“With you,” he said. He didn’t tell her about his concern that she might call 911, or that she might pull a weapon out of a nightstand drawer. Instead, he said, “Trust is a two-way street. I earned mine a few minutes ago. It’s your turn.”
Jonathan ended up granting Becky six minutes to gather her meds and makeup and a few pairs of shoes and other clothing, which she tossed into a small suitcase. Returning to the living room, Jonathan noted with some amusement that Boxers and David were standing farther apart than they were before. Being afraid of Big Guy was never a bad idea.
“Do you both know what a blood oath is?” Jonathan asked.
Their faces donned identical scowls, and they cocked their heads like curious puppies, David to the right and Becky to the left.
“I need a response.”
“Like a pinky swear with attitude?” Becky offered.
Boxers rolled his eyes.
“With extreme attitude,” Jonathan corrected. “It means a solemn promise for which the penalty for violation is death.”
Boxers seemed to swell at the notion. The kids both shrunk a little.
“What are you suggesting?” David asked.
“I’m suggesting that from this point forward, you will see things and hear things that you have no right to see or hear. As reporters, you have a genetic desire to share this kind of stuff with other people. I need a blood oath from each of you that that will never happen. I want you to understand that if Big Guy or I ever see in writing anything that remotely resembles the truth, we will be very, very unhappy. That means you will be extraordinarily very unhappy.” He gave it a couple of seconds to sink in. “I’m not being too cryptic, am I?”
“You’re saying you’ll kill us if we ever report what we’re about to see,” David said.
“I certainly reserve the right,” Jonathan said. “Whether I exercise it or not should be a source of sleepless nights for the rest of your lives if you betray me.”
“Who are you people?” Becky asked. “I don’t believe for a moment that you’re the police.”
“If I were the police, your buddy David would be on his way to a life term in the hoosegow,” Jonathan said. “Take comfort in the fact that we’re good guys and let it go. I still need to hear you swear the oath.”
It took a while, as it should.
Probably the better part of a minute as they searched their souls and consciences to decide what they could live with.
David went first. “Okay,” he said. “I swear that I will never write about what I see.”
That was a relief. It saved Jonathan the effort of blindfolding him for the trip out to Fisherman’s Cove. People hated blindfolds.
“I don’t think this is fair,” Becky said. “I feel coerced. But if it’s the only way for me to be safe, I guess I—”
Boxers held up his hand. “Be careful now, young lady,” he said. His voice had taken on a tone that rumbled the parquet floors. “Don’t say anything you don’t mean. Once the words are out, they can’t be withdrawn.”
She hesitated, her mouth slightly agape. “Okay,” she said. “I swear that I will never write about what lies ahead.”
“Okay, then,” Jonathan said quickly. He didn’t want a morose pall to cloud a clear victory. “Let’s get moving.” He pointed toward the door. “You follow Big Guy here.”
They both bristled. No one looked forward to alone time with Boxers.
“I’ll be along in a minute,” Jonathan assured. “I just need to make a phone call about our friends here.” He tossed a glance toward the sleeping attackers. “Don’t worry about Big Guy. He’s just a big ol’ puppy dog.”
To emphasize the point, Boxers growled.
On the way out the door, Becky slapped David in the arm, apparently just for good measure.
When he was alone in the apartment, Jonathan dialed Wolverine’s number from memory. She answered on the third ring.
“I have another cleanup job for you,” he said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
After Jonathan separated from the army, he’d deeded his boyhood mansion to Saint Kate’s Catholic Church to become Resurrection House, with only one restriction: that Venice and her family would have a home there for as long as they wanted. Venice’s mother, known to the world simply as Mama Alexander, had been the family’s lead housekeeper, and a surrogate mother to Jonathan after his real mom died when he was little. These days, Mama served as surrogate mother to the dozens of children who lived in the dorms at Rez House.
Venice and JoeDog were waiting for Jonathan and his team under the porte cochere in the rear of the mansion as they parked.
“Where is this place?” David Kirk asked as he climbed out of the Batmobile into the night.
“A place where you have a low likelihood of being murdered tonight,” Jonathan answered. The kid had talked so incessantly during the ride in that Jonathan felt confident that David wouldn’t be able to retrace his steps. Becky was another matter, however. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d found a way to count wheel rotations.
Jonathan led them through the center hall from the back door to the stairs that led to the basement. The rooms down here were spacious yet imposing. They would have been perfectly acceptable as English-basement apartments.
“I’m sort of claustrophobic,” David said. “You’re not going to lock us in, are you?”
“Separately,” Jonathan said. “One to a room. Note that you’ve got a window and a bathroom. And somewhere around seven hundred square feet. We’re not talking Rikers Island. Make do.”
The four of them — David, Becky, Boxers, and Jonathan — stood in a clump in the hallway. Jonathan made a sweeping motion with his arm, ushering David into his assigned space. The kid looked terrified, but he followed directions. When he crossed the threshold, Jonathan closed the door behind him and threw the lock with a twist of an old-fashioned key in an old-fashioned keyhole.
Becky was next. Jonathan walked her three doors down the hall and indicated a door with an open hand. She started to walk through, but Jonathan put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.
“One more time,” Jonathan said. “You are here voluntarily. If you want to walk away, you’re welcome to do so. But there may well come a point where that window of opportunity closes. Think seriously about your options.”
When Becky cocked her head, he saw real beauty that hadn’t been present before. Her luminescent brown eyes seemed especially sharp, and there was something about her one-sided smile that intrigued him. She exuded a level of intelligence that worried him.
“I don’t have any options,” she said. Her tone bordered on incredulity. “My options evaporated the second I let David into my apartment. I guess I’m your prisoner.”
She tried to enter the room again, and Jonathan stopped her again. “No,” he said. “You are not a prisoner. If you even suspect that you are, you need to leave.”
“But if I leave, I’ll be a target.”
“Different thing,” Jonathan said. “Being your preferred option for safety is a world apart from being your jailer. I need to hear you acknowledge that.”
She scowled and cocked her head. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack. I don’t think you understand the reality of your situation,” Jonathan pressed. “Forces are in play that can kill all of us. My colleagues and I have carved a respectable career out of defending good guys against bad guys, but that differentiation — bad versus good — requires a black-and-white split. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“I really don’t,” she said.
Jonathan inhaled deeply through his nose. “None of what has happened to David — and, by extension, to you — makes total sense to anyone yet. All the indications, though, point to a high-level conspiracy that makes all of us nervous.”