The Constantine Conspiracy

by Gary Parker

  “Yes.” He motioned his guards to the backseat, then punched a button and the privacy glass slid up, cutting him off from the bodyguards as he pulled through the security gate and onto the road.

  “Now we have a new president,” Shannon continued. “Although we have no concrete evidence that he’s officially part of the Conspiracy, we have traced a ton of his funding back to Conspiracy coffers. So he owes them big time, and their ultimate goal in America has always been to control the Supreme Court. Put enough of their people in place there, and the Conspiracy will have the power to repress Christianity like never before, to push it so deep into the closet that spiders won’t even be able to find it.”

  “Every president names his own kind to the Court,” Rick said, more anxious by the second as the media horde scrambled after him, their vehicles closer than he liked. “It’s the American way.”

  “You don’t get it, Rick! That list of judges I mentioned at the cabin? Many are members of the Conspiracy, the others are controlled by them! The president will appoint people from that list!”

  “But slots on the court don’t come open often enough for one president to make that much difference,” Rick said. “That’s a huge protection, isn’t it? For liberals when conservatives win the White House, for conservatives when liberals rule.”

  “Thankfully, yes,” Shannon said, sounding a touch calmer. “Most presidents never appoint more than one or two justices, some presidents serve without an opportunity to appoint any.”

  “So even if the president does appoint one or two judges from your list, it’s okay, right?”

  “I suppose so. We’ll still have a split court, one that can’t sway too far right or left. Moderates will generally rule as a result.”

  “So as long as no one president—” The hair on the back of Rick’s neck stood up. “That’s it, Shannon!” he exclaimed.

  “What?”

  “Think about it.”

  Shannon hesitated for a second, then gasped. “It’s not possible,” she choked.

  “Probably not but still, if we thought of it, someone else might have too.”

  “The Conspiracy plans to—”

  “Exactly,” Rick interrupted her as he hit the gas and sped around a corner. “You think we’re right?”

  “Nobody would ever try this, nobody in their right mind at least.”

  “But assume we’re right? How would they go about it?”

  “Maybe you should ask a first-year poli-sci major.”

  “No time to joke around.”

  “Okay, I agree.”

  “Do we really believe this?” Rick asked, pulling into a row of cars backed up at an entry gate.

  “We have to believe it—even more, we have to stop it.”

  “Do we?” Rick asked, thinking over the potential outcomes of their guess. “I mean, sure, it’d be terrible but given the other evils in the world—people dying of hunger, the child sex trade, suicide bombers—what’s the worst that can happen if we’re right?”

  “I can’t believe you’re asking that Rick.” Her voice trembled. “It may not be Armageddon for the world at large, but it might be for the church in America. That should scare everybody, even you. Shut down the voice of one segment of society and you can shut down the voice of any segment. Can we at least agree on that?”

  “Okay, okay,” he backed down, “it would be horrible, unprecedented. But still, we’re just guessing at this.”

  “Where are you now?” she asked.

  “I’m at Rolling Hills.”

  “What are you doing there?” Shannon sounded slightly panicked.

  “I’m going to see my mom.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  “Because she’s got an invitation to Justice Toliver’s burial. I’ll need it to get through security there.”

  “You’re going to the funeral?”

  “Pops is attending, Shannon. If we’re right and he’s directing this insanity, I have to be there to make him shut it down.”

  “Go to the police,” she said. “You can’t do this alone.”

  “And tell them what? All we have are nutty suspicions, nothing concrete. They’ll laugh us out of the place. And you told me not to trust them, remember?”

  “You’re right, sorry. Okay. I’ll contact the Order. They’ll send the reinforcements we need.”

  “No,” Rick countered. “This is between me and Pops.”

  “But he’s dangerous!” The panic surged in Shannon’s voice.

  “He won’t hurt me.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Of course I do. Pops has his faults, but he loves my mom. I’m her son, his only heir. If your cronies show up, a lot of people will end up dead, I’m confident of that. But if it’s me and Pops, I can talk to him, make him come to his senses if he’s really trying to do what we suspect.”

  Shannon hesitated, then said. “Okay, it’s you and me then. Come pick me up.”

  “Negative on that too,” he said as he reached the security gate and extended his driver’s license for the guard to inspect. “You’re not strong enough yet.”

  “Then I’ll come on my own. You can’t stop me.”

  “Look, Shannon, I know we’ll probably never see each other again and I understand that—we’re polar opposites in too many ways. But I still feel protective toward you, don’t want you in any more danger.”

  “I’m not your ward,” she argued.

  Rick thought a moment. “Give the phone back to the bodyguard,” he finally said, entering the gate.

  “That’s better.”

  A second later, the guard came on the phone.

  “This is Rick.”

  “Yes, Mr. Carson.”

  “Put us on speakerphone so Ms. Bridge can hear what I’m going to say.”

  “Okay; on speakerphone.”

  “Keep Ms. Bridge in custody,” Rick said. “Don’t let her leave the house. I don’t care how much she screams or complains. We clear on that?”

  “You can’t do this!” Shannon yelled.

