Jolie turned to CNN.
As she did so, she caught movement on one of the screens. A figure in a suit and tie walked in the direction of the causeway.
Franklin.
She turned to tell Cyril, but he was gone.
Jolie watched as Franklin walked across the lawn, his face resolute. A wind came up and blew his white hair around his face. He carried something in one hand. A piece of paper.
Jolie could see the sky turning a mixture of gray and an aqueous blue-green. The storm was coming in fast now. Negative ions bounced around, an electric feeling. The smell of rain. And the sound of thunder. And the lightning.
Franklin appeared on the monitor focused on the gatehouse, set on the small spit of land coming out from the peninsula. The news vans and satellite trucks were parked beyond the empty gatehouse and along the road. Franklin made a beeline for the sea of telephoto lenses, booms, microphones, cameras, and reporters. He passed through the gatehouse, walked around the parked Suburbans blocking the causeway, and stood before the cameras, holding the piece of paper out in front of him. Far out in front of him, as if he’d forgotten his reading glasses.
“I’m here to give a statement regarding the death of my wife.” Frank’s hair feathered in the wind. “I will not be taking any questions.”
He cleared his throat and launched into a rambling speech about his wife, the mother of his child, the love of his life. He asked the press to leave the family to share their grief in private.
The wind grew stronger, almost pushing him off his feet. The air darkened as he opened his mouth to speak again. “As I said, I will not be taking questions. But as the former attorney general of the United States and a proud citizen of this country, I feel I have to follow my conscience. As you know, I lost a good friend in the vice president of the United States, Owen Pintek. Because of our friendship, and against the advice of my attorney, I wish to make an additional statement.”
Jolie heard the cameras click—dozens of them.
“As the attorney general of the United States, I sought to preserve the Constitution. I would be derelict in my duties to stay quiet, when I believe…” He stopped, and peered at the paper again. “When I’m convinced, that there must be a full and comprehensive investigation into the vice president’s death.”
There was a collective gasp from the news crews, just as a blast of wind shoved through the ranks and knocked a microphone from the hands of a female reporter.
Franklin continued speaking, his eyes never leaving the fluttering paper, his voice quavering. “Due to our long friendship, and the personal debt of gratitude I feel to my dear friend Owen Pintek, it is incumbent on me to state my belief that the possibility exists that his death was…unnatural.”
The camera shutters started clicking again. He stared hard at the paper in his hands. “After certain legal issues have, er…been explored, I promise you I will call a press conference to fully answer your questions to the best of my ability. That is all I have to say at this time.”
He turned, nearly bowled over by another gust of wind, and walked back through the gatehouse toward the main building. A chorus of reporters shouted questions.
Then the skies emptied, and the rain came rolling out in billows. Everyone was soaked. Thunder cracked and boomed, and lightning split the sky. The former attorney general of the United States disappeared into the octagon house, and the reporters ran for cover.
The rain blew in through the open doorway, and Jolie shivered.
59
Jolie’s captor brought in a box of weapons and a duffle crammed with gear. Two-way radios, the latest generation of walkie-talkies—with earpieces. Maglites and a first aid kit, including packets of antibiotics. There were large-caliber handguns, semi-automatics, and a couple of sound suppressors. Edged weapons—Jolie recognized a Ka-Bar knife. There was also a sniper rifle.
Cyril checked the sight on the Heckler & Koch .45. “Question for you. Why are you here?”
“Why?”
“Family, or police business?”
She told him about her role in the family drama. Her friendship with Kay and her daughter Zoe.
“Is that it?”
“I want to know for sure what happened to Nathan Dial.”
“The kid the vice president killed.”
“You know about it?”
“Franklin told me.”
“Why would he tell you that?”
“He was under the influence at the time. Ever heard of scopolamine?”
“What?”
“It’s not important. So what are you going to do? Arrest your own uncle?”
“I can’t arrest him now. I need evidence.”
“The kid was gay, right?”
“So?”
“You his mother?”
“No. But someone should have been.”
“He was a throwaway.”
“To them.”
“You’ll never find him—Dial. He’s long gone.”
“I know that.” She could have told him that you could convict someone without a body, but didn’t.
He said, “The vice president’s dead. He’s out of it. Nobody’s going to prosecute him now. You think you can nail your uncle for covering it up?”
“I have no idea.” She nodded to his arsenal. “You going to use all of those yourself?”
He looked at her but said nothing.
“If you let me go, I could protect my family.”
“You’re more good to me here.”
She tried again. “Can’t we get them off the island?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know what you’re up against. A team of operatives is coming—killers.”
“All the more reason to let us get out now.”
His lips tightened in a thin line. “When Cardamone and his crew get here, I’ll let all of you go.”
“If Cardamone comes. There’s no guarantee he’s coming.”
“He’s coming.”
“You’re going to leave me chained like this?”
When he didn’t answer, she said, “I have to be able to protect myself.”
Shadows from the raindrops on the window crawled down the side of his face like ants. His expression was unreadable. Dark in here, even though it was midday. Half his face was in shadow.
“You were wrong when you said you didn’t need me,” she said. “I was a sharpshooter champion.”
He motioned to the gear bag. “If you can get yourself out of here, you’ll have all the firepower you need.”
And he left her there.
It seemed as if hours went by, but when Jolie looked at her watch, it had only been forty-five minutes.
Staring at the image on the monitor so long it was a blur.
Trying not to think about Brienne Cross and those kids killed in Aspen. Hard to believe what Cyril had told her.
But she did believe him.
Her eye caught movement in the bay. She realized now that most of the boats were gone. Now there was just a steady curtain of rain and gray-green mist, the rain so thick it washed away the shadows. But she saw at least one boat out there. She couldn’t tell distance, but it was beyond the waves coming in on the little beach, just a smudge, a shadow. There one moment, and then the waves moved and she wondered if it was her imagination.
She caught something else, the screen that showed the causeway. A man walking toward the mainland. It could be Cyril, or it could be someone else.
She looked at the place where the boat was—what she thought was a boat.
Couldn’t see it now.
Then the room went dark.
Staying under cover, Landry made his way toward the gatehouse. The media was gone. In just ten minutes, it had gone from dozens of cars and news vans to a couple of stragglers on Cape San Blas Road.