Diminished Capacity

Chapter Six

by G. Lawrence

This chapter is a continuation of a previously published story. It is a crime novel that ultimately turns into a romance along with strange plots and fantastic exploits. There is occasional nudity and sex. All characters are over 18 years old.

Background: War veteran John Henry Lawrence was accused of shooting President Edward Blair in a Maryland park. He has no memory of the event, but rather than see the country devolve into endless conspiracy theories, he took responsibility. Important note; this story takes place in an alternate timeline from our own. It is not political. No contemporary issues are mentioned. It's an adventure story.

Recap; Jack was "borrowed" from a minimum security prison by Colonel Fowler, successfully rescuing five hostages in Afghanistan where he had served during the Second Afghan War. As a reward, his team was granted two weeks leave.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Patricia Blair

Blair House

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Pat,

We've come a long way since that day in my office when you confronted your husband's murderer. Admittedly, it didn't go quite as I expected, but I can't claim to have been surprised either. It wasn't you I was worried for. Say hello to the kids. Warmest Regards, Walter Mims

Chapter Six

CONFRONTATION AT WINDHAVEN

My two weeks in Diego Garcia went by fast. The small island in the middle of the Indian Ocean, mostly Air Force runways and naval docks, was quieter than I remembered. We had a quaint little cottage on the beach well away from the bustle of Camp Thunder. The Cracked Crab Saloon was staggering distance from our front door, which was good, for we drank a lot.

After most of the unit returned to more important duties, Brenda, Lorena, Brad and I spent our days swimming, fishing, and lying in the sun. Brenda and I shared the same room. She was fun, smart, and ambitious. Among other things.

"I haven't spent this much time naked since I divorced my husband," Brenda said, cuddled on the couch. The late afternoon sun shone through the window. We could hear seagulls.

"It's the longest I've been naked without being in a medically induced coma," I remarked, snuggling her neck.

"When you were being treated for liver disease? In prison?"

"I wasn't being treated for liver disease," I replied. "It was a different problem, but the Army didn't want the public to know."

"What was it?"

"I'm not allowed to discuss it, but I'm fine now. As I've been trying to prove."

"You're great in bed, Jack. Maybe a little cautious, though. I'm not a small woman."

"My fiancé was petite. I guess it makes me too careful."

"It's so sad how she died," Brenda consoled.

"That was two years ago. In another life," I dismissed. "What are you going to do now that you're a hero?"

"A hero?"

"The entire unit is being lauded for the rescue, and the Army loves heroes. You can write your own ticket now."

"What do you think I should do?"

"If you want to stay in the Army, sign up for officer training," I suggested. "Better pay. Room for advancement. If the Army isn't enough for you, get a real career. Business. Maybe start a company. Your name will attract investors."

"How do you know about this stuff? After the Army, you signed up with National First Responders. Hanging out of helicopters. Pulling people out of rivers. Digging ... I'm sorry, digging victims out of collapsed buildings."

"Yeah, I don't recommend joining NFR. It's a stressful job."

"Is that why you shot Blair? Losing Francie? The stress?"

"You know I don't talk about the President's murder. Not with anyone."

"You could talk about it with me. I won't say anything."

I gave her a long, passionate kiss. I'd only lain with one woman since that night in the Rakmanian embassy when Shak Raskani gifted me a Japanese working girl. A very talented one. Her charming smile and luscious figure left a lasting impression. Lt. Juliet Nichols had been a surprise, visiting me at Glenn Masters Research after they took me out of the glass tube.

"Brendy, you're a great friend, but there are parts of my life I can't share."

"Okay, I don't want to spoil anything," she reluctantly agreed. "But the way you say it, you might be in prison for a lot of years. That means I might be the last woman you're with for a long time. I'm going to make sure you never forget."

And she did.

That night, Brenda and I met up with sergeants Lenora Bowren and Brad Wadislaw, who had their own cottage. And from the sounds, were having as much fun as we were. The four of us walked down to the Cracked Crab on the waterfront for dinner and a few drinks. It had the usual Marines and sailors hanging out at the bar.

"This has been great, Jack," Brad said.

"No names, Bradley. Call me Clutch," I warned.

"Clutch?" he asked.

"It's my nickname on my baseball team," I explained.

"Your prison team?" Lenora wondered.

"Goddamn it, Len, don't blow my cover," I complained. They laughed.

"No one is listening, Captain," Lenora responded.

"And no more of that captain stuff. I'm a sergeant, if anything. Just like you," I admonished. "The rank was for the one mission only."

"If you say so," Brad agreed with an annoying grin.

They enjoyed teasing me, and as long as we were out of earshot, it was okay. We soon had company.

"We still can't figure out what the Army is doing here," a drunken sailor said, sauntering up to our table. "This island is for real men. And real women. Maybe we should see how real these women are? What do you say, Frank?"

His buddy leered at Brenda and Lenora, two large, strong, and attractive women. They sluffed them off.

"Are our attentions not appreciated?" Frank said. "Joey, I don't think our attentions are appreciated. These bitches can't really be interested in these dog-faced wimps?"

"Are you looking for trouble, mister?" Brad scowled, starting to stand up.

"No, asshole. We just want to fuck your Army whores," Joey answered.

Joey and Frank were obviously too drunk, not that Brad and I were far behind. I was fairly sure Brenda and Lenora could beat the crap out of them, but what fun would that be?

"I've got this," I said, standing up as I pushed Brad down.

"We've all got this," Brenda said, seeing the two obnoxious drunks had two friends.

"You guys can't get in a bar fight. You'll be court-martialed," I warned.

"But you can?"

"What are they going to do to me, Brendy? Put me in prison?"

"It's two to one. Maybe four to one," Lenora said.

"Jump in if I get in trouble, but I doubt it will be necessary," I replied.

"Clutch?" Brad questioned.

I leaned back, whispering. "Here's a secret, and keep it a secret. When I was a kid, I worked the docks in New York, and then Philadelphia. I was a bouncer, an enforcer, and a thug until I was fourteen. Until the Catholic brothers saved my soul. And very good at my job. I've wanted a good fight for a while now. You're not going to ruin it for me, are you?"

There was likely an edge to my voice. I'd been angry for a long time with no way to release it. My worry wasn't about losing a fight. I was worried about manslaughter charges.

