The Wallis Jones Series Box Set - Volume Two: Books Four thru Six

by Martha Carr

  “What does Angola do for water in the meantime. Won’t anyone notice and just rise up and revolt?” asked Norman.

  “Great question. Here’s the truly sick portion of my story. He made a deal to sell the Angolans expired water in plastic bottles from U.S. and European sources.”

  “Water expires?” asked Trey.

  “Apparently when you bottle or can everything the powers that be insist you come up with an expiration. And water in plastic starts to smell and taste funny after a certain amount of time. Still perfectly safe but not something your average suburbanite or hipster will put up with,” said Helmut.

  “So, he’s selling them back water but at a lower rate than what he paid for their water, and then they’re selling it to the citizens of Angola, making a profit,” said Ned, putting the pieces together. “And he’s making a profit because the price is still higher than what he paid in the U.S. or Europe.”

  “Bingo again,” said Helmut, “and thus he moves around a lot of water from one place to another to gain power.”

  “You said worldwide power,” said Harriet, sitting up, “and you’ve only mentioned China, maybe Angola. How does that amount to controlling the rest of us?”

  Wallis already saw the end game and knew Norman was getting there as well but once again it was Ned who said it out loud. “It’s the massive debt load,” said Ned. “He can control the U.S. by dictating terms on the debt we carry with China. He can do the same to the European Union by manipulating the U.S.”

  “Yep,” said Helmut, “because the EU owes the U.S. so much money, and the U.S. owes China well over a trillion dollars. It would be like a row of dominos all falling toward China.”

  “And George Clemente,” said Father Michael, who put his twisted hand hard against his chest and sank back in his chair. “Then he begins to make international policy.”

  “I don’t understand then what was behind all of the plots he had to demolish the Circle,” said Wallis. “Why bother and attract attention if his plot is so much bigger?”

  Harriet had been sitting back with her eyes closed, taking it all in but she suddenly sat up, her eyes popping open. “Do you think he knows?” she asked, reaching out her arm toward Esther, her bracelets jangling.

  “The Schmetterlings? God, no,” said Esther, the color draining from her face.

  “Do they mean the Butterfly Project?” asked Trey. “Are they talking about us?”

  “If he knew his rogue Watchers would have done something about it by now,” said Father Donald.

  “No, they wouldn’t,” said Ned, “because it’s too late. Too many Butterflies have gone out into the world and spread out.”

  “Yeah, we’re everywhere now,” said Will. “Government, military, corporate jobs.”

  “It would take too long to try and kill us off.”

  “Then, it was all a distraction,” said Wallis, but just as she said it, Father Donald seemed to notice something moving out in front of the house.

  “What is it?” asked Wallis.

  “Maybe nothing, probably nothing,” said the Father, catching himself. “Damn black SUV can’t drive by without me seeing a conspiracy.”

  “Because there usually is one,” said Helmut.

  “George Clemente isn’t after the Butterfly Project or anyone in it,” said Ned, trying to get the conversation back on track. So much like his father, thought Wallis, in all the best ways.

  “He never made any mention of it,” said Ned.

  “And we are finally at the good news,” said Helmut. “I will let Father Michael or Fred take over from here.”

  “We have gained an outline of George Clemente’s plans and it makes no mention of the Butterfly Project or anything that might hint that he is aware,” said Father Michael. “His desire to try and control the two large groups appears to have been partly a backup plan and maybe more so, a smoke screen for what he was really doing in Management.”

  “Stealing from them,” said Wallis.

  “Yes,” said Father Michael, “and building an army of sorts of rogue Watchers.”

  “But how did you get an outline? The man never talks about anything,” said Norman. “I’ve seen that first hand. It’s amazing he’s pulled off such a grand and complex scheme as you’re describing, given how little he will tell anyone around him.”

  “We had some reliable inside information,” said Fred. “Who stole his handwritten diaries and gave them to us.”

  “Who would risk that much to do that?” asked Wallis.

  “His son,” said Ned, “a Butterfly.”

  “Dear God,” said Harriet, “now I have heard everything.”

  “George Clemente has a son,” said Norman in a hushed voice. “You were able to verify this?”

  “Yes, science has made that part relatively simple,” said Father Michael. “But I also had the pleasure of knowing his mother, a good woman, and I believe her side of things.”

  “Even if she was tangled up with Clemente,” said Helmut. Wallis saw Father Michael bristle and shift in his seat, tapping on the pocket that held the small book.

  He has a tell, thought Wallis, glancing over at Norman. She noticed again how Norman seemed to have aged so much since he was returned to her by the same man, Clemente, who was trying to take over the world. She let out a noticeable ‘tsk’ at the thought, and shook her head hard, trying to let go of the idea. It’s too big, she thought. She reached out and took Norman’s hand, startling him as he quickly recovered and gave her a smile.

  “He doesn’t know it, does he,” said Wallis, looking at Father Michael. “Clemente, he’s in the dark. Otherwise he would have done something about it. That’s good and bad news. Just how far back and how detailed are these diaries?”

  “A weak point to the man at last,” said Norman, giving her hand a squeeze. Wallis saw Ned look up at his parents and let out a deep breath.

