Ashes (22 page)

“Hi, Doug,” he said.

MacReady registered no surprise, and Sean knew he had been waiting for him. “Hey, Sam. Good to see you.” He strolled over. “I wanted to be sure I caught you before dinner. There’s something you need to know.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t talk shop at the dinner table tonight. We’ll go to the den after dinner and talk there.”

“That’s no problem. But why?”

“It’s Anna, Richard’s wife. She thinks this is just local business stuff. And Richard aims to keep it that way.”

“I understand.” Sean didn’t believe it for a moment. Because they always knew what was going on — the wives, the mistresses, the girlfriends. He didn’t hold it against them: few played any role in their men’s misdeeds, and most would have left the men if they could have. Sean felt sorry for most of them. But they knew, despite all their protestations to the contrary. In all his years he’d only found one of the women who truly knew nothing of her husband’s deeds. He was a money-man for an Islamic terrorist group who kept his wife literally under lock and key. She didn’t know what year it was, let alone what her husband was up to. Since then, whenever he and Robert were bored, they argued about the money-man’s reason for imprisoning his wife, whether it was extreme jealousy (Robert’s view) or an outright phobia of women (Sean’s view).

But he’d play along. “No problem,” Sean said, and he and MacReady went inside.

Richard’s living room was what Sean expected it to be, oak paneling and a handsome riverstone fireplace, over which a ten-point buck kept eternal watch with glass eyes. As he and MacReady entered the house Sean caught the mingled scents of wood burning on the hearth and dinner wafting in from the kitchen. It reminded him of Robert’s house in Maine — could it really be nearly a year since he’d sought Robert’s counsel? He felt a sharp pang like a knife thrust into his heart. Robert was the last friend he had, and it was almost a year since he’d heard a friendly voice or spoken to someone without subterfuge. Sean felt the knife twist, for he did not even know if Robert was still alive.

Of course he is. They can do lots of things with surgery and chemo these days. He’s fine, he’s off in his little castle in Maine and by fall this will all be done. Blaine will be dead, Jennifer will have justice, and I’ll go see Robert and tell him everything. Even about Beatty.

Sean let none of his thoughts show, even though Blaine himself reminded him of Robert. It was Blaine’s assurance that did it, the confidence that comes with being secure in your own domain, so secure you don’t mind greeting guests in your stocking feet, as Blaine was.

“You guys want something to drink?” Blaine asked as they put away their coats.

“Sure,” MacReady replied.

“We’ve got Coke, Sprite, Becks, and Bud,” said a female voice. “Oh, and cranberry juice cocktail,” she added with a laugh.

Sean turned to see a small woman with red hair. The hair was caught back in a simple ponytail and she looked young, perhaps only a few years out of college. He recognized her from the meeting when he’d first met Blaine.

“Sam, this is my wife, Anna. Anna, this is Sam Lewis,” Blaine said.

Sean and Anna Blaine shook hands. Her hand was small in his but not fragile. A hand used to duties of home and hearth; the nails were short and unpainted. “It’s good to meet you,” he said, surprised to find himself meaning it. But why not? Her muffins and sandwiches were the first decent food he’d had in God knew how long.

“And you. Richard’s told me all about you.” She smiled, then turned to Richard. “How many will we be having?”

“Just the Wickershams and Walt Sorensen.”

“Jess can’t make it?”

“Not tonight.”

“I’d better go set the table. Good to see you again, Doug. Nice meeting you, Sam. Oh! Drinks!”

“Just a Coke for me,” Sean said. He wanted all his wits about him.

“Becks for me, Anna,” MacReady said.

“Done and done,” Anna said, and disappeared into the kitchen with a swirl of long paisley skirt.

Sean and MacReady sat down to wait for the others and talk small talk with Blaine. In less than a minute Anna had returned with beverages and a bowl of pretzels for them. As she went back into the kitchen he watched her from the corner of his eye, and again felt that stab in his heart. And this time, could not explain why.

* * *

D
inner was chicken and dumplings with plenty of gravy. As Sean sat down at the table he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. All of the men save Blaine had such doleful, stray-dog looks in their eyes, as they sat with a home-cooked meal in front of them, waiting those endless seconds for everyone to be seated and for Blaine to say grace.

