The Last Refuge (28 page)

Paul, dammit, where was Paul? I tried to scream, but the pressure of Drew's hand was cutting off my air supply.

‘Alex was trouble,' Drew muttered. ‘And look what happened to him.'

Suddenly, a costumed couple burst through the door and erupted onto the porch, laughing drunkenly, stumbling over one another in their efforts to reach fresh air. Drew mashed his lips down against mine, hard, so hard that my teeth bit into my lower lip.

‘Ooops! Excuse us!' the girl giggled.

‘Mmmmf,' I tried, but Drew pressed all the harder. He'd dropped his hand, though, so at least I could breathe. I sucked a grateful breath through my nose.

Drew had no weapon, except his hands, but they were deadly. I had no weapon, except my fan. I considered jamming it into his eye.

‘Lovebirds,' the young man drawled. ‘Sweet.'

‘C'mon. Kiss
me
, honey,' she said, clawing at her partner's cravat.

Desperately, I tried to signal one of them with my eyes, but it was too dark for them to see the desperation written in them.

Drew's weight shifted, and something knocked against my hip. Amy's iPhone was still in my pocket. I moaned, fell limp, dead weight in his arms. My head lolled, and I felt my wig begin to slip, tilting, sliding, until it dropped off my head, hitting the floor with a quiet
floof
.

Drew started, giving me the time I needed to reach into my pocket, wrap my fingers around the phone. I pulled it out and jammed it as hard as I could, narrow edge first, into his throat.

He gasped, tried to draw air, but only succeeded in producing an odd squeaking sound. He crumpled at my feet.

I didn't wait to see what damage I had caused. I lifted my petticoats and ran, scrambling down the long flight of stairs that led to the street, hoping to be well away before Drew had time to recover and take off after me.

‘We got him!' A woman's voice.

I paused, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would leap right out of my chest.
Who was that?

‘We have him, Mrs Ives,' she yelled again. ‘You're safe now.'

The next thing I knew, Paul was running toward me, stumbling down the steps, crossing the street, folding me into his arms.

‘How . . . ?' I began.

He held me at arm's length, looked me up and down as if checking for damage. ‘I'm sorry, Hannah. We saw Cornell drag you out . . .' He paused. ‘They told me they'd handle it.'

‘They? Who is they?'

‘I told you I'd bring back-up. Even though Jud's men got hold of Drew, until we knew for sure he was in Navy custody, I thought it better to be safe than sorry. Come with me. I'd like you to meet them.'

On wobbly legs, supported by Paul, I made it to the top of the long staircase. The first thing I saw was the drunken couple looking remarkably sober. He had a cell phone pressed to his ear and a taser in his other hand. She had a gun. Sitting at their feet, propped up against the wall with his hands behind him, was Drew Cornell. His wig, like mine, had disappeared in the fray and the pale hair underneath was dirty and matted. His head was bowed, so I couldn't see his eyes.

‘Agent Loftiss, Agent Waldholm, this is my wife.'

I simply stared, too stunned to speak.

‘NCIS,' Agent Loftiss explained. She extended her hand. ‘Sorry we waited so long to jump in. We were jigging, too, but lost you for a moment when some rowdy kids blocked our path.'

Thank God for whomever invented tasers and the Naval Criminal Investigative Service
. ‘Glad you made it before he broke my neck. I was scared shitless, if you want to know the truth.'

Agent Waldholm turned back to his prisoner. ‘Up!' He hoisted Drew to his feet. I could see that Drew's hands were bound behind his back with flex-cuffs.

Drew glared at me then, face rigid, jaw set, shooting shrapnel out of his eyes. ‘I want to see my wife.'

‘Later,' Agent Waldholm barked, propelling Drew ahead of him, down the stairs. I noticed that his hand never strayed far from the automatic weapon strapped to his belt, still partially hidden under his colonial costume.

Loftiss tucked her weapon into her stomacher, adjusted her hoop, hoisted her skirts and headed down the stairs after her partner, but paused to speak to Paul. ‘Thanks for your help, Ives.'

‘I think it's Hannah you need to thank,' my husband said. ‘And Drew's wife, too, of course. Amy Cornell gave up a cool half-million dollars to turn this sonofabitch in.'

