“It’s just good and warm, Clay. I put ice in it, just like you like.”
Clayton nodded, and Chaya’s throat tightened with emotion. She couldn’t remember an interview she had ever done that was quite like this one. Natches and Zeke were as protective over this old man as a mother with a child.
“Clayton, I told you Miss Dane would take good care of you,” Natches told him from the doorway.
“He did.” Clayton nodded. “But I feel better, Natches, with you and Zeke here. If she has to arrest me, then old Hisser here might go hungry; we can’t have that.” He reached up and stroked the cat’s tail as it curled over his shoulder, and Chaya wanted to cry.
“Mr. Winston, I just have a few questions. If you prefer not to answer them, or if Mr. Mackay feels it’s not in your best interests to answer them, then I want you to know now that there will be no repercussions. I’m not here to see you hurt further. I merely need to clarify some things and make certain I didn’t leave any loose strings.”
Clayton nodded to that as he lifted his cup, both hands wrapped around it, and sipped from it.
This man, so patriotic and kind, was facing what had to be his greatest nightmare. The questions Cranston had given her weren’t recriminating or accusatory. They were simple—asking about Christopher’s friends, if he was part of a hunting group, or if his friends were military. She asked him about his son’s teen years, his friendships then. Strangely, he and Johnny Grace hadn’t been friends. Yet he had ended up involved with Grace in the theft of those missiles.
“Christopher was always preaching about America and politics and how all this nation lives for is money.” Clayton shook his head wearily. “Said we needed a revolution to wake the people up. That boy, he never understood.” A tear tracked down his cheek as he stared back at her. “I lost friends and a brother in Vietnam. I was willing to give my life to provide this great nation for him, Agent Dane. Many, many great men shed their blood for my boy, and I never realized how little he appreciated that sacrifice. I raised him wrong. I should be in that cell.” His chin wobbled. “Locked away like that, and I can’t even hear his voice, see if anything of my boy remains.” Another tear fell as Natches moved forward and took the thermal cup before Clayton dropped it. “I didn’t teach him right,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry about that.”
Chaya had to blink back her own tears. Ignoring Natches and Zeke, she reached out, covered the old man’s hand, and waited until he could focus on her.
“Mr. Winston, your sacrifices and the sacrifices of your friends ensured his choice. What he did with that choice is on his shoulders, sir, not on yours.”
“You believe that?” he whispered.
“I believe that with all my heart. You, sir, are, and have been, one of our nation’s greatest assets.”
“You’re not going to arrest me?” he asked then.
“Not in a million years,” she whispered. “But I am going to arrange that phone call for you. I promise you that. I’ll make sure you get to talk to your son.”
It wasn’t for the son, who she’d just as soon see flayed alive. It was for the father. The soldier who had saved countless others, who had given all but his life for the freedom his son had never cherished.
Clayton blinked and his eyes filled with tears again. “I’d like that,” he whispered. “Just for a minute. To hear my boy’s voice.”
She nodded to that and rose, making another promise to herself. When this was over, if he could make the trip, if he wanted the trip, she would make certain he got to see his son. And she would make damned sure that son showed him the respect this man deserved.
“She’s a good girl, just like you said, Natches.” Winston looked up at Natches, a shaky smile crossing his lips. “Don’t you let this one get away. She’s tough enough to put up with you.”
“That she is, Clay.” He gripped the other man’s shoulder gently as he stared back at her, and she didn’t want to feel the warmth that bloomed through her at that look. “That she is.”
Chaya straightened and nodded, heading for the door.
“Agent Dane.”
She turned back to Clayton as Natches moved aside behind her.
“Yes, sir.”
He frowned, his rheumy eyes thoughtful as he rubbed at his whiskered chin. “I just thought—Christopher, he wasn’t friends with Johnny a’tall. Or that Bedsford fella. But he mentioned some friends once, called ’em by something. Called ’em his compatriots, said they were starting their own club or some such stuff. Freedom boys or something. I don’t remember right off.”
“If you remember, could you contact me? Just let the sheriff know, and I’ll come right over.”
He nodded to that. “I’ll think on it. See what I remember.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Winston.”
“And you’ll remember to get that phone call for me?” His voice was filled with hope. “Just for a minute. Just so I can hear his voice one more time.”
She was going to cry. Oh God, don’t let her cry here, in front of this proud old man.
“Department of Homeland Security will be contacting you tomorrow, Mr. Winston. I promise.”
He nodded again, reached for his coffee cup, and brought it to his shaking lips. She wanted to howl at the unfairness of it, and she couldn’t. All she could do was walk out the door and move to the sheriff’s car.
“I’m going to stick around and make sure Clay gets dinner.” Natches caught her arm and pulled her to a stop. “I’ll see you tonight.”
She shook her head. “Not tonight.”
“Like hell. Tonight, Chay, and that’s final. I didn’t know Miss Willa wasn’t coming over here every evening to take care of Clay’s dinner, and I have to fix that now. But you can bet on the fact you will be seeing me this evening.”
She pulled away from him and followed Zeke to his car, getting in and slamming the door behind her as she continued to fight her tears. She would rather interrogate a roomful of terrorists than ever have to face that old man with so much as one more question regarding his son.
She was losing it. There was a time when she could have questioned him and pushed back her sympathy, her compassion. It was what she had been trained to do. She was an interrogation specialist. She knew how to do her job without worrying about the consequences.