by Gary Parker
She touched the camera on the seat as if feeling for a pulse, something to assure her of what she’d just filmed. Although the police might dismiss this as irrelevant, she didn’t see it that way. To her, it went a long way toward supplying the proof she would need.
Yet . . . Shannon lifted the camera and bit her lip. In spite of her good feelings, she still needed to check this out. Others would demand it, would remind her that her emotions held no value in a court. Only God deserved faith; everyone else required verification.
Shannon remembered a friend who worked in the state crime lab in Helena; if she asked him with just the right amount of enticement, he might agree to investigate the tire track. Maybe he could match it to the motorcycle it came on and that could possibly lead him to the owner of the bike, perhaps to the man who murdered Steve Carson.
Pleased, she picked up her cell phone and punched in a number. A few seconds later, a voice spoke on the other end.
“Gerald,” she said quickly. “Shannon Bridge here.”
“I recognize your voice, Shannon. How are you?”
Shannon hesitated, a slight guilt eating at her for calling a man she’d never dated but who had a major crush on her. “I’m great, Gerald.”
“Would love to see you,” he said. “You in Helena anytime soon?”
“Not for awhile but I need to ask a solid from you.”
“Any way I can help you, I’m yours, you know that.”
“Good, I’m over near Wolf Creek—”
“The Carson death? You mixed up in that?”
“Yeah, exactly.” She quickly told him how she’d gotten involved. “I want to send you something on the quiet,” she said when finished. “Just between you and me. It’s probably not connected to anything, but I found a motorcycle tire track not far from the entry to the Carson place, got it on video, thought maybe you could run it through your database, see what you find.”
“I’m not officially on this case,” he said. “Not yet anyway.”
“I don’t want you to do anything you shouldn’t, but . . . I’d like to see if this means anything.”
“Why not go through channels? Take it to the cops?”
Shannon hesitated, disappointed that Gerald wanted to probe. “Things at the house are pretty confusing,” she finally said. “This film points toward homicide, so I’ll look stupid if you run this, find nothing, and the cops accept the suicide option. A troublemaker, you know, meddling where I shouldn’t. The media is liable to pick it up too, the park ranger with a murder conspiracy. I don’t need that publicity; no one does.”
“I see your point.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“Your wish is my command, Shannon. I was going to do it all along, just wanted to hear your reasoning for the offline requirement. Might take a couple of days, but I’ll dig up what I can.”
“I’m sending you the video.”
“I’m waiting on it.”
“I owe you, Gerald.”
“I’m counting on that.”
“Call me if you find anything.”
She sent the video, then hung up and tamped down her conscience. She wasn’t leading Gerald on, but still . . .
Shaking her head, she wondered where Carson was, hoped against hope that he, indeed, was innocent. On impulse, she pulled the number Luisa had given her from her back pocket and punched in the number. Luisa’s voice mail picked up.
Shannon hung up without leaving a message and listened to the rain falling on her windshield. “Be safe, Rick Carson,” she spoke quietly. “You’re more important than you could ever imagine.”
10
A row of plasma screens on a wood-paneled wall flashed images from all over the world into the penthouse office where Walter Augustine sat in a high-backed leather chair smoking a hand-rolled Cuban cigar. Although interested in each situation depicted on the multiple screens, Augustine cared most about the scenes from Detroit, Atlanta, and Boston. Scores of ambulances idled in clumps, law enforcement officials ran out and back, media trucks fought for the best locations, and grieving citizens moaned and wailed. Priceless.
Augustine wore a blue-tooth receiver in his left ear and talked over an encrypted line with his primary assassin, Nolan Charbeau, as he gnawed on his cigar. Three other people sat in the room with him in similar leather chairs—Mohammed Al Baroque, head of the Islamic Federation for Freedom; Susan Britt, chair of the International Atheist’s Society; and Hui Lee Chan, the second in command in the “new” China emerging on the world scene—each of them part of the executive council of Augustine’s most important endeavor. Only Augustine, however, could hear Charbeau’s voice.
