Second Chances

Pt. 01

by G. Lawrence

An accused assassin is free

This is a sequel to Diminished Capacity. Like the first book, it contains romance, mystery, war, criminals, mild sex, and humor. There are ten chapters and an epilogue. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: In an alternate timeline from our own, Jack Lawrence was accused of shooting President Edward Blair, though he had no memory of it. Jack was a decorated combat medic, but he had also participated in classified missions behind enemy lines, so his war record was kept secret. Suffering from PTSD and blackouts, Jack feared conspiracy theories would tear the country apart, so he accepted blame and went to prison. But many, especially in the FBI and Secret Service, didn't believe he was guilty. The Blair family in particular came to doubt the official version, with former First Lady Patricia Blair and her children Bob and Jenny becoming advocates for Jack's release. Now, after seven years, Jack has been freed from Federal custody.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Patricia Blair

Blair House

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Pat,

We have reviewed the manuscript of the late John Lawrence and are submitting contracts for your review. We understand that Jack left you full rights. Please have your attorney contact us at the earliest opportunity. Sincerely yours, Daniel Palmer

* * * * * *

Chapter One

MOCKING DEATH

I was tied hand and foot, a black hood pulled over my head. Beneath me, the bed of the truck bounced on rough dirt roads, moving quickly but not in panic. My head hurt from a brief struggle. I had no clue where we were going, or what my captors' intentions were. They had staged a mock execution. The next time, the bullets might be real.

The truck came to a halt. Hands grabbed my jacket, hauling me out. The binding was cut off my ankles. The hood removed.

"Welcome to Iraq, John Henry Lawrence," a tall lean gangster said in Arabic.

We stood on a desolate desert road, hazy gray mountains in the distance. The spring afternoon was cool. My kidnappers wore long white cloaks and were armed with AK-47s. I was in the khaki army uniform worn by U.N. peace keeping forces in Syria.

"I have not been to Iraq before," I replied, stretching my legs.

"Not even during the war?" the kidnapper asked.

"I spent those years in Afghanistan," I said.

"And Pakistan. Turkmenistan. Uzbekistan. Rakmanistan. Your 104th Rangers showed no respect for borders."

"They weren't my 104th Rangers. I was just a sergeant. But we went where the enemy could be found. Like you have done in Syria," I said.

"We are fighting for Islam," he insisted.

"I've heard that too many times," I responded. "At least Frac Khanani was honest. He admitted his plan to destroy Boston was about power, not the Prophet."

"And then you killed him," my enemy said.

"I did not shoot Khanani. He shot me. But I would have shot him. We were opponents in a great struggle. No apologies were needed."

"Do not think to avoid your fate," he threatened.

"And what fate is that? You already filmed me before your firing squad. Will you now put a bullet in my head without cameras to record the deed?"

"You know I cannot. Kassan Abari has plans for you. Maybe he will put a bullet in your head," the renegade replied.

After fifteen minutes on the bleak roadside, I was back in the canvas covered truck with two silent watchdogs. They no longer needed the hood, for there was nothing of interest to see. I thought back to Al-Mayadin, where a bomb had injured scores in the marketplace. My friend Ali had warned me to stay in the hotel, but too many needed help. I had been a medic in Afghanistan. A first responder back in the States. I could not let innocent victims lie in the street and do nothing. Tashad operatives were waiting for me.

We reached a village in Iraq's eastern foothills. I assumed we were near the Tigris River, but it was only a guess. The buildings were made of stone and brick, the streets unpaved.

"Sāmarrā," one of my guards said.

The truck had stopped on the outskirts of the city, allowing me a quick glance before the hood went back on. A few minutes later, I was led down stone stairs, through a creaking door, and set on a dirt floor. They tied my ankles and departed, leaving me to sit alone in the darkness.

Seventeen Months Before

"Come on, Jack. You owe me another dance," Jenny Blair said, pulling me from the table.

About to turn twenty-two, bright and sassy, with long red hair and sparkling blue eyes, Jenny had been teasing me all night. I glanced back at her mother, making sure it was okay. Mrs. Blair had forgiven me for her husband's murder, and I loved her for such a kindness. I did not want Patricia to think I was seducing her daughter.

The ballroom of the Mayflower Hotel in downtown Washington was busy with seventy guests celebrating my release from Federal custody. Among them were Secret Service Agent Alexandra McGuire and FBI Agent Alberto Ruiz, the heroes of Thanksgiving Eve where Frac Khanani's terrorist plot to detonate an atomic bomb in Boston had been frustrated. Deputy Director Harold Rasmussen of the FBI was my sponsor. General Collin Fowler was there. He had threatened to borrow me for another covert mission. The press had not been allowed in.

"Just because I'm free doesn't mean you own me," I said to Jenny as we danced.

"I'm the one who got you free, or have you already forgotten?" she answered.

That was partially true. She had organized a web of friends to move public opinion on my behalf. Her brother had written a best-selling book on my service in the Second Afghan War. A service that had been kept secret for eight years due to national security.

"Miss Blair, you're sweet, but I'm ten years older than you. I'm poor. And as of this morning, I'm an ex-convict. You need to chase someone more appropriate."

"I haven't decided if you're my property or not, Mr. Lawrence," Jenny said, delicious in her lowcut black cocktail dress. "But if I decide you are mine, then you are."

Thankfully, Alex chose that moment to cut in. Just a year younger than I, petite, with long brown hair and vivid brown eyes, Alex had believed in me when no one else did, risking her Secret Service career. That belief had saved half a million lives in Boston.

"Jenny backing you into a corner?" Alex asked, smiling as we danced.

Instead of the charcoal gray business suits she preferred on duty, Alex was wearing a frilly yellow party gown and high heels. I was wearing the second-hand brown wool suit I'd worn at my review hearing that morning.

"I thought you were going to find me a woman," I said.

"I think a woman has found you," she replied.

"She's a kid."

"Jenny was a president's daughter," Alex reminded me. "She was twelve years old when she moved into the White House. Fodder for the tabloids as a teenager. She has studied international relations with Professor Lofoya in Utah. Jennifer Blair is no kid."

"What would the tabloids say if Jenny started dating her father's killer?" I asked.

"Are you so sure you shot him? After what General Fowler said about you being framed?"

"Fowler could have been making that up."

"Or maybe he wasn't. Do you even know what really happened in the park that day?" Alex asked.

"I took responsibility."

"That's not an answer."

"Whether I shot the President or not, most people think I did."

"Since when do you care what anyone else thinks?"

"I care what her mother thinks," I answered, glancing over.

Patricia Blair was fifty-three now, her auburn hair tingeing gray. She had been married to Edward Blair for nineteen years before he was assassinated in Jackson Park. An event I had no memory of. She was deep in conversation with Harold Rasmussen.

"Plotting my future?" I asked, joining their table with a whisky sour in hand. Waiters were still clearing dishes from dinner and getting ready to serve dessert.

"And if we are?" Patricia asked, an eyebrow going up.

"I'm sure it's better than the one I was planning," I said, checking to make sure we weren't being overheard.

"Did I ruin your martyrdom?" Harold gruffly asked.

Rasmussen was approaching sixty, stout, with broad thick shoulders, thinning gray hair, and a wide face. In the seven years since we had foiled Frac Khanani's plot, he had watched over me like the father I never had.

"It was a short sentence for such a serious crime," I said. And not for the first time.

"You never should have been convicted in the first place," Harold grouched. "If your dainty conscience hadn't insisted on prison time, you would have been released years ago."

"Or I might have spent the rest of my life in a psych ward surrounded by rubber walls," I replied, looking to see if Dr. Livingston was nearby.

