“Okay,” she said. “I’ll come. But I need to gather a few things. I need, like, five minutes.”
“You can have two,” Jonathan said.
As Becky turned and headed toward the bedroom, Jonathan followed.
She stopped and turned. “Where are you going?”
“With you,” he said. He didn’t tell her about his concern that she might call 911, or that she might pull a weapon out of a nightstand drawer. Instead, he said, “Trust is a two-way street. I earned mine a few minutes ago. It’s your turn.”
Jonathan ended up granting Becky six minutes to gather her meds and makeup and a few pairs of shoes and other clothing, which she tossed into a small suitcase. Returning to the living room, Jonathan noted with some amusement that Boxers and David were standing farther apart than they were before. Being afraid of Big Guy was never a bad idea.
“Do you both know what a blood oath is?” Jonathan asked.
Their faces donned identical scowls, and they cocked their heads like curious puppies, David to the right and Becky to the left.
“I need a response.”
“Like a pinky swear with attitude?” Becky offered.
Boxers rolled his eyes.
“With extreme attitude,” Jonathan corrected. “It means a solemn promise for which the penalty for violation is death.”
Boxers seemed to swell at the notion. The kids both shrunk a little.
“What are you suggesting?” David asked.
“I’m suggesting that from this point forward, you will see things and hear things that you have no right to see or hear. As reporters, you have a genetic desire to share this kind of stuff with other people. I need a blood oath from each of you that that will never happen. I want you to understand that if Big Guy or I ever see in writing anything that remotely resembles the truth, we will be very, very unhappy. That means you will be extraordinarily very unhappy.” He gave it a couple of seconds to sink in. “I’m not being too cryptic, am I?”
“You’re saying you’ll kill us if we ever report what we’re about to see,” David said.
“I certainly reserve the right,” Jonathan said. “Whether I exercise it or not should be a source of sleepless nights for the rest of your lives if you betray me.”
“Who
are
you people?” Becky asked. “I don’t believe for a moment that you’re the police.”
“If I were the police, your buddy David would be on his way to a life term in the hoosegow,” Jonathan said. “Take comfort in the fact that we’re good guys and let it go. I still need to hear you swear the oath.”
It took a while, as it should.
Probably the better part of a minute as they searched their souls and consciences to decide what they could live with.
David went first. “Okay,” he said. “I swear that I will never write about what I see.”
That was a relief. It saved Jonathan the effort of blindfolding him for the trip out to Fisherman’s Cove. People hated blindfolds.
“I don’t think this is fair,” Becky said. “I feel coerced. But if it’s the only way for me to be safe, I guess I—”
Boxers held up his hand. “Be careful now, young lady,” he said. His voice had taken on a tone that rumbled the parquet floors. “Don’t say anything you don’t mean. Once the words are out, they can’t be withdrawn.”
She hesitated, her mouth slightly agape. “Okay,” she said. “I swear that I will never write about what lies ahead.”
“Okay, then,” Jonathan said quickly. He didn’t want a morose pall to cloud a clear victory. “Let’s get moving.” He pointed toward the door. “You follow Big Guy here.”
They both bristled. No one looked forward to alone time with Boxers.
“I’ll be along in a minute,” Jonathan assured. “I just need to make a phone call about our friends here.” He tossed a glance toward the sleeping attackers. “Don’t worry about Big Guy. He’s just a big ol’ puppy dog.”
To emphasize the point, Boxers growled.
On the way out the door, Becky slapped David in the arm, apparently just for good measure.
When he was alone in the apartment, Jonathan dialed Wolverine’s number from memory. She answered on the third ring.
“I have another cleanup job for you,” he said.
C
HAPTER
T
WELVE
A
fter Jonathan separated from the army, he’d deeded his boyhood mansion to Saint Kate’s Catholic Church to become Resurrection House, with only one restriction: that Venice and her family would have a home there for as long as they wanted. Venice’s mother, known to the world simply as Mama Alexander, had been the family’s lead housekeeper, and a surrogate mother to Jonathan after his real mom died when he was little. These days, Mama served as surrogate mother to the dozens of children who lived in the dorms at Rez House.
Venice and JoeDog were waiting for Jonathan and his team under the porte cochere in the rear of the mansion as they parked.
“Where is this place?” David Kirk asked as he climbed out of the Batmobile into the night.
“A place where you have a low likelihood of being murdered tonight,” Jonathan answered. The kid had talked so incessantly during the ride in that Jonathan felt confident that David wouldn’t be able to retrace his steps. Becky was another matter, however. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d found a way to count wheel rotations.
Jonathan led them through the center hall from the back door to the stairs that led to the basement. The rooms down here were spacious yet imposing. They would have been perfectly acceptable as English-basement apartments.
“I’m sort of claustrophobic,” David said. “You’re not going to lock us in, are you?”
“Separately,” Jonathan said. “One to a room. Note that you’ve got a window and a bathroom. And somewhere around seven hundred square feet. We’re not talking Rikers Island. Make do.”
