The only other person Joshua had ever heard speak of the Vaniad, the blood oath of the Teutonic Warrior, was James Oswald, a man who reminded him so much of his own father.
Joshua didn’t know what the oath was exactly, his father had mentioned it but never shared it with him. Perhaps he would have gotten around to it if Joshua had not buried him alive.
However, Joshua did know that breaking the oath was tantamount to treason to those who’d taken it. His father had made that much clear to him. And in a press conference after his arrest, James Oswald vilified his son, Ted, for supposedly breaking the oath.
The mention of the Vaniad by James Oswald back in 1994 was what had first interested Joshua in his case. Heather Isle’s book about Ted and James had been helpful in his research too. The more he found out about the relationship of the father and son, the more his interest was piqued. That was why he’d chosen to end this week’s saga at the bank in Wales where they’d committed their final robbery.
Earlier today when he’d gone by the bank, he’d almost been able to picture where SWAT would set up their command center, where the media vans would position themselves to do their remotes.
After leaving the bank, he’d rented the moving truck and had it delivered to the department store parking lot, where it was waiting for him.
Now, Joshua thought about tomorrow.
He had the funeral to attend at noon and then he could swing by the department store for the item he would be delivering to police headquarters. Then he would go to the school to pick up the children.
After he’d gotten them out of the school, he would deliver the package-something that would certainly be enough to convince the officer he had in mind to do as he was told.
And finally, at dusk, everything would culminate with Joshua’s final ransom demand being met, live on national TV.
With traffic, the trip to headquarters was slower than it should have been and it was 5:42 p.m. before I finally pulled into my parking spot in the underground garage.
“Hey, listen,” I said to Radar, “I think I’m going to meet up with Ralph later tonight, have a couple beers, process things. You’re welcome to join us.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll pass. I just need to get home.”
“Right, well, listen, you did good out there.”
He opened his door to leave, but then stopped short and looked at me, his eyes intense, searching. “Would you have done it?”
“Done it?”
“Fired. If you were standing where I was. If you saw what I did.”
I didn’t know what to say to that; I didn’t know what he’d seen. “Of course.”
“Thanks.”
“For?”
“Finding that knife on his belt.”
Again I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Yeah.”
Then he exited the car and walked silently across the parking garage toward his Jeep.
When I reached my desk, I found a voice message from Dr. Werjonic that he was hoping we might be able to meet for dinner. Ralph had also left me a note asking me to call him so he could take me out for that beer he’d promised me this morning.
I was still digesting the sub, but my hunger wasn’t completely satiated and I figured I could manage eating again in an hour or so. Make up for that missed lunch.
Ralph left a number. I called it and found out it was the Overnite Motel, one of the cheapest motels on this side of the city. A federal employee who was actually saving taxpayers’ money. Imagine that.
He wasn’t there, but I left a message with the front desk for him to call me. Then I dialed Dr. Werjonic, who picked up immediately. Before we could get to discussing any dinner plans, I asked him about his meeting with Slate.
“Oh, it was quite interesting as a matter of fact. I’m anxious to tell you about it. But over dinner. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid, however, that I’m not too familiar with your city. Everywhere I turn, I see another bar serving beer, burgers, and bratwurst. Unfortunately, that’s not exactly my cuisine of choice.”
“I know just the place to go-Tanner’s Pub. It has one of the largest selections of single malt whiskey outside of Britain.”
“You don’t say?”
“And fish and chips like you wouldn’t believe. It used to be a speakeasy.”
“Hmm…like the Safe House?”
The Safe House is a famous restaurant in downtown Milwaukee, situated halfway down a dingy alley across the street from the Pabst Theater. You have to know where it is because there’s a secret entrance and you need to tell them the password to get in. The place is themed around spy memorabilia. If it has anything to do with espionage, it’ll be on the walls of the Safe House.
“Atmosphere is completely different,” I told Calvin. “Instead of a 007 motif, Tanner’s is more like…well, I guess, more like a corner pub in London.”
“Brilliant.”
I was telling him the location when Ralph returned my call on the other line. “Hang on a second, Calvin.”
A little phone shuffling and it was all set up-the three of us would meet at Tanner’s. They’d get together in thirty minutes and, since I’d been gone most of the day and needed to catch up a little here at my desk, I’d join them as soon as I could, hopefully within the hour.
When we spoke, Ralph told me to check his workspace, that there was a pile of manila folders there. “The Oswald case files you wanted from Detective Browning over at the Waukesha county sheriff’s department. And you’re not gonna believe this: they were hand delivered by Browning himself.”
Well, that was unexpected.
“There’s a video too,” he went on, “of footage from archived news coverage of the case. Some interesting stuff in there. We’ll talk.”
On my desk, Thorne had left me a copy of Heather Isle’s (or Slate Seagirt’s, as the case might’ve been) true crime book about the Oswalds, entitled The Spawn.
I hung up the phone, and, after calling Ellen to ask her to find the sanitation workers Dane Strickland and Roger Kennedy and ask them about their relationship with Timothy Griffin, I found the files Ralph had told me about, flipped open the top folder, and began to read.