"I negotiated your sentence. I'm not going to apologize for it," Harold insisted.

"I must side with Harold on this," Patricia said, her New England accent clipped. "You struggled for years to keep your PTSD a secret to avoid embarrassing the army, which is commendable, but justice must have its day, too."

"At least it allowed me to meet your family without wearing a straitjacket," I said.

We were soon interrupted by General Collin Fowler, fifty-two years old, six feet tall, straight and lean, with a soldier's hawk nose and close-cropped hair. I had met Fowler in Afghanistan twelve years before, after the Battle of Lavanna Valley, where he stole me from the 144th Infantry.

"Ain't this the goddamn show?" Fowler said, sipping my whisky sour without permission. "Who'd have thought you goddamn FBI butt-knobs would get Jack out of purgatory before I did?"

"Please, sir. There's a lady present," I objected.

"Apologies, ma'am," Fowler said, giving Patricia a nod.

"No eyepatch?" I asked, for he had worn one before the review board. Even though there was nothing wrong with his eyesight.

"Scared the shit out of those sheep-humpers, didn't I?" Fowler said with a grin.

"Sir!" I protested.

"Sorry, ma'am," Fowler said. "But ever since Wagner's son of a bitch attorney general sent Jack to Northfield to be murdered, I've been boiling to get him away from these ungrateful civilian a-holes."

I took my drink back from Fowler and started to leave the table. Patricia stopped me.

"Jack, it's all right," Patricia graciously said. "The general may be rude and inappropriate, but he's been your champion."

"I was never a fan of your husband, ma'am," Fowler responded. "But you are one hell of a lady, and you've got the greatest kids I've ever met."

"Thank you so much," Patricia said. "What was that you were saying at the hearing?"

"About the frame-up?" Fowler replied. "Can't say for sure who did it, but it's got all the marks of a clandestine operation. And Lawrence was the perfect patsy. Even now, he's got no clue what really happened. Isn't that right, kid?"

"I don't subscribe to far-fetched conspiracy theories, and no one else should, either," I protested.

"See what I mean?" Fowler said, stealing my drink back.

"And what new surprises do you have for Jack?" Patricia asked.

"Got Captain Lawrence--" Fowler started.

"Sergeant Lawrence," I corrected. "Captain was a temporary rank for the Tabrit mission."

"You're the only one who thinks that," Fowler answered. "Thought you'd like this. Sort of a get out of jail present."

Fowler handed me an envelope with a document inside. There was a gold foil seal at the bottom and lots of fancy lettering. A waiter brought Fowler a tequila sunrise, which I stole from him. Jenny joined us, sipping white wine.

"A high school diploma?" Jenny asked, reading my name on it.

"From Farragut High in Philadelphia," Fowler explained. "Jack was only a few weeks from graduation when he dropped out to join the Army. We needed young medics desperately. It's taken fourteen years, but we're finally making it up to him."

"Thank you, sir. This should help my résumé with Skylla College," I said, letting Jenny hold it.

"Skylla College? That horse ranch?" Fowler replied. "What are they going to let you do? Shovel shit out of the stalls?"

"Jack is going to be an English teacher," Jenny proudly said.

"To hell with that. It's still shovel work. Kid, come back in the Army," Fowler urged. "I can get you a plum assignment. With your language skills and background in intelligence, you'll have my job someday."

"Sir, I'm a convicted felon. The Army isn't going to make me a general," I answered.

"Don't be so sure," Fowler said.

"Jack will be a wonderful professor," Patricia insisted. "And he'll only be a few hours by train from New Haven. We're looking forward to his visits."

"I want more dancing," Jenny said, pulling me out of the chair. "As for you, General Fowler, you have no claims on Jack until I'm done with him."

The banquet didn't break up until midnight. I played my Sam Wood guitar, sang ballads with my old war buddies, and had too much to drink. I was relieved to wake up alone the next morning.

My apartment at the Polk Arms on 2nd Street was paid for by the FBI. Since being stabbed at Northfield Prison nine months before, Rasmussen had kept me in FBI custody. Without much supervision, which I thought inappropriate. Was I going to escape? No, but that wasn't the point. When I complained, Rasmussen said it wasn't my place to question his decisions.

Now I needed to give up the apartment as I wouldn't be consulting for the FBI anymore.

"Starting to pack already?" Alberto asked, waking up on my couch.

"Time to move on, Dragon," I said. "Skylla College wants me there by Monday, even if I am unqualified."

"Don't pretend you're dumb," Alberto said, making coffee. "You've read more than I have. You organized GED courses in prison. You edited articles for Bobby Blair and Rafael Martín and they both went on to write best-selling books. Hell, you might be smarter than me."

"At least I've finally graduated from high school," I said, glancing again at my new diploma. "It only took a decade and a half."

"Next time, don't drop out of school just because America is losing a war," Alberto said.

"Good advice," I agreed, sitting at the kitchen table to eat some week-old biscuits.

In his early thirties, a touch over six feet tall, and hailing from Chicago, thwarting Khanani's attack on Boston had made Dragon the country's most famous FBI agent. He had also become a good friend, not that we started out that way.

Alberto turned on a morning cable news show, which I never watched when by myself. I was still the hot topic of the week, much to my regret. Growing up on the streets, I'd done everything I could to stay invisible. With National First Responders, I had avoided the limelight. As a medic in the Army, it was unbecoming to seek special notice. Now I was a subject of controversy that could not be escaped.

"You must be accustomed to the spotlight by now," I said.

"Alex and I get lots of attention, but we weren't the ones who hacked open an active nuclear bomb with a fire ax."

"I couldn't find the instruction manual. How come they don't teach that stuff in high school?"

"They will from now on," Alex assured me.

Two popular broadcasters appeared in their New York studio with the Palmer Media logo in the background.

"Maybe we should watch another channel?" Alberto said, reaching for the remote control.

"No, this should be fine," I replied, not knowing one station from another.

"Your funeral," Alberto mysteriously said.

"Good morning America from the Palmer News Family," Casey Turner announced, leaning toward the camera. "And though we would like to say good news, it isn't."

Turner was barely twenty-five years old, pale, with stringy blonde hair and a tight skirt well above her knees. I wondered if I'd met her once in a Fort Benning saloon.

"Indeed, the news isn't good," Grant Panabaker agreed.

The handsome middle-aged black man sitting at Turner's side looked like a straight arrow Harvard type, which didn't win any points from me.

"Eight years ago, our beloved President was gunned down by an angry loner seeking to block America's commitment to Afghan freedom," Panabaker declared. "And yesterday, November 7th, will be known as the day this infamous assassin was set free to kill again."

"Are you going to kill again?" Alberto asked.

"I wasn't planning on it, until now," I replied.

"Though there has been no official comment from the White House, it's suspected that President Leonard Wagner is complicit in this shameful plot," Panabaker continued. "All true patriots are outraged by this travesty of justice."

"The Palmer News Family is following every development. Stay tuned for updates," Turner urged.

"They aren't my biggest fans, are they?" I said, turning the program off.

"Tried to warn you," Alberto replied.

"I can't get excited. Not so long ago, I would have agreed with them."

"Not seriously?"

"Letting me out so soon does set a bad precedent," I insisted.

"According to Jeff MacArthur's new book, you didn't do it. And I haven't heard you say he's wrong."

"I haven't read it."

"You never read anything about the assassination. Why is that?"

"It's in the past. Nothing good can come from stirring up a hornet's nest."

"We'll need to disagree on that," Alberto said. "Need a ride to Skylla Falls? I don't need to be back in Denver until Tuesday."

"Taking the train, but thanks," I replied.

"Going to buy a car when you get there? You should be fine driving now."

"Once I know if the medication will control my blackouts, I'll consider driving again."

