He went back over their background files. DeBacker had once been a state trooper in Nebraska. Delham and Clare were both from California, though from different ends of the state. Both had been in the army. All three men were in their late thirties to early forties.
Tolman felt the burn in his stomach again. The ulcer. He had developed ulcers only since he’d moved inside. Never had them when he’d been in the field. The disadvantages of being a deputy assistant director …
A thought came over him with excruciating slowness. All field agents had regular medical screenings, and were periodically reevaluated for both physical and mental health. Their medical records were part of their individual personnel files.
If someone were living every single day as a deception, sworn to protect the president but knowing that someday they were going to be asked to kill the man they’d sworn to protect, wouldn’t that create a lot of physical stress? Wouldn’t maintaining that kind of façade year after year take a toll on a man? He might have medical issues here and there, telltale signs that could be seen—if someone was looking in the right place.
Tolman dug deeper into the personnel files. In half an hour, he knew that Ron DeBacker was the picture of health, and by all accounts had the body of a man twenty years younger. Timothy Delham had complained of dizziness six and a half years ago, not long after coming to the detail. After a battery of tests that took eight months to complete, he was diagnosed with a strange and rare case of visually induced vertigo. He was given medication for it, and he’d had no medical issues since. Jay Clare was constantly fighting high blood pressure, his cholesterol was borderline, and he’d been diagnosed two years ago with severe sleep apnea. He now slept with a breathing mask every night to deal with the apnea.
Clare.
Tolman remembered bumping into him coming out of the abandoned house, the one that had bothered him so much, on Valley Place yesterday afternoon. Had he seemed in a rush to get away from the deputy assistant director?
Ray Tolman hesitated for a long moment. Meg had said the traitor was within the Service. So he couldn’t talk to anyone inside, because he couldn’t be sure where the traitor was. But she hadn’t said anything about the FBI, and Tolman couldn’t do this alone. He reached for the phone and called his old friend Pat Moore, who was now a midlevel administrator after years as an FBI field agent. He knew Moore would be awake.
“Pat,” he said, “I need your help. I can’t trust anyone in the Service, and the president’s in danger. Call in sick at the office and meet me. Bring your weapon.”
* * *
Meg Tolman slept fitfully and woke early. Amelia Boettcher’s house was large and comfortably appointed—the guest room sported a queen-size brass bed—but even as exhausted as she was, she didn’t rest well. She knew a confrontation was coming in a few hours, the Glory Warriors would be making their move against President Harwell, and she knew she’d have to deal with Hudson’s treason.
She got out of the brass bed and showered in the bathroom with its marble surfaces and high-tech showerhead. When she was dressed, she opened the door to her room and turned the corner toward the stairs. As she put her foot on the top step, she heard a sound behind her.
Her nerves still on edge, she froze, her hand instinctively going to her hip. But the SIG Darrell Sharp had given her was back in her room, in her overnight bag. She swiveled her head and saw the boy coming out of the bedroom.
He was a big kid, with brown hair and very large eyes. He was wearing a blue and gold SCCO T-shirt that was too big for him, and loose gray sweatpants. The pants were soaked around his groin area. She caught the strong ammonia smell and had to fight the reflex to gag.
The boy looked just like his mother. His fingers were making unusual motions, the thumb wrapped around the index finger below the knuckle, the index finger almost touching the palm, waggling back and forth. Andrew’s eyes found her.
She met those big eyes, and in a very soft voice Tolman said, “Hi.”
He looked at her for what seemed like a very long moment; then his eyes flicked away as if he hadn’t seen her at all.
Journey appeared at the bottom of the stairs, still in his clothes from last night, and said, “I heard—”
He stopped, looking at both Tolman and Andrew.
“I hope I didn’t wake him up,” Tolman said.
“He’s sensitive to when someone else is moving around,” Journey said. “He usually wakes up as soon as someone else in the house gets up.” His eyes moved back to his son. “Good morning, Andrew.”
