From the Ashes (44 page)

“Professor...” Jon started with a beleaguered tone.

“Tell me where the Dossiers are!” Leinhart bellowed with a ferocity that startled Jon. He pointed the barrel of the gun in Jon’s face, then lowered it to his leg, digging the muzzle into his kneecap. “You have until the count of three.”

Just
like in the movies, Jon thought, Leinhart’s villain performance pulling out even more cliches. But, even in the movies, those shattered kneecaps were devastating. Unoriginal lines and bad acting or not, the professor could really ruin Jon’s day in the next three seconds.

“One...”

“What time is it?” Jon asked.

The professor looked surprised. “Why?”

“You’ll see. What time is it?”

Leinhart checked the Rolex upon his wrist. “It’s a little after six. The morphine kept you out longer than I might have hoped. Why the devil does the time matter?”

Jon chuckled to himself. Perfect timing. “That television,” he said motioning with his head toward an old cathode-ray set across the room. “Turn it on. I want to watch the news.”

“The news?” Leinhart repeated, a dumb look on his face. Then, seeing the renewed confidence, the gleam of some secret victory in Jon’s eyes, his face grew ashen, a dark realization dawning upon him. He lowered the gun to his side and quickly crossed the room to the television, paying no attention to the remote control that sat in its cradle only a few feet from where he had been standing. Switching it on, he stood back, realized it was tuned to the History Channel, and finally grabbed the remote control from the holder, using it to flip to CNN.

“... conspiracy from the 1930s, using American money and government assets to give Adolf Hitler control of Germany...”

Desperate and wide-eyed, Leinhart flipped the channel to CBS.

“... according to recently unearthed documents that appear to have been signed by former Secretary of State Henry Lewis Stimson and billionaire businessman John...”

NBC also had their special report.

“...an alleged secret government cover-up program that purportedly targets its own citizens, supposedly having killed hundreds if not thousands of Americans since the advent of the Cold War...”

“What the hell is this?” Leinhart demanded, throwing the remote to the floor as the breaking news continued to be dispersed by the onscreen reporter behind him, eighty years of secrets and lies being exposed to an audience of millions. The professor was shaking with a mixture of rage and fear.

“I made copies of the Dossiers,” Jon explained, a thin, victorious smile on his face as confidence came back into his voice. “Much like the copy you found in Michael’s notebook. I took them around to different news studios in New York. And there are a
lot
of them up there, let me tell you. I gave them the entire story, showed them Rockefeller’s journal entry that Blumhurst had stolen in ‘57, explained all the clues, and told them about the Division. And how it all tied into the very public and very dramatic shootings that happened at St. Patrick’s the night before.
And
I told them that I would have another part of the story for them, a final conclusion, one that
you
were supposed to help me fix: the filing of the Dossiers with the National Security Archive. I told them that if I didn’t call by five, they should run with the story at six. Ensuring that, if something happened to me, the story would still get out.” He nodded toward the still-reporting TV. “Like it has.”

“That’s it. You’ve killed us. We’re both dead.” The professor’s grip tightened around the pistol, his hand shaking noticeably. He brought the gun to his own head, pressed the muzzle against his temple as tears began to trickle down his cheeks. He dry-sobbed, looking from the TV to Jon to the backs of his closed eyelids, his breaths quick, rapid, like a terrified rabbit.

“Professor, don’t,” Jon pleaded in genuine concern. “It’s over. We’ve won. Let it be over.”

“You killed us!”
Leinhart shrieked, his eyelids flying open to reveal the crazed eyes beneath. He swung the gun from his own head to point at Jon’s. “You killed us!”

“Professor, please,” Jon begged, struggling to keep his voice calm. “Think about what you’re doing. This isn’t you. You
know
this isn’t you.”

“Shut up,” Leinhart shouted, his whole body vibrating as though shaken by some inner earthquake. “Just shut the hell up already.”

Jon begrudgingly complied, afraid to do more damage by disobeying the wishes of the admittedly unstable professor. His breathing grew shaky, ragged, his eyes fixed on the cold, hollow barrel of the gun that stared hungrily at his forehead. He hoped, prayed that the last part of his plan, his final failsafe, would work in time.

