With his shotgun in hand and Captain Hastings’ M4 assault rifle slung across his back, Tanner led them up the stairs. At the top was a small landing and a heavy fiberglass door. It was closed but had a conventional doorknob. He gave it a try and was surprised to find the door unlocked.
Tanner pushed it in a few inches and peeked around the door. A small hallway lay beyond. The beam from his headlamp was fading, and he could barely see the other end about twenty feet away. He looked over at Samantha and held his finger to his mouth, indicating they should be quiet as they moved ahead.
When they got to the other end of the hallway, they found only a flat panel of wood in place of where a door should be. It stretched from floor to ceiling and had only a small gap around the edges.
He gave the wall a push.
It didn’t budge.
“Try sliding it,” she whispered.
There wasn’t anything to hold onto, so Tanner placed his hand flat against the wood and used friction to push sideways. The wall began to move with a slight squeaking sound.
“Good call,” he said over his shoulder.
He continued pushing until the gap grew wide enough for light to shine in. Unsure of exactly what they might be walking into, he pressed his eye to the opening.
It was a small library.
He waited a moment to see whether anyone would come to investigate.
They didn’t.
Tanner slid the wall far enough that he and Samantha could step into the room. Bookcases similar to the one he had just moved lined nearly every wall of the library. There were two exits, one that led to a sitting room and another to a reception area. Everything looked old but extremely well cared for.
Samantha walked slowly around the room, studying its layout. After a moment, her mouth turned up into a big smile.
“I know this place.”
“You do? Where are we?”
“At the vice president’s house.”
“The vice president’s house is at the Naval Observatory?”
She shrugged. “It must be. We came here a couple of times around the holidays. Come on, I’ll show you around.” Samantha turned and headed into the reception area.
“Sam, be careful,” he said, hurrying after her.
“Don’t worry. No one’s been here for a while.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Look,” she said, kneeling down and rubbing her finger across a thick layer of dust covering the hardwood floor.
She was right. Every table, floor, and windowsill was dusty.
“Okay, but stay alert.”
She nodded.
They continued into the reception area, and it had the usual grand stuffiness of large Victorian-style homes. Bright colors and pictures lit the walls, arches transitioned from room to room, and a beautiful spiral staircase led up to the second level.
Tanner hurried over and checked the front door. It was locked up tight with two security deadbolts. Through the window, he could see an enormous porch wrapping around the side of the house.
“The dining room and kitchen are through there,” Samantha said, pointing.
“Think they left any food behind?”
She shrugged. “Let’s go see.”
He followed her past a long mahogany dinner table and into what could only be described as a chef’s kitchen—stainless steel appliances, granite counters, cherry cabinets, and a rack of copper-clad pots hanging over an enormous gas stove. Samantha went straight to two large pantry doors and swung them open.
She stood with her mouth open.
Tanner moved up beside her to get a better look. The pantry was the size of a small bedroom, and its shelves were stacked with hundreds of cans, boxes, and jars of virtually every food imaginable.
“This is real, right?” she said. “Please tell me I’m not dreaming.”
“If you are, I won’t wake you.”
She stepped in and ran her hands over a few of the jars.
“There’s enough food here to last us a year.”
“Speak for yourself. I could go through it in a couple of months.”
Samantha turned and hugged him. She held him for a long time, and he didn’t have to ask the reason. For the moment, they had everything they needed: food, a place to lay their heads, and each other.
CHAPTER
21
General Carr stared through a thick glass window at the woman lying quietly in a hospital bed. Electronic monitors surrounded her, beeping and blinking with every beat of her heart. An old Vietnamese man in a white hospital coat sat at a desk behind Carr, busily scribbling something on a small clipboard.
“Is she going to live?”
Doctor Tran looked up.
“Huh?”
Carr turned to face him.
“I asked whether she’s going to live.”
“That’s impossible to say for certain.”
Carr stepped closer to the doctor’s desk.
“Bullshit.”
Doctor Tran sighed and set the clipboard down on his desk.
“Yes, she’ll live.”
“Good. We need her now more than ever.”
Doctor Tran stood and walked to the window, looking in at his only patient.
“Even after we bring her out of the coma, she’ll never be quite the same.”
“What does that mean?”
“She’s suffered extensive injuries. It’s to be expected.”
Carr moved up beside the doctor.