"It's been years since your last episode."

"It won't hurt to wait a few more," I replied. "Ready to help clean out my office?"

There was a horde of reporters waiting in front of my apartment building shouting rude questions. I kept my head down as we worked our way to Alberto's car, going to the O'Neil Building on 1st Street.

"Going to miss you, Sarge," Johnny Bridger said, using the nickname that Bobby Blair had made famous in his book. That I still hadn't read.

"Time to move on," I said, making sure to pack my running shoes.

Ronald Michaelson, Larissa Black, and Patrick Clayton all made a point of hanging out with me and my office mate, Ashok Modi. We had made a good team tracking suspicious financial transactions that might be funding terrorist organizations. As I had not served as a confidential informant, no one could accuse me of being a rat.

"Sure you need to go?" Larissa asked.

Larissa and I had been particularly close. She had been my primary babysitter since a helicopter flew me out of Northfield with a knife stuck in my chest.

"Need to earn a living," I said. "FBI Protective Custody isn't paying my room and board anymore."

"Let's put you on salary," Michaelson suggested.

"My value has been using the Black Web for warrantless searches, sir. I can't do that as a Federal employee," I reminded him.

"We can hire you as a coach for the gym," Clayton joked.

"The next time I step into a boxing ring, it will be for money," I said, for I'd learned how to defend myself on the mean streets. Those were days I was hoping to leave behind.

The office threw a going away lunch for me, which was nice of them, seeing as how I was a famous criminal and not a fellow agent. There were a few tears as I left, which surprised me. I had been troubled, cranky and angry during my first weeks as an advisor, but tried to do better. Maybe I had. Michaelson had been reading my thoughts.

"Remember to take your medication," he said.

"I'll be consulting with Dr. Haggen," I promised. "I'm tired of people saying I'm crazy."

"You will always be crazy. Just make sure you don't go nuts again," he said.

I gave my keys back to the landlord of the Polk Arms on Saturday morning, boarding a train for New Hampshire. There wasn't much to carry, just a duffle bag and my guitar. I had a little money, about thirteen hundred dollars won in a poker game, but no credit cards, so I would need to be careful.

It was a pleasant journey. I hadn't been on a train to New York City since 2008, when I hitched a ride on a freight car. I was ten years old at the time and had been on my own since panhandling with Old Da in St. Louis five years before. It was Old Da's street version of 'New York, New York' that had inspired my curiosity.

I didn't linger in the city, having spent enough time in the boroughs already. Mostly living in alleys when a nice warm attic wasn't available. It wasn't until I left for Philadelphia and was adopted by the Brothers of St. Mary's that my life turned around. It was brave of Father Sebastian to take me in. I was an angry fourteen-year-old, fast with my fists and short on morals. Eventually, they turned me into a Catholic, but it wasn't easy.

I had a planned stopover in New Haven, for there was someone special to thank without all the distractions we'd had at the banquet.

"Jack, this is wonderful," Patricia Blair greeted at the noisy train station.

"And under happier circumstances," I replied.

"Very happy. This has been five years coming," she said, giving me a hug.

It was a little embarrassing. There were dozens of people watching on the platform. Taking pictures with their cell phones. The President's assassin and his widow sharing an embrace was going to make news, and probably not good news.

At 5'7, Mrs. Blair was a little taller than her daughter, with deep blue eyes that searched with a crafty intelligence. Her father had been a congressman. Her grandfather had once been Speaker of the House of Representatives.

"Let's have a late lunch," Pat said, leading the way.

She was followed by her Secret Service detail. I had met Agent Joseph Schön on previous occasions. My relationship with the former First Lady always seemed to amaze him.

"Where are we eating?" I asked as we climbed into a shiny midnight blue four-door Lincoln.

"Blair House," Schiavo said from the front seat.

"That was the President's house. I shouldn't go there," I declined.

"Don't start with me, Jack. We're going to Blair House," Pat insisted.

I tried to enjoy the drive. We passed Yale University on the way, reaching the waterfront along Long Island Sound. Though not a large mansion, Blair House stood as a tall elegant wooden building on the beach. A red brick wall kept out intruders from the street side. The south front featured an ivy-covered chain link fence opening to the sandy beach.

"Fall hasn't turned nasty yet. Let's eat on the patio," Pat urged.

I saw the old-fashioned house had a large living room. A book-filled library to my left had a liquor cabinet and barstools. I assumed the ground floor had a bedroom or two, with three or four more upstairs. A spacious kitchen to the right was busy with an overweight Cuban woman doing the cooking. Pat called her Martha, who frowned at me as I passed by.

"Martha was Edward's cook since he was a teenager," Pat explained, causing me to wonder if there would be any strange additions to my food.

The day was cool and cloudy, reminding me that I would need winter boots in Skylla Falls. Hopefully the town had a Salvation Army store. We sat down at a round glass table with a blue umbrella. The redwood deck offered a nice view of the beach. I noticed a pier where a father and son were fishing. A short round gray-haired butler named Samuel brought two glasses and a bottle of dry red wine.

"A toast to your freedom," Pat said, raising her glass.

"To the woman who makes it worthwhile," I replied, looking her in the eye.

"I appreciate the thought. I would also appreciate it if you'd let me pay back the money you lent us," she said.

"It was a gift," I insisted.

"When the Justice Department froze my accounts, I needed the money to keep Blair House from foreclosure," Pat explained. "My accounts aren't frozen anymore. I have my pension. Bob makes good money from his books and lectures. Jenny has a new marketing job in New York. We can afford to pay our debts."

"And I still need to pay mine," I said.

"Someday I will find a way to pay you back, whether you like it or not."

"You forgave me. That's already more than I ever hoped for."

"You are as frustratingly noble as ever," Pat said with a gentle smile. "I think that's why Jenny is falling in love with you."

"We need to find her a man," I said.

"The two of you would give the press quite a field day," Pat speculated. "Well, Jenny is still young. Maybe she'll find someone less stubborn."

Martha made roast beef sandwiches with green beans. The meal was very good, and I thanked her. She grunted and walked away.

"We have a room for you upstairs," Pat said as sunset approached.

"I should get to the train station," I said, looking for my duffle bag.

"You can't disappoint the birthday girl. Another train leaves after breakfast in the morning," Pat said.

"Jenny's coming? Tonight?" I asked.

"That's right, and she's looking forward to seeing you without so many people seeking your attention. Don't make me call Mr. Schön. He doesn't like handcuffing my guests. And you haven't played the guitar for me yet."

"Now that you've made it so tempting, I'll stay over," I agreed.

Jenny and Bob arrived just after seven, having driven out from New York City together. Blair House was quite a different setting from the Mayflower ballroom, missing the noise and nonstop commotion. Jenny was looking perky, in a long flowing blue dress and flat shoes. Bob wore a casual brown suit fitting his 5'10 frame. He was naturally thin, with curly reddish hair growing over his ears. The hazel eyes were intelligent, more curious than predatory.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," Patricia said with a warm embrace.

"Yes, happy birthday, Red. I'm not your present," I said, also offering a hug.

She laughed, her eyes dancing. I needed to greet Bob before finding myself distracted.

"Any updates on your new book?" I asked.

"I've been researching The Entrenchment and found several mysterious references to the Battle of Lavanna Valley. February 19th, 2018," Bob said. "Red Carlson and Ricky Pressler haven't been any help."

"Red and Ricky were with the 104th Rangers. They weren't at Lavanna Valley," I mentioned.

"You were a Ranger, too."

"Not officially. I was reassigned from the 144th Infantry," I explained.

"It sounds like you know something. Were you at Lavanna Valley?" Bob pressed.

