Covenant

by Brandon Massey

  “Savvy lady. What do you think?”

  He stared at Anthony’s reflection. Anthony stared back.

  “I think you might have some useful information,” Anthony said.

  “Some useful information?” Bob dabbed at his lips with a napkin, smiled as if amused at a mild joke. “I do indeed have some useful information. But I offer it freely. Money can’t purchase redemption, in spite of those who would like us to believe otherwise.”

  “Is that why you’ve decided to help me find out why happened to my dad? For your redemption?”

  “Yes.” Bob’s reflected gaze didn’t waver. “After doing the kind of work I’ve done for the past twenty years, let’s just say this is my best shot at doing the right thing for a change.”

  “What kind of work have you done? Killing innocent people?”

  “I might be wrong, but I’m thinking you could use a little redemption, too,” Bob said, brushing off the questions. “Fifteen long years of blaming yourself for never getting justice, writing those violent vigilante books full of your outrage with the system . . . feeling as if you’ve failed your old man.”

  “Hey, you don’t know me, all right?” Anthony struggled to keep himself from spinning around to face the guy. “You might’ve looked me up in Google, done your Internet research or whatever, but you don’t know me.”

  “I know that you’re here talking to me, in spite of what your better half advised.”

  “Why come to me with this today? Why not a year ago? Or, how about fifteen years ago?”

  “Or how about fifteen years from today? Does my timing matter? You’ve come here because you want answers, and you believe I can help you find them.”

  “Can you?”

  “How far are you willing to go to get to the truth?”

  “All the way. Whatever it takes.”

  “If you start this journey, you can’t turn back. This is the point of no return, friend. If you want to fold your cards and forget all of this, now’s the time. Or you can go all in with me.” He sipped his drink, studied Anthony’s reflection.

  Anthony looked around. He looked at the customers at the tables, eating and drinking and talking and laughing, living their happy and carefree lives, unaware that death always lurked behind you and waited until you least expected it to strike and take everything away in a heartbeat . . . . He’d not lived in their blissful world for fifteen years.

  “I’m all in,” Anthony said. “I’ve always been all in.”

  Bob placed his beverage on the tray beside the small Bible. He laid his long fingers across the book’s cover, as if taking an oath.

  “Imagine an organization, Anthony. They claim to represent the kingdom of truth and righteousness, and they’ve presented evidence to support their claim. They do many positive works in the community. They’ve given substantial amounts of money to charities. They’ve given hope to the hopeless, homes to the once homeless. They present a wonderful façade to the world, but deep inside, the core of this organization is as evil and bent on securing ultimate power as the worst totalitarian movement in history.”

  “Who are they?”

  Bob continued as if he hadn’t posed the question. He spoke in a soft tone, but his voice was threaded with energy and passion.

  “They have members and sympathizers at every level of society, from your garbage man to university presidents, from the waiter at Waffle House to the judge in federal court, from the elementary school teacher to the news anchor you watch on television every evening. They’re everywhere. Some of them are probably here right now, in fact, but they’re invisible, because they look like you and me.

  “They’ve committed every crime imaginable in the name of their cause,” Bob said. “Assault. Murder. Rape. Robbery. Blackmail. Embezzlement. Fraud. They have divisions of highly trained personnel so overzealous they make the CIA, NSA, and FBI look like bleeding-heart pacifists. Unlike those agencies, which at least are supposed to obey the laws of our country, these people have no regard whatsoever for the laws of man. They claim to answer to only a higher authority.”

  “Is this some kind of religious group?” Anthony asked. “Like a cult?”

  The question brought a bitter smile to Bob’s lips. “This organization has developed a technology division so advanced they can tap into public and private databases that allow them to access and manipulate any data you can imagine—and some that you probably can’t. Does that sound like a sect of fundamentalists living in log cabins in the wilderness?”

  “Now that you’ve put it like that . . . no.”

