CHAPTER

29

 

Tolman finally rented a car in Chicago and drove the five hours to Louisville. She arrived after 3 A.M., slept for a few hours, and was up again at dawn, running on pure adrenaline and espresso. After leaving a phone message for her father to go to her apartment and feed Rocky, she grabbed her laptop, tucked her SIG into her shoulder bag, and pulled the Ford Focus back onto I-65.

She passed the University of Louisville campus, with its ten giant concrete columns facing the highway, spelling out the university’s name. Past the sprawling Jewish Hospital complex, she crossed the Ohio River into Indiana and immediately exited the highway.

A couple of traffic lights, stop signs, a double back under the interstate, and she was on a small street that curved toward Falls of the Ohio State Park. The river was on her left. Seeing it at eye level, as opposed to when she crossed it on the I-65 bridge, made her realize that the water was very high. It had been an extraordinarily wet summer in this part of the country, and she remembered hearing about floods throughout Kentucky, Indiana, and Illinois in the last few weeks.

A few high clouds floated above, but otherwise it looked like there would be no rain today along the Ohio. With the rising sun behind her, she bore left past a bronze sculpture of Lewis and Clark shaking hands, at the ostensible beginning of their westward trek. Beyond the statue, a curving stone sign announced FALLS OF THE OHIO INTERPRETIVE CENTER.

Tolman slowed the car to a crawl. No one was around the place this early. She knew from her online research that the interpretive center didn’t open until nine o’clock. She was left thinking of what Nick Journey had told her on the phone.

Glory Warriors.

Tolman opened her laptop, logged in to Homeland Security’s custom search engine RACER—Retrieval, Assessment, Correlation, Expression, Review—and typed in the words “Glory Warriors.”

Fifteen minutes later, the search was complete and one hit popped onto the screen. Tolman scrolled to it and clicked with the thumb bar.

A white four-door rolled slowly past her. She looked up in time to see the man behind the wheel peer at her as the car proceeded toward the parking lot at the rear of the interpretive center.

Her first impression was, He looks older and grayer in person than I expected.

Tolman let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She angled her laptop screen away from the glare of the sun and looked at the file she’d just opened.

In a few seconds, she said, “That can’t be right.”

She looked at the screen again, then raised her head. The white car had stopped. Nick Journey—she knew it was him, since she’d pulled his driver’s license photo when she first worked him up—was getting out, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He cast a glance toward her, then walked away from his car. In a moment, he was out of her view, behind the stone building.

Tolman looked at the computer. Can’t be right, she thought again.

She closed the laptop, slid it under the passenger seat, dropped the car into gear, and headed toward the parking lot.

*   *   *

It was still not quite seven thirty, and Journey walked slowly around the back of the interpretive center and onto a curving wooden deck that extended from the building and overlooked the river. He saw that the main tourist attraction of Falls of the Ohio—the Devonian era fossil beds—was a moot point now. This was typically the dry season in the area, and when the river was low, the fossil beds lay exposed and people could literally walk almost halfway across the river. Now, with high water from the recent flooding, the beds were covered and a large amount of driftwood and garbage abutted the shoreline.

Journey walked halfway across the deck, then stopped and leaned over the fence. Gazing in the direction of the road, he could see an iron railroad trestle spanning the great river.

The Ohio had always been of critical and strategic importance. Journey had stood at both ends of it, on the spot at Point State Park in Pittsburgh where the Monongahela and Allegheny came together to form it; and on the little spit of land south of Cairo, Illinois, where it emptied into the Mississippi.

But here had been the only obstacle to the river’s navigation. It bent, the water rushed, and its level dropped twenty-six feet in two miles. Many an early navigator saw their boat splintered to pieces here.

The Poet’s Penn makes the waters fall and causes the strong to bend.

He thought of the steamboat trade, of how vital Louisville had been to the river’s life. He thought of Kentucky staying in the Union in the Civil War, but its strong Southern culture making it the ultimate border ground, a place of confused loyalties and shifting ideologies.

I’m missing something here, he thought.

He heard the footsteps before the voice, and his entire body tensed. He straightened and took a step back from the fence.

“Dr. Journey, I’m Meg Tolman.”

Journey turned and looked at the small woman with the short blond hair. Her Nordic-blue eyes were constantly moving, scanning the area, finally settling back on him.

“Let me see some identification,” Journey said.

Still a good twenty feet from him, Tolman produced a leather case and flipped it open. “Put it on the deck and take ten steps back,” Journey said.

She did. Journey picked up the case and read it, then folded it closed and extended his arm. “Anyone could have something like this made.”

“That’s true,” Tolman said. “But if I wanted to hurt you, I could have shot you in the back while you stood there, couldn’t I?”

