The Jefferson Allegiance (21 page)

Of course, they gave up the ship. Another defeat trumpeted through history as magnificent to the point where it was considered a victory. There were too many of them throughout history in Parker’s opinion. Where the loser got the glory. He saw that the last part of Lawrence’s dying words were appropriated by Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry—Admiral Groves’s namesake—and sewn onto his battle flag.

At least Perry won a few battles, Parker noted. And did his own famous quote:
‘We have met the enemy and they are ours.’
This, after defeating a British fleet on Lake Erie during the War of 1812.
Not exactly a ‘real’ war
, Parker thought. Especially considering the battle most Americans remembered it for, New Orleans, under General Andrew Jackson, occurred
after
the peace treaty had already been signed. Many good men dying for nothing.

Where the hell was she?
Parker wondered.

Parker rubbed his forehead. He was getting old and cynical and needed to focus. “Connections,” he said to himself and smiled, sadly remembering the ribbing his grandkids gave him for speaking to himself. He began clicking links, reading, trying to weave the threads together that Groves had left with that five-word message. He knew the ultimate goal was a grave, but the question was: Whose grave?

Perry’s?

Newport Island Cemetery in Rhode Island.

Parker shook his head. Not enough connections.

Lawrence’s?

Parker stiffened when he saw the result. Originally buried in Halifax, Nova Scotia, but re-interred in Trinity Church cemetery in New York City. Parker took a deep breath and looked up at the two portraits facing him. He knew Alexander Hamilton was also buried in Trinity Church cemetery. Entombed there after being mortally wounded during his famous duel with Aaron Burr in 1804.

He checked his watch. It was time. He couldn’t wait on his own successor any longer.

Parker got up, his old joints protesting, and walked to the Sully painting. He carefully lifted the image of Thomas Jefferson off the wall, revealing the face of a safe. Parker placed his thumb on an indent and pressed his eye up to a rubber oval. The safe’s locking mechanism read the fingerprint and the retina. There was a soft click. Parker twisted the handle and opened the door.

Instead of money or treasure, there was only a yellow Post-it note inside. He removed the note, shut the safe, and replaced the picture.

Parker placed the note next to the keyboard for the computer. It had eight phone numbers, arranged in two columns of four. One in the first column was worthless and he crossed that one out. Parker pulled out his satphone and linked it to the computer via Bluetooth. He entered three of the numbers in the first, and the backup in the second. Then he sent the results of his search to all four via text message.

He was getting ready to shred the Post-it when the door burst open and a beautiful woman wearing a black cloak strode into the room, a pistol in one hand, pointing right at him, a sword, of all things, in her other.

“Do not move, General,” she said.

“Who the hell are you?” Parker demanded, crumpling the Post-it, hoping she hadn’t seen it.

“Where are your cipher disks?”

Parker was looking at the hand that held the sword. “You’re an Academy grad? Which one?”

She seemed taken aback. “Air Force Academy.”

Parker snorted. “What class? And what’s your name?”

“Ninety-eight. They call me the Surgeon. You don’t need my name. But I know all about you, General. All your ratings, all your medals. Because of that, if you tell me where your disks are, I’ll let you live.”

“Do you remember the Academy honor code?” Parker asked.
Class of ’98
, he thought.
Unbelievable
. He glanced past the Surgeon’s shoulder toward the door, then back at her.

“I’m not a cadet anymore.” But the Surgeon’s face flushed.

“You’re an Academy graduate,” Parker snapped. “That’s life-long.”

“I
will
let you live if you give me your disks,” the Surgeon said.

“A liar
and
stupid,” Parker said. “Don’t put me in the same cesspool as you.”

The Surgeon took a step closer, the hand with the sword rising. Parker glanced at the information on the computer screen and grimaced. He went to tap the delete key and a bullet hit him in the shoulder, knocking him away from the computer, and spinning him halfway around in his chair. He groped for the desk, trying to turn back. He reached again for the keyboard when the woman brought the sword down point first, pinning his forearm to the arm of the wooden chair. His hand spasmed, and the Post-it fell from his useless fingers.

The woman jammed the muzzle of the gun under his jaw. “The last of the Philosophers. Tired old men who have failed. Utterly and completely. By my hand. A woman’s hand. I actually thought you would be more of a challenge. Where are your disks?”

Parker was surprised there wasn’t much pain from his right arm. He’d never been wounded in all the aerial encounters he’d fought, but he’d often wondered what it would feel like.
Not too bad
, he thought as he reached for the keyboard with his left hand.

She fired the gun, the bullet punching through the center of his hand. Parker sat back in the chair, staring at the sword in his right arm and the hole in his left hand. Blood was seeping out of both wounds.

“Your cipher disks?”

Parker shook his head. “Never. You are so wrong.”

She paused, her eyes searching his face. “Wrong about what? You just spoke a truth. What am I wrong about?”

“You’re being used,” Parker said.

“Of course,” she said. “I allow it because it gives me what I want.”

She twisted the blade that had gone through his forearm, the steel grating against bone, and he bit back a scream. Not-so-bad had turned into excruciating. The woman holstered the pistol and reached inside her black cloak and pulled out a long, thin cylinder. Parker blinked through his shock, trying to see what it was. With a quick jerk, she pulled the sword out of his forearm. He gaped in pain and relief, a bizarre mixture of feelings. There was a clicking noise and then a hiss. Parker’s eyes widened as he saw the bright blue flame from the small blowtorch in her hand.

He screamed as she ran the flame over his left hand, cauterizing the wound and stopping the bleeding. She slammed the sword back down into his other forearm, pinning him to the chair once more.

