Second Chances

Pt. 03

by G. Lawrence

Jenny makes her move

This novel 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: Following his release from Federal custody, Jack took a teaching position at Skylla College in New Hampshire seeking a quiet life. After a blow-up at a Blair Thanksgiving dinner, Jack avoided Jenny for several months. Now she has appeared on his doorstep.

Authors note; readers will have noticed by now that each chapter begins with Jack being held prisoner by a terrorist organization in Iraq with the rest of the story being told in flashback. The two timelines will eventually come together.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Patricia Blair

Blair House

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Pat,

Though this is difficult, I believe it's time we make arrangements for the royalties from Jack's book. We can set up a trust, if that is your preference, or simply transfer the funds to your personal account. My lawyer is also receiving inquiries about the movie rights. Your friend, Daniel Palmer

Chapter Three

SCATTERED ASPIRATIONS

My first month in the village of Sar'ret was tense. After the Tashad militia moved back down into the Iraqi river country, two teenagers were assigned to watch over me. They were frightened, and occasionally harsh. Most of my time was spent in a rear storage room, lying on straw, hands tied before me. Undressed, for they felt I would not attempt to escape into the mountains naked. They were right about that.

"You do not look so important without your fancy uniform," one sneered.

"A uniform does not make a man," I dared to reply. "Anymore than holding a gun does. What makes a man lies in his heart."

"Your body is covered in scars. You must have been a bad soldier," the second said.

"I have been less lucky than some, and luckier than others," I responded.

For an hour each day, I was allowed to walk on a path near the lake or sit under a tree wearing a loose shirt and a wool skirt. No shoes. I spoke very little, other than to say please and thank you. The village spread-out for nearly half a mile, much of the small houses built of stone with thatched roofs. I noticed crops, sheep, barns, a grainery, and workshops.

"You cause no trouble," Ma'amet said, squatting next to me in my cell, knowing I spoke Arabic.

The village elder was dressed in light cotton thawb, the weather being warm. He draped a wool blanket over me during our conversations.

"I am a prisoner far from home. Causing trouble will not help me," I replied, studying his accent.

"We have heard stories. You fought against Islam in the Freedom War," Ma'amet said, though not quite accusing.

"The war was not against Islam," I disagreed. "But I was a soldier in that war."

"Do you call it the Freedom War?"

"No, I call it the Second Afghan War. But it doesn't matter what we call it. People still died. Families were torn apart. Towns were destroyed. Young soldiers returned home carrying terrible burdens."

"Such as yourself?"

"If you've heard stories, then you know why I am famous."

"You are famous for many things. Some are hard to believe," Ma'amet probed. "My wife likes you. You speak with respect. You pray when we pray."

"My real prayers are on Sundays. The days I think are Sundays. I was taken in by Catholic friars when I was fourteen. They helped a young violent thug find a soul. But I have prayed in mosques as well. God is found in many places."

"Are you seeking to convert our young men?" he asked.

"I would not presume to inflict my faith on anyone."

"Why are you here?" Ma'amet inquired.

"Tashad militia put a gun to my head, as you know."

"But why?"

"They seek to sell me to Rakmanistan," I speculated, for it was the only reason I'd been given. "But it's a risk that Premier Raskani may not take."

"Then the Tashad will kill you," Ma'amet said.

"That is beyond my control," I replied.

___________

"This is a surprise," I said, attempting to slow Jenny down as she unbuttoned her jacket. "Want a glass of wine?"

"I want you in bed," she answered, pausing long enough to kiss me.

Jenny was still wearing her chocolate brown tweed suit from the Devon Agency, her hair tied back in a bun. Her blue eyes were determined rather than excited.

"Catch your breath, little lady. I need a moment to process this," I said, taking hold of her arms.

"Bobby told me you and Emily broke up months ago," she explained. "You're not stabbed, or burned, or shot. Or radiated. It could be years before we have another chance like this."

"There are other considerations," I suggested.

"I'm twenty-two years old. A grown woman. And you're way older than that. What we do isn't anybody's business."

"How did you get here?"

"I drove. Some of us actually own cars," she answered. "It's parked at Quintin's. Mrs. Walters told me about your secret trail."

"You've had a long drive, and you look sexy as a New York banker. Did you bring a bag?"

"On the porch," she said.

"Okay, I think you should take a shower. We'll have a snack. Sip a little wine. And then we'll see where this goes," I urged, fetching her satchel.

She scrunched her eyebrows, pouted a moment, and took the bag into the bathroom. As I hoped, she left her purse on the coffee table. I dug in and found her cell phone.

"Jenny?" the voice on the other end answered.

"No, Mrs. Blair. This is Jack," I whispered.

"Hello, Jack. What are you doing on Jenny's phone? Is everything okay?"

"No. Jenny is here, in Skylla Falls."

"She's been there before," Pat said.

"She's taking off her clothes."

There was quiet for a moment. I may have heard a sigh.

"Why are you calling me?" Pat asked. "Are you asking permission to seduce my daughter?"

"If you think this is inappropriate, I'll send her away. Nothing is more important to me than your respect."

Another pause. I was putting Mrs. Blair in a difficult position but didn't see an alternative. If she found out later, it would certainly come as a betrayal. I wasn't going to risk that.

"I know what you're thinking, Jack," she said, showing patience. "You and Jenny together is controversial. But the most important thing is that she be with someone who loves her. Do you love her?"

"I do, and I won't pretend differently. Is that enough?"

"No one knows better than you how short life can be. Or how it can be filled with regrets. That's the best I can offer."

"Thanks, Pat. I ... I better go."

"Good luck, young man," Pat said, hanging up.

I turned to see Jenny standing in the bathroom door, wrapped in a towel, frowning at me.

"What the fuck? You called my Mom? Asking if you could have sex with me?"

I took Jenny in my arms for a long, passionate kiss. Then I dropped the towel on the floor and carried her into my bedroom.

This had been a long time coming. She had fought for my release organizing a publicity campaign. Been at my side in difficult times. I did not always think of her as a bedmate, she was too young. But not that young anymore. Now she was a headstrong young woman, smart, pretty, and luscious. Somewhere my protective instincts and natural desires were mixing. Growing confused. Jenny was not confused. She knew exactly what she wanted.

We rolled around in the clutches for hours. I had been a street kid, losing my virginity to whores on the New York docks, sleeping with waitresses in saloons as a young military recruit, and settled down when I met Francie, the woman I wanted to marry. Learning to make love like a man. Jenny had been wild in the years after leaving the White House, having sex with rich party boys. We were from different worlds, but on this night, we were in the same world, and it was terrific.

We made a light breakfast the next morning before going for a hike. There was a beautiful waterfall two miles up the creek from my cottage, blue and noisy, surrounded by tall trees.

"You don't make love like an old man," Jenny said, splashing her feet in the pond.

"Get back to me on that when you're thirty," I replied, holding her hand.

"Those wounds, do they hurt?" she asked.

I had taken off my shirt to get some sun. I encouraged Jenny to leave her shirt on, knowing how photographers liked to skulk in the woods.

"The shoulder gets stiff on cold days," I said, rubbing the old scar from Sirputa. "The collarbone is held together by a synthetic graft."

"You got wounded a lot," she pressed.

"I don't dwell on it. Thousands came back worse. Thousands didn't come back at all. If you knew the chances that medics like me had to take during the war ...? Well, let's just say miracles really do happen."

"So now that I've got you corralled, what happens next?"

"You've got me corralled?"

"You know I do."

"Once we know each other better, we'll see where it goes," I hedged, for it was difficult to share her optimism. In that respect, I was an old man.

That weekend was the best I'd had in many years. Maybe ever. We took long walks, had dinner at the Shanghai Palace, drinks with my friends at the Roasted Duck, and spent many hours without our clothes on. But Jenny had a job in New York City, and I had places to go.

"What's this speech all about?" Jenny asked, packing her bag late Monday afternoon.

