by Martha Carr
“My humanity left the day I found this,” he said, pulling out the blueprints. “Either way, I’m going with you.”
Father Andrews hesitated. He saw the nervous woman hurriedly making her way toward him, and seemed to lose the argument he was having with himself.
“Then, consider yourself inducted into the Order of the White Rose,” he said, reaching over to a stack of small Common Prayer books, taking one off the top. “Really, we love a good ceremony but this will have to do,” he said, handing him the book. “It’s a reminder that we do our best to remain the balance in the world, despite our reasons for joining the Order. Come on,” he said, moving quickly through the house, and running as quickly as he could out the front door. “There’s no time to waste. George Clemente may have discovered the one other thing that we protect almost as much is the burial site of Thomas Jefferson. Or I suppose it would be more accurate to say who.”
The two clerics raced along the winding Virginia road that ran through the mountainous countryside below large oak boughs that formed an arc over the two-land road, creating a green tunnel that effectively kept out much of the bright sunlight.
Father Andrews was hunched over the steering wheel, gripping it on both sides as they took the sharp turns at a high speed, occasionally venturing off toward the shoulder of the road. The crunch of gravel made Father Michaels quietly grip the seat on the far side as he tried not to imagine what would happen if Father Andrews managed to miss one of the curves.
“Where are we headed, exactly?”
“Surely, your training was better than this,” said Father Andrews, his entire body bent into a tense rigid form that closely resembled the letter C. “One of the first things you will have to learn to do is listen more, and say less. You’re in the Order to learn information, and if you’re the one who’s always talking that may turn out to be quite difficult.”
Father Michaels noticed the diamond-shaped road sign from a distance that showed a black horizontal wiggly line against a background of yellow, indicating a switchback. Two sharp immediate turns on a steep downward incline that were common in the Virginia mountains. He took in a breath slowly between his teeth and held it in, bracing himself.
Father Andrews never eased his foot off the gas and somehow managed to keep the car on the road.
Father Michaels wanted to ask about what he had said back at Monticello.
Who was as precious as the brass puzzle that Thomas Jefferson’s decayed skeleton held tightly in his hand? But he thought better of it and didn’t want to anger the old man any further. Soon enough, he would know.
His head pounded at the thought of finally seeing the man who is responsible for the death of his entire family and change the course of his life forever. His thoughts raced and made it hard for him to create a clear thought.
He had thought for so long about vengeance, but really, without a clear idea of what it would look like. After all, he was still more of a boy than a man.
Without warning, Father Andrews drove completely off the road and into a grassy field. At first, Father Michaels thought he had made a mistake and would soon self-correct by pulling the car back onto the road. Instead, they drove further into the grass toward a stand of wild chestnut trees that seem to stand out in the distance in the middle of an empty field. An old sway back, chestnut-colored horse that didn’t seem to belong to anyone or anything stood off to the side of the miniature forest, and took off at a slow gallop as the car grew closer.
It wasn’t until they got within a hundred yards of the trees that he realized there was a tiny clapboard house in the middle, as if the trees had grown up around it with the intention of holding up the wooden structure forever.
“How did you know…”
Father Andrews snapped his head in his direction, glaring at Father Michaels and the young man stopped himself from finishing the question.
The car bounced over the open field at high speed, hitting the occasional hole sending the car into the air for a brief moment until it bounced down hard against the earth again, making father Michaels’ teeth clack hard against each other.
He realized he was still clutching the small book of Common Prayer in his hand and dropped it onto the floor boards as they came to a sudden halt. The car sent up a billowing, brown cloud of fine dust that settled back down onto the black cassocks as the two men got out of the car. Father Michael shoved open the door on his side and leaped out, not bothering to shut it behind him.
He quickly scanned the thick growth, looking for the easiest opening, and spotted a narrow gap that was toward the corner of the old house. He squeezed through, scraping his arm and looked back as small pinpoints of blood quickly erupted on the surface of his skin. Immediately, the sensation was replaced by the feeling of a soft cushion under his feet. He looked down at the wide expanse of velvety moss that encircled the house. A deep green sea of moss forming what looked like the perfect moat.