"We've got your back, buddy," Brad assured me.

I turned to my opponents. "Marquis of Queensbury rules?" I asked.

"Marquis of what?" Joey said in surprise. He was even more surprised when my left jab broke his nose, flashing out so fast he never saw it coming. Both of his hands went up as the blood flowed. I punched him in the gut, gave him a half turn, and hit him in the kidney so hard he cried out. Then he spun back and threw a punch. I let it land on my chin, rolling away slightly as I'd been trained. He was unnerved, which was the whole idea. I was not only on my feet, but apparently unfazed. I landed another left jab to his chin and he went down on the straw-covered floor.

Frank had barely moved, and I didn't wait to see what he'd do. I threw a right cross to his left eye, a punch to the diaphragm, another punch to make sure his breath was gone, following with a roundhouse to his face. He fell over two chairs, collapsing next to his buddy. They were moaning. Clenching sore body parts. Two of their friends hesitantly stepped forward.

"The more the merrier," I challenged, totally in my element. My fists were up. Feet poised to adjust my positioning. I had some martial arts experience but enjoyed punching a lot more. Which they could see.

"Let us take them out of here," one meekly said, much to my disappointment.

I considered going after them anyway, but a nagging bit of conscience said that would be wrong. I waved to them and stepped away.

"Fuck, I've never seen anything like that. Are you okay?" Lenora asked as I retook my seat.

"I could use some ice for my knuckles," I replied. "It's easier wearing gloves."

* * * * * *

Two weeks after our mission in Afghanistan, it was time to go our separate ways.

"Gonna miss you, Sarge," Brad said, shaking my hand. "Not as much as Brenda, though."

"We've had good times," I agreed.

It was true Brenda and I had grown close, but we were professionals, constantly on our way to new assignments. That was nothing new for the Army.

I gave Lenora a hug, wishing her good luck.

"You're one of a kind, Sarge. Wish we could tell the world what you did," Lenora said.

"What we did, Len. It was a team effort. Don't ever let anyone say different," I insisted.

Brenda walked up with my duffle bag. I had dispensed with the Army uniform, having acquired a cheap brown suit and a black tie, but kept the green socks, t-shirts and underwear.

"Clean shaven again," she said, running her fingers along my bare chin. "It really makes you look different."

"That's the idea."

"Maybe no one else recognizes you, but I always will," she said, giving me a deep kiss. "Until the next time, Sarge."

"It could be thirty years, so don't wait," I lightheartedly said.

"Quit saying that," she replied with a smile. "It might only be twenty."

They were headed for an Army transport. I was scheduled for a small private jet. An unmarked private jet. I no longer had to guess why the government kept running out of money.

"We meet again," Dr. Sandra Livingston said, sharing the ride with me. Though thirty-two now, the sleek brunette was still attractive and fond of bright outfits. This one was a purple business suit and white lapels.

"Now how in the hell did an FBI profiler get here?" I asked, buckling into the seat next to her. The jet could hold eight but we were the only passengers.

"Your participation in Operation Cakewalk is classified," she explained. "Can't have you returning to Windhaven in a military aircraft."

"If it's a military secret, why is the FBI involved?"

"Someone needs to explain why you were missing from the prison system for a month," she said.

"Another attack of liver disease?"

"And how would we account for the suntan?"

"You're just adding to your profile," I suspected. "How much have you wheedled out of Alex? The file must be getting thick."

"If I get to publish someday, it will make fascinating reading," she agreed.

"Please wait until I'm dead," I replied.

I meant it as a joke, sort of, but Sandra did not take it well. She grew quiet as the jet took off. We had a nineteen-hour flight ahead of us, not including a stopover in Hawaii. Somewhere over Howland Island, I made small talk about Amelia Earhart's disappearance. Sandra started poking me with questions again. It was better than silence.

"Are you still gay?" I asked, just to provoke her.

"Yes, still gay. It's sort of a permanent condition. Not that you would be interested."

"What do you mean? You're not that much older than me. Why wouldn't I be interested in a hot woman?"

"Thank you for the compliment, but I'm not your type."

"Type?"

"Jack, you aren't inherently a sensual man. You're a warrior. You look for other warriors, or damsels in distress. You thrive on giving yourself to those who need you. I'm a professional. Not a fighter, and not in need of rescuing. One day you'll meet a woman who is strong but also in need of your strength. That will be your perfect match."

"I'm not going to be meeting any women in prison. Not for the next thirty years."

"Think that if you wish. I don't believe life in prison is your destiny."

Once again over the continental United States, I asked Sandra to switch seats so I could look out the window. I didn't know what I was looking at. It was all brown and gray, but there was a beauty to it.

"Have you ever been out west?" Sandra asked.

"No, never farther than Texas," I said. "Wanted to, just never had the chance."

"There's talk of Hollywood making a movie about the assassination. Or Canada, maybe. I suppose that's where most of those things are made these days."

"Sounds depressing. Will they say I did it? Or was it a conspiracy?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"No clue. I've never read any of the books."

"Or the magazines, or the newspapers. Why is that? Typical assassins demonstrate a fascination with their deed. They thrive on attention, both good and bad. Seek out affirmation, and their place in history. But not you. That's very atypical."

"You've been listening to Alex's theory," I concluded.

"She makes a good case. So far, it's unsupported by evidence, but that could change."

"Her theory sounds rather fanciful," I suggested.

"Yes, but it does explain several things," Sandra continued like a dog with a bone.

"Such as?"

"If, as Alex believes, you had a mental blackout when you shot Blair, then your mind has a vacuum for that moment. Nature abhors a vacuum. Could it be you're afraid that exposure to different theories will fill that vacuum? Perhaps give you false memories of the crime?"

"I was tried and convicted. Well, maybe not tried and convicted, but sentenced. No one is going to reopen the case."

"History abhors a vacuum, too, Jack. Someone is going to fill it in," Sandra warned.

"It's not going to be me," I insisted.

* * * * * * *

Sandra drove a requisitioned FBI vehicle from the airport to the prison, stopping outside the gate. I grabbed my duffel bag. There was a question I hadn't dared to ask and finally got the nerve.

"Dr. Livingston, what exactly is this profile everyone keeps talking about?" I inquired.