The boy looked away and whistled.
“Andrew,” Journey said.
Andrew cocked his head away from his father’s voice.
“Andrew, good morning.”
Tolman looked back and forth, and she was amazed at how level Journey kept his voice, even after the third try. When the boy stuck out his hand in a karate-chop gesture and looked for a brief moment toward the bottom of the stairs, Journey smiled and said, “I sure missed you. Come on, I’ll get you changed. I don’t know where your mom keeps your things, but I bet we can find them.”
He started up the stairs. Tolman stood aside to let him pass.
“Good-looking kid,” she said, and didn’t know what else to say.
“Thanks,” Journey said. “Maybe you could find some coffee downstairs. I don’t know where Amelia keeps it.”
“I’ll find it.”
Journey took his son by the hand and steered him back toward his room. “Did you sleep?” he said over his shoulder.
“Not much,” Tolman said. “You?”
“I remember sleep as being a good thing. When this is all over—”
“Yeah,” Tolman said; then they had disappeared into Andrew’s room and the moment was gone.
Half an hour later, Andrew was dressed, and his father had showered and was on the phone with his friend at the Oklahoma Historical Society.
“Bob, it’s Nick Journey.”
“Nick? Do you know what time it is?”
“It’s early, but I was hoping you’d be up.”
“I am up, but why on earth are you calling me at six thirty in the morning?”
“You need to close Fort Washita to the public today.”
There was a long silence.
“Bob? Did you hear me?”
“Yes, I did. You know I can’t just close a state historic site for no apparent reason.”
“Bob, get on the phone with your superintendent at Fort Washita and keep it closed today.”
“Why?”
“Because someone could get hurt.”
Another long silence.
“I know this has to do with the guns and the document, but what aren’t you telling me?”
Journey almost laughed. “A lot. Trust me, there’s a lot I’m not telling you. We can’t have stray people around there today.”
“Well, Nick, tourist season is over. We probably wouldn’t have big crowds down there today anyway. I can have the on-site people close the front gate, but you know what the layout is there. If someone really wants to get in, they can still get in, and there’s access from some of the adjoining private properties.”
“I know. In fact, I’m counting on it.”
* * *
Amelia Boettcher didn’t get up until seven thirty, and seemed surprised to see the other three dressed and ready to leave.
“Thanks for keeping him,” Journey said to her, and it struck Tolman as a very formal thing to say, the sort of thing one would say to a neighbor or casual friend who’d stayed with a child, but not to the child’s other parent.
Amelia nodded, running her fingers through her hair. “Sure. We can just take these days out of next year’s June time, okay?”
Journey was silent, working a muscle in his jaw. “Okay.”
Amelia knelt by Andrew and touched his arm. “See you later, honey. Don’t give your dad too much trouble.”
Journey held out Andrew’s backpack to the boy and said, “
Okay, Andrew, time to go.”
Andrew grabbed on to his mother’s arm and stepped away from his father.
“No, Andrew,” Amelia said, “it’s time to go with your dad. Time to go back home. I bet you’re ready to go back to school, get back to your schedule, right?”
Andrew angled his body so his mother was between his father and him, never letting go of Amelia’s arm.
Journey sighed. “You’ll need to walk him out to the car with us, Amelia, or he won’t go.”
“I’m not dressed.”
“We need to go. Andrew, come on, son, your mom will walk out with us.” Tolman thought Journey’s voice had a weary, seen-it-all-before quality.
They walked to the curb where Tolman had parked the Dakota. “Is there room for him in there?” Amelia said.
“He can ride between us,” Tolman said. “It may be a little tight, but he’ll fit.”
Amelia looked at her as if she’d spoken out of turn, a look that Tolman recognized, a look that only a woman will give another woman when she feels threatened.
Tolman shook her head. “Let’s go.”
In five minutes, they were away from the curb. In ten, they were back on the highway. Andrew sat between Tolman and his father. He was very quiet, as if he sensed something different about his father.
