by Gary Parker
“Then there’s no hope for us.”
Rick hung his head. “I don’t understand you, Shannon.”
“I’m sorry,” she offered, eyes open again. “But I don’t know what else to say, how to explain it.”
He backed away, too hurt to argue anymore. “The security will stay,” he said. “You too, until you’re better. But . . . I guess . . . I guess I’m done here.”
“Don’t leave me, Rick. That’s not what I want.”
He laughed, but it had no joy in it. “You want to use me,” he said. “Just like Pops, only for different purposes.”
“Where will you go?” She wiped her eyes.
“Maybe back to Pops—at least he accepts me like I am.”
“You can’t do that; you said you wouldn’t.”
“He says I can do whatever I want with the Conspiracy— no violence, lead it forward however I like.”
“It always ends up using violence, that’s the history of the movement.”
“It’s not your problem, Shannon.”
“But it is!” She raised from the bed, her elbows under her ribs.
“I’ve got to go.”
“Call me?”
“Not this time.”
With that he pivoted and left the room, his shoulders sagging, and his heart heavy. His mother was insane, his father was dead, his grandfather was a cancer-ridden conspirator, and the woman he cared about more than anybody he’d ever met was a Jesus freak. Add to those tidbits the fact that he’d soon lose his wealth and the fame that went with it and everything was screwed, himself most of all.
39
After Rick left Shannon, he put aside his hurt and got practical. He gave a bodyguard his bank card and password and sent him to an ATM machine to find out if Pops had already emptied his account. Then he went home and gathered a few clothes. Fifteen minutes later the bodyguard returned with five hundred dollars, and Rick quickly took the money and put it with the rest of his cash. He needed to visit the bank before it closed, he decided, take out every dollar, just over a million in money market funds the last time he’d looked. He’d call his financial advisor too, sell all his stocks and bonds and get the proceeds in a cashier’s check, claim every dime he could before the Conspiracy cleaned him out.
A surge of energy passed through him as he left his bodyguards, hopped into a golf cart in the garage, and drove to Pops’ house. An attendant greeted him at the door, but he rushed past her and headed up to the home’s study, a massive room with bookshelves from floor to ceiling on three walls. Time to find some answers, he decided, something to prove or disprove Shannon’s accusations about Pops. He gave the place a thorough search, desktop, drawers, computer files, everywhere he could think to look. Nothing obvious stoodout, no clue to anything that had happened or was about to happen.
Hoping to find a hidden portal, he ran his hands over a variety of spots on the bookshelves but again came up empty. If Pops had a secret room in the place, he kept it well hidden.
Rick headed to the master bedroom next, a corner area bordered with ceiling-high windows that opened to a back patio on the first floor. As in the study, he inspected the space stem to stern but with no success. Other than a sheet listing Pops’ travel itinerary that he found on the ornate writing desk sitting by the bed, he turned up nothing. He quickly checked the itinerary: private jet to St. Louis in the morning, limo drive to Junction City by noon, funeral at 3:00. Return in reverse process. Nothing unusual in any of that.
To be expected, Rick thought, pausing to get his bearings. A man as smart as Pops didn’t leave evidence of his business—legitimate or otherwise—lying around in public view. He thought of Pops’ office complex in Midtown but dismissed the idea as impractical. Too many people there, multiple levels of security, too complicated to find anything incriminating if Pops didn’t want it found. And, if he had increased his security, then he’d already removed any evidence from his office or anywhere else.
Frustrated, Rick grabbed the itinerary, left the house, and drove to his parents’ place. Although Shannon had inspected the panic room, he wanted to go through it again, plus look over the rest of the mansion. At the front door he keyed in the security codes and entered the empty entryway. The loneliness of the place gripped him like never before, draining some of his adrenaline. He stood for several seconds, listened to the silence, and his mood sank even lower. He possessed everything that money could buy but felt like he had nothing really worth owning. He thought of his mom and resolved again to bring her home as soon as possible, to fill up the house with her and Luisa, maybe Tony too if he’d move in to watch over things for him. Someday perhaps he’d add a wife and children to the mix.
