Ex-Purgatory, Peter Clines [top ten books of all time .txt] 📗

but hid it quickly. “The assignment was snatch and grab for interrogation, Mr. President.”

“What?” The commander in chief shook his head. “No, just a talk. Literally, just a … oh, for God’s sake, uncuff him.”

The blonde shot a look at one of the agents behind George. A lot of her confidence had vanished. It made her face softer, but she still didn’t look nice.

The Star Trek fan released the cuffs and George brought his arms around. He expected horrible welts from the tight restraints, but his wrists weren’t even bruised.

As soon as George’s arms were free the President waved the others away. “Out,” he said. “Give us a minute.”

The agents looked at the blonde. She gave a quick nod and they filed out of the room. President Smith looked at her, but she squared her shoulders and let her hands hang loose at her sides. He sighed and turned to his wife.

“Just a minute, hon,” he said.

She smiled. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

Christian Smith stepped into the hall and the door closed. The President gave the blonde another look and she took a half step back. Then he focused his attention on George.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t intend for this to be so crude. I didn’t want them yanking you out of your life. You probably didn’t want to be yanked out of it, either, did you?”

“No,” said George. “Not really.”

The President had the face of a young man. The shape of it, the tone of his skin. The past few years had aged him, as it always aged the men who’d held office before him, but he’d managed to hold off the worst of it. Some of his very few detractors accused him of dyeing his hair, which the First Lady always laughed about.

Just above the collar of his shirt, George could see the scar. The war injury the President couldn’t hide. An insurgent had stabbed him in the throat and a Naval corpsman had kept him alive long enough for a field hospital to save his life. It made his voice sound older.

“Mr. Bailey,” said the President. He wrung his hands. “May I call you George?”

George nodded. He wasn’t sure what else to do. After half an hour of near panic, his mind was blank.

“George, I have a problem,” said the President. “This may be hard for you to believe, but we have reliable intelligence there’s a terrorist cell operating here in the southwest United States. We believe several members of it are here in Los Angeles. And we think you’ve had contact with them.”

George shook his head, but the President held up his hand.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We know you’re not involved with them. Not deliberately. But we need your help if we’re going to beat them, George. Can I count on you to help us? To do your duty as a citizen of this great country?”

“Of course.”

President Smith beamed. “I just need you to answer one question for me, okay? It’s very important, George. Your answer is going to tell us how much they know, and how we need to adjust our plans.”

The commander in chief dropped to one knee. It made him shorter than George, so he straightened his back until they were eye level with each other. The two men looked at each other for a moment before he spoke.

“Do you know who I am?”

George blinked in confusion. “Of course I do,” he said. “Sir. Mr. President.”

The President shook his head. “No,” he said. “I mean, past that.” He leaned in and looked George in the eyes. “Do you know who I am?”

A splitting headache sprang up in the back of George’s head, the worst one yet. It felt like someone had driven a nail halfway into his skull, and now that someone was just tapping the nail hard enough to make it shiver in the bone.

“I … sorry,” said George. He blinked a few more times. “You’re … You’re John Smith. You’re the President of the United States.”

Smith smiled. It was the smile from dozens of photo ops and press conferences. It was a wide, well-practiced smile. “And you’re sure of that?”

The hammer tapped the nail a few more times and George’s skull trembled. His eyes got wet. “Yes,” he said. “Of course I’m sure. I voted for you.”

“No doubts at all?”

Something splashed in George’s lap. A drop of red. His nose was bleeding. “Sir,” he said, “Mr. President … I’m not sure what you—”

“I asked if you had any doubts. Do you have any doubts, George? Have we ever met before? In any other capacity?”

The idea of having met the President and forgotten it would’ve been funny most of the time. Right now, with the nail ringing in the back of his skull, the idea almost made him scream. His nosebleed had become a thin stream across his lips. Any more and it would be gushing.

“No,” he whispered. The sound of his own voice made him wince.

The President’s smile grew at the edges. “Of course we haven’t,” he said. He patted George on the cheek. “Let’s try to remember that.”

THE ALARM WENT off and George woke up.

He felt well rested. His head didn’t ache. The bed was firm but comfortable.

His fan was silent.

He’d met the President yesterday. The President of the United States. He and the First Lady had been very apologetic about the misunderstanding, and grateful for his help. George didn’t think he’d told them anything important, but they seemed to think he was some kind of great American hero.

It gave life a degree of clarity.

The ride to work was as slow as usual, but he didn’t mind. It was just part of life. Same with the pedestrians and the swarms of homeless people. To think just a few days ago he’d been seeing conspiracies and monsters. His radio was on the religious channel again. He didn’t even waste time looking for another station. He just shut it off. The radio blurted out, “C’mon, man, gimme something,” before he twisted the knob.

George