A piercing scream suddenly filled the air and Father Michaels looked up surprised toward Father Andrews who was trying to press through the same small opening, but with more difficulty.
It was the sound of a young girl.
Father Andrews pushed against one of the smaller sucker trees causing it to crack as he fit himself through the opening, and bound across the short front yard, belying his years. He ignored the age of the front porch as he landed heavily, and put his shoulder to the front door. Father Michaels was right at his heels.
There in the center of the small main room was a broad-shouldered man bent over a small child trying to squeeze the life out of her.
George Clemente’s lip was curled up, over his yellow teeth and his eyes were wide with excitement as he pressed down harder on the small neck of the young girl.
Father Michaels reached him first, tackling him out of the way and loosening his grip just enough so the girls limp body roll gently to the floor.
George Clemente spit in his face a large thick wad of saliva hitting him in the eye, as they wrestled around on the floor. He landed his fist against Clemente’s nose, feeling a satisfied crunch under his knuckles as the bone neatly broke. A fine spray of blood spurted out of Clemente’s nose, covering the front of Father Michaels’ new cassock in a red arc.
Clemente let out a roar that seemed to come from deep inside of him and was a wall of sound. He tried to dig his thumbs into Father Michaels’ eyes but at the last moment Father Michaels turned his head instead received a deep scratch along the side of his face. There was no time to wonder about the damage or to feel the pain. He lifted his knee, quick and hard into Clemente’s diaphragm shoving the air out of him. Clemente flailed for a moment, a look of surprise on his face and Father Michaels felt the first moment of call that he had had the day he gotten the news.
He was so close to the bitter revenge he had tasted every time the bile had risen in his throat.
But Clemente quickly caught himself and pulled something small and sharp out of his pocket slashing Father Michael across the back of his right hand, leaving a deep wound that ran across his knuckles, exposing the small bone below.
He let out a yelp as his eyes filled with tears, but he quickly remembered the smile on his sister’s face and he reached out to find out if it was actually possible to tear the flesh out of George Clemente’s neck.
Clemente kicked him hard in the groin, knocking the wind out of him, and for a brief moment he rolled to his side, loosening his grip on the nemesis that had haunted his dreams before he even knew what he looked like. The blood dripped off of his hand and left a metallic scent in the air, horrifying him not only at the sight of the wound but at how far he was willing to go to harm another human being.
Clemente scrambled to his feet like a crab running for the departing surf, and fled through a side door.
“Let him go!” shouted Father Andrews, who bent over and breathed into the small girl’s slack mouth, a worried look on his beet red face. There was a string of round purple bruises around her f
rail neck.
He was straining to push air back into her lungs.
Father Michaels pressed his hand tight against his chest, squeezing against the wound as the blood seeped down around his fingers. The pain was making him dizzy as he tried to focus on the little girl.
He began to think it was hopeless, she was gone, as he watched Father Andrews frantically continue to try and save her life. Her skin was turning a pale grey.
He heard the sound of screeching tires out front and Father Michaels wondered who was joining the fracas. It was surprising him how much blood he was managing to lose through such a small series of appendages. His crippled hand was still pressed firmly against his chest but he was starting to lose consciousness.
A well-dressed middle-aged woman burst through the door, a pink gun in her hand that she was using to point around the room for emphasis. There was a smart leather purse in the shape of a trapezoid dangling wildly from her wrist even as she managed to stand there with perfect posture in an expensive silk suit and modest high heels, while she aimed her gun first at Father Andrews, and then at Father Michaels.
“Who did this?” she shouted shaking the gun in Father Michaels direction again.
Father Andrews ignored her and continued to try to resuscitate the girl. Finally, she gave out a small cough and wrinkled her nose, as the pink started to come back to her cheeks.
The woman gingerly fell to her knees beside the body of the girl and pulled her into her lap, resting her gun on the floor beside her. It was the oddest display of motherly instinct that Father Michaels had ever seen, and yet he still understood it. At least in the context of the new world order that he had come to know.
The girl’s eyelids fluttered as she struggled to regain consciousness.
There was the sound of another set of heels coming across the rickety front porch and Father Michaels could tell from the sound of the heels that whoever it was, was taking precautions as they crossed over the rotted boards.