  “You clear on my instructions?” Rick asked the guard.

  “No!” Shannon yelled.

  “Absolutely, Mr. Carson,” the guard said.

  Rick hung up and headed to a parking space, his conscience clear. Although he didn’t know for certain that he and Shannon had reached the correct conclusion, he planned to climb aboard a family jet within the hour and fly to Missouri. If they were correct, he’d be heading straight into chaos and he didn’t want Shannon involved in any of it.

  40

  After Rick hung up, Shannon spent the next hour seething. How dare he kidnap her! She begged the guards to let her go but they ignored her, their arms crossed, their legs braced by her door. She checked her window and saw two more security men on the ground outside, their eyes scanning the property, pistols in holsters on their hips. Nurse Cotter showed up and Shannon pled her case and Cotter nodded in sympathy but pointed to the guards and said her hands were tied.

  As the second hour ended, Shannon shooed the guards into the hallway, checked her bag for her phone, and found it, then made one call, her voice low to keep the guards from hearing. Then she asked for some food. Thirty minutes later Nurse Cotter brought her a bowl of chicken soup, a walnut spinach salad, and a club sandwich. Shannon and the nurse visited while Shannon ate, then Cotter cleaned up the dishes and pushed the serving cart back to the kitchen. About five minutes after Cotter left, Shannon gingerly climbed out of bed, grabbed her black bag, and stepped to the bathroom. There she slipped into a pair of jeans, a pullover top, and a pair of walking shoes. Her breath came in short gasps and her broken wrist burned with pain, but she fought it off and kept moving. Back in the bedroom, she sat on the edge of the bed, pulled back her hair, stuck three fingers down her throat, and threw up all over the floor.

  After catching her breath and wiping her face, she picked up her bell, admired its heft for a moment, then eased to her knees and arranged herself on the floor,
close to but not touching the mess she’d just made. Then she started jerking like a fish out of water and ringing the bell like her hand had lost all control.

  Within seconds two guards appeared. Shannon’s teeth clacked together, her eyes rolled back in her head and her body convulsed.

  “Some kind of seizure!” a guard yelled. “She barfed all over the place, watch it! Get the nurse!”

  The second guard disappeared as Shannon continued to jerk, her movements frenetic, her heels pounding the floor, one hand clawing the air while the other rang the bell. Her lungs rebelled and her wrist ached, but she pushed through the pain. Her eyes opened as the remaining guard searched the room then grabbed the water pitcher on the table by the bed and rushed to the bathroom to fill it.

  As he entered the bathroom, Shannon rolled to her feet and rushed toward him. He reached for the faucet, his back to her. She lifted the bell with her one good hand and crashed it down on the back of his head. He slowly pivoted, the pitcher falling to the floor, and she raised the bell again. He looked at her and tried to speak. She started to smack him again, but his legs gave way, and he toppled forward, saving himself another blow.

  “Sorry,” she panted, grabbing his gun and shoving it into her waist.

  He said nothing.

  Shannon hurried as quickly as her injuries allowed to the room’s door. After checking both directions, she dragged herself toward the stairwell. Halfway there she spotted Nurse Cotter coming her way, a guard behind her. Shannon grabbed the pistol from her waist, backed up against the wall, and kept moving.

  “Hold it!” Cotter yelled.

  “Gotta go!” Shannon argued, waving the weapon as she stopped.

  Cotter halted; the guard also. “You’re not healthy enough to go anywhere,” Cotter said.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “I can’t let you do that,” the guard said.

  “I know how to use this,” Shannon said, indicating the gun.

  Cotter and the guard hesitated.

  “Back away,” Shannon ordered. “Let me pass.”

  “You got other guards at the entry,” Cotter said.

  “I’ll deal with them when I get there.”

  Cotter glanced at the guard, then back to Shannon. “You bound and determined to do this, girl?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  Cotter glanced at the guard one more time, then addressed Shannon. “I’ll help,” she finally said. “There’s a back way out of here. I’ll show you.”

  Shannon studied her a moment, then nodded. “I need your name tag,” she said.

  Cotter lifted the rope off her neck.

  “Tie him up,” Shannon ordered, indicating the guard. “Won’t hold him forever but we only need a few minutes.”

  The guard glared at her but didn’t fight as Cotter pushed him down and went to work with the rope.

  “When you get free you need to check on your friend,” Shannon told the guard. “He’s in the bathroom, going to have a headache for a couple of days.”

  Cotter finished and stepped back, then led Shannon past him to a stairwell leading into the kitchen then out the back door.

  “My car,” Cotter said, rushing toward a detached garage. “Where you need to go?”

  “I have a friend,” Shannon panted, following her. “You get me off the property, she’ll take me from there.”

  Shannon and Cotter reached the garage just as two guards wheeled around the side of the house, a good hundred yards away, their guns drawn.

  “The red Honda,” Cotter said. “Key’s in it.” She stopped and faced the guards.

  “What are you doing?” Shannon yelled as she reached the Honda.

  “You go on, child. I’ll slow these boys down some.”

  “I’ll leave your car at the hospital!”

  “Move on, sister!”

