“Really?”
“Thought you would appreciate that. I guess he was pretty good. Says he was a left-handed pitcher with a curveball.… I assume that’s good.”
“Teams always need left-handers with a curve.”
“Right-O. He majored in history. Four-point-oh GPA as an undergrad. He went into the baseball draft, chosen in the thirty-eighth round by the Detroit Tigers.” She looked up from the book. “Thirty-eighth round? Is that good? That doesn’t sound very impressive.”
“No. At that point in the draft players are usually filler for a team’s minor league rosters.”
“Journey played in the Detroit organization for five years before giving it up. Decided on graduate school. Master’s and doctorate in history from the University of Virginia. While at UVA in grad school, he met and married Amelia Boettcher, who was studying for an MBA. Three years later, while he was working on his dissertation, their son, Andrew Bryan Journey, was born. The dissertation was on high-ranking officers from both sides of the Civil War, on their lives before the war, and tracking what they did after the war was over.”
“That sounds like something you’d appreciate,” Hudson said.
Tolman grinned. “Journey gets a job at South Central College of Oklahoma in Carpenter Center, Oklahoma, a small town right on the Texas line. It’s a little liberal arts college, enrollment of about four thousand. Less than a year after getting there, his son is diagnosed with developmental delays. Undergoes tests for a couple of years and final diagnosis is severe autism. The boy can’t talk, isn’t toilet trained, the whole business. He’s twelve now. When the boy is nine, Amelia files for divorce. Irreconcilable differences.”
“More than eighty percent of couples who have children with special needs get divorced.”
Tolman looked up. “You just pull that one out of thin air?”
“Television is not all evil, Meg. It is possible to learn from it.”
“Uh-huh. The wife moves to Oklahoma City, lets Journey have full custody. She’s landed as a bank executive and is doing quite well financially. Journey keeps the kid, who stays with him year-round except for two weeks with the mother every summer. Let’s see here.… Journey owns a house in Carpenter Center, ninety-thousand-dollar mortgage. Pays his taxes. He does occasional consulting work for the Oklahoma Historical Society and a few other groups like that. Doesn’t travel much, I would guess because of child-care issues. He drives a ten-year-old minivan that he bought right after moving to Oklahoma. It’s paid off. What else? His credit rating isn’t all that great, lots of little loans and credit card debt. Fallout from the divorce, I guess. Physically, six feet tall, two-ten, has high blood pressure and cholesterol issues.”
“Outside interests?”
“Can’t find a whole lot on that. Doesn’t belong to any golf clubs or anything like that. He’s in the PTA; does that count? His whole world seems to be the job and the kid.”
“What about the guns and documents from last week? Please tell me you have something more than the television news.”
“Not much, really. Thousands of guns, some papers, one piece of jewelry. I can’t add much to the evidence on the scene with the burglary and assault. Shooter is a phantom, young guy, good condition, military haircut.…” Tolman lowered the pages.
“And a weapon known for being used by Special Forces.”
“There is that. I uploaded crime scene photos, and I’ll see if I can get DOD records. Maybe he’s ex–active duty and there’s a photo.”
“The Pentagon doesn’t like us wandering around in their database, since we don’t belong to them.”
“I know who we don’t belong to.” Hudson winced at the grammar, and Tolman grinned again. She frequently tried to annoy him with her speech. “You want to call them or you want to let me see what I can find?”
Hudson leaned back, cutting his eyes to the television. “Ten to four. What a team.”
Tolman stood up. “Maybe they could use a left-hander with a curveball.”
Hudson frowned, the wry humor gone. “Contact DOD if you must. For now, go home to your cat.”
“Right.” Tolman went to lock up her office, but she was still thinking of the puzzle: a middle-aged college professor, single father of a son with a disability, a horrific tragedy in his own past, a bunch of Civil War–era relics, and an attacker with no identity.
Tolman might as well have been a million miles from the Falls Church Chamber Music Society. By the time she reached her apartment, just across the river in Alexandria, she was still thinking about Nick Journey.
CHAPTER
7
The Judge had called for a meeting of his inner circle, six other men who were highly placed, men whose counsel he sought both in the planning and execution of the mission. Two of the six were in charge of regional bases—Dallas and Chicago, respectively—and lived lives out of sight, assuming whatever identities were necessary for any given situation. The other four came from Washington, and their lives were infinitely more complex: they held jobs that placed them in the light, working in public, going about their everyday business and their not-so-everyday business—laying the groundwork for the Glory Warriors.
He had invited the others to his retreat at the summit of a mountain overlooking Matewan, West Virginia, the town along Tug Fork where one of the nation’s most notorious battles between union organizers and coal operators had taken place in 1920. Ever mindful of history—a plaque on the Judge’s desk read THERE IS NO PRESENT OR FUTURE, ONLY HISTORY THAT IS YET TO BE CREATED—he had chosen the spot well. It was isolated, but still close enough to Washington for strategic purposes.
