“So did I,” Journey said.
Sandra took his hand and they walked through the doors, Andrew following. Tolman was coming toward them. “I pulled a little RIO muscle and have ordered our friend Mr. Jackson to be taken into federal custody. Two deputy U.S. marshals are on their way from Oklahoma City. They’ll be with him round the clock in the hospital, then when he’s well enough to travel, he’ll go into a federal lockup.”
“You can do that?” Sandra said.
“It appears I can.” Tolman smiled. “This is actually the first time I’ve ever done anything like that. Being deputy director has its advantages after all.” The smile faded. “Nick, I also called Darrell Sharp. Remember him?”
“He’s hard to forget,” Journey said.
“Who’s this?” Sandra asked.
“A friend of mine,” Tolman said. “We went to the Academy together. Toughest man I know. He was a deputy U.S. marshal and walked into a bloodbath on his very first assignment a few years ago. Eight people died, and he was the only one left standing. Now he lives by himself in the middle of nowhere in Arkansas.”
“Why did you call him?” Journey asked.
“I talked him into coming here and providing some protection for you and Andrew.”
Journey was silent.
“Come on, Nick,” Tolman said. “Accepting some help from a professional doesn’t mean you can’t take care of Andrew. It means some extra muscle until this thing is over. That’s all.”
Journey said nothing.
“Nick,” Tolman said, not bothering to hide her exasperation. “Dammit all to hell. You were right. Something happened, and I’m the one who talked you into coming and bringing Andrew. Do you get that, Nick? I convinced you to bring your child into a situation where all of us could have been killed.”
“But—”
“No, not but!” Tolman shouted. “As long as we are in this, you are going to have security for you and Andrew. That is not negotiable. Darrell may be on disability retirement, but he will be well armed, and he is well trained, and once he gets here, I don’t want the two of you out of his sight. I don’t know where all this is going to take us, and I also know how you feel about other people watching Andrew. The solution is to make goddamn sure that both of you are protected.”
“Meg—”
“Not negotiable. If you want to look at it as being for my peace of mind, that’s fine. But he’s coming, and he’s your bodyguard.”
“Just for the record, that last one wasn’t a protest,” Journey said. “You’re right. We might not see them coming the next time. But I thought Darrell never left his house.”
“He will for me,” Tolman said.
Sandra looked at her.
“It’s complicated,” Tolman said. “Darrell said he’d leave within the hour. His place in Arkansas is about four and a half hours from here. He’ll be here early in the morning.” She glanced at Sandra again. “He has PTSD and severe depression. Give him plenty of space and don’t expect him to say much, but he’ll have our backs.”
Journey’s van had been towed, and Sandra drove them to Carpenter Center in her VW Beetle, with Tolman and Andrew wedged into the backseat. At home, Journey gave Andrew a shower and put the boy immediately to bed. Journey thought his son was asleep before he closed the bedroom door. He set Tolman up in the guest room and walked Sandra to the door.
“Another woman sleeping in your house,” Sandra said. “Do I get to be jealous?”
Journey looked hard at her. “Meg? No, she’s—”
“I’m kidding,” Sandra said. “Don’t be so serious, Nick. I’m not a possessive person. And besides, I’m not sure what we have to be possessive of at this point.”
She reads me so well, Journey thought. Better than Amelia ever did. Better than anyone, better than …
Meg Tolman.
Journey still had a dull ache in his head from where he’d hit the steering wheel. For an instant the two women were jumbled in his mind. Then his thoughts cleared and he focused on the tall woman with the red hair and the green eyes that always seemed slightly amused. He looked at the little silver cross around her neck.
Journey pulled her to him and kissed her hard on the mouth.
When he let her go, she was gasping. “My God,” she whispered. She traced her hand along his cheek, his jawline, his neck.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“Just … thank you.”
“Okay. That’s good enough.” She turned around and walked quickly to the VW. In a moment she was gone.
