“Sorry, Pat,” Tolman said. “I need you to do closet duty. But I will buy you a case of Glenlivet tomorrow, and I’ll buy a steak dinner for you and Jeannie at the most expensive place you can find.”
Moore positioned himself in the closet at the top of the stairs, wedging in behind the door. It was hanging partway off its hinges, but he arranged his body so he was out of sight from the stairs.
Tolman picked up the rifle, withdrew the magazine, and placed the unloaded weapon in the same position on the floor. Then he backed into what had once been a bathroom. The toilet, which was painted a surreal blue, was still in the room, turned on its side. There was no sink, but a cracked mirror still hung over the spot where a sink should have been.
Come on, Ray Tolman thought. Come on and get it.
He settled in to wait.
* * *
Less than two miles from the coffee shop where Ray Tolman and Pat Moore had talked, Washington One sat in his home office and studied the multiple webcam feeds from the different bases. He had told his driver that he would be away from his “real” office all day and that he was not to be disturbed for anything short of a national emergency.
The thought almost made him smile. National emergency, indeed.
By the end of the day, the operation would be in progress. In a few hours, the old government’s culture of corruption would end and the Glory Warriors would be in control.
They were trained, they were equipped, they were ready. In the Blue Ridge, near Waynesboro, the heavy equipment was preparing to roll. At the bases in Silver Spring, Rockville, Arlington, and Alexandria, the choppers were fueled. The troops were on standby—in a few hours, he would formally activate them, and they would stand ready to deploy into the capital as soon as President James Harwell was dead.
Today was the day.
CHAPTER
55
Tolman and Journey drove to downtown Carpenter Center, to Texoma Plaza with its memorial park in the center of the square and ring of small businesses surrounding it. They parked in front of Colbert’s Fine Jewelers, and Journey raced inside. The little silver bell over the doorway tinkled.
Just like the first time he’d been here, the young man with the mixed-blood features was behind the counter. “Help you?” he said.
“Is Marvin here today?”
“Uncle!” the boy yelled, and disappeared into the back of the store.
In a moment, Marvin Colbert came into the showroom. “You’re back,” he said.
“Yes,” Journey said.
“I wondered when you’d come back,” Colbert said. “Where’s your boy?”
“He’s in school.”
“He like that little ball I gave him?”
Journey remembered the rush of air on Andrew’s face. “He loves it.” He leaned on the counter, Tolman standing just behind him. “You know what G.W. is on those pins I asked you about?”
Colbert sat heavily onto a stool. “No, sir, I don’t.”
“When I sat them in front of you, you got this look on your face like you recognized them. I couldn’t quite place it, couldn’t remember what was bothering me about that day, and then I figured it out. You know about G.W.”
“I know about G.W. I don’t know what the letters stand for.”
Journey spread his hands apart. “Why didn’t you say something that day?”
Colbert’s face was stone. “You didn’t ask.”
Journey felt anger rising; then he realized the old man wasn’t being sarcastic. “But what—?”
“I never answer questions that aren’t asked,” Colbert said. “There’s only trouble when you give the answer before the question. Learned that the hard way a few times.”
“G.W,” Journey said. “It’s at Fort Washita, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“But you’ve never known what the letters mean?”
“No.”
“Where is it?”
“In the Chickasaw section, on the west side by the wall.”
Journey tried to envision the place. Before the discovery of the guns and the document, he’d been to Fort Washita only twice since moving to Oklahoma. It was a state historic site, but overall it didn’t have much relevance to his work. He’d gone once for his own curiosity, and once to take Andrew.
U.S. soldiers who had been posted to Fort Washita, and who had died there—usually from disease or injury, since there was no real fighting near the fort—were buried in the post cemetery, but later reinterred at the Fort Gibson National Cemetery, several hours’ drive northeast. Segregated even in death, there was a Confederate cemetery with two hundred unmarked graves at the far west end of the fort. What remained in the post cemetery were a few scattered civilians from the area. Journey closed his eyes.