"Everyone?"

"Alex. Dragon. Rasmussen. Are you subscribing to some conspiracy theory?"

"Jack, the profile doesn't address the President's murder. Not directly. Or your motive, if you even had one," she answered. "It's personality traits. How you react to given situations. How your childhood affects your decisions. It's all theory."

"What's your conclusion?"

"It's too early for conclusions. The FBI uses profiles to catch criminals. You're already caught. They are used to predict criminal behavior. You don't display criminal behavior. If anything, you're more of a cop. That makes analysis complicated."

"This whole profile thing makes me nervous. Like people know more about me than I do."

"That's natural. I'm sure you have opinions about me."

"Yes, but I'm not going to write a book about them."

Sandra laughed. "We'll see who writes what."

Returning to Windhaven was a surreal experience. Sandra handed me off to Warden Mims, who met us at the gate. If he thought it strange that I was being escorted by one unarmed FBI agent, he was discreet enough not to say anything. The Warden and I went up to his office.

"If there are questions, I need to be prepared," Mims said, seeking information on my activities. He made me a cup of black coffee, waiting for me to explain.

"Sir, it's not my place to speak of it," I quietly protested.

"This will be confidential," he promised.

It still wasn't my prerogative to divulge national security information, but Warden Mims had offered extraordinary cooperation. And not without risk to his career. I remembered the stack of news magazines he kept in the waiting room and went out to take a look. Several had cover stories on the rescue mission in Tabrit. I picked one up, went back into his office, and dropped it on the desk.

"You?" he said.

"I've had a long flight, sir. You haven't rented out my cell, have you?"

"Let me order a uniform. You can change up here," Mims offered.

"Thank you, sir," I replied.

It was good to see Bear and the gang again. After a shower and a meal, I found my guitar and played for an hour. Many stopped by the cell to ask questions. And weren't surprised when I declined to answer.

In the months that followed, I developed a new preoccupation. There were a lot of good kids at Windhaven with bleak futures. A criminal record, no job skills, and sometimes a bad attitude. I had already helped some, like Rafael Martín with his novel, and Terrance "Big Blow" Tyree with his music. It was time to develop a comprehensive program. Some aspects of my plan were controversial, and when met with resistance, needed to be enforced.

"You've been busy," Warden Mims said, inviting me up to his office.

Maggie, his sixty-year-old white-haired executive secretary, served coffee and donuts. She was always very nice to me. When my charity work needed notarized documents, she obliged without charge. And without asking questions.

"Not just me, sir. Bear set up the workshops. Flanagan started the computer lab. The donations we've received allowed us to buy recording equipment for the theater club."

"I never see you on camera," Mims said.

"I play background music. But the program is for the kids. Some of the students are really talented. I have contacts with several drama schools in New York City willing to audition our graduates."

"Any luck?"

"Seven have been accepted so far. Being a celebrity criminal has its perks," I said.

"You must be happy about Rafael," Mims complimented. "Wasn't it you who tutored him in English? And now your former student has written a best-seller."

"Big Blow Tyree has a recording contract," I boasted. "Jake Lions is doing bit parts on Broadway. Playing a gangster. Others have found decent jobs with good pay. And it's the long termers who are the best instructors."

"I hear they credit you," Mims hinted.

"They use me as an excuse. What they really want is to build a legacy."

"Your students are busy, too," he said, showing me a magazine article.

I had seen a few of these, and though I didn't encourage anyone writing about me, I didn't forbid it. It was the sort of initiative I was trying to instill.

"Some of them make a little money selling stories about my prison life," I explained. "Short pieces about my teaching, or how I help out in the infirmary. One was about my guitar playing. It's very boring stuff."

Mims sat down in a chair next to me. His brows were furrowed.

"Not all the stories they're writing are boring. Bear talked to me. So did Manny Fuentes. They're concerned about this campaign you're waging against drugs. And the way you've been criticizing the gangs. I know there have been confrontations."

"I don't harass the older inmates, sir," I responded. "Most are set in their ways. If they use drugs, I don't care. It's the kids I'm trying to help."

"My guards do what they can to keep drugs out, but this is a minimum-security facility. Only so much is possible."

"I can do more," I insisted.

"Jack, I think Bear and Manny may have a point. What you're doing could be dangerous," Mims warned.

"I'll try to be careful," I promised.

* * * * * *

As the second anniversary of President Blair's assassination approached, I was under increasing pressure to comment on the event. I refused. Over the years, I'd had brief glimpses of that day, mostly as part of a nightmare. But I had no genuine memories to draw on. Nor did I have anything reassuring to say. I had never given a press interview. The only statement I had ever issued was after Klondike broke my wrist in Baltimore, and that was to clear my guards of false accusations. From what I heard, there were authors who had created a cottage industry of books about the assassination, but they were doing it without me.

That policy finally changed, and in a way I didn't expect.

"Warden wants to see you," Officer Lucy Paddington said, sticking her head into my cell on a late afternoon. Paddington was my favorite guard, tall, fifty years old, thickly framed, and good-natured. We both liked country music.

After encoding "Clutcher" on a fundraising memo I was doing for Professor Lofoya, I headed for the Administration Building. No escort was required. I was a familiar sight in the Warden's offices.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Lawrence," Mims said, starting off badly. For he rarely used my last name.

"Good afternoon, Warden Mims," I cautiously replied.

"I need a special favor from you. A very special favor."

"I'll do what I can."

He had me sit for a moment in the waiting room while he went into his office. There were two men in black suits lingering in the hall, and a woman similarly attired sitting at Maggie's desk. They looked like Secret Service. None of them spoke. They did stare. After a brief delay, Mims waved me in. He had three guests sitting in the middle of the office, a teenage girl, a young man, and a middle-aged woman. Their backs were to the door. The woman stood up.

"John Lawrence, let me introduce Mrs. Patricia Blair," Mims said.

It was her, now forty-five years old, slim, five and a half feet tall, deep blue eyes, and soft sandy brown hair that hung to her shoulders. Her blue outfit was business-like. Just like the photo I kept on my computer screen. Her expression was grim, but not hateful.

