Flee The Darkness

by Grant R. Jeffrey

  The thought did nothing to calm the anxiety that spurred the uneven beat of Daniel’s heart.

  TWENTY-NINE

  8:30 A.M., Saturday, July 24, 1999

  DANIEL AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF DISHES CLATTERING DOWNSTAIRS IN HIS kitchen. For an instant the sound startled him, then he smiled. Lauren or his mother—one of them was up and probably making coffee. He threw on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, then took the stairs two at a time and turned into the kitchen. Lauren stood at the stove with her back to him, her hair wet from the shower, her slender figure wrapped in a soft terry cloth robe. The Saturday edition of the CBS Morning News buzzed from the tiny television on the counter, and he knew she hadn’t heard him approach.

  The sight of her, cuddly and clean, was irresistible. He walked forward and slipped his hands around her waist, then bent and pressed his scratchy cheek to her soft one.

  “Good morning.”

  She jumped slightly at his touch, then relaxed and leaned against him. “Good morning yourself,” she answered, using a wooden spoon to stir a coagulated mixture of what looked like eggs and cheese. She turned her head and gave him an uncertain smile. “I hope these eggs are fresh. I had to cut mold off the cheese.”

  Laughing, he released her and leaned against the counter, then crossed his arms as he studied her. Her hair hung loose around her ears; her face was scrubbed, shining, and completely bare of makeup. This was a face he could wake up to every morning.

  She looked up from the eggs. “Your manners are slipping, Mr. Prentice.” Her tone was as sharp as a schoolmarm’s, but her eyes sparkled at him. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that it was rude to stare?”

  “You’re easy to stare at.” His heart thumped uncomfortably when a rush of pink stained her cheek.

  “You’re in my way.” She lifted a brow in a prim expression, and Daniel fought the urge to reach out and kiss every last trace of diffidence from her face. His hand moved to her shoulder and he might well have pulled her into his arms, but at that moment his mother stepped into the kitchen from the dining room.

  “Good morning, Daniel.” She pitched her voice a tone higher than usual. “Did you sleep well?”

  Daniel released Lauren’s shoulder and smiled at his mother. “Not really.” He crossed his arms again and glanced at Lauren. “I think I was awake half the night. I had a lot of things to think about.”

  “I think we all did,” Lauren said, spilling the eggs onto a platter Daniel hadn’t seen in ten years.

  “I’ve got juice and coffee in the dining room,” his mother said, shuffling into the kitchen in threadbare slippers. “Honestly, Daniel, you really should take better care of your kitchen. Lauren and I had a hard time finding anything in this place.”

  “Hey, don’t blame me.” Daniel lifted his hands in a “don’t shoot” pose. “I don’t eat here very often. I usually eat out, or the professor and I order in and eat at the office.”

  His mother made soft tsking noises as she opened cabinet doors. “You ought to at least buy some napkins. Don’t you have a cleaning lady? The next time she comes, you tell her to outfit this kitchen with grocery staples—fresh coffee, fresh eggs, some orange juice, milk, and sugar—”

  She went on, reciting the inventory of a small convenience store, and Daniel’s gaze drifted over to the television. A news desk had replaced the morning show’s cozy living room set, and the man who faced the camera now wore a serious expression.

  “Excuse me, Mom.” Daniel moved past her, then turned up the TV’s volume. The newscaster’s well-modulated voice echoed in the kitchen.

  “. . . a live report with Adrian Romulus, president of the European Union’s Council of Ministers. We take you now to Paris, where Mr. Romulus has called a press conference to announce the theft.”

  “Is that the man you were talking about last night?” Daniel’s mother flinched as Romulus’s handsome features flashed onto the screen. “My goodness, Daniel, look at him!”

  Daniel felt warning spasms of alarm erupt within him as Adrian Romulus nodded at a host of assembled reporters. He was standing on a broad portico of an elaborate house, probably his chateau outside Paris. His hands were thrust into his pockets in an almost casual pose, but there was no denying the dark solemnity in his eyes.

  A stern-faced man . . . never had a description seemed so apt.