"I don't know if it's a speech, or a lecture, or what," I said. "Daniel Palmer is paying me to appear at the Publisher's Guild Banquet."

"Hopefully not rubber chicken," Jenny said.

"I'm not there for the meal, just the speech," I replied. "After the banquet, there is some sort of reception. Free drinks."

"Is that how Mr. Palmer got your attention?"

"The sixty thousand dollars helped."

"Wow, that's a lot of money."

"I'll need it, if I ever find a girlfriend," I said, kissing her neck.

"I'll be back Friday so we can drive into New York Saturday morning," she said.

"No. New York is a four-hour drive. Each way. I'll take the train."

"We'll drive together this time. I don't want you getting lost. Is Palmer getting you a hotel room?"

"Yes, that's part of the package," I said. "Someplace called the Baccarat on 53rd Street. It's five stars, whatever that means."

"We'll have breakfast in the city Sunday morning. On the way home, we'll visit Mom," Jenny decided.

"Red--"

"Don't argue with me, it won't do any good," she interrupted.

"If we do this often, we'll use the train. That's not negotiable," I compromised.

"Fine, I can always get some work done on the train," she agreed.

By Wednesday I was already missing her. We would need a plan, but it might mean giving up teaching at Skylla Falls. Jenny was making five times more than I was. If I couldn't find a job teaching in the city, I could always work as a bartender or on the docks.

After being bribed with a cheeseburger, Chubby gave me a ride to the metro station in Manchester where I caught the train to Washington, D.C. I hadn't been back since my review hearing seven months before. Arriving in time for lunch, I took a cab to my destination on H Street where I was meeting Alex McGuire. I needed her advice.

Alex had been visiting universities around the country on a recruitment tour. She was wearing her brown hair long again, staying thin, and bubbled with her usual enthusiasm.

"Jack, my gosh, you're looking good for a change," Alex said, rushing to give me a hug.

"Thanks, Missy. It's good to see you, too. Got time for food?"

"Always time for my hero," she agreed.

We were at the Secret Service headquarters just a few blocks from the White House. And Ford's Theater. Not my favorite place. Many in the Secret Service were resentful that a president had died on their watch. That I was suffering a blackout and may have shot the president by sheer chance didn't help. If I shot him at all. Under normal conditions, I would have been lucky to hit a barn at sixty feet, let alone a moving target in a crowded park. What they thought of Fowler's conspiracy theory was a mystery, for I never asked.

Alex and I walked toward the National Mall, finding a quaint sandwich shop near the Smithsonian. Dozens of patrons recognized us, taking pictures with their phones, but were kind enough to give us space.

"You've come a long way in the middle of the week," Alex remarked, eating a salad. I ordered tuna, trying to avoid too many red meats.

"Spring break. I'm not due back until next week," I said.

"Traveling is expensive. Do you need any money?" she asked, reaching for her purse.

"I have a new source of income, thank you. That's not why I'm here."

"It must be important," she said, leaning forward.

"Jenny Blair and I are seeing each other."

"Wow, what took you so long?" she asked.

"Did everybody know about this but me?"

"Jenny has made you her special mission since that day she found you at Northfield," Alex explained. "With the story going around that the Blair family sent you there to die, she expected you to curse her. Especially after seeing you black and blue from all those beatings. She called me that day, crying. She couldn't understand why you didn't hate her."

"The angel in the window saved my soul that day," I remembered.

"I need to hear about that, but not here," Alex said, finishing her salad and paying the bill. We caught a cab for Arlington National Cemetery, getting dropped off at the entrance.

"Odd place for a talk," I said, entering the gate.

"The last time you were here, you melted down," Alex said. "This is a good way for me to find out how you're really doing. Now what's this about angels?"

We walked along a cement path. The grounds were green, filled with leafy trees and white markers.

"My transfer to Northfield was political. I was supposed to be murdered there," I explained. "After three weeks of beatings, little food, no sleep, and what happened in the storage room, the despair overwhelmed me. I'd given up. And then Jenny came to visit. She was crying, begging me to forgive her, even though she'd done nothing wrong. The way the light passed through her hair that day, and the tears on her cheeks, reminded me of a stained-glass window in the choir at St. Mary's. It was Jenny who brought me back from the darkness. She gave me the courage to fight."

"I didn't know any of that," Alex said, holding my hand.

"And I would rather no one else did."

We reached the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier where I laid flowers. Many of my friends were still buried in Afghanistan. Those who had graves. A few were buried off Clayton Drive in Arlington, in a plot set aside for veterans of the 144th Infantry.

"Do you think Jenny and I have a chance? I don't want to lead her on if it will never work."

"I can't kid you. The assassin and the President's daughter is going to raise eyebrows. But Jenny has been through worse. She knows her own mind."

"Why are my closest friends all strong women?" I asked.

"Because you value our opinions, and that means something. And you're easy to boss around."

"I guess that's true enough," I agreed.

There was a commotion up the hill, near John F. Kennedy's eternal flame. I was ready to go the other direction, but Alex was curious.

"Reynolds? What's going on?" Alex asked, seeing a fellow Secret Service Agent.

"The First Lady is visiting her daughter's grave," Reynolds reported, giving me a strange look.

"This is Jack Lawrence," Alex introduced.

"I thought so. It just seemed too strange to be true. Good to meet you, sir," Reynolds said, offering his hand. I was proud to shake it, though it was odd to be called sir. He was at least ten years older than me.

Reynolds paused, listening to the com device in his ear.

"Mr. Lawrence, will you please raise your arms?" he requested.

I complied. I always complied with proper authority, sometimes to my detriment. He frisked me for weapons and reported to his supervisor.

"Sorry, sir. I had to check. The First Lady is requesting you at the gravesite," Reynolds said, pointing the direction.

I started to back away, but Alex took me by the elbow, drawing me up the hill. We found Addie Wagner and her Secret Service detail at the grave of Colonel Judith Massinger, who had died in the crash of National Flight 13. I had failed to save her, and almost failed to save her children.

We found Judith's grave on a grassy slope below a steep cliff. Above us loomed the old mansion where Robert E. Lee had lived before the Civil War. Addie Wagner was laying flowers. She was in her 60s, short and gray-haired, with a Southern accent. I had met her daughter briefly during Second Afghan where she was highly respected by the rank and file.

"Jack, thank you for coming. I've missed you," Addie said, hugging me.

"I haven't missed your husband," I replied, remembering Wagner throwing things in the Oval Office. Books. Folders. Snow globes. Thankfully, his anger had been directed at neglectful advisors, not at me.

"Leonard was in a bad mood that day. I'm sorry he frightened you," she said, smiling the whole time.

"I've survived worse," I conceded.

"Can you come to the residence for dinner?" Addie invited.

"I should be getting back to Skylla Falls," I excused, for getting anywhere near the White House always caused too much publicity. "But thank you. Next time I come down, I would like that."

With luck, I was thinking, Leonard Wagner would lose reelection and I could visit the former First Lady at their horse ranch in Kentucky instead. I had always been curious about thoroughbreds.

I had wanted to catch the 5 o'clock train back to Manchester, though with the bus ride to Skylla Falls, I wouldn't be getting home until midnight. Alex would have none of it, taking me to her apartment in Georgetown.

"How come you're not married yet?" I asked, sitting on the couch where I planned to sleep.

"I enjoy dating too much," she admitted. "And I get my choice of the field."

"Bet you do," I said, for she was very attractive, smart, and absurdly famous. "How do you deal with the press? Don't they follow you around?"

"Federal agent. Following me on duty is a crime. At other times I smile, wave for the cameras, and move on."

"Wish I could do that," I lamented.

"You've only been out of custody since November, and the country didn't learn about your involvement in Thanksgiving Eve until the review hearing."

"Thanks to you ratting me out," I said.

"Damn it, Jack, the world was going to find out anyway. I didn't rat you out."

