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Kelli screwed up her forehead and tried to think of a way she could answer the question. “I think I may have promised not to tell anybody even that.”
“Baby, are you in some kind of trouble?”
“In a way,” she said. “I’m in the kind of trouble that a journalist gets into when she knows about something but can’t write about it.”
“Why can’t you write about it?”
“Because I promised—I signed an agreement not to.”
“A business agreement? With Vanity Fair?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s bigger than that—it’s bigger than anything, any story I’ve ever heard of.”
“Well, let’s see: bigger than the attack on Pearl Harbor?”
“Yeah, in its way.”
“Bigger than nine-eleven?”
Kelli thought about that. “No, but it could have been.”
“Are we talking terrorist attack here?”
“We’re not talking,” Kelli replied. “I can’t do that.”
“I haven’t heard anything on the news or seen anything in the Times about anything like that.”
“That’s the thing—you won’t see it or hear about it anywhere, because nobody can talk about it.”
“Who comprises the category of ‘nobody,’ in this case?”
“Anybody who was there.”
“There in L.A.? That’s the only place you’ve been lately.”
She nodded her head.
“Did something happen in L.A.?”
“Almost.”
“I saw the president’s TV address, and I read about the three bombs in the Times,” Jim said. “But only one went off, and the only people killed were terrorists.”
“That’s accurate,” Kelli said, “to a point.”
“Was there another attempt on the president’s life?”
“I can’t talk about it anymore.”
He put his hand on hers. “Kelli, whatever it is, it’s eating you up. You might feel better if you talk about it. You know I’ll keep your confidence.”
“I know you would, Jim. But I thought I would, too, and here I am talking about it.”
“Then do this: write it all down, pour out everything, then lock it in your safe and forget about it.”
She frowned again. “You know, that might work.”
“Well, I have to go to work,” he said. “I’ve got to oversee the installation of some new lighting at High Cotton.”