  “We live in interesting times, Anthony. Technology and commercialism have taken over our society. You can communicate on Twitter in real time with a thousand social contacts via your Blackberry, find your favorite Starbucks double-latte damn near anywhere you go, meet your future spouse online, buy anything under the sun at Wal-Mart for half price, capture video of a crime on your cell phone that winds up as the lead story on the nightly news.

  “In spite of all these great advancements and conveniences, folks feel more isolated than ever. Emptier. More depressed. Wondering if this, this technologically-driven, commercial marvel of a world we’ve created, is all there is to life. Is it?”

  He looked directly at Anthony for the first time. Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, his eyes were troubled, and Anthony realized that he was asking him what Anthony had assumed was a rhetorical question.

  “Hey, I . . . I don’t know, man,” Anthony said.

  “An honest answer.” Moving back to the window, Bob chuckled, but it was a grim sound. “I don’t know, either, friend. All I have is a bit of faith, and that comforts me.”

  Good for you, Anthony thought, but he kept quiet.

  “But these people,” Bob said, “oh, they know, all right, and they, and those like them, have leveraged their alleged knowledge to the tune of billions of dollars in profits and unprecedented influence. They will assure you that this world around us, your iPod and fuel-efficient hybrid vehicle, your Facebook friend list and your admin job in a cubicle farm at a multinational corporation, is not all there is to life, oh no. There is a glorious heaven where the faithful believers go. There is an eternity in hell for that sinner who cut you off in traffic. There is a God who loves you and has a greater purpose for you. But to gain access to heaven and this loving, just God . . . there’s a price.”

  Anthony grunted. “Isn’t there always?”

  “Please understand,” Bob said, index finger pointed. “There are many, many sincere and noble believers and religious leaders throughout the world, and we are better for them. They’re the good ones, and we need more of them, so very badly.”

  “But they aren’t the problem.”

  “Our issue is the ravening wolves preying on the sheep. The false prophets. Those who are selling God—packaging God in books and DVDs and seminars and conferences, those haranguing you from their golden pulpits to send in more donations or else God will condemn you to everlasting damnation. Those who are using God as a weapon to usurp control of your bank account, your vote, your home, your family, your soul.”

  “Look, I don’t keep up with religion, churches, any of that stuff,” Anthony said. “Far as I’m concerned, fifteen years ago, God told me he didn’t give a damn about my family. So why should I care about him?”

  “We are all of us seekers on the path. You’ll have to discover the answer to that question on your own. I don’t know.”

  “And I don’t care,” Anthony said, with more anger than he intended. He took in a deep breath, steadied himself. “You haven’t told me how my dad fits into any of this.”

  “He wanted to bring them down.” Bob’s voice dropped to a whisper, and his gaze searched the mirror-image of the area behind them. “Do you think they would allow someone to destroy their well-oiled machine of commerce and power? Do you think they would let anyone disrupt their plans? Do you think they would stand idly by while someone erases everything for which they�
��ve labored?”

  Anthony shook his head. “I’m finding it hard to believe my dad was involved in anything like that. He was a sports writer, man, not a community activist.”

  “He was an activist for that which mattered most to him, as you are. Your family.”

  Anthony drummed the counter. “It sounds . . . crazy. But I’ve always thought . . . well, I knew there was something on Dad’s mind that morning . . . .”

  “Probably pondering the very dilemma that ended his life,” Bob said.

  “You said you were there at the lake.”

  “I know the man responsible, Anthony.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Even if I were to give you his name, you couldn’t get to him, not the way that you think you can. There’s only one way to bring them down. You have to turn their machinery against them.”

  “Why can’t you do it? What do you need me for?”

  “I’ve gathered enough damning evidence to crush them. But we must be careful—we can’t trust law enforcement. These people have too many contacts, an army of minions at every level, from federal agencies on down to the local Barney Fife. As I warned you, they’re everywhere.”

  “Again, why me?”

