The Coalition: A Novel of Suspense

by Samuel Marquis

  With these troubling thoughts on his mind, Locke trudged outside, grabbed the Gazette-Telegraph from the drive, and went into the kitchen.

  That was funny, his wife wasn’t there. She always made breakfast for the family before he and Benjamin Jr. drove to work and Susan headed off to school. Where could she be?

  As if on cue, a semicatatonic Benjamin Jr. materialized, dumbly scanned the empty table, and looked at his father with the same look of incredulity. “Where’s breakfast?”

  Locke set his paper on the kitchen table. “I’m not sure. I’m going to check on your mother. I hope she’s okay.”

  “Hurry up, I’m hungry.”

  Locke felt a jolt of anger at his son’s rude manner, but at the moment he was more concerned about his wife. He hoped that everything was all right. He walked out of the kitchen and started up the stairs. Halfway up, he heard her and Susan talking in hushed tones down the hallway in Susan’s room. Curiosity swiftly overtook him. As quietly as possible, he tiptoed up the last few steps and crept down the hallway, stopping near the entrance to Susan’s room. The door was half-open. Listening carefully, he could hear every word now.

  “...else I need to tell you. But you can’t tell Daddy. You have to promise me.”

  There was a tense silence, and then Locke heard his wife say, “Your father and I have always agreed we should both be involved in family matters.”

  The bed squeaked, and he heard the sound of feet padding across the floor. “Not this time, Mother. Whatever I say to you now will have to be kept between us. I want you to swear on this Holy Bible.”

  “You’re scaring me with this talk.”

  “I’m not going to confide in you if I can’t trust you. Now do you swear or not?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, and Locke heard his wife say, “If you feel this strongly about it, then yes, I swear on the Bible.”

  He felt a stab of resentment knowing that his wife and daughter were conspiring to keep things from him. But he was also anxious to hear what Susan was going to say. He leaned closer, tilting his ear toward the half-open door.

  “Todd and I spoke to a doctor about having an abortion. We wanted to find out how it works, just in case.”

  A twitch of shock passed across Locke’s face, and he heard his wife give an audible gasp. “My God, Susan. Where...where did you go?”

  “The Family Planning Center in Widefield. We’ve had two visits with Dr. Sivy.”

  Locke could hardly believe what he was hearing. It was an outrage, a repudiation of everything good, moral, and righteous. It was bad enough that she had engaged in intercourse with Todd and gotten pregnant. But now she had visited one of those murdering clinics where they snuffed out helpless unborn babies. He felt as though a stake had been driven through his heart!

  He heard his wife’s voice again. “Why didn’t you tell me things had gone this far?” she asked Susan. “That you had actually met with a doctor?”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t understand, Mother. And that you wouldn’t love me anymore.”

  “How could you think such a thing? I love you—and I will always love you. Always.”

  The room went quiet again, and Locke heard his wife and daughter embrace. He appreciated the fact that his wife was providing emotional support, but he still found himself incensed that his daughter would do such a thing. Getting pregnant was one thing, but inquiring about an abortion—now that was sacrilege!

  “There’s something else I didn’t tell you, Mother.”

  There was another pause, charged with emotion. Locke edged closer, desperate to hear what would come next.

  “Mother, I know this is going to be hard for you to accept. But after talking with Dr. Sivy and looking into it on my own, I’ve learned there are a lot of psychological problems for women who have an unplanned child and are forced to give it away. Low self-esteem, severe depression, sometimes they even become suicidal. In some cases, these things affect them their whole lives. That’s why so many mothers try to track down the children they’ve given up later in life, because they can’t handle the guilt. I don’t want to be torn apart like these other women. That’s why I refuse to go to some home for unwed mothers up in the mountains or anywhere else. I’m either going to have the baby and raise it on my own—or have an abortion. But I will not give my—”

  “But I thought we agreed you would go to Sacred Heart!”

  “I didn’t agree to anything. You backed me into a corner and I told you what you wanted to hear. But I’m telling you now that I’m not going to go through with it. I’ll get an abortion before I give my baby away to complete strangers and have to live with that the rest of my life.”

  “You can’t mean—”

  “Mother, please. This is my decision, not yours. This is my body we’re talking about. I know I would hate myself if I went through with an abortion. But I would hate myself a thousand times worse—and second-guess myself for the rest of my life—if I gave my child away to complete strangers.”

  Locke felt the anger rising inside him like water behind a dam. I can’t believe this. What’s happened to her? Where has the daughter I have loved all these years gone?

  “I could never live my life feeling like I’d failed my child. Wondering if she was being taken care of properly. Worrying whether I could have handled it differently. What kind of mother gives her baby away to others? A lousy mother, that’s who!”

  Locke gritted his teeth at this last assault. His own daughter—a full-fledged casualty of the Culture War. But how? A year ago she had been a good, obedient Christian girl; now she was stubbornly challenging her own parents and discussing abortion as if it were not murder, but a God-given right to choose. Who has planted these subversive thoughts in her fragile mind?

  “I don’t want to hurt you and Daddy. But I have to make my own decision on this.”

