by Gary Parker
“Tried to reach you,” the guard said.
“I was with my mom. What’s up?”
“Miss Bridge is gone.”
“How’d that happen?”
The guard gave him the details and Rick’s jaw dropped, but then he gained his voice again. “She’s going to Missouri,” he surmised.
“What do you want us to do?” the guard asked.
“Go home,” Rick ordered. “Your job ended when you let her escape.”
He hung up and boiled in silence the rest of the way home, wondering what to do. Pops didn’t want him at the funeral— that much was evident, which gave him all the more incentive to go. If his suspicions were correct, he had to get to Junction City. But how? He couldn’t fly commercial; too much media plus Pops would know the instant he made the reservation, and without the element of surprise he had no chance to do what he needed to do.
As he pulled into his driveway, leaving the paparazzi at the front gate, an idea hit him and he latched onto it as reasonable and spent the rest of the afternoon putting the pieces into place to carry it out. First, he stuffed the sixty-five thousand dollars he’d taken from Solitude, along with a suit for the funeral and enough clothes and personal items for a couple of days, into his luggage. Second, he left an urgent message for Shannon to call him as soon as possible. Third, he changed the dressing on his wound, wincing as he peeled off the old bandage and attached the new. When finished, he held the sling for a moment, then tossed it in the garbage can. Then he waited for dark to fall.
As he waited, his mind played all kinds of tricks on him, pushing first in this direction, then in that one. He wondered again about his grandfather’s scheme, hoped he’d made a big mistake in the conclusion he’d reached, hoped his imagination had gotten the best of him. If Pops cared no more for life than to do what Rick feared, then he’d degenerated into an alien life form that Rick didn’t recognize.
His thoughts shifted to his money, or lack of it. If he rejected the Succession, would Pops really keep it from him? All indications said yes. And if so, then what? How would he live? What would happen to his celebrity status? Did it matter what happened to it? Could he live without it?
Rick tried to see the Succession in a more positive light. Since he didn’t care for religion anyway, why shouldn’t he lead the movement? He felt some sympathy for those who rejected faith. Like Pops, many people had good reasons for rejecting God. What had God ever done for him? Of course, some might see his wealth as a blessing from God. But that wealth had come from Conspiracy coffers; no way God had any connection to that.
Confused, Rick realized that both sides acted poorly at times, were sometimes vengeful, irrational. Even Shannon’s Order had originated in the violence of the Crusades. Who knew where the greater virtue lay? Or the greater evil? Nobody sat at the table with clean hands.
Could he lead the Conspiracy away from violence? Perhaps under his guidance the movement could work for its ends by peaceful, legal means. If he could stop Pops’ last effort to do harm, then he could spin the group into a more gentle future. Was this the purpose of his life, the grand reason for existence that he’d started to ponder in these past two weeks? Was he to become the one who changed everything?
If so, then the sacred and the secular could engage in a war of ideas. What was wrong with that? America was founded on that notion. If America rejected Christian faith as a result, then so be it. Let the people make that decision.
Darkness slipped over the house and Rick left his thoughts and kicked once more into action. With his luggage over his shoulder, he quietly slipped downstairs, eased past his bodyguards as they watched the Braves on television, and stepped to the garage. There he loaded his luggage into the passenger seat of an electric golf cart, flipped up the garage door, and drove toward the first tee of the family course.
Five minutes later he reached a maintenance shed about a mile from the main clubhouse where he parked the cart behind a grove of oaks and climbed out. Again with luggage in hand, he moved to a service truck by the shed, lifted the key from under the driver’s floor mat, and fired up the engine, just like he’d done countless times as a teenager sneaking out after his parents went to sleep. A minute later, he left the golf course and pointed the truck northwest, heading to Missouri.
43
Shannon opened the door of her hotel room in midtown Atlanta right before 9:00 p.m. and stepped back to let Mabel, loaded down with a rolling suitcase and valise, inside. “Thank you for coming,” Shannon said, once they had things in place in the room.