  “Citizens of the world community, I come to you today with sobering news.” His voice rang with infinite compassion. “Twenty-four hours ago I was informed by representatives from the Russian Republic of Chechnya that more than a dozen so-called ‘suitcase-sized’ nuclear bombs had disappeared.” He paused, and his dark eyes narrowed as he stared into the camera. “Twelve hours ago, I learned that these devices were stolen. Forces identifying themselves as the Morning Star Trust have, in effect, taken these weapons for nuclear extortion.”

  Romulus held up a sheet of paper. “I will now read part of the communiqué we received last night.” Romulus moistened his lips as if he were nervous, then began to read. “’We of the Morning Star Trust, in order to establish a world without tyranny and oppression, have secretly placed one dozen nuclear weapons in high-density population areas throughout the cities of the world. Unless world leaders surrender an amount equivalent to six billion American dollars to us within three weeks, we shall begin to detonate these weapons, beginning in New York City. Lest you think we are incapable of evading extreme security measures, know this:We planted the bomb that killed Mrs. Victoria Stedman, first lady of the USA. We have struck once, and we will strike again, if necessary.’”

  “Daniel?” His mother’s voice was hoarse with shock. “What’s happening?”

  Daniel held up his hand as Romulus lowered the message he’d just read. When he turned his gaze back to the camera, his compelling, magnetic eyes seemed to fill the screen. “Citizens of the world community, do not fear. We of the European Union have sent word to the Pacific nations, the nations of the Middle East, and the Americas. Together we will combine our elite security forces and we will track down those who would wrest our liberties from us. Fortunately, we have already experienced a major breakthrough in our effort to combat this threat of nuclear terrorism.”

  Romulus pulled out another sheet of paper and turned it toward the camera. It was an 8x10 black-and-white glossy, a photograph of a stone-faced man with thick hair and dark, slanting eyes. Though the man’s dark hair was sprinkled with gray, his skin was smooth and unlined.

  “This man is known as Lucius Joshua,”Romulus said, his mouth twisting. “He is known to be traveling under several false names and using old American and European passports. If you see him, call the authorities immediately. Do not try to apprehend him. He is armed and dangerous, he lives outside the law, and he will not have a Millennium Chip. Do not sell to him. Do not give him shelter. And do not fear. We, the citizens of the world community, will rise up and drive this evil from us.”

  Romulus stepped back as a swarm of questions rose from the reporters in Paris, but the network suddenly cut to the Oval Office. Wearing a dark blue cardigan, Samuel Stedman sat at his desk with a steaming cup of coffee at his elbow. Despite an obvious attempt to appear casual and at ease, the usual expression of good humor was missing from the curve of Stedman’s mouth and the depths of his eyes.

  “The president?” Lauren’s voice held a note halfway between disbelief and regret. “Oh no, they must have brought him back last night. He was resting at Camp David, but now this—”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” President Stedman began, his brow wrinkling with concern, “let me be the first to assure you that the United States has already taken the necessary precautions to prevent terrorism on our own shores. We have heard nothing from this Morning Star Trust; and we have no evidence whatsoever that this group is behind the incident—” he turned the catch in his voice into a cough and went on—“that occurred at the White House. If this is a true threat, we will dispatch every necessary force to meet it; if it is not, we wil
l soon put the matter to rest.”

  “He still doesn’t trust Romulus.” Lauren’s hoarse whisper echoed in the kitchen. “But he looks awful. Look at him, Daniel—I don’t think he’s feeling well.”

  Daniel had to agree. Weariness and pain had carved merciless lines on the president’s face; creases around his mouth and eyes muted his strength. Drops of perspiration lined the hairline above his brow.

  “Do not panic,” the president was saying now, his hands enfolding the coffee mug as if this were just a casual Saturday chat from the White House. “Stay tuned to your emergency stations, but go about your business as usual.” A muscle quivered at his jaw as he gazed into the camera. “And may God have mercy upon us.”

  The program immediately returned to the CBS morning hosts. They sat on the sofa and stared at the camera with wide eyes and bland, meaningless smiles.

