Page 78 of Soaring Sweethearts

She started shaking her head as Ann walked toward her, meeting her gaze and holding it. “Don’t say it. Please don’t say it. Even if it’s true, it’s too much to bear.”

Ann reached her and took her hands. “I know.”

Constance closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. It was no use running. She’d still know. And now that she knew, she needed to hear the words. “Okay. I think I’m ready. Tell me.”

“They found his plane half sunken in a lake in the Alleghenies. The pilot who saw it took a photo. It’s definitely his. I’m so sorry.”

Everything went gray and the murmuring voices around her turned tinny. When her knees buckled, someone caught her and carried her to the map room where Ann crouched beside her and held her hand. Everything was shrouded in fog, and the only thing tethering her to reality was Ann’s hand, firm and gentle, and her soothing voice as she hummed hymns.

Somehow, someone got her into their car, and Ann came along, holding her hand the whole time. The journey to Brooklyn passed in a haze, and it wasn’t until she reached home that the full reality set in. They stopped in front of her house, and there was his house right beside it. He would never climb those steps again. He would never kiss her in the front hall or make love to her up in his bedroom. It was over. All she had left were his letters and a heart heavy with memories that would never be whole again.

30

Friday arrived at last, and Jack held his hands behind him to be tied up. “Are you sure this is necessary? I solemnly swear I won’t ever breathe a word about this to anyone.”

He thought he’d built a modicum of trust with the president over the last few days, and he’d come to understand a bit about how the man’s mind worked. As loopy and trigger-happy as his captor seemed to be, he ran his business with ruthless efficiency. It wasn’t compassion that kept him from killing Jack. It was a practical decision.

Woodrow Wilson shook his head. “You can say all the pretty words you want, Jack. But you can’t tell the coppers how to get here if you don’t see the drive, and you can’t identify my associate in a line-up if you never see his face.”

“Fair enough. Tie me up and dump me in a train yard.” Jack would do anything to get back to Constance. By now, they’d probably declared him dead. Dear God, he wished he could spare her that, but at the very least, he would come home to her and save her from her grief.

As soon as his hands were securely tied, the president slipped his hand in Jack’s pocket and took out his billfold. “Hey, wait a moment! What the hell are you doing? I need that!”

“What kind of criminal would I be if I let you keep your wallet? Let me see. Got your driver’s license here. Aw hell. Your home address is all smeared. Well, I’ve got ways of finding you if you don’t keep your word, Jack…uh…Thomas? That your name?”

Jack did his best imitation of outrage. Thank God the ink was smudged by the lake. “Goddamnit! Now you know my name.” The wrong name. Good luck finding me now, you crook!

“No hard feelings, Jack Thomas. May you live a long and happy life with that pretty sweetheart of yours. Drink for the road?”

“No, thanks.” That first night had nearly killed him. He had no intention of drinking this man’s hooch ever again.

“Suit yourself.” The president pour himself a drink and swallowed it in one go. “Now you go in the bag.”

Woodrow pulled a burlap sack over his head and tied a thin piece of rope around his neck to hold it in place. The sound of a truck clonking up the dirt road in the distance reached his ears.

“Ah. Right on time. Now if you’ll just excuse me a moment, I’ve got to go load up the truck.”

Footsteps faded to silence, and Jack was left standing in the middle of the room with no idea where the man had gone or when he’d be back. All he could do was stand and wait, wondering if the president’s associate would be as friendly and understanding as he was. There was a decent chance the man might toss him in a river, no matter what the president said.

But Jack had no choice but to play along, not if he wanted to have any chance of seeing Constance again. I’m coming, Constance. I swear I’m coming.

Footsteps approached the door, and it scraped open.

Jack held as still as he could. “This is him?” asked a voice he didn’t recognize.

“Eeyup.”

“I don’t like loose ends.”

Shit.

“Don’t worry. He won’t talk. He couldn’t if he wanted to. What would he say? That he got mugged by some old man named Woodrow Wilson in the woods? He can’t point to me, and he can’t point to you. And you know we can’t afford anymore murders. Draws the attention of the law. They turn a blind eye when it’s just hooch and we cut them in. But they get mighty squirrely when people start showing up dead.”

Jack could only pray that the associate listened to Woodrow’s wisdom.

The man growled deep in his throat and yanked Jacks hands. “Come on, you pathetic sap. I don’t have a soft spot like the old man. You’ll do what I say or you’re dead. Got it?”

“Got it.” He followed the man’s lead and did his best not to trip as they walked down a stony path to the truck.