The Angel & the Brown-eyed Boy (17 page)

It was an obvious place to run, but a clever one, too. The Hamptons were beyond the reach of civilization. They were like the Wild West was long ago, lawless and deadly.

She sighed. Catching Mrs. Edgarton might be hard. If the general was with her, it might cost Val her life. The general was the one man on earth Val wouldn’t mess with. He was the head of all the Russian armies, more powerful than the tsar. He moved around the United States as though he owned them. The rumored atrocities at his camps appalled even her.

Her phone rang. “Yes.”

“Lieutenant Zanner?” Her phone was secure. She could speak freely on it.

“Yes.”

“I’ve got the confession from that enemy agent, Wally, signed and typed up.”

“Great. How does it look?”

“Came out pretty impressive.”

“Good.”

“Shall we do the usual with his body?”

“Of course. I’m coming back in. I want to take this investigation to the next level.”

“H
ow did she do that?” James exclaimed after they’d put some distance between them and the more-exciting-than-they’d-wanted check stop. The barrier between the two parts of the vehicle was down and they were all the same group again.

“She did the same thing in my class,” Mel said. “The students were getting on her case to prove she was Russian. They wanted her to speak the language. She obviously didn’t know how, but, when they pushed hard enough, she gave a speech not just in Russian, but in the dialect of the first imperial court.”

“She got your mom,” Henry said to Jeremy. “That was Mrs. E if I ever heard her. ‘Cept maybe your mother sounds more like a queen than that.” Chuckles went around the cab.

Everyone joined in but Jeremy, whose cheeks flamed. His mother was a whore. Eliana had put her hand on his back and read his mother loud and clear. What else did she find out about him?

The girl tried to embrace him. He pushed her away. He didn’t want her near him. She could read minds.

“Hey, Arthur,” Jeremy said into the speaker. “Pull over. I want to ride with you.”

He moved to the front compartment with relief. Sitting next to a commando was much more comfortable. Arthur had trained him to be a commando, and he had inducted Arthur into the brotherhood of computer geeks. It was a good exchange. Arthur was as capable of running the underground shelter as he was, and Jeremy could take care of himself. No, he was better than that. He was a soldier, too.

They rode silently until they approached the next checkpoint.

“You better get in back, Jeremy,” Arthur said, pulling to the side of the road. “They said they’d call ahead and make sure they knew we were coming, but you never know.”

Jeremy settled into the back compartment, and the rest moved around as before. The guard station was similar to the first one, but smaller. The road was deserted, as were the guard booths. Arthur slowed, looking around carefully, and then shot through the metal kiosks.

“Did you see that?” he said into the mike moments later, accelerating down the pocked road.

“See what?” Jeremy said. The windows in the rear were heavily tinted; it was hard to see through them.

“Something had smashed the tollbooth,” Mel’s voice said from the front.

“Blood was smeared all over the door,” Henry added.

Arthur again pulled to the side of the road. “I want all of you in back. Put your seat belts on, and, Jeremy, keep that gun handy.” Arthur took off, driving as fast as he could across the pitted tarmac.

“What could have done that?” James asked when they’d recovered enough to speak. “The whole booth was smashed in. Those things are made of steel.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it in all the years I’ve been coming here,” Henry replied. “Those stations are kept up better than the roads. The next one’s up ahead. We’d better get ready.”

“Arthur, do you want us to move again?”

“No. I’m not going to stop.”

Turned out there was no need: the way station didn’t exist. The metal canopy that ran from one side of the road to the other was ripped off its concrete-and-steel supports. The guard booths were torn from the ground and tossed. Arthur chose the widest clear lane and punched it.

“What did that?” Mel said for all of them. They could see the wreckage through the darkened windows.

“I don’t know,” Arthur answered. “We seem to have a welcoming committee. I hope the house is still there.”

A couple of hours later, Jeremy was slumped against the door. He hadn’t intended to relax, but he also hadn’t slept the night before. He’d been working nonstop for days. He felt Eliana cuddled up against him, one arm across his belly and her head on his chest. Something about her comforted him. He felt safe, like things might turn out all right. He drifted deeper.

Jeremy moved in his sleep, trying to get away from something. He felt himself relaxing, approaching something reassuring. Something sustaining. Something he could trust. He saw golden light in front of him, with tall figures standing in it.

They held their arms out. He wanted to merge with them. The girl smiled at him, hair long and flowing like it was under a golden sea. She raised her face to him, her lips lustrous. He bent down.

He awakened and jumped up, pushing the girl off. “Get away from me,” he said. “Stay away.” He moved closer to Mel.

The girl looked up sleepily.

“We’re in the forest now, almost there,” Arthur called. “Jeremy, get ready. The welcoming committee may be waiting for us.”

When they came out of the forest, they saw it, bursting out of a meadow—white stone, parapets, promenades along the roof, an arched balcony around the second floor. Windowed façades reflected the dying sun. The Piermont estate seemed to be endless.