“You completed your assignment in Montana?” Augustine asked Charbeau.
“Cops will clean this up faster than a frog eats a fly if all goes as planned. Drug overdose, accidental or otherwise. They’ll stew over the knife a little, but when they find no explanation, they’ll let it go as one of life’s big mysteries.”
“No loose ends?”
“Golden Boy took off, bit of a surprise there.”
Augustine fiddled with the blue silk tie that adorned his hand-tailored, pinstriped gray suit. “Any idea where he went?”
“Not yet but I’m poking around, asking questions.”
“He no doubt felt threatened by a possible homicide charge. He’s had a few run-ins with the authorities.”
“I’ll find him soon enough, left a couple of boys in Montana to keep an eyeball on things.”
Augustine stood, laid the cigar in an ashtray, and moved to the round top window that overlooked New York. His compatriots nestled in their chairs, each of them listening by earphone to the Atlanta TV station as they waited on Augustine to assess the situation. They’d learned over the years to trust him; he made few mistakes and even when he did, nobody dared to question his leadership.
The whole city stretched before Augustine, the teeming bustle that never slept. He brushed his hands through the silver mane that covered his head, pleased but still not content. Except for Rick Carson’s decision to run, the day had unfolded almost exactly as he had desired. Fact was, almost everything he’d planned over the past ten years had pretty much fallen into place. Almost time to attempt the grand finale.
“Golden Boy, as you so quaintly refer to him, is important,” Augustine said to Charbeau. “He could cause problems if we’re not cautious. His flight complicates matters. Why did you not foresee that possibility, make arrangements for it?”
“You got a beef with me? I said I’d locate him.”
“Watch your tongue, Nolan.”
Silence fell for a moment, but then Nolan spoke again, more cautious this time. “I meant no disrespect, sir. But have I ever failed you?”
“It’s true you haven’t. But as they say, there is a first time for everything.”
“I’m one of them positive thinkers, don’t see that as a possibility. I got some ideas where to find our fugitive.”
Augustine moved to his desk, pulled a prescription bottle from the top drawer, and washed down the medication with a bottle of water he took from a refrigerator in the corner of the room. His left arm hurt and his chest ached. His thirteen-month bout with cancer made him feel insecure, aware of his impending mortality. The looming grave had caused him to accelerate certain actions, to become more aggressive in his lifelong quest. He faced the other men in the room and smiled at them, everything positive and upbeat in spite of his pain.
“The media circus I’ve watched all day serves as testament to your capabilities,” Augustine said, speaking more positively to Charbeau as he faced each ally in turn. “Enough bad news to keep cable channels busy for a decade.”
“I do aim to please.”
“All in the precious name of Jesus,” Augustine said caustically. “Each act carried out with the banner of the so-called Christ flying high over it.”
“Makes churchfolk look like buffoons.”
“Precisely why we paid the perpetrators to
say what they said.”
The allies before him smiled too.
“You got some smarts, I have to give you that,” Charbeau said. “Pay millions to a bunch of losers to go berserk on the same day; lay those acts at the feet of sweet Jesus. Should create a pretty good backlash against Bible thumpers.”
Augustine chuckled, picked up his cigar and sat before the monitors again, his spirits lifted by the day’s outcomes. Charbeau, a forty-two-year-old self-educated son of bayou country with bad grammar and poor social skills, knew his business. Always on the lookout for specialized talent, Augustine had run across him after he’d broken into a home Augustine owned in New Orleans. It had taken ten of Augustine’s top men to track Charbeau down; six of them to subdue him once they did. Instead of having him thrown into jail however, Augustine had questioned him, discovered his unique skills. A former Ranger, Charbeau knew weapons, explosives, surveillance techniques. Plus, he had no qualms about theft, no conscience about murder. A two-time divorcee with no children and no ties to anything except Louisiana State football—whose games he never missed—Charbeau made the perfect employee for a particular type of job that Augustine occasionally needed done. Since he’d grown up poor and lonely, two things motivated Charbeau—vast sums of money and a sense of belonging to something bigger than himself, and working for Augustine provided both.
