself a blue pass, which afforded access to all nonresidential parts of the White House. She was one of the lucky interns who’d actually gotten face time with the chief executive, and even though she would never forget what President Keyes looked like, the snowy image on her television screen made it difficult to discern his likeness as he delivered tonight’s message from the East Room. The audio was fine, but the picture sucked. Her cable had been disconnected for nonpayment, and she was relying on rabbit ears.

  “I also sought and received suggestions from my cabinet, staff, and other sources outside Congress.”

  To be fair, Chloe’s loss of the White House gig had been only the start of her troubles—the first in a series of dominoes that had kicked her into the journalistic gutter. Two years ago she would have turned up her nose at a newspaper that didn’t require its reporters to corroborate information from an anonymous source. Now, she worked for a rag that paid its sources in cash—lots of cash.