"I'm not allowed to discuss it. You've got a tough subject there. The Army isn't going to be forthcoming," I warned.

"Can you say why?" he asked.

"Because it was a disaster," I answered.

We adjourned to the dining room where Martha served another fabulous meal of roast chicken and asparagus. I ate lightly, still being full from lunch. It was followed with chocolate cake, twenty-two candles, and a singing of 'Happy Birthday', which I accompanied on my guitar.

"How's the new job going?" I asked, stealing a piece of Jenny's cake.

"It's amazing," she answered. "When I started lobbying for your release, Alex and Dragon helped me make all kinds of contacts. The Devon Agency in New York liked my work so much they offered me a junior executive position."

"You still need to finish college, dear," Patricia insisted, putting a scoop of vanilla ice cream on my plate.

"I only have a few classes left. Mr. Devon promised to give me time off once we've established the new clients," Jenny explained. "And in the meantime, he's paying me outrageous money."

"How much is outrageous?" I asked.

"I'll be making more money in one year than you'll make in five teaching at a small college," Jenny boasted. "Rafael Martín is helping me find an apartment on the West Side."

"Speaking of Rafael, he sent me something special," Bob announced. "He's preparing a series for News Web about Jack's year at Northfield. An inmate he interviewed sent him a video."

"I was only at Northfield for nine months," I corrected.

"Until you got stabbed in the heart," Jenny reminded.

"It was only a nick. My lung got in the way of the blade," I said, still unhappy about my carelessness. "What sort of video? I didn't have time to get a theater group together like we had at Windhaven."

"I don't know. Something about a fight," Bob said.

"There aren't any fights at Northfield the ladies should be seeing, especially if they involve me," I objected, for I had not been kind to my opponents.

"Supposedly this one is civilized," Bob replied.

"I thought you liked sports?" Jenny asked.

"I was trying to coerce the gangs into letting the kids get their GEDs. It wasn't a sport," I answered.

"Let's take a look. We can always turn it off," Patricia compromised.

The program appeared on the widescreen TV, a bit grainy but acceptable.

"My God, it's the Rivas fight," I blurted.

"Joaquin Rivas? The heavyweight champ?" Bob asked.

"Joaquin was third in line for the crown before he mistakenly killed an undercover DEA agent," I said. "It wasn't deliberate, but the prosecutor threw the book at him."

The video was taken in the exercise yard of Northfield Maximum Security, where I had been transferred after five years in a minimum-security facility. A boxing ring borrowed from a local gym was set up surrounded by bleachers and benches. Only inmates on good behavior were allowed to attend, about four hundred in all. Guards and administrators watched from the walls. One of the officers acted as the referee.

"This was only a year ago," Jenny said, sitting next to me on the couch.

Rivas appeared with other members of his gang led by a clever fellow named Alejandro Morata. Rivas wore white trunks, looking well-rested and particularly fit. He was 6'6, announced at two hundred and fifty pounds.

"That guy is a monster. Who would be stupid enough to fight him?" Bob asked.

An announcer stepped into the ring, pointed to the far corner, and I climbed through the ropes. 6'1, one hundred and seventy-two pounds. Wearing black trunks so the blood wouldn't show.

"What the hell?" Patricia said, sitting forward.

"Morata led the largest Mexican gang," I explained. "He agreed that if I could defeat Rivas, the Mexis would go along with my GED program. The warden sanctioned the match."

"Why would you get in the ring with him?" Bob asked.

"The stakes were too high to refuse," I responded. "Anyone got a beer?"

Samuel was kind enough to fetch a Squirrel Nut for me, my favorite. Pretzels appeared.

The fight started with sparring, Rivas and I testing each other for speed and positioning. Though Rivas was a professional, I had fought in Philadelphia's Golden Gloves tournaments, going undefeated, and learned how to fight on the docks. Rivas was wise not to underestimate me.

By round two it got rough, each of us exchanging strong blows. Rivas had reach and power. I had a steady left jab and a harsh right cross. I was also fast on my feet, but Rivas was, too, for a big man.

Rounds three, four and five were brutal, sometimes toe to toe. I was getting in more good punches than I remembered, but not enough.

"Jesus Christ, Jack. I had no idea you could fight like that," Bob praised.

"You look like a terrier going after a bulldog," Jenny said.

"And the bulldog is winning," I pointed out. "Joaquin isn't just bigger and stronger, he's a better boxer. And he fights smart. Not like the arrogant bullies I usually faced."

I was knocked down, and knocked down again. I staggered Rivas with a right in the sixth, but it was all downhill from there. By the tenth round I was dripping blood and my eyes were swollen shut. I had to ask Rivas where he was.

"I'm in the middle of the ring, Jack," Rivas had reluctantly answered.

I wanted to finish the fight on my feet, but it wasn't meant to be. I fell to the canvas and Officer Vasquez counted me out halfway through the last round.

"That was a hell of a fight," Bob said, out of breath. "No wonder Rafael is so excited. This could be the highlight of his series."

"I hope Martín is kind to Joaquin. He's a good man," I said. "After the fight he came to see me in the infirmary. We had a nice talk. He made sure Morata's kids started showing up to my GED classes."

I didn't mention to Jenny or Bob, or Patricia, that I'd given up fighting after the Rivas match. Dr. Juliet Nichols flew in from Langley, took me to Pittsburgh General for an MRI, and warned me that I was risking irreversible brain damage. After a life of fighting on the streets, in the Army, and in prison, it was a diagnosis I took seriously.

We spent the rest of the evening in the living room before the fireplace, sometimes sitting on the thick shaggy carpet. I played guitar. Patricia and Bob took turns on the piano.

"What's that song?" Patricia asked as I was strumming an old tune.

"Annie Laurie'. It's one Old Da taught me when we were passing the hat at the St. Louis Arch," I recalled. "Tourists must have wondered what a five-year-old white boy was doing with a seventy-year-old black man."

"What happened to him?" Jenny asked.

"I never found out. One morning I woke up in our tent and he was gone. So was the money."

"That is so mean," Jenny said, touching my arm.

"Old Da took care of me for almost two years. Much longer than he wanted. He taught me how to fend for myself. And to love music," I said, giving the guitar an extra strum. "I will always treasure his memory."

"Have you been giving thought about your future?" Jenny asked.

"Until a few days ago, I expected to be back at Northfield. I wasn't prepared for the review board to reduce my sentence," I replied.

"Have you ever thought much about the future?" Bob inquired.

"Not really. When I asked Francie Norton to marry me, I envisioned a house with kids and a boring job, but she died a few months later," I recalled. "Since then, I've just floated from one disaster to another."

"I'm glad Sandra found this teaching job for you," Patricia said. "She says Skylla Falls is a quiet town. Good people. It's just what you need."

"I hope so. At the very least, it will be a new experience," I said.

We turned in at midnight. My room was upstairs overlooking the front yard. The Secret Service had a bungalow near the gate. When Edward Blair was president, the precautions were far more elaborate.

The guestroom was decorated with maple furniture and an oil portrait of George Washington. The bed was large, covered in a thick quilt. I had almost fallen asleep when I heard the door creak open, close, and feet padding in my direction.

"Watch out," Jenny said as she crawled in next to me.

She was warm. I was glad to find she was wearing a nightgown even though it was flimsy.

"Are you lost?" I asked.

"No, I'm exactly where I want to be. I know you won't do anything under my mother's roof, but we can still snuggle, can't we?"

"I would like that," I admitted, for she felt good.

"What's it like knowing you're finally free?" she asked.

"I'd rather talk about you."

"What about me?"

"You've never really said much about yourself. You're more secretive than I am."

"I've had reason to be."

"I know you had some bad years after your father's death."