  “But this goes against everything we stand for. Your father and I believe life is sacred, whether a week in the womb or six months. We’ve always hoped that you felt as strongly about it as we.”

  “But it’s not that simple, Mother. It’s not a question of pro-life versus anti-life, it’s a question of choice. In my heart, I know if I had an abortion, I’d be going against God’s will. But a decision like this has to be weighed against the harm it does to the woman carrying the child too. It’s my body, my choice, and the ultimate decision must be with me.”

  Compounded with the strain of the Fowler situation, this was too much for Locke to bear. The love he felt for his daughter was momentarily pushed aside by these last defiant words. His own flesh and blood was talking about abortion as if it were not a sin, but a simple choice from life’s daily menu. And his wife was no better. Though she wasn’t condoning abortion, she was doing little to stop Susan from spouting these murderous ideas. She had handled the matter so perfectly the other day—why in the Lord’s name was she caving in now? Abortion was murder, pure and simple, and his wife understood this implicitly. Suddenly, he was filled with volcanic rage.

  He burst into the room, fists clenched. I’ll show them both what choice is all about!

  Susan screamed.

  “No!” Mary shrieked as she scrambled to protect her daughter.

  But she was too late.

  CHAPTER 68

  TWO MINUTES LATER, as Locke puffed his way back downstairs, he felt terrible. He had shoved his wife to the side, taken Susan over his knee like an intractable toddler, and spanked the hell out of her. He was utterly ashamed at what he’d done and realized that he had lost all self-control. The expressions of horror on his wife and daughter’s faces when he had stormed into the room and meted out his punishment crushed him inside. They looked at him like he was some sort of a monster when he was merely a father who cared deeply about his family.

  He tried to convince himself that he was simply obeying the will of God, that he was the instrument of discipline, not the judge or jury, but he still felt terrible. All the same, abortion was wrong, pur
e and simple. There was no middle ground when it came to respecting the rights of the unborn. Under no circumstances would he allow his own flesh and blood to murder the innocent. Though he felt badly for savagely spanking Susan, he was confident that the desired effect had been achieved and she would no longer even consider getting an abortion.

  He passed his son at the foot of the stairs and, presenting a face flush with mixed anger and guilt, sent him scurrying back into the kitchen. Tromping into his office, he reached for the secure phone on his desk.

  To his surprise, it rang just as he was about to press the voice modulator. He jumped back like a frightened rabbit. Good heavens am I skittish? I wonder who it is?

  He hit the voice modulator. “Hello?”

  “I’ve got some bad news for you.” It was voice of a very dangerous man—a voice that he had not heard for over a week.

  His heart was still racing from his encounter upstairs, so he took a deep breath to collect himself. “Yes, go on.”

  “You told me to call if Truscott or the colonel ever went behind your back.”

  “You’re telling me that time has arrived?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mr. Chairman.”

  “What is it? What are they up to?”

  “You recall the Family Planning Group in Widefield? They want me to hit it.”

  Good heavens, the same clinic Susan visited? “What, the doctors?”

  “No, everyone in the building. They want me to leave no witnesses. There’s eight full-time staff: two doctors, four nurses, an intern receptionist, and a security guard. They sent me the complete dossier and architectural plans yesterday. But that’s not all.”

  Locke held his breath, bracing himself for the worst.

  “I think their plan is to blame it on you.”

  “Blame it on me?”

  “Yes, sir. They said that you had approved the sanction up front, but I know that’s not true. Is it, Mr. Chairman?”

  “No, it’s most emphatically not!”

  “Just as I thought. It’s always been my understanding that you are the only one who can authorize discretionary spending and official termination contracts.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Well then, I think they’re setting you up, sir. I think they’re finally making their move. They’re trying to make you look bad so Mr. Truscott can step into your place as chairman of the Executive Committee. That’s why I called to warn you.”

  “How much are they paying you?”

  “A lot. It’s a spanking new clinic with a state-of-the-art video security system and armed guard, and multiple engineered safe spaces. The staff have undergone extensive safety training on the three-step, run-hide-fight strategy. They know how to get quickly to the safe spaces and stay quiet until the danger has passed. This particular clinic is a fortress, sir, and that’s why they’re paying me triple my usual fee.”

  Locke shook his head in dismay. The room seemed to spin around him. With everything that was happening with Fowler, the Coalition, and his family, was it possible that his life was spinning out of control too? Was it possible God was abandoning him in his time of greatest need?

  “It was my understanding, Mr. Chairman, that we were no longer hitting abortion and fertility clinics.”

  “I shut down all such sanctions over four years ago when I took over as chairman.” He pondered a moment. “Why the hell are they doing this now?”

  “They think you’re vulnerable. That’s why they’re making their move. You’re distracted with Fowler and Phase Three—and they know it. They planned it this way. That’s why they also paid me an extra twenty thousand not to talk to anyone, not even you or the other Committee members. They said it had all been voted on and approved, but I knew right off they were lying. I told you I would keep an eye out for you, sir.”

  “Did they tell you why this particular clinic?”