"I know, I just wanted to see you get mad."

Alex laid down on the couch, curling up with her head against my chest. I enjoyed having such a close female friend without the usual pressures.

"You're still new to so much attention," she remarked.

"It's something I've needed to think about. I'm giving a speech at the Publisher's Guild on Saturday about my relationship with the press," I mentioned.

"That's going to be interesting. Televised?"

"I certainly hope not," I replied.

____________

Late the next day I was back home working on my speech. After Jenny arrived Friday afternoon, she kept me busy the rest of the evening. And I do mean busy. I sometimes forgot what it's like to be so young, and eager, and seeking physical joys. Not that she wasn't reminding me. I was lucky to get time off for dinner.

Saturday morning, I packed an overnight bag for New York and took my best dark blue suit from the closet, keeping it in plastic to prevent rumpling. Jenny and I were getting ready to hit the road when Chubby came to the door.

"Jeff needs to see you, Sarge. In his office. Might be bad news," Chubby warned.

"Reporters?" I asked.

"Don't think so," Chubby said.

To avoid being seen, we took the lake path through the forest and entered the back gate of a large compound.

"Wow, what's this place?" Jenny asked, seeing an old two-story colonial house on a hill surrounded by tall trees.

Broad green lawns stretched down to the lakefront where a modern house, based on a design by Frank Lloyd Wright, overlooked a small cove. The old-fashioned garage looked like it was from the 1920s, and there was a quaint gardener's cottage near the tool shed. The guard dog, a German Shepard named Samson, knew me well enough not to bark.

"This is Taylor Place, owned by a nice old guy named after George Washington. Apparently Washington stayed here for two weeks during the American Revolution. Mr. Taylor's family has owned it since the 1760s. He lets me cut through when the press is lurking around."

"It's quite the estate," Jenny said.

"It's very historical. I hear George gives tours to school children four times a year," I mentioned.

We emerged from an obscure iron gate onto Cabot Avenue just above town. From there we passed through Quintin's Café and walked down Main Street past a dozen shops to the Sheriff's Office. I had been there many times before, often having coffee with Jeff in the mornings. The gray cinderblock building was small but stocked with wanted posters and all the latest crime fighting devices. There was a Massachusetts State Patrol car parked out front.

"Here he is," Jeff said as I entered his cluttered office.

There were two Massachusetts State Troopers, Pollard and Leads, by their nametags. Pollard was tall. A rough-looking cop. Leads was short and round. It was Trooper Pollard who stepped up.

"John Henry Lawrence, you are under arrest for trespassing, breaking and entry, and assault," Pollard said, holding up handcuffs.

"Whoa, wait a minute," Jeff intervened. "You said you just wanted to see him."

"And now we have. Please turn around, Mr. Lawrence," Pollard said. "You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford--"

"That's enough," Jeff said, taking the handcuffs away and throwing them on his desk. "What's this all about?"

"Mrs. Lucille Bates has sworn out a complaint. We are taking the suspect back to Lowell for processing," Trooper Leads explained, his voice high-pitched.

"Bates? The mother of Zek and Sherman Bates?" Jenny asked. "Those monsters who kidnapped and raped Debbie Palmer?"

"The same. The complaint states that Lawrence trespassed on her property, broke into her house, and assaulted her son upon leaving," Leads said.

"And some goddamned idiot of a judge issued an arrest warrant?" Jeff asked.

"Got it right here," Leads said. "Signed by Thomas Blair, Attorney General for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts."

"Uncle Thomas?" Jennifer said, looking hurt.

Jeff snatched the warrant away and sat at his desk, reading it carefully. Then he picked up the phone, spoke too quietly for me to hear, and smiled before hanging up.

"This is New Hampshire, mister. Where is your extradition order?" Jeff inquired.

"We've never had a problem with that," Pollard said.

"You have a problem with it now. The Attorney General of my state says to shove this warrant up your fucking ass, and he's calling Governor Robertson. Athena isn't going to be happy about this."

"Has an arraignment hearing been scheduled?" I asked.

"Ten o'clock Monday, Superior Court in Gorman," Leads answered.

"I'll be there," I promised. "But I don't want to be pulled off the bus on my way in. Is that satisfactory?"

"I suppose it will have to be," Leads conceded.

He reached for the warrant he'd given Jeff, but the sheriff held it back. The troopers left looking very displeased.

"Isn't this a hell of a thing?" Jeff said, reading the warrant again.

"Looks like we'll need to reach Manhattan without going through Massachusetts," I said.

"I can charter a plane for you," Jeff offered. "My cousin Benny runs an air service out of Manchester Airport."

"I hate small planes," I said.

"Make the call, Jeff. We're leaving now," Jenny declared.

To play it safe, Jeff drove us in his patrol car, just in case Leads and Pollard were lying in wait. A Gulfstream was waiting for us when we reached Manchester, ready to go. Cousin Benny took pictures of his famous passengers for his office wall, and we climbed aboard. It was all I could do not to ask for a parachute.

An hour and a half later, we landed at a small airfield outside Farmingdale on Long Island. Robert Blair was waiting for us.

"Thanks, Bobby. It got really complicated today," Jenny said, rushing to hug him. I settled for a handshake.

"What's all the mystery?" Bob asked, taking our overnight bags.

"Uncle Thomas has issued an arrest warrant for Jack," she said.

"What? How?" Bob wondered, looking shocked.

"We can discuss the details later," I said. "Let's not talk about it where anyone else can hear. We don't want to attract bounty hunters."

"Bounty hunters!" Bob shouted.

"There aren't any bounty hunters. I don't think. But we can't drive home through Massachusetts," Jenny said.

"Mom isn't going to like this," Bob remarked.

"Before I'm through, a lot of people aren't going to like it," Jenny threatened. "And Uncle Thomas can forget ever running for governor."

"Kids, calm down," I urged. "Let's not start a family feud. We'll worry about this on Monday. For now, let's just have fun."

I really didn't feel like having fun. The confrontation at the Sheriff's Office put me in a bad mood, but I didn't want to spoil the day for Jenny. I kept my breathing calm and checked for the pills in my pocket.

While we were driving to the Baccarat Hotel, Jenny at shotgun and me in the back, she decided to strike up an innocent conversation.

"I finally got Jack in bed," she suddenly bragged.

"You did what?" Bob asked, taking a quick glance back. But I was already ducking out of sight.

"We hardly got any sleep last night," Jenny continued. "We did everything. More than once. You guys can have some locker room talk about it later."

"I don't think so," I quickly declined.

"Me, either," Bob said, trying to keep his eyes on the road.

We reached the hotel, which was far fancier than I expected, and were given a luxury suite. I let Bob tip the bellboy, having no clue what it cost to carry a duffle bag and a suit up an elevator. Probably more than I made teaching.

The room had a spacious den, giant TV, a bar, a kitchenette, and a closet bigger than my living room back home. The separate bedroom had a huge bed, which I was learning to find necessary.

"You should be comfortable here," Bob said, sitting on a tall barstool.

"If not, something is seriously wrong with me," I agreed, looking for a beer.

"Where are you giving the speech?" Jenny asked, flopping down on the couch.

"The Garden Plaza. West 48th Street and 6th Avenue," I said. "It should only be a few blocks from here. The address sounds familiar, but I can't place it."

"I thought you grew up in New York? At least for a few years," Bob said.

"That was down on the docks. More often Brooklyn or New Jersey," I explained. "Hooligans like me hardly ever made it uptown without getting arrested."

"Were you really a hooligan?" Jenny asked.

"Toward the end, it was worse than that. I had to leave New York because of a trumped-up attempted murder charge, but I could have been arrested for illegal gambling, robbery, or even assault. When the dockworkers were making unauthorized removal of cargo, I acted as a lookout. I rolled drunks. When competitors harassed our corner boys selling drugs, I would convince them to lay off, usually with my fists. I really liked it. I played poker, smoked cigars, drank whiskey, and even had my first experience with a lady of the night."

