by Gary Parker
“You’re not rational,” Bridge argued. “I understand why but you’ll be protected.”
“That’s not the only issue.”
“What then?”
“A feeling I have. If I don’t find who did this in a hurry, I never will.” Rick ran toward the garage again, Bridge keeping up.
“Where will you go?” she asked. “You’re clueless, said so yourself. You can go home, hire a lawyer, the best in the world.”
“Rewind, Miss Bridge. Regular folks versus the rich and famous. No love lost between them these days, or haven’t you noticed? People like me stole everything we own from all the rest, isn’t that correct? And like you said, I have no proof I didn’t do this. I don’t like my chances with a jury trial.”
“But running makes it worse, makes it look like you did it.”
Rick glanced back at her, still rushing. “I heard a motorcycle on the highway, minutes ago. Had to be—”
“I passed it coming here. A motorcycle headed east.”
“What?” Rick stopped as he reached an all-terrain Hummer in the garage. Luisa appeared beside him and handed over her phone. “Once I’m gone, return to your room,” he said gently to Luisa as he opened his arms. “And I’d like you to keep quiet about what you’ve seen today, if that’s okay.”
“I see nothing,” Luisa said as she hugged him. “Nothing, nothing, nothing.”
Rick patted her once, then she stepped away and disappeared into the house. Rick started again toward the Hummer, but Bridge grabbed his wrist before he climbed inside. “I can’t let you go,” she said.
“A guest is at the front door,” said the monitoring system. “One moment.” Rick turned toward Bridge. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m an officer of the state,” she said. “I have a duty to uphold.”
“A guest is at your door,” repeated the alarm.
“One moment!”
Rick unlocked Bridge’s grasp and grabbed the Luger under his sweatshirt.
“You won’t use that,” Bridge said, her eyes steady as he waved the weapon at her.
“Your guest is demanding entry,” said the monitor.
“I read about you, remember?” Bridge continued, her voice level, fast. “An Eagle Scout; a Harvard grad, history major, then two years in the Congo, teaching children to read. You’re a player, yes, gambler, party boy. But you’re more than that too, deeper, better, although you keep that hidden. You’ve got no heart to shoot anybody, especially a woman.”
Rick shrugged. “Believe what you want but I’m not staying here. So back away!”
Bridge studied him another half second, then retreated half a pace. “555-212-8000,” she said. “Call me; I’ll help you if I can.”
“We’ll go for gelato,” he said sarcastically even as he memorized the number while climbing into the Hummer.
“I’ll hold you to it.”
He picked a Bulldog hat off the seat beside him, slipped it on, and hit the ignition. The Hummer started and the garage door lifted.
“Your guest is insistent,” said the monitor.
“Let him in,” Rick called.
“I’ll say a prayer for you,” Bridge offered, stepping closer, her face almost serene.
“Don’t waste your breath.” He slammed the door, backed up the Hummer, shifted it into drive, and sped away. Rounding the corner, he glanced into the rearview mirror and saw Bridge walk out of the garage, her hands on her shapely hips. Who is she? he wondered again. More than she seemed, he suspected. Without knowing why, he sensed that he’d see her again and, although it seemed odd to think it at the moment, he certainly hoped that was true.
5
Boston
8:00 a.m.
Priscilla Cobb, head of the Polygamists’ Political Union, stood before a bevy of microphones and attendant reporters on the front steps of her group’s rather modest offices. Although married to only one man, she planned to keep her singular marital status to herself during the press conference she’d called. A two-million-dollar contribution to PPU’s financially strapped coffers, from which she drew her salary, demanded not only a little secrecy but also a couple of harmless white lies. By the time anybody bothered to check the truth of her imminent announcement, her work would be complete and, more important, the check would be deposited.
“Thank you for coming so early in the morning,” Cobb began. “You are here because of an historic lawsuit about to be filed.”
A number of cameras captured her words. “As you know,” Cobb said, “the Commonwealth of Massachusetts is one of the states that allow same-sex marriage.”
The reporters yawned.
“As a result of that interpretation of the Constitution, other groups are now seeking to extend the views of what constitutes an appropriate marriage.”
One reporter rubbed his eyes while another reached into his pocket and pulled out a breakfast bar. Cobb cleared her throat and decided she best pick up the pace. “Given what’s going on in today’s culture, I’m here to announce that I, rather I should say, the Polygamists’ Political Union is filing suit in Massachusetts to petition for the right of a man and a woman to enter into marital union with more than one spouse at a time.”
The media stood a little taller, and Cobb smiled, even paused a moment. She had them now; might as well move to one of her white lies. “Yesterday afternoon, I joined in holy matrimony with a man who is married to two other women. This makes my second marriage and his third.” She held up her hands and showed a gold wedding band on the fourth finger of each hand.
“What are the names of the other two women?” shouted a redheaded woman to her left. “And the name of the second man you married.”
“The names aren’t important,” Cobb said, lowering her hands.
“Where was the ceremony? Who performed it?” a second questioner shouted.