He snapped them open. “The Colbert family plot. You have a section out there.”
“Those are all more recent graves,” Colbert said. “You want the old Chickasaw burial ground, outside the Colbert plot.”
“But I don’t—” He remembered walking over the site the day the guns were discovered. A white picket fence surrounded the cemetery. He’d looked at a few of the old markers, some with splotches of yellow across them. Many children from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were buried there. The epitaph on one of them had struck him: A LITTLE FLOWER OF LOVE THAT BLOSSOMED BUT TO DIE.
Outside the white picket fence of the main cemetery was a low rock wall with a small opening that led into it, and a gray granite marker:
CHICKASAW INDIAN BURIAL GROUND—“KNOWN BUT TO GOD.”
“But there were no markers,” Journey said.
“The old Chickasaw didn’t believe in grave markers,” Colbert said. “Most of them were buried under their houses. But for the ones who did get buried in a common ground, they weren’t marked until way up in the twentieth century.”
Journey strained for the memory. It was just a small rectangular section of ground, covered in grass. It was unbroken by …
“Right along the wall,” he said. “A little stone slab.”
Colbert nodded.
“Do you know who he was?” Journey said. His heart was hammering. “Did your family know him?”
“He must have been a white man, since they gave him a marker. But whoever buried him there, they let him lie with the Chickasaw people. Other than that, I don’t know. Maybe some of the elders did, but they never told me.”
“I know who it is,” Journey said.
Colbert nodded, waiting.
“Who owns that part of the land now?” Journey said. “It’s within the fort, so—”
“Historical Society.”
Journey was nodding. “Yes. Yes, that’s it.” He looked at Tolman. “It’s time for you to use a little of that federal government influence.” He looked back to Colbert. “We need to do some digging out there.”
Colbert folded his arms.
“People have died because of this,” Journey said.
“Because of those pins,” Colbert said. It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes. And I think a lot more people could die if we don’t do something.”
Colbert was silent for another long, long moment. “We’ll keep it in the family,” he finally said. “One of my great-nephews can help you. I’ll give you his number. Just one thing…” Journey looked at him. “Leave the Chickasaw alone. Do what you have to do, but don’t disturb anything outside that one little corner.”
“I won’t. His name—the man’s name was Samuel Benjamin Williams.”
“Then why G.W.?” Colbert said.
“He was the first Glory Warrior,” Journey said, and ran out of the jewelry store, Colbert staring after him.
On the sidewalk, Tolman said, “Williams is buried here?”
“Think about it,” Journey said. “This is the last place we know for sure he was alive. He was in Appomattox on April ninth, 1865. He rode to Louisville and hid the page in his bank vault. Then he came here to do the same w
ith the front page.”
“What if he came here first and then Louisville?”
“That wouldn’t make sense,” Journey said. “He moved steadily west. Virginia to Kentucky to Indian Territory. In fact, I was thinking today that the route we took from Louisville, down across Arkansas and into Oklahoma, is probably pretty close to what Williams did. This is where the trail ended. We didn’t know what happened to him.”
“We still don’t,” Tolman pointed out.
“No, but he died here,” Journey said, “and I’m willing to bet it wasn’t from old age.”
“And one of the Chickasaw buried him. But why—?”
“I think we’re going to find out in a few hours.” Journey pointed at her. “Call and make sure it’s legal for us to dig. Colbert’s nephew will do the work for us.”
“Dig? Whoa, what … you want to dig up Williams’s body?”
“We have to.”
“Jesus, Journey … wait a minute. You think the signature page is buried with Williams? Holy shit, he kept it with him the whole time?”
Journey pointed at Tolman’s cell phone. “Start calling.”
“What are you going to do?”
He was already on his own phone. In a moment, a voice answered, “Marshall County Sheriff’s Office.”