  “Daniel, I’ve never heard of such a thing.” His mother’s mouth quirked with fear. “A nuclear weapon in a suitcase? Is it possible?”

  “Yes, Mom.” Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing that a monster headache would soon be hammering his brain. This felt like a bad dream, but he could feel the cool tile floor beneath his feet and smell the rich scent of coffee. This was real, he was awake, and his mother was frightened.

  He softened his voice. “Yes,Mother, there are nuclear demolition packages designed for placement and detonation by special forces. Not all nukes are on the tips of missiles or torpedoes. In fact, I’d dare to say that there are scores of small tactical nuclear weapons floating around out there somewhere. Yes, it’s entirely possible that terrorists have managed to get their hands on such bombs.”

  “From Russia?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. The state of the Russian federation is extremely volatile.”

  Daniel turned to Lauren, who stood in the center of the kitchen with her hand wound in her hair. Little lightning bolts of worry flashed in her eyes. “I need to get back to Washington. I shouldn’t be away now.”

  “All right.” Daniel tried to smile. “But don’t you want to eat breakfast first? After all, you cooked it.”

  “Maybe some coffee. But then I ought to go.”

  Daniel helped his mom find the coffee mugs, then stood back while Lauren rattled through canisters on a frantic search for sugar. The television newscast broke for a commercial, a mindless and irritating bit about a dancing baby amid waves of undulating toilet paper, then the baby flickered for an instant and the screen went black.

  “What in the world?”

  Daniel knew his mother’s irritated tone only covered her fear. “It’s nothing, Mom.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “The station must be having trouble with its video. There must have been some confusion when they cut to the satellite feeds from Washington and Paris—”

  The screen blossomed to life again, and the somber-faced newscaster was back at his onscreen desk. “This just in from Washington,” he said, his voice dull and troubled. “We’ve received word that President Stedman has collapsed and is being transferred to Walter Reed Army Medical Center. We have no details yet, but the vice president is said to be en route to the White House.” The newscaster’s mouth spread into a thin-lipped grimace. “Stay tuned for further reports.”

  “Dear God, what is happening?”

  Daniel turned at the sound of Lauren’s voice. A flicker of shock had widened her eyes, and she clung to the edge of the kitchen counter as if it were the only stability to be found in an unstable and chaotic world.

  Daniel stepped forward and caught her, then helped her to a chair at the bar in his kitchen. Her trembling hands had gone as cold as ice.

  “I should be there with him,” she whispered, staring down at the floor. “What he must be going through! I knew he was struggling with his grief, but I had no idea he was ill.”

  “Do you think it was a heart attack?”

  She shook her head again, then pressed her hand to her face in a convulsive gesture. “No. The president is healthy; he just had his annual physical in May. Low cholesterol, low blood pressure, everything was fine. His diet was great—he and Victoria lived on salads and low-fat meats because she had a weak heart.”

  Daniel sat on the chair next to her and turned the situation over in his mind. If the vice president had been summoned to the White House, this was a serious matter. But what sort of medical condition could arise from out of thin air? A stroke, perhaps. An aneurysm. An entire host of diseases could be exacerbated by stress, and Samuel Stedman had certainly experienced a devastating level of stress in the last few days. And now, with Adrian Romulus announcing worldwide terrorism in Europe and the United States . . . no wonder the man had collapsed.

  Lauren pulled her hand away from her face, then pushed herself up from the chair. “I better call the White House and see if I can get any more details. Then I have to go back to Washington.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No.” Lauren rested her hand on Daniel’s shoulder for a brief moment as a smile trembled over her lips. “Thanks, but I probably won’t be decent company for a while. But excuse me while I make that call—”

  Daniel sat silently and watched her stumble toward the library. After a moment, his mother sank into Lauren’s chair, then her hand came to rest upon Daniel’s.

  “Daniel,” her voice was rough with anxiety, “I don’t know what’s happening, but I have a feeling . . . the time is near. The Lord is returning soon.”