“Your disks, old man,” she said as she pulled the blowtorch away. “We can go for a long time now. The blade, then the flame.”

The stink of burned flesh filled the room. Pain without relief overwhelmed Parker’s mind; blinding, searing agony, unlike anything he’d ever felt. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes, and saw that the Surgeon was looking at the computer screen. “Alexander Hamilton’s grave?” she said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

She reached down and moved the cursor to the ‘history’ button. Clicking on it, she could see his most recent pattern of searches. “So you’re aware of Groves’s flag? I knew that was important.”

Parker could only groan in pain and frustration. The Surgeon bent closer to the screen to read. “It’s all about graves, isn’t it? You Philosophers have hidden your disks in graves. First Poe’s, now Hamilton’s. Who else? Whose grave did you put
your
disks in, General?”

“No one’s and everyone’s.”

The Surgeon paused, staring at him. “You just said a truth. But it makes no sense. You put your disks in ‘no one’s and everyone’s’ grave?”

“You’re a fool,” Parker managed.

The Surgeon shook her head and turned back to the computer.

Parker took a deep breath, knowing he had the barest window of opportunity, as she wasn’t watching her six. He reached with his crippled left hand and jerked the sword out of his right forearm, then jumped to his feet and dashed toward the window he’d just been gazing out of. He dove for it, the hands of the Surgeon just missing him as he smashed through the old, leaded glass.

He felt a moment of freedom. He was flying.

***********

Lily bit back a curse at losing her prey. She was unfulfilled. She strode over to the paintings and slashed the one of Jefferson to shreds, venting her frustration, feeling a pounding on the side of her head. She drew a deep breath; slowly getting her anger under control, then sheathed the wakizashi and removed Hamilton’s painting.

She retraced her steps and exited the office. And bumped right into a woman rushing through the door.

Lily stared in disbelief. “Elizabeth!”

The other woman was even more surprised. “Lily?” Elizabeth’s eyes shifted from Lily’s face to the painting and then past her, into the office and the shattered window.

Lily dropped the painting and whipped out the sword. Elizabeth’s right hand was scrambling underneath her leather flight jacket as Lily slashed the blade across her throat.

Blood spurted out in an achingly beautiful crimson arc, splattering Lily.

Elizabeth didn’t give up, pulling a pistol from underneath the coat, even as she bled out. Lily automatically whipped the blade down, flat-edged, slapping down the gun.

Elizabeth dropped to her knees, eyes blinking, mouth moving, trying to say something that she didn’t have the air to make audible. Then collapsed forward.

Lily stood still—blood, Elizabeth’s blood—dripping from her clothes, her earlier frustration gone. She took in the moment, relishing it, but the sound of approaching sirens cut into her reverie. Lily knelt next to the dead woman, rolling her over. She quickly searched for disks or a further clue where they were. She found a single disk with the number “14” on the side. She slid it into a pocket. Lily reached for the left hand and held it up. An Air Force Academy ring graced one finger. It was her year: 1998.

She remembered seeing Elizabeth outside the chapel one fine Colorado morning. Lily pressed a hand against the side of her head, increasing the pain from the bruises, trying to regain control.

Lily pulled off the ring and started to put it in the pocket of her liquid armor cloak, then paused. Shaking her head, she placed the ring over Elizabeth’s heart.

Then Lily picked up the painting and ran down the stairs.

She safely made it to her van as the first police cars were pulling up to Independence Square.

************

Driving up the Palisades Parkway on the west side of the Hudson River toward West Point automatically generated a strong sense of dread in Ducharme, starting deep in his stomach and reaching up to wrap tendrils around his heart. He was conditioned to it, like Pavlov’s dog. West Pointers developed it from that first trip reporting for R-Day (Reception Day), through all the times they returned to their ‘Rockbound Highland Home,’ as the school’s alma mater ominously described the Academy.

It was January, the ‘Gloom Period’ when everything at West Point would be gray: the weather, the uniforms, the buildings and the attitude.

Six bells and all is well

Another weekend shot to hell

Another week in my little gray cell

Another week in which to excel.

Oh hell.

“What’s wrong?” Evie asked.

“Nothing.” He erased the grimace that had stolen onto his face remembering the ditty all cadets memorized and chanted on Sunday evenings.

“Going back to Hudson High,” Kincannon chimed in. “Never fun. Unless you’re General Macarthur coming back to make a speech. It’s an interesting place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there.”

“It’s—“ Ducharme began, but his satphone buzzed. He pulled it out, keeping one hand on the wheel. He didn’t recognize the incoming number for the text message or the area code: 215. The caller ID was three letters: APS. A low tone sounded to his right and he glanced at Evie. She retrieved her iPhone.

“I’ve got a text message,” Evie said.

“What number?” Ducharme asked.

“215-555-2376.”

“I think I just got the same message,” Ducharme said. “Do you recognize it? Someone you know?”

“No. And no one I know, knows you.”

“Excuse me,” Kincannon said.

“Present company excepted,” Evie allowed.

“What’s the message?” Kincannon asked. Ducharme handed his phone over his shoulder to Kincannon as Evie began scrolling on her phone.

“It’s the history of a computer search,” Evie said. “Starts with the saying
‘Don’t give up the ship.’”

“Got the same thing here,” Kincannon confirmed.

“Who said that?” Ducharme asked.

“Some Navy person,” Evie replied.

“
Now
you get vague,” Ducharme chided. “Wasn’t it a battle on the Great Lakes?”