The Brethren

"Yes. By the President of the United States."

They kept reading. They fidgeted and chewed their lips and clenched their jaws, and tried to quietly hide their shock.

"They're go

"No problem."

"That should be easy"

"How did you get these copies?" Yarber asked.

"They were given to my brother. I have no idea how. Lake has powerful friends. Anyway, here's the deal. You'll be released within the hour. A van will take you to Jacksonville, to a hotel where my brother will meet you.You will wait there until the wire transfers are confirmed, then you will hand over all of your dirty little files. Everything. Understood?"

They nodded in unison. For two million bucks, they could have it all.

"You will agree to leave the country immediately, and not to return for at least two years."

"How can we leave the country?" Beech asked. "We have no passports, no papers."

"My brother will have all of that.You will be given new identities, with a complete set of papers, including credit cards. It's all waiting for you."

"Two years?" Spicer asked, and Yarber looked at him as if he'd lost his mind.

"That's right. Two years. It's part of the deal. Agreed?"

"I don't know," Spicer said, his voice shaking. Spicer had never left the United States.

"Don't be foolish." Yarber snapped at him. "A complete pardon, a million bucks a year for two years to live abroad. Hell, yes, we'll take the deal."

A sudden knock on the door terrified them. Two guards were looking in. Argrow grabbed the copies of the pardons and stuffed them in his pocket. "Do we have a deal, gentlemen?"

They nodded yes, and all three shook hands with him.

"Good." he said. "Remember, act surprised."

They followed the guards to the warden's office where they were introduced to two very stern-faced men from Washington, one from justice, one from the Bureau of Prisons. The warden completed the stiff introductions without getting any of the names confused, then he handed each of the three a legal-sized document. They were the originals of what Argrow had just shown them.

"Gentlemen." the warden a

They stared at their pardons, still in shock, still dizzy with a thousand questions, the biggest of which was, How in the world did Argrnw scoop the warden and show them the documents first?

"I don't know what to say," Spicer managed to mumble, then the other two mumbled something else.

The man from Justice said, "The President reviewed your cases, and he felt that you have served enough time. He feels very strongly that you have more to offer your country and your communities by once again becoming productive citizens."

They stared blankly at him. This fool didn't know they were about to assume new names and flee their country and their communities for at least two years? Who was on which side here?

And why was the President granting them clemency when they had enough dirt to destroy Aaron Lake, the man who was primed to defeat the Vice President? It was Lake who wanted them silenced, not the President? Right?

How could Lake convince the President to pardon them?

How could Lake convince the President to do anything, at this stage of the campaign?

They clutched their pardons and sat speechless, their faces drawn tight as the questions hammered away inside.

The man from the Bureau said, "You should feel honored. Clemency is very rare."

Yarber managed to acknowledge him with a quick nod, but even then he was thinking,Who's waiting for us on the outside?

"I think we're in shock," Beech said.

It was a first for Trumble, inmates so important that the President decided to pardon them. The warden was quite proud of the three, but uncertain as to how the moment should be commemorated. "When would you like to leave?" he asked, as if they might want to stick around for a party.

"Immediately," Spicer said.

"Very well. We'll drive you to Jacksonville."

"No thanks. We'll have someone pick us up."

"Okay, then, well, there's some paperwork."

"Make it quick." Spicer said.

They were each given a duffel bag to collect their things in. As they walked rather briskly across the grounds, all still very close together and in perfect step, with a guard trailing behind, Beech said, under his breath, "So who got us the damned pardons?"

"It wasn't Lake." Yarber said, just barely loud enough to be heard.

"Of course it wasn't Lake," Beech said. "The President wouldn't do a damned thing Aaron Lake asked him to."

They walked faster.

"What difference does it make?" Spicer asked.

"It doesn't make any sense," Yarber said.

"So what're you go

"Somebody else is behind this." Beech said.

"Then I love this somebody else, okay?" Spicer said. "I'm not sticking around to ask questions."

They ransacked their rooms in a mad rush, never slowing to say good-bye to anyone. Most of their friends were scattered around the camp anyway.

They had to hurry before the dream was over, or before the President changed his mind.

At eleven-fifteen, they walked through the front door of the administration building, the same door they'd each entered years ago, and waited on the hot sidewalk for their ride. None of the three looked back.

The van was driven by Wes and Chap, though they gave other names. They used so many.

Joe Roy Spicer lay down on the backseat, and covered his eyes with a forearm, determined not to see anything until he was far away. He wanted to cry and he wanted to scream, but he was numb with euphoria---sheer, uncut, unabashed euphoria. He hid his eyes and smiled a goofy smile. He wanted a beer and he wanted a woman, preferably his wife. He'd call her soon. The van was rolling now.

The sudde

But the Brethren knew so little. And the few things they knew, they didn't really believe. The pardons were a hoax. The money was nothing but bait. They were being taken away to be slaughtered, same as poor Trevor. The van would stop any minute, and the two goons up front would search their bags, find their dirty files, then murder them in a roadside ditch.

Maybe. But, at the moment, they did not miss the safety of Trumble.

Fi

Beech had reason to cry. With almost eight and a half years to go, clemency meant more to him than to his two colleagues combined.

Not a word was uttered between Trumble and Jacksonville. As they approached the city, and the roads became wider and the traffic heavier, the three watched the scenery with great curiosity. People were driving, moving about. Planes overhead. Boats on the rivers.Things were normal again.

They inched through the traffic on Atlantic Boulevard, thoroughly enjoying every moment of the congestion. The weather was hot, the tourists were out, ladies with long bronze legs. They saw the seafood restaurants and bars with signs advertising cold beer and cheap oysters. When the street ended, the beach began, and they pulled under the veranda of the Sea Turtle. They followed one of their escorts through the lobby, where they caught a look or two because they were still dressed alike. Up to the fifth floor, and off the elevator before Chap said, "Your rooms are right here, these three." He was pointing down the hall. "Mr. Argrow would like to see you as soon as possible."