“Keep me posted, Flip. I want to know.”

I really fucking want to know.

Whalen did not call back for two days. In that time, Addis wondered how Hanover would respond if it turned out an innocent man had been executed on his watch. Would Wesley Pratt try to exploit this during the campaign? The polls showed Pratt was sunk. He was an amiable fellow, but he could not help referring to Jesus whenever he appeared in public. This habit had won him the support of a devoted following, enough to triumph in the primaries. But, according to the polls, it had alienated most people likely to vote in the November election. One mistaken conviction could not change the calculus of this election, and Addis could envision a contrite Hanover pledging to push for criminal justice reforms—not the abolition of the death penalty—to ensure such a tragedy was never repeated. He would be sincere, all sincerity. Most of the public would forgive the President. Still, a man would be dead.

When Whalen finally rang back, Addis cut short a conversation with a network anchor to accept the call.

“No more problem,” Whalen reported.

“Why not?” Addis asked.

“The great humanitarian in question decided that he himself did not deserve to live.”

“And?”

“Last night he took his sheets and … was found this morning. Long gone. That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Sheriff says his other stories didn’t match with known cases. So that’s it. Case closed.”

“Flip, did they check the New Roads—”

“Nick, the sheriff says the case is closed. It was a false alarm. You want to go second-guessing local law enforcement?”

“But what if they … ?” He did not want to say what he suspected.

“C’mon, Nick. There’s no reason to believe it’s anything other than what they say it is. And I don’t see any reason to discuss it further. Do you?”

“Guess not.”

“You don’t go chasing after bears when they’re showing you tail, do you?”

After he finished with Whalen, Addis sat at his desk and stared at his hands. He let the phone ring. About forty-five minutes later, an aide rushed in, holding a memo written by a Cabinet member that decried the administration’s budget figures. At least three reporters already had a copy. Addis left his desk and headed toward the Situation Room to send a high-priority message about the memo to McGreer on Air Force One. The phone calls from Whalen? Didn’t one cancel out the other? But he knew: He was spinning himself.

That was four weeks ago. That was before … .

The pilot announced that the aircraft had begun the descent into New Orleans. Rudd awoke and lifted her head from Addis’s shoulder. She showed no sign of self-consciousness.

“Almost there?” she asked.

“Close,” Addis said.