Part 34 (1/2)

With the water lapping the pilings several feet below me, I'd never felt more helpless. Telling myself I'd done all I could was hollow comfort. How could I have not seen what was really happening at the Douglas White House? And how could I have allowed myself to be spoon-fed the research that resulted in a glamorized account of Douglas's war record? I should have trusted less and dug deeper.

Despite the damage it would do to my career as a writer, when this was all over I was going to return to Montana and convince Doc Palmer to come forward and set the record straight.

”I'll tell you one thing,” I muttered. ”If I do write a final chapter to the biography, it won't be the one Myles Shepherd or Semyaza or whoever he is wants me to write. It'll be the truth.”

I glanced across the bay again and wondered how much of the final chapter I'd be able to see from here.

That's when I saw him.

Semyaza.

It was as though I'd summoned him by speaking his name.

He stood just a couple of hundred yards away from me on the flight deck of the USS Midway, which was now a floating museum docked at Navy Pier. He just stood there looking across the water at me, his pants legs flapping in the breeze.

Eyes fixed on him, I made my way along the wharf to the pier, walking, then jogging, then running. I sprinted down the pier and up the gangplank, past a startled ticket-taker.

”Hey! You need a ticket to get in!” he shouted at my back. ”You need a ticket!”

I burst onto the hangar deck looking for stairs or a ladder up to the flight deck. I found myself in an enormous metal cavern with several different aircraft on display.

At the far end, to my right, I saw a man in a Hawaiian T-s.h.i.+rt heading up some stairs. By the time he huffed and puffed his way to the top, I was right behind him.

The deck was a display area for nearly two dozen jets and helicopters. I started jogging in the direction where I saw Myles last, looking around fuselages and wings and rotors as I ran. Pa.s.sing the island superstructure, I found him standing at the far end of the deck.

I stopped running a hundred yards before reaching him, reminding myself of who he really was. Even now, without a ceiling overhead, I glanced up to see if there were any gargoyle demons close by.

His back was to me. He stood casually as though he was admiring the bay. ”Glad you could make it,” he said. ”You're right on time. Predictable to a fault.”

He was just trying to goad me and I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. I'd boasted that I would stop him and had failed. Just like in high school, he'd bested me. But I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of getting my goat.

I followed the line of his gaze.

A chill sliced through me and not from the breeze.

Semyaza wasn't looking at Coronado.

”Beautiful, isn't she?” he said. ”I've always liked her graceful lines.”

He was looking south at the bridge spanning the bay, a blue ribbon stretched over a series of arches, suspended between earth and heaven.

CHAPTER 27.

Her lungs were feeling the burn. With shoes in hand, Jana rounded the bend of the on-ramp, which looked more like a parking lot than a freeway. Bored drivers whistled, honked, or shouted suggestive comments as she ran by them. At the top of the ramp a pair of California Highway Patrol motorcycles blocked access to the bridge. Beyond them the upward slope of the roadway was empty of traffic in both directions.

Jana slowed to a walk as she pa.s.sed a school bus of screaming children, first- or second-graders from the looks of them. They were unattended. The door to the bus was open. The engine was turned off. The driver's seat was empty.

Between the front line of cars and the roadblock a drama with five actors was taking place, featuring two CHP officers and three women. The hoods of cars served as front row seats for bystanders who had nothing else to do while waiting for the motorcade.

Of the actors, the most animated was a woman with close-cropped, black hair, barely five feet tall and shaped like a fire hydrant. She stood toe to toe with the officers, waving a piece of paper under their noses. Two taller women who were dressed like elementary-school teachers-conservative style, comfortable shoes-backed her up. From the brunette's trucker vocabulary, Jana concluded she was the bus driver.

”Look at it!” she screamed. ”Look at it! This is my pa.s.s! An invitation . . . on White House stationery!”

The CHP officers stood shoulder-to-shoulder presenting a united front. With their helmets, reflective sungla.s.ses, and headset microphones, they looked like Storm Troopers from Star Wars.

The taller of the officers said, ”Lady, I don't care if you have a letter signed by Abraham Lincoln, we're not letting you through.”

The brunette's solo turned to a trio as the women behind her added their voices to the argument. The CHP officers remained unmoved, unfazed by the barrage of arguments.

”But we have an invitation!”

”Explain that to a busload of kids!”

”They've been practicing for more than a month!”

”I want to speak to your supervisor.”

”. . . a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

Reclining on the hood of a blue Ford Mustang, a young couple looked on with amus.e.m.e.nt. Other drivers from the line of cars behind them had filtered forward and were standing around with arms folded, some s.h.i.+elding their eyes from the sun.

Jana moved among them, doing her best to blend in. She glanced in the direction of the motorcade route, a crazy scenario playing in her head of a black limousine slowing, the back door flying open, and Christina yelling from inside for her to jump in. It was a ridiculous idea, she knew, but nevertheless she positioned herself near the front, hoping that one or two of the bystanders would unintentionally run interference for her.

”Here he comes!” the man on the Mustang shouted.

All eyes turned toward the motorcade route as an a.s.sortment of limousines and oversized SUVs snaked up the freeway toward them. Six CHP motorcycle officers led the motorcade, their emergency lights flas.h.i.+ng.

To Jana it looked like a funeral procession. She spotted the presidential limousine, marked with furiously fluttering flags that bore the presidential seal.

She tightened the grip on her shoes. Her heart hammered as she readied herself for whatever would happen next.

To cheers from the northbound ramp audience, the lead motorcycles zoomed by them impressively.

Then, to everyone's surprise, the motorcade slowed and stopped. Doors to three limos flew open, disgorging big men in dark suits with dark sungla.s.ses and one attractive blonde in a red skirt and matching jacket.

Christina.

”You go, girlfriend!” Jana muttered, impressed.

All but two of the Secret Service detail surrounded the presidential limousine, looking outward, vigilant, their heads in constant motion. The other two agents approached the roadblock. While they were still a good distance away, the brunette bus driver began making her appeal to them directly.

”Tell these n.a.z.i thugs to let us through! We have an invitation,” she shouted, waving the letter as though it was a historic proclamation backing a n.o.ble cause.

While everyone else was watching the drama unfold, Christina caught Jana's eye. With a tilt of her head she motioned Jana toward the school bus. Jana signaled she understood with a nod. Turning, she wove her way through the crowd toward the bus.

She could hear Christina's voice behind her. ”Officers, we need those children at the rally.”