A Harvest of Thorns

by Corban Addison

  He took out his iPhone and placed a call on which everything hinged.

  “Cameron,” the man said in a crisp New England accent, the sounds of the ocean behind him. “I saw the news. I was wondering if I might hear from you.”

  “How are you, Stephen?” Cameron asked. He pictured the investor as he was when he met him in California, the broad, avuncular face and thoughtful smile, the combed-back white hair and owl-like eyes that took everything in at once, the blaze of clairvoyant intelligence that had made him billions in the market, defying every prediction of the Wall Street cognoscenti.

  Stephen Carroll gave a breezy laugh. “I’m sitting on my deck with a double espresso and a copy of the Journal, watching pelicans skim the waves at the beginning of another day in paradise. How do you think I am?” He allowed the question to dangle for a moment, then said, “I suppose you’re wondering if I’ve lost my appetite.”

  Cameron stared at his own reflection in the glass, saw the depth of his weariness etched in the lines of his brow. “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “I’m not that fickle,” Carroll said. “I still see opportunity here. But the kind of value that interests me is incompatible with chaos.”

  Cameron kept his voice measured, hiding his relief. “The lawsuit is as good as dead.”

  Carroll grunted. “Call me back when the coffin is in the ground.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE LINCOLN MEMORIAL

  WASHINGTON, DC

  APRIL 4, 2016

  4:34 P.M.

  The east face of the memorial was thronged with students and tourists when Josh arrived. He climbed the steps to the colonnade but skirted the main hall, rounding the building to the side that faced the Potomac. He found Fitz Conlin sitting between columns, munching on a granola bar. Conlin was an old friend from the Metro police who had parlayed his contacts and deductive skills into a thriving private investigation practice. It was he who had trailed Vance to the L2 Lounge and inspired in Madison the idea of delivering the lawsuit with a personal touch.

  Josh sat down next to him. “What do you have for me?”

  Conlin took an envelope out of his jacket. “Your friend is elusive. He used to live in an apartment at the Wyoming, but he sold it after his wife died. Now his mail goes to a PO box in Arlington. All his IDs still show the old address. The doorman at the Wyoming is new, and the supervisor wouldn’t talk. The only phone number I found went to Presto’s receptionist. He owns two vehicles—a Lincoln sedan and a sailboat he keeps at the Gangplank Marina. The harbormaster wouldn’t let me in to see the boat. I spent some time at the yacht club, but everyone was coy. It’s possible he’s renting a place in the area. It’s also possible he lives on the boat. If I had another twenty-four hours, I’d follow him from work and know for sure.”

  “That’s good enough,” Josh said. “I’ll take it from here.” He took Conlin’s envelope and passed along one of his own. “Good to see you again, Fitz.”

  Josh walked back the way he came, through the trees along the Reflecting Pool, around the Washington Monument, and along the Mall to the Smithsonian Metro station. He hopped aboard a Blue Line train and got off at Rosslyn in Arlington, following the crowd up to the street. The parking garage where he had left his car was a short distance away.

  He checked his watch. It was just after five. He doubted Cameron would leave the office for a while, but he couldn’t afford to miss him.

  Over the weekend, he had sent a message to the e-mail address Cameron had used, but the account was inactive. There was still a chance that the general counsel meant to contact him, but the more Josh thought about it, the less likely it seemed. Cameron’s behavior at the last hearing gnawed at him. He had watched as Cameron left the gallery with Vance. He had searched his face for a hint of disappointment but seen nothing. What if Cameron hadn’t wanted the lawsuit to succeed? What if he had used Josh and the plaintiffs for purposes all his own?

  Josh drove out of the garage and parked in a lot across the street from Presto Tower. The tower had its own parking structure with a guard post and traffic spikes. As the end of the workday approached, the stream of cars leaving the building increased. Josh kept watch for Cameron’s Lincoln sedan, but the general counsel was not among them.