Journey turned toward the house. Tolman was standing in the middle of the living room. She winked at him. “Good for you,” she said, then walked down the hall toward the guest bedroom.
* * *
Of course, Journey couldn’t sleep, thinking of the words of “Matthew Jackson”: “They’ll send someone else, you know.”
He kept the bat within reach and settled in at the computer in the living room, even though it was 1:30 in the morning. He scrolled through a few e-mails, responded to a few students, a few colleagues. Anything to occupy his mind.
Then he thought about the morning—had that only been a few hours ago, downtown on the square, when he’d spotted Amelia coming out of the bank? He remembered what she’d said, and the name of the place.
Grace of Oklahoma.
He typed the words into Google and waited. When the search results settled onto the screen, all Journey saw was Andrew, in the faint headlights by the side of the highway, a gun pressed to his head.
I don’t know the right thing to do. I’m bluffing … I have everyone fooled into thinking I’m this great, caring father of a child with a disability … but I don’t have a clue.
The thoughts weren’t new. He had some variation of the same thought every day of Andrew’s life. And yet, every day he and Andrew survived.
Would a facility like Grace really be best for him? At least for a while? Would it give Andrew—and me—tools to help face the rest of his adolescence, as he grows toward adulthood?
Or, Journey wondered, does it mean I’m not the parent I think I am, or should be?
I don’t know.
He clicked one of the links, and Journey began to read about Grace of Oklahoma.
* * *
He left the computer on and fell into the recliner beside it, then jerked awake to a tapping sound. He pressed the button on the luminescent dial of his watch: 5:36 A.M., and someone was at the front door.
He wrapped both his hands around the handle of the bat, but thought, Do assassins knock?
Journey peered through the three glass rectangles cut into the top of his front door and saw the brooding form of Darrell Sharp on his porch, the porch light glinting off his shaven head. Tolman, barefoot but otherwise still dressed, came around the corner, her SIG in her hand.
“Sharp,” Journey said, and opened the door.
“Darrell,” he said. He started to put out his hand, then remembered that the big man didn’t shake hands.
Sharp glanced at him and Journey stepped aside.
“Hey,” Tolman said.
“Hey,” Sharp said in a Deep South accent, dropping his backpack and small overnight bag beside the door. “Came as quick as I could.”
“You made good time.”
Sharp shrugged. Journey could see his eyes wandering over the room, checking corners. “Thanks for coming,” Journey said.
Sharp nodded.
“You can put your things in the guest bedroom,” Tolman said. She glanced at Journey as she spoke. “What did you bring?”
“Brought all I need,” Sharp drawled, his mustache twitching a bit.
Tolman smiled. “I believe you.”
* * *
For the first time in at least five years, Andrew slept well past eight o’clock. Tolman made coffee for Sharp and they sat at the dining room table while she briefed him on the situation. Journey was helping Andrew get dressed when he heard the door.
No subtle tapping this time. It was a loud and insistent pounding.
Three uniformed officers stood on the front porch. Two were Carpenter Center policemen, and the other was Deputy Scott Parsons.
“Aren’t you off shift yet?” Journey asked Parsons.
“Just went off,” the deputy said. “You have a minute, Dr. Journey?”
“Come in,” Journey said.
Andrew came into the room, whistling. He stopped short when he saw all the unfamiliar people. He made a vaguely interrogative sound, then turned and went back into his room.
Sharp stood up. Tolman laid a hand over his forearm.
The older of the two Carpenter Center cops was named Poteet. The younger was Natale. Journey knew his family—the young cop’s father and uncle ran the Italian restaurant where he and Sandra had had dinner two nights ago. His eyes took in the room.
Journey followed him. “Officer, this is Meg Tolman, from Washington. I work with her on consulting projects from time to time. This is her friend Darrell Sharp. He’s here to help us out a bit.”
Poteet looked from the others to Journey. “A few questions, sir?” he asked.