The doors to his study opened and the other six men entered, fanning out onto deep leather chairs and a long sofa against the wall. Even though the Judge’s house was swept for electronic surveillance several times daily, and even though the field men were under deep cover, names were never used when speaking between walls. Each base director was referred to only by the name of his city. The Washington men were simply known as Washington One, Two, Three, and Four.
The Judge rose to his full height and watched the other men. He was six-feet-three and age had not stooped him at all. He had lost weight as he grew older, passing seventy, and so gave the appearance of being somewhat frail. But his skin was tanned and healthy, his blue eyes sharp and focused as they had ever been. He met the eyes of all six men, then slowly settled his gaze on the man who led the Dallas regional base. “Report?” the Judge said.
Dallas, almost as old as the Judge but with a much more robust build, had a full head of silver hair that contrasted with his dark skin. He stood to address the group. “As you know, we lost Dallas One Gold. The operation was not a success, and we do not have the document.”
“We all know that,” said Chicago. “A meaningful report would be nice, something of substance. For example, why and how did this out-of-shape professor escape with the document and take out one of our men? Maybe Dallas Base isn’t equipped to deal with—”
Dallas half turned in anger. “That’s enough! Sometimes an amateur can be very dangerous. We can’t plan for every contingency. My men were up to the task. There were simply variables we didn’t foresee.”
“Such as?”
“Such as, Journey did not leave the document in his office.”
“Would you just leave it lying around in a college office?” This from Washington Four.
“Certainly not,” Dallas said. “But we can’t predict an amateur—”
“Journey has read it,” Washington Two said. “He has to know what it means, even if he’s not talking about it.”
“Not necessarily,” the Judge said, and all the men looked at him. “He’s an academic. He’ll want to be sure it’s authentic. Chances are he doesn’t know what he has, even if he has read it. But we must deal with Professor Journey. We must have the treaty. We will not be viewed as legitimate without it.”
Washington Three was younger than the others, known as a risi
ng star in his own circles. He was wearing an Armani suit and silk tie, and a mildly cynical expression. “Legitimate? Really now, let’s be honest with each other. Nothing we are doing or planning to do is legitimate.”
“Excuse me?” Dallas said.
“Let him speak,” the Judge said.
“We shouldn’t delude ourselves,” Washington Three said. “Yes, we are right. Yes, we know what needs to be done and have plans to do it. But we aren’t going to be viewed as legitimate—at least not at first. The ‘document’ … Come on, it’s really just window dressing. I’ve never understood the obsession with finding it.” He looked around the room at each of the men, finally meeting the Judge’s eyes again. “The Glory Warriors have been around since long before any of us here were born, right? There have been hundreds of times that the group could have moved into action—should have moved into action, in fact—but didn’t, because the all-important document hadn’t been found. It’s a crutch, and frankly, I’m tired of leaning on it.”
There was a moment’s silence. The Judge’s antique clock, on a Louis XIV table behind his desk, chimed the quarter hour.
“You make your point as eloquently as ever,” the Judge said.
“He’s full of shit,” Chicago said.
“And you have made your voice heard as well,” the Judge said, looking at Chicago, then back to Washington Three. “We love our country. That is why we’re here.”
“No, it isn’t,” Washington Three said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“We’re here because we want to be in power. We want to run things the way they should be run, and no one else is willing to do that.”
“Because of love of country,” Dallas said, “and what it stands for. Maybe you’re too young to fully grasp—”
The Judge cut him off. “No. He has his contributions to make, his role to play, or the Glory Warriors would not have recruited him. Perhaps his motivation isn’t clear.” He stared hard across the desk at Washington Three. “Be that as it may, don’t ignore the historical significance of what we are. We must have the rule of law. That is why we must have the treaty, in its entirety, because it gives us the rule of law, the authority to do what has to be done.”
“Does it?” Washington Three said. “I mean, really, does it?”
The Judge looked at the younger man, and for a moment saw himself more than five decades earlier, asking his father the same question. He could feel his father’s rage at being questioned. The anger rolled off him in waves.
“The treaty is real,” his father had said. “Never doubt that! And never doubt that it will transform America, and it’s my responsibility to lead. Mine! You can’t possibly understand the responsibility I have.”
“Maybe not,” he’d said, “but I do understand that you couldn’t care less about Mother or me, or anyone or anything else. You never ask me how things are at school. You leave for months at a time, and when you do come back, it’s all Glory Warriors and this Lee and Grant nonsense. Did you know that I won the state chess tournament? Would you care if you knew? That treaty is nothing.… I don’t think it exists. I think you’ve built it up—”
And then his father had hit him. With lightning-fast reflex, he crashed a fist into the side of his son’s face. The young man teetered but stayed on his feet, so shocked he couldn’t react. His father hit him again in the same place, harder. His legs buckled and he fell.
“Never question me again,” his father said, and walked away, leaving him on the ground.
And he never did.