  “I needed someone like you to finish the job.”

  Bob’s reflected eyes focused on Anthony for a beat, and then traveled toward the far end of the room.

  Anthony glanced around the dining room, too, but he saw nothing of concern. “What do you mean, you needed someone like me?”

  “Someone with the ability and the motivation, and I’d say you have plenty of both.” He turned to Anthony. “They’re on to you now, Anthony. Go home, get your wife, and stay on the move till you find the truth. Don’t let your dad’s death be in vain.”

  Bob shuffled away, head lowered. He ambled down the corridor to the lobby, and disappeared in the shifting masses of people.

  With studied casualness, Anthony surveyed his surroundings. Initially, as before, no one stood out.

  They’re onto you now, Anthony.

  Then he noticed a broad, pale-skinned man sitting at a table in the corner, near the edge of the corridor.

  Eyes hidden behind tinted glasses, the guy wore a plain baseball cap and gray jacket. He sipped bottled water through a straw and slowly scanned back and forth from the lobby to the dining area as if waiting for someone to arrive with food.

  Briefly, Anthony felt their gazes connect. The hairs rose at the nape of his neck.

  He’s one of them.

  Anthony swung back to the window.

  He wasn’t sure at what point he had bought into Bob’s story. Maybe from the very beginning, when he’d found the letter in his SUV. But he felt full-blown paranoia swelling in his chest, speeding his heart rate, as if he’d been injected with some crazy, reality-bending drug.

  He noticed Bob had left behind his tray. It held a bag of cold fries, his beverage, and the small Bible he’d been reading.

  Bob could have left behind the book by mistake, but Anthony doubted it.

  He carefully placed his own tray on top of Bob’s. He carried both trays toward the north exit, away from the pale stranger.

  At a trash can near the doors, using his body to block anyone behind from watching, he grabbed the book and emptied the contents of both trays into the trash. Without looking behind him, he pocketed the Bible and went out through the glass double doors.

  On the landing, he reached inside his pocket and clicked off the digital recorder.

  Heart thundering, he took the stairs to the parking lot.

  12

  Cutty had been watching the Judas conversing discreetly with a tall, well-built black man when the Judas abruptly turned away and walked out. He shuffled past where Cutty sat, but he did not look at him. He didn’t need to—what had happened was obvious.

  Cutty had been made.

  It happened sometimes. The Judas had once been a leader in their division, after all, and had been trained to recognize a tail.

  It didn’t particularly bother Cutty. The thick fumes of junk food had begun to nauseate him, and he was ready to get out of there, drive far away, and grab a hot shower to cleanse the stink from his pores.

  The Judas navigated through the crowd and went toward the restrooms. Cutty had briefly reconnoitered the restrooms earlier, and found there was no exit that way. He would return to the Judas after he finished appraising the black man.

  The man was looking around the room. For an instant, he and Cutty made eye contact.

  Cutty felt a tremor in his stomach. Although he’d never before seen this man, intuition told him that there was something about this guy, something unusual and intriguing, and worth a closer look.

  He watched the guy stack two plastic trays and take them to a trash can near the north exit. The guy dumped the contents of the trays and left through the doors. He didn’t look back.

  Cutty spoke into the radio transmitter affixed to his shirt collar.

  “Valdez, there’s a person of interest coming down the north stairwell. Black man, about six feet tall, in his early thirties, in a dark windbreaker, jeans, and a baseball cap. Don’t stop him, but see what he’s driving and get his plates.”

  He waited for Valdez’s response, hoping that she understood his directions. After a few seconds, her voice crackled in his earpiece.

  “Okay.”

  He would have to assume that she had comprehended his orders. He didn’t have time to baby-sit her.

  He dumped his bottled water in a wastebasket and left the dining area for the lobby, using his broad shoulders like a wedge to force through the knotted crowd. A couple of times he had to give guys taller than him a hard shove. They turned and looked down at him as if to say something rude, but when they saw the expression on his face they shut their mouths like meek little lambs.

