“That’s crazy.”
“Sure it’s crazy. Doesn’t mean they didn’t do it. Governments act crazy all the time. Wiping out a whole people like the Nazis did? Crazy.”
“What proof do you have?”
“I worked for them. I killed Brienne Cross.”
Jolie heard the
Time seemed to stand still.
He held her eyes steady. She noticed the small scar, like a satin stitch, along his jaw. A strong jaw. Some would even say he was handsome.
She noticed his hand, complete with wedding ring, curling and uncurling. Pictured him—she’d seen the photo of the house—pictured him stabbing those people in the house.
A killer with a wedding ring…
The women screaming, dying. The young men…
He leaned toward her and she cringed. But all he did was remove the duct tape that bound her wrists. She rubbed her hands and looked at him.
Then he bent down and clamped a manacle around her ankle, wrapping the leg chain around the table legs and padlocking them together.
“I’ve got things to do.” He instructed her on what to look for on the monitors, and left her there alone.
The rain came down harder now, but Jolie barely heard it. She was numb.
Cyril had said to her,
Any hope she’d had that they’d get off the island alive vanished.
Cyril had told her, “Look for movement. Look for something different. If anything looks strange, unusual, let me know. Look at shadows, look at the vegetation, look at anything that would make a good hiding place.” Jolie watched the monitors. Concentrated on them, looking from one to another. An hour went by.
The novelty of watching the cameras began to wear off. The recent hurt, which had been crouched outside her conscious mind while she studied the monitors, came closer. She pushed it away. The sky darkened outside the metal shed. The wind picked up. The air felt like electricity, and sure enough, soon she could hear thunder.
Something moved.
She flicked her eyes to the screen—it was the camera outside the security center shed.
The scrape of a shoe on concrete.
It was Cyril. “Turn on the TV.” He nodded toward the corner of the room. The TV set rested in brackets like one you’d find in a motel. Jolie saw the remote on the desk and hit the power button.
“Cable news,” he said.
Jolie turned to CNN.
As she did so, she caught movement on one of the screens. A figure in a suit and tie walked in the direction of the causeway.
Franklin.
She turned to tell Cyril, but he was gone.
Jolie watched as Franklin walked across the lawn, his face resolute. A wind came up and blew his white hair around his face. He carried something in one hand. A piece of paper.
Jolie could see the sky turning a mixture of gray and an aqueous blue-green. The storm was coming in fast now. Negative ions bounced around, an electric feeling. The smell of rain. And the sound of thunder. And the lightning.
Franklin appeared on the monitor focused on the gatehouse, set on the small spit of land coming out from the peninsula. The news vans and satellite trucks were parked beyond the empty gatehouse and along the road. Franklin made a beeline for the sea of telephoto lenses, booms, microphones, cameras, and reporters. He passed through the gatehouse, walked around the parked Suburbans blocking the causeway, and stood before the cameras, holding the piece of paper out in front of him. Far out in front of him, as if he’d forgotten his reading glasses.
“I’m here to give a statement regarding the death of my wife.” Frank’s hair feathered in the wind. “I will not be taking any questions.”
He cleared his throat and launched into a rambling speech about his wife, the mother of his child, the love of his life. He asked the press to leave the family to share their grief in private.
The wind grew stronger, almost pushing him off his feet. The air darkened as he opened his mouth to speak again. “As I said, I will not be taking questions. But as the former attorney general of the United States and a proud citizen of this country, I feel I have to follow my conscience. As you know, I lost a good friend in the vice president of the United States, Owen Pintek. Because of our friendship, and against the advice of my attorney, I wish to make an additional statement.”
Jolie heard the cameras click—dozens of them.
“As the attorney general of the United States, I sought to preserve the Constitution. I would be derelict in my duties to stay quiet, when I believe…” He stopped, and peered at the paper again. “When I’m
There was a collective gasp from the news crews, just as a blast of wind shoved through the ranks and knocked a microphone from the hands of a female reporter.
Franklin continued speaking, his eyes never leaving the fluttering paper, his voice quavering. “Due to our long friendship, and the personal debt of gratitude I feel to my dear friend Owen Pintek, it is incumbent on me to state my belief that the possibility exists that his death was…unnatural.”
The camera shutters started clicking again. He stared hard at the paper in his hands. “After certain legal issues have, er…been explored, I promise you I will call a press conference to fully answer your questions to the best of my ability. That is all I have to say at this time.”
He turned, nearly bowled over by another gust of wind, and walked back through the gatehouse toward the main building. A chorus of reporters shouted questions.
Then the skies emptied, and the rain came rolling out in billows. Everyone was soaked. Thunder cracked and boomed, and lightning split the sky. The former attorney general of the United States disappeared into the octagon house, and the reporters ran for cover.
The rain blew in through the open doorway, and Jolie shivered.
59
Jolie’s captor brought in a box of weapons and a duffle crammed with gear. Two-way radios, the latest generation of walkie-talkies—with earpieces. Maglites and a first aid kit, including packets of antibiotics. There were large-caliber handguns, semi-automatics, and a couple of sound suppressors. Edged weapons—Jolie recognized a Ka-Bar knife. There was also a sniper rifle.
Cyril checked the sight on the Heckler & Koch .45. “Question for you. Why are you here?”
“Why?”
“Family, or police business?”
She told him about her role in the family drama. Her friendship with Kay and her daughter Zoe.
“Is that it?”
“I want to know for sure what happened to Nathan Dial.”
“The kid the vice president killed.”
“You know about it?”
“Franklin told me.”
“Why would he tell you
“He was under the influence at the time. Ever heard of scopolamine?”
“What?”