“You doing okay, honey? Been worried sick over you.”
“You’ve been kept informed?”
“Sketches, dear, broad outlines. You going to fill in the blanks for me?”
Shannon pointed her to a couple of chairs and they both sat and faced each other. “The less you know, the safer for you,” Shannon started.
“I’m a grown woman, Shannon. How do I know how to pray for you if you keep me in the dark?”
“I have to go to St. Louis,” Shannon said. “Already made my reservation.”
“What’s in St. Louis?”
Shannon shook her head. “Pray for Rick Carson,” she said. “He’s going to St. Louis too.”
“The two of you not going together?”
Shannon tried to keep her face neutral, but Mabel obviously read it otherwise.
“What’s the story with him?” Mabel asked. “You seem pretty attached.”
“I’m attached to the Order,” Shannon said, a little too quickly. “Nothing else is important.”
“Don’t lie to me, girl. I know you too well for that.”
“Rick’s hopeless,” Shannon offered. “The raw materials are there, don’t get me wrong. He’s brave, considerate, smart as they come, tender too. You should have seen him hovering over me at his house, taking care of me after I got hurt.”
“Easy on the eyes too.”
“There is that. But . . .”
“But he’s not a believer.”
Shannon shook her head, grief chewing at her insides. “It’s foreign to him—he won’t even consider it. I told him we were hopeless.”
“Maybe you’re being a little unfair with him.”
Shannon raised her eyebrows as Mabel continued. “He’s ignorant, Shannon, like a baby who can’t read. You can’t blame him for that. He’s never had anyone to teach him. Who knows how he’d react if he got a chance to investigate the faith, look at it from all angles. You’ve known him what, less than two weeks, and he’s barely had a chance to catch his breath much less get a grasp on what it means to follow the Lord. Seems to me you’re writing him off awfully fast.”
“His grandfather offered him the leadership of the Conspiracy,” Shannon whispered.
“Enlighten me.”
Shannon bit her lip. “I’ve misspoken,” she said.
“But this Conspiracy is a bad thing, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re afraid you might have pushed Rick away so hard that he takes what his granddad offered.”
Shannon propped her elbows on her knees. “I never considered that.”
“Well, you better consider it now.”
“He tried to call me earlier, but I didn’t answer.”
“It’s not time to play hard to get,” Mabel said.
Shannon laid her head in her hands and tears slid to her eyes. “He tried to hold me at his house. Told his guards to keep me there.”
“He wanted to protect you, child. No bad motive there.”
Shannon looked up at her. “Should I call him back?”
“That’s up to you, honey.”
Shannon waited a minute to calm her emotions but then put aside the idea. “It’s too late,” she said.
“Whatever you say.”
Shannon wiped her eyes, then placed a call to Colorado Springs. “Hey,” she said when a man on the other end answered. “Shannon Bridge here.”
“We’ve wondered whe
n you’d check in.”
Shannon gave a quick recap of her situation but held back the exact nature of the suspicion she and Rick held.
“What do you need from us?” the man in Colorado asked.
“I need you to have five, maybe ten operatives standing by in St. Louis, Missouri, by noon tomorrow. I’ll contact you then, let you know what to do from there.”
“What’s going down?”
“I’m not completely certain, but I need bodies in place just in case.”
“We need more details than you’re offering.”
Shannon squeezed the telephone, unsure how much to say. Part of her wanted to spill her guts and hand over the job to the folks in Colorado, to walk away and never come back. Her body ached from her injuries and she’d already lost her parents and caused Gerald’s death. What more did the Lord want from her?
“I’m waiting,” the man in Colorado said.
Shannon stayed quiet. Who could blame her if she told everything? Who would care? Rick would, she realized. If she accused his grandfather of one of the greatest crimes of the century without any concrete proof and events, then proved her wrong, he’d never forgive her. He’d turn toward the Conspiracy; perhaps even accept its leadership post.
