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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 creche 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