In the last chapter Dortch broke into the house and shot Ohmie’s mother. Ohmie’s father and Dortch fought and Ohmie shot Dortch with the one-shot composite gun. Grandmother Vera is staying on and helping out while Ohmie’s mother recovers.

As I suspected. I had to use a stool, but written in pencil behind the keypunch code box that was fastened outside the garage door was a four-digit code. Like lead pencil marks will do when rubbed, the notation was smeared, nearly smeared out. I couldn’t make out the numbers, but that’s what it was: 5-8-9-7, Mom and Dad’s personal code: l-f/v-p/b-g/k, I love you back.

Of course, vowels having no value, the literal expression would be just love back. But I remember one time hearing Mom on the phone, "I love you back." 5-8-9-7.

Someone had written the code. And someone had tried to rub it out. None of us would have put it there. Grandpa.

I punched 5-8-9-7 and the door began to open. Just as it was supposed to. I played it out in my head.

Grandpa checked out the house – all clear. He wrote the code on the board behind the box. None of us would have written it there. Anyone could see where the electricity went into the house, and then figure where the breaker panel would be. Maybe Grandpa pre-staged the explosives at the door hinges with wire leading to a receiver. It’d be simple to rig both doors to telephone numbers.

And the screaming-loud garage door mechanics would rattle the home’s defenders, giving them a third entry to guard. And no one would open the entry door from the house to the attached garage – certain death would await, possibly even shot through the door before you even got it opened to check out who was in the garage.

Dortch, or somebody, tried to wipe out the penciled code, but it was dark outside. He didn’t see that he left a smear. All he had to do after turning off our lights was to telephone a number and kablam-kablooey.

The Pledged, I searched it on-line. Mom confirmed it. A secret organization. The Company was aware of it, but being domestic, it was a concern for the FBI, not the CIA. Grandpa was a member, a high-ranking member.

The Pledged had infiltrated every facet of American agency, every organization: the FBI, the CIA, Homeland Security, the Secret Service, the various executive branch departments, even the National Park Service. Sometimes only one or two key people, in some cases dozens of people, all pledging an oath superseding their oath to the Constitution.

How did I know all this? In the industry, we call it another day at the office.

How we found out was a quiet affair. Me, Mom, and Dad were ushered into the White House. Mr. and Mrs. Zürman were there too. As the President put the Medal of Freedom on me, I asked him, whispering quietly, if he would get me a meeting with the chairman of the House Intelligence Committee. I just knew that I could trust him, Congressman Smith. A staffer escorted us all the way up the mall and into the House Office Building and to his office. The staffer even pushed my wheelchair. We weren’t in there a minute, and he held up his hand, stopping me. He made a phone call and another Congressman joined us in just a few minutes: the Chairman of the House Oversight Committee. They had oversight of all the agencies.

“Ohmie,” the Intelligence Committee guy started, then he introduced everybody. Everybody knew our story and who Mom and Dad were. That was where I learned most about The Pledged. And what else I knew, Dad was learning for the first time. Grandpa. Dad’s dad. A man of men. The single most admired man in Dad’s life. I felt bad for Dad.

Congressman Jones looked at Dad, and then Mom, and then me. “What you folks have been through…. Well, for our part. We’re sorry. It shouldn’t have been.” He looked at me again, glancing at the medal around my neck. “I hear you’re quite the violinist!”

He showed me all his teeth with his smile. Okay, he knew everything.

“I know that you folks can keep a secret. Your job.”

He meant jobs, plural, but I let it go.

He was addressing Dad now. “See, the trouble is, The Pledged are patriots, super patriots. It’s like a circle, you know? You can be so far left that you meet yourself on the right, or so far right, that you… anyway. Some are ordinary Joes, doing regular work. Some in the private sector, some in government. Some are political appointees, some are even elected to office – at every level, local, state, federal. And far more than we’re comfortable with, they are members of our military, every branch. On January 6th, had the DC National Guard unit been called out… well…” He dropped that line but kept talking. “The Pledged controls nearly every other fringe out there: the Oath Keepers, Proud Boys, the Three Percenters, the Arm and Hammmer… on and on. And when The Pledged speak, every militia in the country perks their ears.”

“Mr. Westlake…”

Dad was the one to hold up his hand. He didn’t want what was going to be said next to be said out loud, in front of me. “Mr. Jones, I share a trait with my son. Ohmie and I can see big pictures if we look at it long enough… if we’re compelled to.”

Dad thanked the two men for their time, offering his services upon request. He asked Mom and I if we were ready to go home.

“Dad,” I asked after we’d crossed the George Mason Bridge, “when he said if the Guard was called out on the 6th?”

“He wouldn’t say it, but they might have fought on the wrong side. Maybe between themselves, too. It would have been far worse. Who knows, we could still be fighting.”

“1776 meets 1861,” I said.

We were all quiet the rest of the ride home, chewing up what all we’d heard.

Grandma greeted us at the door, but then made herself scarce.

“Dad?”

“Later son. I have to think.” I understood. I had to think sometimes, too. I wanted to go to bed anyway. I was exhausted and having a hard time catching my breath. “Oh, Ohmie, before you go up I need to show you something.”

I stepped into his office. Dad reached for the Clancy book that had ridden all over Europe with us. “Oh, that’s okay, Dad. I have my tablet. He kept going for the book, lifting it from the bookcase behind his chair. He didn’t hand it to me, but briefly exposed the Berretta, casually replacing The Cardinal of the Kremlin. The extra magazine was prob’ly there, too. I nodded.

Mom followed my chairlift up the stairs to help me. The home health nurse that was waiting for us followed Mom. She waited for Mom to give me my injections and strip me to my skivvies. I think the nurse saw my medal. It was a ridiculous thought, but I hoped she would tell Nurse May about it.