For the two-and-a-half-hour drive from Oklahoma City to Carpenter Center, Andrew did not whistle or laugh or scream. He made a few small sounds in the back of his throat, and spent most of his time looking from his father to Tolman and back again.
CHAPTER
54
They turned off U.S. 70 and rolled into Carpenter Center at a few minutes past ten in the morning. The carved limestone sign at the city limits read: CARPENTER CENTER, OKLAHOMA, HOME OF LAKE TEXOMA, SOUTH CENTRAL COLLEGE OF OKLAHOMA AND A GREAT QUALITY OF LIFE!
“So this is where you live,” Tolman said, behind the wheel.
“This is where I live,” Journey said.
She looked at the trees, the abundant greenery, the businesses that served both the college community and the tourism trade. “Nice enough little town, I guess.”
“It’s not Washington, D.C.,” Journey said, “but it’s my home.”
Andrew grew animated and vocal as he began to recognize familiar sights. Tolman felt him moving in the seat next to her, saw his hands begin to flap, as if he were patting the air. Journey gave her directions and she passed through SCCO’s main gate, followed a driveway around, and parked in the lot just off the common. They walked to Cullen Hall and took the elevator to the second floor, Andrew holding on to his father’s hand.
Tolman hung back a few steps as Journey was bombarded with colleagues and students, all talking at the same time. Journey deflected as much of the attention as he could, talking on autopilot—I’m fine. It’s a long story. I’ll explain when I can. Have you seen Dr. Kelly? No, my foot’s not broken, only sprained—and searching for Sandra’s red hair in the throng.
He saw her standing a little way back, in the doorway to her office, and he extricated himself from the crowd and made his way to her, still holding Andrew’s hand. She was wearing black slacks, a pale burgundy blouse, and the little silver cross around her neck.
“Hi,” Journey said.
Sandra smiled. “That’s a lousy opening line.” She looked down at Andrew and waved her hand. “Hey, Andrew.” The boy jabbed a flat hand in her direction, and the smile broadened. “He’s okay. I was worried when his mother told me she thought people were watching her house. You got to the message board?”
Journey nodded. “‘Radical Redhead.’ Thanks.”
Sandra’s eyes flickered over Journey’s shoulder. “You must be the investigator from Washington.”
Tolman extended her right hand. “Meg Tolman.”
“Sandra Kelly.” The two women shook hands.
“Nick speaks highly of you,” Tolman said.
The small smile again. “I’m surprised he speaks of me at all.”
Journey looked uncomfortable. Andrew squirmed beside him. “Sandra, did you get the fax?”
“It’s in my office. I can tell it’s related to the Fort Washita page, but there should be something in between. Did The Poet’s Penn show you what it needed to show you?”
“Yes, and a whole lot more.”
“What happened to your foot?”
“I went for an unexpected swim in the Ohio River.”
“Ah. I’ll just get that fax.” She disappeared into the office and came back with the paper. When she handed it to Journey, he caught a bit of her scent—not heavy or perfumed, but clean and fresh and forgiving. “Where are you going now?”
“There’s one more thing we have to do today,” Journey said, reading the page. Unbelievable, he thought. This sat in J. T. Webster’s grandmother’s scrapbook for years and years, with no clue as to how it fit in with a much, much larger picture. Journey looked down at his son, who was scanning the hallway and shuffling his feet. He had let go of his father’s hand and was holding Journey by the elbow.
“And I need your help one more time,” Journey said. He looked into Sandra’s green eyes and saw only openness and concern. He swallowed hard. “Will you take Andrew to school, and then pick him up at three and stay with him for a while, just until I get back?”
The moment was long and excruciating, and Journey saw the doubt in Sandra’s eyes; then the eyes softened into recognition of what had just happened.
“Yes,” she said. “I can do that for you.” Her voice was a little uncertain.
“If it’s not—”
“I’ll do it. But it would probably be best if I could take him to his own home. He doesn’t know my house.”
