The Constantine Conspiracy

by Gary Parker

  “You’re so astute. Carson and your daughter fled by boat, am I right?”

  “Sure.”

  Charbeau moved to the window and stared out. “They in a public or private place?”

  “That’s two questions. Your turn before I give anything else. You’re behind the recent events, correct? The so-called Christians doing the awful things?”

  “Of course we are,” he said, facing her again. “You wasted that one, my dear.”

  Mabel dropped her head, disappointment written in her eyes.

  “They in a public or private place?” he asked again.

  “Private.” She looked up. “How many people involved in Domino?”

  He shrugged. “Hard to say, depends on who shows up.”

  “Who shows up? What does that mean?”

  “We’re trading remember? Does Carson still have the cell phone he brought here?”

  “No.”

  Charbeau’s shoulders slumped. “I counted on using the cell to locate Carson.”

  “Breaks my heart you’re so disappointed.”

  “I’ll need to see the phone.”

  “In my pocket,” she said, glancing at her apron. “No harm in giving it to you now.”

  Charbeau pulled the phone out and dropped it in his back pocket.

  “So this is a public event you’ll hit,” Mabel said. “Whoever shows up for it, right? An indefinite number means a public event.”

  “True.” Charbeau weighed how much further to go. With the information he’d already gained, he knew enough to significantly narrow the search for Carson. A call to Mr. Augustine would place enormous resources at his disposal, enough to pinpoint every private home on the lake, to find any connections between Mabel Bridge and the owners of those homes.

  “Do you own the place where they’re hiding?”

  Mabel laughed but without joy. “I’m not so ignorant that I’d answer that,” she said.

  “My guess is no,” Charbeau said. “Women like you don’t keep enough money to buy a second house. But somebody close to you, maybe a relative does own it, is that correct? Otherwise you wouldn’t feel comfortable sending Ms. Bridge there in the middle of the night.”

  “I’m tired of this game,” Mabel said. “I’ve said all I’m going to say.”

  Charbeau stooped to her, his chin within inches of her mouth. “In a moment I’ll leave you,” he said. “Then you’ll find a way to flip over your chair, drag yourself to the door, and holler for the neighbors. But I’ll have the location of your precious Shannon and her famous friend before that happens, and when I find them their nighttime escapades will end.”

  “You harm them and you’ll regret it the rest of your miserable life.”

  Charbeau shook his head. “I regret nothing, dear lady, never have and never will.”

  Mabel snapped at him, but he’d already backed away, his body wracked with laughter as he flipped off the light and strode from the house. Mabel Bridge amused him, he concluded, almost enough for him to offer mercy to her daughter when he found her and her worthless companion.

  24

  Rick finished his sixth peanut butter cracker while Shannon swallowed the last of a bag of trail mix she’d found in the pantry and threw the wrapper in a trash can in the kitchen. Feeling a bit stronger, he eased to a sitting position and watched with great interest as Shannon sat down again, lifted her backpack off the floor, and settled it in her lap.

  “You well enough to talk a few minutes?” she asked.

  “What’s in the backpack?” he asked in return.

  “The answers to all your questions.”

  “You can stuff all that into one backpack?”

  “More than you’d think.”

  He settled back, wincing as his shoulder touched the sofa. “Okay, mystery woman, illuminate me.”

  “Once you know you can never again not know. You sure you’re ready for that?”

  Rick stared at the spider webs in the ceiling’s corners for several seconds, then faced Shannon again. “A stranger murders my father, then you, my pretty protector, appear out of nowhere. I get shot in the middle of the night for reasons I can’t imagine. Now you tell me that your backpack contains the answers to all my questions. How can I refuse such knowledge?”

  Shannon stood and stepped to the window, her back to him, and stared out. Sensing her indecision, Rick stayed still and watched her struggle with how much to reveal. When she pivoted his way again, her eyes were determined but also fearful.

  “Did you watch the video I sent to your phone?” she asked.

  “I’ve been racing to Destin and dodging bullets, so no, I never quite found the time. Then I left the phone with Mabel.”

  “I taped a video from the television in the panic room,” she said. “That’s why your father left the code behind.”

  “What’s on it?”

  “It’s going to sound insane, but you have to hear it all before you say anything, reach any conclusions.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Shannon perched on the seat across from him and started to talk. “The video showed a piece from a documentary. In AD 312 a Roman general named Constantine faced a general named Maxentius in a battle at the Tiber River outside of Rome. The stakes were as high as they could get—the winner of that battle would become the emperor of Rome. Maxentius’s forces outnumbered Constantine’s by almost four to one. The night before the fight Constantine saw a vision in a dream. Historians of the time say different things about what he saw, but most agree he saw a flaming sword, with a handle decorated with rubies shaped in the form of a cross.”

  “Like the knife found with my dad.”

  Shannon nodded. “Above the sword, Constantine saw four Latin words—‘per is mucro, victum.’”

  “With this sword, conquer?” Rick asked.

  “You know Latin?”