  Half an hour turned into an hour, then two. Around seven thirty, the tower began to glow as the sun sank toward the horizon. By eight, Josh started to grow impatient. He hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. Come on, Cameron. Turn it in. But Cameron didn’t, and another hour passed. Josh’s stomach started to growl in earnest.

  Finally, at four minutes before ten, a black Lincoln sedan emerged from the gate and headed south at a fast clip. Josh was so addled by boredom that it took him a second to register the license number and punch the ignition. By the time he left the lot, the Lincoln had almost disappeared. Josh gunned the engine, then slowed to make the turn at Wilson Boulevard, settling in three car lengths behind. Cameron took the George Washington Parkway to the Rochambeau Bridge and crossed the Potomac into DC.

  Josh watched the signs for the waterfront, certain now that Cameron was living on his sailboat. But the Lincoln stayed in the left lane and passed the exit, traversing the tunnel under the National Mall and taking the exit to D Street. When Cameron passed Senate Park and turned left on First Street, Josh pounded the armrest. Damn it! He’s going to Union Station.

  Cameron entered the garage and parked near the train terminal. Josh found a spot two rows away and watched as the general counsel locked his car and walked toward the escalator. Josh put on a baseball cap, flipped up his jacket collar, and followed in Cameron’s footsteps. Outside the car, he felt totally exposed. If Cameron turned around or saw his reflection, he would lose his only advantage—surprise. He had no interest in making a scene. He wanted nothing more than to catch Cameron in a private moment and ask a few questions.

  Cameron strolled through the hall of brightly lit shops and took the staircase down to the main floor. Josh hesitated at the top of the steps. The staircase made a wide turn, such that at the bottom Cameron was almost facing in Josh’s direction. Josh watched pensively, hoping the general counsel wouldn’t see him. What happened next left him thunderstruck. On the last step, Cameron looked up and held Josh’s gaze. Then he lowered the brim of his hat and disappeared.

  As soon as Josh overcame his shock, he raced down the stairway and caught sight of the general counsel weaving through clumps of passengers. Josh fought to keep up, nearly knocking over a girl with a suitcase who veered into his path. He tossed a “Sorry!” over his shoulder and kept his eyes on Cameron. The general counsel made his way toward the Amtrak waiting area and vanished around a corner. Josh began to sprint. A security guard stepped into his path and barked, “Slow down!” but Josh made an end run around him.

  At the intersection where Cameron had disappeared, Josh looked around frantically, searching the crowded corridor and the stores and restaurants that lined the waiting area. Around him passengers swarmed as trains disembarked and others prepared for departure. Bodies moved and faces shifted, coming in and out of focus. Which way did he go? Make up your mind!

  Josh spotted a dark hat atop a black head about thirty feet away. He started off again, threading his way through the crowd. The man in the hat reached the end of the hall and turned the corner to the Metro station. Josh picked up his pace, jostling shoulders and handing out hasty apologies. He pulled out his wallet and waved his SmarTrip card at the scanner. Then he followed the line of commuters down the escalator to the tracks.

  A Red Line train was in the station, doors open, passengers filing in. Josh saw the man in the hat step into a car midway down the platform. In desperation, Josh ran headlong through the milling passengers, reaching the car just in time to slide a hand between the doors. The doors jammed, then parted. Josh searched for Cameron through the windows, but he couldn’t see him.

  He made his decision and stepped onto the train. As the doors closed, he scoured the inside of the
car, and his heart sank. The man in the hat wasn’t Cameron. Josh turned around and looked out the window. What he saw sent shivers down his spine.

  Cameron was on the platform, hat in hand, watching him go.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SWEDEN POINT MARINA

  RISON, MARYLAND

  APRIL 5, 2016

  7:07 A.M.

  The freedom of an endless horizon, the solitude of an empty sky, time away from the office—they were pleasures Cameron had allowed himself to forget. Without Olivia, his life had turned into a tunnel of progressive myopia in which Presto’s needs and Vance’s needs and the board’s needs had eclipsed his own. In some ways the transition had been inevitable. In other ways, it had been intentional. But the result had been singularly debilitating, compressing his vision and cannibalizing his soul. So little remained of the man he once was that the idea of freedom now left him floundering. That morning when his eyes had opened, he hadn’t known how to greet the dawn. But that was exactly the point. It was time to remember.

