by Gary Parker
Rick paused, his body just about out of gas, his shoulder barking. Although not convinced at all by her arguments, he felt moved by Shannon’s passion. He needed to ask one more question but didn’t feel sure he wanted the answer, so he postponed it for the moment, choosing to go in another direction. “So how do you personally know all this?” he asked. “Where do you fit in?”
Shannon brushed back her hair. “Anytime one force arises, another also comes into existence. I’m a . . . well . . . let me say it this way—I’m a soldier in the opposing army.”
“What? You have to be more specific if you want me to swallow all this. It’s time to come clean Shannon, open the vault. Who are you?”
She threw back her head, stared at the ceiling a second, then faced Rick again. “Like I said, I’m a soldier, part of a group called the Sovereign Military Order of St. John.”
“You’re part of what?” His curiosity pushed away his pain for a moment.
“The Order, we call it. You might have heard of the public work it does, mostly in the medical field, helping people who suffer because of natural disasters, famines, that kind of thing.”
Rick searched his brain. “I remember a couple of guys I ran into in the Congo a few years back. Cool guys, handing out food during the civil unrest. Real humanitarians.”
“They could have been with the Order. We do all kinds of charitable works—80,000 volunteers, 13,000 of them doctors or nurses. Have envoys in over a hundred countries, categorized as observers in the United Nations . . .”
“Where does the soldier part come in?”
“We have two faces, one public, one private. I serve in the private arena. Nobody knows about us.”
“What got you involved?”
Shannon shook her head. “My personal history isn’t important, leave it at that. The Order came into existence in the eleventh century, during the Crusades. Knights serving God, fighting battles, defending their homeland against Muslims. Others—non-knights—cared for the sick, the wounded from battles. The fighting wing of the Order went underground when the Crusades ended.”
“But it still continued?”
“Yes, because the Constantine Conspiracy did. That treachery demanded a defense, and the Order provided it, not always successfully, but persistently.”
“So you’re a knight?”
“Actually, I’m called a dame, but with a weapon.”
Rick shifted and groaned, his arm hurting worse by the second.
“We need to go,” Shannon said. “Get a doctor for you.”
“Another second,” he grunted. “All this sounds like a novel: an ancient cabal bent on destroying the religious underpinnings of the modern world. An unknown but equally ancient defender stands ready to oppose it.”
“Novels usually find their themes in some basic truth.”
“Look,” he said. “I’m not a believer, Shannon, you know that already. Spiritual? Yeah, I’d say I’m that. Reincarnation maybe, who knows? A Great Spirit, I like that notion. Native American culture, I can embrace some of that. But Christianity? Never paid it much attention, and when I did, it pretty much made me want to barf. Priests molesting children, pastors paying off prostitutes, a bunch of nosy big shots playing politics, usually with the Republican party, trying to jam their views down everyone else’s throats. Not a pretty bunch, know what I mean?”
Shannon dropped her eyes, then faced him again. “I can’t defend everything that Christians do. But I’m telling you that things aren’t always what they seem. You know the mosque bombing the day your dad died, the shooting of the abortion doctors, the whole polygamy deal in Massachusetts?”
“Heard some of it on the radio while dodging an all-points-bulletin with my name on it—all the deeds done in the wonderful name of Jesus.”
“The Conspiracy funded every one of those acts.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Believe what you want, but it’s true.” She said it firmly, without equivocation.
“Again, I have to ask, do you have proof of any of this?”
“Not exactly.”
“Just as I thought. What’s the motive?”
“Think about it.”
Rick’s vision blurred for a moment and he knew he couldn’t press himself much further. But he had to conclude this, get it all out in the open. “To make Christians look bad?”
“Exactly. It’s an unending public relations war, a struggle for the allegiance of every American.”
“Is it usually violent?”
“Not in the U.S. But things have accelerated lately. We suspect that something major has happened, and the Conspiracy has picked up the pace as a result. They’re moving toward a dramatic gesture designed to . . . we don’t know . . . push matters to the next level.”
“And the Order stands against all this,” he said, but without conviction.
“Not too successfully in the past fifty years, but yes, where and when we can. We enlist Christian intellectuals to combat atheists in the media, fund lawsuits to uphold Christian values, support what we believe when we see it tested. Again, the journal details much of our work.”
“You ever match violence with violence?”
She dropped her head for a moment, then faced him again. “Only to defend life when it’s threatened. We never initiate violence—that’s part of our code. We seek to tell no lies and take no lives.”
Rick took a deep breath, his patience with Shannon’s story growing thin. “How long we staying here?” he asked.
“If you feel like moving, I’m ready to go now. They’ll find us pretty quickly, I expect.”
“Soldiers of the Conspiracy?”
“Yes. The Conspiracy leaders hire people, pay them enormous sums of money to do their bidding. An army of mercenaries, most of whom don’t know the true motives behind the deeds they do, men and women with no allegiance but making money.”
“How many are involved in the leadership?”
