The Tin Man (18 page)

Anthracite, he knew, was the Greek word for the purest type of coal.
A genuine diamond in the rough, as it were. He liked the word, appreciated its nuances, enjoyed the way it rolled off his tongue.
An-thra-cite
. He said it softly to himself as he climbed into the back, all but ignoring the uniformed chauffeur who held the door.

“Home, sir?”

Nodding, Osbourne sank into the back seat—a mobile davenport of buttery leather in the palest shade of camel. Rolls Royce called it
Moccasin
. Anthracite and Moccasin. An elegant combination. He’d selected it himself, along with all the other custom appointments, after carefully considering the available options. With the touch of a button, he closed the coach door. The chauffeur, hurrying around, got in behind the wheel. A Plexiglas barrier stood between the front and rear seats. When the driver glanced at the rear-view mirror, Osbourne signaled that he was ready to depart. Within seconds, they were pulling away from the curb.

The ride was remarkably smooth and silent. Looking out the window at the bustling c
ity, a real-life study in chaos theory, he smiled to himself. People on the sidewalk turned as he passed, craning their necks for a glimpse of who might be riding in the back—an important diplomat or politician perhaps? Or, better yet, a celebrity. He’d always enjoyed the feeling of importance he got from riding in a limousine. And nothing beat a Rolls Royce for inciting onlooker envy from the drones.

S
ometimes, when he’d go into a restaurant, a whole table of diners would get up and applaud—because they loved Con News so much. Other people, of course, said he manipulated the news to advance his other business interests. But he had no other business interests. Only Golden Age Media, Inc. And the thought of having it stolen out from under him only to be sold off as so much scrap was more than he could bear.

With Quinn
Davidson dead, the Titan deal was hanging in the balance. Evan Wright, the interim CEO, had agreed to discuss going forward, but Osbourne didn’t trust him. What if he turned out to be a Lady MacBeth who only went along with the plan to gain trust, then sided with the enemy in the end? The possibility sickened him. If things with Titan didn’t work out, he had but one place left to turn. And that contingency might tip his hand before he was ready.

For the next few hours, Thea and Buchanan strolled around the park, going in and out of historic buildings, admiring rooms full of rare decorative objet and significant antique furnishings, reading placards offering contextual explanations, and saying very little of consequence to each other. When it was close to five o’clock, they made their way toward Independence Hall, finding Witherspoon waiting out front near the statue of George Washington. Seeing it gave Buchanan a twinge over his earlier tirade. The outbursts, like the flashbacks, were happening more frequently. He was starting to feel as if things were spiraling out of control, and it scared him. Scared the Shite out of him, truth be told. But what could he do? He’d been to doctors, tried the drugs, but nothing helped.

“Did you get a chance to see much of the park?”
the curator asked as they approached.

“
Yes, quite a bit of it,” Thea replied.

“Well,”
said Witherspoon, moving toward the entrance, “I don’t know how it will help, but let’s have a look inside, shall we?”

They followed him
back to 1789. On the other side of a balustrade meant to keep the tourists back, were two clusters of desks attended by black Windsor chairs. Leather-bound books, sheets of parchment, feather quills, and brass candlesticks were arranged on the desktops, giving the impression that the delegates had only just stepped out for a breath of fresh air.

Not that the outside air would have been
the least bit refreshing in the summer of the Constitutional Convention. Buchanan tried to imagine what it might have been like back then in the sweltering heat and stifling humidity with no air conditioning and all the doors and windows closed because, to protect the secrecy of the proceedings, Madison had insisted that the room be sealed.

Gentlemen of the day, even in summer, wore layers of garments: voluminous shirts, waistcoats,
and frockcoats—all made of linen, silk, or wool. It must have been like a Turkish bath, he realized, recalling having read somewhere that some of the delegates swooned.

Those were the times that tried men’s souls all right, he thought, recalling the words of Thomas Paine. More of Paine’s words started coming back:
Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives everything its value.

Was that why Americans had
given up fighting for their freedoms? Because they esteemed them too lightly? Had they grown complacent, forgotten the terrible price their forefathers once paid for those precious rights? Had they forgotten how dear they truly were? 

“I found it just there,”
he heard Witherspoon say. Looking, Buchanan saw the curator pointing toward the balustrade that stood between them and the historical space. “And that’s precisely where Frank, er, Professor Aslan, had been standing when I left him.”

“Assuming he was abducted,
” Buchanan inserted, returning to the conversation, “how do you suppose they got in?”

Witherspoon’s face blushed red.
“I’m afraid I may have left the door unlocked when I went out.”

“Was there any sign of a struggle?”
Buchanan asked.

“No
t that I could tell,” the curator replied. “Everything was just as you see it now.”

Buchanan
went on surveying the room. The tables and chairs all faced a solitary desk at the center-front of the room. The lone desk was draped in green like the others, but grander somehow—perhaps because it stood on a dais beneath a niche crowed by an ornate federal pediment. A pair of carved marble fireplaces stood sentry-like on either side. The paneled walls, graced with fluted columns and dentil moldings, were painted the palest shade of blue-gray. The walls were completely devoid of artwork, which struck him as a wise curatorial choice. Paintings, however beautiful, would only distract from the room’s appealing austerity.

Thea
tugged on his sleeve and pointed to the Chippendale chair at the front of the room. “That’s the Rising Sun Chair,” she said as if it should mean something to him.

