It was a perfect July morning, and a few parishioners mingled outside, which was typical.
What wasn’t typical was the horse-drawn police wagon parked outside the church. Two uniformed officers loitered near the wagon, and another sat on the driver’s bench. It was one of those covered paddy wagons with bolted doors in the back and a small window covered by bars. No one else was paying the police any mind, so Luke crossed the street and headed toward the church.
An officer intercepted him. “Are you Luke Delacroix?”
“Yes.” How did they know his name? He swallowed hard, all his senses going on alert.
“We have a warrant for your arrest. You have been charged with spying on Congress and need to come with us.”
The bottom dropped out of his stomach. He’d done a lot of sketchy spying over the years, but never on Congress.
“That’s nonsense,” he replied. “I haven’t spied on anyone.” Not in Washington, anyway.
The officer thrust a form in his face, suddenly making this feel very real. And terrifying. Luke reached for the warrant, but the officer held it back. “Read it from here,” he ordered.
It was hard to read with his head so dizzy, but his name was typed on the top line. The charge was spying on a member of Congress, but it didn’t say who or when. Clyde Magruder was probably behind this. It meant hiring a lawyer, and Luke’s bank account was already drained from Caroline’s wedding present. He could get a loan from Gray, but this was a disaster.
He beat back the momentary panic and managed a nonchalant tone. “It’s Sunday,” he pointed out. “I can’t be arraigned today. Why are you even bothering with an arrest? Give me the warrant, and I’ll show up in court tomorrow to settle this.”
“We have orders to take you into custody now,” the officer said. “A cell is waiting for you at the District of Columbia Jail.”
A different officer yanked Luke’s right hand behind his back, and the cold metal of handcuffs clamped around his wrist. The third officer unlocked the heavy latch on the back of the wagon.
“You don’t have to do this,” Luke rushed to say. “I’ll ride on the front bench. You don’t have to lock me up.”
But they were already driving him toward the rear of the wagon. Luke looked helplessly at the aghast parishioners standing outside the church. He recognized Mrs. Lancaster, a woman who sometimes cleaned at the boardinghouse.
“Tell Princeton to get my brother,” he shouted to her.
She nodded and said something in reply, but he couldn’t hear as the two officers lifted and shoved him into the back of the wagon. It was dark. Stifling. The doors slammed, and then the bolt slid into place.
He was trapped.
A suffocating blanket of panic enveloped him, making it hard to breathe or think. Instinct took over, and he dropped to the floor to slam the flat of his foot against the door, over and over. It didn’t do any good, and within a minute the wagon was rolling down the street.
He was on his way back to jail, the same one where he’d humiliated himself with Marianne all those months ago. He couldn’t go back. He wouldn’t, but it was time to calm down and get ahold of his senses.
Behind his back, the handcuffs were loose. He was still thin and hadn’t been able to put on any real weight on Poison Squad rations. It hurt, but he folded his thumb tight against his palm and pulled his hand against the metal cuff. Then pulled harder. The skin tugged and pain seared, but he didn’t let up until he yanked his hand free.
He darted to the bars covering the narrow window on the back of the wagon. Instinct drove him to jerk on the bars even though he knew it was pointless. He couldn’t let himself be locked up in the DC Jail. The smell. The clanging noises. It was too much like the other place.
Don’t panic. Whatever else, he must not panic. His family had money. Soon he would have a lawyer. He had rights.
And clutching at the window bars was a stupid way of alerting anyone watching that he’d escaped from his handcuffs. He let go and dropped onto a hard bench bolted to the side of the wagon. The ride seemed endless as the wheels rolled over bumpy cobblestones. Twenty minutes? Thirty? It felt like forever, but soon a marshy smell indicated they were nearing the Anacostia River and getting closer to the jail.
The panic returned, causing sweat to pour, his heart to pound. There was no way he was going to walk into a jail cell. Never again.
The jail was built on an old army base surrounded by an open field, but if he could make it to the trees, he could get away. He at least had to try.
The wagon rolled to a stop, then shifted as the driver got off the front bench. Casual voices from the policemen mingled with the jangling of keys. They didn’t suspect anything. Luke stood but kept his hands behind his back as the door was unlocked. One of the officers reached up to help him down, but the others were already heading toward the jail.
Luke elbowed the officer in the face and shoved him to the ground, then leapt free and made a dash for the trees. The handcuffs still dangled from his left wrist, but he was free and running for his life.
Shouts came from behind. They were giving chase. Yelling. Ordering him to stop. A stitch in his side felt like a knife in the ribs, but he sprinted through the pain.
He made it to the woods! His feet ripped through the undergrowth, twigs and limbs scratching his face as he stumbled forward. A root nearly sent him sprawling, but he regained his balance and kept running. The men were getting closer.
A huge weight slammed into him from behind, and he hit the ground, dirt and grass filling his mouth.
“Idiot,” a man growled in his ear.
He couldn’t breathe. A thousand pounds was sitting on his back. His arms were wrenched behind him and another set of handcuffs snapped into place. This time when they lifted him, they weren’t so gentle.
Luke spit out a mouthful of grass and dirt. “I’m not going back to jail. I didn’t do it.”
“Sure, sure,” the officer said, driving him forward.
It was hard to keep his balance with his hands manacled behind his back, and the cops had no mercy, shoving him harshly forward until he fell on his face and couldn’t even break his fall. Rough hands hauled him upright, but he hit the dirt three more times on his way to the jail.
Then the grim, granite-stoned building loomed straight ahead. Running had been stupid, but panic had gotten the better of him. He still had to think of a way to get out of this. For once he hadn’t done anything wrong. He was completely innocent. He hadn’t spied on Congress.
But Marianne had.
The documents she photographed had been commissioned by her father’s congressional committee, but Luke had been the one to hand them over to Dr. Wiley. Clyde was going to find a way to pin this on him, and it was going to be hard to wiggle off the hook.
“We’ve got a runner,” the cop said as he dragged Luke in the door and shoved him toward a counter.
The clerk at the desk didn’t even bother to look up. “Put him in solitary, then.”
This couldn’t be happening. Not again. But the clang of the locks sounded hideously familiar, and then Luke was propelled down a dank brick corridor. The edges of his vision began to blur, and prisoners behind bars laughed and jeered as he passed. Then through another set of locked doors to a cell with no bars, only walls.
“You’ll be in here for a while,” the guard said, nudging Luke inside.