The Jefferson Key

FORTY-TWO

HALE WAS SATISFIED WITH ALL OF THE PREPARATIONS. THE choice of woodling had certainly surprised Knox, who’d openly hesitated an instant before nodding his consent, then requesting a few extra minutes so the necessary items could be readied. He noticed that the other three captains were anxious. The choice of punishment had been on his motion, but they’d all voted in favor.

“Killing your accountant was foolish,” Surcouf said to him.

“Like this crewman, he disappointed me.”

“You take too many chances,” Cogburn noted. “Far too many.”

“I do what I have to do in order to survive.”

One captain was not required to explain himself to the others so long as what he did remained personal to him, and the death of his family accountant certainly fell into that category. No different from when captains controlled their own ships, and another captain’s opinion was relevant only when companies grouped together.

Knox caught his attention and signaled that all was ready.

He stepped forward and called out to those assembled in the morning sun, “We each pledged loyalty to the Articles. You have a good life, a good living. Our company works because we work together.” He pointed at the man bound to the pole. “He spit in the face of all that we hold dear, and jeopardized each and every one of you.”

The men stirred.

“Traitors deserve what they get,” he called out.

A clamor arose signifying that they all agreed. A chill crept down his spine. What a feeling, to be in charge. Only the tang of salt air and the sway of a deck was missing.

“Bear witness to punishment,” he yelled.

Knox stood near the bound and gagged man and Hale watched as the quartermaster directed two other crewmen. The chosen punishment was especially harsh, though simple in design. Two boards were connected at each end by leather straps, about three feet long. The prisoner’s head was positioned between the two straps, the men standing on either side, gripping the boards with both hands.

He hoped Stephanie Nelle was watching. He’d had her moved from a windowless cell to one where she could see the yard. He wanted her to know what he was capable of doing. He still had not heard from Andrea Carbonell about any cipher solution, so Nelle’s fate remained undecided.

The two crewmen began rotating the boards, twisting the straps until they embraced the man’s skull. The prisoner wiggled his head, trying to thwart their effort, but the gesture proved useless.

Knox threw Hale a final look.

He glanced at the other three captains, who nodded.

He stared back at Knox and added his own nod.

The command to continue was given and the boards were rotated more. For a few turns, as the straps tightened, the skull endured. By the sixth, pressure was building. The prisoner’s body wiggled against the restraints. If he hadn’t been gagged, the man would surely be screaming in agony.

The boards continued to turn.

Pupils went wide, the eyeballs bulging unnaturally. Hale knew what was happening. Pressure from inside the compressed skull was literally forcing them outward.

The other three captains noticed, too.

He knew these men were not accustomed to witnessing violence. They could order it done with no remorse. Watching it, though, seemed another matter.

More turns.

The man’s face turned crimson from the pressure.

An eyeball burst from its socket.

Blood poured from the gaping hole.

The tightening continued, slower now as the straps had little give left in them.

His father had told him about woodling. How the last few seconds were the worst. Once the eyes gave way all that remained was for the skull to crack. Unfortunately for the victim, the skull was tough. That was the one thing about this particular form of punishment-many times it did not kill the victim.

The other eyeball escaped and more blood soaked the face.

Hale walked toward the yard’s center.

The prisoner had stopped all movement, his body limp, the head held aloft only by the straps.

Knox ordered the twisting to stop.

“Just know that there are two traitors in your precious company.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“When it comes time for me to die, I hope you’ll at least be merciful.”

He’d thought about little else since the man uttered those words less than an hour ago.

Two traitors in your precious company.

Though the prisoner had said he’d never bought into the company mentality, he was wrong. I betrayed you, not my friends. He cared about his fellow crewmen.

And that made him believe the man.

He stared at the bloodied face. Then he reached beneath his jacket, brought out a pistol, and fired one shot to the head.

“Punishment has been administered,” he called out. “Dismissed.”

The crewmen began to drift from the yard.

He turned to Knox. “Have the body dumped at sea. Then come to my house. We need to talk.”

CASSIOPEIA SHIFTED THE HONDA INTO FIFTH AND KEPT THE cycle moving down U.S. 250. They’d purposefully avoided Interstate 64 west, opting for a secondary highway, hoping they could avoid any alerts to adjoining counties. But she agreed with Cotton’s assessment. After having failed with the easy catch, whoever had ordered his arrest might not be so willing to involve others again. Next time they’d do it themselves, their way.

Cotton tapped her on the belly and said in her ear, “Pull over up there.”

She veered into an abandoned restaurant, the building collapsing, an asphalt parking lot infested with weeds and grass. She wheeled to the rear and brought the cycle to a stop.

“No sign of anybody on our tail,” he told her as he climbed off. “We need to talk to Edwin Davis again.”

She found her phone and dialed the number. Davis answered on the second ring. She pressed SPEAKER. They’d talked with him earlier, just before Cassiopeia descended to the lobby on her reconnoiter mission.

“Glad to hear you made it out,” Davis said. “Not too much damage to the hotel, I hope.”

“It’s insured,” Cotton told him.

“The dead man in the car at the Garver Institute was Dr. Gary Voccio,” Davis said. “We have an ID on the body, and it was his car.”

They listened as Davis explained how the FBI and CIA had descended on the institute. Power and phones had been deliberately cut, one building’s lobby obliterated, bullet holes spread across two floors.

“The big man isn’t happy,” Davis said. “More casualties.”

“We’re headed to Monticello,” Cotton said.

“When you deleted the cipher key off the institute’s server,” Davis said, “you eliminated it. Voccio had not saved anything. It’s gone. That file contained all of his notes and results.”

“At least we have it,” she said.

“But we have to wonder who else managed to get it, too.”

“We’re going to need access to the wheel,” Cotton said. “The estate’s website says it’s displayed in Jefferson’s cabinet, near his library and bedroom.”

“I’m headed to Monticello,” Davis said. “I’ll be at the visitor center, waiting for you to arrive.”

Cotton smiled. “Aren’t we Johnny-on-the-spot today.”

“This has to be handled, along with the other situation Cassiopeia has uncovered with the phones.”

He was right about that, Cassiopeia thought, in more ways than one. “We’ll be there in about forty-five minutes.”

She ended the call.

“What’s the problem?” Cotton asked her.

“Who said there was one?”

“Call it boyfriend intuition. I saw it on your face. What happened with the First Lady? You only gave me the short version.”

True. She’d abbreviated the events, leaving off the last part of her conversation with Shirley Kaiser.

The First Lady is having an affair. Isn’t she?

Not exactly. But close enough.

“I’m thinking how we can use that phone tap to our advantage,” she said. “It’s our fastest ticket to flush out Hale.”

He gently grabbed her arm. “There’s something else. You’re holding back. That’s okay. I do it, too. But whatever it is, if you need my help, ask.”

She liked that he didn’t try to be the fixer. Instead, he was her partner, watching her back.

And she just might take him up on his offer.

But for now that something else was her problem.