Stone Cold

In the photo Lesya, Rayfield Solomon and Carter Gray were decades younger and looked happy and full of life. They were doing exciting work, risking their lives so that billions could live in peace. In those countenances one could see the friendship, even the love that had formed among them. Sitting there staring at that photo, Carter Gray would occasionally cry.

CHAPTER 96

SIX MONTHS PASSED and no one had heard a word from Oliver Stone. Caleb returned to work at the library, but the old books that had given him so much pleasure now seemed just like, well, old books. Reuben went back to work at the loading dock and then came home and sat on his couch, beer in hand, and yet he never drank any of it. He would pour it down the sink and go to bed.

With one member dead and its leader having disappeared, the Camel Club seemed officially disbanded.

Harry Fi

Yet Fi

A

She had the place fixed up, brought new furniture in, all while carefully preserving Stone’s things. Then she started taking care of the grounds. Alex came by to help her often. They would sit on the porch in the evening.

“Amazing stuff you’ve done to this place,” Alex said.

“It had good bones to start with,” A

“Most cemeteries do.” Alex gave her a sideways grin. “So you think you might hang around here for a while?”

“I’ve never really been able to call a place home before. I used to kid Oliver about living in a cemetery but I sort of like it here.”

“I can show you around town. If you want.”

“Save me, now date me? You’re quite the full-service cop.”

“All in the line of duty.”

“Right. I’m the con, remember? That’s my line.”

“Let’s make that ‘retired’ con, okay?”

“Absolutely.” For once she didn’t sound that convincing.

They sat back in their chairs and looked out over the tombstones. “Do you think he’s still alive?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I hope so, but I just don’t know.”

“Will he come back, Alex?”

He said nothing, because only Oliver Stone could make that decision. He had to want to come back. And with each passing day Alex was growing more certain that he would never see his old friend again.

CHAPTER 97

WHEN CARTER GRAY HAD INFORMED Roger Simpson of Lesya’s demand, the senator’s initial response had been predictable.

“There must be something we can do,” Simpson had wailed. “I’ve worked my whole life to make this run for the White House.” He eyed Gray hopefully.

“I don’t see what can be done,” Gray replied.

“You know where she is? If we can-”

“No, Roger. Lesya has suffered enough. This is about more than you or me. She gets to live out what’s left of her life in peace.”

It was clear from Simpson’s expression that he was not in agreement with this. Gray gave him one more warning to leave it alone and then left.

Months passed and still Simpson brooded. Solomon’s name cleared. Lesya given a medal! Gray was back in power. It was all so unjust. This all gnawed at the man, making him even more morose and insufferable than usual. Indeed, his wife started spending more time in Alabama; friends and colleagues avoided him.

In the predawn hours one morning Simpson sat moodily in his bathrobe, which he typically did, after retrieving the newspaper from outside the front door of his condo. His wife was visiting friends in Birmingham. That had been another thing that had infuriated him. No one had kidnapped his wife. That simply had been a bluff that Fi

Well, he’d really had the last laugh. Both Fi

He slumped down at the kitchen table and stared out the window into the darkness; the sun was still hours away from making its creep up the wall of the eastern seaboard.

“There must be a way, there must be,” he told himself. He could not let a former Russian spy, who by all rights should be dead, deny him the highest office in the land, an office he felt he was predestined to hold.

He sighed, opened his paper and froze.

Staring back at him was a photo that had been taped inside the front page of the newspaper he was holding.

As he stared at the picture of the woman, it suddenly occurred to him who she was.

Then her head disappeared. Left in its place was a large hole. Simpson gasped and then looked down at his chest. Blood was pouring out of it from where the bullet had entered after passing through the newspaper and neatly obliterating the identity of the woman. By any standard, it was a hell of a shot.

His eyes started to flutter as he stared out the window where the glass had been cracked by the bullet. He looked at the shell of the building across the street, the one that had never been finished. As he pitched forward, dead, onto his kitchen table, the thought did occur to Simpson of who had just killed him.