From the Ashes (42 page)

Jon looked at him with a blank expression. “What? No, I... no,” he exhaled heavily, picking up the phone. “I will. I think she’s in shock.”

Wayne noticed the papers lying near the two prone youths. He stepped around Jon and Mara and bent to pick up the Dossiers. Though they wanted to curl back into the shape they had been hidden in, the papers were still white and relatively crisp – the airtight metal tube having protected them not only from prying eyes, but also from the decaying influence of the elements and time. He shook his head from side to side, pressing his lips tightly together. All this killing over these, a few sheets of paper. But, he thought, what he saw here was nothing compared to the millions upon millions who had died because of Operation Phoenix – and the Nazis it put into power – in the first place. As he stared at the signatures of Stimson and Rockefeller, Wayne couldn’t honestly say that he wouldn’t have been tempted to cover up what he had done, were he in their position. The best laid plans, even the best intended plans, going horribly, horribly astray. But he did know what he had to do now.

“This yours?” Wayne asked, picking up Jon’s backpack from the ground.

“Yeah,” Jon said, still kneeling on the ground, pressing Mara’s hand in his, trying to get through to her somehow. He had propped her head up on her purse, trying to give her some measure of comfort from the cold concrete slab she lay on.

Wayne opened it, found the notebook, and slid the Dossiers between two blank pages toward the back.

“Do not lose those, do you understand?” His voice came quick, as though hurried, anxious. “You get those into the right hands. Congress, the National Security Archive, wherever. If this gets swept under the rug, nothing can bring down the Division. And you and I will be the next ones dead.”

Jon wrenched his gaze from Mara’s unseeing eyes. “Yeah, I got it.”

“You swear it?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Okay.” Wayne pulled a pistol from his waistband and handed it to Jon. “Ramirez’s. Clip’s almost full. He’s out of the picture, but use this for protection until this is over.”

Jon raised his eyebrows but took the weapon. “Thanks. But where are you...”

“Jon,” Wayne explained, “I just gave St. Patrick’s their own fallen angel, right on their blood-spattered doorstep. I can’t exactly stick around right now.” His ears perked up as the sounds of sirens, police and ambulance, started to reach them. “That’s my cue.” He turned to go.

“Hey, Wayne.”

Wayne turned back toward Jon.

“Thanks.”

Wayne smiled somewhat contentedly to himself, privy to some secret joy that he hadn’t felt in a long while, and then extended his hand to Jon.

“Thank you, too, Jon,” Wayne said, shaking his hand. “I’ll see you around.” And with that, Wayne Wilkins darted into the shadows, escaping into the dark embrace of night.

***

A few moments later, the block was filled with the screams of sirens and the flash of blue and red and white emergency lights. The EMTs unloaded a stretcher from the back of the ambulance and wheeled it over to Jon and Mara. They asked Jon some questions while they checked Mara, looked at her wound, her eyes, her state of shock. They loaded Mara up on the stretcher, refused Jon’s demands that he be allowed to ride in the ambulance with her –
protocol,
they said – and took off for the hospital.

A police officer who had been waiting for the EMTs to finish their work pulled Jon to the side, gave him the typical routine about knowing that this must be a hard time for him, but he had to ask him a few questions. Jon’s newly acquired firearm weighed heavy in the back of his waistband, a constant reminder of the danger in which he was still in. But the cop was heavyset and didn’t seem to be Division material, so Jon decided that he could linger for a few moments more. Jon had initially thought about running from the scene now that Mara was safe, but a search of his person would turn up a concealed weapon for which he had neither permit nor registration. And he didn’t need the cops putting out an APD on him while he still had unfinished business to attend to. It would be hard enough to finish this task with just the Division still on his tail.

So Jon answered them as best as he could, leaving out the presence of Wayne altogether, figuring it was plausible enough that Greer had shot Mara, then fallen off of his own accord. After all, he
had
been leaning off the edge of a precipice with one eye closed and the other pressed to a lens that screwed with his depth perception, his magnified sight telling his precariously balanced body that he was hundreds of feet from where he really was.