The next sound Jon heard told him that it had.

“Richard Leinhart, this is the Washington Metro Police.” The megaphone-amplified voice from outside seemed to shake something inside the professor���s eyes. “Come out with your hands up, or we will be forced to enter.” Leinhart’s gun remained trained on Jon’s forehead as the professor’s eyes twitched, as his face spasmed. A few seconds later, a loud bang from what Jon assumed was the front of the house, followed by shouts of “move” and “clear,” told Jon that the police had breached the house.

Leinhart’s hand continued to point the pistol at Jon, shaking more and more as his sweaty index finger tightened around the trigger. The crazed look in the professor’s eyes grew more and more desperate, as though seeking some way out of a labyrinth with no exits.

“It’s over...” Jon breathed, locking eyes with the professor and trying to quell his own shaking and calm his nerves. “It’s over...”

A clamor at the entrance to the room, followed by a loud voice. “Leinhart, drop the weapon or we will shoot you!”

The professor gave Jon an apologetic look and moved the pistol to his own temple, staring into Jon’s eyes the whole time. Jon mouthed the word “no,” as the professor closed his eyes and tightened his finger around the trigger.

When the shot rang out, Jon slammed his eyes shut, feeling tiny droplets of warm liquid land on his face, on his hands. The professor screamed in pain... something he shouldn’t have been able to do had he shot himself in the head. Jon opened his eyes again to see a groaning Leinhart lying on his back, bleeding from a bullet wound to his chest; behind him, a police officer’s gun still trained on the professor for a second shot should the need present itself; a pair of cops walking toward them, kicking Leinhart’s gun aside as they secured the suspect and tried to stop the bleeding while calling in EMT support; a fourth officer walking to Jon to free him from his bindings.

Jon blinked at the professor, who was sobbing in between blood-tinged coughs and raspy breaths of air. Then Jon turned toward the face of the female officer who had released him from his bindings and did a double take.

“You believe me now?” he asked Officer Mabry, smiling despite himself, glad simply to be alive.

“When I heard about what you’d done, I
specifically
asked to be put on the team that came to find you,” Mabry said with a half-smile that hinted at a somewhat apologetic relief. “Smart thinking covering your back like that. When we got the call from the network, we just followed your cell phone’s GPS here.” She squinted as though suffering from some minor pain, shaking her head slightly from side to side. “Look, I’m sorry about not listening to you before. It seems like the bastard at your brother’s apartment was a bit smarter in covering his tracks than we’d allowed for.” She raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “Government conspiracy... who’d have thought?”

Jon smirked with one corner of his mouth. “I only
wish
it had been my overactive imagination.”

’Well, at least you know the truth about your brother’s death. And everyone else will know he went out as a hero, not as a coward.”

“True,” Jon said as Mabry helped him to his feet. One of the other officers was reading Dr. Leinhart his rights, but the professor cut him off.

“Jon!” Professor Leinhart gasped from the floor. Jon, shrugging off Mabry’s requests to the contrary, hobbled over to him, unsteady on his recently unbound feet, and leaned down toward Leinhart’s face.

“I’m here, Professor.”

“Jon... I’m—” The professor coughed fitfully, spat a glob of congealed crimson on the carpet, and tried again. “I’m so sorry, Jon. I’m...” He drifted off, then submitted to his sobbing attacks again.

“I know,” Jon said softly, gazing down at the man with something approaching pity. “So am I.”

Then Jon Rickner straightened up, grabbed his backpack from the floor, and walked outside with Officer Mabry into the cool evening air, greeted with the stares of curious neighbors as he breathed in the satisfying freshness of freedom and justice.

At long last, it was over.

What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.
~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Revenge is the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell.
~ Sir Walter Scott

Washington, D.C.
Sunday

The day of the funeral was beautiful, sunny and clear, with just enough wispy and fluffy whiteness to give the brilliantly blue sky some layering. Church bells rang in the distance, reminding all present that the deceased was, thankfully, in a better place. The morning sun shone magnanimously upon the private ceremony, the hilltop cemetery seeming somehow greener than a place of earthly repose should, especially in light of the sad occasion that had brought them together that day. The laying to rest of a beloved brother, son, lover, friend. The burial of Michael James Rickner, intellectual martyr and fallen hero, a man who would live on in the lives and memories of those who knew and loved him best.

