50

EN ROUTE TO NEW YORK CITY

Laura drove the Land Rover back to New York City to give Will the time he needed to think. He feigned sleep so the kids wouldn’t ask any questions.

He and Laura had talked over nearly every aspect of his mother’s revelation that they could think of. They hadn’t even made it to bed until 6:00 a.m., just in time to be roused by their kids less than two hours later.

Things now made sense. Sean had always been different from Will, from Sarah, in more ways than one. Will had chalked it up to all the birth order theory he’d read—that the secondborn would go in the opposite direction of the firstborn. But Sean’s red hair was brighter than their mother’s light auburn, his complexion ruddy while his mother’s was pale with freckles. But no one had thought anything of it. His mother, after all, was of pureblood Irish stock.

So was Thomas. Now it was crystal clear. The red hair and ruddy complexion had been from Thomas.

Did Will’s father guess? Is that why he’d been so hard on Sean all these years? Because he had an inkling that Sean was not his true son?

If the truth is revealed, how will Dad handle it? How will Sean? Sarah?

Will’s thoughts were in a muddle. What is the right thing to do here? Or should I be doing anything? What if the truth is never discovered? Then again, if it is, how betrayed will the rest of the family feel if they don’t know?

There were too many questions and no answers.

And the anxiety in his mother’s eyes haunted him most.

NEW YORK CITY

Will listened to the odd voice mail on his cell phone at least three times. It didn’t make a great deal of sense. He’d closed that chapter and moved on. Eric Sandstrom had won. So why was Sandstrom’s sycophant calling to ask for a meeting as soon as possible?

Their New York campaign launch event was in four hours. A fair amount of media would be there, which didn’t surprise him. They loved a fight, and the Loughlin-Worthington fight could be one for the ages. The Worthingtons had the resources to make it a race. The campaign’s initial polling, which had already been leaked to the press, showed that the race was competitive because of the family’s name recognition in New York.

Will checked his watch and decided that he had time for the meeting. He had his talking points for the launch event. He didn’t need any more preparation.

The location of their meeting was nearly as curious to Will as the voice mail had been. They were meeting outside, at Washington Square Park in the village. The park had changed over the years and was now mostly a place where families hung out. It wasn’t typical for a business meeting. But perhaps that was what Jason Carson was looking for.

Will had never liked Carson much, and not only because he was Sandstrom’s lackey. There was something else about the guy that turned his stomach—a feeling that there was little Carson wasn’t willing to do to get what he wanted. Much of corporate America or Wall Street exuded that, but Carson seemed to take it to another level.

Will spotted Carson shortly after he’d paid for the cab fare. He was sitting by himself in one corner of the park, away from the clumps of kids who played in the center of the square. He was dressed casually, without a suit coat or even a tie, and held only a file folder in one hand. As Will approached the bench, Carson rose. “Mr. Worthington,” he said as they shook hands. “Thank you for meeting on such short notice. I know it’s a busy day. You have a lot going on later this afternoon.”

Will decided not to take time with idle talk. “So why am I here, Jason? What’s on your mind?”

Carson glanced down at the file in his hands. He sat on the bench and invited Will to join him. “I want you to look at something. But before I do, I have some news. It hasn’t been reported to the media yet and won’t be for a bit. It is highly relevant to our discussion, however. It’s a helpful backstory, and its importance will become clear in a moment. The American Frontier bomber in the polar bear suit committed suicide earlier today. He jumped to his death from a building near Times Square. The police and DHS investigators found his signed suicide note explaining his actions in an apartment in Brooklyn, once they’d positively identified the body.”

Will’s skepticism kicked in. “Are they sure it’s the guy?”

Carson waved a hand. “No question about it. They have DNA matches from his body, the apartment, and the traces of the bomb’s remnants at headquarters. This is our guy. DHS knows it. I’m quite sure they’ll announce the conclusion of their investigation shortly, once they’ve tied up loose ends. They have a bit more to go to solidify what the guy talked about in his note, why he did it. But that won’t take long.”

Will’s laser-like focus zeroed in further. “So who is it, and why did he do it?”

Carson was quick with his answer. “The guy, it turns out, was an activist connected to Green Justice. He was one of those ecoterrorists. He hated American Frontier and everything it stands for. When the Arctic spill happened, that set him off and pushed him over the edge, so to speak. The domestic terrorism experts say this sort of thing is common. People become activists for all kinds of reasons, and then someone goes to an extreme every so often after a trigger event. The Arctic spill was such a trigger event in this guy’s mind.”

Nothing revelatory there, Will couldn’t help but think.