Why had Greer shot Mara?
Don’t most people who get up on bell towers or other high places overlooking populated areas with a rifle just fire at targets indiscriminately? Jon argued. He went through the motions, acting distant and removed, in shock from the whole experience so the officer eventually relented and decided that it seemed fairly cut and dry. On examination of the mangled body of Harrison Greer, they would manage to discover the bullet that Wayne had shot him with, but by that point, Jon would be back in Washington, driving the final nail into the Division’s coffin.

The officer gave Jon his card and asked him to call if he remembered anything else about the incident. Jon murmured his consent, and the officer left. The body of Greer and the blood-spattered bronze doors and stone stairs had drawn a crowd that the cops were trying to cordon off with crime scene tape. A pair of news vans were arriving, satellite dishes elevated from the roofs so the affiliates could get in on the story for their evening news programs. Despite the commotion just a few dozen feet away, Jon felt utterly alone. Michael was gone. Mara was gone. Wayne was gone. Jon was on his own, alone against a faceless enemy that apparently still presented a very real threat to Jon. But he had a secret weapon. He had the Dossiers. And remembering Wayne’s charge to him, he realized that he had another ally who was perfectly situated to help make the Division history.

Slinking off into the shadows before anyone else could question him further, Jon made his way west, leaving the scene of blood and death behind him.

Upon arriving at the hospital where the ambulance had taken Mara, Jon was turned away – told that she was in surgery, that she had lost a lot of blood, that the doctors were doing the best they could, and that even if she came out of surgery all right, she wouldn’t be able to receive visitors for some time. In shock over the events of the previous hours and cognizant of the hurdles and responsibilities that he had yet to face, he wandered the streets en route back to the hotel like a ghost ship, adrift with only the natural motions of the sea and wind to propel it. Although cognizant of his surroundings – always trying to walk with a crowd of people as protection – the beauty of the city’s vibrant culture and nightlife was lost on him.

When he finally arrived back at the hotel a short while later, the cold of the night and the anonymity of the big city having lulled him even further into his surreal numbness, Jon had his plan fully formed in his mind. Tomorrow morning, he would head back to Washington. By nightfall, Operation Phoenix would be exposed, the proof revealed, the Division vanquished, If everything went according to plan.

The elevator ride up to the seventeenth floor, despite the half-dozen other hotel guests sharing it with Jon, felt desperately lonely. The Division had taken everyone else from him, leaving him completely alone to finish this, the lone knight against the hundred-headed dragon.
But only for a season,
he told himself.
Only for a short while longer.

A deep-seated guilt sat on his shoulders like an old gnarled vulture. His brother’s death – and Jon’s “abandonment” of him beforehand – hung over him like an oppressive fire blanket, wrapping itself around his mind and spirit. He knew he wasn’t to blame, but it didn’t make the guilt go away. Indeed, in failing to protect Mara in Michael’s stead – her falling prey to a bullet that likely had been intended for Jon – only served to deepen the sense of personal failure, the talons of the burdensome vulture of guilt sinking deeper into his being. This was not at all how he had imagined their victory to be.

The quiet, the unbearable silence that pervaded the seventeenth floor hallway was maddening. Like the audience in his life’s drama had been shocked into speechlessness. A hush had fallen over the imaginary crowd in the background, rendered mute by what had just transpired – or perhaps in breathless anticipation of what was to come.

Upon entering his room, the stillness in the air grew even more repugnant to him. A constant reminder of Michael’s death, of Mara’s possibly fatal shooting, of Wayne’s forced flight. A reminder that he was on his own. Luckily, his years of companionship with his brother, although cut far too short, coupled with the obstacles he had overcome in the past week, gave him encouragement. It was almost over. It was almost over.

Mara’s suitcase lay to one side of her unmade bed, Jon remembering that they had left the “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging from their doorknob all day. The dent in her pillow where her head had rested was still visible in the overstuffed pillow. Her hairbrush, blow dryer, makeup kit, shampoo, face scrub, toothbrush – the bathroom was filled with toiletries and appliances that would not see any use tonight. Or for many nights after. And possibly never again... but Jon refused to entertain such thoughts. They were unproductive, simply serving to dig himself deeper in the mire that the night’s turn of events had thrown him into. And, physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted though he was, he had to take care of one final thing before he crashed for the night. Despite the late hour, he dialed Professor Leinhart’s number. He knew this would be a call the professor would gladly get out of bed for.