"How old were you?" Bob asked, astounded by my history.

"Ten when I first got to New York. That was the worst year. I almost froze to death that winter living in a cardboard box. Things got better as I got smarter. I was fourteen when I finally had to leave for Philadelphia."

"You were like a kid Al Capone," Jenny said, possibly as a compliment. Though I wasn't sure.

"Nothing so grand. But I was glad to leave that life behind," I said.

"Well, here's a surprise. Tonight you're guest speaking at Rockefeller Center," Bob revealed. "And my publisher got me an invite. I'll be there, too."

"I better take a shower and shave," I decided, for the mere mention of Rockefeller Center had me nervous. It was a place for millionaires, not someone like me.

Two minutes into my shower, I was no longer alone. Jenny laughed when she startled me. She was stripped, gorgeous, round in all the right places, and soon had my hands all over her.

"What happened to Bobby?" I asked before things got too crazy.

"Changing back at his apartment. Best-selling authors have an image to protect," she said, taking the soap away from me.

"You went out of your way to shock him this afternoon."

"Better to hear it from me than read it on the net."

"About the net, let's not do any advertising right away. I think we need time of our own."

"Okay with me, but don't expect a secret like this to last long. In my experience, it never does," she replied.

I really had no clue what a publisher's guild does, assuming it was a bunch of rich guys sitting around plotting the best ways to exploit the latest tragedy. My address was scheduled to begin at 8:30, just as their dinner was wrapping up, and I didn't want to arrive early. Jenny and I walked to the Garden Plaza, then hung out in the bar downstairs. After nearly eight years, I had finally gotten Father Sebastian's watch fixed and kept checking it every few minutes.

"That's a strange watch," Jenny said.

"It's very old, and it's been broken since Thanksgiving Eve," I said, turning the stem. "It was hard to find a repair service."

"It winds up? No battery?" she asked.

"It's not really for precise time keeping anymore. Father Sebastian gave it to me for winning a Golden Gloves boxing tournament. It's always been off by a few minutes," I explained. "But it does help me think."

"Are you nervous?" Jenny asked.

"Very. I've never done anything like this before."

"I make presentations all the time. It's not so hard. Just start talking," she recommended.

The moment arrived. I took Jenny by the arm, and we went up a grand staircase to the banquet level, meeting Mr. Palmer outside the door.

"I was getting worried. Big crowd tonight," Daniel said.

"How reassuring," I replied, straightening my new red tie.

We used a rear corridor to enter the banquet hall through the kitchen. I stopped to shake hands with the cooks and dishwashers, making small talk while Palmer grew impatient. Jenny smiled, knowing who I was more comfortable with.

"I'll make the introduction," Daniel said as we reached a curtain behind the podium.

"See you after the show," Jenny said, giving me a peck on the cheek. "Look for me in the back. Don't worry, you'll be great."

I struggled to catch my breath, making sure the jacket cuffs weren't riding up my arms. I looked out the curtain, seeing twenty-five tables with eight to ten elegantly dressed diners at each one. There were no empty seats. Then Palmer began the introduction.

"Friends, tonight we have a special guest, making his first public appearance since his release from FBI custody," Daniel said, saying too much. "John Lawrence makes a lot of news, and he makes a lot of money for us, but I know him as the man who risked his life to save my daughter.

"Like most Americans, I thought of him as an angry, taciturn convict, prone to violent outbursts. Afraid of the media because we might expose him. And I was wrong. Jack spent Easter at my home. With my family. I found him to be shy, modest, and refreshingly honest. Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a warm welcome to Jack 'The Sarge' Lawrence."

I slipped through the curtain to mild applause, unhappy to find the small stage so brightly lit. The podium was a narrow stick of blond wood with a microphone attached. I tapped on it to test the sound, then tapped again, getting a few laughs.

"Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for inviting me tonight," I said, trying not to speak too quickly. Or throw up. "Since I was fourteen, I've been John Henry Lawrence. I'm usually called Jack. In the Army, some called me Sarge, which Robert Blair's books have popularized. Over the years, I've used lots of names, and that is part of my problem with your industry.

"You have been my nemesis for years, you just didn't know it. As a street kid running away from cops, and social workers, and anyone else trying to pull me back into a system I feared, publicity was my enemy. I used a hundred names, lived in a hundred places. When the Brothers at St. Mary's took me in, it wasn't an official adoption. Father Ramirez created a fake identity for me. The one you know today. I fought in the Golden Gloves as Alfredo Juarez. I played Babe Ruth Baseball as Tommy Baker. Whenever I saw my name in the local paper, I was afraid social workers would come knocking on the door."

I paused, looking for a sip of water, and stepped down to the nearest table. The patron there, a distinguished older fellow wearing a white cravat, offered me his glass. I noticed an untouched martini.

"May I?" I requested.

"Be my guest," he offered, waving his hand.

I gulped it, setting the glass down gently.

"God bless you, sir," I said, returning to the platform.

"Most soldiers don't seek attention for what they do in war. Most first responders don't charge into hurricanes looking for headlines. I'm in good company there," I continued. "But with the shooting of the President and disarming the bomb on Thanksgiving Eve, I've gotten more attention than I ever wanted. I can't blame you folks for that. I'd like to, but I can't."

They laughed. I was rambling a bit, trying to stay calm and avoid any pretensions. I backtracked, going over each of the big news events I was involved in, how I thought they were being covered, and how I was reacting to the coverage. I was straightforward, critical of the industry when I thought them sharks, and critical of myself when I put my own needs first. Which was often. I spared no one, but tried to do it without finding fault.

From time to time, I would get chuckles or light applause, though I wasn't always sure why. It was difficult to tell what the audience was thinking. I mentioned that I was teaching students to write, and that some former students were now professionals. Therefore, I was not only a subject of their trade, but abetting their crimes. I didn't wish to bore anyone, so after forty minutes, I started looking for a way to end it.

"To conclude, I would say that I respect what you do. Contrary to appearances. I have worked harder in recent months to be less defensive. To answer questions on occasion. To accept that I have a degree of celebrity, whether I want it or not. And not blame you guys every time it feels like the world is closing in on me. And I'll try to be better. But there is something you folks need to understand, too. At heart, I'm still that lost street kid, ducking into the shadows. Afraid to be seen. There are going to be times when my instincts kick in, and when they do, I'm going to run like hell."

I stepped back and the audience rose to their feet clapping. Some used spoons to clink their glasses. Mr. Palmer rushed up to shake my hand, all smiles, and waving to his colleagues. Several important men and women came forward with congratulations and asking for interviews. Daniel hustled me off to the side, hoping the first interview would go to his media outlets. Maybe even television, which really had me scared. I was just relieved the horror was over.

"Cocktails on the terrace, Jack. Take a few minutes to unwind and meet me there," Daniel said, disappearing back into the crowd.

Jenny and Bob approached me backstage.

"Going to the reception?" I asked.

"Wouldn't miss it after that," Bob said. "You wielded both the carrot and the stick like a drill sergeant."

"You were amazing," Jenny agreed.

"Bob, I'd like you to be Jenny's escort at the party. It won't look suspicious, and I don't want ... that is ... I don't think ..."

"No problem, I get it," Bob said.

I stepped out on a balcony to get some air. The city looked different from up there. More accommodating. Less predatory. It wasn't the same world that had filled four years of my life.

Once my composure was restored, I wandered up to the terrace where a live band was playing. A few couples were dancing. There was an open bar and I raced to get a whisky sour. Amanda Palmer appeared, stylishly dressed and wearing a fake fur stole. I hadn't seen her in the audience, but learned she'd been in the back, accidently bumping into Jenny. They had last seen each other in my hospital room in Lowell.

"Are you going to tell Daniel or should I?" Amanda asked.