The room started spinning around. I stepped back, lost my balance, and fell over a wooden chair, landing hard on my back. I seemed to lose consciousness for a moment, or maybe I blacked out. I found Mims hovering over me. Maggie gave me a sip of water.

"I'm sorry, Jack. I didn't realize you'd react like this," Mims whispered.

They sat me up. The three visitors were standing against the oak bookshelves, looking startled. I knew Bobby Blair to be nineteen now, dressed in a dark brown suit and striped blue tie. He was 5'10, with dark red hair like his father, somewhat lean, and giving me an angry glare. Jenny was sixteen, petite, with long red hair and freckles. Wearing a frilly yellow dress, she looked more depressed than angry.

"No apologies necessary, sir," I mumbled as they got me on my feet.

I didn't offer to shake anyone's hand. It seemed inappropriate. I did manage to stand with a dumb look on my face.

"John, Mrs. Blair has come here all the way from New Haven to ask you a question," Mims said. "I think you owe her an answer."

"Hello, ma'am. What can I do for you?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

She was cradling a hardbound book against her chest, gripping so tightly, her knuckles were turning white.

"Why did you shoot my husband?" she asked, giving me a cold stare.

It was a fair question, coming from a widow. But not one I was going to answer. I was never going to answer that question.

"Why do you ask?" I inquired.

She laid the book down on Mims' desk. The Truth at Last, by Donald K. McCane. I supposed it to be another conspiracy theory about the assassination.

"This author claims to know why you shot Edward. It says terrible things," Mrs. Blair muttered, beginning to tear up.

"I'm sorry, but I haven't read it. I've never read any of those books," I responded.

"Too ashamed?" Bobby said, his voice squeakier than I would have thought.

"Something like that," I replied.

"McCane's book is getting a lot of attention," Mims said. "It's made the best-seller list. He claims you spoke to him about the President's murder while at Cumberland."

"That's not true," I immediately denied.

"Maybe you should look at it," Mims suggested.

"Sir, I don't read books about myself. You know that," I declined.

"I believe you owe my family an explanation," Mrs. Blair said with a dark frown.

The faces around me were determined. It had taken great courage for them to come here. I sighed and took a seat next to Mims' desk. The section about the supposed interview was marked, and it was terrible stuff.

One allegation was especially awful. It claimed that when I was standing at the rope line just a few yards from the President and First Lady, I didn't fire because my gun only held one bullet and found both of them so contemptible that I couldn't decide which one to shoot. McCane claimed I had accused Blair of genocide and that his presidency was illegitimate. And it didn't stop there. The litany of accusations attributed to me was long and foul. A final section said I thought Blair had promoted his congressional career by pimping out his wife to campaign donors.

"None of this is true," I said, glad to put the book down. "I have never discussed President Blair with anyone, let alone this malignant charlatan."

"Did you say that trash about my mom?" Bobby asked.

"I would never say such things about your mother. I would never think such things," I answered, looking her in the eye.

Mrs. Blair softly let out her breath and sat down. Her children remained standing until Mims got them to sit. Maggie brought tea and chocolate chip cookies. I kept my hands in my lap, clutching them together.

"This book has caused great embarrassment for my family," Mrs. Blair said. "I would like you to publicly repudiate it."

"Mrs. Blair, I have never made any statements to the press," I replied. "It's been my policy to never comment on the President's death."

"That's not good enough, young man," Mrs. Blair said, waving her finger at me. "Funding for my husband's library has dried up. My children and I are under attack. Are you going to help us or not?"

I sat still for a moment, looking down to avoid her gaze. I felt her distress but worried that once this line was crossed, there could be unforeseen consequences. Nevertheless, I could not ignore her plea.

"Warden Mims, may I have Maggie's assistance?" I softly requested.

I sat down in the warden's leather chair, took a yellow pad from the top drawer, and wrote a press release denouncing McCane's book in no uncertain terms. I showed it to Mims first, then Maggie. Her eyebrows went up.

"Mrs. Grant, will you type this for us and prepare a notarization form?" Mims asked.

"It should only take a few minutes," Maggie said, heading out toward her desk. "Would anyone like more tea?"

"I would like to know what Red Carlson's problem is," Bobby suddenly said.

"Where did you hear that name?" I asked, for it was one from my past.

"I asked some vets to preview my article on the Battle of Kimbo Valley," Bobby explained. "Carlson came up to me on the street, calling me a snotty little son of a bitch, and when I asked why he'd say that, he said someday I'd be sorry for disrespecting you."

All of this was new to me, and I guess it showed in my expression. Mrs. Blair pulled her chair closer. Almost touching my arm. It was amazingly brave of her.

"My son wants to be a military historian," she explained. "He's writing an article for Real War Times. Mr. Carlson became angry with him."

"I wouldn't care, but Red Carlson is a decorated combat veteran," Bobby elaborated. "He fought with the 104th Rangers and won the Distinguished Service Cross. I was hoping to interview him for my article."

"Can I see it?" I requested.

Young Mr. Blair took out his tablet, brought up his article, and handed it to me. It was sloppy work, hampered by poor access to original sources. And he made a passing reference to that coward John Henry Lawrence, who avoided combat by being a file clerk in Georgia. No wonder it made Red mad. After he was wounded at Kimbo Valley, I carried him off the field under heavy fire.

"Sergeant Carlson shouldn't have said what he did," I apologized. "I'll ask him to sit for your interview."

"You know him?" Bobby asked in surprise.

"We've hung out in bars together," I said. "As for your article, if you're taking this career seriously, you need to do better with your facts."

"Mad I showed you up?" Bobby said.

"You can say whatever you want about me," I replied. "But veterans of Second Afghan take the war seriously, and this article doesn't."

"Why should I listen to a coward with a general discharge?" he said.

"Bob, I think maybe you should listen to Mr. Lawrence," Mrs. Blair advised. "He may know something you need to hear."

I got the impression that I wasn't the first one to criticize his work. Bobby sat back in his chair, pouting. I gave the problem a moment of thought.

"Warden Mims, may I use your phone?" I requested.

"Of course," Mims said.

I called Kristine Leslie at Central Operations and asked if young mister Blair could have a briefing on certain aspects of the Kimbo Valley campaign. Portions that didn't need to be classified. I expected it would need to go through channels, but Kristine instantly agreed. I learned she had been promoted to full colonel following the Tabrit mission.