“This is about last night?” Journey said. “We were outside of Madill, not in Carpenter Center. Wouldn’t it be the Sheriff’s Department’s jurisdiction?”
“It’s about last night, but not what you think,” Parsons said.
“What?”
“Dr. Journey, you know Dr. Lashley. He’s a history professor, too. Professor Graham Lashley.”
“Of course I know him. I saw him on Friday.”
“Yes, sir,” Poteet said. “That’s why we’re here. Dr. Lashley was shot and killed in his home last night.”
CHAPTER
24
“What?” Journey said.
“Oh, shit,” Tolman said.
Journey looked at all three officers. Natale, the young one, stood behind his partner, arms folded. Parsons leaned against the wall, eyes locked on Journey.
“Sometime last night, best guess between ten P.M. and two A.M., someone broke into Dr. Lashley’s house,” Poteet said. “It’s about three blocks from here. He was shot in the head. If this were a movie, they’d call it ‘execution style.’ Know what I mean?”
Journey looked up at Scott Parsons. The deputy shrugged.
“We’ve heard that you’ve had a couple of run-ins with Dr. Lashley in the last few days,” Poteet said.
“You can’t be serious,” Journey said.
“How about it, Professor?” Poteet said. “You had an argument with him over at Uncle Charley’s, and then people in the campus library heard you two arguing again on Friday night. Threatened to kick his ass, did you?”
“This is bullshit,” Tolman said.
Journey held up a hand. “No, Meg, I’ll handle this. I was with Meg from about four o’clock on yesterday. We were in Norman. As we were coming into Madill on the way here, we were attacked.” He looked at Tolman. “They sent someone after Lashley, too. Somehow they found out we talked to him.”
“Scott here has shown me his report,” Poteet said coolly. “I see what happened to you over at Madill. What time did you get home?”
“About one o’clock,” Journey said. “You can’t seriously think that I—”
“It’s a murder investigation, Professor, and you had two very public disagreements with Dr. Lashley. What was that about? Some big historical find, is that right?”
Tolman handed the officers her ID. “Officer, we’re working on a case, and in the course of that case, we’ve been attacked. I can guarantee you, the people who came after us also went after Dr. Lashley.”
Poteet looked Tolman up and down, examined her ID, and glanced at Journey again. “Banged you up a little last night, did they?”
“A bit.”
“You’ll want to stay close, Dr. Journey,” the officer said. “You don’t happen to own a gun, do you?”
“I’ve never fired a gun in my life,” Journey said. “I don’t even like guns.”
“Uh-huh.” Poteet looked at Tolman’s card. “Research and Investigations Office. Deputy director. Well, that’s good to know, I suppose.”
Tolman started to say something, but Journey cut her off. “My whereabouts are accounted for. Deputy Parsons can vouch for that.”
“Oh, we read Scotty’s report this morning. Took a baseball bat to the guy who attacked your son, did you?”
Journey stiffened.
“I don’t have any kids,” Natale said, “but I have a little niece. Someone grabbed her and put a gun to her head, I’d break a few bones, too.”
Journey said nothing.
“Officer Poteet, are you finished here?” Tolman said.
“Research and Investigations Office,” Poteet said, looking at the card again. “Interesting. I’ve never heard of it.”
“Now you have,” Tolman said.
“We’ll be in touch,” Poteet said.
Journey looked at Parsons, and the three officers left. From the porch, Parsons called, “There’s a package on your porch, Dr. Journey. I almost tripped on it.”
Tolman pulled out her phone.
“What are you doing?” Journey asked.
“Getting protection called in for Melissa and Alex Cable. If they know we talked to Lashley, if they tracked us last night, then the odds are they know we were in Norman yesterday. I’m not going to be responsible for the death of another Cable.”
Journey opened the screen door, watching the three officers go to their cars. He looked down and saw the box to the left of the door. It had been sent from a mailing service in Big Rapids, Michigan, shipped UPS overnight on Friday. It must have come when he was in Norman yesterday, and he hadn’t noticed it on the darkened porch when they all finally returned to the house a few hours ago.
