by Martha Carr
“Richard Bach is here tonight to represent the White House,” said Paul, waving his arm to encourage Richard to join him. “It’s wonderful how we can all work together and rebuild faster, more efficiently and share the newfound abundance. That’s how our organization was founded from day one. We are a multi-layered team. Come on Richard,” he said, still waving.
The faces around Richard all turned to look at him with a newfound respect and curiosity and slowly started applauding. Richard ignored the reluctance and stepped out onto the stage in a daze, blinking at the bright lights that now shown in his face.
He caught himself and smiled, already forgetting the phone call he overheard, and went up to Paul to shake his outstretched hand. He was suddenly grateful that this new leader had included him in the celebration and he wondered if he could somehow wedge himself into the new movement to rebuild. A fresh start, he thought, smiling next to Paul Whitaker.
I can leave all of that groveling and taking orders behind me. He looked back toward the wing of the stage to take in the applause from the corps of directors and saw David Whittaker watching him carefully. Richard felt a chill run through him and he had to work to keep the smile on his face as he turned back toward the audience.
Something wasn’t quite right, he knew it. Maybe the President could tell him more about George Clemente, he thought, as he waved again, causing another cheer to erupt. The broad smile came back on his face.
“Stay vigilant, my friends,” he said, holding out his arms wide as if he would hug as many people as possible, if only they were closer. “The web the Black Widow and her followers are growing is all around us, I can feel it. But there are more of us who want to do the right thing and together we will put together the clues that form a picture and stop whatever may be coming our way so that we continue to grow. From our seeds, a new family tree has arisen. Each one of you is a branch, a necessary branch. Thank you all for coming out and please make sure to meet with your individual managers for your next assignments.”
In the back of the audience Jake Whiting stood up as everyone applauded and started to gather their things, sliding out of their rows and milling back and forth. He made a point of saying a brief hello and nodding at anyone who looked his way as he took a flyer from the back table. He didn’t want anyone remembering him later.
The noise level rose till it was impossible to hear without leaning into a conversation. Jake took advantage of the excitement that was still building around him and made his way to the double doors in the back of the large room.
Once he was outside, he peeled off the nametag that said, Jimmy Pfeiffer, crumpling it before stuffing it in his pocket.
He had been a little scared when he first got there and saw all of the cars filling the large parking lot that covered well over two acres. But coming late had proved to be a smart move. There were only a few name tags left to choose from and no one minding the table. He quickly took a picture and sent it to Ned, asking him for his best guess.
Jimmy Pfeiffer turned out to be another teenager who at least had a passing resemblance to Jake and was known for his ability to finish a six-pack in under an hour. There was less of a chance he would suddenly show up even later than Jake.
“You leaving early?”
Jake flinched as he turned around, startled and looked up the few stairs at the man standing in the doorway. He thought he recognized him and wondered if the man might have known his father, Mark.
“Uh, yeah, I have end of semester exams coming up. Have to go study,” he said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “Didn’t want to miss this, though,” he said, trying to sound sincere.
“Good for you, balancing out your priorities.”
“Well, gotta go,” said Jake, giving the man a small salute as he turned quickly, trying not to give him a chance to start introductions. He looked back and said over his shoulder, “AP courses, can’t afford to waste time,” he said, giving a toothy grin.
The man looked like he wanted to say something but Jake was already walking away.
“Damn,” he said, quietly, making himself walk at a quick pace and not break out into a full run. He got to his car and slid in, starting the engine, pausing for a moment to put on his seat belt and slowly pull out of the parking space. Maybe it wasn’t too late and no one was taking notes.
Fortunately, the car was borrowed and the plates would lead nowhere. Father Donald had already talked to him about what to do if things went wrong. He had given him instructions reluctantly but Ned had assured Father Donald they were going ahead with the plan, with or without help.
Jake had lied when he said his father knew about the plans but he figured it would be too late by the time anyone checked with Mark. He pulled out onto Parham Road, moving into the left lane, keeping pace with the large truck next to him, blocking him from the view of the funeral home.
His body gave off a shudder as soon as he realized he had made it out of there without an incident. He reached for his phone and kept glancing down, dialing Facetime with one hand.