  “You’ve been saying that for years, Mom.” His words were loaded with ridicule, and he grimaced when his mother flinched. He gentled his tone. “I’m sorry. I guess we’re all upset. Why don’t you go ahead and eat breakfast while I see about getting Lauren to the airport? We’ll talk when I get back.”

  She nodded without speaking, hurt shining in her eyes, then she stood and walked toward the dining room. Exasperated, Daniel let her go, then crossed the foyer in search of Lauren.

  Forty-five minutes later, Lauren sat in Daniel’s car, her overnight bag on her lap, her cell phone pressed to her ear. Daniel crunched the gears as the Jag tore up the expressway, trying not to listen to what was certainly supposed to be a classified conversation. After a few moments, Lauren snapped her phone shut and stared out at the road with wide, watery eyes.

  “They were saying heart attack,” she murmured, putting out a hand to brace herself against the dash, “but now he’s slipped into a coma, so they think he mixed up his pills. The doctor had him on St. John’s Wort, a harmless herbal antidepressant, but somehow he took nitroglycerin. At least that’s what the preliminary blood test reveals.”

  “Nitroglycerin?” Frowning, Daniel leaned the car around a slowmoving Ryder truck. “I thought you said he didn’t have heart problems.”

  “He didn’t. But Mrs. Stedman did; she kept nitroglycerin with her all the time.” Lauren crossed her arms. “I’m so confused, I don’t know what to think. But General Archer has alerted the media, and there’s going to be a herd of reporters at the airport. He wants me to handle them here, before I get on the plane. Tom Ormond held a press conference in Washington ten minutes ago, but that didn’t satisfy the national curiosity.”

  “I would imagine that Ormond’s got his hands full.” Daniel smiled grimly, then leaned the Jag toward the right and the La Guardia exit ramp. A moment later they were pulling up outside the Delta gate, and, as Daniel feared, a mob of reporters stood ready, armed with cameras and microphones.

  “Looks like they figured out which flight was the next one to Washington. If you want, Lauren, I can get my pilot on the phone—”

  “Thanks, Daniel, but there’s no time.”

  He stopped the car a few feet away from the horde of reporters, knowing that this might be their last private moment for a long while.

  Daniel reached out and took her hand, and Lauren gave him a weak smile in return. “Are you going to make it?” he asked.

  “I’ll be okay.” Her blue eyes brimmed with threatening tears,
but none fell. “I’ll collapse later, when I’m alone. Right now I’ve got to think about the job.”

  Daniel squeezed her hand. “Think about the job, but spare a thought for me, okay? I know I’ll be thinking about you.”

  The look in her blue eyes pierced Daniel’s soul. “If you think of it, ask your mother to pray for the president—and for me. You can pray, too, if you want.”

  Not trusting himself to answer in words, Daniel squeezed her hand. She took a moment to dash the wetness from her eyes, then gathered her bags, and opened the car door. Daniel cut the engine as she stepped out and moved toward the crowd. The reporters caught sight of her almost immediately, and Daniel watched, admiring the way Lauren plunged into the mob with her head high. She moved to a short staircase leading into the terminal, then turned at the top step and faced them like a queen granting favors.

  “I have just been briefed by officials in Washington,” she said, her clear voice carrying over the crowd, “and I can take a few questions before I have to board my flight.” She nodded at a man in a brown tweed coat. “Tom, you first. What do you want to know?”

  And so the questions came—how was the president, what was wrong, had the reins of power been officially transferred to the vice president? Daniel leaned upon the steering wheel, moved to admiration by Lauren’s intelligent evasions. The woman was a wonder. Though she did not give a single specific answer, she said enough to give the press something to report, just enough to keep the viewers happy and glued to the television sets.

  The president was resting comfortably, she said. The White House was firmly in control of the situation, and there was no need to panic. Vice President John Miller was at the White House, and the president’s cabinet was also standing by, ready to help with any emergency situation. General Adam Archer had been at the White House all morning, so there was no reason to fear international terrorists; the military had the situation under control. “Most of all,” she said, her extraordinary eyes blazing over the crowd, “there is no reason to believe the president’s illness has anything to do with the Morning Star Trust and the missing nuclear warheads.”