  He was sitting in the cockpit of the Breakwater, sipping coffee from a mug and watching the wind kick up spray on Mattawoman Creek. The sun had risen half an hour ago, but it was doing a tango with a cloudbank on the horizon, casting long shadows across the water. The air temperature was just above freezing, but his body was toasty inside his foul-weather gear. The sailboat was stuffed with provisions, the perishables purchased over the weekend, the rest acquired over the past few months in preparation for this day. The forepeak berth was now a storage locker, holding charts and equipment, spare rigging and emergency beacons, and a hundred other items. The voyage on which he was about to embark was unlike anything he had attempted before. But he was ready for it. He had been ready a long time.

  When he finished his coffee, he started the engine and allowed it to warm up. Then he winched in the anchor and motored out of the marina before hoisting the mainsail and taking on wind. The yacht leaped forward like a gazelle, cleaving the chop and heeling ten degrees to port. Cameron held the wheel lightly, pointing the bow toward the Potomac. The wind stung his cheeks, probing the seams at his neck and wrists, but the exhilaration he felt was more than a salve for the pain. His plan was coming together, despite all the twists and turns and terrifying moments. The end game was in sight. All he needed now was time—time for the judge’s leave to expire, time for Josh Griswold to wrestle his wife and father-and-law into a reluctant silence, embracing the media victory but conceding the legal defeat. And time was what the sea had to offer, along with so much else. Beyond the blue horizon, Josh would never find him.

  It was hard to believe that only eight hours had passed since he recognized the white BMW in his rearview mirror. But he had been ready, his escape route in place. From Union Station he took a taxi to the yacht club, where he gave his keys to the harbormaster along with a tip to collect his car. Thirty minutes later, he cast off the sailboat’s lines, motored quietly out of the harbor, and headed downriver beneath the stars.

  Before the sun rose, he sent four e-mails—one to his father and sisters, one to Vance and the C-suite, one to Anderson, Declan, and Linda, and one to the board—confirming what he had explained in advance: that he needed a break, that he had twelve weeks of vacation in the bank, that with the lawsuit on ice, now was a perfect time to use six of them, and that he would stay in touch via e-mail. Only Jim Dunavan had expressed reservations. The rest had wished him well, even his father, who said it was about time he did something for someone other than Presto.

  Now, at the mouth of the creek, Cameron turned the Breakwater to the southwest on a course parallel to the riverbank. He set the autopilot and sheeted out most of the headsail and main. Without the buffer of land, the wind clocked up to nineteen knots, filling the sails until they were taut. He switched off the engine and let the sloop run fast and true through three-foot swells, its raked bow and performance hull cutting the water with speed and stability.

  Before long, he rounded the headlands at Stump Neck and set a course to the south. At seven knots, he would pass Point Lookout and enter the Chesapeake sometime in the afternoon. He planned to spend the night in Horn Harbor, north of Mobjack Bay, topping off his fuel tanks and getting his last full night of sleep for some time. After that, he would navigate south toward Old Point Comfort and the open sea. Around noon tomorrow, he would cross the bar and sail out into blue water, charting a course north, then east, and following the path of the fairest winds. His next landfall would be Flores Island in the Azores, fifteen days away.

  Fifteen days and four years from the night his world had died. He planned to spend the anniversary on a beach with a bottle of Château Lafite—Olivia’s favorite—telling her stories from the voyage as if she were there listening to him, a half smile on her lips, her love just beneath the surface. Her body was in the ground, but her spirit was still with him. She was watching over him, as was his mother. Together, they would carry him across six thousand miles. Together, they would bring him home again.

  Then, when the lawsuit was dead and Vance and the board were right where he needed them to be, he would go back to Presto and finish what he had started.

