The Tin Man Page 12

  Chapter 13

  Buchanan didn’t stick his hand in the Liberty Bell’s crack—both on principle and because, as it turned out, touching the fractured icon of American freedom was prohibited. As he exited the viewing area, he took out his map of the park, cracked it open, and said to Thea, “Where to next?”

  “Witherspoon said to meet him at the Merchant’s Exchange,” she informed him.

  “It’s right up there,” he said, pointing up the street, “across from the First Bank of the United States, which reminds me—are you by any chance descended from Alexander Hamilton?”

  He thought he saw her face flush. “Only in the sense that our fathers both played fast and loose when it came to taking care of their families.”

  The sudden bitterness in her tone hooked his interest and lifted an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

  “Hamilton’s father and mother were never married,” she began to explain, “on account of her first husband, who wouldn’t grant her a divorce. Apparently, he was a real controlling asshole. After she got involved with Mr. Hamilton, her husband had her put in prison for adultery, even though they were separated. Can you believe that shit?”

  He just looked at her. He knew quite a bit about Alexander Hamilton, having read the biographies by Ron Chernow, Henry Cabot Lodge, and Gertrude Atherton. Hamilton was, after all, an old Scottish surname.

  “I meant, how was your father similar to his?”

  She got quiet for a minute before she said, as if reporting a story, “My parents divorced when I was just a girl. Not that he was around much when they were together. He worked for a big law firm and rarely got home before Robby and I were in bed. After they split up, we hardly saw him.”

  “I’m sorry, Thea,” he said, feeling hopelessly inadequate. “I truly am. Do you want to talk about it?”

  She shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but he could see tears glistening in her eyes. “I got a card from him after my mother died. He asked to see me, said he was sorry for not being there for me and Robby, tried to blame it on my mother. He said her bitterness toward him made it hard to deal with her, which, actually, might have been true. She had anger issues, you see, and it didn’t take much to set her off.”

  Poor Thea. Her father abandoned her. Her brother killed himself. Her mother died of cancer. And now her grandfather was missing—and almost certainly in mortal danger.

  “What did you tell your father…when he asked to see you?”

  She looked away, clearly avoiding his gaze. “I told him to go fuck himself.” After drawing a ragged breath, she added, “Tell me something, Buchanan: why is it that you need a license to drive a car or own a dog, but any piece of shit with a penis can father children?”

  He felt a dizzying swell of compassion and outrage. He also felt a sudden urge to take her in his arms. But, standing in the middle of the street, still unsure of his feelings, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. So, he simply shrugged and limped on toward the bank. Reaching it, he stopped to catch his breath while admiring its imposing stone edifice.

  “I have a theory,” she offered, coming up beside him. “My own conspiracy theory, if you will, about Hamilton’s assassination.”

  He snorted with skepticism, but said, “Go on, then.”

  “Hamilton was starting to make a comeback,” she began, gazing at the bank, as he was. “People were starting to forget about his little indiscretion, and the Virginians were scared he could mount a serious campaign against them. Burr was simply a dupe. They convinced him that he’d be revered as a hero for killing Hamilton, that he’d gain enough popularity to be the next president. So, over some slight that’s long been forgotten, he challenged Hamilton to the infamous duel.”

  When she looked into his eyes, he felt a twinge of longing.

  “Hamilton, who didn’t believe in dueling, tried to get out of it in all the ways gentlemen did in those days. But Burr refused to relent. Hamilton’s sense of honor was extreme. As a self-made man, his reputation was everything. So, he went through with it, vowing that he would fire into the air.”

  “Which, by all accounts, he did,” he put in.

  “Yes,” she said, nodding, “but Burr wanted him dead. His bullet lodged in Hamilton’s spine, paralyzing him. The poor man died hours later, after suffering extreme agonies.”

  He was starting to find her closeness disconcerting. He wanted to touch her, to put his arm around her and pull her close, but he didn’t dare. Feeling overwhelmed, he swallowed hard and inched away.

