“What things?”
When Diana had brought the idea up to Aubrey, they had considered it a long shot, but they were running out of options. If it worked, both Ethan and Jonathan would be saved. “Would you be willing to withdraw from consideration for the Supreme Court?”
He studied her over the rims of his glasses, his brow in a frown. “You want me to withdraw.”
“Yes.”
He rolled the brandy snifter between his hands.
“You said you would never put your career ahead of family,” she said. “Were you just trying to placate me?”
“Of course not, but I’m not going to act rashly.”
“Rashly?”
“We need to think this through, darling. The note said they wanted you to kill me. It said nothing about me withdrawing.”
“But maybe your stepping down would satisfy them. Maybe they made the threat about harming Ethan to frighten us. To make sure you wouldn’t accept the nomination.”
“But there’s no guarantee we’d get Ethan back if I did withdraw.”
“If there’s a chance it would work, we have to take it.”
He tossed back the rest of the brandy. “These people, whoever they are, are trying to terrorize us with their threats of violence. Giving in to them goes against everything I believe in.”
“If we don’t try to appease them, they’ll kill Ethan.”
He got up and refilled his glass at the bar. He took a long drink.
Why was he procrastinating when in a few hours the kidnappers’ deadline would run out? Or were his political aspirations too important, just as they’d been when he turned away from Gertrude?
“Will you do it, Jonathan?”
“I want to think it through.”
“Then think it through.” She got up from the sofa. She was trembling.
“Diana,” he said, coming toward her.
She held up her hand for him to stop. “I’m leaving. You’ll be able to think about it more clearly if I’m not here.”
“Don’t go,” he said. “Not like this. Not when you’re angry with me.”
He followed her through the foyer to the front door. “Please, Diana. Let me at least drive you home.”
“I’d rather walk.” She looked back at the cold white room splotched with crimson, the blue sky just beyond. “I have my own thinking to do.”
CHAPTER 26
The midday sun beat down on Diana, pounding on her head and burning through the back of her white cotton blouse as she walked south on Brickell Avenue, away from downtown and Jonathan’s building.
The street was airless, the breezes blocked by tall, wide condos, so that even the palm trees that lined the sidewalk were motionless. Diana found it difficult to catch her breath.
Jonathan wasn’t willing to save her grandson. And, yes, she understood his argument that withdrawing from the Supreme Court might not be what the kidnappers were after, but he should have been willing to give it a shot. Now their options were running out. The kidnappers wanted a response in less than twelve hours, and she had nothing for them.
If we don’t have physical proof of Jonathan Woodward’s death, Ethan will die.
She had no doubt they meant it.
The white sidewalk began to swirl in front of her. She reached for a palm tree, regretting the brandy she’d had at Jonathan’s, and waited for the dizziness to pass.
It was foolish of her to walk home in this agitated state. She pulled in a few deep breaths and noticed a bus stop a few feet away. She staggered toward it and collapsed on the bench, grateful for the shade of a nearby palm.
She was scared. Not sure what she was capable of doing. She needed Aubrey.
She touched her phone, but the screen remained blank, the battery very likely dead.
She was alone.
A bus heading in the wrong direction pulled up to the stop. The driver looked at her, waiting. She shook her head and waved him on. The bus roared away, leaving the stench of diesel exhaust in its wake.
Jonathan didn’t want to give in to threats of violence. His words had lit up a feeling of déjà vu. About how they had all believed in violence back then. They had accepted it as the only way to get what they wanted.
Someone still believed it was the answer. But to what end? What did these people who had taken her little grandson want from her? Was it Jonathan’s death?
The thought sickened her. She was a physician, for God’s sake. A healer, not a murderer.
Their battle cry echoed in her head. Someone must die! In order to go forward, you needed to destroy. In order to be noticed, you had to kill.
Maybe it was as simple as that.
Di sat with Linda in the front row of folding chairs, close to the boarded-up fireplace in the cold, damp brownstone. It was late November, but there was no heat, so everyone wore coats and jackets.
Michael had painted a giant peace symbol over the mantel, and magazine photos of war atrocities were taped to the walls. One of the other girls lit candles on the mantel and around the room, casting everyone in sputtering shadows. Sheets hung over the windows so people in the street couldn’t see inside.
Most of the girls were crying, herself included. They had seen the photos on the news, and all the magazines had carried them—Time, Life, Newsweek.
The massacre at My Lai. It had happened months ago, back in March, but the news had been quashed, until one determined investigative reporter, Seymour Hersh, had finally brought it all to light. Since the story had broken a few days ago, it was all anyone could talk about. The murder of hundreds of Vietnamese women, children, old men—ordinary people. Murdered in cold blood. By American soldiers.
They went too far this time, Lawrence had said. Now the world will finally take notice of this immoral war.