  PART EIGHT

  Joshua & Cameron

  April–June 2016

  CHAPTER ONE

  NEAR LOGAN AIRPORT

  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  APRIL 24, 2016

  1:46 P.M.

  The flight from Washington descended through a thick layer of rain clouds. Josh watched the ground approach, feeling every bump in his stomach and thinking about Madison and their trip to Bangladesh almost a year ago. He had taken her to meet the plaintiffs with such a sense of expectation, knowing the challenges that awaited them but believing they would find a way to prevail. That optimism seemed so foolish now, so woefully naïve. He should have pushed Cameron harder at the Lincoln Memorial. He should have demanded an explanation of the rules of the game. But he hadn’t. How credulous he had been, how amateurish his mistake.

  The aircraft landed with a jolt, then taxied for a while before pulling into the gate. Josh sent a text to Madison informing her of his arrival and an e-mail to Lily apologizing for yet another trip out of town. Before the disaster of the last hearing, the three of them had worked out a new domestic rhythm. They ate meals together. He took Lily to school. Every Friday night he and Madison went out to dinner and saw a movie. On Sundays they attended church with Lewis and Caroline. They were a family. Josh was at home and he was present, a husband and father who cared at least as much about his wife and daughter as he did about his career.

  But now here he was again, living in the whirlwind. He hated the guilt even as he loved the rush. He was in Boston because Cameron was gone, and he had run out of leads. Fitz Conlin had worked every angle, fishing for information around the yacht club, interrogating Cameron’s secretary on the phone, even contacting Cameron’s sisters posing as a friend from Harvard. But no one had talked. It was remarkable the way people protected him.

  Josh walked off the plane and followed the signs to ground transportation. He hailed a cab and gave the driver the address in Cambridge. It came down to this, a desperate appeal more likely to blow up in his face than yield a miracle. But he couldn’t allow Lewis to put Cameron’s name in the complaint. If the evidence of his ongoing relationship with Maria came out, it would shred every last stitch of harmony that he and Madison had so carefully reconstructed. He cared too much about his wife, too much about his daughter. He had to find Cameron.

  He had to convince Ben Alexander to talk.

  The drive to Berkeley Place took just under half an hour in the downpour. Josh hadn’t been back to Cambridge since his law school graduation. The tour through Boston was nostalgic, but his years at Harvard felt like another life. The cabbie dropped him off at the driveway, and Josh raced through the rain to the covered porch. He waited a moment, then knocked on the door. Ten seconds passed, then twenty, but Ben didn’t appear. A car was parked in the drive. In such weather, t
he old professor couldn’t be out for a walk. Perhaps he was taking a nap.

  Josh knocked again and waited a while longer, listening to the rain. The porch wasn’t wide enough for him to sit down. At last, after nearly three minutes, he heard the latch retract. The door slowly opened, and then there he was, the vaunted Benjamin Alexander, looking like a man with one foot firmly in the grave. His hair was white, his ebony skin papery, his imposing frame reduced by the stoop of aging.

  Ben frowned at Josh for a poignant moment, the creases in his brow like the ridges of a washboard. “You look familiar,” he said, his voice still intimidating. “I know you.”

  “I’m Joshua Griswold. I was your student two decades ago.”

  Ben shook his head. “That’s not what I’m remembering. You’re a journalist with the Washington Post. Or you were. You wrote that book, The End of Childhood. I read it. It was good, if a bit sentimental. Then that story came out about the Brazilian woman. Quite a beauty, but she was abusing kids, using them for prostitution. A grand mess, if you ask me.”

  Josh just stood there, skewered like a pig. Finally he managed, “That’s a reasonably accurate summary. Your memory is as sharp as I recall.”

  Ben’s eyes took on a humorous cast. “Ah, I see from your choice of words that the press got something wrong. What was it? Were they unfair to you? Or maybe they were unfair to her. They sensationalized the story, trumped it up to sell papers. How accurate is that?”