"It started long before that. I had friends in New Haven when Daddy was still governor. Everything changed when we left for Washington. I was only twelve when we moved into the White House. America's little girl. They gave me the Lincoln Bedroom, new friends, and everyone made such a fuss. But it was all phony. No one really cared about me.

"After Daddy died, all those supposed friends disappeared. They made fun of me on the web. They called me self-centered and ugly. And I acted out. With boys. With drugs. I gave the tabloids plenty to write about. So now I'm more careful. I know better than to let strangers in."

"I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you," I said, stroking her hair.

"You got me into the Weismann Conservatory after I was rejected. And when Billy Bryan broke my heart, you arranged my internship with Professor Lofoya," Jenny said, crawling up until her face was close to mine. "You helped Bobby write his first book. You saved Mom's house. You've been there for me."

"Well, you helped break me out of prison, so we're even."

"No one is keeping score," Jenny said, suddenly kissing me.

I kissed her back, but didn't let it go farther than that.

"Goodnight, Red. I have a big day tomorrow."

"Yes, Professor Lawrence," she agreed, settling down.

"If I start to thrash around, you'll need to get out of the bed," I warned. "My nightmares can be violent."

"You won't ever have a nightmare with me in your arms," Jenny promised.

That night I slept soundly.

____________

The train didn't go directly to Skylla Falls. I took a bus from the Manchester train station, arriving in the late afternoon. The rundown bus depot was near the college, but I didn't want to live on campus, so I decided to see what was available in the town about two miles up the hill. The two-lane road was lined by thick woods on my right, a grand forested valley to the left. The autumn leaves were changing colors. I saw where Plum Creek ran down the mountain into the Merrimack River a few miles away.

"Hello, do you need a ride?" a pleasant young woman in a white pick-up truck asked, stopping next to me.

She looked to be in her late twenties with long flowing brown hair. Her brown eyes danced when she spoke.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"You're only halfway to town, carrying a guitar and heavy bag," she explained. "I thought you might like a lift. You don't look like a serial killer."

I doubted she had spent as much time with serial killers as I had.

"Thank you," I said, throwing my stuff in the back and climbing in.

"Guess you're missing all the festivities," she said, resuming our journey.

"What festivities would that be?" I asked.

"Sarge Lawrence is supposed to arrive today. The whole college is waiting for him in the quad."

"Are you sure?" I inquired.

"Dr. Lau and Dr. Frost went to pick him up at the train station. They should be back any time now."

"The whole college?"

"We're a small school. Only four thousand students. Sorry, I didn't introduce myself. I'm Emily Lowe. I teach physical education."

And she looked the part. I guessed her at 5'9, a hundred and thirty-five pounds, and very fit. Despite the cool weather, she was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. I had trouble not staring at her legs.

"Are you new in town?" she asked.

"Yes. I'm hoping to find an inexpensive apartment," I said. "My name is Jack Lawrence."

Emily hit the brakes, screeching to a stop, and pulled off my Mt. Vernon baseball cap.

"Fucking hell, you are Jack Lawrence," she said, staring.

"Not something I generally lie about," I responded.

"What are you doing here?"

"I didn't know anyone was coming to pick me up. I came in on the bus."

"Didn't they call you?"

"I don't own a phone. If they called the last number I gave them, they're leaving messages for the FBI."

Emily laughed and started driving again.

"Want me to turn around?" she asked.

"No, too much activity for one day. I'll make my apologies tomorrow," I decided.

"I need to check on my Dad. Want to get a beer afterward?"

"That sounds great," I agreed.

Emily was kind enough to call Dr. Lau, letting him know that searching the train station would be futile. Then she called Dr. Johnson, the college president, telling her I wouldn't be arriving until tomorrow.

"Jacqueline understands," Emily reported. "The kids are headed back to class."

"Looks like I've made enemies already," I dryly remarked.

I waited in the truck while Emily entered a modest long-term care center to sign some forms. Her father was suffering from Parkinson's and had a poor prognosis. Emily seemed to take it in stride. A few minutes later, we were driving down Main Street, such as it was. Emily had wisely changed into slacks and a sweatshirt.

"Not very big," Emily said as we passed a variety of store fronts, some of which were boarded up.

Like many small towns, I guessed Skylla Falls had been in gradual decline for many years, but it still retained some of its 19th century charm. I noticed a park with a Civil War cannon, a stately town hall, and several quaint coffee shops. There was even a bookstore.

"I've seen worse," I remarked, remembering bombed out villages in Afghanistan.

"You've been in the news a lot lately. What's it like being famous?"

"It sucks," I replied.

We pulled into a poorly paved parking lot at the end of town next to the Roasted Duck Saloon. Which was odd, for it had a giant plastic chicken mounted on the roof. Inside was an old beat-up bar with eight stools, a few red leather booths, a pool table and a juke box. It wasn't what I would call a dive, having seen my fair share, but it wasn't going to win any prizes for ambiance. The big screen TV was playing a football game.

"Dwayne, look who I found. Sarge Lawrence," Emily announced.

The half-dozen patrons turned, thinking she was joking.

"Wow, Sarge Lawrence," Dwayne the bartender confirmed.

"Son of a bitch if it isn't," a large man in overalls said. They called him Big Solley.

I was cautious. Some people are happy to see a celebrity, even a former criminal, but not everybody. I shook hands with those who offered, but didn't impose myself. Emily and I took seats at the bar.

"What can I get you?" Dwayne asked.

"Squirrel Nut, if you have it," I said.

"Not a common beer this far north, but I'll stock it for you, Mr. Lawrence," Dwayne said. "How about Wild Magnet in the meantime?"

"That's fine. And please call me Jack."

"Play pool?" a patron named Chubby asked. And aptly named.

"Long time ago. Had to give it up," I answered.

"Why is that?" he inquired.

"Got into too many fights," I replied. "Turns out I'm a poor loser. I play a decent hand of poker, though."

"No fights over poker? Why is that?" Emily asked.

"Because I don't lose at poker," I replied.

I asked Emily questions about the college, never having attended one. And I grilled Dwayne and Chubby about the town, for I didn't wish to offend local customs. Dwayne ordered us sandwiches from the Green Mountain Bakery on the corner, which was good, for I'd had no food since breakfast. Most of the patrons were New England Patriots fans, but I would stay loyal to my beloved Philadelphia Eagles.

"John Lawrence here?" someone called from the door.

I turned to see a tall black sheriff walking in, a Glock 22 in his holster. Broad-shouldered, he wore a khaki uniform, his hair cut short and a small beard on the tip of his chin. Was I under arrest after being in town for two hours?

"That would be me, sir," I said, standing up with my hands visible.

"Been looking for you everywhere," he said, reaching to shake my hand. "Sheriff Jeffrey Walters. Glad to meet you."

"Happy not to be arrested," I said, accepting the gesture. "Why am I the subject of a manhunt, if I may ask?"

"Thought you might want a place to stay," Jeff answered.

"Does Skylla Falls have comfortable cells?" I asked.

"You can crash on my couch if you want," Emily offered.

"No cells, and no couch unless you want to," Jeff said. "We have a house for you on Elm Drive. Dr. Frost made the arrangements."

I sat back down on the barstool, surprised, not having expected such consideration. The patrons sensed my reaction. Big Solley slapped me on the shoulder.

"Never had a house before?" he said.

"Lived in a dead congressman's mansion for a few months," I recalled. "Shared it with FBI agents. Never a house by myself before."

I finished my beer and went for a drive in the sheriff's SUV, finding a charming cottage well up the hill with a porch that overlooked a forested valley. The old wood house was painted yellow with white trim and potted plants hanging from the eves. The road was narrow enough that the press might leave me alone.

