The Heritage Paper (37 page)

They were the good guys!

NYPD!

And Zach was right behind them. He didn’t waste time ushering Veronica and the kids out of the subway station and up onto the street.

“What just happened?” Veronica asked.

“I saw the guards heading down the stairwell into the subway station,” Zach said. “So I found a couple police officers and explained that these goons tried to attack Eddie Peterson’s family to get at Kingston. No more loyal bunch in the world than cops—Eddie was family to them. They didn’t believe me at first, but I showed him his ID—said he gave it to me with instructions to find the nearest officer.”

“Quick thinking,” Veronica said. Obviously word hadn’t spread yet of Eddie’s demise. “So what’s your excuse, wild man?” she asked Jamie.

“My job was to buy time until he could find the police,” he said with a big grin,

“That was a little dangerous, don’t you think?”

“Not really—they can’t shoot me—I’m royal blood,” he replied, nonchalantly.

“I forget sometimes,” Veronica said as they hit 115
th
Street by foot. “So now what?”

“We find a place to hide until morning,” Zach said.

“And where exactly would that be?”

Zach suddenly took a sharp right and bounced up three small steps to the front door of a three-story, walk-up brownstone.

“You are going to break into a house?” Veronica asked with surprise.

He smiled. “It’s not breaking and entering if you own it.”

“I haven’t had the heart to sell it,” Zach said. “Kind of stupid, I guess, as if I can bring back the past.”

Right now it seemed anything but stupid to Veronica.

“They’ll figure it out sooner or later, but hopefully it’ll buy us some time until morning,” he said.

Zach went in first to make sure that ‘sooner’ didn’t mean that they were inside waiting for them. When he deemed it clean, he allowed the rest of them in.

He began rushing around the first floor, making sure all the drapes were shut, his familiarity guiding him in the dark. He disappeared through doors into a black hole of darkness, but quickly returned with a couple of flashlights. Veronica couldn’t get a good picture of the place in the dark, but it smelled musty, like it hadn’t been used in a long time.

“We have to keep you guys hidden—you’re the ones they’re looking for,” he addressed Maggie and Jamie, sounding apologetic

He guided them into a basement that might have even creeped-out Hannibal Lecter. Veronica ran into a spider web and needed to activate every restraint in her body to keep from screaming. Zach found the spot he was looking for and pulled up a small rug. He then pried open the floorboard, revealing a ladder that led down into a dark abyss.

Veronica had already seen this movie, but had a feeling that there would be no treasure waiting for them this time. Zach went in first, as if to prove it was safe. The kids trailed him down, while she apprehensively brought up the rear.

When he reached the bottom, Zach pulled a string and a light bulb flashed on. Nobody from the outside could see a light in this subterranean …

“Meth lab,” Zach informed, not so proudly. “The guy who was supposed to be re-doing our basement built it, so he and Sara could work on their science project.”

Veronica didn’t know what to say, but was surprised by the candor. She gauged her children, taking notes for a future lecture on drugs—Maggie seemed to be aware of what crystal-meth was, Jamie not so much.

“I hate to do it to you guys,” Zach said, “but to be safe, I think you need to stay down here tonight. I’ll bring down a couple of sleeping bags.”

Maggie wanted no part of it. Being cooped up with her “annoying little brother” was bad enough, but toss in some cobwebs and possible sewer rats, and the idea was utterly unappealing. Her eyes pleaded with Veronica.

She had another internal battle. And once again intuition won out. She stamped her approval and Maggie stomped her foot. “Mom!”

All the good progress down the drain
. “It’s just going to be a few hours,” she tried to soften the blow.

Maggie folded her arms close to her chest—bad sign—and then did a theatrical turn away—really bad sign.

After getting the “prisoners” settled, Zach closed the floorboards and returned the rug, causing Veronica to feel ill. Burying her children alive in this tomb was beyond her worst nightmares. She kept telling herself it was for their safety. Her gut was starting to piss her off.

Zach led a shaky Veronica up the dark stairs and into the master bedroom. “Hey, it was only a kiss,” she attempted humor as Zach headed for the bed.

“Only a kiss is like saying the Mona Lisa is only a painting,” he joked back. At least she thought he was joking.

“I’m sorry about that—my emotions got the best of me,” she apologized.

“Perfectly understandable—didn’t mean anything.”

“Actually it meant a lot at the time, but glad you weren’t offended.”

“The day I’m offended by being kissed by a beautiful woman will be the day I cast a vote for Jim Kingston,” he said with a smile, but then turned serious. He pointed to the bed. “I suggest you hide underneath.” He handed her Eddie’s gun. “And keep this with you.”

Veronica looked skeptically at the gun—she had the same disdain for them as Maggie, and proved inept with one when she tried to fend off the kidnappers from her children—but Zach’s advice had gotten them this far, and she chose to hold on to it.

“Where are you going?” she asked him with a quizzical look.

Zach held up a laptop computer. “In the closet.”

“One kiss and I’ve driven you to the other team?” she said with a grin.

He smiled. “I’m going to write the biggest story of my life. I’ve missed the morning deadline, and tomorrow will be nothing but
Kingston Wins in Landslide!
on the front page of every paper. But he’ll only have one day to enjoy his victory when I’m done writing this for the Thursday edition.”

He then barricaded himself in his closet with his laptop, while Veronica slid under the bed, holding the gun next to her like a stuffed animal.

Every creak of the old brownstone made her leap out of her skin. She again thought of young Anne Frank. This must have been what she felt like. Every noise or footstep could be the end—curtains always drawn.