"Tell him what?" I inquired.

"About the arrest warrant," she said. "Jenny told me."

"If I tell Daniel, it's going to be all over the news," I protested.

"It's going to be all over the news anyway. It's a big story."

"Okay, maybe this is one of those things I should get out in front of," I conceded. "Stand beside me?"

"Always," Amanda said, taking my arm.

I went to the informal stage where the band was playing and asked if I could speak for a moment. They agreed, shuffling to the back. I stood with Amanda, waiting until the dancing stopped.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention for a moment," I said.

The conversation died down, everyone turning in my direction. Daniel came forward, wondering what was going on. Jenny and Bob were just a few feet away.

"Esteemed publishers, early this morning, in the office of Sheriff Jeffrey Walters in Skylla Falls, I was informed by two Massachusetts State Troopers that a warrant has been issued for my arrest. I have agreed to surrender myself to the Superior Court in Lowell on Monday morning. Thank you for your attention."

I started to step down but was met with a barrage of shouts. I was not getting off the stage without elaborating.

"Jack, what is this all about?" the man who sacrificed his martini said.

"From what I was told, I am being charged with trespassing, breaking and entering, and assault, resulting from the events at 624 Sumner Drive," I explained.

"Who is pressing charges?" someone else asked.

"The troopers say it is Mrs. Lucille Bates, the owner of the house," I replied.

"Jack, why ...?" another yelled.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I don't have all the facts, and my friend Sheriff Walters advised me not to say anything without legal counsel, which I haven't acquired yet. It might be best if I shut up now. Thank you."

I waved to the jazz band and jumped down, immediately surrounded by a dozen questioners. Others were already on their phones ordering reporters to get the story. Jenny and Bob pushed their way through the crowd, but it was Amanda who took charge.

"Jack is not answering anymore questions tonight," Amanda insisted in no uncertain terms. "Go back to the party. Let him enjoy the evening."

The mob dissipated, but Daniel stayed, his face red. Amanda and I sat him down to give him a glass of water.

"This is Thomas Blair's doing, that goddamned son of a bitch," Daniel said. "I've taken it easy on him because he lost a brother, but the gloves are coming off."

"Stay calm, sir. Everything will be okay," I urged.

"How can you say that?" he asked.

Amanda, Jenny and Bob all wanted to know that, too. No one else was close by.

"They won't get me for assault. I made it look like an accident when I kicked Zek in the face. I even apologized," I explained. "I'll need to ask about breaking and entering. I didn't break anything. The door wasn't even closed all the way. I just sort of pushed it and slipped in. The trespassing may be a little tougher. I may need to plead guilty to that."

"No, you can't," Amanda objected.

"I knew what I was doing. Sheriff Walters even warned me of the consequences," I said.

"The consequences are that you saved our daughter," Daniel insisted.

"And I'm not sorry about anything I did. But I will take responsibility," I responded. "Jenny Blair, is that you?"

"Yes, Jack. It's me," she said, a little impatiently.

"This is good music. Let's dance," I said, taking her out on the floor.

_________

The party ended late. Jenny and I walked back to our hotel enjoying the mid-May evening. She was not pleased with me.

"You need to take this arrest seriously," she said.

The street was busy as only New York can be on a Saturday night. Tall buildings loomed over us with thousands of lit windows. Broken clouds tried to hide a shy moon.

"I'm taking it seriously. But there's another game being played, and I don't know what it is," I answered. "I'll try to reach Mr. Rasmussen. In the meantime, I have a new girlfriend. And we're in the Big Apple, a long way from the cardboard box I once lived in. Please, Red. Let's just enjoy the moment."

I was treating the problem lightly, not because it wasn't serious, but because I didn't want the apprehension creeping in on me. Hopefully Harold would know what to do, because I didn't.

Our hotel room was so large that Jenny and I didn't feel confined to the bedroom, and it was another hour before we finally fell asleep. By the next morning, we were packed and ready to go. The press apparently hadn't gotten word, as the lobby was quiet when we snuck down to Bob's car.

"Where to, lovers?" he said.

"I want to visit Mom. Can you drive us?" Jenny asked.

"The White Hat is on the way. Maybe we can get some breakfast?" Bob recommended.

Having borrowed Bob's tablet, I sat in the back seat to read the morning news. The arrest warrant had become the top story of the day, the reports a mixture of confusion and outrage. We were almost to a greasy spoon in Brooklyn when Jenny turned from the front seat, handing me her cell phone.

"It's Mr. Rasmussen," she announced.

"Hello. Harold?" I asked.

"Jack, good I found you," Mr. Rasmussen said. "You need to stay out of Massachusetts. I'll fly up tomorrow."

"I've given my word to appear in court, sir," I reported. "Do you know what this is about?"

"We're investigating the arrest warrant. There are several theories," Rasmussen said. "But once you're in custody, it might be a long time before you get out. You need to hold off. Let me find you a good lawyer."

"I don't see how I can. But trespassing isn't such a serious crime. It's not like murder or anything," I speculated.

"Blair may be setting you up for something bigger. At least don't go in the courthouse until I get there," he urged.

"The hearing isn't until ten. I won't rush it," I promised.

"I'm going to get to the bottom of this," Rasmussen said. "Jack, was I the first person you called?"

"Harry, you are the only person I've called," I answered.

I gave Jenny her phone back.

"You've got good friends," Bob remarked.

"It sounds like I'm going to need them," I replied.

Breakfast at the White Hat was good, and not just because the environment was comfortable. The customers were dressed like slobs, the seat in our booth had a tear in it, and the silverware wasn't quite clean. It felt like home.

"We're being watched," Bob said.

"We're always being watched," Jenny remarked.

"This is different," Bob insisted.

I glanced around, seeing that we were recognized by everybody in the diner. Even the cooks in the kitchen occasionally peered out at us through the pick-up window.

"I'd better say hello or they'll think I'm a snob," I reluctantly decided.

I finished my orange juice and got up, visiting the other tables, saying good morning, posing for pictures, and shook hands in the kitchen. If things went poorly on Monday, it could be my last outing for a while. Everyone wanted to know why I was being arrested for rescuing Debbie Palmer, and I had no answer for them.

Jenny made arrangements for Cousin Benny to pick us up at the New Haven Airport. We would fly over Massachusetts to get back to Skylla Falls. In the meantime, we would spend a few hours at Blair House. Maybe I would take a walk on the beach.

When Bob stopped for gas on the highway, I went inside the mini market for a newspaper. I rarely read more than the sports section but wanted to see if Massachusetts was offering official notices of the court proceedings. I folded the newspaper into my pocket to read later.

As I was leaving the store, a woman stopped me. She was my age, medium height and very thin, and looking terribly stressed. She'd not washed her long dark hair in several days.

"Aren't you Sarge Lawrence?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," I said guardedly, for it was often hard to tell if that was good or bad news.

"You are my son's greatest hero. He has all your comic books," she said. "Billy would treasure your autograph."

"No problem," I said with relief. "Where is Billy today?"

"Bridgeport Hospital. In the cancer ward," the woman answered. "They performed surgery yesterday. It's been hard for him."

Now I realized why she looked so haggard. She had been up all night worrying about her son.

"Let's get going," I said, walking to her car. "Bob, I'll be at Bridgeport Hospital. Catch me there."

The hospital was only a few minutes away. I greeted the nurses at the front desk, asked how the patient was doing, and we found the youngster's room. He was only ten years old, his hair gone from chemotherapy. He was sitting up and alert.

"Hi, Billy. I hear you've been in a fight," I said, pulling up a chair next to his bed.

"Sarge?" he said, brown eyes wide with surprise.

"Yeah. Your Mom told me it's been tough. Thought I'd stop by to see how you're doing," I said, reaching to shake his hand. His arm was hooked up to an IV, the grip weak, but Billy had a big smile.

"They had to cut it out," Billy said, showing the bandage on his head.