A little more hopeful, he hurried to the panic room. To his surprise he found the door open. Crime scene tape remained stuck to the walls on either side of the door, and he ripped it off, stepped into the room, and found it scrubbed. No television, no computer, no pictures, nothing to indicate that a human had ever occupied the space. Bothered but undaunted, he left the panic room and moved to the bedroom. He searched the nightstands first but found the drawers empty. An inspection of his parents’ desk proved equally unfulfilling. Except for a couple of pens, a box of paper clips, six rubber bands, and a handful of other assorted items, he found nothing else.
Rick moved to the closets and discovered them empty also. He stepped back and examined the rest of the room. Except for the family pictures hanging over the desk and artwork on the walls, no evidence remained of any human occupants, now or ever.
His hopes lowered, Rick left the bedroom and stepped to a theater room just off the kitchen in the back of the house. In the past he and his family often ate there, then watched movies or played games together. Sometimes they just sat in silence and read, content with each other’s company, a retreat from the constant attention they received as one of America’s most iconic families. His favorite place, Rick realized as he inspected the area—a cozy room with a stone fireplace, lots of old pictures and warm memories.
He stood still while he looked around, his body framed in the middle of the room, his head tilted as if expecting to hear somebody speak. Nobody did. He twisted a complete circle as his eyes raked over the space—another area cleaned of everything but pictures. All the energy suddenly drained from his body, and he felt completely stripped down—singular, a microscopic nothing floating in vacuum occupied by nobody but him. He almost laughed. So it boiled down to this. Subtract the limelight, remove the family, cut away the props of fame and fortune, and what did he have left? Not much, he concluded—reasonable intelligence, decent looks, and a good education, but no real friends, no real purpose in getting up every day, no real sense of why he existed. Revealing, he concluded, how he’d never considered these issues until now. Almost thirty years of life before his first bout of introspection.
He shrugged and scanned the area once more but again saw nothing worthwhile. No red light blinking, no finger pointing to a way out of his situation. He turned to go but then realized he’d never enter the room again if Pops followed through on his promise and he ended up destitute and homeless. A lump the size of a baseball filled his throat. He needed something, he decided, a memento to remember the good times he’d experienced with his mom and dad. A picture, he figured, about the only thing left for him to take.
Pushing down his grief, Rick stepped to the row of photographs hanging over the fireplace and searched them over. Which one to take? Most included everybody—mom, dad, and son. Although he’d vaguely noticed the images over the years, he studied them one by one this time, as if seeing them for the first time. Three rows of five pictures. He and his folks in the gardens in Victoria, Canada; at a bullfight in Spain; at the ruins of a Mayan Temple; at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. His eyes landed on the picture exactly in the middle of the group and he stopped. Weird. Dust covered the top of the photo, like it had been in storage for a long time, not out where the maids could have cleaned it.
He stepped closer to t
he photograph, one he felt confident he hadn’t seen until today. His dad held him on his shoulders and his mom had an arm looped in his dad’s elbow. Behind the family stood a substantial building made of white stone, obviously a government building. The family stood by a street sign, his father leaning against the pole.
Rick read the street sign in the photo—Constitution Avenue. A vague memory clicked into place. He and his folks had traveled to the nation’s capital for his sixth birthday. Visited all the usual sights—the Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial, the Smithsonian. On a couple of later visits that he vividly remembered, he’d learned that several of the Smithsonian museums, the National Gallery of Art, and the Lincoln Memorial lined the south side of Constitution Avenue. His mom and dad loved those places, especially the Gallery of Art. His dad in particular spent hours there, studying the art, staring at the displays.
Rick flipped over the photo, saw the date and time stamped to the back. Puzzled, he stepped back and tried to figure out the significance, if any, of the recently placed photo. Who hung it? When? And most importantly, why?