Journey felt in his pocket, then laughed.
“What?” Sandra said. She looked at Tolman. “Why is he laughing?”
“The absurdity of it,” Journey said. “House keys and school schedules, in the midst of all this.”
“And his keys are at the bottom of the Ohio River,” Tolman said.
Sandra smiled. “That must have been quite a swim. I believe, from the sound of this, that you’re going to owe me at least two salads at Uncle Charley’s. Big ones.”
“I believe you’re right,” Journey said. “And cheesecake for dessert. I left my spare key with Sarah Brandes. She’s a student, special ed major, and she sits with Andrew from time to time. She lives on campus, in East Hall.”
“I’ll look her up in the student directory.”
“I’ll call the school and let them know you’re cleared to pick him up.”
“Okay,” Sandra said.
“Okay,” Journey said.
Journey held his hand, palm out, toward his son, and Andrew hesitated a moment, then laced his fingers into his father’s. Then he watched as Sandra took Andrew by the hand and led him toward the stairs. They were out of earshot, but he could see that Sandra was talking to Andrew in a soft voice.
Journey turned to Tolman. “Let’s finish this,” he said.
* * *
“Ray, are you crazy?” Pat Moore asked. “Has being inside gotten to your brain or what?”
They were having coffee in a Starbucks near Moore’s house in Arlington. Moore was not a tall man, and Ray Tolman saw that he’d developed a bit of a gut since he’d last seen Moore a couple of years ago. Even though not on duty, Moore wore the FBI uniform of white shirt, dark suit, and red tie.
“No, I’m not crazy. No, I can’t give you the source of the information. But I trust the source absolutely. A move is going to be made against the president today, and it’s going to come from within the Service.”
Moore put down his coffee cup. “Ray, you need to take this up the ladder within your own department. You know better than anyone that there are procedures—”
“Screw the procedures, Pat. The job of the Service is to protect the president, and that’s what this all comes down to. I have credible information, and that information points to someone inside.”
Moore sat back, rubbing his chin. “Vandermeer, Darlington, and Harwell. I know you’re not going to tell me these are all related.”
“Pat, I need a man I can trust to cover me.”
The two men, career field agents in their late fifties, each now an administrator, looked across the table at each other. “What do you propose?”
“We need to catch this guy at the site so that there’s no mistaking who he is and what his intentions are. Since he’s inside the Service, he’s had access. He could go wherever he wanted and do whatever kind of prep work for what he’s planning, and no one would question him.”
“Yeah, I understand that,” Moore said.
“This guy is very, very smart,” Ray Tolman said. “He’s been able to stay undercover for a long time.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his suit coat. “But he’s also arrogant.”
Moore nodded toward the paper.
“The duty roster for the president’s event in Anacostia this afternoon,” Tolman said. “There were a couple of changes late last night.”
“But with your position now, you get updates. Damned if there’s not some advantage to being on a desk.”
“And our boy isn’t quite as smart as he thinks he is.”
The D.C. traffic was bad as always, and it took over half an hour to get across the bridge to Anacostia. By the time Tolman’s Crown Vic turned onto Valley Place, the D.C. police were already out in force, and the Service began filtering in. In a few hours, there would be people on rooftops, people in the trees, people out of sight all around the area.
Tolman’s supervisory ID got him past the perimeter, and he parked the Crown Vic just inside the roadblock. He and Moore walked to the house that had concerned him, the forlorn one with the FOR SALE BY OWNER sign tacked to the front porch.
They went in the house, smelling the dampness and the old cigarette smoke and fried food and the deadness of a place that hadn’t been inhabited for a while. Within sixty seconds, they’d discovered the rifle on the floor beside the open window.
Yeah, he’s a smart son of a bitch, Tolman thought. But I’m smarter than he is.
He looked at the duty roster again, at the event assignments for the day. Things were never what they seemed to be on first glance, he thought.
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