“The investigators said the note is self-explanatory. I have a scanned copy of it here in this file, in fact. You’re welcome to look at it. He spews all sorts of hateful venom at American Frontier and big oil companies in general in his note. None of it would surprise you. It isn’t anything we haven’t seen before. Clearly the guy was a bit of a wack job who had been contemplating such an act and only needed a trigger to activate him. It didn’t surprise anyone that he went to this extreme as an activist, did something he probably later regretted, and then took his own life. It’s all somewhat mundane. A story we’ve heard before. American Frontier is glad to put this sad, sorry episode in the rearview mirror. And I’m sure the police and DHS are happy to have all of this wrapped up in a tidy package.”

Carson stopped. He leaned forward a bit, as if wanting to make absolutely certain Will was paying close attention. “But there is one aspect of this that hasn’t made its way into the police files. It’s a happy circumstance, actually, and I wanted to share it with you. There’s no reason at all to share this with investigators, now that the case is closed. But it is available. And I wanted to discuss it with you briefly.”

He handed the file to Will, who flipped it open. Someone had snapped a series of pictures of two guys sitting at a bar. Will couldn’t tell how the pictures might have been taken, but that didn’t matter. The pictures were clear. He knew exactly what they meant.

As he stared at them, it took every aspect of his upbringing and moral composure to sit still and say nothing. Even more, not to pound Jason Carson to a bloody pulp for being a bully. He desperately needed that still small voice. He wanted someone to tell him what to do next, because he could feel the bottom of his world dropping out from under him—for the second time in 24 hours.

One of the guys in the picture was Sean, his little brother. And Will felt fairly certain that this slug of a human being sitting on the bench beside him would soon tell him who the second man was.

“You know the gentleman on the right in these pictures, of course,” Carson said. “But it may surprise you to learn that the man on the left is our Polar Bear Bomber, recently deceased. As I said, it’s all just a happy circumstance, and one that may or may not be relevant to the investigations. It depends, I guess, on the nature of this conversation we’re having, and how quickly they close the books on this rather sad, unfortunate life and the bombing.”

While it was nearly impossible to tell with any degree of certainty about such things, any reasonable person would look at these photos and assume that the two men were sharing drinks and a discreet conversation at a bar somewhere in midtown Manhattan. Rage churned now in Will’s gut, along with fear.

Carson continued in a calm tone. “At the present time, I would have to say that we don’t see a need to bring any of this new information forward to the investigators, now that it seems they’re all but certain to wrap up their investigation and close the books. But then again, perhaps not. We all know what an activist your brother is and what causes he donates to and works for. We all know that Green Justice is one of his favorites, that he recently confronted a US Navy cutter in the Arctic while aboard a Green Justice ship, that he has given a great deal of Worthington money to various Green Justice causes, and that the two of you were very actively opposed to our Arctic operations. I can’t say whether any of that would be relevant or pertinent. I’m not a Harvard Law School graduate like your sister, running the Department of Justice’s corporate fraud office in the Criminal Division—and who now has a criminal negligence case against my company. I’m not a billionaire investor from a wealthy family who tried and failed to seize a company for personal glory. And I haven’t given millions to activist environmental causes that some might construe as misguided at best or beyond the pale at worst. That’s all a bit above my pay grade.”

But I’m sure you’re being paid well for all the dirty work you do, Will seethed inwardly.

Carson settled back casually against the bench. “But what I do know is that even a hint of this sort of a connection between your brother—the activist donor—and an ecoterrorist bomber who took his own life because of his avowed hatred of big oil companies would make for an awfully scandalous media story. I can only imagine what they’d do with these pictures, and the sort of lasting damage it would do to your family.”

Especially to Sean and Mom, Will thought. And leave it to slimeballs like Carson to uncover his mother’s moment of weakness.

“And I must say, if you choose to become a public figure and run for the Senate, I believe that these pictures will become relevant. I have to believe that they will make their way out of this file and into the light of day. I can almost assure you of that, in fact.” Carson’s shrug was falsely apologetic. “The only reason that something like that would not happen is if you choose to just get out. If you run for the Senate, if you and your family continue your foolish and misguided efforts to bring down American Frontier, then I think you can assume that these pictures will become highly relevant.”

Despite the sunshine and the happy, playful voices of the children gathered at the park, Will could feel a certain darkness enshrouding the place. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, desperately trying to keep his emotions in check.

“I’m not sure that matters,” Carson stated bluntly. “But I will tell you this. For your own good—for your family’s good—I believe it’s best for you to just walk away, Mr. Worthington. Walk away from the Senate race while there is still time. Walk away from your fight with American Frontier. Your family has a great deal of wealth and connections, and there are lots of sandboxes in the world. You don’t need to play in this one any longer. The Worthington family has vastly overstayed its welcome. It’s time to exit the stage.”

Carson reached out and took the folder back from Will. “I’m sure you’ll do what’s right for your family.”