His mouth dropped open. He grabbed the paper folded in his back pocket, flipped it open and read again the address on Pops’ itinerary, the location of Justice Toliver’s final resting place: 311 Constitution Avenue, Junction City, Missouri.
CONS—all capitals! Not conspiracy, although that fit too.
Rick read the cemetery address again, then looked back at the photo and knew they were connected. But how?
He studied the itinerary a final time, glanced back at the photo. “Did you leave this for me to find, Dad?” he whispered. “But when? And what does it mean? Is something happening at Justice Toliver’s funeral?”
He stepped to the fireplace and leaned against it. His mother had said it also: CONS, Constitution. Did she have information for him too?
Unable to answer the questions banging in his brain, he pulled out his phone and called Pops.
“Hello, Rick,” Pops said. “You figured things out yet?”
“What’s going down at the judge’s funeral?” he asked quickly.
“I’m not sure what you mean. Has Miss Bridge filled your head with more nonsense?”
“Forget her, she’s out of the picture.”
“That was quick, even for you.”
“She says I’m not her type, not a Jesus man.”
“Really? Quite the goody-goody is she?”
“Time for games is over, Pops. I found a photo and I’m guessing Dad hung it.” He quickly recounted what he’d discovered, his suspicions about it.
The phone went silent for several seconds when he finished but then Pops spoke, his tone even. “I have no clue what you’re getting at, Rick, truly I don’t.”
“It’s more than coincidence, Pops. Think about it— Constitution Avenue, a street with the same name as the one where Justice Toliver will be buried. You’re saying they don’t connect?”
“How would I know? And when and why would your dad have left this picture?”
“The same time he left the DVD and the video in the panic room. He wanted somebody—me, the police, somebody—to find these things if something happened to him.”
“Your imagination is out of control, Rick, you’re grasping at straws.”
Rick hesitated for a moment, then tried another slant. “Why is Mom afraid of you? Your own daughter?”
“I’d prefer to speak of this at a later date, Rick. It’s really not the time.”
“Give me the truth! Or I go to the police!”
“And tell them what?”
Rick halted, realized how little evidence he really had.
“Look, Rick,” Pops said. “Rebecca knew my feelings about Steve. I . . . well, I hate to admit it, but I threatened her once— told her I wanted her to leave him. Said if she didn’t, I’d cut off her funds, empty her bank accounts. You know the drill. She turned on me after that, said I didn’t care about her happiness, accused me of meddling, which I did of course, like I’ve always done with her. She’s my only child, Rick. I wanted the best for her and never felt that Steve offered that.”
“Not the best as you defined it.”
“Exactly. But that’s why she fears me. It breaks my heart, but I made the mistake, cut myself off from my dear, sweet daughter. No doubt my callousness contributed greatly to her current condition. It’s a pain I carry with me every day.”
Rick calmed some; as always Pops had an explanation that kicked the legs from under his initial instincts. “You still haven’t explained the photo,” he said, not willing yet to give up his suspicions.
“Like I said, I have no explanation. Your dad dabbled in art, you know that, and the National Gallery sits on Constitution. Perhaps Steve hung the photo to recall memories of the first time he took you there. That’s as good an explanation as any other I have.”
“You don’t see it as a message? Pointing me to a connection to Justice Toliver?”
“Did your dad usually send you messages in such ambiguous ways?”
“Not normally.”
“What else can I say?”
Rick took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said finally, no longer confident of his previous conclusions. “I’ll drop it for now. But we have to talk as soon as you return. Something has to give. I can’t keep twisting like this, one way, then the next.”
“I agree. You need to make a decision. I’ll come home tomorrow evening. We’ll visit then.”
Rick shut off the phone, his mind whirling. Although he had no reason to think it, his instinct told him tomorrow night might be way too late.
Augustine dropped his cigar into an ashtray and turned to Charbeau sitting at the table across from him. “You heard?” he asked.
“Smart kid, ain’t he?”
