Mueller steps back out into the drizzling street. In the distance, a furtive figure catches his eye. A man carrying a brightly colored umbrella, its pattern indiscernible at this distance, is leaning over a garbage can. The man straightens, seeming to feel Mueller’s eyes on him. He scurries off, his gait both unusual and familiar. Mueller follows, no longer noticing the rain. As he trails the mysterious man, he is reminded of Mr. Tumnus, the faun in The Chronicles of Narnia, who helped the Pevensie children. Or did he sell them out to the White Witch? Mueller isn’t sure. He breaks his stride to consider the story, in that instant, the man with the umbrella disappears.
A few yards ahead Mueller sees former White House photographer Pete Souza coming out of a laundromat.
“Hey there!” Mueller calls. “Did you see a man with a pink umbrella go by a minute ago?”
Souza is startled and almost drops his sack of laundry. “No, I didn’t see anyone.”
Mueller continues, “it was one of those really big umbrellas.”
Souza replies, “I think I would have noticed that, Mr. Mueller, it’s not even raining.” Mueller stares at him. Souza goes on, attempting to be conversational, “It hasn’t rained here in weeks, we could really use it.”
Mueller continues to stare, he is sure it was drizzling only a few minutes ago. Then he thinks to himself, you can’t trust a photographer anyway. He is about the push past Souza to try to find the umbrella-wielding stranger when Souza pipes up again. Souza, alarmed at the lack of focus in Mueller’s eyes and the fact that he is wearing two ties, asks, “Are you okay, Mr. Mueller?”
Mueller snaps to attention and begins to correct Souza on the pronunciation of his name. “It’s Mueller, like mule. No, I mean it’s like dull, but with an ‘M,’ I mean...what were we talking about? I can’t say anything about the indictments.” Mueller presses his knuckles into his temples. Souza, meanwhile, has begun to back away.
“Can I call anyone for you, Mr. Mue…” Souza pauses, now unsure how to pronounce the name, “Can I get call an Uber for you?”
Mueller is looking frazzled now, “Who have you been talking to?! NO CALLS!” Mueller steps toward Souza and stares down at him, and the full force of the jowly features ripple over the photographer’s face. Could it be a mask? Souza is torn now, he wants to get away from Mueller, but he also feels that the man needs help.
Just then Senator Baldwin comes back around from the Chipotle across from the shawarma shop. “Just spit it out, Bob,” she yawps, smacking Mueller in the middle of his back. The force of the blow throws Mueller to his knees. She continues to march down the street without looking back.
Souza takes the moment of confusion to slip across the street.
Mueller stands up, dusting off his knees. Better get back to it; lunch is over he thinks to himself but really says out loud to a gaggle of tourists from Revere, Massachusetts. “Go get ‘em, Bowbby!” they say in response. He walks toward a federal building at a gait that anyone would label as “teetering” or “goofy,” but he thinks of as “power walking” or “a heel-forward clip.”
Teetering by several pristine government offices, Bob Mueller opens a black door, which reveals a hallway that has not been renovated in decades. It smells musty. Homey. Honest. He unlocks his office door and blurts out “what’have’we’got,gang?” It is a hive of productivity. In the back there are several cork boards with yarn radiating out from many axes, connecting disparate pieces of evidence. Trusted agents click-clack away at laptop keyboards, while others dig through crates of documents. Phones ring. An old stereo sounds a restrained jazzy beat. There are murmurs of “Hey, boss.” “Nothing yet.” “Too much to process.” “Hiya.”
Special Agent Sandra Willard slams her phone down. “Boss, it’s another flurry today.”
“Don’t I know it,” Mueller says, shaking his head, loosening one of his ties.
“Aiming for another write up in the New Yorker?” Sandra or Sandy if you prefer, asks, looking at the ties.
“Let’s just say it’s all part of the plan,” Mueller responds, winking at a blank wall as if someone were there. Two agents see this and exchange knowing looks. “Sandy, I ran into Tammy Baldwin at lunch today and she said that I shouldn’t worry about the time, but that I should keep my eye on it too. What the hell’s that mean?”