The four of them—David, Becky, Boxers, and Jonathan—stood in a clump in the hallway. Jonathan made a sweeping motion with his arm, ushering David into his assigned space. The kid looked terrified, but he followed directions. When he crossed the threshold, Jonathan closed the door behind him and threw the lock with a twist of an old-fashioned key in an old-fashioned keyhole.
Becky was next. Jonathan walked her three doors down the hall and indicated a door with an open hand. She started to walk through, but Jonathan put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.
“One more time,” Jonathan said. “You are here voluntarily. If you want to walk away, you’re welcome to do so. But there may well come a point where that window of opportunity closes. Think seriously about your options.”
When Becky cocked her head, he saw real beauty that hadn’t been present before. Her luminescent brown eyes seemed especially sharp, and there was something about her one-sided smile that intrigued him. She exuded a level of intelligence that worried him.
“I don’t have any options,” she said. Her tone bordered on incredulity. “My options evaporated the second I let David into my apartment. I guess I’m your prisoner.”
She tried to enter the room again, and Jonathan stopped her again. “No,” he said. “You are not a prisoner. If you even suspect that you are, you need to leave.”
“But if I leave, I’ll be a target.”
“Different thing,” Jonathan said. “Being your preferred option for safety is a world apart from being your jailer. I need to hear you acknowledge that.”
She scowled and cocked her head. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack. I don’t think you understand the reality of your situation,” Jonathan pressed. “Forces are in play that can kill all of us. My colleagues and I have carved a respectable career out of defending good guys against bad guys, but that differentiation—bad versus good—requires a black-and-white split. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“I really don’t,” she said.
Jonathan inhaled deeply through his nose. “None of what has happened to David—and, by extension, to you—makes total sense to anyone yet. All the indications, though, point to a high-level conspiracy that makes all of us nervous.”
“Are you saying—”
“Hush,” Jonathan said. “I’m speaking. You’re listening. You need to choose your camp right now. I represent the good guys, and the men chained up in your apartment represent the bad guys. If you stay here, that whole blood oath thing kicks in. If you betray me, you will suffer. I promise you that at a holy, religious level. You will suffer.”
Color drained from Becky’s cheeks.
“Be frightened,” Jonathan said. “If my life is at stake—and it is—so should yours be at stake. Those are the rules. If you can live with them, you’re welcome to stay. If you can’t, then you’re welcome to leave.”
“How will you trust me if I leave? How do I know that you won’t just shoot me in the back?”
Boxers took that one with his characteristic rumbling laugh. “Honey, if either one of us wanted you dead, it’d be done already and you’d’ve been the last to know.”
Jonathan found the delivery a little harsh, but he didn’t correct him. “I don’t think you want to spend every night for the rest of your life wondering if one of us is coming through your window.”
Tears balanced on Becky’s eyelids. “I
am
frightened,” she said. “I’m freaking scared shitless. I didn’t want any of this in my life.” She paused, as if expecting a different reaction than the one she got the last time she said the same thing. In the end, she said nothing more. She stepped across the threshold and made a point of gazing out the window, her back turned, as Jonathan closed the door.
“You know she’s a problem, right?” Boxers said under his breath.
Jonathan shrugged. “Let’s cut her some slack. It’s been a tough couple of days, and we came on pretty strong.”
Boxers chuckled.
“What?”
“It’s the big brown eyes, isn’t it?” the Big Guy poked. “You’ve always had a soft spot for big brown eyes.”
By the time they walked back down to David’s room, Venice had appeared in the hallway. She stood with her hands on her hips, taking in the surroundings. “I don’t come down here very much,” she said. “It’s like traveling back in time.” Back in the day, hers had been the second room off this hallway, though not for long. By the time of her early teens, she and Mama Alexander had been moved to the mansion’s third floor, from there better to serve the needs of the Gravenow family.
“Thanks for joining us,” Jonathan said. “I wanted us all to hear this story at the same time. Feel free to ask questions as they pop into your head. Use handles only, no real names. And Big Guy?”
Boxers’ forehead wrinkled. He waited for it.
“Try not to scare the kid to death, okay?”
“I’ll spread nothing but love and happiness,” Big Guy said. “Just like always.”
Jonathan slipped the key into the door and turned the lock.
The toothpaste-blue room was set up in the style of a college dorm, with a desk and a chair, and a sofa that folded out to become a bed. Jonathan had no idea how old the decorations or the furnishings were, but they looked dated to him. Neither comfortable nor especially uncomfortable, the sofa felt understuffed, and the desk chair creaked whenever David moved to cross or uncross his legs. They’d moved the young man’s chair to the center of the room so that he could address his questioners all at once. Boxers sat awkwardly on the edge of the desk while Venice occupied the cushion next to Jonathan on the sofa.
David Kirk told his story quickly and emphatically, relaying details of his conversations with DeShawn Lincoln and of his initial encounter with the men that Jonathan and Boxers had so recently dispatched.
Jonathan worked hard to poke holes in David’s story, but it held together well. It didn’t make any more sense than it had when Jonathan knew fewer details, but after twenty-five minutes, he was confident that the kid wasn’t lying.
As they chatted, David’s shoulders relaxed and his overall posture became less rigid. He was becoming comfortable. If not comfortable, then perhaps less suspicious that Jonathan intended to hurt him.