“Your performance deserves much praise, Nolan,” Augustine said, back in the moment. “We have accomplished much together.”
“It tickles me to hear you say that.”
“We will not finish this task in my lifetime.”
“But we’ll be closer to the end than the beginning,” Charbeau said.
“Yes, Nolan, with each generation, the end draws nearer. And if we complete my crowning glory, we will push matters to the brink, at least in the U.S.”
“As the U.S. goes, so goes the world.”
“Thankfully, this is true. I am reviewing the draft of your plan. We will talk about it soon.”
“There’s a lot to work out, but the concept makes sense, and we’ve already done some prep work. Just need the one good opportunity.”
“It will come, Nolan. For now, though, find Golden Boy. Do as I have previously instructed you.”
Augustine punched off the phone, picked up his cigar, and turned to his colleagues. Each brought their own motives into the room, their own reasons for laboring with Augustine in his quest.
Although none of them dared to broach the subject of his health, he knew they guessed his frailty and expected his leadership to end at any time. Any one of them could become a candidate for his position. Did they see him as ruthless? Brilliant? Historic? Evil?
“We have made great progress in the past seventy years,” he began softly. “We have captured academia. In the name of political correctness and diversity, universities promote every off-beat lifestyle and religion imaginable while simultaneously disallowing the free expression of Christian doctrine. Homosexual, bisexual, transsexual, Muslim, Hindu, Druid, Wiccan, atheist—they’re all okay. Conservative Christianity? Verboten.”
His colleagues smiled as he continued.
“Public schools also belong to us. No more ridiculous Bible reading or useless prayer in classes. Frivolous invocations and benedictions have been largely eliminated from graduation ceremonies. Christmas plays and carol singing has been removed. Any mention of Jesus in class essays or hallway conversation is rejected.”
Augustine paused, enjoying his nostalgic replay of the strides they had made.
“Society at large has followed. We’ve replaced ‘Merry Christmas’ with ‘Seasons Greetings’ or ‘Happy Holidays.’ Marriage is redefined to include same sex couples in a number of states. More will follow suit. Nativity scenes are disappearing faster than ice in a desert and displays like the Ten Commandments on government buildings have been removed. Oath taking that includes ‘so help me God’ is frowned upon.”
His compatriots nodded their pleasure. Augustine continued. “Who could have imagined it? Europe is essentially a wasteland for churches, fewer and fewer people in America attend worship, and many actually in church reject the idea of Jesus as the only way to salvation.”
Augustine puffed his cigar, studied his allies, then moved to a final flourish.
“Now we have our man in the White House. Though not officially one of our cohorts, the president is our pawn—a political hack who owes to us most of the seven hundred fifty million dollars raised for his run to the presidency. Yes, he publicly claims Christian faith, but we know he privately follows a master other than Jesus. If given the chance, the president plans to appoint Supreme Court justices who will remove as much Christian influence as possible from American culture.
“My friends, we can indeed see victory on the horizon.”
Augustine paused to bask in his triumph. No, he didn’t worship the devil. He had never pulled the wings off a butterfly or molested a child. Nobody had ever heard a foul word fall from his lips. He cared nothing for gambling and drank only a single glass of wine every Friday night as he shared dinner with the portrait of his dead wife Margaret, a woman on whom he had never cheated in their fifteen years of marriage before her tragic death. He had never stolen anything either. Or told even a mildly obscene joke or watched a second of pornography or yelled at a servant.