  “They go back for years and contain a lot of details. It helped confirm what he was really doing in Angola and Tibet,” said Helmut. “It’s every intangible fear I had about what the man might be up to but couldn’t get anyone to listen.”

  “If we had listened,” said Father Michael, his voice growing louder as his face grew a deeper red, “what would you have told us? That he was a threat? That he wanted massive amounts of power? Let it go, Helmut, it’s not attractive or even accurate. It wasn’t until this moment, right here that we had enough information to do anything with any assurance we were on the right track.”

  “He’s played the best game of whack-a-mole ever,” said Trey. “Just when you think you beat him back over here,” he said, pounding the table, startling Esther and Harriet, “he pops up over there,” he said, pounding the table again.

  “Well said,” said Norman, patting Trey on the back.

  “Are we convinced that we know all the major plot lines now?” asked Wallis, “because I feel like we’re still missing something. For one thing, how did he get all of the exclusive rights to the expired water in the U.S.? Can you even ship something out of the U.S. just because you want to? Isn’t that expensive?” Wallis could feel her heart rate going up with every question. She could feel she was on the edge of something important but wasn’t quite seeing it.

  “All good questions, Mom, but there’s also one other thing we know for sure that has to be brought up before this meeting ends,” said Ned. “He has a plan B. Bio warfare with an airborne form of encephalitis. There is a vaccine and even a cure but neither one is made in great supply. We think he means to use it as a form of crowd control.”

  “Do what I want or I take out half of your country,” said Father Donald.

  “Or come use it and cut down the number of people who need water,” said Harriet.

  Wallis felt her stomach churn.

  “There’s one other thing we haven’t talked about,” said Fred. “The Watchers are in revolt and are out for revenge. That can’t be ignored.”

  “You know a lot more than the rest of us,” s
aid Norman, eyeing his son. “That’s not by chance or just from a little diary, either.”

  Tires squealed and came to a halt on the street in front of the house. Wallis pushed her way to the far side of the table and leaned down by her mother. There was a line of black SUVs in front of the house, inches from each other, their engines idling.

  “I think those may be for me,” said Fred, rising from his chair.

  “It’s safe to assume we don’t know that for sure,” said Helmut, looking at Fred, “but you have a point. What now?” he asked.

  “We do something radical,” said Wallis, “and call the local police. “Fred’s not wanted on any official police blotters so they won’t come in to look for him.” Wallis saw her mother unsnapping her purse. “Mom, no shooting. That’s what they want, an excuse to shoot back in the confusion. This is our home, Norman and my home,” she said, tapping her chest as her necklace jangled against her throat, “and we call the shots on our little quarter acre.”

  “Almost half an acre,” said Norman.

  “Call those lovely detectives who I met in the cemetery,” said Harriet, her hand still inside of her purse. She looked out the window at the street as a window slowly went down.

  “Nice way to frame when you almost died carrying out your duties as a Keeper, but good idea Mom. As I recall, those were two detectives who didn’t actually know anything about any of this. We can get them to clear the street, and then you,” she said, pointing at Fred, trying to soften her voice, “need to make a clean getaway.”

  Before he could answer Wallis grabbed him around the neck and hugged him hard, not saying a word. She was still afraid of him but she had held his wife, Maureen as she bled out and decided she didn’t need to understand his grief or his pain.

  “What do you think it all means?” asked Helmut, trying to peer out of the window.

  “That all bets are off,” said Harriet. “They no longer care who was ever descended from who.”

  Wallis went to the front hall and opened the door, stepping out onto the porch. Norman came and stood beside her. She could hear the conversation still going on in the dining room behind her.

  A neighbor’s door opened and closed with a firm shove as the young couple who lived a couple of houses down went out for a walk together, moving slowly past the cars, not saying a word.

  Sandra Wilkins emerged from her house and waved at Wallis, the start of a smile across her face. Sandra stepped off her porch and slowly walked toward Wallis and Norman’s house, looking around, taking in her surroundings.

  “The neighbors are making their presence known,” said Wallis.

  “Normally, that would be enough to get them to scurry off at high speed,” said Norman. “But so far, they’re not budging.”

  “That’s what we’ve noticed too,” said Ned, as he came up behind them. “The Watchers are in a revolt. Management overlords aren’t getting them into a lockstep anymore. A lot of them have organized as some subset or something.”

  “Nice Star Wars references,” said Father Donald, as Will gave him a high-five.

  “This is our version of normal,” Wallis whispered in Norman’s ear. For once, Norman let a smile briefly come across his face.

  He leaned over and whispered, “As long as I’m surrounded by you, and Ned, hell, even Harriet and my other so-called friends and neighbors I’m okay. It is what it is. That’s what I’m trying to protect from George Clemente.”

  “Can’t even imagine what the world would look like if he could pull the strings,” said Wallis, a little louder.

  “So, let’s stop him before it gets that far,” said Ned. “Let’s see if we can end all of this.”

  “That has something to do with what you’re going to do with the money, doesn’t it,” said Wallis. Ned stood up straighter, putting his shoulders back.