"Can you be at the Pentagon on Wednesday? Early in the morning," I asked Bobby. "Archives has files you'll want to review."

He straightened up, wondering if I was serious.

"I can be there," he agreed.

I confirmed the session and thanked Kristine for the assistance. It was nice to hear her voice again. And I would ask Red to sit for the interview but make sure my name didn't come up in the conversation.

"We appreciate this, Mr. Lawrence," Mrs. Blair said, as her son seemed reluctant.

"You are welcome, ma'am," I said. "May I ask why young Miss Blair is so quiet?"

Jenny was sitting in the farthest seat near the bookcases. She was repeatedly checking her phone and looking very sad.

"Jennifer has been studying drama at the Harper Academy for Girls," Mrs. Blair said. "She had her heart set on attending the Weismann Conservatory in New York, but they turned her down."

"Do you know why?" I whispered to Mrs. Blair.

"My husband's memory is not popular now. I think they held it against my Jenny," she sadly replied. That made me mad.

"Sir?" I said, picking up the phone again.

It took a few minutes to get Laura Parnell on the line. Weismann was a respected school, and two of my protégées were students there. I had helped promote several of their productions with wealthy clients through my prison contacts.

"Yes, Jack, good to hear from you," Laura said. "Have a new recruit for me?"

"How about Jenny Blair?" I suggested.

"Would you want us to accept her? I would have thought otherwise," Laura questioned.

"I would consider it a personal favor," I urged.

"Have her here on Monday. But Jack, we can't offer her a scholarship. Those are filled," Laura apologized.

"Send the paperwork to me. I'll take care of it," I promised.

I hung up and turned toward Jenny. She wasn't sulking in the corner now. Her big blue eyes were lit up as she sat on the edge of her chair, shaking with excitement.

"You start Monday. If that's okay?" I asked.

Jenny let out a screech and jumped at me, almost giving me a hug. I had to keep her at arm's length. Mrs. Blair saw how embarrassed I was and moved in, letting Jenny hug her instead.

Maggie came back with two copies of my press release and her notary journal. She stopped in the doorway, reading the text with a dramatic twist.

"To whom it may concern. I, John Henry Lawrence, under oath, state that I have read the portions of Donald McCane's book, The Truth at Last, concerning my supposed confession. The confession is a complete and total fabrication. I have not said, nor do I subscribe to, any of the opinions expressed about the late President Blair or Mrs. Patricia Blair. This account does a great disservice to history. If the balance of Mr. McCane's book is as dishonest, fraudulent, and despicable as the sections I have read, I urge buyers of this invention to demand refunds, for they have been seriously deceived. Signed and sealed on this date, John Henry Lawrence."

Maggie brought the copies to the desk for me to sign and stamped them with an official seal. I gave one copy to Mims and the other to Mrs. Blair.

"I recommend Warden Mims issue the press release," I said.

"That will be acceptable," Mrs. Blair agreed, reading the statement again before giving it to Bobby. She looked at me with many questions. I looked down, unable to meet her scrutiny. I had answered as many questions as I could.

Maggie and Mims prepared to walk the Blairs down to their car. I realized now it was Secret Service waiting in the hall. The female agent, Charla Schiavo, looked back like she knew me, though I don't believe we had ever met. She smiled. Was she a friend of Alex? I hoped no one was telling tales. Mims returned to find me staring out his window.

"I almost put it behind me, Walter," I said without turning around. "I almost walked away from the ghosts."

Mims went to his cabinet, took out a bottle of Maker's Mark, and found two glasses. He poured doubles and handed one to me.

"I thought I'd finally learn the big secret," Mims said, sipping his bourbon. "Figured if you'd tell anyone why you shot Blair, it would be the widow. I'm sorry."

I took a sip and sat down.

"Don't apologize. I should know there's no running away. Every day that I wake up in this country club, I need to remind myself that I don't belong here."

"Being in a supermax won't change what you did. And you're making a difference. When Rasmussen first had you assigned to Windhaven, I didn't understand. I believed what everyone else believed, that you were a disgruntled loner seeking revenge on the world. Now I understand what Harold was trying to tell me. Don't give up on yourself, Jack. It would be a mistake."

* * * * * *

I tried to take Mims' advice to heart. He was right, in his own way, but I was distracted in the months that followed. The anniversary of Blair's death came and went. I didn't read any of the articles or watch the news shows. Or answer questions. Bear, Manny, and Sean tried to shake me out of it. Even Warden Mims asked me to take on new projects, but I didn't show any interest. I couldn't get that poor lady out of my mind, or the struggles of her children.

I was in church on a quiet Sunday. I did not go to confession, though Father Simón felt it was long overdue. I hadn't confessed since my last year in Afghanistan, when events I had witnessed during the White Mountain War weighed heavily on my conscience. I was summoned to Mims' office.

"She's back," Mims said.

He walked me to the second-floor window above the employee entrance. Mrs. Blair was in the park across the highway, sitting on a bench under a drooping willow tree. Two Secret Service agents waited nearby wearing black suits. The man was tall, dark-haired and powerfully built. The female agent, a brunette, appeared alert and athletic.

"After what happened last time, I can't tell you to see her, but I think you should," Mims urged.

"She's come a long way," I reluctantly agreed.

I went downstairs, waved to Officer Paddington, and walked out the front gate. Generally, only trustees were allowed to leave the prison, and I had never applied for the privilege, but Mims gave me wide latitude. The Secret Service Agents intercepted me at the edge of the park.

"Mrs. Blair appreciates you meeting her," Agent Schiavo said, giving me a quick frisk for weapons. As was her duty. "This is Agent Joseph Schön. We've been ordered to keep our distance."

"I would never hurt Mrs. Blair," I promised.

"We know. Alex McGuire vouched for you," Schön explained.

"Mrs. Blair said to give you this," Schiavo said.

Schön handed me a picnic basket. Were they trying to put me off my guard?

I walked up the grassy hill to the grove of willows, setting the basket on a picnic table. Families of the prisoners would sometimes meet here, but today the park was empty.

"Hello, Mrs. Blair," I said, standing before her while adjusting my khaki coveralls.

"Thank you, Jack. Please take a seat," she replied.