Michigan? he thought.
There was no telling. He received textbooks for review all the time, both at home and the office. He took the package into the living room. Andrew was sitting on the couch with a puzzle, humming. Tolman was still on the phone. Sharp hovered behind her. Journey noticed for the first time that Sharp was actually wearing a gun in a holster on his hip.
I’m a suspect in Graham Lashley’s murder, he thought. The man may have been unpleasant to work with … but he was killed because he talked to me.
Journey’s head began to throb. He started to open the box, slitting the tape with a box knife from his desk drawer.
“Don’t know if I’d do that,” Sharp said.
Journey stopped cutting. “What?”
With his long arms, Sharp reached between Journey and the table and picked up the box.
“What are you doing?” Journey said.
Sharp said nothing, carrying the box out of the house and into the front yard. Tolman had been on the phone, and she followed Sharp. Journey looked at Andrew, and his son hooted.
“I don’t know,” Journey said. “Let’s go see.” He took Andrew’s hand and they walked to the door.
Tolman had just reached Sharp and the box. He’d placed it on the ground in the center of the open space in the front yard. “Meg, you go back,” Sharp said in a very soft voice.
“Darrell, I can—,” Tolman started.
Sharp shook his head.
Tolman opened her mouth to say something else, but Sharp shook his head again, looking directly at Tolman. She raised both hands, palms out, and backed onto the porch.
“What’s all this?” Journey asked.
“Nick, someone tried to kill us last night, and that package is addressed to you. Who knows what could be in it?”
Journey rubbed the back of his neck. Andrew whistled. “I never thought—”
“Yeah, Darrell’s smarter than the two of us combined,” Tolman said.
“It’s probably just a book. I get them all the time.”
“Probably. You want to gamble on that?” She looked pointedly at Andrew.
Journey followed the look. He squeezed his son’s hand and Andr
ew squeezed back. “But what about Darrell? If it’s something—”
“You don’t argue with him about things like this. He knows what he’s doing.”
Journey said nothing, watching Sharp touch all sides of the box, his big hands moving delicately, almost tenderly. He hefted it, seemed to be weighing it.
“Looks like it’s pretty light,” Tolman said. “That’s a good sign.”
Sharp put the box carefully on the ground again, then began to open it, running his hands along the slits Journey had already made.
Journey found he was holding his breath. He let it out slowly when Sharp pulled out some bubble wrap with one piece of paper taped to the outside, and another sheet inside the wrap.
“Paper,” Sharp said. “All clear.” He brought the box and its contents back to the porch.
“Thanks, Darrell,” Tolman said.
Sharp shrugged and moved past them into the house. Journey watched him go, then looked at the note taped to the top of the bubble wrap. In beautiful, flowing, feminine cursive was written:
Dr. Journey, please call as soon as you have examined this package’s contents.
A phone number followed, area code 773. Journey took the package back in the house and slid the bubble wrap out onto the kitchen table. Very carefully, he undid the tape, laid the wrap open, and looked at the paper inside.
It was a map.
“What—,” Journey said, and the sentence died in his throat.
“Nick?” Tolman said.
The map was of the western part of Texas. Journey recognized the distinctive shape, from El Paso all the way up to the Panhandle. The paper was very old, and it had been well preserved. There were no modern landmarks, but rivers and mountains had been carefully drawn.
Journey’s eyes went to the area near the top, the modern-day Texas Panhandle. Roughly southeast of where Amarillo would be today, something had been drawn over the original printed map.
A cross.
The bottom of the cross was squarely in the center of a river. The two arms reached out along tiny, jagged lines that Journey assumed were creeks, little tributaries of the river. The top of the cross extended farther along the larger river.
Written in black, in a heavy hand, as if by an old-fashioned quill pen, to the left of the top of the cross, were the words La Croix d’Argent.
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