There had been a large memorial service held at George Washington University, then another held at the church Michael and Mara had attended in Foggy Bottom, but this graveside service was only for those who were closest to the deceased. Three of those people were seated in the front row during the intimate ceremony. Jon sat in the middle; Mara – her right arm in a sling tight across her chest – sat to his right, fighting through the pain and the pain-numbing drugs to lock every nuance of this moment in her memory for eternity; and to Jon’s left, the father of the deceased, Jon’s father, Sir William Rickner – fresh from his archeological expedition in the Amazon Basin, his salt-and-pepper hair and beard seeming more “salt” than the last time Jon had seen him, his hastily pressed tweed jacket a far cry from its Savile Row brethren in his closet back in England – sat in a mournful stupor, jet lag and still-fresh shock numbing him into a quiet agony.

After the death of his wife, Sir William had grown closer to his sons – the last living vessels of Anna Rickner’s adventurous spirit and compassionate determination. They’d traveled together, experienced life together, and tried to help each other through the pain. Now, however, Jon wondered if his father would reach out – and allow himself to be reached out to – or if he would retreat even further into his work, the pain of losing a second loved one too much to bear. Jon also wondered if the experience and the shared connection with Michael that he and Mara had would keep their friendship alive – or ultimately hold too many painful memories for the relationship to continue. Hopes and fears for the future notwithstanding, the three mourners – Jon, Mara, and Sir William – held hands throughout the ceremony, each drawing strength from the next, a chain of the bereaved, a sorrowful trio brought together in community by their unshakable bonds with Michael.

The pastor spoke at length about Michael, having had a strong relationship with him during the few years the deceased had been active in that church. The adulatory remarks and humorous stories almost brought a smile to Jon’s lips, but the sense of loss was too great.

Jon was tempted to get up and talk about his brother himself. Especially to talk about what Michael had done in recent months, the courageous intellectual pursuit that had resulted in his murder. But he couldn’t. For one, that would entail the breaking of the chain that he knew Mara and his dad, both physically drained and emotionally wrecked, needed even more than he did. But more importantly, any words he might say would ring hollow. He was fluent in nearly a dozen languages, but none of them had words that came even close to describing who Michael really was – at least to Jon. Perhaps before Babel, back when Man spoke in the tongue of angels, such words could be found, but no longer. Michael was far from perfect, but he was Jon’s hero, friend, and the best big brother he could have ever asked for. And those who sat under that beautiful yellow sun that day, tears of heartbroken sorrow streaming down their faces as the heavy coffin was lowered into the earth, had been close enough to Michael to know the man’s true character far better than any further eulogy could convey. Jon changed his mind: there was a language that could describe Michael – the language of the heart, the part that, despite Michael’s impressive intellect and natural eloquence, was touched far more deeply in those who knew him.

Hours later, after the folding chairs had been cleared away and their occupants had left – Mara back to her doctor-mandated bed rest and Sir William back to his hotel room to sleep off his jet lag – Jon sat on the dirt-brushed grass at the edge of his brother’s grave, talking to Michael like he knew he would return to do as often as he could – despite knowing that the corporeal form that rested beneath six feet of dirt and subterranean wildlife no longer housed the spirit that was Michael.

Jon didn’t notice the figure that cautiously approached him until it was nearly upon him. He glanced up from the mound of freshly turned earth when the visitor grew close, squinting at the tall man silhouetted against the afternoon sun. His mouth broke into a smile as he recognized the man.

“Wayne.”

“How are you holding up?” Wayne asked. He wore a black trench coat that belied the peaceful look on his face, as though some long-held demon had finally been exorcised.

“Alright, I guess. All things considered.” Jon shook his head slowly. “I just never imagined life without him, and now that’s exactly how the rest of my life will be.”