“Thanks, Edgar,” said Michelle, giving Sean a poke in the ribs with her elbow.
“I’ll change my password to something stronger,” groused Sean.
“All right. But don’t simply add your year of birth. That’s not good enough.”
Sean’s expression made clear that was precisely what he was planning to do.
“What exactly would you suggest then?” he asked in an exasperated tone.
“Random numbers and letters, uppercase/lowercase-sensitive, that do not correlate to any of your personal data in any way. Thirty-character minimum. And don’t write it down anywhere.”
Sean looked dumbstruck. “Great, but how exactly am I supposed to remember thirty random characters without writing it down, which sort of defeats the whole super-duper secret code thing?”
Edgar looked perplexed. “You can’t remember thirty random characters?”
“No, I can’t,” snapped Sean.
Michelle chimed in, “He’s older, Edgar. Losing brain cells at a daily rate you can’t even imagine.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Edgar somberly. “Then, if you really must, you can cut it to twenty-five characters but no less than that,” he suggested.
“Thanks,” said Sean curtly. “I’ll get right on it.”
CHAPTER
54
HE WAS AT THE CEMETERY again staring at the same two graves.
The inscription on the grave on the left said that Franklin Grant had been a wonderful husband, loving father, and true patriot.
“I miss you, Dad,” said Grant. “I miss you more every day. You should be here. You should be a grandfather to my kids.”
He turned to the other grave. Loving Wife and Mother, read the inscription.
He had tried to keep the image such inscriptions inspired in his head. But he had been unable to for a very good reason.
As a thirteen-year-old he had inadvertently seen a picture of his parents dead in their car, their asphyxiated features deadly pale, and their bulging eyes wide open as they sat slumpe
d against each other, their suicide pact complete.
“Miss you too, Mom,” Grant mumbled. And he did.
But his gaze and his thoughts turned back quickly to his father.
He had been a true patriot who had bled for his country. He had risen far. He had worked in the White House. As a boy Grant had gone there with his father, shaken the hand of the president of the United States at the time, seen the center of power of the strongest nation on earth. It had left an indelible impression on him. It had been a compelling reason he had joined the military. But the truth behind his father’s tragic end had left a far deeper mark, like a third-degree burn. He doubted it would ever fully heal.
The one thing that kept Grant going was that he had his plan. It was being executed and it was succeeding, albeit with some bumps along the way. He’d expected that. Plans this complex could not unfold free of problems. He had been ready for such an eventuality. And it was a good thing.
He placed the flowers on his parents’ graves, said a last goodbye, then turned and walked back to his car.
An hour later he was walking into his house and greeting his children. His seven-year-old son was in school, but his five-year-old daughter and two-year-old toddler came hurrying over to him. He scooped up his son in his arms, took his daughter by the hand, and walked into the kitchen, where his wife was making lunch.
Leslie Grant was in her middle thirties and as lovely as the day he had proposed to her. They kissed, then Grant snatched a cucumber from the salad she was preparing and walked into the adjacent living room carrying his son.
Dan Marshall was sitting in front of the large-screen TV dressed in khaki pants and a flannel shirt with tasseled loafers on his feet.
Grant put down his son, who quickly raced off to join his sister in the playroom. Grant turned to Marshall, who was cradling a beer and watching ESPN on the TV.