“It’s been attributed to the celebrated Philadelphia joiner John
Folwell,” Witherspoon put in. “The back of it, as you can see, features a gilded rising-sun motif, from which the chair takes its name. But that’s not why it’s a national treasure.”

Buchanan
arched a brow. “Why then?”

“Because of its provenance,” Witherspoon said.

“It’s the very chair George Washington sat in when he presided over the Constitutional Convention,” Thea chimed in. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Witherspoon?”

The curator
nodded as he said, “Ben Franklin once told James Madison that, during the convention, he would often look at that carving and wonder if the sun behind Washington was rising or setting. ‘I know now,’ Franklin expressed afterward, ‘that the sun is rising.’”

Buchanan
made a noise in his throat. He used to think the sun was rising, too, but he wasn’t certain anymore. And it troubled him deeply—mainly because the world needed the beacon of freedom and hope that America had been for so long.

He stared at the chair, feeling a strange sense of
wonder. It was difficult to fathom that Washington himself had once occupied that very seat—that the floorboards he now stood upon were the same ones trod by John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, Ben Franklin, Alexander Hamilton, and the other founders.

“Wow,” he
whispered as his chest swelled with awe.

“Indeed,” Witherspoon acknowledged with a comprehending smile.

“My grandfather loved that chair,” Thea offered, sighing reverently as she leaned on the rail beside him. He continued to gaze at the chair, wondering what the dollar bill could mean. If, indeed, it meant anything at all.

* * * *

“Feel like grabbing a bite before turning in?” Thea asked, looking over at him hopefully as they walked back to the hotel. Feeling down about her grandfather’s apparent abduction and the lack of leads, she didn’t feel like being alone—and was willing to risk rejection to secure his company.

Night had fallen and there was a chill in the air. She felt a sudden overwhelming inclination to take his arm, for closeness as well as warmth, but
she didn’t dare. It was up to him, she’d decided, to make the next move.

“
It’s been a long day and I’m tired,” he said without looking at her. “If I get hungry later, I’ll raid the mini-bar or ring room service.”

“Whatever,” she said, shrugging
to hide her stinging disappointment.

In the distance, she could see the lighted Holiday Inn marquee.
Quickening her pace, she headed toward it. Once inside, he paused in the lobby to thumb through a newspaper while she made a dash for the elevator. She punched the call button impatiently. She had no desire to stand around hoping and wondering. When the bell dinged, she stepped into the car alone, shooting him a wary glance as the doors closed. On the second floor, she got off and followed the maze-like hallway to her room. Inside, she changed into the long t-shirt she used as a nightgown, washed her face, and crawled into bed.

So what if it was only
seven-thirty? She was exhausted.

She let her head sink into the pillow and closed her eyes. She tried not to think about her grandfather,
but found herself doing so just the same, feeling like crying, praying he was still alive. To hope that he might also be safe and unharmed might be too much to ask for.

Her thoughts turned to
the dollar bill. Was it a clue? And, if so, what could it mean? She tried to piece together what might have happened in the moments leading up to his abduction: He was standing at the balustrade, looking around the Assembly Room. When the gunman came in, he would have been startled. Was it feasible that at such a moment, he’d reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar bill? Her grandfather was extremely clever and resourceful, but the notion still struck her as improbable.

S
he knew the dollar bill was loaded with symbolism, but had never taken the trouble to examine one closely. Deciding it was time, she threw back the covers and padded across the room to the chair where she’d tossed her purse. After fishing out her wallet, she pulled out the bill Witherspoon had given them. Returning to the bed, she flicked on the bedside lamp, sat cross-legged, and looked hard at the face of the bill.

Ignoring
for now the portrait of George Washington, she carefully studied the other symbols. There was a seal with a scales, what looked like a chevron with (she quickly counted) thirteen stars, and a key. Encircling the seal were the words The Department of the Treasury and a date: 1789—the year the office was established, she presumed, by Alexander Hamilton.

But what did the symbols mean? The scales, she supposed, could stand for justice
or balance. The thirteen stars on the chevron probably represented the original thirteen colonies. The key might be the key to the treasury, she supposed, but what did she know?

Mystified, she
turned the bill over. On the back were two circles, one containing the presidential seal and the other, an unfinished pyramid crowned by an eye. Above the pyramid were the words
Annuit Coeptis,
below it, in a banner, the words
Novus Ordo Seclorum.
At the base of the circle were the Roman numerals for 1776. Having never studied Latin, she had no clue what the phrases might mean.

She thought about calling
Buchanan to see if he knew any Latin, but the fear of being misunderstood (what if he assumed she was using it as an excuse to call him?) made her decide against it.

S
etting the bill on the bed, she got up, and crossed the room to the desk, where, earlier, she’d set up her laptop. Opening the lid, she tapped the space bar and waited for her start page to load. When it was ready, she typed the words
symbolism on the dollar bill
into the search box and hit return. Several links popped up immediately.

She clicked on the first
one, waited for the text to load, and started reading:

On the front of the dollar bill is the U.S. Treasury Seal. Some claim the scales represent the need for a balanced budget, but the Treasury Department itself, which actually has nothing to do with the budget, claims the scales represent justice. The chevron in the center contains thirteen stars symbolizing the thirteen original colonies
(Aha, she’d guessed right!)
and the key is an emblem of authority.

On the reverse are two circles. The first is the Great Seal of the United States, the first version of which was created by a committee composed of Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, and Thomas Jefferson—three of the five drafters of the Declaration of Independence. Two more committees were assigned to tackle the assignment before the seal’s final design was approved six years later.