“I’ve said all I can,” she finally said.
“I’ll try to put the manpower in place, but I can’t promise anything on such flimsy details.”
“Do what you have to do and I’ll do the same.”
“Perhaps it’s time for us to call you in, let us take over.”
“No!”
She spoke louder than she intended, but the thought of stepping aside at this point made her angry. She had business to handle and nobody could take that from her.
“You’ve already been injured; and you sound, how can I say this delicately, personally involved.”
“I’m okay,” she said, forcing herself to stay calmer. “I’ll call you when the situation warrants it.”
“Don’t forget your goal, Miss Bridge. Promise me you’ll remember your purpose.”
“I will, I promise.” She hung up the phone and looked back at Mabel.
“Sounds like you’re stepping out on a mighty thin limb,” Mabel said.
“And a lot of people want to saw it off behind me.”
44
Thursday
To Rick’s relief he made the trip to Missouri without incident, driving through the night and arriving at a small hotel about half an hour from Junction City at about 11:00 the next morning. Knowing he didn’t have much time, he set the room alarm for 1:00, managed to sleep for the next two hours, then awoke and shifted into high gear. Although he’d considered a thousand different scenarios on the way, he still had no clear idea how he’d approach Pops once he arrived at the funeral. Should he simply walk up to him and outline his suspicions? Ask Pops how he planned to carry out his scheme? That part still baffled Rick. Although he believed he knew the end result Pops sought, he couldn’t for the life of him figure how he’d manage it with the massive security at the funeral.
After showering and slipping into his suit and tie, Rick tried Shannon again but reached only a recording. He reminded himself that Shannon knew how to take care of herself, perhaps better than he did. But still . . . he needed to talk to her, find out where she was, what she planned to do. If anything happened to her, he’d carry the guilt around the rest of his life. No matter what took place in the next few hours, he had to protect her first and foremost.
Rick pulled his Luger from his carry bag, turned it over in his hand, then slipped it back into the bag. With metal detectors sure to be in place at the funeral, he had no way to slip it past them. To stop Pops, he had to appeal to what remained of his conscience, had to penetrate the layers of hatred that had frozen Pops’ better heart; had to call him back to his senses.
He wondered if Charbeau would show up. Although Pops defined him as a rogue, Rick didn’t know if he believed that or not. One thing the past few days had taught him—only fools took anything at face value. He reached back into his bag for the pistol and slipped it into his waistband. Although he wouldn’t take it into the funeral, he’d keep it ready in the truck, just in case.
Resolved, Rick slipped on a pair of sunglasses, checked himself in the mirror in the bathroom, picked up his bag, and left the room. Forty-five minutes later, he pulled to a stop about a mile from the front gate of the Green Vistas Memorial Gardens and parked his vehicle. A warm sun baked down on him, and he heard the sound of bagpipes playing a mournful tune inside the graveyard. He tried reaching Shannon one more time but still without luck. He switched his phone to vibrate, slid the Luger under the front seat, and hopped out of his vehicle, his eyes sweeping the area for something, anything, that gave evidence to his gruesome speculation.
Since she had no invitation to the funeral, Shannon stalked the perimeter of the six-foot-high wrought iron fence that bordered Green Vista Gardens. From what she saw, close to a thousand guests were either already in place or making their way through the security checkpoints to attend the burial. Line after line of black limousines and government-issued SUVs sat on the street and security personnel dressed in navy suits, black shoes, and sunglasses accompanied many of those entering the checkpoints. Shannon saw a number of celebrities but even more government officials, elected and otherwise. She looked for the other eight members of the Supreme Court but didn’t see any of them. Already inside, she concluded, preparing to perform their last act of respect for their deceased fellow justice.
