“Counselor Barnes’s paralegal, Sybil, will pose as an archivist from the University of Virginia. I’ll be her assistant. The cover story is that Lieutenant Boswell was recently discovered to be a close friend of Thomas Jefferson, and the university is looking for any correspondence between them. And is willing to pay.”
“How very generous of the university,” said Director Forrest.
“The Counselor offered to use his own money.”
That shut him up.
“Once we have the item, we’ll head back to the motel, scan, and upload it. Pack up and head out. If all goes well, we’re back on campus by noon the second day.”
“And if all does not go well?” asked Chairman Hickey.
“We’ve mapped several routes to the Donelson property in Tennessee,” Jasper said. “If things go wrong, we’ll head there to wait it out.” Jasper looked at his friends. At Nora. “We know what we’re asking. We’re still on board.”
“Very brave of you.”
“I wouldn’t call it bravery. I’m terrified. But sitting around here waiting to die scares me way more.”
Chairman Hickey looked down the table. “Are there further questions?” The other Directors shook their heads. “Let’s proceed to a vote.”
Jasper gripped the podium. He didn’t expect an answer so soon.
“Those against?”
Director Forrest shot his hand up right away. No shock there.
But then Director Church raised his, too.
“Dad,” Lacy said.
He wouldn’t look at her.
“Dad.”
“Those in favor?” Chairman Hickey asked.
Director Oswald and Greenhow lifted their hands. Chairman Hickey inspected them, then his notes. Spent some time deep in thought, tapping the top of his cane with a pointer finger.
Then he said, “I am also in favor.”
Jasper almost pushed the podium off the stage. This was really happening—they were really going on this trip.
“On behalf of the board, and the entire League, I wish you luck,” Chairman Hickey said. “If the past is any guide, you’re going to need quite a bit of it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I actually never thought they’d say no,” Jasper said. “I’m not sure why.”
“You’re an optimist.” Sheldon sat on his suitcase, which was outrageously overpacked. “It’s your second best quality after your hockey hair.”
“That was pretty awkward with Lacy’s dad.”
“That, I get,” Sheldon said after a while. “Parental instincts.”
“Not sure if I made this clear but—”
“Yeah, about a thousand times. You’re welcome.”
Jasper zipped his own bag shut. “Before this—in my old and boring and not dangerous life—my friends barely wanted to drive the forty minutes to hang out at my house. Now, I’ve got people pledging themselves to protect me.”
“Forty minutes is a long way to drive to just hang out,” Sheldon said. “An hour-twenty round trip.”
“You know what I mean.”
Sheldon gave him a bro hug. “If Iron Man wasn’t watching, I’d make up a special handshake that only we knew about so we could do it front of everybody else and make them jealous.”
“We’re going to the armory,” Byron said flatly.
The guy was so quiet, Jasper kept forgetting he was there.
In the range, Kingsley waved them into the classroom. On each desk sat a series of gun cases—the ones that were always locked up in a separate cage in the armory. Jasper opened the one in front of him, and saw it wasn’t the black, worn practice pistol he was used to, but silver and brand new. These were the real deal—dueling pistols. The ones saved for killing.
“Oiled them myself,” Kingsley said.
He brought out some ammo boxes, and they filled two clips each—hollow point rounds, the big league stuff that expanded on impact. Lacy jammed bullets into her clip like a possessed person; she was all in, no matter what her dad said. Nora and Tucker watched everybody like they were juggling dynamite. Kingsley passed out black, leather holsters that fit snuggly on their belts. Jasper’s was different—it was made for the small of his back so he could carry it secretly into the Boswell house. Last were Kevlar vests. Jasper would have to take his off during the actual mission.
Kingsley stopped him on the way out. “You asked me a question before. About me killing anyone.”
“Yeah.”
“I told you it was none of your damn business.”
“I remember,” Jasper said.
The instructor rubbed his chin with a meaty hand. “I’ve got plenty of regrets. Every man does. But winning my duel, that’s not one of them. You understand me.”
“I think so.”
“You and I, we were drafted into this fight the day we were born. I sleep easy knowing I did my duty.” Kingsley grabbed Jasper by the shoulder and kind of just shook him a little—probably the closest thing the guy knew to a hug. “You bring that gun back to me or I’ll kill you myself.”
****
The caravan left at dawn, Rufus’s truck leading, followed by the van driven by Byron. The white landscape raced by as the group passed through small towns and rural byways. It felt good to be outside the walls—Jasper had actually started to forget that there was a world still carrying on. People were going about their non-Revolutionary offspring lives, not worrying about dueling or hiding or maybe becoming murderers or getting murdered. It seemed hilarious and stupid and completely ridiculous—them, not him. He’d been in the incubator too long, obviously. He couldn’t imagine what it was like for the other League kids. This was the only world they knew.
Normally, the trip would take about ten hours, but Rufus was sticking to back roads, stretching the journey to fifteen. Eventually, the terrain flattened out and Jasper saw the ground—patches of brown that told him it was getting warmer. He dozed off after a late fast-food lunch and woke at five in the afternoon. Larkin had switched places with Byron behind the wheel. Tucker and Sheldon were snoring on the benches. Lacy and Cyrus stared out their windows.