‘We need more like her, Ives.'

I gave Loftiss a big thumbs up. ‘Bravo Zulu, Agent Loftiss.'

‘All in a day's work, Mrs Ives.'

When Loftiss had gone, I tugged on Paul's arm. ‘Where
is
Amy?'

‘Last time I saw her, she was inside, dancing with Mayor Cohen. I think he's smitten.' He stooped, scooped up my wig and helped me settle it back on my head, squinting at it critically, making adjustments. One of the birds had fallen off in the scuffle. He picked it up, too, took careful aim, and jabbed it back into the mound of cotton candy I was wearing on my head.

‘Should we tell her . . . ?' My voice trailed off. ‘Of course we should,' I said, answering my own question. ‘From now on, she won't have to keep looking over her shoulder.'

After the coolness of the evening, the heat in the ballroom hit me like a wall. ‘Let's find Amy, then get out of here,' I said.

‘What about Founding Father?'

‘Screw Founding Father,' I said.

The ladies lounge had a sofa. I took Amy there, told her what happened, and sat with her while she took it all in.

‘I should be bawling,' she told me, ‘but I ran out of tears for Drew a long time ago.'

‘Do you want to go home?'

She stared blindly at the wall. ‘Home? Where's home?'

‘I meant Patriot House, Amy,' I said gently.

‘No, I don't think I want to do that. Not right now.'

I swiveled in my seat, laid a hand on her knee. ‘You know what
I'd
really like to do, Amy?'

She shook her head.

‘I'd like to go to a bonfire. Would you like to come, too?'

Her face brightened, then, just as suddenly, fell. ‘What about the children?'

‘Melody can take care of herself.' I leaned closer. ‘She's got Jason to keep her company. They're joined at the hip. Tell you what, let's find Gabe, collect Paul and our wraps, and blow this pop stand.'

St John's College had been founded in 1696 on four acres of land. Over the years, the campus had expanded to thirty-two acres, sprawled along the banks of Weems Creek in the heart of Annapolis's historic district.

We strolled leisurely down St John's Street, past the back of the college library, past the state-owned parking garage, heading toward the creek. Several hundred people had gathered along its banks, all dressed in colonial garb. It must have been the price of admission. Somewhere, pork was being barbequed, the aroma permeated the air. A large barrel, or hogshead, was the central attraction. ‘What's in that?' Gabe wanted to know as we passed by.

‘It's punch,' Amy explained. ‘For grown-ups.'

By some miracle, we found Karen and Dex. Karen had spread a quilt out on the lawn, and graciously invited us to share it.

Just as we got settled down, a series of explosions lit up the sky. ‘Ooooh,' breathed the crowd. Showers of red and white, fountains of blue, green and yellow, cascaded over our heads. Hot sparks, caught up by the wind, spiraled up, up, and up, then nose-dived, sizzling out harmlessly on the water.

‘And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,' Paul sang in his gravely baritone.

In the light of a Roman candle, I reached for his hand. ‘That's “War of 1812,” darling.'

‘Whatever,' my husband said, squeezing my fingers.

‘You know, I'm really getting tired of hearing Jeffrey complain about how this isn't right, or that isn't how it should have been. We're not about life as it should have been – without slavery, for example – but how it
was
! Sure, life sometimes sucked back then, but that's not because people back then were stupid. Does he think people nowadays are smarter? Frankly, I don't think that
American Idol
, JetSkis and high fructose snack foods are evidence that civilization is advancing.'

Hannah Ives

A
lthough he'd never actually admit it, at least not to me, Paul had managed just fine in my absence. He'd gotten through exam period and turned in his grades. He'd finished
Famous Unsolved Codes and Ciphers
and sent it off to Brent Morris for a tough-love critique. And he'd even helped our son-in-law, Dante, build a teakwood deck on the home he shared with Emily and our three grandchildren in Hillsmere Shores.

Thanksgiving had come and gone, and even if there had been no sprightly renditions of ‘Jingle Bells' or ‘Walking in a Winter Wonderland' to cram the holiday spirit down our throats, the proliferation of TV ads for perfume, aftershave, diamond jewelry and electric razors was a clue that Christmas was just around the corner.

