The Last President: A Novel of an Alternative America by Michael Kurland, S. W. Barton Page B

the phone had preempted his response. “What do you mean?” she asked softly. “What do you mean, ‘on the right side’?”
    Miriam sat down on the couch next to Kit. “A guy named Schuster. Reporter for the Post . I knew him. They just told me.”
    “What? What did they just tell you?”
    “They found him this morning. The police. Vandermeer wants me to follow the case. There’ll be an official announcement.”
    “What case?” Miriam asked, taking his hand. “What are you talking about?”
    “He killed himself,” Kit said. “In his apartment.”
    “Oh,” Miriam said. There was a strange, stretched quality in Kit’s voice that she had never heard before, and she reached for understanding. “You knew him? I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned him. Was he a friend?”
    “No. Not a friend. I met him once. I—saw—him a few more times. I think it’s safe to say I wasn’t his friend.”
    “What does Vandermeer want you to follow? If he committed suicide, what more is there? And why should Vandermeer care, anyway?”
    “He left a note,” Kit said.
    “A note? Explaining why he—whatever he did?”
    “Shot himself. Through the head. The note doesn’t explain why. It’s very short.”
    “What does it say?”
    “It says, ‘Fuck all the President’s men.’ It was in his typewriter. That’s all it says.”
    “Oh,” Miriam said. “How strange.”
    “Yes,” Kit agreed.

    That afternoon Edward St. Yves met Billy Vandermeer in the latter’s White House office. “Glad you could take a few minutes to see me,” St. Yves said. “Sorry it had to be on such short notice, but I’ve got something I think will interest you.”
    “I have a well-developed faith in your judgment, Ed,” Vandermeer said. “If you ever have something you think will interest me, scoot it on over here right away. It’s about the Schuster business?”
    St. Yves shook his head. “That little son of a bitch,” he said. “Who would have thought?” He sat down in one of the metal-frame red chairs surrounding the desk. “I really thought we had him. I really did.”
    “How’s that girl of his? The Canadian, ah, lady?”
    “She’s been out of the hospital a month. Must have been hysterical. She wasn’t hurt that bad.”
    “Some people are sensitive,” Vandermeer said. The sun glanced off Vandermeer’s hornrimmed glasses, making it impossible to read his expression. Looking at his blond visage, St. Yves was suddenly reminded of Vandermeer’s daughter, Kathy, and felt himself on tenuous ground.
    “I don’t like to figure wrong,” St. Yves continued more cautiously, “and I sure figured this one wrong. We haven’t had any contact with him for the past three weeks. Give him a chance to get with that girl again. Think about it some. Then Warren gave him a call a couple of days ago. Put it to him. Something would happen to the girl again.”
    “That wasn’t very subtle.”
    “All he suggested was she might be persona non grata -ed as an undesirable. But I’m sure he got the drift. Said he’d think it over. That was Thursday. Then—blam! How can you predict such a thing?”
    “It was, um, an accident?” Vandermeer asked.
    St. Yves stared at Vandermeer, his blue eyes glinting. “It was suicide,” he said.
    “Yes, um, of course. What I meant was, there was no—to your knowledge—there was no external force that might have, um, prompted such an act? That is, beyond the pressures we’ve just been discussing.”
    “To the best of my knowledge,” St. Yves said, “the son of a bitch just up and shot himself.”
    “Right,” Vandermeer said. “Well, enough about that. It’s a, um, dead issue.”
    “You making a statement?”
    “Have to,” Vandermeer said. “We express regrets. Assign a man to cooperate with the D.C. Police. We picked Kit Young.”
    “Very good,” St. Yves said. “He’ll know which problem areas to steer clear of.”
    “Any prospect of plugging the leak with Schuster gone?”