“You should sleep,” Nora said. “Still another three hours.”
“I think my neck is permanently crooked.”
“Lie down.”
He stretched out and put his head on her lap. She put her hand on his chest and he laced their fingers.
“Relax,” he said. “We’re not going to start making out or anything. I don’t do that with random girls. Especially ones running for the President of the United States of Emo.”
Her lips were doing weird stuff to his face; she must have missed his mouth. It took him a couple of seconds to figure it out, and then the whole thing got better. But it still hurt. She kissed like she did everything else: a little angry.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said. “But your mouth kind of tastes like an ashtray.”
She played with his hair. “Don’t make everything a joke. If this isn’t what you wanted to happen, then just say it.”
“I didn’t not want this to happen.”
“Good, ’cause I’ll be pretty pissed if you start kissing other people,” she said.
He traced some tattoo lines on her arm with his thumb. It was weird how things changed—how for a while you were one thing with somebody, and then the line blurred and then you were another.
“I’m staying back at the motel tomorrow with Tucker and Cyrus,” she said. “I’ll just get in the way, otherwise.”
“I get it.”
“I’m not abandoning you or anything.”
“I said I get it.”
They made out some more—less teeth-colliding this time. Big improvement. Not that he had much experience.
“You’re still gripping the gun too hard,” she said. “That’s why you’re pulling right.”
“I never thought you’d give me shooting advice.”
“What I did … before … is different from this. I still hate this,
but it’s different.”
“Necessary, you mean.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Just relax your grip, okay.”
Tucker sat up, looked at them, and then lay back down. “This is not your personal deer-hunting vehicle, Chesterton.”
****
Two hours later, they met Sybil at a motel outside Charlottesville. An overweight, skeptical lady showed them to rooms that stank of sweat and bleach. Sheldon set up the network and scanner while everybody else tried to sleep. That turned out to be impossible, so they sat around and watched horrible TV because it distracted them from the reality: they were completely freaking out. Jasper changed into dress pants and a sweater that fit his fake job better. He and Sybil went over their routine until she seemed satisfied he wouldn’t screw up their cover. He went to Nora and Lacy’s room afterward, but they were asleep. On the way back to his own room, he ran into Cyrus at the vending machine. The lawyer was staring at a dangling Twix bar.
“Sybil likes them,” he said brusquely.
“You think he’d be proud?” Jasper had been wondering about how his dad would feel about this mission for a while. “It sounds silly, but I’d really like to know. Do you think our efforts would make him happy? Is this what he wanted for me?”
“It’s hard to say.”
“Yeah.”
Cyrus gave the machine a right hook and the Twix fell into the collection tray. “He wanted you to escape, and we’re on that path—wherever it leads. I think that would’ve pleased him.”
“It’s funny, caring what he thinks when he’s dead,” Jasper said. “After hating him for forever.”
“If anything else,” Cyrus said, “he would be proud that you’re attempting to remake the past instead of allowing yourself to become a prisoner to it. That is something none of us has had the chance to do.”
None of us. Jasper never thought to ask Cyrus about his lineage. It seemed way too personal. Like walking in on him going to the bathroom. Maybe he’d ask Sheldon about it later.
Jasper broke the silence. “I meant what I said to Chairman Hickey. I’m terrified. I’ve never been this scared in my life.”
“Hold out your hand.”
Jasper did as he was told.
“Do you see what I see?” Cyrus asked.
“You mean my hand shaking like I have pneumonia?”
“Exactly.”
“That has to be a terrible sign.”
“Nerves only reflect anxiety—the mind anticipating the event. All that matters is what you do in the moment. That is all there is. And when it comes, you will move or you will not. There will be no nerves. Only action or paralysis.”
Jasper put his hand in his pocket. It was still shaking. “I better try and get some sleep.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Still going with the long hair, I see,” Sybil said.
“I’ve been a little busy. You know, not dying.”
She checked her lipstick in a compact mirror. “I suppose it fits your cover as a lazy college student.”
Jasper steered her car around a long, slow bend in the country road. His palms sweated against the wheel. He kept pushing back against the seat to feel the gun holster beneath his suit jacket, and looking in the rearview mirror to make sure Rufus’s truck was still behind them. Lacy, Sheldon, and Colton were in there, guns ready, and another pickup rode behind them in case things got really crazy.
“This is it,” Byron said from the back seat. He hunched below the windows, almost prone. “Take it slow.”
Jasper turned up a long, gravel driveway that snaked toward a brick house in the middle of a clearing. The trucks stayed down by the road. Split rail fences broke up the plot, carving out fields where a couple horses grazed. Jasper pulled up to the house and he and Sybil got out, then walked up to the front door and knocked.
And then they knocked again.
“I called yesterday to let her know we’d be stopping by,” Sybil said. “She said she’d be home.”
Jasper raised his fist to knock again when the door opened the length of a daisy-chain lock. A short old lady, more wrinkles than actual face, poked her head through the opening.