Cobb pushed back her short black hair and, for the first time, felt a little pressure. Telling a few lies seemed easy; keeping secrets might prove more difficult. The thick man who had approached her a few weeks ago with this “life opportunity,” as he described it, had warned her of such a struggle.
“You’ll catch some guff,” the man said, his gray eyes probing Cobb’s face as if searching for the source of the universe. “Perhaps go to jail for a short spell.”
“Until they discover I’m lying.”
The stocky man nodded. “They’ll be hacked when they discover the hoax, but they won’t have any reason to keep you in custody once they do.”
“I’ll go free then?”
“I’d bet my best dog on it.”
Cobb had weighed the matter for less than a week. Two million dollars; at a 5 percent payout per year, she could take a hundred thousand a year for her salary without touching the principal. That prize far outweighed the possibility of a little public ridicule and a few days of jail.
“The particulars of who, when, and where will not become public,” she said, focused on the reporters once more. “Those kinds of facts aren’t crucial anyway. What’s significant is that the notion of one man married to one woman makes no legal sense in today’s progressive world. Once you redefine marriage—as several states now have—from the belief that it’s a union between one man and one woman, all kinds of options open up. If a woman can marry a woman, why can’t a woman marry two women? Why can’t a woman marry two men? Why can’t a man marry a multiple of women? Legally, the logic leads to the same place.”
She paused to let the words sink in. A few of her audience nodded but whether in agreement or not she couldn’t tell.
“You’re a Mormon, aren’t you?” the redhead asked.
Cobb’s heart rate notched up. The real purpose of her announcement drew closer. “At one time, yes, but not anymore. I have renounced certain key tenants of the Mormon teachings, just not this one.”
“You moved to this state just over a year ago, right? Established state residency for just this purpose.”
“You�
�ve done some homework,” Cobb said. “Surprising. But yes, I moved here for this reason.”
“Polygamy is part of the Mormon church’s historic teaching, correct? Even though no one says much about it these days—at least in public.”
“Yes,” Cobb said. “That’s true. But it’s not just a Mormon issue these days. Other parts of the greater church are also beginning to rediscover this teaching. The Bible says we are to be fruitful and multiply. It is every man and woman’s duty, and their God-given right, to propagate the species. That’s why we can be Christian but also supportive of polygamy. The Bible plainly supports the notion of more than one spouse per person.”
“Are you part of the Replenishment Movement?” asked another reporter, a black man with a gray beard.
Cobb reminded herself to stay calm. “Not officially, although we do agree with the basic message of that advocacy group—the view that white Americans should increase their birth rate.”
“You’re afraid that the white race is about to lose its place of prominence in American society aren’t you? That people of color will soon outnumber Caucasians?”
“I don’t know that I’m afraid of it, but the demographics show that as a truth. People of color are reproducing at a far faster rate than Anglos. By 2030, whites will no longer hold the majority position they’ve traditionally held in our nation.”
“Men and women who practice polygamy also typically reject birth control, don’t they?”
Cobb knew exactly where the reporter was headed and appreciated that direction since it brought her closer to what the stocky man wanted her to say to the public. “You’re correct in that assumption.”
“Do you believe that the practice of polygamy might assist whites like yourself in the effort to maintain the current balance of political power?”
“That is a possibility and I’m glad for it.”
“Don’t you think that’s racist? The notion that whites should continue to dominate the political spectrum?”
“Is it racist to feel proud of your race? If so, then blacks, Asians, Native Americans are all racist, are they not? We’ve seen the movements in their communities to support pride in their race. Why is it wrong for a white to do so?”
“But to the extent you’re doing it?” The black man’s words came faster. “Supporting polygamy so you can have more children so you can maintain political power? And all because you believe that God wants you to do this? Isn’t that what you’re saying? God supports you in this?” The reporter snickered with the last question.
Cobb drew to her full height and smiled inwardly. At last she had the chance to say the words for which she’d received the two million dollars. Words that she personally didn’t believe but had gladly agreed to speak, given the price paid.
“Laugh if you want,” she asserted to her audience. “But hear this clearly: I believe this with all my heart—I support polygamy because I think it makes glad the heart of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”
6
Although Shannon Bridge typically followed procedure in all situations, this one demanded a slight deviation from that course. For the greater good, she reminded herself as she worked up the courage to do what she had to do. Alter a few things in a way that wouldn’t hurt anyone in order to change something that might harm many.
Back in Steve Carson’s bedroom, Shannon knew she had only a minute to make things right before the cops saw what she didn’t want them to see. She rushed to the body, bent to the ruby-handled knife, and pried it from the wound. Then she laid it down and pulled out the knife from the sleeve on her ankle. Her hands shaking, she carefully inserted the hunting knife into Carson’s hand, then slipped the ruby-handled weapon into the now-vacant ankle sleeve. Finished with the gruesome work, she stepped away, her body pouring sweat, her heart pounding under her ribs like a drunken drummer.