For that’s what they were, Sean thought as he began to dish food onto his plate. Stray dogs. All of them save Blaine were divorced or never-married. Their lives were ones of discontent, lived paycheck to paycheck, taut and with few comforts. The only surprise was that the group did not have more members; how could these men resist the appeal of an intelligent, charismatic leader who articulated what they only felt and gave them a plan, a group of like-minded people who would make them feel a part of things, and some great food to boot. The illusion of family. Of belonging.

He took a bite of chicken and dumpling, knowing what to expect from the muffins and sandwiches, but this dinner left those in the dust. The chicken was tender, the dumplings light and airy, the gravy so thick and rich it was nearly seductive.
Good God, if Robert and Anna could hold a cook-off, let me be the judge. I’ll die very fat and very happy.

“How is everything?” asked Anna.

“Great,” replied the Wickersham brothers in unison.

“Terrific,” said MacReady.

“Marvelous as always,” Blaine said, and smiled.

The other man, Walt Sorensen, could not reply as his mouth was full, but nodded happily.

“Ambrosial,” Sean replied. Anna smiled, the other men laughed save for the Wickershams. Eddie was frowning, puzzled. Steve sent a cold glance his way, a look Sean could read with no trouble at all.
You think you’re so smart.

* * *

T
he den was downstairs, fifteen steps in all, a journey made in a matter of seconds. And yet in that short time and distance Sean saw a transformation work over Blaine. Upstairs, he piled dishes in the kitchen and asked his wife if she needed anything, leaning down to her for a kiss. Downstairs, he sat at an octagonal poker table, steepled his fingers together, and sat silently. The warm glow left his eyes and they became not so much cold as resolute. Hard. They all sat at the table and he looked at each one of them in turn, as if gauging their commitment to his cause.

Sean gave back Blaine’s look evenly, wondered what Blaine saw in the eyes of the men who sat at this table. He could make a decent enough guess. In Doug MacReady: a loyal lieutenant, forever the second-in-command. In Eddie Wickersham and Walt Sorensen: clay ready to be molded, but not sent into the kiln. Their clay would crack there. Steve Wickersham: a firebrand, someone to set things in motion, who could be thrown aside if he became too volatile.

As for him, what did Blaine see? He wasn’t sure of that yet.

“So,” Blaine said without preamble. “Los Angeles was a success. I congratulate you.” He raised his cup of coffee high, gave them a quick smile. His eyes pulsed briefly with warmth, then they were businesslike again. “Yes, a success, and a failure as well.”

The men exchanged quizzical glances. Sean had an idea of what Blaine was driving at, but held back, forcing himself to walk that line between reticence and eagerness, not to overplay his hand.

“What do you mean?” MacReady asked. “We pulled it off. We didn’t get caught. Hell, no one even suspected us at all. The Arabs got all the blame.”

“Exactly,” replied Blaine.

The men again looked baffled. Except for Blaine.

Except for Sean.

Eddie Wickersham said, “But isn’t that what we want?”

Sean saw Blaine start to reply, but he spoke first. “If it was just about destruction, that would be fine. But it’s more than that.” He saw Blaine give a small, approving smile and went on. “It’s about sending a message to the G that what they’re doing won’t fly any more. They need to know who it’s coming from. In a general sense, of course.”

“Exactly,” Blaine said again. “The trick this time will be to make it clear that this comes not from outside, but from within. That our government” — Blaine’s voice oozed sarcasm — “has brought this on itself because of what it’s done to the country and to us. No blaming it on the Arabs or whatever this time. But at the same time, well, I don’t think we’re ready for martyrdom.”

“Not yet,” MacReady said. The others laughed and Blaine gave a small smile.

Sean smiled but also knew that martyrdom was what Blaine longed for, on some level. Probably hadn’t admitted it even to himself. But like most fanatics Blaine was a curious blend of the romantic and the practical. He could coldly engineer the deaths of hundreds, yet in his secret heart dreamed of some grand sacrifice that would rally millions to his cause.

The talk went on as they discussed what the next target should be. Sean kept fairly quiet, again walking his fine line. Only towards the end of the evening did he make a contribution beyond general agreement or disagreement. “Here’s a suggestion,” he said.

“Fire away,” said MacReady.

“How about the IRS?”