The Judge looked at Washington Three again. All the others were staring at him. He cleared his throat. “The American people will accept it,” he said, “if it’s in black-and-white, and if they’re told enough times. As you know, I’m in a position to influence public opinion. A document—something they can see, something tangible—will move them. Think about it.… This country wasn’t real until there were documents: the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution. Deeply flawed documents, and by no means unanimously popular when they were created. But the people have a love affair with official papers. My father knew it; his father knew it. Grant and Lee knew it.” He folded his hands together. “Oh, yes. It gives us all the authority we need. When the people see it—and I will make sure they see it—they will understand.”
Washington Three held up his hands in mock surrender. “Look, I know I’m younger than everyone else here. Okay, fine. You guys have been living for the moment that damned treaty comes to light. So now it’s come to light. I’m not going to argue the point. If it’s what we need to have to make this country right again, fine. We go get the treaty from this professor, yes?”
“Yes, and no more slipups,” Chicago said.
“But perhaps we should take a little time to reflect on the lessons of the operation in Oklahoma,” the Judge said.
Dallas slowly turned to face the Judge.
“Let’s say we don’t have to forcibly take it from Professor Journey,” the Judge said. “Let’s pay attention to the good professor. He may give us an opportunity.” He nodded at Dallas. “Stay with him. We’ll get it, one way or another.”
Washington One cleared his throat. He was a man of few words, and when he spoke, he commanded immediate respect from all who heard him, whether in this room or at the highest levels of “official” Washington. “Historically, we know what has to happen. It’s been passed down to the Glory Warriors now from those who came before us. Before we have the treaty, before we go public, before we must have the treaty … can’t we take the first steps?”
The Judge smiled, looking in Chicago’s direction. Then he turned and walked back to the window that looked down from the West Virginia mountains. “We already are,” he said.
CHAPTER
8
On a typical warm September Saturday morning, Journey might take Andrew out for a drive in the countryside around Lake Texoma. Being in the car seemed to soothe Andrew—something about its rhythm slowed his sensory overload, and he would quietly watch out the window, attending to whatever slipped by, be it trees, the waters of the lake itself, other cars. Journey would keep up a commentary from time to time about nothing in particular—counting the number of blue jays and cardinals they saw, picking a color of car and pointing to every one of that color they passed, mentioning the names of people who lived along the road. And then at times it was silent, with just the rhythm of the road all that was spoken between them.
Journey missed the drive, but it was no ordinary Saturday. A few pebbles of glass had pricked his face when the assassin shot out the police car’s windshield. None was especially serious, but one hunk scratched his neck and required a bandage—he was still wearing it.
There had been more reporters and more police. His department chair called and said his classes were covered for the rest of the week. He talked to Officer Parsons’s mother on the phone—the kid had been on the job at SCCO for only five months, his first law enforcement job. His two older brothers were both deputies with the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department, and young Pete’s ultimate ambition had been to join them there. Journey wasn’t sure what to tell the woman, other than her twenty-two-year-old son died doing his job.
Journey slept poorly, still seeing the gunman, hearing the shots, watching as young Pete Parsons toppled toward him, remembering nothing between the shot that killed Parsons and the police car skidding off the wall, the gunman’s limp body sliding to the ground.
He remembered his hand touching the pin and the split-second decision, pulling the pin off the man who had tried to kill him.
G.W.
The two pins, one taken from the ground, one from the gunman, were identical in shape. The only difference was a barely perceptible variation in the shape of the letters. The pin that had come from Fort Washita was a bit more ornate in its engraving, the letters having an Old English look.
G.W.
Journey tapped each of the pins against the side of the desk in th
e corner of his living room. Andrew looked over at him, made eye contact for a fleeting second, then looked quickly back down to the puzzle he was working. Journey ran his hands over the pins.
He hadn’t told the police about the pins, and he wasn’t sure why.
Because I don’t understand them, that’s why.
Could giving the police the pins have helped them figure out who the two men were at Cullen Hall? So far, the man he’d run down hadn’t been identified. There was no trace of the gun he’d used in any records. The local cops seemed unsure what to do next.
They’d asked him about the document. He told them it was safe. They asked him for it. He declined. Legally he wasn’t compelled to turn it over. Victims of attempted burglaries aren’t required by law to turn over the property that they think the burglars were trying to take, are they? he’d asked the Carpenter Center police chief.
I don’t think this is an ordinary burglary, Dr. Journey, the chief had said.
Journey had just stared at him, and eventually the man went away. The police had an officer cruise by his house several times a day. Perhaps it was their version of offering protection. Or maybe they were checking up on him.
The doorbell sounded.
Sandra stood on the porch in the bright morning sunshine, wearing running shorts and a UCLA T-shirt. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” Journey said.
They looked at each other for half a minute.
“Are you going to invite me in?”
“Oh,” Journey said. “Sure, come on in.”
Sandra moved with easy grace and came inside. “Hi, Andrew,” she said. He didn’t acknowledge her. Sandra sat on the couch and crossed her long legs. “First thing is this: I’m about to ask you a question. Being a question, it requires an answer.”
“What?”
“How are you? That’s a question, not just a greeting that someone says and then goes on without listening. So tell me how you are.”
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