"This is my mother's house. She rents it for a few weeks or months at a time," Jeff explained. "Been in the family for a hundred years."

"I'll try not to burn it down," I said, excited as I entered.

It was the type of home I had envisioned for Francie and me, with a tidy living room, an airy kitchen, and a small bedroom in the back. Jeff opened the refrigerator to show it was stocked with food, juice, and a six-pack of Cracked Ice Beer. I reached for my wallet.

"I can't pay much now," I said. "Not until I get a paycheck from the college."

"How much do you have?" he asked. I had to count.

"Twelve hundred dollars," I said.

"For a first and last, or is that all your money?" he said. I suppose he thought celebrity criminals run around with a bank roll.

"That's everything," I revealed with some embarrassment.

"Pay the rest later," Jeff decided, only taking half.

"Thanks, I appreciate it," I said, shaking his hand.

Jeff had a beer with me and left before 8 o'clock, for I'd had a long day. I hung my good suit in the closet, realizing it needed to be ironed, put my socks and underwear in a pine dresser drawer, and my guitar in the corner. Then I sat down on the comfortable old couch, hardly able to believe my good fortune. Only a year before, I had been fighting for my life in a maximum-security prison with little prospects of seeing my 32nd birthday. It didn't seem real.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. I opened it to discover Emily standing on my porch.

____________

I know my first appearance at Skylla College should have been wearing a nice suit, carrying a briefcase, and filled with smart ideas about what I wanted to teach. But my brown suit was wrinkled, I didn't own a briefcase, and the only lesson plans I'd ever put forward were for young criminals getting their GEDs. Half of those classes were conducted in Spanish.

After Emily made breakfast for us in my new kitchen, I dressed in my gray sweats and we ran down the hill to the school, enjoying the competition. Emily won the race. I'd injured my knees too many times over the years to keep up, but made a respectable effort. Emily went to the Physical Education Building. I changed into my rumpled suit and went to the Administration Building.

"Dr. Johnson, I presume?" I said, escorted into her elaborate office.

It looked like a place where college presidents hang out, with diplomas on the walls, stacks of files on the desk, and chairs for guests. I put Dr. Johnson at fifty years old, short and a little stout, with darkly dyed auburn hair and a brownish complexion. A string of white pearls set off her dark suit.

"Mr. Lawrence, glad you could show up," Dr. Johnson replied.

To my surprise, Johnson was sitting with Dr. Sandra Livingston, an FBI profiler and close friend. A sleek brunette now in her early forties, it had been Sandra who found the position for me at the college.

"No nightmares. Taking my medication," I said to Sandra, cutting to the chase.

She stood up to give me a hug. More than seven years before, in the early days of my incarceration following President Blair's murder, it had been Sandra who first saw through my pretense. I hadn't wanted anyone to know I was suffering from severe post-traumatic stress, fearing it might reflect badly on other veterans.

"Dr. Johnson and I are having a lovely visit," Sandra said. "I was just explaining your aversion to large crowds and prying reporters."

"We'll do our best to accommodate your privacy, Mr. Lawrence," Dr. Johnson said.

"Thank you, but I don't wish to disrupt anyone's routine. Just let me know what you need, and I'll try my best."

"I understand you tutored Rafael Martín, and edited his first book," Dr. Johnson said. "And you edited Robert Blair's early articles on the Second Afghan War. Several of your students have careers writing for magazines and websites."

"Yes, ma'am," I acknowledged.

"In that case, my expectations are small," Dr. Johnson said. "Just teach my students how to write best-sellers."

After the meeting, I filled out the paperwork to become an official employee, and walked around campus with Sandra. She had come all the way from Quantico to make sure my first day didn't get sidetracked.

"I do appreciate this," I said as we passed the Fine Arts Building.

"That's new. I've been helping you for years and usually get insults," Sandra said.

"Have I really been that bad?" I asked.

"Maybe I'm exaggerating. A touch. But you've buried yourself in guilt for so long, I wasn't sure if you'd ever snap out of it," Sandra said. "Even Mrs. Blair has been worried."

"I'm doing better now," I replied, a bit irritated.

It was a pleasant campus, with a dozen redbrick buildings, broad green lawns, wide stone paths, a cafeteria off the main quad, and trees everywhere. I saw squirrels getting ready for winter.

We reached the gymnasium. They had a small football stadium for Saturday games. I heard the Skylla Skylarks were terrible, but cheering them on would be fun. I stopped at the main desk to register for a locker.

"Mr. Lawrence, we heard you might stop by," Coach Bowen greeted.

Bowen stood a few inches shorter than I but was broad as a truck. Probably a wrestler in his prime. His gray hair grew in wild curls.

"We just have a few questions," Bowen said.

"Yes, sir," I replied, standing like I was back in the Army. Bowen took out an application form.

"You look to be six feet tall. About a hundred and seventy pounds?" Bowen said, his pencil ready.

"Close enough," I replied, though my weight had actually dropped lately.

"Hair color?" he asked.

"Brown," I guardedly said, for it should be obvious.

"Eye color?"

"Also brown. Sir, is there something about my appearance that's a mystery?"

"We heard you were in the CIA. You could have changed your eye color. Hell, you could have changed your sex and we wouldn't know," Bowen said.

"I was never in the CIA. And I'm the same sex I've always been," I said, getting a little peeved.

"Birthdate?" he asked.

I paused, dwelling on my answer.

"You don't know your own birthday?" Bowen said.

"March 8, 1998," Sandra said. "Jack was an orphan. He only learned his real birthday earlier this year."

"I see. Place of birth?" Bowen asked.

"None of your damn business," I quickly answered.

"Relax, Jack," Sandra urged.

"I am relaxed," I said. "Why so many questions?"

"Only a few more," Bowen said, looking grimly official. "You saved Boston. Have you saved any other cities? Or do you have plans to save any other cities?"

I stared at the coach in disbelief. It was the sort of question I expected General Fowler to ask, just before kidnapping me for some foreign adventure. Sandra took my hand, squeezing it.

"Only Boston," I coldly said.

"Last question, Mr. Lawrence. What type of women do you like having sex with?"

"What kind of goddamn--" I began to say.

Suddenly Emily emerged from the back office laughing like crazy. Bowen started laughing. Sandra smiled, thinking it all very funny.

"Don't have much of a sense of humor, do you, son?" Bowen said, grinning like a polecat. Bowen was right, and it wasn't the first time I'd heard that. I caught my breath, trying to calm down.

"I'm sorry, Jack. This was my idea," Emily said, taking my arm. "Ed was just going along with it."

"Forgiven?" Bowen asked, offering his hand. I gave him a firm grip. And then I gave Emily a big hug, much to Sandra's satisfaction.

____________

My first class was the next morning, and I was nervous. I knew there wouldn't be a kid in the room who didn't have a better education than I did, yet I was supposed to teach them. I got to the campus early, using a borrowed bicycle, and studied notes on college English courses. I expected a bell to ring, but the college didn't use bells. Someday I would need to repair the watch Father Sebastian had given me.

My classroom was bigger than I expected, more like a small theater, with sixty or seventy seats. Just before 8 o'clock, a slim youngster in his early twenties arrived carrying a briefcase. He ran up to shake my hand.

"Good morning, Mr. Lawrence. I'm Michael Carmody, your teaching assistant," he said, Irish green eyes bursting with enthusiasm. "Whatever you need, I'm ready. Anything at all."

I paused to look him over, noticing the new tweed jacket, pressed slacks, wire rim glasses, and carefully combed sandy brown hair. Though tall and physically fit, I sensed he was more academic than athletic.