  “When news of Hamilton’s death reached the public,” she went on, “far from being praised, Burr was ostracized. Dueling, however, was still legal at the time, so he got away with murder. The duel took place in eighteen hundred and four, while Jefferson was president. Five years later, James Madison was elected, followed by Monroe. Need I say more?”

  He eyed her circumspectly. “So, what you’re suggesting is that Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe conspired to murder Hamilton, even though they’re hailed as some of America’s greatest heroes?”

  “Remember, Alex,” she said with an enigmatic smile. “History was written by the winners.”

  She’d called him by his Christian name, which seemed noteworthy. So did the fact it made him feel warm in his wame. Turning away from her and the feeling, he looked across the street. There, down a wide gravel drive, stood an old limestone building with a half-circle portico supported by Grecian pillars. “That must be the place,” he said, pointing.

  As he limped toward it, she grabbed his jacket and pulled him back. “Can I ask you something?” She didn’t wait for an answer before adding, “How do you usually break up with someone?”

  The question struck him as odd, but also suspicious. Why did she want to know? He searched his mind for a safe answer, reluctant to admit that his usual M.O. in the romance department was not to get involved in the first place.

  “As delicately as I can,” he said, weighing his words carefully. She was gazing at him in earnest, making him uneasy.

  “You strike me as one of the good ones.”

  “I try to be,” he said, still unsure about where this was going.

  “You should be married,” she said, flooring him. “Nice guys like you should be married, so they can be good husbands. And fathers.”

  Clearly, this wasn’t about him. “Thea, I—”

  She held up a silencing hand. “I know. You think you’re the Tin Man, that you’ve got no heart. But I think you’re mistaken.”

  “Am I?” He cleared his throat. “In what way?”

  “You’re not the Tin Man,” she told him, a sad smile flickering on her lips. “You’re the Steadfast Tin Soldier.”

  His jaw dropped in astonishment. “You know that story?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  His jaw clenched. “You’d be surprised.”

  When she glanced across the street, he followed her gaze. There was now a man standing out in front of the Merchant’s Exchange. Riley Witherspoon, he presumed. They started walking toward him. Closer now, he could see that Witherspoon was about his age, tall and slender, with a slight stoop to his shoulders. His hair was short, sandy-brown, and thinning on top. He wore a nondescript gray suit, yellow bowtie, and wire-rimmed spectacles.

  He offered his hand as they approached. “It’s good to see you again,” he said as she shook it.

  She introduced Buchanan as “a friend,” then cut right to the chase. “What do you know about my grandfather?”

  Witherspoon’s gaze shifted uneasily between them as he said, “The professor was here two nights ago. I left him in the Assembly Room and went to get dinner. And when I returned, he was nowhere to be found.” He paused to draw a wavering breath. “I assumed at first that he’d been called away by something urgent or decided to go back to the farm, which might explain why I’ve been unable to reach him on his cell…”

  “We’ve just come from there,” Thea told him, brow creased with concern. “And not only wa
sn’t he there, the place had been ransacked.”

  Witherspoon looked aghast. “But...why?”

  “Obviously, someone’s looking for something,” Buchanan put in, meeting the curator’s piercing blue eyes. “Any idea what it might be?”

  “Well, no,” Witherspoon replied, his mouth pinched.

  “Think hard,” Buchanan pressed. “Did he say anything, reveal anything, anything at all, that could give us a clue?”

  The curator took a minute to reflect. “This may mean nothing, but I did find something on the floor, in the very spot where he’d been standing when I left him.”

  Reaching into his coat pocket, Witherspoon pulled out a neatly folded one-dollar bill, which he handed to Buchanan. Thea peered over his shoulder as he examined both sides. It appeared to be an ordinary bill with no unusual markings.

  “It probably means nothing,” Witherspoon continued, “but I thought I ought to mention it—just in case it struck a chord.”