  Shannon jumped into the Honda, keyed up the ignition, and backed it up. The guards were twenty yards away. Cotter stepped toward them, a hand up. Shannon shifted to drive and hit the gas. The Honda roared past Cotter and down the driveway. The guards ran toward her, one of them smack in her path. She never wavered.

  The Honda pressed down on the guard. He stood his ground.

  Ten yards, five.

  The guard threw his body to the left, his pistol flying as he dodged the Honda.

  Shannon glanced back; the second guard rushed at her, but she accelerated even more, and he disappeared as she reached the gate and spun onto the street, the Honda airborne for an instant then back on the ground as she screeched away.

  41

  Augustine and Charbeau sat in a glass-encased den in a severely contemporary home situated on almost fifty acres of hardwood forest halfway between St. Louis and Junction City, Missouri. A row of monitors hung on the wall to their left and a ten-foot-high indoor fountain gurgled and splashed to their right. Augustine held no cigar this time, and Charbeau knew this signaled great seriousness.

  “Things will move quickly after the events of tomorrow,” Augustine said. “A national alert, I’m certain. A massive, international search to find the perpetrators of the crime. Locals, state, FBI, Interpol, everybody in on the hunt.”

  “The feds will find a boatload of clues,” Charbeau said. “We’ve scattered them all over the place. A driver’s license, phony of course, but picturing an illegal alien of Arab descent. A cheap hotel room five miles from the crime scene. Books outlining his methods, a trail of fake phone calls, records of his entering the country on a student visa but never leaving. It’ll take a few days for them to piece the puzzle together, but the cops will find their man easily enough.”

  “No way to blame this on one of our Christian friends?” “Not logical, given who’s going to die.”

  Augustine nodded. Although he’d schemed overtime to find a motive for a Christian zealot to do what he’d prepared, he couldn’t conjure up one, so he’d gone the exact opposite way. Blame it on an Arab terrorist—always a winning ploy when it came to finding a patsy for a significant and violent act.

  “I’ll fly to Atlanta immediately after the attack, then to Rome the next day,” he said.

  “You talking to your boy one last time before that?”

  “It is the way, Nolan, as I’ve previously described. But the Succession will go forward with or without him on Sunday evening. That’s the deadline I’ve set.”

  “What do you believe he’ll do?”

  Augustine shrugged. “He seems disinclined to accept the Sword, but I drained all his accounts an hour ago, banks, brokerages, everything but the penny jar in his bedroom.”

  “That’ll ruffle his feathers.”

  “He’ll hate me for a day or so, then start weighing what it means.”

  “If he accepts the Succession, I’m on the streets. I did kill his dad.”

  “You’ll have a hundred million in your Swiss account, a nice consolation prize it seems to me.”

  “What if he comes looking for me? You gave him my name, am I right?”

  “Of course. I needed to keep him confused. Give him enough of one truth to hide the rest of many. But you need not fear him. Rick is—how can I say this?—a nice man. He will want revenge but not have the anger to sustain it. Stay out of sight for a year or so and he will move to other pursuits.”

  “Like the woman, Bridge.”

  “No worries about that anymore.”

  “What’s the story?”

  “Apparently she will have nothing to do with him—she is a woman of faith after all. And Rick, whatever his faults, seems unwilling to consider that nonsense.”

  “Good to hear.”

  Augustine nodded, then shifted back to the matter at hand. “I won’t see you again until the Succession, Nolan. So let me say this while I have the opportunity. If you complete this final task and we escape blame for it, the Council will forever be in your debt, as will I.”

  “I’m counting on that, sir.”

  “I expect you are.”

  42
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  With the invitation to Justice Toliver’s burial in his pocket and his bodyguards once again in the back of his SUV, Rick left Rolling Hills in a hurry, his phone to his ear before he left the parking lot.

  “Rick Carson here,” he said to the man who answered on the other end. “Prepare a jet; we’re flying to St. Louis.”

  The man cleared his throat. “No go, Mr. Carson. Jet isn’t available.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You talked to Mr. Augustine lately?”

  “Last night.”

  “Well . . . he said you . . . you don’t have access to the jets right now.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Call him yourself, then get him to contact me. Until I hear from him, I can’t take the chance. With the economy like it is, if he fires me I’m out of a job.”

  Rick punched off the phone, his face white with fear and anger. He checked his watch—almost 4:00. He got his bank on the line, asked to speak to the manager. “Rick Carson here,” he started. “Need to get a balance on my accounts.”

  The manager told him to hold a minute, then came back on. “Eight hundred ninety-three dollars,” the manager said.

  “I had over a million with you, cash and money market.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “I didn’t withdraw the money.”

  “All I can say is we got the paperwork, correct passwords and everything, the money transferred earlier today.”

  Rick shut off the phone and slammed it against the seat. Pops hadn’t waited for his answer. He grabbed the phone again to try his broker, but then realized it’d be a dead end so he didn’t bother. He saw he’d missed a few calls and quickly checked the numbers, recognized a call from the security detail at his house.

  “Yeah,” he barked when the guard picked up.