The promos for
Patriot House, 1774
started on December the third following the NCAA playoffs. Long before then, though – thanks to YouTube – people had started to recognize me on the street: ‘Say, aren't you . . . ?' followed by a pregnant pause while they studied every blemish on my face and tried to work it out. At Whole Foods one day, I'm ashamed to say, I confessed to being Susan Sarandon, and autographed the back of the woman's Baltimore Gas and Electric bill.

I'm not much into sports, so I missed the debut of the promo, but nobody else in the world did.

‘Mother, did you see . . . ?'

‘Grandma, you looked
awesome
!'

‘Hannah! I just saw . . .'

I figured there'd been so much hype that when the show finally made its debut, maybe nobody'd even care.

‘I can't watch,' I said, shielding my eyes when I finally caught one of the ads on TV.

Paul tugged at my hands. ‘Don't be silly. Look at you!' He pointed at the screen. ‘You look terrific.'

‘I look old.'

‘Not old, sweetheart. Vintage.'

‘Vintage, huh? Like my clothing.'

They'd let me keep a gown, the blue one with ruffles and little pink ribbons that Melody liked, and all the accessories that went with it. When my daughter, Emily, saw it hanging in the hall closet, sheathed in plastic, she grinned and said, ‘So, what are you going to be for Hallowe'en next year?'

‘A witch,' I replied.

But I did watch the promo. They were my family, after all.

Melody bent over her embroidery.

Jack draining a pint with his pals.

Amy and Alex, in happier times, playing a duet.

Karen up to her elbows in dough, a dab of flour on her chin.

Dex and Gabe, wrestling on the Paca House lawn with Flash.

And me, with an impish grin, taking off my shoes and stockings so I could run barefoot through the grass.

I wondered if I'd ever see any of them again.

We'd exchanged email addresses, promised to stay in touch, but you know how it is. Melody let me know via Facebook when her mother passed away. I telephoned right away, of course, and we began to chat about once a month after that. I promised to take her on a tour of Eastern colleges when she started the application process the following year.

Amy texts me from Kansas City, Missouri where she teaches music in a private school. I wondered if she moved there so she could be close to Drew, serving fifteen years for multiple violations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice at the United States Disciplinary Barracks – better known as Ft Leavenworth – about thirty-five miles away. Wondered, that is, until an engraved card arrived in the mail announcing her marriage to Philip Henry Graham, III. Amy and I keep in touch playing Scrabble on our iPhones while she awaits the birth of their first child.

When Karen visited Washington, D.C. for a meeting of the American Sociological Association, we finally managed to schedule that lunch that we had promised each other. Once a year at Christmas a card might arrive from Michael or French, but otherwise . . .

I was in our basement office, going through the basket where I keep last year's Christmas cards and updating our address file accordingly, when I came across a plain white business envelope with ‘Hannah' written on it in a fancy hand. The envelope was sealed, but it was addressed to me, right? So I stuck my finger under the flap, opened it and looked inside.

I gasped in surprise, as Paul had probably intended. But when I read a little further, I felt like a rat, a bum, the lowest of the low.

Paul was upstairs fixing a broken hinge on a cabinet in the kitchen. He glanced up when I entered the room and smiled crookedly around a screw.

‘What's this?' I asked, showing him the envelope.

He spit out the screw, and laid his screwdriver down on the countertop. ‘What does it look like, Hannah?'

Tears filled my eyes. ‘It looks like tickets for a trans-Atlantic cruise on the Queen Mary Two, but they're dated October the seventh. That was
ages
ago,' I moaned.

‘It was for our anniversary,' Paul explained, ‘but as you may recall, something came up.'

‘You bought tickets for a cruise? We were going to celebrate our anniversary on the Queen Mary Two?'

Paul nodded.

‘So, you didn't forget?'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘I feel like a selfish shit,' I wailed. ‘Why didn't you tell me?'

Paul snatched a tissue out of the box on the counter and dabbed at the tears on my cheeks. ‘Don't worry, Hannah. I was able to reschedule the cruise. I was planning to give it to you for Christmas.'

‘A cruise? On the Queen Mary Two?' I was beginning to sound like a broken record.