She appeared relaxed, though that could be deceiving. I was not relaxed, and not a good enough actor to pretend. She saw I was nervous and smiled, seeking to put me at ease.

"We are going to have a long talk, young man," she threatened. "And before you go into your routine, just sit back. Catch your breath. You should know I've done my research."

I really had to admire her. She had poise. The blue lace dress she wore looked homemade and nicely done, her light brown hair curled under a red cap. She was firm, but not arrogant. And she was treating me with a graciousness I didn't deserve.

"May I ask how your children are?" I inquired.

"Jennifer is enjoying her classes. We talk every day. She is staying with her cousin in Manhattan. Bobby met with Red Carlson and Ricky Pressler. He has also met with an intelligence officer. Colonel Fowler. Rather foul-mouthed, if you ask me. Bobby revised his article."

"I'm relieved to hear that," I said.

Mrs. Blair gave me that look again. As the wife of a successful politician, I realized she read people better than most, but I couldn't tell what she was thinking. She went to the picnic basket, opened a bottle of red wine, and poured two glasses, handing one to me. It was the same vintage that Alex and I had shared at Cumberland.

"There was an incident not long after our last meeting," Mrs. Blair related, sipping her wine. "Bobby, Jennifer, and I were visiting Tommy Blair, my husband's little brother, in Boston. He's just been elected Massachusetts Attorney General, you know."

"Yes. Congratulations," I said, though Thomas Blair was no fan of mine.

"Bobby said he was removing the insult in his article about you being a sniveling file clerk. His cousin Clarence called you a scumbag. Said you should have been executed, and my other nephews agreed with him. Rather loudly. Well, Agent Schiavo overheard the remark and became very upset. She stormed in and said we didn't know what the fuck we were talking about. Tommy wanted her removed from my detail, but I like Charla. And she's friends with Alex McGuire, who is Jenny's hero. I talked to Charla, and she led me to Alex."

I was uncomfortable with where this was going, finishing my wine in one gulp. Mrs. Blair took my glass and calmly refilled it. I noticed a second bottle in the basket. Was she trying to get me drunk?

"Don't worry. Alex didn't betray your secrets," Mrs. Blair said. "But now I know there are secrets. I want to know what they are."

"Then they wouldn't be secrets anymore," I tried to decline. But she was a very persistent woman with a game plan. And patience.

"Let's start with how you know Red Carlson and that terrible Colonel Fowler. Bobby may believe that story about meeting in a saloon, but I don't."

I nearly drained the second glass of wine, staring at the ground. I liked this lady. I liked her a lot. All of those years I'd stared at her picture on my computer, I'd wondered what she would be like. If there was any way she could ever forgive me. I felt my breath grow short as I tried to make a decision.

"Jack?" she said, wondering where my mind had gone.

I slid off the bench, getting down on my knees. I dared to take her hand.

"Mrs. Blair, I want to be truthful with you. You can't imagine how much. I would like what I say to be kept in confidence, but I have no right to ask that of you."

"No, you don't. But I will consider it after I hear what you have to say," she replied.

"I'll start with Red," I began, sitting on the ground. "I wasn't a file clerk during the war. I was a medic. For a time, with the 144th Infantry. Later, with the 104th Rangers. Red Carlson, Ricky Pressler, and I served together. I saved their lives. They saved mine. I was in Afghanistan for nearly four years."

"I suspected as much. Were you wounded?"

"Five times. And a few minor ones that don't count."

"Decorations?"

"Everyone there--"

"Jack, answer the damn question," she insisted.

"A Silver Star, a couple of Bronze Stars, and a bunch of commendations," I admitted.

"Okay, now I understand why Red Carlson became so upset with Bobby. And I see you don't like speaking about this. But there are things I need to know."

"Yes, ma'am," I replied.

"So, after you shot Edward, the Army wanted to avoid embarrassment. They changed your military record and asked you to cooperate?"

"No, ma'am. The cover-up was my idea. I had worked in military intelligence. I was afraid the public would think your husband was the victim of a conspiracy."

"Was he?"

"No, I had nothing to do with any accomplices."

"What else did they falsify?"

"They changed my grades in school. Altered records at National First Responders. They put out stories about being a resentful drunk."

"And being a violent child?" she asked, searching me for clues.

"No, that part was true."

Mrs. Blair finished her wine and took sandwiches from the basket, handing one to me.

"I believe ham and cheese is your favorite?" she offered.

"It is," I agreed, finding the sandwich with mustard and lettuce just the way I like it.

"You and Alex McGuire have spent a lot of time together," Mrs. Blair remarked. "She loves you. Perhaps not in a romantic way, but love nevertheless. What's that about?"

I made the decision not to tell Mrs. Blair about my involvement in Thanksgiving Eve. The Blair family had been in Boston that night. Had Tashad's bomb done its work, her entire family would have been killed. I didn't want her feeling beholden to me.

"While awaiting trial, I used my court computer to research threats to the new president," I hedged. "Alex was assigned as my liaison. She spent hours in my cell as we tracked lunatics on the web. She gave me a guitar and we sang songs."

"And drank red wine, and ate ham sandwiches," Mrs. Blair added.

"She was a good friend at a time I really needed one."

We paused the conversation to eat lunch. If Mrs. Blair suspected my story wasn't quite complete, and I'm sure she did, she let it pass. She had another half-glass of wine while making me drink more. And she smiled, knowing what I was thinking.

"Okay, now the hard part," she said when we finished. "Tell me why you shot my husband."

"I have never discussed that with anyone. I don't think I should. Nothing good can come of it."

"Nevertheless, I expect an answer. An honest answer."

I took a deep breath, staring at the ground.

"Mrs. Blair, I don't have an answer for you. I don't even remember being in the park that day."

"You can't expect me to believe that?" she said, growing annoyed.

I sighed and sat on the grass with my head down.

"I'm not a psychiatrist. I can't give you a fancy explanation, though if you talk to Alex, she has a long-winded theory. Colonel Fowler says I came back from the war damaged. Because medics were needed so badly, I rarely left the front except when I was wounded. After the war, I was doing rescue work for NFR. It was a poor choice. Dealing with all those disaster victims just added to the nightmares.