“This is Nick Journey,” he said. “I’d like to speak to Deputy Parsons.”
“Which one?” the voice drawled. “We’ve got two of them.”
“Whichever one is available.”
“This is Ricky Parsons,” a voice said a few seconds later.
“Deputy Parsons, it’s Nick Journey. Do you remember me?”
“Of course I do, Professor. My little brother got killed trying to protect you.”
Journey flinched. “In a few hours, you can have the rest of the people responsible for his death.”
There was a long pause; then Ricky Parsons said, “I’m listening.”
CHAPTER
56
The Judge’s jet landed at the Ardmore Airpark at just past noon, piloted by Baltimore Five Bronze. The Judge and Hudson talked little on the flight, other than a terse discussion about what ultimately must be done about Nick Journey and Meg Tolman. Mostly the Judge talked and Hudson was silent.
A white Suburban from Dallas Base waited for them at the small airport, Dallas Three Bronze at the wheel. As the Judge settled into the passenger seat, Hudson bending his huge frame into the second row, the Judge was breathing heavily.
“Sir?” Bronze said. “Are you all right?”
The Judge touched his chest, felt the fluttery beats there. “Air travel doesn’t agree with me these days.” He gestured at the driver. “You should have the directions. Take us where we need to go.”
He sat back against the seat, thinking of the speeches he’d given in his life: orders to troops as a young officer in Vietnam, closing arguments and sentencing statements as a military lawyer and judge, campaign speeches, addresses to shareholders. Nothing could compare to the speech he would give very soon. He went through it in his mind: My fellow Americans, I join you in mourning the tragedies that have befallen our beloved country in recent times. But out of these tragedies, we will emerge stronger than ever with new directions and a new purpose.…
“It’s in your hands now. Don’t fail.”
“I won’t,” the Judge said, and he didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud.
Bronze drove out of the airport and headed east from Ardmore. Hudson was silent, staring at the Judge from the backseat.
* * *
Tolman took three Tylenol for the ache in the back of her head and slid behind the wheel of the Dakota again. She drove as Journey directed, through Carpenter Center to US 70 into Madill, then east on Oklahoma 199. The gently rolling country was mostly cattle pastureland, dotted with the occasional oil well.
Journey looked into the side mirror and saw the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department patrol unit behind them, and the unmarked Ford pickup truck following it. The Parsons brothers had made a couple of calls themselves after Journey talked to them.
After they crossed the Washita River, the sheriff’s unit passed the Dakota, then slowed and turned left from the highway into a grassy driveway that led to a ranch gate.
Ricky Parsons, the oldest of the brothers, jumped out of his patrol car, opened the gate, and drove through, letting the other two vehicles pull off the road before Scott Parsons, in the Ford truck, closed it behind them. Ricky Parsons got out of his car and walked back to the Dakota.
Journey looked out at him. He was an older version of Pete Parsons, and Journey couldn’t look at him without thinking of the young campus cop, body toppling toward him, blood spattering his clothes. They were both—all three, in fact—tall and lean with light brown hair and dark, hungry eyes.
“We’ll have to walk in from here,” Ricky Parsons said. His eyes moved to Tolman. “Ma’am, you might want to stay with the cars.”
“Not on your life,” Tolman said. “And don’t call me ma’am.”
“I don’t know if I can guarantee your safety.”
“I’ll guarantee my own safety.”
Parsons shrugged, looking in the window. “That foot of yours okay to walk in?” he said to Journey.
“Oh, yes,” Journey said. “I can walk. Does your office know where you are?”
“I’m investigating an anonymous tip. Scotty’s off-duty, and the other boys happened along while they were going fishing.”
Two more men in their late twenties got out of the Ford. Both had handguns. The Parsons brothers each had Mossberg 590 riot shotguns and sidearms.
“Let’s go fishing,” Journey said, and they began walking east through the pastureland toward Fort Washita.