“Bright as they come. But dumb too, in some ways. No clue what he’s up against.”
“What’s the plan if he shows up at the funeral?”
“We stop him like we would anybody else.”
“But he’s your flesh, heir to the Succession.”
“I will grieve if harm comes to him. But the mission remains paramount, don’t you agree?”
“You’re a hard man, Mr. Augustine.”
“I am a fair man, Nolan. Inflexible but fair. I’ve labored most of my adult life to accomplish what we’re within hours of finishing. I cannot walk away from that now. Not even if it costs me one as dear as Rick. Great things from great people always demand sacrifice.”
“I’ll handle him if he comes.”
“Like you’ve handled Miss Bridge?”
“That sounds like a slap to me.”
“She’s still alive, isn’t she?”
“She’s living a charmed life, what can I say?”
“Perhaps the Lord is protecting her?”
“You’re a funny man, Mr. Augustine.”
Augustine waved him off. “Leave her be,” he said. “Nothing she can do now, anyway.”
“I’ll take another run at her if you want.”
“Not necessary, so long as she stays out of the way.”
“Whatever you say.”
Augustine inhaled slowly. “It will not be long now, Nolan. Not long at all.”
After hanging up with Pops, Rick walked to a window and stared out at the grounds beneath him. Although he knew he and Shannon had no future and he’d walked out on her, he wanted her opinion on this. At the same time, he didn’t want to talk to her, let her confuse him again. Once he’d left a woman behind, he didn’t go back for a second look. Still . . . he opened his phone and dialed the head of Shannon’s security detail.
“Hey,” he said when the guard answered. “Put Ms. Bridge on the phone.”
The guard agreed, then Shannon came on. “You okay?” she asked. “I’ve worried since you left. I don’t want you mad at me.”
“I found a photo,” he said quickly, not wanting to touch on anything personal. He outlined what he’d discovered.
“I know the place in
the picture,” Shannon said. “My dad served in the Pentagon. I spent a lot of time in Washington.” “I’m wondering if my dad left this photo for me to find.”
“Slow down, Rick,” Shannon said. “What makes you think the photo is significant?”
“Justice Toliver’s burial is on Constitution Avenue. The picture was taken on Constitution Avenue. The letters dad typed before he died—CONS, as in a place name. Not conspiracy but Constitution.”
“What do you think it means?”
“You tell me. Something will happen at the funeral? But what?”
Shannon didn’t speak for a moment and he wanted to press her but let the silence hang instead. “A Supreme Court judge interprets the Constitution,” she finally suggested. “They determine what it means. Basically, they tell us what the law is.”
“A first-year political science student knows that. Give me some real insight.”
“Don’t snap at me, it’s not charming.”
“Okay, sorry. But if something is going down at the funeral, I have to figure this out fast. Pops says it’s nothing, the photo’s a coincidence.”
“You talked to your grandfather about this?”
“You think I’d do otherwise? He deserves to know.”
“Not if he’s a murderer.”
“Like I’ve said before, prove it, then I’ll believe you.”
“You’re loyal, I give you that.”
“A man doesn’t turn on his family without cause.”
“I got it but remember this—if I’m the one telling the truth, then you’ve tipped your grandfather off and he’ll take extra precautions to keep you from interfering with whatever he’s about to do.”
“I realize that. So back to my question—what’s happening at the funeral?”
“Let me think a minute.”
Rick started walking toward the front door. Two guards appeared as if by magic and he motioned them to follow him. No matter what Pops said, he needed to get a couple of things in order just in case.
Shannon spoke again as he left the house and hopped into the driver’s seat of the SUV parked in the circular driveway. “The Order fears the Supreme Court more than anything else,” she said. “The justices serve for life—as any first-year poli-science student can tell you. The Court struck Bible reading and prayer from the schools in 1962, ruled in Roe v. Wade eleven years later to make abortion legal, pushed nativity scenes and the Ten Commandments off the public square, you’ve heard the litany.”