“Don’t be a dumbshit,” Steve Wickersham said. “They get threats all the time, they’re too hard to get to.”

“That’s exactly why they’re a good target,” Sean said, ignoring Steve’s insult. “Think about it. Why do they get threats? Because everyone in the country hates them. I’d bet three out of five random people have some tale of woe.”

“That’s a lot of angry people,” said MacReady.

“A lot of people who might start to wake up to what needs to be done,” Sean said. As he said it, could practically read the look in Blaine’s eyes. Again, it was the contradictions of the idealist, the zealot. To know the world is against you yet secretly believe that if you do or say the right thing, the support of the masses will be yours for the asking. He could see Blaine’s eyes light up at the thought of millions of angry taxpayers gaining sympathy for his cause.

“I like that,” Blaine said softly. “I like that a great deal.”

“It’s going to be a real pain to pull off,” said Steve, and Eddie Wickersham nodded emphatically.

“And?” Blaine asked. “No one said this was going to be easy.” He shook his head. “Change never is. It’s hard, and it’s painful. But we know what we’re doing now. We need to start thinking, and planning. I want to call it a night soon. Most of you have work tomorrow, right?”

Nods around the table.

“Doug will send the word for the next meeting. And think about this. Remember what we did right in Los Angeles and what we did wrong. That’ll go a long way to helping us this time,” Blaine said.

Steve Wickersham smirked. Gave him a look that said,
Looks like you’re out of the loop, new guy.

Sean said nothing, but he read Steve’s look clearly and so, it seemed, did Blaine.

“And last but certainly not least,” Blaine said, raising his coffee cup once again in a toast, “the hardest part of any plan is deciding what the end goal is. But we have that tonight. Thanks, Sam.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sean replied. As the meeting broke up and they began making their way upstairs, he heard Blaine pull Steve aside and say something in a low voice. The word
attitude
was all he caught, but he concealed a smile as he went up the stairs.

* * *

A
s he came upstairs he was greeted by the scent of warm chocolate, and breathed in deeply. Anna Blaine was sitting at the dining room table, reading a book. She looked up as he walked in and put the book aside. “Hi Sam,” she said, getting to her feet. “I made something for you. Just a Hi, new friend thing.” She was not as young as he’d thought; there were faint lines around the corners of her eyes when she smiled, and the skin on the backs of her hands was slightly rough. Probably in her early thirties.

She handed him a foil-covered plate, and the scent of chocolate was stronger than ever. “Some brownies for you. I wasn’t sure if you liked nuts, so I didn’t put any in.”

The plate was warm. She must have been baking these while the men met. He looked into Anna’s eyes and realized that she truly did not know about what her husband was, or what he had done and planned to do. Sean felt an inexplicable urge to give the plate back to her, to flee this house and Du Lac and Wisconsin itself, to leave his quest for justice behind and let it go, all of it.

The impulse lasted only a second. Just a crazy moment, that was all. “Thank you, Anna,” he said. “If they taste half as good as they smell, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Any time. A friend of Richard’s is a friend of mine. And now, if you’ll pardon me, I’m off to bed. Busy day tomorrow. ‘Night.”

“Good night.”

He took his leave and stepped outside. The night seemed not warmer, but less cold than usual. Spring was coming. He stood for a moment on the walkway, took a deep whiff of the brownies and smiled. Ambrosial indeed. Maybe one before hitting the road.

Something hit him in the back and the side, hard. Only quick reflexes kept him from dropping the plate; only the need to preserve his cover kept him from obeying his first instinct, which was to pull out his gun and put a round in his assailant. But it was only Steve Wickersham who had pushed him. “Oops,” Steve said with a grin. “Gotta watch where I’m going.”

A few steps behind Steve, brother Eddie giggled nervously.

Sean said nothing, began walking to his van, knowing that silence would incense Steve more than any words could.

“What’s the matter, smart guy?” Steve asked. “No ten-cent words to throw around?”

He stopped and without bothering to turn around said, “Actually, I’ve plenty of words. But I haven’t all evening to help you increase your word power. Try
Reader’s Digest,
Steve-O.”

Sean started walking to his van again. Steve caught up with him, grabbed him by the arm and jerked back. He faced Steve; a vein pulsed in Steve’s forehead.