* * *
When the Dallas One team arrived at Fort Washita, they pulled the SUV to the side of the road and gazed across the highway. The old guardhouse that served as an entry to the historic site stood on a rock base, with a raised wooden “crow’s nest” enclosure atop it. The enclosure was small, with enough space to admit three adult men, topped by a pointed roof. A sign on the rock front read FORT WASHITA—1842.
A low gate blocked the driveway. On the east side of the entry, a short section of rock wall gave way to wooden fencing, sloping down to wire fence beyond that. Silver—Kevin Lane—saw instantly that security was not a major concern at the old fort. There was enough space on the far side of the guardhouse for a man to slip through.
“On foot,” Gold said.
Silver checked the load in the H&K pistol at his side, the same one he’d had the night Gold was killed at South Central College. He wasn’t carrying a rifle. He intended to get close enough to Nick Journey to see the man’s face when he killed him.
* * *
“We’re early,” Hudson said as the Suburban coasted to a stop. Just in front of them sat another empty SUV with Texas plates.
“We can wait,” the Judge said. “We’ve waited nearly a hundred and fifty years. We can wait another hour or so.”
“Sir,” Hudson said, “I do not like this. I know Meg Tolman, and she thinks somehow she’s going to trap us. It makes no sense for her to dangle the signatures in front of us like this. But she is not a fool, sir. There’s something more happening here.”
“Of course there is. But the fact is that your subordinate put all this together. You aren’t in much of a position to dictate what you do and don’t like.” He swept a hand at the empty vehicle in front of them. “We’re covered here. Professor Journey and young Miss Tolman can pretend they’re in control of this situation, but we both know what’s going to happen.”
“Sir, I think—”
“Do you play chess, Hudson?”
“Sir?”
“Chess. Do you play?”
“No, I don’t have time to—”
“When I was a boy, I won the California state scholastic chess championship. My mother was there when I won. My father didn’t even know for months. He didn’t unders
tand chess, either. I don’t think he ever understood that every action—or inaction—has consequences. But I learned that. I suppose both chess and my father taught me that lesson, in different ways.”
“With all due respect, sir—”
“The way to control the board, Hudson, is to get a pawn into the other player’s territory. Once you do that, the pawn becomes a queen, and of course the queen is the most powerful piece of all and can move anywhere she likes.”
The Judge’s hand went to his chest again, as if he were smoothing his shirt. He looked toward the fort, thinking of the Glory Warriors who were already inside. He leaned forward and tapped the driver’s shoulder. “When we’re finished here, take us back to the plane. We’ll fly to Dallas and I’ll use the HNC studio there to uplink the pages and my speech. By the time Journey and Tolman are finished and I have the signature pages, it will be time.”
My fellow Americans …
* * *
At five minutes before three, Tolman and Journey walked into the main body of the historic site from the west, past the ground that had been broken for the new museum, the place where the weapons and the first page of the document had been found. They passed the Confederate cemetery and the restored cabin of General Douglas Hancock Cooper, the man who had ordered his troops to abandon Fort Washita at the outbreak of the Civil War. The Fort Washita visitors’ center was just beyond the Cooper cabin, a small gray stone building with a chimney at either end. A CLOSED sign hung on the door. Journey was hobbling a bit on his injured foot, and at times leaned on the much shorter Tolman.
They turned left at the visitors’ center, leaving blacktop and turning onto gravel. Ahead, they could see where the road dead-ended at the cemeteries. As they came closer, Journey saw the white picket fence that enclosed the larger cemetery, and the small rock wall surrounding the unmarked graves of the Chickasaw. At the far end of the Chickasaw section was a freshly turned mound of earth. An old wooden-handled shovel leaned against the edge of the rock wall. Marvin Colbert’s nephew had already come and gone.
Journey hobbled around the rock wall. The hole was not deep. The coffin was wooden and very crude. At the side of the hole was the slab of stone with the letters G.W. carved on it.
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