“It’s a palace,” whispered James.

“Whatever wrecked the checkpoint hasn’t come here,” Mel said. The scene was one of bucolic majesty, a serene and untouched historic tableau.

“The house is about fifty thousand square feet. The stables and servants’ quarters back there are about the same. Gingerbread made of stone. Probably why it’s held up so well. It was built back in the 1800s.” Henry’s tone was worshipful.

“The gardens are in the front.” Henry looked up at the building. “Mrs. Edgarton’s rooms are up there, behind that balcony on the second floor. She liked to look out over the gardens. She never liked the wild sea in the back.”

The group looked behind them. Acres of emerald grass merged into formal gardens brilliant with roses and other plants most of them couldn’t name.

“The gardens are a sight to behold, but the lawns on the other side are what I like best. There’s a cliff out there that drops off into the ocean. The ocean’s like a wild animal, the way the surf snaps and grabs,” Henry said. “The Atlantic is right there. I sometimes feel like I can see Europe. I always wanted to see Europe...”

Their heads turned as Jeremy pulled the girl out of the back of the limousine. He clutched her forearm and dragged her across the lawn into the tangle of gardens. He held Henry’s gun in his right hand, muzzle pointing at the ground.

“Don’t follow me!” he shouted, turning around to glare at them. “I’m taking care of her.”

P
resident Lincoln Charles paced nervously as they installed his treadmill in the antechamber to the tiny apartment he and Martha would occupy for the rest of their lives. “Make sure it’s level,” he said to the boys setting it up. “It won’t work right if it’s not level.

“Ron”—he turned to his chief of staff—“you said we’d have plenty of electricity, right?”

“Mr. President, we’ll have sufficient electricity for normal purposes. We’ll be able to power our computers and technical systems, the air recycling and the rest, but...”

“That’s great. We don’t have to run the computers all the time. We can shut them down a couple of times a day so I can run.”

Linc had no intention of getting flabby just because he was confined to a bomb shelter. He’d been as surprised as anyone to find out that the missiles had armed themselves and were set to go off the next morning. But he’d been president long enough to trust the people who worked for him.

While his team ironed out the wrinkles of saving Congress and the White House staff, Linc decided to get comfortable in the presidential quarters.

“Ron, why don’t you scout around and see if you can find any more hidden bunkers? Maybe we have more legroom than we think.” The White House security systems had been updated and enlarged so many times, no one could count. And every administration had seemed to have its own idea of the amount of underground space needed in the event of an all-out conflagration. They’d found whole wings of apartments they hadn’t known existed.

“Certainly, Mr. President. I’ll take a team and keep you informed.” Ron indicated the telephone sitting on a console table. “The phones and intercoms are set up. The reception’s fine down here. No one will know you aren’t at your desk in the Oval Office.”

Linc waved at Ron’s back and turned to supervise a group of first-term congressmen installing pieces of art into his rooms. If he and Martha had to live on the lowest level of the White House bunker forever, he wanted their place to be nice.

They’d just brought in the unfinished portrait of George Washington that Linc had always loved. Couldn’t let that one get away. Other junior congressmen carried a painting of the signing of the Declaration of Independence and a bronze bust of Lincoln.

“Put it over there,” he called to the congressman from... he’d forgotten where. Shoot, it was that funny little state. He’d remember it. They’d let the regular White House staff go with nice vacation bonuses. Hadn’t told them about the emergency. Maybe he was handling the final shutdown in the way his critics said he handled everything—sneaking out the back door and leaving his underlings to take the rap.

If that was true, why change now? They hadn’t told the staff what was happening or that the bonuses were a charade. They didn’t tell them there wasn’t room in the shelters for everyone and they should run for their lives. What was he going to do? Make them feel bad? He never made people feel bad. His entire life was devoted to making people feel good.

They’d drafted junior congressmen to do the dirty work of hauling and arranging things in the bunkers. It was pitch in and buy
yourself a place down below, or start digging your own shelter. Hard to be so callous, but that’s the way things were. The congressmen did the work of the janitors just fine. Better than janitors!

The telephone console beeped. It was a call from the Anti-Terrorism Unit director. “Pick it up, would you?” he barked to the congressman from... darn! Who could keep all those states straight?

V
al threw a few things into a bag, carefully placing the container holding the combat packs in the bottom. She was going to go up-country for a while, so might as well prepare for anything. Pain would not stop her. Nothing would stop her.

She needed to pick up the confession from the enemy agent, Wally, at the office. And she was sure they’d have good intelligence on Mrs. Edgarton’s location.

Val put on her suit jacket and looked at herself in the mirror, frowning. The medic had taped a splint across her nose. She had a small dressing on her right cheek, hiding stitches. A butterfly bandage held together the edges of a cut on her temple. Add bruises and she looked like shit. Pissed her off.