The Prince of Wales looked aft for a moment. "Jack, you're a good man."
"So are you, pal. That's why we'll win."
It was a grisly scene, but not one to arouse pity in any of the men who surveyed it. Geoffrey Watkins' body was quite warm, and his blood was still dripping from the ceiling. After the photographer finished up, a detective took the gun from his hands. The television remained on, and "Good Morning, Britain" continued to run its live report from America. All the terrorists were now in custody. That's what must have done it, Murray thought.
"Bloody fool," Owens said. "We didn't have a scrap of usable evidence."
"We do now." A detective held three sheets of paper in his hand. "This is quite a letter, Commander." He slid the sheets into a plastic envelope.
Sergeant Bob Highland was there, too. He was still learning to walk again, with a leg brace and a cane, and looked down at the body of the man whose information had almost made orphans of his children. Highland didn't say a word.
"Jimmy, you've closed the case," Murray observed.
"Not the way I would have liked," Owens replied. "But now I suppose Mr. Watkins is answering to a higher authority."
The boat arrived in Annapolis forty minutes later. Ryan was surprised when Chief Znamirowski passed the line of moored boats and proceeded straight to Hospital Point. She conned the boat expertly alongside the seawall, where a couple of Marines were waiting. Ryan and everyone but the boat's crew jumped off.
"All secure," Sergeant Cummings reported to Breckenridge. "We got a million cops and feds here, Gunny. Everybody's just fine."
"Very well, you're relieved."
"Doctor Ryan, will you come along with me? You want to hustle, sir," the young Sergeant said. He led off at a slow trot.
It was well that the pace was an easy one. Ryan's legs were rubbery with fatigue as the Sergeant led him up the hill and into the old Academy hospital.
"Hold it!" A federal agent took the pistol from Ryan's belt. "I'll keep this for you, if that's okay."
"Sorry," Jack said with embarrassment.
"It's all right. You can go in." There was no one in sight. Sergeant Cummings motioned for him to follow.
"Where is everybody?"
"Sir, your wife's in the delivery room at the moment." Cummings turned to grin at him.
"Nobody told me!" Ryan said in alarm.
"She said not to worry you, sir." They reached the proper floor. Cummings pointed. "Down there. Don't toss your cookies, Doc."
Jack ran down the corridor. A corpsman stopped him and waved Ryan into a dressing room, where Ryan tore off his clothes and got into surgical greens. It took a few minutes. Ryan was clumsy from fatigue. He walked to the waiting room and saw that all his friends were there. Then the corpsman walked him into the delivery room.
"I haven't done this in a long time," the doctor was saying.
"It's been a few years for me, too," Cathy reproached him. "You're supposed to inspire confidence in your patient." Then she started blowing again, fighting off the impulse to push. Jack grabbed her hand.
"Hi, babe."
"Your timing is pretty good," the doctor observed.
"Five minutes earlier would have been better. Are you all right?" she asked. As it had been the last time, her face was bathed in sweat, and very tired. And she looked beautiful.
"It's all over. All over," he repeated. "I'm fine, how about you?"
"Her water broke two hours ago, and she'd be in a hurry if we weren't all waiting for you to get back from your boat ride. Otherwise everything looks good," the doctor answered. He seemed far more nervous than the mother. "Are you ready to push?"
"Yes!"
Cathy squeezed his hand. Her eyes closed and she summoned her strength for the effort. Her breath came out slowly.
"There's the head. Everything's fine. One more push and we're home," the doctor said. His gloved hands were poised to make the catch.
Jack turned as the rest of the newborn appeared. His position allowed him to tell even before the doctor did. The infant had already started screaming, as a healthy baby should. And that, too. Jack thought, is the sound of freedom.
"Boy," John Patrick Ryan Sr. told his wife just before he kissed her, "I love you."
The nearest corpsman assisted the doctor as he clamped off the cord and swaddled the infant in a white blanket to take him away a few feet. The placenta came next with an easy push.
"A little tearing," the doctor reported. He reached for a painkiller before he started the stitching.
"I can tell," Cathy replied with a slight grimace. "Is he okay?"
"Looks okay to me," the corpsman said. "Eight pounds even, and all the pieces are in the right places. Airway's fine, and the kid's got a great little heart."
Jack picked up his son, a small, noisy package of red flesh with an absurd little button of a nose.
"Welcome to the world. I'm your father," he said quietly. And your father isn't a murderer. That might not sound like much, but it's a lot more than most people think. He cradled the newborn to his chest for a moment and reminded himself that there really was a God. After a moment he looked down at his wife. "Do you want to see your son?"
"I'm afraid he doesn't have much of a mother left."
"She looks pretty good to me." Jack placed his son in Cathy's arms. "Are you all right?"
"Except for Sally, I think I have everything here that I need, Jack."
"Finished," the doctor said. "I may not be much of an OB, but I do one hell of a good stitch." He looked up to see the usual aftermath of a birth, and he wondered why he'd decided against obstetrics. It had to be the happiest discipline of them all. But the hours were lousy, he reminded himself.
The corpsman reclaimed the infant, and took John Patrick Ryan Jr. to the nursery, where he'd be the only baby for a while. It would give the pediatric people something to do.
Jack watched his wife drift off to sleep after—he checked his watch—a twenty-three-hour day. She needed it. So did he, but not quite yet. He kissed his wife one more time before another corpsman wheeled her away to the recovery room. There was one thing left for him to do.
Ryan walked out to the waiting room to announce the birth of his son, a handsome young man who would have two complete, but very different, sets of godparents.