The Patriots' Club

66

They walked outside, descending a short flight of stairs, then starting down a gravel path flanked by neatly trimmed hedges. The path led into a patch of woods, and within a minute, the woods became a forest, menacing and primeval, a thick canopy overhead allowing only a smattering of snowflakes to fall to the ground. The dark was utter and complete.

“Keep walking,” said Wolf.

Bolden picked up his feet and shuffled forward. He wore a loose shirt unbuttoned to the waist and a stained Mackinaw jacket someone had thrown over his shoulders. His chest was raw, fiery, his horribly scored flesh tightening as the wound congealed. The brush of the cold air, the prick of the snow against his skin, brought tears to his eyes.

He glanced behind him. A third bodyguard had joined Wolf and Irish. Somewhere ahead and off to the left, he caught a pair of red lights flash, then go dark. Brake lights, he guessed. The others had seen them, too. Their lack of concern extinguished his hope. The lights belonged to his hearse.

Alone, he and Jenny had spent a few minutes together. They’d sat hand in hand taking turns sharing what they had learned. About Jefferson bribing so many government officials. About Jacklin and the Patriots Club. Mostly, though, they talked about the baby.

Jenny told him, “I’m sure it’s a boy,” and Bolden suggested “Jack” as a name. It was a name he’d always liked. He suggested they raise him in Costa Rica, or maybe Fiji. Somewhere warm and far away from the United States. After some prodding, he agreed to Connecticut or northern New Jersey. A house on the water in Greenwich sounded inviting. Jack could learn to sail. Tom would learn first, so he could teach him. They wanted him in public schools. Jenny thought piano would be nice. Bolden said basketball was a must.

And Bolden… what would he do? He was done with investment banking. That much was certain. He didn’t know what he might be good at. He had some money saved, so he wouldn’t have to do anything for a couple years. Jenny would stay home with Jack. Her job showed her the effects not having a mother had on someone… just look at Tom. They’d laughed at that. Pretty soon, Jack would have a sister, and that would be all. She wanted to travel as a family, and four was a good, round number.

Dreams.

Bolden looked around him. Trees crowded in on the path. His universe shrunk to a narrow tunnel with neither beginning nor end. He grabbed Jenny’s hand. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too.”

“Forever.”

For a moment, Bolden thought about running. But where? They were hemmed in on all sides. He couldn’t see ten feet in front of him. He’d be lucky to get a step before they cut him down. It didn’t matter. His ruined chest prevented him from running at all.

They came to a small clearing, a circular expanse that might have welcomed a bonfire.

“Hold up, hoss,” said Wolf. “On your knees.”

Bolden stopped. Jenny looked at him and he nodded. They knelt together. The ground was icy, littered with twigs and small rocks. His heart was beating very fast. A gun was racked close to his ear. Something cold and hard touched the nape of his neck.

He reached out for Jenny’s hand and prayed.

Bobby Stillman cut through the woods with a stealth born of experience. For twenty-five years she’d been ducking out of back doors, vaulting over fences, and in general acting like a fugitive half her age. In all that time, she’d never used her skills to save someone else. Harry followed a step behind, Walter pulling up the rear. The forces of liberty and justice, she’d named them.

It was no miracle that they’d found Thomas. They’d forced their captive to contact headquarters and report that he’d been kidnapped by Bobby Stillman but had managed to escape. Headquarters had informed him that Bolden was being transported to Jacklin’s estate. It was technology that allowed Bobby Stillman to track the Scanlon operatives nearby. If Harry was their brawn, then Walter was their brains. He’d simply built a receiver to track the signals emitted by the RFID chips implanted in the Scanlon operatives.

The footsteps ahead of them stopped.

Bobby drew to a halt. “Harry?” she whispered.

A hulking shadow came near. “We’ve got to split up,” he said. “Go around them. Walk softly. Heel to toe.”

In the dark, Bobby could make out a clump of figures. One, two… she wasn’t sure how many. She waited a moment to let Harry get into position, then began to inch through the undergrowth. Twigs scratched her cheek. A branch blocked her way. With infinite patience, she pushed it aside and skirted it. She wasn’t sure how to intercede. Harry carried a leather sap, but otherwise they didn’t have any real weapons. She’d never allowed them to carry guns or knives. It was a point of pride she was deeply regretting. Each carried a Maglite flashlight. The lights and whatever surprise they could muster would have to suffice.

