20. Epilogue One Week Later #2
“What? It worked last time.”
A couple of smiles move around the table, but Victor’s doesn’t last.
“I wanted to know what they knew about Lockhart. We’ve spent months trying to identify Legacy families, and every name has been like pulling teeth. I thought what happened in Canada might loosen a few.”
“Did it?” I ask.
“No. Neither of them would give me anything useful about Lockhart.”
That figures. Legacy protects itself better than most governments.
Victor finally touches the tablet. A name appears on the screen.
Cunningham.
“But one of them gave me that.”
I stare at it.
“Who the hell is Cunningham?”
“The Cunningham family. Texas oil dynasty.”
Faith takes over, bringing up what she’s managed to assemble since Victor returned from Marin.
“Cunningham Oil is the obvious part. The family’s interests go considerably further. Energy, transportation, land, infrastructure, private investment. Generational wealth.”
“How did Cunningham come up?” Jax asks.
Victor leans back.
“I asked about Lockhart’s position within Legacy. Who worked with them, who protected their interests, who they answered to. Rothman refused every version of the question until I asked who would be most concerned if the Lockharts fell.”
“And?” Jan asks.
“He told me I was looking north when I should be looking south.”
Angus’s expression changes. “Cryptic bastard.”
“Very. So I kept going. Eventually he told me Lockhart wasn’t the family we should be worried about anymore.”
Victor looks at the name on the screen.
“He said, Ask the Cunninghams what happens next.”
Now that is interesting.
Faith changes the display.
Lines begin spreading from the Cunningham family across Texas and toward Washington.
Companies.
Foundations.
Lobbying firms.
Political committees.
Campaign contributions.
Jan sits forward. “Oh my lord.”
“That was my reaction,” Faith says. “I started with the family name. Felicity and G started mapping corporate structures. Shane and Verity are checking it against everything they’ve collected on Legacy.”
“And?” I ask.
Faith enlarges a cluster around Washington.
“We’re nowhere near proving what any of it means yet, but the Cunninghams have spent decades building political access. Federal as well as state.”
Jax studies the screen. “Politicians?”
“Plenty of them.”
“How many are bought?” Angus asks.
“We don’t know that any are,” Victor says. “Not yet. Donations and access aren’t evidence of corruption.”
Important distinction. Especially with the people we’re hunting.
I look at the name again.
Westbrook took us into banking.
Ashford showed us how far Legacy reaches into aristocracy and Parliament.
Lockhart showed us what happens when one family controls land, money and the people who are supposed to investigate them.
Now one reluctant sentence from a prisoner has handed us something we’ve been trying to get for months.
Another Legacy name.
Maybe.
“We need confirmation,” I say.
Victor nods. “Absolutely.”
“And if they are Legacy?”
His gaze settles on Cunningham.
“Then we find out what Texas oil money has been buying in Washington.”
“Policy, surely. Amongst other things,” G says. “Tax breaks, drilling rights, pipeline approvals, environmental exemptions, transport contracts. Maybe the occasional politician encouraged to develop selective eyesight.”
I glance at Jan.
“Texas, darlin’. Jed Clampett. Black gold, Texas tea.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not buying a cowboy hat.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
Angus grins. “Boots?”
“Don’t push it, Bear. Motorbike boots will do me, thanks.”
The laughter is brief.
Because Cunningham is still glowing on the screen.
A name we didn’t have yesterday.
A family someone in Marin didn’t want to give us.
And the next thread HAVEN intends to pull.
North of San Francisco, California. 1000 hours.
The next morning, we stop by Dad and Jean’s place before heading north.
Dad opens the door and gives me one look.
“Still alive, then.”
“Apparently.”
Dad pulls me into a quick hug and gives me several firm pats on the back before we step apart.
Jan laughs and hugs Jean.
I turn to Davey and ruffle his hair.
“Geez, you’re growing like a weed, kid.”
He bats my hand away. “I’m not a kid.”
“That so?”
“Yep.”
I grin. “Big enough to go for a quick burn around the block on the Harley?”
His eyes light up. “Yes!”
Dad gives me a look.
“Around the block,” I remind him.
Davey’s already reaching for his shoes.
Dad shakes his head. “Where are you two off to now?”
“Napa. Weekend away.”
Jean smiles. “About time.”
“That’s what Victor reckons.”
Dad gives me a pointed look. “Try not to get shot.”
“No promises.”
Jan elbows me.
“Fine. I’ll try.”
We stay just long enough for coffee, hugs and proof of life before heading back outside to the bikes.
After taking Davey for the thrilling fast ride around the neighborhood, we leave San Francisco on our Harleys with absolutely no plan beyond Napa Valley.
