When her foot was completely numb from the icy water, she pulled it out.
It was swelling and turning colors. The injury had to be around the cuboid bone. She’d broken her other foot in the same spot when she fell off a damn bull. Her orthopedist told her how lucky she was not to have a more severe injury and put her in a walking boot for a few weeks. If it was a similar break, she’d recover, but it would take a while. Could she make a walking boot? That would be easier than making a raft, but she’d probably have to shred her shirt down to the buttonholes to have enough cordage.
Before the pain returned, she hobbled around the campsite, collecting tinder to start a fire and logs to keep it going through the night. Then she iced her foot again while she fished for dinner. She was hungry and tired, but she still had to plan for tomorrow.
So what was her plan? Search for purslane while she rested for a day or two and made a walking boot. Then she’d see how far she could go—one step at a time.
7
Washington, D.C.—James Cullen
The following day, as soon as JC finished his meeting with the Manager of Donor Services, he flew back to Reagan National Airport.
He’d made a list of items he needed for his upcoming trip and forwarded assignments to his assistant, Paul Brodie. Paul also managed JC’s house and social commitments and, after three years, had become far more than an assistant. He was JC’s friend and confidant.
Paul was waiting at the curb, driving JC’s factory-fresh Range Rover, head down, probably texting one of his buddies.
JC opened the door to the back seat, tossed in his overnighter, then climbed into the front passenger seat. “Thanks for picking me up. Did you get the package?”
Paul put his phone away and pulled away from the curb. “It’s under your seat. I wanted to lock it in the safe but didn’t have time to return to the house.”
JC pulled a steel lockbox out from under the seat. “Where’s the key?”
“In the glove box.”
JC unlocked the box, and inside was a leather pouch tied with a drawstring. He untied it and poured the contents into his hand. “Sweet.” A handful of gold nuggets glittered in the sun. “What’s the value?”
“Hundred grand. Straight from the Black Hills of South Dakota, just as you requested.”
JC clapped Paul on the shoulder. “Perfect.” He put the nuggets away. “What about the clothes? Did you have any luck?”
Paul lowered his chin, and his eyebrows breached the top rim of his aviators. “Have I ever failed you?”
JC grinned. “Not once.”
“And I never will.” Paul laughed, flashing straight white teeth against his brown-sugar skin tone. He was twenty-eight, a graduate of Columbia University, the son of New York attorneys Todd and Evelyn Brodie. He was brilliant, handsome, muscular, and could easily be on the cover of Men’s Health or GQ.
Paul merged onto George Washington Memorial Parkway. “I first stopped by two costume shops, but they didn’t have what you wanted, so I went to Georgetown’s theater department and met with the artistic director. They just finished a production of Oklahoma!. Since that musical takes place in the early 1900s, I figured the men’s trousers and jackets were close enough to what you wanted.”
“I bet the artistic director took one look at you and said you could have whatever you wanted for a small donation.”
Paul gave JC another one of those looks over the top of his sunglasses. “I have to up my game if I’m that predictable.”
JC gave him a side-eye. “And the artistic director is, what? Under thirty and gorgeous?”
“Closer to thirty-five.”
JC shook his head. “So, how much was the donation?”
Paul rumbled out a baritone laugh. “A thousand.”
“What? For old clothes?”
“And sponsorship of their next production.”
JC had given Paul the authority to spend whatever it took to get the job done, and he never abused it. If anything, his spending generally landed on the conservative side, which meant if Paul thought a thousand would get the job done, JC would have spent fifteen hundred.
“If they have open auditions, I might try out.”
Paul sped up and changed lanes. “Sorry. You have to be a student.”
“Oh, well, so what’d I get for the donation?”
“Black trousers, white shirts, neckties, vest, and sack coat, which are at your tailor’s right now being fitted. They’ll deliver them this afternoon.”
“What about boots?”
“I compared your boots to pictures of ones worn in 1885, and yours are close enough. I know reenactors are particular, but the Wellingtons you have will work.” Paul clicked through SiriusXM channels, settled on a pop station, and a Selena Gomez song came on. He tapped his long fingers against the steering wheel. “So, what’s your plan now? I have a class at two o’clock. Where do you want me to drop you?”
Paul had a degree in computer science from Columbia, and a master’s in applied intelligence from Georgetown University, focusing on homeland security and cyber intelligence and espionage. He was now working on a PhD in government. In the time he’d been working for JC, he’d filled in some of the deep holes in JC’s knowledge of the dark web.
“Drop me off at the house first. I have some research to do before I go to the office.”
“Better get your reports done. Becky’s already on the warpath.”
JC’s office manager had a way of getting what she wanted by needling Paul when she didn’t have any luck with JC. “What’d I do now?”
“You didn’t call while you were gone.”
“Shit. I forgot.”
“That’s always your excuse. It doesn’t work with Becky, so you better come up with something else.”
“I brought her a thimble for her collection.”
Paul shot JC a quick look and managed a groan. “Good luck with that. She knows you have a memory like
