Free My King The President by Tom Lewis

asking to borrow his Chevy again. He wanted to know why, and I had to tell him. He fished in his pocket for the keys, tossed them over with a frown and said, “I swear, Jebediah Willard, you have a habit of picking up stray girls like an old maid picks up stray cats. Anyway, I think you’re doing the right thing this time. When will you be back?”
    “Sometime tonight, I guess. Maybe by dinnertime. Then I’ll tell you all about my shark baiting.”
     
    The drive from Washington to Chapel Hill took longer than I thought it would, and it was already dark by the time I left Liz in the care of my long-retired journalism professor, Max Johnson and his wife (along with a very large “scholarship” check.) I knew she would be safe; too busy transferring transcripts, managing late enrollment in the UNC graduate English program, and shopping for new clothes to think much about the night before. Or me. Or us. I kissed her on a wet cheek, promised I’d call her soon, then got back into the Chevy and started back to Washington, thinking I’d use the down time to mentally go over my rip sheet thoroughly.
    Fat chance.
    Also please look after Liz .
    Last night I was certain I’d have guilt feelings the next day. I didn’t. It had all seemed so natural, somehow. Making love with her had been like one of those fascinating time-lapse films of flowers blooming; one soft, lovely movement at a time. Unhurried, delicate, a beautiful thing growing, unfolding, enveloping. To have tried to stop it happening would have been like trying to hold back a sunrise. Or trying to stop a cloud moving across the sky.
    Father Flaherty had told me Liz never stayed still long enough to cast a shadow. Well, she had this time. Long enough to cast a pastel cloak of sensual poetry over my soul. A sweet-scented haunting that was not going to wash away like a piece of driftwood in a rip tide. No, the only bad feelings I had were those of banishing her to a distant academic prison, and my visiting days wouldn’t come for some time. That had taken a lot of willpower, believe me.
    It took even more of the same for me to push those thoughts of her to the back of my mind, and concentrate on my larger problem. Just north of Richmond, I stopped for gas and made two phone calls:
    “Hello?”
    “Dr. Johnson, this is Jeb. I just thought of something I forgot to ask Liz. Is she handy?”
    “Sitting right here, Jeb. We’re going over a game plan for her. Just a moment.”
    Liz came on. “Jeb? Is anything wrong?”
    “No, nothing’s wrong. Just that I forgot to ask you about something while we were driving. I was kind of distracted, I guess. Anyway, one time Mac mentioned a man he called ‘Old Sarge.’ Any idea who he might have been talking about?”
    “Sure. That would be Joe. Master Sergeant Joe Mackenzie.”
    “Joe Mackenzie. What connection did he have with your family?”
    “None at all with our family. He was Buck Tyndall’s personal driver before he was elected.”
    “Oh. Any idea where he might be now?”
    “Nope. Haven’t seen him in years. Why? What about him?”
    “Nothing important. How’re you getting along with the Johnsons?”
    “They’re terrific. Both of them. And so are you. I miss you already.”
    “Same here. I’ll call again soon, okay?”
    “Okay. Bye, Jeb.”
    I hung up, shook my head to clear away growing fatigue and the image of her face. Dialed another number. “Walt? It’s Jeb. Sorry to call you at home.”
    (I knew what his response would be.)
    “No problem, Jeb. What’s happening?”
    “Feel like a fishing expedition tonight?”
    “Sure. What kind of fish?”
    “Some dead sharks and one unknown species. Got a pencil handy?”
    “Yeah, shoot.”
    “This is a tough one, Walt, even for you. I want you to backtrack over the years since Tyndall was elected the first time, and find any nationally prominent and powerful men who have died between then and now. I’m looking for six or seven names. I already know one,