“What do y’all want?”
“Ms. Boswell, good afternoon,” Sybil said. “My name is—”
“What are y’all, papists?”
“I’m sorry?”
“No, not papists, no—today’s Sunday. Jehovah’s Witnesses?”
“No, Ms. Boswell. We’re with the University of Virginia’s library. We spoke yesterday.”
“What about?”
“Thomas Jefferson and his friendship with your husband’s ancestor, Ira Boswell, a soldier in the Revolutionary War,” Sybil said. “We discussed the possibility that your husband, Milford, inherited some letters?”
“I remember. Y’all got a card?”
“Of course.” Sybil handed her a crisp cream rectangle.
“Can’t be too careful these days. All kinds of evil out there.” She closed the door and undid the daisy-chain lock. “Well, come on in, then.”
The house smelled of mothballs and ashtrays, which probably explained Anna’s haggard face. Jasper made a mental note to push Nora harder on the Nicorette. The old lady showed them to a sitting room where they settled down on a musty couch. Vintage frames with pictures of a man—Jasper guessed Milford—covered every tabletop, and available square inch of wall space.
Anna poured three cups of brown liquid. Jasper sipped it and wished he hadn’t.
“What’s his story?” Anna asked, nodding at Jasper.
“A graduate student,” Sybil said. “My assistant.”
“He a hippie?”
“No. Just lazy,” Sybil said.
“My Milford hated hippies. Wouldn’t stand for one being in his house.”
“I’m not a hippie,” Jasper said.
“Oh, so he can talk. How ’bout that.” Anna bunched her face up and made a noise Jasper guessed was a laugh. “All right, all right, don’t get all worked up, now.”
“As I mentioned over the phone,” Sybil said, “we appreciate your seeing us on such short notice.”
“Bit strange, coming on a Sunday.”
“With primary documents, every second counts. Entire collections have been destroyed because of a slight change in temperature. Considering the season, we didn’t want to take any chances.”
Anna rocked slowly in her recliner. “How much you gonna pay me?”
“That depends on the condition of the items, but the university authorized me to purchase any verified period artifacts at market value.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Have you had a chance to look through your late husband’s things?”
“Honey, that would take years. But I know where you and the hippie can start.”
She hobbled ahead of them down the hall to a tiny office. An inch of dust covered the desk and bookshelves. Two filing cabinets stood in a corner with an old-school antenna TV perched on top.
“The man loved his space,” Anna said. “Hid in here so I wouldn’t bother him. Said he was payin’ bills, but I mostly heard the football game.” She banged the filing cabinet with an elbow. “Well, have at it, honey.”
Sybil put on a pair of latex gloves and opened the first drawer. Like a good graduate assistant, Jasper catalogued items on a clipboard as she drew them out. Most of the papers were normal household crap—bills and receipts and paperwork from daily life—and lots of it. Milford kept detailed records. Things got more pack-ratty in the second filing cabinet; the bottom drawer was just a bunch of bowling-league trophies.
“Now, that’s a real sport,” Anna told Jasper. “Not like the soccer you long-haired kids play.”
Sybil started on the desk. Jasper scribbled like mad to keep up. He glanced at the wall clock and saw they’d been there for almost forty minutes.
“Is there a key for this?” Sybil tugged on the center desk drawer.
Anna came over and gave it a
jiggle, then a bang, then a hard tug. It popped open.
“Thought I didn’t know about his little gambling habit,” she said. “Always made me sad he thought he had to keep it from me. Wasn’t an addiction or nothing. Guess he just liked his privacy.”
Sybil took out a stack of envelopes that turned out to be nothing more than get-well cards. Jasper counted almost fifty. She held up some childish drawings of a family. “You have grandchildren?”
“In Richmond. They came out more when he first got the cancer. Not so much, now.”
Jasper was actually starting to feel sorry for the old lady.
Sybil moved to the bookshelves and started on the top row. Jasper saw the prize before she did, but when she saw him get all fidgety, she flared her eyes like she’d murder him if he didn’t play it cool. It was the frayed edges that gave it away—brittle and worn like dry leaves in November. He could see them wedged between a King James Bible and a large-print edition of Moby Dick.
“Now, what’s this?” Sybil said. “I believe we have something interesting here.” She removed the other books on the shelf first, exposing the documents, which weren’t really documents at all, but the outward facing pages of a book—no, three books.
“Thought you was looking for letters,” Anna said.
“Such is the way with archival work. We take what we can find.” Sybil gently lifted the books off the shelf and laid each one on the desk. Jasper actually bumped into her trying to get a better look at them. They had light-brown covers and were in the same state of rapid decay. The first cover almost tore off as Sybil carefully opened it.
“What are they?” Anna asked.
“I believe—”
“Diaries,” Jasper said. He couldn’t read the tiny cursive writing, except for the date scrawled at the start of the entry. “This one begins in January, 1775.”
Sybil carefully turned to the back. “Looks like it covers almost two years.” She made the same inspection of the other two. “Oh, my. Almost six years of entries. This is something special indeed, Ms. Boswell.”
“Probably worth quite a bit.”
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