  “It’s a shock-and-awe campaign all the way. They told me they wanted that clinic shut down once and for all since it’s in our own backyard.”

  Locke thought for a moment. So Skull Eyes and the colonel had finally mustered the courage to attempt their devious little coup. Scarcely did they know they were in for the surprise of their lives.

  “What are you going to do, Mr. Chairman?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Do you want me to call it off?”

  “If we do that, they’ll know we’ve spoken. The last thing we want to do is raise suspicion. When did they say they wanted the clinic hit?”

  “Next Tuesday.”

  “So we have some time then.” He considered a moment. “Just stand by until you hear from me. I need some time to look into this.”

  “Okay, I can do that.”

  “Don’t contact me—I’ll be in touch with you. Our two friends may be keeping tabs on us at this very moment. You’ve already gone out on a limb in telling me and I don’t want to put you in further jeopardy.”

  “I copy, Mr. Chairman. And sir, you know my loyalty is to you.”

  “I know, Captain. May you walk with the Lord.”

  “Amen, I always do,” replied the Apostle, and he hung up.

  CHAPTER 69

  PATTON ANSWERED THE PHONE AFTER THE SECOND RING.

  “Ken, it’s Don Shea. Did you get my email with the DNA results?”

  “When did you send it?”

  “A half hour ago.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to check my email yet.” Patton glanced at his watch. “Hey, wait a second, you’re early. You said noon.”

  “The wheels of a massive bureaucracy grind along slowly, but sometimes we surprise ourselves and actually beat a deadline.”

  Finally, the break I’ve been waiting for!

  “Once we verified the DNA match with the other lab, the NCIC people put together a little care package to go with our report. The offender’s name is Franz Schmidt. Just one prior, for firearms violations.”

  “Last known address?”

  “Somewhere in Oakland. It’s all in the file.”

  “Thanks, Don. If I need anything else, I’ll give you a buzz.”

  “Happy hunting.”

  “I’m banking on it.” He hung up.

  With a few clicks of his mouse, he brought up the encrypted email, quickly unscrambled the two attached files into English, saved them to the appropriate folder, and then read them over. The first file summarized the DNA results. The second from the NCIC provided background information on Schmidt. He examined the CODIS material on the lab specimens, QA/QC procedures, and DNA profiles first, before going over Schmidt’s records.

  Franz Dieter Schmidt was no run-of-the-mill convicted offender. Born in West Berlin in 1984, he emigrated to the U.S. in 1994 when his father, a German research chemist, was hired by Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory in California. He graduated U.C. Santa Barbara in 2006 with academic honors, majoring in oceanography, and was hired by Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute, where he published a number of articles on deep sea current patterns and submarine fans. After three years, he was fired for insubordination during research at sea, and in 2011, he was arrested for statutory rape. The case was settled out of court for $20,000. That same year, he was granted a federal license to purchase and sell firearms. In 2013, he was convicted of firearms violations, including the sale of banned 9mm Israeli-made Uzi semiautomatics, 10-plus capacity magazines, and flash suppressors. He served a year and a half in the joint, minimum security, time off for good behavior. He applied for federal firearms license reinstatement in 2015, but was rejected. His IQ was a superior 134. His last known address was 2150 Webster Avenue, Oakland, California. Phone: (510) 286-1267. There was no known work address.

  After looking over Schmidt’s social security and motor vehicle records, Patton took a look at the two color mug shots of the guy. He did an immediate double take.

  It wasn’t John Doe!

  Just to be sure, he pulled out the wanted poster and compared it to the mug shots of Schmidt.
The differences were striking. Though both subjects had blond hair, Schmidt’s forehead was higher, his chin longer, his features more angular. He was also much taller than John Doe. The height-scale backdrop to Schmidt’s mug shots showed he was six foot two, while the upper estimate for John Doe based on the video analysis was five nine.

  So who is this fucking clown?

  He reread the dossier a second time, trying to figure out how Schmidt fit into the case. With the assault weapons’ rap, he obviously knew his way around firearms, so it would make sense for him to be the shooter and John Doe simply an accomplice. If that were the case, then John Doe would have probably smuggled Schmidt in through the parking garage when the security cameras were down. But how could he have done that without triggering the alarm? He would have to have had someone else inside, someone from the security company or maintenance outfit. And what if Schmidt wasn’t the shooter? Then what was his hair doing at the two crime scenes?

  Who the hell is this guy?

  Patton was determined to find out. He had Travel book a reservation for him on the next available flight to Oakland. United flight 407 departed DIA at eleven-fifteen, which gave him two hours to make assignments and brief Sharp. It also gave him time to make arrangements with the San Francisco field office, which would need to participate in the arrest.

  As he was about to head down to Sharp’s office, Lorrie Elert walked into his cube. “You’re gonna shoot me, General Patton,” she said without preamble.

  “What happened?”

  “D-base, smee-base. It’ll kick some serious booty when it’s done, but it’s not done, and it’s Thursday.”

  “How far along are you?”

  “The programming’s done. I just need to configure the spook files.”

  “How long?”