  “Does it?” Buchanan asked her.

  She was concentrating so hard on the dollar bill, he began to wonder if she was willing it to speak. At last, she shook her head and said, “I can’t imagine what it might mean.”

  Buchanan looked to Witherspoon. “Can you show us exactly where you found it?”

  “Of course,” the curator replied, “but it will be best if we wait until the tours are finished for the day. Would it be too much to ask for you to meet me in front of Independence Hall at say five o’clock?”

  “We’ll be there,” Thea told him.

  “In the meantime, have a look around,” the curator advised with a broad sweep of his hand. “There is much to see, especially if you take an interest in American history.”

  As luck would have it, Buchanan did. An interest deeper, he was sorry to say, than most Americans he knew.

  * * * *

  Milo Osbourne loosened his tie as he exited the New York headquarters of his television network, having just finished taping a commentary slated to run later that evening. As he strode confidently toward his Rolls Royce Phantom, idling at the curb, he admired the gleaming exterior color. Anthracite, the manufacturer called it—a rich charcoal gray with a metallic luster.

  Anthracite, he knew, was the Greek word for the purest type of coal. A genuine diamond in the rough, as it were. He liked the word, appreciated its nuances, enjoyed the way it rolled off his tongue. An-thra-cite. He said it softly to himself as he climbed into the back, all but ignoring the uniformed chauffeur who held the door.

  “Home, sir?”

  Nodding, Osbourne sank into the back seat—a mobile davenport of buttery leather in the palest shade of camel. Rolls Royce called it Moccasin. Anthracite and Moccasin. An elegant combination. He’d selected it himself, along with all the other custom appointments, after carefully considering the available options. With the touch of a button, he closed the coach door. The chauffeur, hurrying around, got in behind the wheel. A Plexiglas barrier stood between the front and rear seats. When the driver glanced at the rear-view mirror, Osbourne signaled that he was ready to depart. Within seconds, they were pulling away from the curb.

  The ride was remarkably smooth and silent. Looking out the window at the bustling city, a real-life study in chaos theory, he smiled to himself. People on the sidewalk turned as he passed, craning their necks for a glimpse of who might be riding in the back—an important diplomat or politician perhaps? Or, better yet, a celebrity. He’d always enjoyed the feeling of importance he got from riding in a limousine. And nothing beat a Rolls Royce for inciting onlooker envy from the drones.

  Sometimes, when he’d go into a restaurant, a whole table of diners would get up and applaud—because they loved Con News so much. Other people, of course, said he manipulated the news to advance his other business interests. But he had no other business interests. Only Golden Age Media, Inc. And the thought of having it stolen out from under him only to be sold off as so much scrap was more than he could bear.

  With Quinn Davidson dead, the Titan deal was hanging in the balance. Evan Wright, the interim CEO, had agreed to discuss going forward, but Osbourne didn’t trust him. What if he turned out to be a Lady MacBeth who only went along with the plan to gain trust, then sided with the enemy in the end? The possibility sickened him. If things with Titan didn’t work out, he had but one place left to turn. And that contingency might tip his hand before he was ready.

  Chapter 14

  For the next few hours, Thea and Buchanan strolled around the park, going in and out of historic buildings, admiring rooms full of rare decorative objet and significant antique furnishings, reading placards offering contextual explanations, and saying very little of consequence to each other. When it was close to five o’clock, they made their way toward Independence Hall, finding Witherspoon waiting out front near the statue of George Washington. Seeing it gave Buchanan a twinge over his earlier tirade. The outbursts, like the flashbacks, were happening more frequently. He was starting to feel as if things were spiraling out of control, and it scared him. Scared the Shite out of him, truth be told. But what could he do? He’d been to doctors, tried the drugs, but nothing helped.

  “Did you get a chance to see much of the park?” the curator asked as they approached.

