“All I know is everything that note said proved true, and everything you wrote proved false. I’ve asked you repeatedly if you can offer anything in rebuttal. Anything at all. You can’t, Tom.”
He saw the concern in her eyes.
“I’ve been here a long time,” he said. “I’ve worked hard. I didn’t do this.”
“Unfortunately, the facts say different.”
That was the last time they spoke.
She’d left his office and he was fired an hour later.
She quit a month after that.
And never knew the truth.
———
BENE COULD NOT BELIEVE WHAT HE WAS HEARING. “WHAT DOES that document say? Tell me, Tre.”
The sun had faded behind the blunted peaks and he caught the tang of salt on the southerly breeze from the nearby ocean. He was feeling better from his trek into the mountains. This day turning into something extraordinary.
“Did you steal this from the archives?” Halliburton asked.
“Somebody else did.”
“That’s the problem, Bene. Too much stealing from a place that matters.”
“We can put it back, after we find out what it says.”
“You’re not the only one cleaning out that archive. There’s almost nothing left from the Spanish time. It’s all gone. I’m amazed these were still there.”
His attention drifted for a moment to the rugby field as the players formed into a scrum. He recalled how it felt, being bound together in the rows, arms interlocked, muscles pushing and pulling against other muscles. You had to be careful. He’d heard bones break during a scrum. But what fun. He loved the game. Intense. Fast-paced. Risky as hell.
Just like life.
“I have to know, Tre. What do these documents reveal?”
———
TOM WAS STARTLED BY THE MAN.
He’d been roaming the history section at Barnes & Noble, whiling away another Saturday afternoon. He found he spent a lot of time in bookstores. Never the same one, though, driving all over Orlando, varying where he went in time and place. Part of the self-consciousness that had yet to pass after a year of unemployment. It was hard to get fired. Even harder when the whole world watched.
The man who now stood before him was middle-aged and short-haired. He wore corduroy pants and a light jacket, nothing unusual given that it was actually cool outside for December in central Florida. What raised an alarm was the stare.
One of recognition.
“I came to speak with you,” the man said.
“You must have me confused with someone else.”
“You’re Thomas Sagan.”
He hadn’t heard anyone speak his name directly to him in over a year. While he thought everyone knew who he was, the reality was that no one knew him. His face had once been a staple on television, but his last appearance had been over a year ago. And the public’s memory faded fast.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“To tell you something.”
He noticed the voice. A near whisper. And he did not like the wary look. Was this someone ready to tell him how much he resented him lying? Just after his firing he’d received hundreds of vile emails. He’d read only a few then deleted the rest and canceled the account.
“I don’t think so,” he said, turning to retreat down the aisle and out the front door.
“I know who set you up.”
He stopped.
Never had he heard anyone even hint that he’d been set up, much less voice the words.
He turned.
The man stepped closer.
“When it was done, we decided not to tell you until enough time had passed that there would be nothing you could do.”
Tremors shook his arms, but he steadied himself. “Who are you?”