"This is from Sherman Bates' shotgun blast," I said, showing him the recent scar above my ear where the hair was still growing back.

"Wow," Billy said, impressed.

"I got this at Sirputa," I added, opening my shirt to show where a sniper's bullet had shattered my collar bone.

"You've got good scars," Billy said.

"You don't get called Sarge for nothing. You have to earn it. Sarge doesn't give up, does he?"

"No, sir. Sarge never gives up," Billy said.

"Then you had better be a fighter, too."

"Yes, sir. Will you sign this for me?"

I hadn't known there was a Sarge comic book, but there was a stack on his bed. Rather garish artwork, but they looked like fun. I autographed all ten of them while making small talk.

After twenty minutes, Billy began to tire. I saw Jenny and Bob in the doorway with Billy's Mom.

"I've got to run now, Billy. More battles to fight," I said. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yes, Sarge. I'll make it," Billy promised.

"Good work, kid," I said, standing up and saluting.

In the hallway, the boy's mother hugged me. She was crying. Several nurses and a doctor were watching.

"Let's stay mum about this," I requested. "It's not really anyone's business, is it?"

"No, sir," the doctor said, a man easily fifteen years older than me.

"What's the prognosis?" I asked.

"We'll take good care of him, Sarge," a nurse said, shaking my hand.

I gave Jenny's phone number to the mother, which was presumptuous of me, and followed Bob back to the car.

"Sorry to cut in on our time with Pat," I apologized. "It was a spur of the moment thing."

"No, that was ... that was special," Bob said, choking up. There were tears in his eyes.

Jenny just held my hand. She had been crying, too.

We reached Blair House at lunchtime, finding the driveway blocked by reporters. I got out to answer a few questions, giving Bob a chance to park the car. There wasn't anything I could tell the press that I hadn't said the night before, though I added the tidbit about Jeff Walters throwing the state troopers out of his office. They liked that.

I went up the driveway, closing the gate. Pat's Secret Service detail made sure there were no further interruptions.

Jenny and Bob were already on the porch with Pat. She looked upset with me.

"Harold called," Pat announced without even saying hello. "He wants Joseph to keep you here. Under arrest if necessary."

"I will, too," Agent Schön said, showing me his sidearm.

"That's a little extreme," I said, giving Pat a hug. "Is lunch ready?"

"Lunch or a last meal?" Pat said.

"Come on, everybody. I'm sure it's not a big deal," I protested.

There was a nice egg salad sandwich waiting for me in the big dining room, Martha doing the serving. I had half a glass of Merlot, but didn't say very much. Young Billy had reminded me how hard life can be for some, and how unfair. Jenny told Pat about the hospital visit, but I wouldn't let her embellish the story.

After lunch, with an hour or so before we needed to leave for the airport, I went out on the patio to read the newspaper. One of the reports was disturbing.

"What's wrong?" Pat asked, taking the chair next to me.

"It's the Bates' lawyer. He's asking for the charges against the brothers to be thrown out," I said, reading the article carefully.

"On what grounds?" Pat inquired, laying the paper flat on the table so she could read it, too. Jenny and Bob came out with a pitcher of lemonade.

"They claim I was acting on behalf of the police when I went into the house," I explained. "Therefore, all of the seized evidence is invalid because there was no search warrant. Even the bodies under the house are considered fruit of the poisonous tree."

"Is that possible?" Jenny asked.

"Yes, if I was acting on behalf of the police, but I wasn't," I said, trying to put the pieces together. "That would explain the trespassing charge. If I'm found guilty, it would prove I had no official connection to the cops. The evidence against the Bates will stand."

"And you might go to jail?" Bob said.

"It would be worth it to see those miscreants on death row," I replied.

"No, there has to be another way," Pat insisted. "Thomas could find one if he wanted to."

"He has no reason to," Bob said. "This way he preserves the charges against the Bates brothers. Just what he needs to run for governor."

"I hate him," Jenny said.

"Let's not go there," I insisted. "Family is too important to throw away. Excuse me, I need to think."

I took the newspaper down to the beach, reading it again. The case for dismissing the kidnapping and murder charges was weak. The police didn't even have a statement from me, as I'd left the hospital before giving one. But could I take the chance?

At the same time I was due in Lowell, the Palmer Kidnapping Case was scheduled for 11 o'clock in Boston's Federal Court. If I pled not guilty at my hearing, the Bates' lawyers might cite that as evidence for their own hearing. The whole situation was making me sick. I wasn't going to plead guilty to assault, but pleading guilty to the other charges would make all of the evidence against the brothers admissible. I didn't see a choice about that.

Jenny came down to the beach, holding my hand as we walked all the way down to the municipal pier. I spent a few minutes watching a father fish with his young daughter. An elderly couple walked their dog right past us. It all seemed so quiet. So perfect.

"What are you thinking?" Jenny asked, worried.

"You should stay with your mother for a few days. She needs you. Once the charges are dismissed, I'll come get you."

"Oh, God. No, Jack. No, no, no," she said, grabbing my shoulder.

"Everything will be fine," I assured her.

We went back up to the house. Everyone saw how upset Jenny was and didn't need to guess why. I neither confirmed nor denied anything.

Jenny and I returned to Skylla Falls before 9 o'clock, stopping by Jeff's house to fill him in on developments. He'd already been contacted by the press, giving his version of the meeting with the state troopers.

"Were you interviewed about how we found Debbie Palmer?" I asked.

"Of course. The FBI took my statement," he said.

"And how did we find her?"

"We didn't find her, you did. You jumped that wall and found her in the bedroom," Jeff said, wondering where this was going.

"On your orders? Was I deputized?"

"No, I ... I warned you not to do it. I told you it was trespassing. Jack, I'm sorry," he recalled.

"This is all good. It's important to tell the truth," I said, shaking his hand. "This case could go on for a while. I'm going to pack up my things and spend the summer in New York. If I'm not in jail. Have your mother rent the cottage and thank her for me."

"We're going to miss you," Jeff said.

"This was great while it lasted," I replied.

Jenny and I drove her car back to the cottage, not bothering with a secretive route. I would have stopped at the Roasted Duck, but it closed early on Sundays. Boxing my stuff took less than an hour as I hadn't accumulated much. It would all fit in Jenny's trunk.

Our lovemaking was subdued that night. It concerned me that Jenny was taking the arrest warrant so hard, for even if this worked out for the best, something else would come along. It was no accident that I found myself in constant trouble. It had been a pattern my whole life.

"If you're having second thoughts, that's okay," I said.

"We've only been a couple for a week. I thought we'd have more time before crazy things happened," she replied, her head on my chest as we lay in bed.

"Were you expecting crazy things?"

"Of course. I used to gossip at Clubber's with Alex and Sandra. And they didn't even know your war stories, only the trouble you've caused since."

"I don't cause trouble. I just have a habit of finding it," I disagreed.

"Well, you've found trouble here, and if it's our last night for a while, you're going to remember it."

Suddenly Jenny was on top of me, her dark red hair hanging in my face. She kissed me with a desperate passion, and reminded me what it's like to be so young.

The next morning, I stacked my boxes near the front door and glanced out the window. There was a black SUV parked in the cul-de-sac. Had the Massachusetts State Troopers gotten impatient?

"What's wrong?" Jenny asked, still wearing a towel.

"I better go find out," I said, putting on my shoes.

I stepped on the porch, keeping my hands in full view, and went down the steps to the driveway. Car doors began to open.

"Mr. Lawrence, Virgil Dietz, FBI Special Agent," a tall black man in a dark blue suit said. "We've been detailed as your escort."

"Under arrest?" I asked.

"No, sir. Not at all. We're a protective detail," Dietz replied.

There were three agents. The two men, Glassell and Dietz, were stamped right out of the classic FBI mold. Tall, chiseled, and determined. The female agent, Julia Foster, was attractive in her gray suit and looking formidable behind dark sunglasses. I suspected she colored her short dirty blonde hair.