To Veronica, it was a glimpse into the type of world Kingston would bring. A vision of fear. A woman under a bed clutching a gun. The press locked in a closet, typing in secret. Two children hidden under a floorboard in a damp basement that once was a drug lab. Not exactly in harmony with the hopeful themes from his campaign speeches.

The thoughts of Anne Frank made her think of her own daughter. It wasn’t just a story of war; it was also a coming of age story. Anne was just a year older than Maggie when she first went into hiding. And all these years later, young girls had the same issues and angst. She wrote about boys and dreams, and of course, frustrations with her mother. And like Maggie, she was wise beyond her years, but not always as smart as she thought she was. They were just two children put in an impossible spot.

Veronica gripped the gun, remembering Anne’s words:
It is utterly impossible for me to build my life on a foundation of chaos, suffering and death. I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness. I hear the approaching thunder that, one day, will destroy us too.

Veronica understood the despair now more than ever, but marveled how no matter the circumstances, she always found hope.
And yet, when I look up at the sky, I somehow feel that everything will change for the better, that this cruelty shall end, that peace and tranquility will return once more.

Veronica’s brief moment of tranquility was broken by a noise coming from the next room. A footstep. Then another.

She gripped the gun.

The footsteps were moving toward her room. There were two of them. Moving closer. They tried to disguise themselves, but each creak of the wooden floorboards gave them away.

Then a voice rang out.

“Mommy, can we sleep with you? It’s scary down there.”

This time Veronica’s gut told her to take her two children and curl up in the bed. To hold them and to never let them go. And when she did, she also found hope.

A ray of sunshine glistened off Veronica’s eyelids, and she forced them open. It was just one single strand fighting through the pulled shades.

She felt a huge sense of relief, just as she always did when she woke up from a bad dream.
But it seemed so real!
Carsten had died, and of all things, she moved back to Pleasantville next door to her mother.
Only in a dream would that happen!
But things got even weirder. Nazis were chasing them, and somehow her children were responsible for saving the world.

It was just a dream, she told herself, feeling safe as she lay in the king-size bed in her New York apartment, listening to the sounds of the city outside the window. She rolled over and found the bed empty. Carsten wasn’t there, but she knew where he was—she inhaled the smell of breakfast coming from the kitchen.
It must be Sunday morning,
she thought, Carsten always cooked breakfast for her and the kids on Sunday morning.

But when the room came into focus, something occurred to her.
This wasn’t her apartment!

She tried to open her eyes again, only to realize they already were. She was in Zach Chester’s townhouse, and since she met him in Pleasantville, it meant this wasn’t a dream. She fought back a scream.

Maggie and Jamie were gone!

Still fully clothed from the day before, Veronica hopped onto the wooden floor. She looked under the bed and found Eddie’s gun, just where she’d left it.

She grabbed the gun and followed her nose to the dark kitchen. What she found was Zach and her children sitting at the table and eating a candlelight breakfast.

“Mommy—you’re up!” Jamie exclaimed.

She looked at Zach. “You cooked?”

He motioned her to the table. “I found some bacon and sausage in the freezer. Sorry, if you don’t like breakfast meats, but that’s all we had.”

All Veronica really craved was a cup of the coffee. She poured herself a cup and asked, “So what did your editor say?”

“That I was certifiably crazy. He wouldn’t print my story in a million years, and I should think about going to work for one of those conspiracy-theorist blogs.”

Veronica had been afraid that would be the case, and it likely was what Kingston and Sterling were counting on.

Zach tossed her a printed version of his story and she read. When she finished the detailed account of the last couple days of her life, she set it down.
“I don’t believe it either—I can’t blame your editor.”

“I’m more interested in your opinion than some editor who is more worried about covering his behind, than exposing the truth.”

Veronica grinned at the compliment. “I think it’s not half bad considering the writer was jammed in a dark closet.”

“Hey—Lincoln studied by candlelight.”

“You’re no Lincoln, Mr. Chester.”

He smiled as he poured himself another cup of coffee.

“Seriously, I think it’s good,” Veronica went on, “but won’t you get sued by Sterling? He’ll deny he told you any of this stuff about his involvement with 9/11. Without the memoir we have nothing to back up our accusations.”

Zach held up what looked like a cassette tape.

“What’s that?” Veronica asked.

“Youkelstein taped his conversation with Sterling during his capture at the Kingston estate. He slipped it to me when we dropped him off at the hospital, but I didn’t know what it was until I got a chance to listen to it last night. It came from his umbrella, which nobody thought to check—no wonder he keeps it close at all times.”

Veronica looked impressed. “I’m going to have to put one of those umbrellas on my Christmas list this year.”

Jamie began rattling off a laundry list of things he wanted for Christmas, while Maggie called him selfish and went on a tangent about kids in Africa who didn’t have food or medicine. Things almost seemed back to normal.

“So did your editor change his mind when he heard the tape?”

Zach shook his head. “No, he said Sterling would just claim I created it. He had no intention of taking on a man who just won fifty states.”

Veronica’s hope washed away. Which made it all the more strange that Zach was smiling.

“My editor was right—no legitimate news organization would run the story. So I needed to find a media outlet willing to swim in the cesspool, lacking any journalistic integrity, and more interested in pushing an agenda than seeking the truth. Guess who that would be?”

“I don’t know,” Veronica said.

“That’s easy, Mom,” Maggie chimed in. “Talk radio!”