“I’ve got a question for
you
,” David said after some of the edge had worn off. “You said something about a big-time conspiracy,” David said. “Do you think the Secret Service killed Deeshy? And is this like some kind of rogue action?”
Jonathan paused before answering. As a rule, he made it a point to keep his opinions on such things to himself—certainly, he kept them away from relative strangers. During the silence, in fact, Boxers caught his eye and gave him a surreptitious shake of his head.
Thing was, this kid had lived a part of whatever was going on, and by sharing theories with him, maybe there was a chance that something important might shake loose. He decided that it was worth the risk.
“I have no idea if the Secret Service killed your friend,” Jonathan said, finally. “I suspect that they’re involved in this somehow—that seems self-evident, given the events of the shoot-out at the Wild Times. But there’s a subtle difference between suspicion and paranoia. Both are reasonable under the circumstances, but for now, I don’t know how to tell one from the other.”
“Well, I don’t think there’s any doubt,” David said. He seemed to think people were arguing with him. “Deeshy sure as hell was convinced. And why is Becky being held separately?”
The suddenness of that question startled Jonathan. “About her,” he said. “How stable is she?”
“Scorpion!” Venice’s tone was that of a scolding mother.
Jonathan ignored her and waited for his answer.
“I don’t know what to say,” David said. “How
stable
? What does that mean?”
Boxers simplified the question: “Is she going to be part of the solution or an extension of the problem?”
David still didn’t get it.
“Can you trust her?” Jonathan said.
“Of course I can trust her. She took me in.”
“She’s awfully angry,” Jonathan said. “Disproportionately angry, I would say.”
“How can you say that?” Venice said. “Think about everything that has happened to her in the past twenty-four hours. How could she not be furious?”
David smiled at her, a look of genuine relief.
“I mean really,” Venice went on. “She’s lost everything. And she lost it by helping a friend. Yet you ask if
she
is the one who is trustworthy. Imagine the questions that are streaming through her head right now.”
She looked to Boxers. “Did he give her the blood oath speech?”
The Big Guy nodded.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She stood and held out her hand. “Key.”
Jonathan knew better than to argue. He handed over the entire ring. JoeDog curled herself into the vacated cushion the instant Venice left the room. A minute later, when the two women appeared in the doorway, the beast slunk back to the floor. She looked ashamed of herself. It was a look that made her invulnerable to scolding.
“Here you go, sweetie,” Venice said, pointing to the sofa. “Have a seat next to the boss.”
Becky hesitated.
Jonathan stood. “It seems I owe you an apology,” he said. “Soft talk has never been my strong suit. Your anger bothered me. Abundant caution has always served me well.”
“Fine.” Becky sat. “Whatever. What I want to know is what’s next. Clearly, neither of us can go home, and while staying here is a fine option in the short term, what happens tomorrow or the next day?”
This was the sticky part. Jonathan resumed his seat. “I think that in two or three days, this whole thing is going to be set in concrete. The evidence that needs to be covered up will be, and David, your future will be permanently bleak.”
David blanched. “What do you mean by bleak?”
“Just exactly what you think I do. You will stand trial and be convicted of murder. Or, at best, you’ll have an outstanding warrant that will keep you on the run for the rest of your life.”
“But I didn’t do anything. Somebody has to believe that because they hired you. In court—”
“Your day in court won’t matter,” Jonathan said.
“I’m
innocent
.”
“So what?” Boxers said. “Jails are full of innocent people.”
“That’s because all the guilty people say they’re innocent,” Becky said. “That’s cynical. David’s actually—”
“No, Becky,” Jonathan interrupted. “While everyone in prison was convicted of a crime, a good many of the people rotting in cells didn’t do what the jury believes they did. Courts aren’t about finding truth. They’re about lawyers winning and losing, based on their ability to sell a jury on their version of the facts.”
Becky made a huffing sound. “That’s paranoid bullshit.”
Boxers huffed back at her. “God, I love young people.”
“Look at what happened in your apartment today,” Jonathan said. “Men with Secret Service badges—men with the authority to step into your home—tried to kill you. If they turn out to be who I think they are, Big Guy and I are guilty of assaulting federal officers. We met all the elements of the law. If they had died, we would have committed murder upon a federal officer. Is that what you saw?”
“That’s such a specific case,” Becky said.
“All assaults are specific cases,” Jonathan pressed. “A white security guard kills a black teenager in a late-night struggle. The police decide that it was self-defense. But then the press gets ahold of it, and suddenly it’s a chargeable offense. The guy is convicted by the world before he ever stands trial. Jurors know that if they find the guy not guilty, the city will likely burn with riots. Is that a fair trial?”
“Is this really the time for a civics lesson?” Venice asked.
Jonathan paused to let some of the wind out of his sails. “Okay. My point ultimately is that whoever is behind whatever is going on is actively building whatever fiction is necessary to pull off his plan. Somehow, David, you’re a pawn, and Becky, you’re an accomplice.”
“What does that make you?” David asked.
Jonathan smiled. “I’m the problem solver.”
“Speaking of which,” Venice said. “I need to speak to you in the hallway. Big Guy too.”