A Hideous Beauty Read Free

was in Chicago.”
    â€œKTSD. For about a year now.”
    â€œLocal station . . . that would explain it. The White House staff handles all media arrangements. They give preference to the national networks.”
    â€œSo much for old friends, huh?”
    I ignored the cheap shot. My thoughts were on Jana. The last time I saw her was the day she walked out on me. I was a cad. She cried. Since then we’d exchanged an occasional e-mail, but nothing recently.
    Shepherd slapped my book with the flat of his hand. “You know what amazes me about historians?” he said, changing the subject again. “The way they interpret events to suit their own purposes. Doesn’t that strike you as dishonest?”
    I didn’t hear him. I was still wading in nostalgic waters.
    â€œOf course,” Shepherd pressed, “you could make a case for the argument that all recorded history is essentially a collection of legends, half-truths, and lies.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œDon’t get me wrong. I’m sure you did the best you could given your limited access and understanding of the forces at work.”
    I’d had enough of this.
    â€œSour grapes, Myles?” I snapped. “It’s beneath you. You know fully well that for a project of this scope I had to be granted complete access both to records and to people. My research was extensive. I’ve logged hundreds of hours interviewing the president, his family, his staff, and world leaders. My work is meticulously documented.”
    Shepherd chuckled. “Don’t get defensive, old boy. I’m sure you dutifully read the documents that were set before you and recorded everything they wanted you to record. It’s not your fault it’s all a lie.”
    That did it. Even if he asked for my autograph, he wasn’t going to get it.
    â€œGive me one example of a lie,” I demanded.
    Shepherd gazed at something in the distance as though he hadn’t heard me. “Actually,” he said, “we’re quite pleased with the finished product, and with you. You’ve done exactly what we’ve expected of you.”
    I was on the edge of my seat, spoiling for a fight, if only Shepherd would settle on a topic long enough for me to take a swing. “That’s the second time you’ve inferred you had something to do with the publication of my book.”
    Shepherd smiled.
    His smile had a history, one that jangled my giblets and caused my flesh to crawl. It wasn’t your garden-variety grin, more like the smile of a gladiator looking down on his vanquished opponent just as he is about to deliver the coup de grâce.
    I associate his smile with our sophomore year. The school was going through a chess craze. Guys carried miniature boards with magnetic pieces around in their pockets. We’d play chess before school, after school, and at lunch. When we thought we could get away with it, we played during class, passing the game back and forth across the aisle like lovesick girls passing notes. I remember one time seeing two guys standing in the showers after gym finishing a game.
    On three occasions I sat across a chessboard from Myles Shepherd. The thing I remember most about our games—other than the fact that I lost all three—was the moment I knew I was going to lose. I would remove my hand from a piece after making a move. Myles would lean over the board and say, “Maybe you see something I don’t . . .”
    Then, he would smile that smile.
    That smile was a torpedo with my name on it. Had I been a ship, rats would have been jumping overboard.
    But things were different now, I told myself. We were no longer sophomores and this wasn’t a chess game, and maybe Myles thought he knew something I didn’t, but I wasn’t about to concede anything.
    â€œNice try, Myles,” I said. “I suppose you’re also going to take credit for my