“What will be different?”
“Her voice for one. We’ve repaired what we could, but she’ll have to use an electrolarynx, for a while at least.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, you’ve seen them. They’re small handheld devices held next to the throat to reproduce sound based on vibrations in the mandible.”
“Jesus.” whispered Carr. “She’s going to sound like a robot?”
Doctor Tran smiled and shook his head softly.
“No, these devices have greatly improved in the last ten years. Her voice won’t be quite normal, but it will be capable of complex inflections and pitches.”
“All right, what else?”
“The damage to her left lung was quite severe. It will take months to heal. Until then, she stands a much higher risk of developing pneumonia or other respiratory infection. And if that happens…” He left the rest unsaid.
“Anything else?”
“There will be emotional scars as well. Who’s to say how she’ll handle those.”
“You’re just a bundle of good news, aren’t you, Doc?”
“She’s lucky to be alive. If you hadn’t stemmed the flow of blood and gotten her to me so quickly, well, let’s just say we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“You were one of the few people I could trust.”
Doctor Tran nodded. “Trust is certainly important, especially given the threats from her own administration.”
“The fact that this was contained is nothing short of a miracle. A hundred things had to go our way, the right people putting their asses on the line and the wrong ones not paying close enough attention. This whole thing felt like some kind of divine plan.”
“A divine plan…” the doctor mused, “I like that. But now we have a problem, don’t we, General?”
“What problem?”
“The world thinks that she’s dead. Perhaps it would be better if we left it that way.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“No,” he said, “I suppose not.”
“Besides,” added Carr, “she won’t allow us to hide her away.”
Dr. Tran offered a sad smile.
“The truth is I’m not sure she’s strong enough to do what must be done.”
General Carr took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“She has to be.” He stared in at the woman with fresh intensity. “Make no m
istake about it. A battle is coming, and she is the only one who can lead us to victory.”
“Why? Why must it be her?”
“Because, Doctor, there are still people like you and me who find courage when we hear the name Rosalyn Glass.”
CHAPTER
22
Mason leaned back against an old hickory tree, enjoying the shade that the thick canopy cast over him. Bowie lay next to him, occasionally jerking his hind leg up to scratch his neck. Empty cans of beans, potted meat, and corn lay at their feet.
The drive from Mose’s cabin had been short and uneventful, and had it not been for his growling stomach, Mason probably would have pushed straight on into Lexington. As it was, he could see the skyline of the city sprawling in the distance. He reached down and stroked Bowie’s massive head. The dog didn’t bother to open its eyes, but Mason could tell by the gentle pressing against his leg that Bowie was enjoying the attention. They had experienced a few detours along the way, but they were finally close to their destination.
Based on what Nakai had said about Lenny Bruce, he shouldn’t be too hard to find. Men like Lenny enjoyed the adoration of others. Getting to him might be a little tougher, but Mason was sure that it could be managed. Lenny, however, was but a means to an end. He would confirm General Hood’s complicity, and perhaps even help to lure the man from hiding. And after settling with Hood, next would come President Pike, if he too was shown to have been involved. Mason’s quest for justice would not end until everyone responsible for the deaths of his fellow marshals and his loving girlfriend was held accountable.
Bowie sat up at the sound of approaching traffic. Highway 60 was no longer the busy road it used to be, and of the few travelers who had already passed, none had bothered to stop or even wave hello.
Mason stood and brushed the dirt from his pants. He slipped on his jacket, even though it was nearly eighty degrees in the shade. The jacket was part of his uniform, as integral as his badge or gun.
A white panel van approached from the west. It was moving at a good clip but nothing to suggest that the occupants were a threat. Mason walked over and stood beside his own truck, parked on a small dirt drive just off the highway. As the van approached, it slowed to a stop on the opposite side of the road. A heavyset man in Army fatigues climbed out, and a boy, maybe eleven or twelve, leaned out the passenger side window.
Mason let his hand rest on the Supergrade as he watched the man approach.
The big man held up one hand, leaving the other resting on a holstered Beretta 92FS. When he got to within a few yards, he stopped and looked Mason over.
“I’m Schultz. That’s my boy Trevor,” he said, nodding toward the boy.
“Deputy Marshal Raines.”
Schultz nodded. “Picked you out for a lawman as soon as I saw you. It’s in the way you hold your shoulders.” He looked down at Bowie. “That your dog?”