Sharpie in hand, Sandy writes this down on an index card and posts it on a cork board. “Cryptic. It’s something. We’re getting more used to this confusion every day,” she says shrugging. Index cards cover the boards with various phrases like “All is still in the moonlessness,” “It’s Mueller time,” “Four in one isn’t quite three of nine,” “Botched nose job,” etc.
“All will reveal itself,” Mueller declares, tapping his lip for ten minutes. “I also saw Souza today. He was telling me it wasn’t raining out.”
“Sure wasn’t. Wish it was. We really could use it,” Sandy adds. “But, then again, you can never trust a photographer, even when they’re right.”
“Agreed,” Mueller nods, pinning Souza’s name on the board for good measure. Unwrapping a Charleston Chew, he takes a generous bite. He gnaws, sizing up the board. He stares, shakes his head, rubs his eyes, still chewing. He unbuttons his blazer and places his hands in his pockets. “This is going nowhere,” he sputters between chews. Swallowing, he turns to everyone and says “You are all doing the work this country deserves. I can’t thank you enough and this citizenry owes you all a debt of gratitude. I’m a little stuck right now and need to work through some of this,” he explains, gesturing at a cluster of cards and strings, letting the day’s events wash over him. “I’m going to the gym.” High-fiving everyone he can on the way out, he grabs a copy of The Hilltop, Howard University’s best newspaper, by his estimation, to check for leads.
He teeters down the hallway and stumbles out into the bright sunlight. “Gosh darn it, Souza,” he mumbles, using one of his stronger oaths. He takes a hesitating step out onto the sidewalk. He can tell there is something off about how he is walking. He tries a few steps on his tip toes, then a few hops, then settles into stomping with his left foot and dragging his right foot to meet it.
Halfway to the gym is when his best frenemy and doppleganger, John Kerry, bursts out of a boarded up Border’s. “Typical,” Mueller thinks, “Just what I need.”
“Heya, Three Sticks,” Kerry calls out, “How’s the weather up there.” Kerry runs up and hip checks Mueller. “What’s with the two-step?”
Mueller doesn’t understand the reference. “John, have you spoken to Senator Baldwin lately?”
“Sure, she’s in my improv group.”
“She told me something kind of cryptic today, off the record, ya know. Something about how time was short.”
“Well, sure, Bob. Time is like a hand slowly circling a clock face. But you’d have to talk to someone on the Budget Committee to really understand it.”
Mueller finds this statement to be completely unhelpful. He tries to lose Kerry in a gaggle of 7th graders, but it doesn’t work because they’re both much taller than the kids. “Listen John, I need to get to the gym to do some reading.” He stomps off before Kerry can react.
At the gym, the twenty-something at the desk says, “Good Morning, Mr. Mueller, enjoy your workout.”
“It’s Mueller,” Mueller snaps, “Like bugler, with an ‘M,’ I mean it’s like bowler, like that hat.”
In the locker room, Mueller removes his remaining tie. It has a golf theme, with tees, and ball, and putters printed all over it. “Where the heck did I get this thing? Have I ever even played golf?” He promptly ties it around his waist.
He goes out into the gym to use his usual bench press. There is a new motivational sign on the wall next to him. “There’s only one today until tomorrow!” it reads. Mueller is struck by this sentiment. Surely it was placed here for him to see. Is it a threat or a clue? Mueller can’t tell. He leans back on the bench, places The Hilltop over his head and falls asleep.
A field, green with wildgrass. The sky is a golden yellow. The sun is strong. Bob Mueller can feel his jaw sharpening. He is far away from the district. He rolls over in the grass which feels like swimming. His hands stretch farther than normal and his feet feel light. He floats toward a tree and looks down at his watch. The numbers blink rhythmically. He clicks his heels together and notices a blue ribbon in a tree. He maneuvers up toward it. The air smells sweet. He reaches for the ribbon, grazing it with his hand. A gentle breeze lifts him toward it. He can touch it. He feels a sense of being late and something else. He should call home. And something else. He looks at the ribbon. There’s a message. “Oh great, just what I need, another message,” he says, only his voice pours out of his mouth like a thick, juicy marmalade. He raises the ribbon to read, but the words remain out of focus. He pulls it closer. Still blurry. He begins to wrap his head in it, starting from his neck up to his nose. He is about to cover the last bit of his face, his eyes, with the ribbon when the last part of the message abruptly comes into focus: “It’s time.”
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