  “High school, three years. I was a nerd, what can I say?” “You’re pretty funny for a guy with a bullet in his shoulder.”

  “Just tell the story.”

  Shannon smiled, then continued. “Before this vision, Constantine cared little about anything religious. Romans, as you probably know, worshiped all kinds of gods at the time—a pluralistic society. Constantine apparently believed in none of those gods.”

  “Weren’t Christians persecuted before this happened?”

  “On and off for three hundred years. Previous emperors slaughtered thousands of Christians. Called them traitors, blamed them for most of Rome’s problems. Many people believed they were cannibals.”

  “As in the words of Jesus from the Lord’s Supper—this is my body, take and eat of it.”

  “You’ve taken communion?”

  “I had an Episcopalian girlfriend once.”

  “Anyway, many people in ancient Rome took the words at face value—didn’t understand their spiritual meaning, believed Christians were eating people when they took the Supper.”

  “So Constantine saw this dream the night before the biggest battle of his life?” Rick asked, eager for the story to continue.

  “Yes, took it as a portent, a sign that he should pledge his allegiance to Jesus, not unusual in that era, leaders fighting in the name of this god or that one.”

  “Not so unusual in this era either.”

  “You’re right about that. So, the next morning before the fight, Constantine had his men mark their shields with a new symbol, the Chi and Rho, the X and P, the Greek letters for the name of Christ.”

  “I take it he won the battle that day,” Rick stated.

  “You should go on Jeopardy. Yes, he routed Maxentius and his men, took the throne of the Empire.”

  Rick shifted position as his wound started to throb again. “An interesting history lesson. But what’s the link to me? Other than a knife decorated with ruby crosses impaling my father’s hand to his desk?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Enough for what? Connect the dots for me. How does a battle 1700 years ago t
ie to my dad’s death? And where do you come into this—what’s your role?”

  Shannon stood again, then picked up her backpack and pulled out a book the size of a New York phone directory. “Here’s the part you won’t believe,” she said, sitting down beside him and opening the book. “The part I still have trouble accepting and I’ve known about it for . . . well, for a while.”

  Rick stared at the book, an aged hardback with a brown cover and yellowed pages.

  “It’s not titled,” she continued, showing him the cover and spine. “No author either. It’s more a journal than a book, a copy of an original, translated from a variety of languages into English. Composed off and on over seventeen hundred years. Scores of authors wrote their parts as time passed, as different men recorded different events that they saw or heard about. The last writer penned his experiences about fifty years ago.”

  She looked at Rick. “You feel like reading a few pages?”

  “You think I should, right?”

  She nodded, flipped open the volume, and thumbed through it.

  “Where should I start?” he asked.

  “First page is as good as any.”

  Rick exhaled deeply and Shannon laid the book in his lap, then stepped to the fireplace as if to give him space. Although highly skeptical, he knew he had to read at least part of this story. Shannon believed in it, and if she thought the book’s contents would offer insight into his dad’s murder, then he had to give it that chance. He started to read.

  Rome, AD 313

  The sword stood half the length of a normal man’s body, its point piercing the center of a finely carved oblong table.

  Blood-red rubies shaped in the form of a cross adorned the sword’s handle on both sides. . . .

  25

  She sent him a video,” Charbeau reported to Augustine by phone. “Before the police picked her up in the cemetery. I watched it a few moments ago from Tony Gonzalez’s phone. Carson left it here before he skipped out.”

  “And the content of the video?”

  Nolan quickly gave him the details.

  “You think Bridge knows what it means?” Augustine asked.

  “Hard to say just yet.”

  “She is most enterprising, though, wouldn’t you say? I suspect she is more than a park ranger. Did your assistant in Montana find anything to support my suspicion?”

  “Not that he’s reported.”

  “Instruct him to keep investigating.”

  “Absolutely. Any clues as to our missing couple’s current location?”

  “It’s a small cabin across the lake; the lagoon feeds into it. Owned by her father’s brother. I cross-referenced the owner of every house within the five-mile radius—only one other Bridge to be found. Should take you about half an hour to circle the lagoon to the cabin.”

  “I should have them in custody within the hour.”

  “See that you do. I grow weary of this chase and other matters press in on all sides.”

  “Count on me, sir.”

  “And Nolan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Destroy that video and the phone it rode in on.”

  Rick finished the chapter and stared at Shannon who had sat down again beside him. The effort had wearied him and his shoulder seemed on fire again, but he needed to talk about this in spite of the pain. “Who wrote this chapter?” he asked.

  “One of the original twelve you just read about became a believer a few years later. He wrote his story, that’s how the book started.”

  “Fascinating—if I accept it as genuine.”

  “Believe me, it is.”

  “Let’s assume you’re right. But the big question still remains. How does my father’s death connect to any of this?”

  Shannon closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, then looked back at him. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, like every other lunatic conspiracy theory I’ve ever heard,” he said, his conviction giving him strength. “The Jews control the world through the Trilateral Commission, the Masons dominate the U.S. government and the military industrial complex, a fleet of black helicopters and infrared satellites spy on us at night, and a herd of unicorns run free on an island in South America, romping around with Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, and John F. Kennedy. This is nuts, Shannon.” He handed her the book and she laid it in her lap.