“When he wants to be.”
Bowie looked back and forth between the two men as if trying to follow their conversation.
“You got anything you want to trade?”
Mason had nothing against trading, but he didn’t necessarily want to divulge the extent of his stockpile. Even an otherwise good man might feel compelled to act out of need, especially when a kid was involved.
Seeing him struggling with an answer, Schultz pointed back at the van.
“Come have a look at my stuff first. See if anything interests you.”
“All right.”
Schultz led him over to the van and popped open the rear doors. The back was stuffed with a wide assortment of military supplies, including crates of ammunition, canteens, body armor, uniforms, and even a few M4 rifles. Everything was jumbled together, like it had been loaded in a hurry. Trevor watched them intently from the front seat. His hands were hidden, and Mason wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the boy held a weapon at the ready.
“Mind if I ask where you got all this stuff?”
“My boy and I came across an abandoned convoy. I’d rather not say where because we plan to go back once we’ve traded this out.”
“Fair enough.” Mason took his time examining the supplies. There was only one thing he really wanted. “I wouldn’t mind an M4.”
“You got any water you could part with?”
“A little.”
“Grab the rifle you want, and we’ll see what we can work out.”
Mason did a quick inspection of the weapons and selected the one with the least wear. He led Schultz back to his truck and pulled the tarp aside. Food, medical supplies, and other goods were neatly stacked in the bed.
Schultz pointed to several five-gallon plastic jerry cans.
“Those have water?”
He nodded.
“I’ll give you the M4 for two of them.”
Mason considered the offer. Losing the plastic jugs was actually more significant than the water, since he had a filter that could be used to retrieve water from various natural sources. On the other hand, having his M4 back in operation might make the difference in the next firefight.
“All right,” he said, lifting out one of the jerry cans and handing it to Schultz.
Together, they carried the two containers of water back to his van and set them in the back.
“You headed into Lexington?” asked Mason.
“That was the plan. Folks have been telling me there’s a group that will trade handsomely for military gear. It’s supposed to be headed up by some religious kook claiming to be a prophet of the Lord, if you believe such nonsense.”
“Lenny Bruce?”
“That’d be him.”
“I have business with that man myself.”
Schultz studied his face. “Something tells me it’s not to trade supplies.”
“No.”
“You meaning to kill him?”
“Only if it calls for it. But either way, I don’t think we’ll end up being friends.”
“You think my boy and I are okay going in there to trade?”
“I can’t say for sure.”
Schultz looked back at his son.
“If he was your boy, would you go?”
“In my experience, religious fanatics and children don’t belong within a mile of one another.”
Schultz nodded thoughtfully. “I appreciate the advice. We’ll head back over to Winchester to see if anyone’s interested in what we got.” He closed the van doors and extended his hand.
Mason shook it. “If that doesn’t work out, you might try Ashland. I’ve seen folks out hunting for supplies over there.”
“Will do. Take care of yourself, Marshal.”
“And you.”
Replacing the M4 barrel required removing the handguard, sight riser gas block, and gas tube. Once those were disassembled, he loosened the barrel nut and pulled off the bent barrel. Fortunately, M4 assault rifles, like most military weapons were made with enough tolerance that parts were essentially interchangeable. He pressed on the new barrel, secured the barrel nut, and reassembled the front end. Once he had it all put back together, he test fired the weapon and double-checked the sight alignment. Everything functioned flawlessly.
Satisfied that he was back in business, Mason slung the weapon over his shoulder and stepped over to a nearby tree to relieve himself. He thought about what Schultz had told him about Lenny Bruce. It wasn’t surprising that Lenny was passing himself off as a religious man. Hucksters had been doing the same thing for centuries. Some claimed to be relaying the Lord’s message, while others went full tilt, asserting that they were God incarnate. Such delusions rarely ended well. More often than not, followers were found dead, their lips stained with poisoned Kool-Aid.
He looked down at Bowie, who was busy licking out the last remnants from one of the cans.
“What do you say we go talk to this prophet?”
Bowie turned toward him, and when he did, his snout became stuck in the can.
His eyes crossed for a moment while he examined his plight.
Mason laughed, and Bowie stared up at him.
“Don’t look at me. You got yourself into it. You can get yourself out.”
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