“Me, too,” said Logsdon. “Give the woman time.”
“And you?” Jacklin said, facing President Gordon Ramser.
“It doesn’t matter what I say. That’s three votes against. A unanimous vote is required for measures of this kind.”
“Screw the bylaws. What do you think we should do?”
Ramser rose from his chair and walked over to Jacklin. “J. J.,” he said. “I think we may have gotten ahead of ourselves on this one. There’s no hurry now that Fitzgerald’s given us his vote. The military needs at least six months before they can make any move. The joint chiefs are busy revising their battle plan. Let’s all take a breath and calm down. Like the chief justice says. ‘Give the woman time.’ ” He laughed richly to paper over the discord. “She has no idea what she’s in for.”
Jacklin forced a smile to his face, joining the others in laughter. But inside, his gut clenched and his nerves hummed with near unbearable tension. Gordon Ramser was right. She had no idea.
66
They walked outside, descending a short flight of stairs, then starting down a gravel path flanked by neatly trimmed hedges. The path led into a patch of woods, and within a minute, the woods became a forest, menacing and primeval, a thick canopy overhead allowing only a smattering of snowflakes to fall to the ground. The dark was utter and complete.
“Keep walking,” said Wolf.
Bolden picked up his feet and shuffled forward. He wore a loose shirt unbuttoned to the waist and a stained Mackinaw jacket someone had thrown over his shoulders. His chest was raw, fiery, his horribly scored flesh tightening as the wound congealed. The brush of the cold air, the prick of the snow against his skin, brought tears to his eyes.
He glanced behind him. A third bodyguard had joined Wolf and Irish. Somewhere ahead and off to the left, he caught a pair of red lights flash, then go dark. Brake lights, he guessed. The others had seen them, too. Their lack of concern extinguished his hope. The lights belonged to his hearse.
Alone, he and Jenny had spent a few minutes together. They’d sat hand in hand taking turns sharing what they had learned. About Jefferson bribing so many government officials. About Jacklin and the Patriots Club. Mostly, though, they talked about the baby.
Jenny told him, “I’m sure it’s a boy,” and Bolden suggested “Jack” as a name. It was a name he’d always liked. He suggested they raise him in Costa Rica, or maybe Fiji. Somewhere warm and far away from the United States. After some prodding, he agreed to Connecticut or northern New Jersey. A house on the water in Greenwich sounded inviting. Jack could learn to sail. Tom would learn first, so he could teach him. They wanted him in public schools. Jenny thought piano would be nice. Bolden said basketball was a must.
And Bolden… what would he do? He was done with investment banking. That much was certain. He didn’t know what he might be good at. He had some money saved, so he wouldn’t have to do anything for a couple years. Jenny would stay home with Jack. Her job showed her the effects not having a mother had on someone… just look at Tom. They’d laughed at that. Pretty soon, Jack would have a sister, and that would be all. She wanted to travel as a family, and four was a good, round number.
Dreams.
Bolden looked around him. Trees crowded in on the path. His universe shrunk to a narrow tunnel with neither beginning nor end. He grabbed Jenny’s hand. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too.”
“Forever.”
For a moment, Bolden thought about running. But where? They were hemmed in on all sides. He couldn’t see ten feet in front of him. He’d be lucky to get a step before they cut him down. It didn’t matter. His ruined chest prevented him from running at all.
They came to a small clearing, a circular expanse that might have welcomed a bonfire.
“Hold up, hoss,” said Wolf. “On your knees.”
Bolden stopped. Jenny looked at him and he nodded. They knelt together. The ground was icy, littered with twigs and small rocks. His heart was beating very fast. A gun was racked close to his ear. Something cold and hard touched the nape of his neck.
He reached out for Jenny’s hand and prayed.
Bobby Stillman cut through the woods with a stealth born of experience. For twenty-five years she’d been ducking out of back doors, vaulting over fences, and in general acting like a fugitive half her age. In all that time, she’d never used her skills to save someone else. Harry followed a step behind, Walter pulling up the rear. The forces of liberty and justice, she’d named them.
It was no miracle that they’d found Thomas. They’d forced their captive to contact headquarters and report that he’d been kidnapped by Bobby Stillman but had managed to escape. Headquarters had informed him that Bolden was being transported to Jacklin’s estate. It was technology that allowed Bobby Stillman to track the Scanlon operatives nearby. If Harry was their brawn, then Walter was their brains. He’d simply built a receiver to track the signals emitted by the RFID chips implanted in the Scanlon operatives.
The footsteps ahead of them stopped.
Bobby drew to a halt. “Harry?” she whispered.
A hulking shadow came near. “We’ve got to split up,” he said. “Go around them. Walk softly. Heel to toe.”
In the dark, Bobby could make out a clump of figures. One, two… she wasn’t sure how many. She waited a moment to let Harry get into position, then began to inch through the undergrowth. Twigs scratched her cheek. A branch blocked her way. With infinite patience, she pushed it aside and skirted it. She wasn’t sure how to intercede. Harry carried a leather sap, but otherwise they didn’t have any real weapons. She’d never allowed them to carry guns or knives. It was a point of pride she was deeply regretting. Each carried a Maglite flashlight. The lights and whatever surprise they could muster would have to suffice.
When she was twenty feet away, she sank down and waited. The night closed around her. The wind whistled through the bushes, biting at her cheek. In a minute, her joints began to ache.
Alone in the dark, Bobby Stillman’s mind was flooded with memories of the day she had left her son.
They were coming!
She saw him fleeing down the hallway of her apartment in the Village. He was just a boy, and gripped by a child’s unspeakable panic. She was at his back, exhorting him to hurry. At the end of the hall, he flung open a closet door. She crouched at his side and lifted up the floorboards to reveal a neat rectangular space dug into the earth.
“Jump in,” she said.
Little Jack dropped into the hole and lay down in a single fluid motion, just as they’d practiced so many times before. She stared at him, her thin, anxious son with his mop of curly hair. He was a good boy, so eager to please, so obedient, yet the tears always so near. It was because of her, she knew. He had adopted her paranoia, her anxieties, her everlasting fear of the world.
“I’ll be back for you,” she said.
“When?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t bring herself to lie to him again. How could she say “never”?
Working quickly, she began replacing the floorboards. He remained still, his arms pressed to his sides. Sensing his fear, she bent to him. The flyaway strands of her unruly red hair tickled his cheek. She smiled and his eyes widened and he looked as if everything would be all right. But a moment later, he was lost in his waking nightmare. He knew his mother was leaving and she had said nothing to make him think differently. The tears streamed from his eyes. Silent tears. Obedient tears.
And then he pressed his lips together and forced a fragile smile. He wanted her to know that he was strong. That her Jacky Jo would be all right.
She laid the last plank into place and rushed from the house.
They were coming!
Only afterward had she realized that she hadn’t told her son she loved him.