  “Yes, quite a bit of it,” Thea replied.

  “Well,” said Witherspoon, moving toward the entrance, “I don’t know how it will help, but let’s have a look inside, shall we?”

  They followed him back to 1789. On the other side of a balustrade meant to keep the tourists back, were two clusters of desks attended by black Windsor chairs. Leather-bound books, sheets of parchment, feather quills, and brass candlesticks were arranged on the desktops, giving the impression that the delegates had only just stepped out for a breath of fresh air.

  Not that the outside air would have been the least bit refreshing in the summer of the Constitutional Convention. Buchanan tried to imagine what it might have been like back then in the sweltering heat and stifling humidity with no air conditioning and all the doors and windows closed because, to protect the secrecy of the proceedings, Madison had insisted that the room be sealed.

  Gentlemen of the day, even in summer, wore layers of garments: voluminous shirts, waistcoats, and frockcoats—all made of linen, silk, or wool. It must have been like a Turkish bath, he realized, recalling having read somewhere that some of the delegates swooned.

  Those were the times that tried men’s souls all right, he thought, recalling the words of Thomas Paine. More of Paine’s words started coming back: Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives everything its value.

  Was that why Americans had given up fighting for their freedoms? Because they esteemed them too lightly? Had they grown complacent, forgotten the terrible price their forefathers once paid for those precious rights? Had they forgotten how dear they truly were?

  “I found it just there,” he heard Witherspoon say. Looking, Buchanan saw the curator pointing toward the balustrade that stood between them and the historical space. “And that’s precisely where Frank, er, Professor Aslan, had been standing when I left him.”

  “Assuming he was abducted,” Buchanan inserted, returning to the conversation, “how do you suppose they got in?”

  Witherspoon’s face blushed red. “I’m afraid I may have left the door unlocked when I went out.”

  “Was there any sign of a struggle?” Buchanan asked.

  “Not that I could tell,” the curator replied. “Everything was just as you see it now.”

  Buchanan went on surveying the room. The tables and chairs all faced a solitary desk at the center-front of the room. The lone desk was draped in green like the others, but grander somehow—perhaps because it stood on a dais beneath a niche crowed by an ornate federal pediment. A pair of carved marble fireplaces stood sentry-like on either sid
e. The paneled walls, graced with fluted columns and dentil moldings, were painted the palest shade of blue-gray. The walls were completely devoid of artwork, which struck him as a wise curatorial choice. Paintings, however beautiful, would only distract from the room’s appealing austerity.

  Thea tugged on his sleeve and pointed to the Chippendale chair at the front of the room. “That’s the Rising Sun Chair,” she said as if it should mean something to him.

  “It’s been attributed to the celebrated Philadelphia joiner John Folwell,” Witherspoon put in. “The back of it, as you can see, features a gilded rising-sun motif, from which the chair takes its name. But that’s not why it’s a national treasure.”

  Buchanan arched a brow. “Why then?”

  “Because of its provenance,” Witherspoon said.

  “It’s the very chair George Washington sat in when he presided over the Constitutional Convention,” Thea chimed in. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Witherspoon?”

  The curator nodded as he said, “Ben Franklin once told James Madison that, during the convention, he would often look at that carving and wonder if the sun behind Washington was rising or setting. ‘I know now,’ Franklin expressed afterward, ‘that the sun is rising.’”

  Buchanan made a noise in his throat. He used to think the sun was rising, too, but he wasn’t certain anymore. And it troubled him deeply—mainly because the world needed the beacon of freedom and hope that America had been for so long.

  He stared at the chair, feeling a strange sense of wonder. It was difficult to fathom that Washington himself had once occupied that very seat—that the floorboards he now stood upon were the same ones trod by John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, Ben Franklin, Alexander Hamilton, and the other founders.

  “Wow,” he whispered as his chest swelled with awe.

  “Indeed,” Witherspoon acknowledged with a comprehending smile.