"Thank you, Special Agent Dietz," I said. "I won't be ready for a few more minutes. Would your team like to come in for coffee?"

The agents sat around my kitchen table while Jenny served. They noticed the boxes near the door.

"Going someplace?" Dietz asked.

"Either jail or New York," I replied. "Miss Blair is kind enough to help me move."

They knew Jenny was doing a lot more than help me move, but FBI agents aren't known to blab, so I wasn't worried about it.

"Foster can drive Miss Blair's car to Lowell. That will allow you to ride together with us," Dietz generously offered.

"Thank you," Jenny said, still worried.

"We should get going," I said.

It was only a forty-minute drive, the highway mostly lined with trees and small farms. I spent it staring out the window, sorry to leave New Hampshire. I had been happy there.

"Is that a roadblock?" Agent Don Glassell said, driving the SUV.

"Stay ready," Dietz warned, clearing his holster.

We were just a few minutes over the Massachusetts border near a bend in the road. Glassell stopped twenty yards short of three State Trooper patrol cars, Foster halting just behind in Jenny's car. Dietz and Foster got out, walking toward the supposed roadblock. They returned a moment later.

"Rasmussen was right about these SOBs," Dietz said, buckling his seatbelt. "They were hoping to stop your car and arrest Jack here. Claim credit for catching him."

"Even though he's coming in voluntarily?" Agent Glassell said.

"What's going to happen, Mr. Dietz?" Jenny asked.

"They won't try to stop us again, but I don't like this. I'm calling for backup," Dietz decided.

"I thought Rasmussen was exaggerating all this," Glassell remarked.

"So did I," Dietz agreed. "Be on your toes. If these rent-a-cops try to interfere with our assignment, I'm going to put them down."

We drove slower, reaching the outskirts of Lowell, a two-hundred-year-old former factory town. The downtown area near the Merrimack River was swarming with crowds, media trucks, and law enforcement of all kinds. I grew nervous for Jenny's safety.

"Don't worry, sir. We've got this," Glassell said.

And he was right. When we stopped on Gorman Street near the courthouse, half a dozen FBI Agents surrounded the car, some armed with rifles. I recognized FBI agents Sam Alston and Liv Aiyana, who had assisted the search for Debbie Palmer. I hoped a war wasn't going to break out.

"Mr. Lawrence, good to see you again," a U.S. Marshal said.

It was Jason Domeyer, the fifty-year-old deputy who had escorted me to Washington during the congressional hearings a year before. He still had thinning brown hair and wore thick glasses. His wife had been feeding him well. With him was another old acquaintance, U.S. Marshal Linda Ellsworth. Energetic, with long strawberry blond hair, hazel eyes, and an attractive figure. She had once drawn her gun on me, thinking I was about to escape, only to discover I was pulling a wandering child out of heavy traffic. It became a running joke for several months.

"What are you guys doing here?" I asked.

"The President ordered the Attorney General to send some watchdogs, so we volunteered," Domeyer replied.

"Don't worry, the crowd is friendlier than it looks," Linda said, seeking to encourage me.

"Jenny, you need to hang back," I said. "Everyone knows you were my advocate at the Review Board. Let's not tell them more than that."

"For now," she agreed, ducking back into the SUV as I closed the door.

Several hundred people were being restrained by a rope line, the local cops trying to keep control. Some of the officers were mounted on well-trained horses. I saw hand-made signs reading "Free Sarge," "Justice for Debbie," and "Kill Blair." If there was a public relations war, it looked like Thomas Blair was losing. I decided to make it worse for him.

"Hello, everyone. Thanks for coming out," I loudly said, breaking away from my protectors to greet the mob.

I went to the rope line, shaking hands, waving, and signed some of their banners. They met me with cheers. I didn't sense it was so much a personal endorsement. I was still a controversial figure. They were angry over their government's action, for two serial killers had been captured and the bodies of their victims recovered. The community was showing their gratitude. To my right, I saw media trucks filming the chaotic scene. One belonged to Palmer Broadcasting.

It was not lost on me that President Blair had been shot at a similar event, in Jackson Park, Maryland. If such a fate was waiting for me, then so be it. I was no longer hiding.

"Time to go, Jack," Domeyer said.

He and Linda stayed especially close, both wearing protective vests. It felt like old times.

We went up the steps into the old courthouse just before 10 o'clock. In the lobby, several State Troopers and lawyers approached.

"John Henry Lawrence, you are under arrest for the charges specified in the warrant," a squat, balding lawyer said. "Officers, take him into custody."

A grim State Trooper stepped forward with handcuffs. Domeyer and Ellsworth blocked him. Agent Dietz stepped forward.

"Mr. Lawrence is in our custody," Dietz announced.

"This isn't a Federal case," the bald lawyer said.

"Want to make it one?" Dietz replied.

The lawyers backed up, conferring under a fancy staircase. I noticed dozens of secretaries and staff watching from the balconies. Half of them were recording the scene with their cell phone. I felt like a bone being fought over by angry dogs but tried to keep my composure. I didn't want to appear complacent. Or frightened.

The State Troopers faded away without a confrontation. We turned down the corridor, entering the largest courtroom. There was already a hundred people filling the seats, and a hundred more coming through the far doors. The FBI Agents cleared the front row behind the defendant's table while Domeyer and Ellsworth sat with me.

"How have you guys been?" I asked, trying to ignore the commotion.

"Great. We got promotions," Linda said.

"Then what are you doing babysitting me again? Don't you have important assignments?" I inquired.

"This is an important assignment," Domeyer assured me. "Where's your lawyer?"

"I don't have one," I said, feeling stupid.

"You can't do this without a lawyer. Those sharks will eat you alive," Linda said.

"Give me the best advice you can," I sighed.

It took forty-five minutes to seat everyone and calm the room. I saw Jenny and Bob standing in the back holding hands. I appreciated Bob's thoughtfulness. Finally, the bailiffs brought the court to attention.

"Hear ye, hear ye, this hearing of the Superior Court is now in session, Judge Anna Poston presiding."

We stood up as the judge entered, a youthful woman with long black hair falling over her shoulders. She stood for a dramatic pause, then took her seat. The rest of us sat down, too.

"The Commonwealth of Massachusetts v. John Henry Lawrence has presented some unusual complications," Judge Poston said, her New England accent strong. "Five prior justices have needed to recuse themselves because they or family members were saved by this defendant on Thanksgiving Eve. Is the prosecution ready to proceed?"

"Yes, Your Honor. Cyrus Kane acting for the Commonwealth," Mr. Kane said, a tall skinny beanpole reminiscent of Ichabod Crane.

"And the defense?" Judge Poston asked.

I sat for a moment, not sure what to say. One would think after all this time, I'd have a better grasp of procedure.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, briefly rising.

"Where is your lawyer, Mr. Lawrence?"

"I don't have one, Your Honor. At the moment," I replied.

"You will need a lawyer if this case proceeds to trial," she warned.

"Yes, ma'am. I understand," I confirmed.

"The prosecution may proceed," the judge said, making notes.

"Your Honor," Kane continued. "We can prove that on April 14th of this year, the defendant knowingly trespassed on the property at 624 Sumner Drive, that he entered the residence without the knowledge or permission of the owner, and that he assaulted Mr. Zekman Bates while on the premises."

"Go to hell, you goddamned son of a bitch!" someone from behind me yelled.

"Impeach Tom Blair!" an especially angry voice shouted.

"We know where you live, Kane, you Nazi bootlicker!" another said.

And others were not so nice. The judge pounded her gavel. The bailiffs rushed to quell the disturbance, escorting the troublemakers out. I just sat there, as surprised as anyone by the outburst. And not happy about it, for a court proceeding should be given more respect.

"Your Honor, the Commonwealth requests there be no bail," Kane continued. "It's well known this defendant has abundant resources to escape the jurisdiction of this court."