As Rick Carson sped east, he had no clear plan for what to do next. Although part of him wanted to head straight for his grandfather and the protection offered by his vast resources, he had no desire to bring any added stresses to Pops, as the family called him. It wasn’t that Pops couldn’t handle tough situations—heaven knew the man had dealt for years with enough pressure to crush an anvil—but at eighty-three years old, one more stone might finally prove too heavy. Plus, he didn’t see Pops much anymore, not since his dad and mom . . .
Rick pushed away the unpleasant memory and punched in Pops’ number on Luisa’s cell phone. Regardless of the past, the old man deserved to hear today’s news from him, not from some strange detective showing up on his doorstep with his hat in his hands. The phone reached an answering machine, and Rick, unwilling to leave a message about something so important, hung up.
He passed a truck in the Hummer. Where to go next? A long list of names ran through his head—scores of past girlfriends and partying buddies of all stripes, notorious celebrities who littered his days and nights with their company. But none of them seemed right. Odd, he thought, turning left toward Wolf Creek, the nearest town east of Solitude. In a moment of crisis he, a man with a face known to millions and a Blackberry filled with the private numbers of hundreds of people, knew of no one person to whom he felt comfortable turning.
He slowed as he neared Wolf Creek. One thing he knew for certain—within the hour the cops would publish a public alert for his vehicle, so he needed a different mode of transportation in a hurry. He pulled his cash from the case beside him and quickly counted just over a hundred thousand dollars. He reached Main Street as he tucked the money away again, and his eyes scanned the area, hoping but not expecting to see a motorcycle somewhere. With no bike in sight, he turned into the parking lot of a small restaurant and checked it over, spotted a clean, used black pickup near the front door. Okay, showtime. He tugged on the Bulldog baseball cap, grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment, settled them over his eyes, and climbed out.
Five minutes later and twelve thousand dollars lighter in his cash, he stepped out of the restaurant with a middle-aged man from whom he’d just bought the pickup, unloaded his belongings from the Hummer, and piled them into the truck as the man finished getting his things from his vehicle.
“Take care,” Rick said, climbing behind the wheel of his new transportation.
“You leaving that Hummer?” the man asked.
“A friend will pick it up later.”
“Lucky friend.”
Rick shut the door as the man stepped away. From out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a police car driving slowly toward the restaurant. His hands shaking, he sat up straighter, turned the ignition, and backed up. The cop stopped at the red light and glanced his way. Rick nodded slightly, slipped the truck into drive and turned right, drove by the policeman, and headed out of town.
Shannon Bridge disliked hiding anything, but for reasons only she knew she didn’t tell Officers Russell and Baker, the two cops who showed up with the ambulance, that Rick Carson had pulled a gun on her. Neither, of course, did she mention the fact that she’d switched the knives.
“I couldn’t stop Carson,” she explained simply as Luisa led the group to the bedroom where Steve Carson’s body lay. “I threatened him, pursued him. But he beat me to his vehicle, headed East.” All that was true; not a lie in any of it.
The cops stopped outside the room and faced Luisa to question her, but she shook her head and looked terribly confused. “No Englais,” she said insistently, “no Englais.”
Momentarily giving up on her, they ordered her to stay put, then turned to Shannon again, and she led them inside the room.
Russell, the eldest of the cops, took the lead as they looked over the room. “Need some boys from Helena to take a look at all this,” he said as he slipped on gloves and moved around the scene. “They’ll bring in all the gizmos, tag and bag everything, all that fancy stuff. This is way past what we can handle in Wolf Creek.”
Shannon pointed them to the computer and the three-word statement on the printout.
“A puzzler for sure,” Baker said, looking at the printout without touching it. “But looks like a deliberate drug OD to me. We got a needle and a note, no signs of an intruder. Expect this place is videoed, right?”
“The knife is a little odd though, don’t you think?” Shannon asked. “What kind of person does that to himself?”
Russell studied the hand wound for several seconds. “Who can figure rich folks?” he asked, a touch of disdain tinting his tone as he moved back to the desk. “They do all kinds of foolish things.” He tugged on the desk drawers but found them all locked.
“So what do you think?”
“Above my pay grade to think much of anything,” Russell said, taking off the gloves and scratching his nose. “But if it is foul play, I’d bet on the son—maybe a dispute, money or something. The kid injects the old man with the drugs, then uses the knife for some kinky reason only his therapist can figure. I’d sure like to talk to that boy, that’s what I’d like to do. Too bad you couldn’t keep him still till we got here. You say he left in a Hummer, just drove away?”
Shannon almost mentioned Rick’s weapon but again refrained. Although she had no reason for it, she sensed something good in him. A fault of hers, she knew, always looking for the best in people, always believing in a person’s virtues more than their failures. But she couldn’t help it. Her personal experience told her that no matter how low a person sunk, they could mend their ways if they wanted.
Baker’s walkie-talkie squawked, and he clicked it on and walked out of the room to answer. Russell raked his eyes over the scene once more, then shook his head and left with Baker. Shannon waited behind, her instincts telling her that something—she couldn’t figure what—was left undone. She checked over the desk once more but saw nothing new, so she paused and stood over the body. What happened here?