The room went silent.

Finally, Magog spoke. “So, Bee, what do you suggest?”

“Thatcher knows something. That much is clear. Nobody else has searched that part of the Caribbean. Everyone else believed the story — that the sub went down off Panama. He’s too close. I say we give Thor the green light. Let Thatcher locate the sub first, and then we’ll destroy it and him. If there’s anyone else around who Thatcher talked to, no one will believe them once the evidence is gone.”

“And what about Thor?”

Diggory gripped the edge of door and leaned forward.

“You all know that only the men who sit at this table can know about what we do here. Yorick once had to sacrifice a child because of it. We never even told Caliban the truth about Magic, and he was our most trusted agent. No, we can’t trust a man like Thor with that kind of information.”

“But he’s a Bonesman,” Magog said.

Beelzebub closed his eyes and sighed. “Yes, and he has served us well. But it’s my job to act in Yorick’s place, and I know what he would say. A Bonesman, yes, but — ” His voice rose on the last word and hung there.

Several of the others laughed and nodded. Hellbender said, “Sounds like Yorick.”

“I don’t like killing one of our own,” Magog said.

The TV anchorman said, “Thor might be Bones, but he’s not really one of us.”

Beelzebub said, “Shall we vote then?”

Dig eased the door shut and rose to a standing position. He’d seen every hand go up. His skin felt hot and he pressed his forehead against the cool wood of the door. He raised his right hand and began flexing the fingers, forming a white-knuckled fist and then releasing the grip and spreading his fingers wide, over and over again. He filled his lungs and then exhaled.

That empty chair?  Thor intended to be Yorick’s successor before the day was out.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Foggy Bottom 

March 28, 2008

10:45 a.m.

Riley stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, then stopped and stared at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. On her boat, the only mirror was a small framed 9”x12” rectangle that hung on the bulkhead inside the head. It had been many months since she had seen herself naked. From the front, she reckoned she didn’t look half bad, in spite of the farmer tan. Her small, firm breasts and flat belly gave her a shape that was more streamlined than voluptuous, but she was proud of her lean body. She worked at it. It served her purposes on the boat and since sex had not been one of her purposes since that day in Lima — and considering her scars she supposed it never would be again — sexy was not something she needed to be. She turned sideways to check out her profile and winced.

Twisting, she leaned in over the vanity to take a closer look in the well-lit mirror over the sink. The scar tissue that stretched from the top of her shoulder to a point halfway down her back looked like an angry alien creature that had attached itself to her. The skin was mottled: red, brown and bumpy. The scars weren’t getting any better although her surgeons had claimed they would. She should put any thoughts of Cole Thatcher’s sweet dimpled smile right out of her mind. Flipping the towel over her head and sliding it down the skin on her back, she thought, if things ever were to go that far, the man would take one look at this body and flee.

Ten minutes later, when she opened the bathroom door onto the upstairs hall, she was dressed in some old winter clothes she had stored in the closet when she’d moved aboard her boat. The jeans were loose on her, and she had smiled when she’d pulled on the Margaritaville scoop-necked, long sleeved T-shirt. She’d had to squeeze her feet into her sneakers after so many months of not wearing shoes. She wasn’t sure she could ever live in this climate again. She collected her dirty clothes and transferred her passport to the back pocket of her jeans. Until she got some kind of a bag, she would just have to carry it in her pocket. She had a lot to do today.

Across the hall, she saw that her father’s bedroom door was ajar, but his bed was empty, the covers already drawn smooth. She had slept in until after 10:00, which was very unusual for her. The smell of fresh coffee wafting up the stairs tempted her, but after a brief debate with herself, she walked straight down the hall to the upstairs living room where her father sat with his wheelchair drawn up to the window.

The townhouse was an odd design with the kitchen, dining room, and small bedroom downstairs. Upstairs, the bedrooms were at the back of the house while the living room stretched all across the front. She entered the room and felt a frisson of déjà vu. His back was to her, his chair angled as usual, so he could look down on the gray street through the big bay window. The weather had not improved overnight, and she saw snowflakes drifting past the glass. Her father was dressed in a plaid sports shirt, dark slacks, and a cable-knit cardigan sweater. As his dementia had progressed, so had his incontinence. He needed to be cared for and diapered like a baby. She winced at the smell as she rested her hand on his shoulder.

“Good morning, Dad.”

“Elizabeth?”

“No, Dad. It’s me, Maggie. How’re you feeling this morning?”

“I’m fine.” Her father twisted around in his chair to look at her. “It’s Michael I’m worried about.”

Riley turned away from him.

The sitting room hadn’t changed since the day she came by to say good-bye last September. After Lima, when she had come back for good, she had tried moving in with him, thought she could take care of him. But she learned soon enough that she made a lousy nursemaid. When she came home from work, after cooking her father’s supper, she would go up to her room, lock herself inside. He went into the sitting room and watched CNN non-stop. It was as though she had reverted to being a sixteen-year-old again. She didn’t want to spend her evenings with him — not after what he’d done to her brother. She simply could not let go of that. If he hadn’t forced Michael to go to Yale instead of MIT, her brother would still be alive.

 She looked at the back of her father’s head, wondering when his hair had gone so pure white, and feeling an ache in her chest. It had taken the threat of his death to dissolve some of that anger. He was still her dad, and she would lose him one day. She hadn’t realized before yesterday how much that would hurt.

When he spoke, he startled her. “I’m frightened for Michael.”

“Dad. Shhh. Mikey’s long gone, you know.”

“He shouldn’t have come to Washington.” Her father’s hands waved in the air as though shooing away flies. “If only he hadn’t come, Elizabeth. It’s all my fault.”

She pulled the wheelchair a few inches back from the window so she could sit on the window seat. She put her hands on his knees. “Shhh, Dad.”

“Numbers. Michael and numbers.”

“Yeah, Dad. Mikey was the brilliant one.”

“Just a glance but he figured it out. Shouldn’t have done that.”

She felt so helpless when he went off like this. He sometimes rambled for hours making no sense whatsoever, but getting more and more agitated. Downstairs, she heard the door open and then voices. She wished Mrs. Wright would get rid of whoever it was and come up here to help her.

“Ugly little runt. Not like other people. But a good boy, I told them. He would listen.” His voice had been steadily rising in pitch.

She pushed away the lock of hair that had fallen onto his forehead and tried to get him to look at her. Both his good eye and his lazy eye seemed to be rolling around in their sockets. She patted his cheek. “Dad, please. Don’t get yourself worked up.”

 “They say he’s dangerous. Knows too much. They wouldn’t listen.” His hands picked at the fuzz on the bottom hem of his cardigan.