Anyone observing his life would see nothing amiss in Augustine’s profile, nothing dark and sinister, nothing but a disciplined, intelligent man enjoying the fruits of years of labor. But the outsiders couldn’t see everything. And the biggest thing they couldn’t see was simply this—Augustine craved, yearned, ached for the day when the name of Jesus would disappear forever from the face of the earth.
11
Tuesday
Rick drove over two thousand miles in the next thirty-six hours, stopping only for quick bathroom breaks, fast food, and a three-hour stint of fitful sleep at a cheap motel. He paid for his room with cash and dyed his hair and beard dark brown with a treatment he bought at a crossroads store somewhere in Missouri. He changed cars two more times—spending another twenty-one thousand of his cash—and now drove a seven-year-old white Toyota.
He spent the first twelve hours concocting a scheme to get to his mom, talk to her, then escape without ending up in jail. Just one problem with his idea—he needed an accomplice to make it happen. Not wanting to involve anyone else, he went back to the drawing board, but came up with nothing that worked for a one-man gang. Finally, he concluded he had to have help. But from whom?
The sun went down and he kept thinking. About daybreak a name came to him and he knew he’d reached the right conclusion. But would the guy do it? No way to know except to ask. But should he put an old friend in danger? Maybe in trouble with the law? He hadn’t seen him in close to three years and hadn’t spent any real time with him since their senior year in high school. Would the old friend forgive him for his fame? The differences between them that had cast Rick into the spotlight and left him behind? Rick weighed his chances all morning, then knew he had to give it a shot, so he made the call on Luisa’s cell, failed the first two times but reached the man on the third try. To Rick’s relief, the old friend instantly agreed to do as Rick requested, no questions asked. The next few hours passed quickly, and now the time had almost arrived.
Rick checked his watch as he neared North Atlanta, and traffic picked up. Almost 5:00 p.m., just before dinner. Perfect. Keeping his eyes open for cops, he eased off Interstate 75 and turned in and out through a series of tree-lined streets until he reached the one he sought. He drove even more carefully now, his nerves on edge, expecting at any moment to hear a siren telling him to stop. Thankfully, though, none sounded, and Rick finally saw what he was looking for maybe fifty yards away. He pulled his car to the nearest parking space, switched it off, and sat for a few seconds to catch his breath. Within a few minutes, he’d most likely be in jail. But not before he had his chance.
Adrenaline suddenly flooded his bloodstream
and all vestiges of weariness left him. It was time. Do it, do it, do it. Rick pulled his cap tighter, grabbed his bag with the cash and other belongings, and hopped out.
Traffic whizzed up and down the street, but nobody challenged him, and thirty seconds later Rick ducked into the back of an empty brown van—the refuge his accomplice had promised to deliver. Again as agreed, a clean gray uniform— pants and shirt—lay on the passenger seat. Rick picked it up, stepped to the back of the van, and changed clothes. Then he pulled off his hat, smoothed his hair, and moved back to the driver’s seat. After switching on the ignition, he surveyed the street and saw a police car about two blocks up; just as he had expected. Cops always watched family members of suspects. Undeterred, he shifted the van into drive, pulled past the police, then turned right, drove a couple of minutes, then turned right again. Straight ahead, the back gate of an expansive private property beckoned—acres and acres of pine, oak, maple, and dogwood. Rick knew from previous visits that a stream ran through the center of the grounds and a waterfall splashed through a fountain that fronted the stone mansion housing fifty inhabitants in palatial splendor.
He fell into line behind two other delivery trucks as they approached the guardhouse that protected the property. Another police vehicle sat on the road a block from the gate. Rick’s pulse notched up as he reached it, but one cop had a phone to his ear and the other held a sandwich to his mouth, so he drove past them without incident. A few seconds later he eased the van to the guardhouse, his mouth dry with fear. He glanced at the name on his uniform shirt, the company logo beneath it. Julio Montoya—a new employee of Taste Buds, a caterer that provided expensive but tasty meals to the specialty food market in North Atlanta.