TWENTY-ONE
• • •
The Jefferson Memorial glowed a dull orangey hue in the setting sun. The last remnant of tourists mulled about, a small group of teens, a family with three children, an elderly couple. A steady breeze blew in from the east, bringing with it a mix of smells from the city: exhaust fumes, the aroma of curry from a nearby Indian restaurant, and the faint odor of rotting garbage. Across the Tidal Basin the Washington Monument rose above the surrounding buildings and trees and was illuminated like the finger of God himself pointing to heaven.
Listen to me.
Jack Calloway was distinguished enough to pass for a senator or representative and had been mistaken for one on more than a few occasions. But that was almost always when he wore a suit and tie. Today he wore street clothes: jeans and a hooded sweatshirt and a Washington Nationals baseball cap. To any tourist or passerby, he’d look like just another Washingtonian out for an evening walk.
Tiffany was there, on the steps leading to the monument, facing the pillars and beyond them the standing image of Jefferson. He looked so comfortable, so relaxed there. If he’d only known what would become of the country he helped found . . . would he have worded things differently? Done things differently? Would he have governed differently when he was president?
The answers, of course, were unknown. But what Jack did know was that it was up to individuals like himself, like Mitch and Tiffany Stockton, to preserve the freedoms Jefferson and his cohorts labored and fought to establish.
Jack stopped and looked around. Tiffany hadn’t seen him yet, or if she did, she hadn’t recognized him. And if she had recognized him, she hadn’t let on that she did. She was a natural at the clandestine life. Just like her dad.
From the time Jack first met Mitch Stockton in the Army and Tiffany was two, he’d looked at the girl as any uncle would a niece. She was grown now, and Jack had begun to think of Tiffany not just as a beloved niece, but as the daughter he’d never had. His wife left him after only three years of marriage. Said she couldn’t take the Army life anymore and split, hooked up with some construction worker in Ohio, and never looked back. Jack never remarried, never had a desire to. Shortly after the divorce he’d hit bottom and considered eating his M9 and ending it all. But God met him there in his apartment. Jack never could adequately explain the encounter. He had the gun to his head, snug up against his temple, finger on the trigger, when he swore he heard a voice from the other room. A woman’s voice, but not Courtney’s. He’d investigated but found nothing, no one. He’d concluded then that the voice had most likely wafted in on a current of air from the street below. But later that night, lying in bed, thoughts of suicide still rummaging through his mind, he’d heard the voice again. Clear as still water. Like the woman was right there in the room with him.
“You matter to him.”
Jack instinctively knew who the him was. He’d been raised in a Methodist church and had learned every Bible story. It was God. He mattered to God. To Jesus. Right there in the darkness of his room with the sheets pulled down around his waist and the ceiling fan spinning above him, he gave his life to Jesus, surrendered his whole self, and let go of everything he was clinging to so tightly.
Now Jack wished the same for Tiffany. He didn’t know where she was in her soul. Jack had talked to Mitch about God on several occasions, but every conversation ended abruptly. Mitch never wanted to hear about Jack’s religion. Jack assumed Tiffany most likely felt the same way.
Tiffany pivoted, scanned the area, and spotted him. She tipped her head, then turned back to the monument.
Jack climbed the marble steps and stood beside Tiffany. “You okay?”
She nodded. “He wasn’t expecting me to fight back.”
“Did you wing him?”
“Twice, I think.”
“Did you get a look at him? At his face?”
Tiffany crossed her arms. She was trying to be tough, but Jack could tell she’d been rattled by the encounter. He’d seen it before in the soldiers in Iraq. The wall, the fortress they put up around themselves. But they couldn’t hide the fear that clouded their eyes, and most couldn’t stop the almost-imperceptible tremble that never left their hands and quivered their voice. “Nope. It was too dark. I saw a figure in the doorway, big guy, and the muzzle flash of his gun. He missed.”
“And you hit.”
Tiffany gave just a single tuck of the chin.
“What are you going to do now?”
She shrugged. “Lay low.” She glanced at him quickly, then went back to staring at the statue of Jefferson. “Be invisible.”
“Good idea. Do you have the drive and the printout?”
“Yup.”
“Did you get a chance to look over it anymore?”
“Yup.”
“And?”
“What did you find?” she asked.
Jack sighed deeply. “Disturbing things.”
“That’s the understatement of the century.”
“They’re planning to assassinate Connelly.”
She was quiet for a few seconds. “I know.”
“And Director Murphy is involved. He’s in deep, calling the shots now.”
“I know. What’re you gonna do about it?”
Jack shoved his hands into his pockets. “Nothing right now. You saw the high-level names involved in this Centralia Project. And I’ve a feeling that’s just a sampling. We can’t trust anyone.”
“Did you ever?”
“I trusted your dad.”
“And now that he’s gone?”
Jack looked at her hard. She wore a hoodie that hid much of her face and had slung a backpack over one shoulder. To any stranger she’d look no more than sixteen or seventeen. A kid. “I trust you. That’s it.”
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “So all we have is each other, and we need to stop an assassination attempt? And we’re only up against some of the most powerful people in our government.”
Jack surveyed the monument. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, turning the marble a rusty ocher. “That about sums it up.”
“So what’s our move?”
“I’m not sure yet. Where are you going to stay for the night?”
“Figured I’d bunk up at the shelter over on Mississippi.”
“I can give you money for a motel room.”
“I have money, but they would find me at a motel. Besides, I need to blend in, disappear.”
She was right, of course. Jack didn’t like the idea of Tiffany at a homeless shelter, but there was no other option right now. “Be careful, you hear?”
She patted her backpack. “I can take care of myself.”
“Just because you shot a guy in your home doesn’t mean you can handle yourself on the street.”
She glanced at him. Besides the fear in her eyes, there was defiance and anger. “I’ll be fine. What about you?”
“I’ll head back to my office. It’s the safest place for me. Every move I make is monitored and watched. I figure the more eyes on me, the better.”
“Be careful.”
Jack smiled. “I will.”
“We’ll meet again?”
“Tomorrow. Chinatown. Tony Cheng’s. I’ll treat you to a nice lunch. Be there at noon. I’ll have a game plan by then.”
Without an answer she turned and left. Jack said a prayer for her as she walked away.