When she was twenty feet away, she sank down and waited. The night closed around her. The wind whistled through the bushes, biting at her cheek. In a minute, her joints began to ache.

Alone in the dark, Bobby Stillman’s mind was flooded with memories of the day she had left her son.

They were coming!

She saw him fleeing down the hallway of her apartment in the Village. He was just a boy, and gripped by a child’s unspeakable panic. She was at his back, exhorting him to hurry. At the end of the hall, he flung open a closet door. She crouched at his side and lifted up the floorboards to reveal a neat rectangular space dug into the earth.

“Jump in,” she said.

Little Jack dropped into the hole and lay down in a single fluid motion, just as they’d practiced so many times before. She stared at him, her thin, anxious son with his mop of curly hair. He was a good boy, so eager to please, so obedient, yet the tears always so near. It was because of her, she knew. He had adopted her paranoia, her anxieties, her everlasting fear of the world.

“I’ll be back for you,” she said.

“When?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t bring herself to lie to him again. How could she say “never”?

Working quickly, she began replacing the floorboards. He remained still, his arms pressed to his sides. Sensing his fear, she bent to him. The flyaway strands of her unruly red hair tickled his cheek. She smiled and his eyes widened and he looked as if everything would be all right. But a moment later, he was lost in his waking nightmare. He knew his mother was leaving and she had said nothing to make him think differently. The tears streamed from his eyes. Silent tears. Obedient tears.

And then he pressed his lips together and forced a fragile smile. He wanted her to know that he was strong. That her Jacky Jo would be all right.

She laid the last plank into place and rushed from the house.

They were coming!

Only afterward had she realized that she hadn’t told her son she loved him.

She hoped she would be given one more chance.

Somewhere ahead, a hard voice said, “On your knees.”

Bobby Stillman’s heart stopped. She looked to her left and right. She was waiting for a signal from Harry. Darkness stared back. Squinting, she made out shadows, phantoms born of her imagination. She moved forward a step, and then another. She spotted Thomas on his knees in the center of a small clearing. Jenny was next to him.

She stepped closer and a stick snapped. All heads turned toward her. Bobby froze. Dressed in black pants, a long-sleeved black shirt, her hair dyed a widow’s black, she blended into the night. They saw nothing.

She could not take her eyes off of her Jacky Jo.

A shimmer of metal caught her eye. Someone moved closer to Jack… no, to Thomas. She must call him by the name he’d lived his life by. A man stood close to her son, his arm stiff, outstretched. Squinting, she could tell that he held a gun.

Harry, where are you? She wanted to shout. What are you waiting for? Walter? Then she realized it was her they were waiting for. She was their leader.

“No!” she screamed, turning on her flashlight, running wildly through the bushes. Around her, two other lights illuminated the scene.

A gunshot blistered the night.

John Franciscus lay still, his eyes half-open and glazed, his breath coming in shallow, undetectable sips. Closer, he urged the two guards. Just a little closer.

“Hurry up,” said the man nearest to him. “Find out if we should get a doc.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the men rush out of the shack. The other bent over him, ear pressed to his chest. Franciscus rolled his eye to the left. The butt of the pistol was there. Inches from his fingers. The holster was unsnapped, the pistol’s safety on.

The guard raised his head, staring toward the open door. “Get a move on it!” he yelled.

Just then, Franciscus sat up and yanked the pistol from the holster. It was a clean clear. The guard shouted with surprise, too startled to immediately react. Franciscus notched the safety and fired into his chest. The man toppled to one side, grunting. Franciscus placed the pistol against his forehead and pulled the trigger. Rolling to one side, he pushed himself to his feet.

“Frankie, what gives?”

The second guard ran through the door. Franciscus staggered toward him, firing once, twice, the man collapsing to the ground, his head striking the concrete, thudding like a cannonball. Franciscus leaned against the wall, gathering his breath. His injuries were more severe than he’d imagined. The busted cheek was killing him. Worse, his vision was royally fucked, the light shattering into thousands of shards like he was looking at the world through a kaleidoscope. He took a step, looking out the door and down to the barn. The stables were deserted.