Several days without anyone shooting at us, and a ferret who apparently believes the entire trip has been organized for his benefit is all we need.
Faris has his head poking out of Jan’s leather jacket before we’ve even cleared the city.
I pull alongside her at a set of lights and point at him.
“He alright there?”
Jan looks down. Faris lifts his nose into the morning air, whiskers moving furiously.
“He’s fine.”
“He’s half outside your jacket.”
“He spent most of the week in Manitoba buried in his sleeping bag. Let him live a little.”
Fair point.
The light changes, and Jan takes off ahead of me. I follow, grinning inside my helmet.
We’ve ridden together plenty of times, but there’s something different about today. The bikes are lightly packed, our phones have reception, and California sunshine has replaced snow, survival gear and frozen wilderness.
For once, the road ahead is about where we want to go rather than where somebody needs us.
It’s Jan on her Harley in front of me, Faris enjoying the airflow from the safest position she can give him inside her jacket, and California opening ahead.
The farther we get from San Francisco, the easier the ride becomes.
I hadn’t realized how much I needed this until Victor suggested Napa yesterday. Maybe he saw it before I did.
Canada wasn’t another operation we could pack away once Honor was safe. I can still see the ground around North Star. The forensic teams. The families waiting to learn whether one of those graves belongs to someone they’ve spent thirty years hoping might still walk through the door.
You don’t ride away from something like that and just leave it behind.
Occupational hazard. Some things come home with you whether you invite them or not. But you can put a few miles between yourself and them.
Jan slows until I’m beside her. I turn my head. She points down at Faris.
The little bugger has a pair of new Doggles on and a little red bandanna around his neck, face lifted into the breeze like he’s starring in his own Easy Rider motorcycle commercial.
I pull out my phone and snap a photo before the moment disappears.
I laugh. Jan laughs too, and for the first time since Manitoba there’s nothing following it. No radio call. No new evidence. No one needing us to make a decision.
Just the wide-open road.
We stop along the way, more for Faris than either of us. Jan unzips her jacket and lifts him out, and he stretches through her hands before immediately trying to investigate a patch of grass beside the bikes.
“Look at him,” she says. “He’s happy.”
“He’s a ferret.”
“He can still be happy.”
“He’s probably looking for something to steal.”
“That also makes him happy.”
We’re in no hurry, especially when our suite won’t be ready until later, so we wind our way through Carneros and stop at Artesa before heading to the resort.
Jan takes one look at the vineyards rolling away below us and smiles.
Her voice comes through my helmet. “Now this is more like it.”
“Better than Manitoba?”
She gives me a flat look.
“Difficult choice.”
We find a table outside overlooking the vineyards and order a charcuterie board with Jamón Ibérico, Manchego, olives and pan con tomate to share with the tasting.
I’m riding, so tasting means exactly that, but after several days of coffee, lodge food and whatever we could eat between updates, sitting in the California sunshine with Jan feels bloody luxurious.
She lifts her glass and studies the wine like she knows what she’s doing.
“Getting hints of anything?” she asks me.
“Squashed grapes.”
She laughs. “Very sophisticated.”
“I’ve been working on my palate, darling.”
Faris is asleep inside Jan’s jacket, exhausted after his morning of impersonating a Harley enthusiast.
I lift my glass toward hers.
“It’s what we’ve got right now. Let’s make the most of it, darls.”
Jan smiles and touches her glass to mine.
“To however long we get.”
I’ll drink to that. We linger over lunch, taste a few wines and do absolutely nothing useful for the best part of two hours.
It’s brilliant.
By the time we leave Artesa and follow the road toward Carneros Resort & Spa, the afternoon sun has softened over the vineyards.
The place feels about as far from northern Manitoba as we could get without crossing an ocean. We park the bikes and unload the small amount of luggage we brought, which still feels strange after hauling enough cold-weather equipment around Canada to survive the apocalypse.
Jan looks around at the gardens, the cottage and Faris being royally smuggled into five-star accommodation inside her jacket.
“You know what?”
“What?”
She smiles. “I finally understand what swanning around means.”
I laugh. “About time.”
“Don’t push your luck, Mr. Hollands. Aussieisms aren’t always easy to decipher.”
Faris pokes his head farther out of her jacket, whiskers twitching as he checks out his five-star surroundings.
“Hey, Slinky.”
Jan scoops him up.
“He wants to see the suite.”
“He wants to rob the suite.”
“That’s an ugly accusation to make without evidence.”
“I’ve met him.”
She kisses Faris between the ears and walks ahead of me.