  You didn’t have to be tall to be intimidating. It was all about presence.

  He shoved open the door to the men’s room. There were six urinals, but none were in use. Four toilet stalls stood along the wall. The doors to all of them hung open, except the one at the end.

  He knelt to the linoleum floor, checking for a pair of legs in the stall with the closed door. He saw none.

  He grabbed the metal trash can and levered it underneath the door handle. He withdrew his Glock and, angling the muzzle toward the ceiling, stalked toward the corner stall.

  “I know you’re in there, Judas,” Cutty said. “You must answer for your betrayal.”

  Cutty kicked the door. The cheap dead-bolt lock broke from the impact of the kick, and the door banged open.

  The stall was empty. But the toilet was full—of urine, and crap.

  Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who had reconnoitered. The Judas must have visited earlier, set up the locked door, and left behind the disgusting mess in the toilet, a bold thumbing of his nose at Cutty and the organization.

  An ordinary man would have sworn and been overcome with rage, but Cutty was better than that: a godly man was slow to anger. He channeled his energies into his work. Years of prayer, self-denial, and stringent discipline had armored him with an unflappable composure of which he was quite proud.

  Holstering his gun, he kicked aside the trashcan from the door and hastened out of the restroom. He spotted the women’s restroom across the corridor, and realized at once how the Judas had fooled

  him a few minutes ago. He’d merely entered the ladies’ room, knowing that Cutty would make the natural assumption that he’d gone into the men’s lavatory.

  He didn’t bother searching the ladies’ restroom. The Judas would be out of the building by then, and they were going to lose him if they didn’t act fast.

  He radioed Valdez and got out of there, ramming like a tank through the crowd.

  13

  Hands shoved in his jacket pockets, Anthony hurried across the parking lot and to the concrete staircase that led to the upper level of the parking deck. As he ascended, he had the distinct se
nse that someone was watching him, a sensation like a feather lying against the back of his neck.

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  A stunning Latina woman was climbing the stairs, too. Dark hair pulled away from her golden, porcelain-smooth face, she wore a black tracksuit, black sneakers, and a lightweight cream-colored jacket. She held a cell phone to her ear and was speaking in rapid-fire Spanish.

  She noticed his attention, and smiled.

  But it was a smile that said only, yes, I know I’m gorgeous, and I know you like what you see, and I’m acknowledging your existence because it’s the polite thing to do, but sorry, I’m not really interested in you, so please keep moving. A smile that beautiful women paid to men a dozen times a day.

  But something about her bugged him. Gut instinct.

  He reached the top of the stairs and went to his Tahoe. At the driver’s door, he acted as though he was fumbling for his keys in his jacket, but he stealthily moved his right hand to the butt of his Beretta.

  In the corner of his eye, he watched the woman stroll past. She was still on her call, gesturing excitedly, but then she looked in his direction. It was intended to be a meaningless, oh-there-he-is-again look, but he felt as if he had stuck his finger in an electrical outlet.

  She’s one of them, too. She followed me up here to see what car I was driving . . . maybe to check my license plates . . .

  He whirled to face her. “Who are you?”

  Ignoring him, the woman put away the phone and rushed back to the staircase.

  “Hey!” he said.

  Quickly, she descended out of sight.

  Cursing, Anthony hustled behind the wheel, slammed the door. He slipped the Beretta out of the holster. The weight of the pistol calmed him, but only a little.

  He took the Bible out of his jacket pocket and thumbed through it. Various passages were highlighted with multicolored pens. At the front of the book, on a page that stated, “This Bible Belongs To,” a name he didn’t recognize was inscribed in girlish handwriting.

  He placed the book on the passenger seat, leaned toward the windshield, and scanned the parking lot below. He didn’t see Bob or the short guy with the tinted glasses, and the Latina woman had vanished as if she’d been only a figment of his paranoid imaginings.