“That’s reassuring.”

“I thought so.” She came forward and took the case from him. “What do you think?”

Journey turned back toward the river. “I don’t know. It’s not … it’s not right. Something about it isn’t right.”

“You understand that you are a material witness in the investigations into the deaths of Vandermeer and Darlington,” Tolman said.

“I hadn’t quite thought of it in those terms.”

“You’ll need to come back to D.C. with me. You’ve made arrangements for your son?”

Journey gave her a sharp look. “He’s with his mother in Oklahoma City, but he can’t stay there long.”

“Why not?”

“Because he can’t.”

“I know about your son,” Tolman said. “When your case first came to me, I did a full profile on you.”

Journey said nothing.

“I know about Andrew’s condition,” Tolman said, “and I get the impression you’re not one to let others take care of him.”

“He’s my son. It’s my responsibility.”

Tolman shuffled her feet on the wood planks. “I don’t have any kids, just a deaf cat, so I’m not going to debate it with you. That’s just my impression.”

Journey shrugged. “These people that are after the document—they’ll be here somewhere. They may already be here.”

“I must say, you haven’t tried very hard to keep away from them.”

“I don’t hide from things.”

“Don’t you?”

Journey looked at her again. “Meaning?”

“I’ve just met you. Maybe I’m way off base. But we all hide from something.”

Journey shook his head. “I tried to tell you people about Darlington.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t believe me.”

“Well, I believed you. Just because the FBI and the Marshals Service didn’t believe you … that’s not the same thing. Unfortunately, they’re the ones with the jurisdiction.”

“Does that matter?” Journey said. “The chief justice is dead, and the Glory Warriors killed her.”

They both heard footsteps. A young couple with a very blond toddler had come onto the deck. The father lifted the little girl onto one of the benches. “Lots of water!” she exclaimed.

Journey turned away and started toward the parking lot, Tolman following. A winding sidewalk with steel railings on either side sloped down from the deck toward the river. Journey took it all the way down to the spot where it dead-ended in a pile of driftwood.

With his back still to Tolman, he said, “What about the president? Is the Secret Service aware of the threat to him?”

Tolman hesitated a moment. “We need to get you in, to make sure you are safe, to figure out exactly what is going on.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I can’t answer your question just yet.”

“They’re going up the list. They’ve killed the Speaker, they’ve killed the chief justice.” He raised both hands and let them drop to his sides. “And you’re the only one here, from the obscure Research and Investigations Office.”

“RIO has its place in the overall picture. But, Dr. Journey, I sat in the threat assessment and listened to the FBI say they thought it was all bullshit, that this was some kind of stunt on your part. You tried to tell us, I tried to tell them, and the chief justice was killed anyway. You’re not insane, you’re not making this up, and the document is real. I believe that.”

Journey clenched a fist, then unfolded it slowly. “Why? Why do you believe me when no one does?”

Tolman looked surprised. “Because of your son.”

“What do you mean?”

“You take care of a child that a lot of people probably would be uncomfortable around even for five minutes. You have no motivation to do anything that would take you out of being in a position to raise your son. You have no reason to lie.” Tolman exhaled. “Then again, people are more complicated than that. No one really does something just for one reason, whether they know it or not. I don’t know you well enough to know the other reasons that I believe you.”

Journey shifted around again. “You’re very interesting, Meg Tolman. You’re not what I would expect from someone who works in a place called the Research and Investigations Office.”

“If that’s a compliment, thank you,” Tolman said.

Journey shrugged and began picking his way through some of the flotsam. He could see a set of concrete steps that led up to the deck. After a moment, Tolman followed him. “What are you doing?” she called.

“Thinking,” Journey said. “Something’s not right about all this, about being here.” He looked at his watch. “The interpretive center opens at nine. Maybe they can answer some questions.”

*   *   *

The team members of Dallas Four had stayed with the professor all the way from Carpenter Center, through the airports in Oklahoma City and St. Louis and Louisville. They had taken shifts in the motel, stayed with him as he entered Falls of the Ohio State Park. Thus far, they were undetected. Nick Journey was, after all, an amateur.

They had split up into two rental cars this morning. Silver was dressed in walking shorts and a dark tank top and new Nikes. She was a tourist. Journey would not be expecting her.

She walked onto the deck, guidebook in hand, camera around her neck, taking in the entire area. Journey was below, picking his way through the driftwood, scant steps away from the river. Then her eyes narrowed as she saw the short woman with the shoulder bag three steps behind Journey who appeared to be talking to him.

Silver turned away from the river and walked to the far end of the deck. She raised her wrist and spoke into the microphone there. “We may have a problem,” she said.