"Mr. Carmody, I would like you to stand over near the exit," I grimly instructed, pointing toward the rear door.

"Stand over near the door?" he said.

"Yes. Keep your gun ready. If any of the students try to leave without permission, force them back to their seats."

"My gun? I don't have a gun," Mike said, looking distressed.

I laughed. Who said I didn't have a sense of humor?

Soon a motley army of students began to arrive, about forty in all, staring at me as they took their places. I expected Dr. Johnson or Dr. Lau to stop in and check on me, but I'd been abandoned to my fate.

Once the students settled in, I stood before the class, straightened my blue tie, and waited for everyone to pay attention. That wasn't a problem. The kids were focused on me like I was a drill sergeant.

"I understand this is English Composition 104," I announced. "My name is John Lawrence. I am not a doctor or a professor, nor should you address me as Sarge in class. You can call me Jack as long as you do the work. If you don't do the work, you won't be calling me anything, because I'll kick your ass out of here. Questions?"

"Is there a syllabus?" a young lady asked.

I pulled Mike aside.

"What's a syllabus? Do we have one?" I whispered.

"Right here, sir," Mike said, taking a yellow handout from his briefcase. It was a list of assignments and tests. It looked like a lot of work.

"Yes, we have a syllabus," I said to the class. "I'll have copies for everyone by the end of the week."

"Mr. Lawrence, this copy is for you," Mike quietly informed me. "The class will have their copies emailed once you approve it."

"Your syllabuses will be emailed to you tomorrow," I said.

"How much of our grades are based on the tests?" a bold hazel-eyed youngster asked. Judging by her expensive jacket, she came from money. I turned to Mike for an answer.

"That's up to you, sir," he said.

I noticed some of the students getting impatient and couldn't blame them.

"Okay, everybody, let's be clear about this," I said, waving the syllabus. "I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I taught GED classes for several years to young criminals at Windhaven. There weren't many computers. At Northfield, where I was teaching rapists and murderers, there weren't any computers at all. When my students got out of control, I'd drag them out in the hall and beat on them until they showed respect. That's probably not my best option here.

"I don't know a lot about adverbs or participles. I'll need to study up on that. I don't know what tests we'll need. I'll talk with Mr. Carmody about those. But I can tell you this; good writing is about having something to say. It's about getting to the point without a lot of bullshit. It's about expressing yourself honestly. If you can do that, we'll get along fine. More questions?"

"How did Rafael Martín come up with the idea for Fountain Blues?" an eager reader asked. "Did you help him with those transitions?"

"When Robert Blair was writing The Sarge, how did he keep moving the narrative forward while still integrating so much research?" another wanted to know.

"The Esquire article on Thanksgiving Eve by Alex McGuire uses first person accounts," a bright woman asked, a little older than the rest. "How was she able to portray characters she knows so well, like you, without violating personal relationships?"

Wow, I thought with some trepidation, these kids are smart.

____________

My second week of teaching was cut short by an unofficial holiday. Friday, November 22nd, was the 7th anniversary of Thanksgiving Eve. The college declared it a short day, planning festivities to celebrate the defeat of the Tashad terrorists.

"Going to any parties?" Emily asked as we lay in my bed that afternoon.

We had gone hiking in the mountains that morning, had lunch at the Green Mountain Bakery, and snuck into my house by the back way when reporters were spotted cruising Main Street. Sheriff Walters gave them tickets for loitering. Emily was the first woman I'd spent more than a night with since Brenda Castillo and I had shared quarters on Diego Garcia for several weeks following the Tabrit mission.

"No. I was invited to Boston to christen some sort of monument but decided to stay home. Too much publicity. Alex and Dragon will be there. They like the attention."

"I would love to meet Alex McGuire. She's my hero."

"You'll like her," I replied.

"What are you doing for Thanksgiving? The campus will be closed next week. Most of the students are going home for the holiday."

"I'll be here. I don't have any ... That is, I have no real family. The closest I had were the Brothers at St. Mary's, and they've all passed away."

"You can come to Buffalo with my father and me. My family always has room for one more," Emily invited.

"Appreciated, but the press follows me around. I don't want them camped on your family's doorstep. Or photos of us in the tabloids."

"Yeah, my uncle might not like that, either," she agreed.

With Emily gone, I spent some of the holiday break in town, hanging out at the Roasted Duck, where I was making friends unaffiliated with the college. Some were veterans of Second Afghan, allowing us to swap war stories. I avoided discussing the engagements that I'd won decorations for. It felt too much like bragging.

Early Thanksgiving morning there was a knock on my door. I hoped reporters hadn't discovered my hideaway, and they hadn't.

"Jenny? Bob? What the heck are you guys doing here?" I asked, only half-dressed and a little hung-over.

"Taking you to dinner," Bob said, inviting himself in.

Jenny went to the kitchen, dug through my refrigerator, and started making bacon and eggs. The coffee smelled good. I needed to put on some pants.

"Okay, what's this all about?" I asked when we sat down to eat.

"Mom sent us. And she'll get on the phone if she needs to," Bob said.

"I don't have a phone," I happily mentioned.

"I do," Jenny said, holding it up.

"What's the plan?" I asked, knowing that if Patricia called, I'd have to go. "I can't go back to Blair House. The publicity my last visit got was awful. One tabloid accused your mother of sleeping with me."

"She thought that was funny," Jenny said.

"I didn't," I insisted.

"We're going to Aunt Cecily's house in Worcester," Bob said.

"Isn't your uncle coming?" I asked. "You know he hates me. And your cousins hate me."

"Aunt Cecily's house is neutral ground," Jenny explained.

"Bob, can I have a moment with your sister?" I requested.

"Sure. I'll check on the car," he said, going out the front.

I took Jenny out the side door to the kitchen porch. The weather was turning cold. The valley below us was beautiful.

"This isn't a good idea," I said. "Your Thanksgiving is going to be a war zone, and it might be for nothing. I'm seeing someone."

"A girl? Already? It's only been two weeks," she said, looking hurt.

"I'm a fast worker."

"You could have been with me."

"You and I are complicated. And if I go to this dinner, it will be even more complicated. Maybe you should tell Pat I can't make it?"

"I'm not lying to my mother," Jenny answered.

"Then let me tell her I can't make it."

"I'm not letting you lie to her, either."

"I would like to spend a holiday with you, and your Mom, and Bob," I said. "I haven't had a real holiday in a long time. But let's not have high expectations."

"We should get going. Bob wants to pick up his girlfriend on the way," Jenny said, going back in the house. She was disappointed, and I couldn't blame her.

Bob drove while I rode shotgun. Bob talked about his planned book tour to the West Coast, his girlfriend Linda, and an apartment he wanted to rent near the New York Public Library on 42nd Street. I didn't say much, and Jenny in the backseat said nothing. We picked up Linda in Cambridge, and she was surprised to see me. Not rude, but taken off guard. I moved to the backseat in silence with Jenny.

Cecily Blair Forrest, Edward Blair's fifty-five-year-old younger sister, had a grand house on Grafton Hill. Her husband was a corporate lawyer. Her adult son and daughter were lawyers, too. Cecily's little brother, Thomas Blair, had been elected Massachusetts Attorney General the year before. It was a family not lacking in legal counsel.

I wore my best suit. Recently dry-cleaned. We parked at the lower end of the driveway, Bob and Linda leading the way. A private security guard manned a booth not far from the gate.

"Jack, you made it," Patricia said, coming out and taking my hand. If she noticed Jenny's bad mood, she chose to ignore it.

"Cecily is looking forward to meeting you," Pat said, proving she could lie with the best of us.