Shannon folded her hands and leaned forward. “Hard to say exactly, but our estimates suggest close to a quarter of a million true believers, men and women who know at least some of the details of the organization. They’re run by a Council of thirteen—twelve lieutenants and one Master. And they own vast properties gathered over the centuries, control financial systems in a number of countries, especially in Europe and many of the old Soviet states. They also run the media, especially in America, and dominate scores of politicians through their money and influence. You put key people in a few select positions of leadership and fund their schemes with billions upon billions of dollars, and you’d be amazed how far your influence can reach.”
“And how many of your Order—the private part?”
She smiled. “About a thousand knights.”
“And your finances?”
“A little better than operating on a shoestring but compared to the Conspiracy we’re poor as church mice.”
“Why such a vast difference?” he probed. “You’ve had centuries to gain power just like they have.”
“Principles, Rick, morality. We operate with it, the Conspiracy doesn’t. Amazing what you can acquire if you have no conscience.”
“Do the odds scare you?”
“All the time. But God’s on our side—that balances the numbers a bit.”
“You really believe that God stuff, don’t you?”
She stared at her hands a moment, then said with conviction, “Absolutely, and with good reason.”
“The word ‘reason’ and God don’t belong in the same sentence.”
“With me they do.”
“Explain that to me.”
She put her hands on her knees and shook her head. “It’s not the time. Maybe later.”
“I ask you to explain God to me and you refuse? What happened to being a witness, telling me about Jesus—all that mumbo jumbo?”
“You’re not ready to hear it, so why waste my time or yours?”
Rick exhaled. “You’re hurtin
g my feelings.”
“And I’m Angelina Jolie. Back to your father.”
“Okay. Now don’t think I’m buying any of this, because I’m not. And I’m not sure I care even if I do, except for one thing. If the Conspiracy hired an assassin to murder my dad, what’s the motive?”
“Your dad obviously found out,” Shannon said. “Learned something, we’re not sure what, how much, but enough. The video from the panic room showed that. They probably gave him a choice—join the movement or else.”
“The three words, ‘I could not.’”
“If your dad wrote that, which I doubt, it expresses the attitude that got him killed. He couldn’t go along with what he discovered so the Conspiracy shut him down. That’s why they left the knife behind too, a warning to anybody he might have told.”
“So how did he find out?”
“We’re not sure.”
“But then you showed up. How’d that happen so conveniently?” Shannon stood and stretched her back, obviously not ready to answer the question. “It’s time to move,” she said.
“Not until you answer me,” Rick countered. “Why were you there, so close to my family, like a stalker or something?”
Shannon stared at the ceiling, then back at Rick. “I don’t know if you’re ready for this. It’s the worst of it, where it really gets out of control,” she said.
“More out of control than what you’ve already told me?”
“Yes, and tougher on you.”
Rick pushed himself to his feet and stared at her, his knees wobbly. “I’m tired of this,” he said through clenched jaw. “The equivocation. Tell me right now or I walk away—you go one direction, I take another. Once and for all, the last time I ask, who are you?”
Shannon walked to the window and stared out a second, then faced him again. “They put me there.” She sighed. “The Order. Just over a year ago. I took a job with the Parks Service. We needed eyes on your family, somebody to keep watch on things.”
“But we don’t go there but a couple of times a year; I usually show up only in July.”
“Other people watched in other places, wherever you were. Kept tabs on you and your family.”
“And why would they do that?” He sagged onto the sofa again, exhausted but determined to finish this conversation before he did anything else.
Shannon sat back down, reached over and took his hands in hers, stared into his eyes. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this. I hoped you’d never have to know,” she said. “But your grandfather, Walter Augustine . . . is the worldwide master of the Constantine Conspiracy.”
26
Charbeau’s jeep screeched to a stop by the cabin and he jumped out, Glock poised, then sprinted onto the porch, his eyes scanning the property. Nothing moved and he sensed emptiness. A quick kick at the door and he pounced inside and proved his instinct correct. Nobody home. He hustled outside again, checked the lake, and saw the boat that Carson and Bridge had used earlier; proof that they hadn’t fled by water this time.
He pivoted, ran to the shed and bent to the ground; saw a set of tire tracks. Frustrated, he flipped open his cell and connected with Augustine. “I found the cabin,” he said when Augustine answered. “But they’ve slipped the noose again. Took a truck it looks like.”
“A couple of amateurs are running circles around you, Nolan,” Augustine spat.
“What can I say? It’s the first rule of war—if something can go wrong, it will. But I do get the job done, sooner or later.”
“So what are your options now?”
Charbeau bent to the tracks again but knew he didn’t have time to track down the tires, then the truck through them. “I go back to Bridge’s momma,” he suggested.
“Don’t waste your time.”
“Then I’m open to suggestions.”
“Why don’t you return to Atlanta?”
Charbeau holstered his Glock. “Why would I do that?”
“Because Rick called me five minutes ago and told me he’s coming home.”