  “Just calm down,” she soothed. “Think through this.”

  After a couple of minutes, he shook his head, then spoke again. “Let me get this straight. You want me to believe that seventeen hundred years ago a group of men met after Constantine took the throne. That this cabal, displeased with the emperor’s choice of gods, vowed an eternal pledge to undo what he had done, to reclaim Rome for their godless view of life?”

  “Yes, conservative men who thought they were defending their nation and what it stood for.” She said it so confidently it caused him to pause again, to rethink the mocking he’d planned to offer.

  “Okay,” he tried again, softer this time. “Again assume that you’re right, it’s all true. What’s new about that? So what if not everyone alive at the time agreed with Constantine? Wouldn’t be the first time somebody rebelled against their leader.”

  “It’s more than that and you know it.”

  “So you’re saying that this cabal survived its original founders. That it kept working towards its ends through the centuries.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “You’re telling me that it still exists today, it’s still out there, actively trying to suppress Christian faith, to wipe it all out.”

  “Remember your history, Rick. In every generation unnamed forces struggled with the truths of the Christian church, not always through force, more often with lies cloaked in the form of intellectual assaults, government control, personal attacks on men and women of faith.”

  “But you should expect that, shouldn’t you? The marketplace of ideas, right? What I believe wrestles with what you believe. Nothing sinister about any of that—it’s just opposite sides of the same coin at odds with the other.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “That always happens. But that’s not what I’m talking about here. I’m telling you of a full-fledged conspiracy, a conglomerate of evil funded by vast resources gathered across hundreds of years, empowered by odd alliances from across the globe—atheists, Muslims, secular Jews.” Her voice rose as she spoke, her eyes serious, fraught with sincerity.

  “The few Muslims and Jews I know don’t play well together; and aren’t atheists opposed to all forms of religion?”

  “Usually yes. You almost never see these groups in agreement on anything. But some of them have made league with each other in their opposition to the Christian faith. They seem to believe that Christianity is the biggest threat to their worldview. Once they get rid of it, then they’ll wage war against each other.”

  “Knock off the biggest gorilla first? Then turn on each other?”

  “You’re getting the picture now.”

  Rick weighed the idea and decided it made some sense, in an odd, bizarre way. That is, if any of it was true.

  Shannon kept trying to convince him. “It’s a hidden crusade. Led by some of the smartest, richest, most ruthless people on the planet.”

  She paused and Rick studied her for a moment, but then shook his head. “I have no doubt you believe what you’re saying,” he said. “But you’ll have to excuse me for not drinking the Kool-Aid. What you’re telling me is worthy of Ripley’s Believe It or Not, way over the top.”

  Shannon bit her lip, frustration written all over her face. “The Conspiracy supported Muslims during the Crusades, especially Saladin, gave him money, information. He killed every Templar he captured in 1187 when he retook Palestine for Islam. Then the Conspiracy suppressed Bible reading during the Dark Ages, became patrons of the secularists during the Enlightenment. They funded Joseph Stalin who co-opted the Russian Revolution—which wasn’t atheistic at first—and made disbelief in
God a major plank in his political platform. China, as you know, followed in the same vein, again assisted by members of the Conspiracy who helped write the documents that forced atheism on their people. Don’t believe Communism is dead either. The Conspiracy is pouring billions into the effort to resurrect it.”

  “That’s quite a list.”

  “I could name scores of others. This journal chronicles much of the story.” She held up the book again.

  “Is the journal all the proof you have?”

  Shannon sighed. “It’s not like they’re going to leave a lot of clues around, Rick.”

  “Okay,” he said, feeling a little apologetic for his skepticism. “So what are they doing now?”

  “For the past hundred years they’ve focused their efforts on the United States. They believe that what happens here over the next century will determine what happens in the rest of the world. And they’ve made incredible progress, especially since the liberal 1950s. You’re aware of that, at least some of it. Time magazine, 1966—remember the famous ‘God Is Dead’ cover?”

  “But America isn’t antireligious. Sometimes I think it’s more religious than ever. A church on every corner, television preachers all over cable, preacher books on the bestseller lists.”

  “All that’s true, but it’s in spite of what’s happening in political circles, particularly the courts. And it won’t stay that way much longer if current trends continue. You know about Bible reading and prayer expelled from schools, Christmas pushed further and further from public conversation, the laundry list of legal decisions that have swept away many of the moral principles that formed our society. We have a list of over a hundred federal judges either officially part of, or controlled by, the Conspiracy. They’re the ones who’ll go on the Supreme Court when the openings come. Plus the Conspiracy owns the publishing houses that have recently inundated us with the ranting of atheists paid millions to write their books. They fund the coffers of scores of left-leaning organizations, support almost every loony-liberal politician who runs for office, give aid and comfort to Islamic jihadists who want to destroy Christianity in all its forms. The Conspiracy supports almost anyone who will work with them.”