Chapter 89
Chapter 89
T he president was the first to speak. “We as a country have known some difficult times.” He glanced at Ashley. “And some of our people have endured what I can only describe as inhuman trials.” A pause. “There is no pain like the pain endured by our children. But out of pain, great men arise. And out of hardship, great leaders emerge. Ladies and gentlemen, my friend Aaron Ashley.”
Now that the third cheer had faded away, the pub fell pin-drop quiet. No one whispered. No one shuffled. No one sipped. All eyes were trained on the screens.
After the obstacle course, when I really got to know Aaron, I saw a reservoir of strength in him that I’d rarely seen in other men. A deep well. Quiet confidence. While the last two months had chipped away at it, they had not cracked it. Nor had they cracked Ashley. In the spotlight, under the shadow of the people’s house, my friend Aaron told the world of the unspeakable horror he and Esther had endured. That their girls had endured. Of the evil that lurked in the shadows.
“I’ve been tempted, most every day, to walk away. Circle the wagons around my wife and girls and live out our days quietly on our farm in Georgia. But a good friend of mine asked me the other day, ‘What about all the other girls? The boys. Those praying for somebody to kick down the door and lift them out of hell. So...” He turned to Esther and allowed the cameras to focus on her. “We, I, have decided that as long as I am able, I will serve out my term. And, if you will allow me, take the baton from my good friend”—with that he put a hand on the shoulder of the president—“and serve as your next president.”
I could not count the gasps inside the bar. Or the involuntary curse words muffled below and above breath. Maynard, still standing on the bar, turned three shades of purple. Then Ashley put the cherry on top. And I have to take some credit here, because I told him this would be the pièce de résistance. Further, I asked him to say it because I wanted to see the contortions of Maynard’s face. “To my good friend Waylon Maynard. Since I first stepped foot in this great city, you befriended me. Showed me the ropes. Helped me, a man with little to no political experience, navigate this world. In over two decades of friendship, I’ve valued your wisdom. Your service. Your love for this people and for this country. And now, more than ever, I’m going to need your help. You have championed me every step of my career, and you have my heartfelt thanks and gratitude.”
While the room was watching the screen, I was watching Maynard, who looked like he wished a hole in the earth would open and swallow him. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but where he currently was. He also looked like his blood pressure was nearing dangerous levels and like he would soon explode. The crowd, sensing the tension but loving Ashley more than Maynard, raised an obligatory glass to Maynard, who slithered off the bar and sought to disappear into the crowd, which he obviously couldn’t do. So he did what we were quite certain he would. He went downstairs. Where it was safe. Where there were no cameras. Only allies. Where he could switch from beer to something a good bit stronger.
To a not-so-rousing round of applause, Maynard waved to the crowd, approached the door, which was quickly opened, and descended the steps to the belly of the Gilded Kilt. Where presidents and legislators and cabinet members and judges had been quietly making decisions and laws and helping run the country for close to two hundred years.
Camp and I did not have a key, but we didn’t need one. We didn’t think he’d be there long. We exited out the back and began following what we surmised would be Maynard’s path as he tucked tail and disappeared into his predetermined set of tunnels, which would keep him out of the public eye, where he could lick and medicate his wounds. Jess and Clay, on the other hand, had watched the news conference from downstairs. From the very bar where Maynard would receive his first and second Scotch. Both doubles. Normally, Maynard controlled his consumption, waiting until he was alone to dive into numbers two and three. But not tonight. And who could blame him? Maynard received his third, then settled into the large booth along a far wall with several other consoling men. Close confidants. Maynard sat with his back to Jess, who was sitting shoulder to shoulder with Clay. This meant their whispers could be heard by Maynard. When Maynard leaned back and began to sip, she made her move. We knew we couldn’t just bait him once. In order for the hooks to be set deep, we’d have to tempt him, then bait him, then set the hook.
Jess whispered, “The client didn’t show.”
Clay responded. “And the product?”
“Medicated. Unaware.”
Clay paused. As if calculating a next move. “Ages?”
Jess hesitated, as if making sure no one could overhear. “Eight and ten.”
With that, Clay exited the booth en route to the bar while Jess sat staring through sunglasses in an already dark room. We knew we had his attention when he shot a glance at Jess, who pretended not to notice nor be impressed. Her mind was elsewhere. She was not focused on Maynard. She was focused on how to fix a problem. A big problem.
When Clay returned, she scribbled a series of letters and numbers on a napkin, followed by two codes. One beneath the other. She did so at an angle that allowed Maynard to see that she was sharing a secret with Clay and no one else. Finally, she slid the napkin to him. “You have about four hours before they wake and make life difficult.” An intentional pause. “They are pristine and untouched. I will find another buyer. I just started the auction. I don’t know what happened to the last. Fifty thousand is a lot to walk away from.”
Clay nodded.
“Can you hold and monitor off-site until we close the auction tomorrow evening?”
Clay read the napkin, crumpled it, and nodded in the affirmative. “Yes, but it’ll be two hours before I can get there. Need to attend to something else first.”
At this point, Jess herself nodded and then left without so much as a goodbye. Leaving Clay to sip alone and paying no attention to Maynard, who according to Jess had become a peeping Tom. She could see from her new vantage point that Maynard was paying close attention to the napkin.
We knew that in order for Clay to leave a crumpled napkin with information on the table where it could possibly be found by someone bussing the tables, that information had to make no sense to anyone. Just a row of numbers and letters. Unless you owned a condo three blocks away and were familiar with how the rooms were lettered and designated. Eight floors were A-H, and the rooms were every ten with the added twist of north or south. So B20S was second floor, second room, on the south wing. E100N was the fifth floor, tenth room, north wing. And so on. But getting in was equally as complicated. The parking deck and elevator shared the same four-digit security code, while the room had its own six-digit code. So G60N followed by a four-digit and a six-digit code would only make sense to someone in that building. Otherwise it was Greek. Fortunately for us, we knew Maynard owned two units in that same building.
Clay finished his drink and, occupied with thoughts elsewhere, left his seat while allowing the napkin to fall onto the booth. Where Maynard could see it out of the corner of his eye.
Clay exited the room while Maynard’s hand discreetly reached and clasped around the napkin. He held it several seconds before glancing at it. When he did, he leaned his head back, seemed to smile slightly, then pulled out his phone and sent a text.
Which we thought he would.
Ten minutes later, a middle-aged staffer left the pub having never said a word to Maynard, walked through the underground, and then took the elevator up to G60N. He used the combination and let himself in. Camp and I knew we couldn’t very well use two live children as bait, so we did the next best thing. We made it look like we had two young children asleep side by side in a king-size bed in the massive master suite. The man, whose name was Bob Ladstrom, a nearly thirty-year staffer who’d been by Maynard’s side for the entirety, entered the room and spied the two child-like lumps curled up in each other’s arms beneath the massive down comforter. The covers had been pulled up so that only the wigs showed above the edge. Ladstrom tiptoed to the edge of the bed and was in the process of pulling back the cover when my right fist encountered his left jaw.
Thirty seconds later, after having read a few of the back-and-forth messages shared by Ladstrom and Maynard passed through the end-to-end-encrypted Signal app, I did my best to sound like Ladstrom as I sent Maynard a text. Which, in reality, was little more than a cut and paste from several previous. “All clear. Enjoy.”
Jess then reported that Maynard polished off his drink, slapped a few backs, and left in a hurry. Out the back door. Through the tunnels.
We had set the hooks. Deep.