“Jon?” The voice on the other end was predictably sleepy, but infused with a sharp awareness honed by long hours of worrying.

“Professor, sorry for calling so late. Big news. Good news and bad.”

“Bad news first?” Leinhart requested halfheartedly.

“Mara’s been shot. A clean shot through her right shoulder. She was taken to St. Luke’s Hospital, but I don’t know how she’s doing. They wouldn’t let me see her. Apparently no vital organs or arteries were hit, but she lost a lot of blood and went into shock before the paramedics even showed up.”

“Good God.” The professor sighed a ragged breath on the other end. “I’m guessing this wasn’t a mugging gone wrong.”

“It was the Division. Apparently we were important enough for the Director himself to try to gun down.” Jon swallowed, then added, almost as an afterthought to what really mattered, “He’s dead now, though. Wayne took him out.”

“Wayne, huh? He came through after all. I was half-afraid he was trying to play you, win your confidence or whatever and then take the Dossiers once you found them.” Another heavy sigh. “Thank God for that, then. Well, come on, son, give me the good news already.”

“I’ve got the Dossiers.”

The professor laughed triumphantly, Jon having to pull his ear away from the receiver slightly at the sudden noise. “You got them? I knew you could do it. You know, your brother would be so proud.”

Jon smiled wryly to himself. “I know, sir. I have the Dossiers, but I need to get them into the right hands in Washington somehow. I don’t know who to trust in the government. Even people who aren’t affiliated with the Division might want this information repressed. The President, Congress, everybody in the federal government could feel some real public backlash when this comes out.”

“So you want me to use my connections with the National Security Archive to ensure that someone else doesn’t bury the truth,” Leinhart guessed.

“Yes sir. I know I’ve already put you in danger by bringing you into this...”

There was a slight whistling noise as the professor inhaled a long breath through his nose. “Not at all, Jon. I’m still alive and kicking. Your brother and Mara are the ones who’ve been burned thus far. We just have to do whatever we can to make their sacrifices not in vain. They’re out of commission, but we have to carry on, am I right?”

“Yes sir, absolutely.”

“I’d be happy to help. I want to. Are you coming back to Washington?”

“Yes sir, tomorrow morning hopefully. I’m going to catch the first flight back I can get.”

“Why don’t I pick you up from the airport?” Leinhart offered. “Eliminate the possibility of a Division agent posing as a cab driver and knocking you off when you’re inches from the finish line.”

“Well, I don’t want to put you out. It’s a Thursday, so won’t you have classes?”

“Jon, I can
teach
history any day. Tomorrow, I get the opportunity to help
shape
history. For this, I’ll gladly cancel my classes.”

Jon smiled weakly. “All right then. I’ll give you a call when I get my ticket so you’ll know when to pick me up.”

“Excellent. Congratulations again on finding the Dossiers, and know my thoughts are with Mara. We’re almost done, son. Make sure you don’t lose sight of the goal. And for God’s sake, be careful. That one Division agent may be dead, but they’re bound to have more after you, especially after they find out that he’s been killed. Make it to Washington in one piece, and we’ll put this beast to rest together. Take care of yourself, son, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow morning. Or later on
this
morning, as it were,” he added with a monosyllabic chuckle.

“Thank you so much. For everything. I’ll let you get back to bed, and I’ll call you later.”

They exchanged goodbyes and hung up. Jon balanced a bottle of cologne on the door handle, a hardback book underneath, ensuring that any attempts to jiggle the handle or open the door would wake him from his slumber. He also dragged the heavy sitting chair across the room and shoved it against the door to slow anyone who might try to get in. Part of him thought he should change hotels and book another room under a false name, but he was too drained to actually do it. Besides, he figured, he had survived foot chases with trained assassins and shootouts with rooftop snipers. If they found him in his sleep tonight, that was simply the worst case of irony he’d ever heard. He’d have enough ghosts to deal with tonight anyway.