"I met a girl. I loved her so much. We were going to get married, and she was having my baby. And then she was killed. I started having blackouts. I'd find myself in strange places with no idea how I got there. I sold my car. Stopped taking flying lessons. Toward the end, I started seeing a shrink, but it was too late. After being suspended from National First Responders, I was in my apartment on a Thursday night packing for Florida. The next thing I knew, it was Friday morning and I was in a Baltimore police station."

"You saw a psychiatrist?" she asked.

"Several times. The last session was three days before the shooting."

"I've never read that in any of the reports."

"Because I've never told anyone. Not even Alex. And the shrink can't betray doctor-patient confidentiality. Hopefully, the doctor burned her notes like I asked."

"If your lawyer had used that at your trial, you might not have been found guilty," Mrs. Blair said. "You would have a strong diminished capacity defense."

"But I am guilty."

"You said you don't remember the shooting."

"That doesn't matter. I knew something was wrong. On my last visit, the shrink recommended medication, but I was afraid to take drugs. I had too much pride, hoping the problem would go away. I don't know why I would shoot your husband, Mrs. Blair. I've never paid attention to politics. But I've never avoided responsibility, either. I won't now. The part I regret most is hurting you. And your children. Whenever I think about what happened ..."

I had to stop. My breath was short. Tears filled my eyes. I turned away, wiping my face with my sleeve.

"It would help to have a mental health professional look at your case," she suggested. "And it would help the public to understand why you've never spoken of this."

"No, I'll never do that. No one will ever believe such a stupid excuse. What happened is bad enough. I won't turn it into a joke for late-night comedians."

"This is a lot to think about," Mrs. Blair said.

"If you don't believe me, I understand. I don't know that I would."

"It's not that I don't think you're sincere, Jack. I just need to wonder if you're crazy."

I laughed, which I shouldn't have. It surprised her.

"If you don't mind, I would like to stay in touch," Mrs. Blair said. "Perhaps, in time, I can begin to understand what you've told me."

"Are you going to tell anyone?" I asked.

"Not for now, though I will have questions for Alex about her theory. You don't mind, do you?"

"Don't let her say too much," I answered.

* * * * * *

Blairs started showing up on my doorstep. A week later, Bobby Blair was in the Visitor Center with his laptop.

"Carlson, Pressler, and Colonia all say I need to talk to you about the White Mountain War," he said with resentment. "What are you? Some sort of historian?"

"I thought you finished your article?" I said.

"I did. Hopefully, they'll publish it. Now I'm gathering material for an article about Katana Bridge. Maybe enough to write a book. Especially now that we need the money."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Like you don't know."

"I don't."

"That piece of shit Mason Waterson is saying my dad was taking kickbacks from the Remobilization," Bob explained. "The government is auditing our books. Mom might lose the house."

"Why would anyone believe Waterson?"

"Waterson was my father's Defense Secretary."

"Disgraced Defense Secretary. He got caught with his hand in the cookie jar," I pointed out.

"I don't know why they believe him," Bob admitted.

"Show me the article you're working on."

He brought up the file on his laptop. I recognized the contributions from Red, Ricky, and Sergeant Lucas Colonia, all of the 104th Rangers.

"Who is this anonymous character?" I asked, seeing a series of XJXs.

"They won't tell me, but Lucas calls him the Sarge," Bob answered.

I read more closely. It was me they were talking about, but they only had the parts of the story they'd seen, leaving a gap in the narrative. And Bobby's structure was awkward.

"Where are you going to school?" I asked.

"Columbia."

"Have you taken any writing labs?"

"Mostly liberal arts," he replied.

I sighed and read the entire article, making notes. It was actually quite good, it just needed focus.

"Do you mind if I tweak it a little?" I asked.

"Why would I let you do that?"

"My help was good enough for Rafael Martín."

We spent an hour going over the text, and I was able to recommend additional sources that would prove useful. I also decided to contribute a few tidbits of my own by sending them to the archives for Robert to find. That way, I wouldn't need to divulge any direct knowledge of events. Colonel Fowler did, after all, owe me a favor.

After Robert left, I went to Maggie's office and asked to use her phone. She was no longer surprised by any of the people I called.

"Mr. Rasmussen?" I asked.

"Jack, hello. Long time," he replied, sounding good. "How is prison life treating you?"

"My golf handicap is improving," I snottily answered, for Windhaven did not have a golf course. "What's this about President Blair?"

"Sad, isn't it? Mason Waterson says President Blair's inner circle was redirecting Remobilization funds into private accounts. Can't say that's why they started the war, but it looks like someone was benefiting from it."

"How come nobody knew about this?"

"Apparently a lot of people knew about it, they just weren't talking. It's an ongoing investigation."

"Is it true Mrs. Blair might lose her house?" I pressed.

"Her funds are frozen until her husband's accounts have been audited," Rasmussen replied. "From what I understand, her family's not flush right now, and the scandal has scared off their wealthier friends."

"What about my funds?"

"What about them?"

"They aren't frozen or under a court order, are they?"

"I'd have to look into it," he answered.

"You're still my lawyer, Harold. Find out what I have, then set up a trust fund and give it to Mrs. Blair. It might be best not to tell her where the money came from."

"I know some people, too. We'll take care of it," he promised.

* * * * * *

With some fine tuning, Bobby's article on Kimbo Valley was a success, and the one on Katana Bridge was well received, too. People in military circles started taking him seriously, so he began work on a series called The Fallback. A very complicated affair, seeing as how the retreat was 10% strategy and 90% chaos. The XJX character in his articles, called the Sarge on Red Carlson's advice, emerged as a central personality. A very intriguing one. As long as no one ratted me out, I didn't mind.

Mrs. Blair visited a few weeks later with the Secret Service, keeping our meeting from the press. We met in Warden Mims' office, having lunch and sharing small talk.

"Walter says you're in better spirits lately. It wouldn't have anything to do with my visits, would it?" Mrs. Blair asked.

"You do bring an excellent wine," I granted. "How's the family?"

"Bobby is very happy. It looks like he'll get a book contract," she said. "And I have enough in the bank now to pay my mortgage until the Attorney General releases my accounts. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Me? No, I'm not a financial guy," I answered.

"That's funny. Harold Rasmussen of the FBI says you started the Blair House Fund with your own money."