“Levi Michaels?” Esther Ackerman stood in the doorframe in a much more sensible version of the same kind of suit as the woman who had come in the door just ahead of her. The first woman’s suit had said Macy’s and Esther’s was screaming Sears.
Father Michael slumped back against the wall giving into the nausea that was quickly building as he rolled to one side and emptied the contents of the light brunch they had offered the new associates earlier in the day. He took in a big gulp of air, along with a strong whiff of rat feces. He gave a last spit before he let himself roll back onto his back, still holding onto his hand. His cassock was clinging to his chest, soaked through with his blood.
“Did we do it?” Asked the young priest, whose ordination was barely a week old, as he began to wonder if his first mission would be his last.
Esther rushed to his side, carefully examining him with the cold accountability of a practiced nurse. Father Michaels was starting to fade in and out of consciousness but he was sure that she had dropped the typical rolling ours of her Eastern accent and was sliding into something he could have sworn was closer to German.
“Harriet! Harriet Jones!” the old priest was yelling, trying to check on the girl.
“It’s Father Andrews, you know him,” shouted Esther, over her shoulder, as she lifted her skirt, neatly pulling off her white half-slip and tearing it into strips. “Is Wallis alright? Is she breathing?”
Esther worked quickly, binding Father Michaels’ hand as the voices around him started to blend together in his head.
“Just barely. I will kill that Clemente. We should have shot him first and then come in here like I told you,” said Harriet Jones.
“That’s your daughter on the floor, Harriet. First things first. We had to protect the one little being that might be able to unite the Circle and Management, if we can keep her safe till she’s grown.”
“Hush,” hissed Harriet, as Father Michaels struggled to lift his head.
“She’s the legacy, isn’t she?” he mumbled. The inside of his mouth felt like it was filled with thick cotton, soaked in blood. He was sure he could taste copper pennies.
“We can trust him,” Esther shouted back, “I’m sure of it.”
“You’d better be,” said Harriet, “because I’m taking the credit for this.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” shouted Esther, letting go of Father Michael to confront the other woman.
“Wallis will never remember what happened here. She’s too little. But Management, and in particular my dear husband, Walter, their one last descendant of a founder, will think twice before talking about recruiting her again. They’ll believe I’d kill her before I’d turn her over to them.”
“She’ll hate you for it,” Esther said, more quietly. Father Michael was sure there was the sound of awe in her voice.
“Better she hate me for a good long life,” said Harriet, “than end up like one of them.”
“You mean like you, don’t you,” said Esther.
“I chose this mission. Wallis should get to do the same. May she never know, at least for as long as I can keep the secret that she’s the one being that ties us all together.”
“Our relic,” said Father Michaels, as everything faded to black.
Martha’s Notes
The Order of the White Rose - June 20
One last look back - and this time way back into the past - at the origin of some of your favorite characters to see how they got to this point in time. Often, when we find ourselves twisted up in something, it’s little decisions we made a while ago that started the ball rolling. We may not have even see what that series of little steps was adding up to…
One long walk home.
So, here’s one more short entry in the Wallis Jones series to shed some light of some of my favorite characters and what they were like when they were young and just getting wrapped up in the conspiracy.
I’m busy writing in a new series, figuring out an entire new world of characters that I will be introducing to the world - The Prophesies of Oriceran, www.Oriceran.com, and this time I’m co-creating with Michael Anderle. I hope to see you back here, going along on the adventure with me!
Feel free to reach out and get in touch with me on Facebook and let me know if you just have to see a little more of Wallis Jones and her crew. You never know… More adventures to follow.
If you enjoyed The Order of the White Rose or the new box sets, please consider leaving a review at Amazon or Goodreads. Your kind words and encouragement help any author.
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I am the author of nine books and my newest work, The Wallis Jones series, is now available as a two-box set on Amazon or in Kindle Unlimited.
I’ve written a weekly, nationally-syndicated column on world affairs and life that has run on such political hotspots as The Moderate Voice.com and Politicus.com. My work has run regularly in such publications as The Washington Post, The New York Times, USA Today, The Wall Street Journal, The Chicago Tribune and Newsweek.
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