She hesitated. "I guess so."

They walked up the worn path. The house was set well off the street. There was an old tire attached to a rotting coil of rope that was tied to the one remaining limb of a dying oak. An old wheelless truck sitting on cinderblocks was parked in the side yard. The screen door was lying on the sagging front porch.

As they passed one spot, Michelle stopped and stared at the remains of some bushes. They'd been cut down to the point where only bare sticks were left. There was an entire line of them.

"It was a hedge," Michelle said. "Forgot what kind. We woke up one morning and it was gone. My dad had planted it for one of their anniversaries. After they got whacked down, it never grew back. I think whoever did it poured some plant killer or something on it."

"Ever find out who did it?"

She just shook her head and continued walking to the house. They stepped over the screen door and Michelle tried the doorknob. It turned easily. Sean put a hand over hers. "You sure you want to do this?"

"We came all this way. And I doubt I'll ever come back."

He removed his hand and they walked in. The place was empty and filthy.

Sean had grabbed a flashlight from the SUV and now swung it around, revealing ragged blankets, food wrappers, empty beer bottles, and more than a dozen used condoms.

"Not exactly one for the memory books," she murmured, taking all of this in.

"Walks down memory lane usually aren't. It's hardly ever as good as you remember."

She eyed the stairs.

He followed her gaze. "Which bedroom was yours?"

"Second on the right."

"Want to head up?"

"Maybe later."

They walked around the main floor, taking in more trash and rot, and Sean noticed that Michelle didn't really register on anything. She pushed open the back door and stepped outside. More trash, the carcass of the truck in the side yard, and a leaning one-bay garage with its overhead door gone, revealing a mound of junk inside.

It was all pathetic and depressing and Sean could barely stand being here. He didn't quite know how Michelle was able to keep from running away screaming.

"So what are we doing here?" he asked.

She sat down on the back porch. He stood beside her.

"Did you ever go back to the place where you grew up?"

"Once," he said.

"And?"

"No grand revelations. Other than everything being a lot smaller than I remember, which makes perfect sense because I'm a lot bigger now. So I just saw the house and kept on driving."

"I'd like to do that. See the house and keep on driving."

"Let's go then." He reached in his pocket, pulled out the keys to the SUV, and flipped them to her. "You can do the honors."

They walked back through the house; she paused at the stairs.

"Michelle, you don't have to beat yourself up about this."

She started up the stairs.

"You sure about this?" he said.

"No," she said, but kept on going.

They reached the wide landing and stopped. There were four doors, two on each side.

"So the second one there was yours?" He pointed to the right.

She nodded.

Sean moved to open the door but she stopped him.

"Don't."

He pulled back, looked at her. "Maybe we should leave."

She nodded, but as he stepped down the hall, she abruptly turned back, gripped the knob on the second door, and opened it.

And screamed as the man stood there staring at her.

Then he pushed past Michelle and raced by Sean, clattering down the stairs and out the busted screen door.

Michelle was shaking so badly that Sean gave up all thoughts of going after the guy. He raced to Michelle and held her. When she finally settled down he drew away. They stared at each other, no doubt the same question on each other's mind.

Sean articulated it first. In a stunned tone he exclaimed, "What in the hell was your father doing here?"

CHAPTER 43

AIR FORCE ONE thudded down at Andrews Air Force Base, the 747's quartet of engines sending their power backward as the pilots engaged the reverse thrusters. The president sat in the nose of the plane in his suite that housed two daybeds, a bath, and a tied-down-tight elliptical machine. Shortly after that Marine One flew along in the standard multichopper deployment. It was close to midnight when the skids of the chopper carrying the president touched down on the White House lawn.

Dan Cox sprang down the chopper steps looking full of energy, ready to start the day instead of ending it. The man was like that on the political trail. He consistently left much younger aides gasping for air and sucking down troughs of coffee as they state-hopped across the country. The thrill of the competition seemed to fill him with enough adrenaline that he could soldier on endlessly. And there was a high associated with being the president of the United States that couldn't be duplicated by any other occupation. It was like being a rock legend, A-list movie star, sports icon, and the closest thing to a god on earth all rolled into one.

Tonight, as always, the president moved along in a bubble that the Secret Service referred to as "the package," consisting of the president, high-level staff, personal security detail, and a few fortunate members of the media pool. As he approached the mansion, staff and reporters were nimbly herded off with only one senior staff member and the security detail remaining with the man.

All doors opened for the leader of the free world and he strode into the White House like he owned it. Which unofficially he did. Though financed by the American taxpayers, it was really his house, his chopper, his jumbo jet. No one got to come for a visit or go for a ride if he didn't say it was okay.

The senior staff member returned to her office and the president continued on to the First Family's living quarters, leaving the Secret Service detail behind. He was in the true bubble here; as safe at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue at it was possible to be. If the Secret Service had its way, he would never leave the building, until either he was termed out or the voters gave the job to somebody else. But he was the president, the man of the people. Thus he had to actually mingle with the citizens while ulcers grew silently in the bellies of his guards.

Dan Cox threw off his jacket, pressed a button on a small box resting on a table and a White House steward appeared. Cox gave his order and a minute later he was handed a gin and tonic on the rocks with two slices of lime. That was a nice perk of the job. The president could get pretty much anything he wanted, at any time. After the steward departed, Cox flopped down next to his wife, who sat on the couch reading a magazine and trying her best to appear relaxed.

"See the latest poll numbers?" he asked gleefully.

She nodded. "But there's still a long way to go. And the polls tend to tighten."

"I know it's early yet, but let's be honest, the other side has no traction."

"Don't be overconfident," she scolded.

He held up his cut crystal glass. "Interested?"

"No thanks."

He munched some unsalted almonds. "When have you ever known me to either be overconfident or lose an election?"

She gave him a kiss on the cheek. "First time for everything."

"They still want three debates. I'm thinking two."

"You should only do one."

"Why only one? Graham's not that good of a debater."

"You're being far too kind, Danny. Graham is not only a poor debater; he's mediocre on all levels. It'll only take the American people one time to realize how hopeless he is. So why waste your time? And you don't need to give him three bites at the apple to change anyone's mind, or be raised up to your level. And let's face it, honey, you are human. And humans make mistakes. So why put that much pressure on yourself? He has everything to gain from that strategy and you have everything to lose. The opposition knows their best chance is four years from now when you're termed out. They're counting on the fact that they'll be able to find a young buck with a brain, some real ideas, and a core constituency that they can expand on by then to really challenge for the White House. Graham is just a stopgap."