This is it, babe, he said to himself. The voice was strong and it gave him hope. Whaddaya know? I just might make it. For a moment he thought of Vicki Vasquez. He hoped she’d give him a chance. Just listen to him…

He started down the center of the barn. He kept the gun in front of him, his finger tugging at the trigger. With each step, his entire body rocked this way and that, searching for balance. He was rickety as a condemned building. Vicki would love him now. She might take an older guy with a weak heart. A half-blind cripple with a face that had lost the demolition derby was another story.

He needed to get outside. Ten steps and he would be there. He’d fire off a few shots, shout for help. A crowd would show up in no time. He dropped a hand to his back pocket and felt the outline of his badge holder. He wanted to smile, but his face was too wrecked. For a moment, he felt warm, and oddly satisfied with himself.

He reached for the barn door, but something was wrong. The door was opening inward toward him. He tried to step back, but he was too slow, and the door slammed into him. He stumbled backward. A figure rushed at him. It was hard to see who. Damned eye. A detached retina. That’s what the problem was. He aimed wildly and fired. Before he could squeeze the trigger again, something hot, blazingly hot, crashed into his chest and knocked him to the floor.

He stared up, looking at the hurricane lamp swaying above him. The light in the barn was fading fast, as if someone were dousing the wick. His mouth was very dry; his breath running from him.

Guilfoyle leaned over him, clutching Franciscus’s badge holder in his hand. He flipped it open and dug a thumb into the crease between the badge and the leather. Finding nothing, he swore and dropped it on the floor. “That’s the one place I’d forgotten to look,” he said. “Been bothering me for twenty-five years. So, where are they? What did you do with Jacklin’s fingerprints?”

Franciscus tried to open his mouth, but his body no longer obeyed him. The prints were safe, he wanted to say. He’d sent them where they might do some good. Away from men like Guilfoyle and Jacklin.

“Where are the prints?” Guilfoyle asked again. “Dammit, I need to know.”

But Franciscus could no longer hear him. He was floating. Above the stables and the pine forest, high into the sky.

Thomas Bolden jerked at the sound of gunfire. The pistol left his neck. Suddenly, the clearing was illuminated by light. An agitated voice shrieked, “No!” Lashing out, Bolden spun and kicked Wolf’s feet out from beneath him. Bolden jumped on top of him, pummeling him in the face, about the head. The pain in his chest, his body, was immense, a roaring brushfire that had engulfed him. It no longer mattered. His rage was fiercer still. All that mattered was that he kept up the assault. Again and again, he raised his fists and brought them down on his assassin’s face.

Wolf freed a hand and rocketed a fist into Bolden’s jaw, knocking him to the ground. The Scanlon operative rolled to his feet, his face bruised, blood dangling in cords from his nose. Bolden stood. The two circled each other, the gun on the ground between them.

Other figures were running around him. A tall, gray-haired man wielding a heavy Maglite clubbed Irish. Jenny wrapped her arm around the blond man’s neck and held him in a headlock. Somewhere there came the spit of a silenced gunshot, followed by the crunch of a hard object striking someone’s skull.

Wolf spat out a gob of blood. Carelessly, he wiped at his face. Bolden waited, gathering his breath. Wolf charged. This time it was Bolden who went with the attack, following the blow, grasping the man’s wrist, twisting it and pulling him over his shoulder. Wolf hit the ground. Bolden landed on his chest, driving his knee into the sternum, his hand cupped around his neck, fingers digging into the soft flesh. He found the windpipe. His fingers closed in on it, crushing it. Wolf thrashed on the ground, his hand clawing at Bolden’s face, seeking to gouge his eyes. Bolden brought all his weight onto his hands. The band of cartilage began to give…

“No, don’t…”

Bolden didn’t hear the words. He increased the pressure, forcing his thumb deep into the tissue. He stared into the burning brown eyes, wanting to extinguish their hateful fire forever.

“Stop!”

Hands grabbed Bolden’s shoulders and pried him off the Scanlon operative. Wolf pushed himself up. A figure stepped over Bolden and struck Wolf across the face with the Maglite. Wolf fell to the ground and was still.

Bolden lay on his back, sucking in the air. Bobby Stillman stood above him, the flashlight in her hand. Stunned, he looked up at his mother.

“Hello, Thomas.”