Not sure of the direction from which the attack would come, Shannon studied the sky, then the security gates, then the vehicles she passed but saw no sign of threat. Did the Conspiracy have someone on the inside, she wondered? Had they managed to slip an assassin past the security, someone armed with enough firepower to carry out the terrible thing she and Rick suspected? But how? Although press reports said the president wouldn’t attend, the presence of the other dignitaries guaranteed massive Secret Service attention. Even a suicide bomber with an accomplice providing him entry would find it difficult to outsmart such an array.
The bagpipes stopped playing and Shannon knew the service was about to start. She walked past one security checkpoint, turned left and stepped down a side street bordering the graveyard. Fewer cars and limos sat on this street, and she found it quiet, almost comforting. A bird chirped in a huge oak to her left and a bumblebee buzzed past. Nothing dangerous poked up its head. Shannon relaxed a moment. Perhaps she and Rick had guessed wrong.
Her thoughts settled on Rick for a moment and she regretted ignoring his calls. But she still resented his effort to control her, keep her from what she needed to do. Nobody had the right to hold her hostage, no matter if they thought it for her own good. She touched her phone in the pocket of her gray suit jacket and almost took it out to call Rick but then left it alone. After this ended, she decided, she’d make up with him if he’d allow it.
She lifted her eyes and saw an area about a hundred yards away, across the street from the cemetery, with a truck and a couple of pieces of construction equipment sitting in it. Nothing stirred around the equipment but she walked toward it anyway, planning to turn right at the corner and check out the back side of the graveyard. Nearer the space, she saw a man sitting in the truck, a Nike cap pulled tightly to his forehead, a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. The man’s chin bent toward his chest, almost as if he were dozing. She reached the corner and started to turn right, away from the equipment, but then noticed a small mound of dirt near the largest piece of the equipment, earth that had come from a hole dug in the ground. Although she tried to look nonchalant, she slowed just a little and scanned the area more closely, noticed hard-packed ground near the street by the mound of dirt, a metal covering the size of a manhole cover over the hole. She involuntarily touched the pistol holstered under her suit jacket on her right hip, thought of the knife strapped to a sleeve in the small of her back. She considered calling her superiors with the Order but
then realized that chance had passed. What happened next depended on her and Rick, nobody else.
She glanced back at the hole in the ground; something about it screeched across her nerve endings. Her breath caught and her feet stilled as she remembered. “Pop goes the weasel. Pops is a no-good, crawl-out-of-a-hole weasel.”
After clearing the security gate, Rick had eased his way toward the casket, nodding hello to the people he knew, shaking a hand or two as he moved toward his grandfather whom he had spotted two rows behind the section reserved for the surviving members of the Supreme Court. Now he stood near the edge of the crowd, his eyes on his granddad, waiting for some signal that would start the destruction to come. But nothing happened. The officiate—not a minister since Toliver had openly reveled in her status as the only publicly identified atheist on the Court—finished her short remarks and the surviving justices, each in dark suits and sunglasses, stood and took positions around the casket. The officiate referred to a book, then opened it and began to read while the justices waited. Rick rubbed his tired eyes. Perhaps he’d made a mistake, misinterpreted everything.
Rick’s cell phone vibrated but he ignored it. It vibrated again and he carefully slipped it out, turned his head away, and checked the number, then twisted around and eased away from the crowd.
“What?” he whispered.
“A tunnel!” Shannon shouted. “Underground. Pops is a no-good-hole-in-the-ground weasel!”
Rick understood immediately. “Must be explosives under the casket. They’re going after all the justices!”
“The president will choose new justices in their forties. They’ll be members of the Conspiracy or controlled by it!”
“He’s got sixty senators, no way to stop him!”
“They’ll serve long enough to make radical changes!”
Rick pivoted to the justices gathered around the casket. They each held a handful of Missouri dirt in their hands, Justice Toliver’s last wish. Toss the dirt onto her to symbolize her belief in what happened after death, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, no more, no less, no eternity to follow.