Shannon drove the truck with Rick in the passenger seat dozing in and out, moaning in pain from time to time. She wanted to make him talk about her revelation about his granddad but knew not to force it. He needed space to work through things on his own terms. They stopped only once for a bathroom break and a drive-through cup of coffee at a truck stop not far from Macon. Rick swallowed two more pain pills, and the medicine kept him soothed enough to make it to the outskirts of Atlanta about daybreak on Saturday.
“Let me say it again,” Rick said, finally breaking his silence as he awoke. “I don’t believe you, not for one minute. But I am willing to meet with my grandfather, keep my eyes and ears open. That’s all I’ll promise. And I’m doing it for my dad, not for your Order, whatever that really is. If I discover you’re right about Pops, I’ll deal with it in my own way. But that’s it, nothing else. I couldn’t care less about any conflict between your Order and an ancient Conspiracy—if one exists, which I completely doubt.”
“I understand your skepticism,” Shannon said softly as she navigated traffic. “Felt the same way when I heard it the first time. But events eventually proved me wrong, just like they will you.”
“Maybe so, but until that happens, mark me down as a non-player in your games.”
“I thought you liked games, all the magazines say so.”
“Not when people die when you lose one.”
“Just remember that we need you,” she said as she slipped past a line of trucks. “Need somebody to uncover what’s coming next. These recent events, they’re leading up to something. You have to work with us, protect innocent lives, no matter whether you believe me or not.”
“No, I don’t!” he almost shouted but the ache in his shoulder cut his voice to a lower volume. “Like I said, I’m not of your kind. I’m . . . I don’t know, atheist, agnostic, pagan, what do you call it these days? Life is what it is, nothing else, no nonsense about eternity, God’s forgiveness, salvation through a cross. Yeah, I’ve heard the terms, can’t avoid them in the South, but that’s as far as it goes with me. I’m secular, or haven’t you heard, a hedonist, pleasures of the flesh—all of that. Doesn’t matter to me if Christianity exists or not—in the U.S. or anywhere else.”
“But if your grandfather killed your dad, don’t you want the world to know that, to see him as he is?”
Rick hesitated, then whispered when he spoke again. “You’re trying to use me against my family. Do you think that’s a good thing? Christlike?”
Shannon took an exit off the interstate. “People will die,” she explained as she handled the wheel. “Already have. Maybe more this time, who knows how many? If asking you to poke around, look for evidence against Walter Augustine, is using you, then yes, I plead guilty. I see a greater good here, and whether you believe what I believe or not doesn’t matter. You investigate your grandfather however you want. But when you find the truth, and you will if you really look for it, you let me know, that’s all I’m asking.”
“I can’t promise that. If Pops hired an assassin . . .” He found it difficult to finish but then pressed on. “If he did that and I prove it to myself, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
They reached a red light less than a mile from Rick’s home, and Shannon braked the truck. “You’ll do the right thing, that’s what you’ll do,” she said.
“How can you feel so certain?”
“I know you, remember?”
“Nobody really knows anybody.”
She turned to face him. “That makes us all pretty lonely, doesn’t it?”
“I’ll get out here,” he said, ignoring the question. “If Pops is your enemy, you might be in danger, right?”
“You can make it from here?”
“No problem.”
Shannon turned the corner, pulled the truck to the curb and faced Rick. “555-664-8888,” she said.
“Another number to memorize?”
“Call me,” she said. “We still have that
gelato date, right?”
Rick dropped his eyes and Shannon reached for him, touched his forearm. “You’re going to need me, Rick, just like I need you.”
He stayed quiet.
“Take care of yourself,” Shannon continued. “See a doctor first thing. I’ve grown rather fond of you.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said, looking up again. “No worries.”
“Your grandfather and his allies are ruthless people—they have an agenda and feel no qualms about doing everything necessary to accomplish it. Don’t forget that, promise me you won’t.”
“I’ll keep your number handy.”
“I’ll be close.”
“I expect you will.”
27
Saturday, 4:00 p.m.
Clean-shaven, freshly bathed, and eight hours removed from the surgery that extracted the bullet from his shoulder, Rick lay back in a massive bed at his grandfather’s house. Two detectives, a redheaded woman named Roche and a guy called Webber who looked like a linebacker after a few too many years and beers, stood on either side of his bed. A defense lawyer hired by Pops whose name Rick hadn’t quite gotten straight waited at his feet.
Rick concluded his hourlong description of all that had happened to him since his dad’s death. Roche pressed for more information about Shannon, but he pretended ignorance, and Roche eventually gave up and asked about his trip to Florida.
“Why did Ms. Bridge send you to Destin?”
“To find refuge in case something happened to her.”
“This woman, Mabel,” Roche said, picking up a folder and flipping through it.
“Yeah.”
“She Shannon Bridge’s mom? Grandmom?”
“Don’t know, Shannon never really said.”
“That’s it?” Roche asked, obviously not believing him. “Ms. Bridge sends one of the world’s most famous men, a man hunted coast to coast, to a safe house? And you just head out, trusting whatever she told you? Who is Miss Bridge, Mr. Carson? What makes you do what she tells you?”
Rick shrugged but said nothing of the Conspiracy, the Order, or Shannon’s outlandish statements about Pops.