The grand entry was impressive. Marble floors. A winding staircase. Fancy paintings. A nude Greek statue holding grapes. The dining room I could see from the entry looked just as elaborate, and there was plenty of noise coming from the kitchen. Whatever they were making smelled good.

Cecily and Bill Forrest greeted me politely, apologizing that their children had made other plans. Cecily looked like an older version of Jenny, though heavier with age and dying her hair brown to cover the gray. Her husband was tall, chiseled, and square-shouldered with snow white hair. He looked like a golfer.

"Mr. Lawrence, you're taller than I expected," Cecily sternly said, standing back and offering her hand in the foyer.

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

"Dinner is almost ready. We'll talk later," Cecily declared.

Bill pulled me into a side room where he made me a dry martini. The parlor had a full bar, several stuffed deer heads, and lots of books. A fire kept the room warm.

"Relax son, it's just us. I'm not a Blair, either," Bill said, adding a green olive to each glass. "Tricky situation, isn't it?"

"Reminds me of Lincoln's old quote," I said, taking a sip.

"Yes, I know that one," Bill agreed. "I feel like the man who was ridden out of town on a rail. Asked what he thought, the man said, 'If it wasn't for the honor of the thing, I'd rather have walked.' I take it you're not here voluntarily?"

"Pat insisted. I have no idea why."

"That's easy. Pat holds you in high regard. She's told everyone what you've done for her, and Bobby, and Jenny. She thinks you deserve the benefit of a doubt from the family."

"Am I going to get it?" I asked.

"The jury is out on that," he replied.

Cecily came in, and Bill left. I finished my drink and wished there was another.

"I'm supposed to call you Jack, by orders of the queen," Cecily said.

"Yes, ma'am," I mumbled, trying not to look nervous. "Thank you for inviting me."

"I didn't. Pat did. And not many are happy about it," Cecily replied.

"I understand," I said, walking softly toward the door.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Don't worry. I know how to slip out without making a fuss. I won't embarrass anybody."

"It would embarrass me if Pat thought I threw you out," Cecily said, suddenly stepping in my path.

I jumped back. When Cecily came forward, I retreated several more steps until I was trapped against the bar.

"Mr. Lawrence, are you afraid of me?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Why?"

"It was a mistake to come here," I responded, making a break for the door. Cecily intercepted me again. She was fast for a pudgy woman.

"Stay for dinner," she said.

"But ...?"

"I know. Stay for dinner," she requested with determination.

I assumed it was some form of punishment, and very cruel. But I had no choice.

While waiting for the meal, I spent some time on the veranda with Bob and Linda. She was interning for a prominent Boston insurance company but was talking about moving to Manhattan. I was vague about my own activities. I had only been teaching for two weeks and spent too much of my time in a tavern. I had also started writing a memoir but that project was secret. I wasn't sure if I'd ever let anyone read it.

The dinner bell rang. We went back into the house, discovering Thomas Blair had arrived with his wife, Cynthia, and their three teenage daughters, all formally dressed.

"Tommy, this is Jack Lawrence," Pat introduced, playing peacemaker. "Jack, this is my husband's little brother."

Thomas Blair was a little shorter than I, thickset, with dark wavy hair and a ruddy complexion. He reminded me of a hockey goalie. His wife and daughters were slim and light-haired, with modest demeanors. None of them acknowledged me.

"Your late husband," Thomas corrected.

He did not offer to shake hands and I made no effort to embarrass myself. Bob and Jenny were watching from the staircase, looking concerned. Maybe they expected less tension.

"We should eat, then sit down for a talk," Pat suggested, taking Thomas by the arm.

"Keep him on the other side of the table," Thomas grunted.

I did stay as far away from the Thomas branch of the family as I could, sitting with Bob and Linda. The dinner was elaborate, with a large turkey, mashed potatoes with gravy, and all the fixings. Wine was served, but I drank water. I wouldn't do anymore drinking under Cecily's roof, though only Pat seemed to notice.

After the main courses but before dessert, Pat drew Thomas, Cecily and I into the parlor, closing the door. None of the children or spouses were invited. I sat on a barstool in the corner.

"We need to be adults," Pat said, looking angry. "Thomas, you're a lawyer, for God's sake. You've seen the evidence. Jack is not responsible for shooting Edward. According to General Fowler, Jack wasn't even the shooter."

"Fowler is a liar and everyone knows it," Thomas said. "Covering his agency's butt for recruiting this lunatic for his clandestine operations."

"Let's be civil," Cecily admonished.

"We've seen the reports on Palmer Media," Thomas pressed. "Jack Lawrence, violent thug and glory hunter. Learned to con the weak-minded at an early age. A master manipulator."

I involuntarily laughed. That was too funny, in a sad sort of way.

"Tommy, look at all the good things Jack's done. Helping my children. Saving Boston. Rescuing the hostages in Tabrit. Saving the passengers on National Flight 13. Most of this country thinks he's a hero, and so do I."

"None of that changes what he did. Not for me. Not for my kids, or Cecily's kids. Or any of Edward's friends. What about you, Sis? Are you buying this crap?" Thomas asked.

"I don't know," Cecily replied. "He seems like a quiet young man. I've never heard him brag about what he did."

"I've never heard him talk about it at all. Why is that?" Thomas asked.

"Because I don't talk about it," I said, hoping to leave the room soon.

"Ashamed?" Thomas asked.

"That wouldn't bring back your brother, would it?" I replied.

"Jack, maybe you should tell them what you told me in the park all those years ago?" Pat said.

"That he doesn't remember the shooting? No one believes that lie," Thomas said. "He took a bus to the park, stalked Edward at the rally, and waited until he was leaving before firing the shot. It's on film. No one does that sleepwalking."

"There is medical testimony. Tell him, Jack," Pat insisted.

"No, Mrs. Blair," I said, warning her that she was on dangerous ground. "Sandra Livingston's theory is on the record now. Jenny and Alex saw to that. I'm not here to make excuses. I'm not making hollow apologies. And I'm not subjecting myself to anymore of this."

I got up, edged around the surprised Blairs, and managed to reach the door.

"Mrs. Forrest, thank you for dinner. It was very good," I said. "Pat, I'm sorry this didn't go the way you wished. Please say goodnight to the children for me."

I opened the door, finding Bill Forrest and Cynthia Blair jumping back. They had been listening in the hall.

"Thank you for the hospitality, sir," I said. "Goodnight, ma'am."

I made a hard right, heading for the entry to grab my coat off the rack. Seconds later, I'd escaped out the front door into the driveway.

"Where can I find the train station?" I asked the guard at the gate.

"Down the hill. Washington Square off Front Street," he said. "Might not be another train until morning."

"I've slept in the street before," I responded.

"Sarge, I was in the 144th Infantry. Served with you at Christian Ridge," he recounted. "Let me call a buddy to pick you up."

"Mathers?" I asked. "C Company."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't call me sir, corporal. I was a sergeant. I worked for a living."

Mathers laughed and offered his hand.

"There's a liquor store on Jennings and Commonwealth. Wait there. I'll have Sam give you a ride."

"Thank you," I said, for it was getting cold with a wind kicking up.

"No, Sarge. Thank you," he said.

I went on down the driveway, anxious to getaway. I had just reached the curb when Jenny caught up.

"Jack, what's wrong? What happened?" she asked, out of breath.

"Going home, Jennifer. Thank Bob for me," I said, turning to leave.

"No, wait. I don't understand."

"This was never going to work. It was a stupid idea."

"My family isn't stupid."

"Take it whatever way you want. Thanks for getting me out of Federal custody. If I can return the favor someday, let me know. But don't show up on my doorstep."

I turned my back, doubting I'd ever see her again.

* * * * * *

I'll try to post the entire novel if readers find it interesting. Thanks.