I finished my wine, staring down at the carpet.

"I'm sorry I lied to you," I apologized.

"That's okay, I'm finally beginning to understand you. And I know what Alex sees in you. And I think Dr. Livingston has you spot on."

"You've talked to Sandra?"

"Briefly, at their club. The girls like to talk about you over drinks at Clubber's Bar & Grill in Georgetown. They meet once a month. Alex, Sandra, Charla, Juliet Nichols. Even Sheila Rosenberg."

"My prosecuting attorney?"

"The one who didn't get to prosecute you. Because of the plea deal Harold Rasmussen arranged. After your prolonged bout with liver disease. An illness you've completely recovered from."

She looked at me under bent brows, waiting for me to confess.

"I can't go where you're going, Mrs. Blair," I softly protested.

"You need to start calling me Pat. And where is it we'd be going? Another of your secrets?"

"It is, and it needs to remain a secret. Pat, you know I'll do anything for you. Anything I can. But some secrets can't be given away."

"That's what Alex said you'd say, and she won't tell either. But I'll find out. I was the wife of a president. The daughter of a governor. The granddaughter of a Speaker of the House. You won't keep the secret forever."

"Anything new about Jenny?" I said to change the subject.

"You get depressed when I bring sad news about my family."

"What's happened?" I asked, straightening up.

"Calm down. She's not injured or anything like that."

"Drugs?"

"I hope not. Jennifer has a broken heart," Pat revealed. "She met a boy in New York. After he broke off their relationship, he gave salacious interviews to the press. And posted some intimate photographs. I'm surprised you didn't hear about it."

"Gossip columns aren't on my reading list," I said, relieved it wasn't more serious. "Is she going back to Weismann in the spring?"

"It doesn't look like it. The paparazzi have been brutal. She doesn't even want to leave the house."

"The paparazzi should be thankful I'm locked up," I said, my fists clenched. "Do you think Jenny would benefit from a change of scenery?"

"Where are you thinking?" she questioned.

"Monument Valley College," I replied. "It's a small school in Southern Utah. Jenny has been studying acting. MVC studies international relations. There isn't much of a difference. I can ask Professor Lofoya to give her an internship."

"The Nobel Prize winner? How do you know him?"

"I helped raise funds to start his school."

"From prison?"

"A miracle of the internet," I explained.

"Let me understand this. Your best friend is Alex McGuire, America's hero. You have ties with the FBI. The Army. Theater groups in New York. This prison allows you to walk around freely. And you have a close relationship with a Nobel Peace Prize winner?"

"I just help out. It's not like I have a 9-to-5 job," I defended. "Would Jennifer be interested in MVC? It's a great school."

"I think Jenny would like that," Mrs. Blair said.

* * * * * *

Four years passed. The sixth anniversary of President Blair's assassination approached, and the Blair family was prospering. Bobby's first book, The White Mountain War, had sold well. His second book, The Sarge, had become a best-seller, with the mysterious title character providing national speculation. The Sarge was an intrepid hero constantly getting himself in bad situations. Red, Ricky, and Lucas, who had exaggerated my wartime exploits, were told not to mention my name. There was talk of a movie.

Jenny, now twenty with a degree in international relations, was working as an executive assistant to Professor Lofoya, and MVC was taking off as a preferred location for international seminars. The breathtaking scenery, tall mesas, and participation of the Native American reservations helped to provide a unique experience for participants from all over the world. New hotels, tour buses, and restaurants were supplying jobs in a region once considered destitute.

"Thank you so much," Jenny said over a zoom. She'd grown into a startlingly pretty and powerful woman, with light red hair, deep blue eyes, and a pert nose. I found her very sexy but never hinted at that, thinking it highly inappropriate.

"You always say that," I answered.

"It's always true. If not for you, I'd never have come to Monument Valley or met Dr. Lofoya. He has the highest respect for you, you know."

"He doesn't know Clutcher is John Lawerence, does he?"

"No, I've kept that under wraps like you want, but it shouldn't be a secret."

"Our fundraising is more important. It would be harder if donors knew who was soliciting funds from them."

"I understand, but you won't be a secret forever," she warned. "Maybe I can visit on my way back home?"

"Back home?"

"I'm returning to New Haven for the summer. And I have plans to meet with Alex McQuire again in Washington. She is so great. Though she still hasn't explained how you two know each other."

"It's a long story," I answered.

Mrs. Blair had not ventured to Windhaven for quite some time, but we kept up regular correspondence. She had not forgiven me for killing her husband, but I hoped someday she might.

Though all of that was good, the horizon was not bright. A new president had been elected on a law-and-order platform. One issue was why a previous president's murderer was serving his sentence at a luxury resort. Opponents of President Wagner pointed out that I was teaching and had a good prison record. Wagner's supporters said none of that mattered. I did not appreciate becoming a political football.

The day came that Jason Decker, the new Attorney General, decided to act. Maybe I should have seen it coming, but it wouldn't have made a difference.

Officer Paddington warned me a black van had pulled up to the front gate filled with U.S. Marshals. They were carrying automatic weapons. I gave Bear a quick goodbye and pulled the hard drive on my computer, scribbling a note for Warden Mims to give it to Rasmussen. Minutes later, I was hustled out of the compound surrounded by armed men.

"This is irregular," Warden Mims protested in the parking lot. "You have no documentation. No grounds for transfer."

"Lawrence was caught dealing drugs," a Justice Department official said, an ambitious lawyer named Matterson Crawly.

"That's not true," Mims said.

"Sure it is. Just read the newspapers," Crawly replied.

"Where are you taking him?" Mims asked.

"None of your damn business. And don't expect to keep this job very long. We've got our eyes on you," Crawly threatened.

I was pushed toward the van, then shackled hand and foot.

"Jack, I'm sorry. I'll get to the bottom of this," Mims said, though I doubted there was anything he could do.

"Thanks for being so tolerant, Walter. It was appreciated," I offered.

Then I was shoved into the back of the van, locked down, and the doors closed. The last I saw of Windhaven was the American flag flying over the park.

* * * * * *

Spoiler alert: This story is about to take a very dark turn in chapter 7, The Angel in the Window. It will not stay dark for long but some may find it difficult.