"The bail issue will be taken under advisement," Judge Poston said. "Mr. Lawrence, how do you plead to the indictment?"

I glanced back at Jenny, who looked on the verge of tears. But it couldn't be helped. Any plea that gave the Bates brothers room to breathe was unacceptable. There was no choice.

"Your Honor," I said, standing up. "I--"

"Your Honor, a motion!" a man shouted, walking down the center aisle.

He was a distinguished white-haired gentleman marvelously dressed in an expensive brown suit. Congressmen don't look so good.

Behind him, another well-dressed man stood up. And then two more. And then an entire row suddenly emptied as an army of forbidding men and women marched down the aisle, threw open the swinging gate, and swarmed over my table. Domeyer and Ellsworth were chased away.

"Marcus Gates, Your Honor. Gates, Williams, Sandhurst and Memoli, representing the defendant," Gates announced, taking control of the room. "We have motions to dismiss, motions to postpone, motions to challenge witness statements, to deny the legitimacy of this proceeding, and eighteen more objections to this intolerable outrage. And we have here a demand the defendant be released on his own recognizance, based on his outstanding character and service to our country."

The courtroom cheered, a few jumping to their feet. I felt my knees growing weak. I looked back for Jenny, hard to see through the mob, and saw her hugging her brother.

Gates threw a stack of folders on the judge's bench, then his aides came forward with four more stacks, dropping them with defiance.

"Your Honor, the Commonwealth objects," Kane said, trying to get attention.

"Watch yourself, Cyrus. By the time we're through with you, you'll be back in night court prosecuting whores and drug addicts," Gates threatened. And I could tell he meant it. My legal team was seething with indignation.

"Where is this coming from?" I asked one of the younger attorneys, an attractive woman with laser blue eyes.

"Daniel Palmer," she said. "We are under orders to go the full limit. Whatever it takes, no holds barred. And Marcus Gates is the best lawyer in Boston. You can't do better."

"Very impressive, Mr. Gates," Judge Poston said after finally reasserting control. I had been on battlefields that were less contested. "But the defendant has still not entered a plea. I am unable to entertain these motions until we know where the case stands."

Gates came back to my table, chased three lawyers out of the way, and sat down.

"You need to enter not guilty," he said. "We can take everything from there."

"I would like to, sir. But there are complications," I replied.

"What is more complicated than your freedom?" Gates asked.

"The freedom of the kidnappers," I replied. "I don't want to do anything that might risk the case against them."

"None of our motions will do that. I promise you," Gates said.

I was still unsure, the doubt showing in my posture. Gates grabbed my forearm, looking me in the eyes, sensing my concern. He thought I would simply obey, desperate for acquittal, and now realized it wasn't that simple.

"Daniel is right about you," he whispered. "You are the best kind of client, and the worst."

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't wish to be difficult."

"I know you don't, son. But we are going to fight for you regardless of what you want," Gates replied.

Gates stood up, ready to reengage. Two lawyers kept me seated, and silent. There was another interruption.

"Judge Poston, your attention," Harold Rasmussen requested, storming down the aisle with several more FBI agents in his wake. One was Alberto Ruiz, who cleared a chair to sit by my side.

"Yes, Mr. Rasmussen," Judge Poston said, for Harold needed no introduction.

"I have here a Federal court order to suspend these proceedings," Rasmussen said, holding up a legal document. "In the opinion of Justice Agatha Kovachevich of the United States Supreme Court, this prosecution is an attempt to obstruct justice."

"Please explain, sir," the judge asked, leaning forward.

The courtroom fell silent, Rasmussen holding center stage. Something he was very good at.

"Your Honor, I have known this defendant for eight years and can tell you without fear of contradiction that he was about to plead guilty," Rasmussen said. "Not because he is guilty, or has done anything wrong. He fears this proceeding might cause the evidence against the kidnappers of Debbie Palmer to be compromised. That the murderers of three young women might go free. And rather than risk that atrocity, he will give up his own freedom. That is the kind of man John Lawrence is, and the Attorney General of Massachusetts knows it. He is counting on John's sense of justice to pervert justice. This order by Judge Kovachevich will deny Thomas Blair his quest for revenge and prevent the Commonwealth of Massachusetts from interfering in a Federal prosecution."

There were more cheers, but most were watching the judge for her reaction. She read the court order thoughtfully, whispering to her clerk several times. She finally rose to her feet, proving Rasmussen wasn't the only one with theatrical ability.

"Mr. Rasmussen, Mr. Gates, Mr. Lawrence, I can do this order one better," Judge Poston said. "I am dismissing all of the charges against this defendant with prejudice. Mr. Lawrence, you are free to go. And thank you for the service you've provided to this community."

I put my head down on the table in relief. Dragon put his hand on my shoulder, knowing me well.

My first reaction was to run up the aisle, wipe the tears from Jenny's face, and give her a reassuring kiss, but we couldn't reveal our relationship in such a way. Instead, I shook hands and tried not to look stunned. I don't know that I had grasped the potential consequences of my quixotic stubbornness until that moment.

Rasmussen got me out of the courtroom. I'm not sure how. It was all a blur. I felt the sun on my face once more and thanked God for such friends, wishing I knew how to thank them.

"Sarge, what do you have to say?" a reporter asked on the courthouse steps, thrusting a microphone in my face.

"I'm very relieved," I answered.

"Were you really going to plead guilty?" he asked.

"Yes," I said without thinking.

"Mr. Lawrence means he wasn't going to jeopardize the case against the Bates brothers," Alberto said, clarifying my position for the record. "His top priority is seeing justice done for their victims."

"What are you going to do now, Sarge?" the reporter continued.

"Look for a beer," I replied, gradually working my way through the throng.

There were more people than I remembered, waving, shouting and shoving. I wondered what happened to my medication. Dragon stayed at my elbow. More than anyone else, he knew the danger I was in.

"Let's find a quiet place," Alberto said, though I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or the other agents.

They put me in a car, closed the door, and drove until we were clear of the city. I finally caught my breath.

"We need to find Jenny and Bob," I said.

"They're coming," Alberto replied, showing me the text on his phone.

I sat back, my heart pounding. I should have been celebrating, but all I could feel was a giant weight lifted off me.

"I should be thanking those people," I belatedly said.

"It's all good, Jack," Agent Foster said from the front seat. "There is something endearing about seeing you nearly faint."

Alberto, Dietz and Foster laughed. I'm not sure if it was funny.

We found a biker bar on the east end of town, the burly tattooed patrons shocked to discover their sanctuary invaded by FBI agents. And then they recognized me, understanding why we were there. The courthouse commotion was still on their TV sets. I went to the bar and ordered a double whisky that none of the bikers would let me pay for.

By the time Jenny and Bob caught up an hour later, I'd had three drinks and was playing guitar for a large crowd of rowdy customers. My hat on the floor held seventy-five dollars in donations. I was just finishing 'Big Rock Candy Mountain' to enthusiastic applause when they entered.

"Thanks, Jake," I said, returning the guitar to the bartender.

"Looks like you've got it under control," Agent Dietz said, preparing to take his leave. "Don't ever let anyone say you can't capture a room. Five bucks in that hat is mine."

"Thanks, Virgil. You guys probably saved my life today," I said.

"Puts us in good company," he replied, waving the FBI agents out.

Jenny rushed up, hugging me in front of everybody. Bob shook my hand.

"Are you drunk?" Bob asked.

"Just a little," I said. "Good I don't have a driver's license. Did you bring your car, Red?"

"Yes. Where are we going?" Jenny asked.

"First to Cambridge. I need to thank the Palmers. Then I'm going to spend the summer in New York with my girlfriend."

* * * * * *

This story was originally published 10 years ago. I am using this opportunity to repair typos and tighten the narrative. For readers who are enjoying this story, please give it your support. Thanks.