  “I’m not ready to say anything else,” he said, as Sandra came up and joined them on the porch.

  “Okay, well, then I trust you will when the time is right,” said Wallis, straightening the bangs across Ned’s forehead. She wanted to ask him more questions but resisted the temptation. “This is our normal,” she said, as she waved at the trucks. It was a broad wave, her arm outstretched, slowly moving out to her side and above her head.

  The window on the car slowly went back up and the cars rolled out of there. No one seemed to be in any kind of hurry.

  “Why’d you do that?” asked Norman. “Not that I mind, was kind of badass.”

  “Because she is learning that at some point in this game if you want to have a life you have to get over letting the fear rule the day and get on with things,” said Harriet, slowly shuffling onto the porch. Her purse was dangling heavily from her wrist, swaying from side to side.

  “I need to learn how to shoot a gun,” said Wallis, watching the purse sway. Harriet let out a short laugh.

  “Baby steps, my dear. All in good time,” said her mother. “For now, it’s enough that you didn’t cower inside.”

  “The police are on their way,” said Helmut, standing just inside the house, biting down on a pickle. “What do we tell them when they get here? Too many cars parked illegally?”

  “We tell them we think they’re the same people who had something to do with the murder of Alice Watkins. It’s true and it’ll get their interest,” said Wallis. “And it will get them to inadvertently scrutinize this revolt.”

  “Nicely done, Mom,” said Ned. Wallis felt a smile grow across her face.

  Chapter 7

  “Who’s maintaining these cars?” Detective Arnold Biggs turned on the windshield wipers on the unmarked patrol car as a short spray of fluid reached halfway up the glass on the left side. The right side gave off only a short spritz. He tried again before slapping his hand hard on the top of the dashboard in frustration. His frustration was running along at a steady hum ever since they heard about the assassination of the President, and the killer, Rodney Parrish. A name they were both familiar with and were not entirely surprised had finally broken through to a national storyline.

  His partner, Detective Jason Busby, just Buster for short, watched the dust cloud that rose up and let out a snort of cynical laughter. He was no happier about what had happened but was more resigned to not being able to fix some things. He tried to stick to what he could do something about and anything to do with the mess in Washington was beyond his purview.

  “I told you, bring your own, he said, reaching under the seat for a bottle of Windex. “Here, it’s your turn,” said the older detective.

  It was always Detective Biggs turn but he didn’t mind. Seniority had its privileges even if he wasn’t so young anymore, either. They were both detectives in the City of Richmond, usually running down homicides. But they managed on a pretty regular basis to annoy their Captain and often found themselves running errands for the Captain instead.

  Detective Biggs was convinced it was to keep them away from some other part of town where there was something going down the Captain didn’t want them to see.

  Richmond was like any other city and had its share of what some people out in the far suburbs of the West End might call illegal activities like the combinating rooms where a body could still get a small loan to place a two-dollar bet. Combinating was a useful noun in Richmond-speak.

  Anyone who was born and raised within the city limits called combinating good business, which it was for some like Mac, who ran the hall, and for all the local politicians and cops who got to place a bet for free on Mondays. Long-time residents who had first walked in as small children, holding their daddy’s hand, saw it all as harmless fun. It was part of old Richmond culture, after all.

  That was until Rodney Parrish showed up and became one of Mac’s best bag men, along with his side penchant for burglary. At first he had seemed like a godsend to a few particular prominent politicians or well-connected people who occasionally needed someone who could break in without leaving a trace.

  Rodney could come and go so smoothly
people often didn’t believe they’d been robbed and blamed themselves for misplacing their mother’s diamond ring or were convinced it was their teenager who had taken the money. It wasn’t unheard of to even have him plant something to help an officer make a case.

  Many suspected there had to be more to the story, like Detective Biggs and Buster, but it was hard to prove, especially when there were some in higher places who had more vested in looking the other way.

  But then an old woman died and no one could figure out who wanted her dead or even how the killer how had gotten inside. She was as neat as a pin except for the thin slice along her neck that had quickly killed her and the pool of blood around her.

  Some of her jewelry was missing but no one could tell if it was taken or misplaced. By the time the third body turned up and a pattern was emerging there were only a few who didn’t suspect it was the nattily dressed Rodney Parrish.

  The murders put a wrinkle into things for some people who didn’t see themselves going behind bars. If he was ever caught and started talking about who had used him for other felonies and refused to charge him, they could be booked as accessories after the fact.

  Everyone wanted to keep Rodney Parrish away from a courtroom where he might start talking freely. Everyone that is except Detective Biggs and Buster who had tried on several occasions to catch him in the act. None of it ever amounted to anything.

  Then everything fell apart all at once. Rodney Parrish found his way inside of a hotel, inside of a small room and slit the throat of the President of the United States. President Ronald Haynes serving out his second term as President, was dead before the Secret Service could reach his falling body, along with his aide Trey Nichols.

  Rodney Parrish was shot in the back calmly walking out of the premises as if he knew there was no turning back and he had accepted his fate. He never tried to surrender or fight his way out and was shot only after he refused to stop. All of his secrets were finally put to rest.