“Ned? Yeah, it went okay,” he said, resting the phone in the cup holder so it was pointed at him.
“What does that mean?” asked Ned, “and why do you look like you want to puke?”
“Dude, someone stopped me at the door. Nothing happened,” said Jake, turning onto West Broad Street where there was more traffic and it was easier to blend in with all of the cars. Jake’s father made sure to teach him the basics evading the enemy. The training only got more intense after the war showed up at their doorstep in the Haskill Mountains and they had to hide a wounded soldier and then the Keeper.
He kept to the speed of the traffic flow, taking the inside lane and not making any quick moves.
“Hang on, passing a cop,” he said, as he kept his eyes on the road, avoiding looking directly at the City of Richmond patrol car that was headed in the opposite direction. “Even on a good day that makes me nervous. Gotten used to being up in the mountains,” he said, glancing down at Ned’s face on his phone.
“What happened at the door?” asked Ned.
“I told you, nothing. Man stopped me to see why I wasn’t signing up for something. Told him I had to study for exams and got myself out of there. I think it was okay.”
“You think?”
“That’s not important, anyway,” said Jake, getting further out West Broad Street where some of the traffic thinned out. “You’ll never guess who was the speaker. Paul Whittaker and you would have thought he was some kind of guru the way they hung on every word.”
“What?”, asked Ned, frowning. “The Paul Whittaker we grew up with? He was afraid of his own shadow when we were still friends.”
“Well, apparently you’re not friends anymore. He had nothing nice to say about your family. Called you out by name, dude. Made you and your mom sound like traitors.”
“That’s not news, Jake.”
Jake looked down at his phone. “Everybody okay on your end? Where are you?”
“Not supposed to say,” said Ned. “Anyway, not sure we’re anywhere for longer than a night, just yet. We got out of there just ahead of the bullets. Was that all you got out of the meeting?”
“No, that’s not all. Can’t be sure, but Paul seemed to be hinting at the Butterfly Project. You think it’s possible he knows?”
“Damn, I hope not. Best thing we have going for us is no one is looking for us. I knew that couldn’t last forever but we need it to last a little longer.”
“Till you start the big move. How’s the programming coming?”
“Slow. I just put my latest contribution to the virus on Pastebin and I’m waiting to see what somebody else can do with it. I kind of hit a wall.”
“Hurry,” said Jake. “Paul might have been bluffing or using your family’s names to stir up the crowd but I don’t know. He seemed to be hinting at something specific and I don’t know what else there could be.”
“There’s one possibility,” said Ned.
<
br /> “What’s that?”
“George Clemente. Mom told me that David Whittaker was part of Clemente’s group now but if Paul was up there talking to the big dogs in Management then something strange is going on.”
“Hey, almost forgot to mention it. Some guy who works at the White House came onstage at the end to take a bow. His name was Richard Bach. Paul said he worked for the President. What’s wrong? Now, you look like you want to puke.”
“That guy chased us across Virginia a few years ago and was out to kill us all. Mom threatened him and got him to back off. He’s working for the new President now? That can’t be good news. That means Clemente may have managed to make his way into the White House. I’ll have to call you back.”
“We’re in some real trouble this time, aren’t we?” asked Jake.
“Worst part is, I think we were always in this much trouble. We just didn’t get it.”
Chapter 14
Fred Bowers stood at the tall window looking out at the falling snow outside. “I can see my breath, even in here,” he said, blowing out and fogging the window pane.
“Old building, tall windows, Chicago winter,” said Father Michael. “It’s a winning combination. You get used to it, or so I’m told,” he said, smiling. “You have to learn to layer better. That’s the secret.”
The two men had taken refuge inside of the Episcopal Diocesan building on Huron Street near Streeterville and the North Loop where the trains turned to head back to the outer neighborhoods. The old building resembled an old English cathedral with its different towers and gabled roofs sitting on a base of light tan sandstone and was built before the Great Fire that consumed the city.
“Can’t get over the feeling someone left a door open,” said Fred, pushing his hands deep inside the pockets of his cassock. “And I’m already wearing long johns.” Fred watched the Christmas shoppers hustling down the street, their faces wrapped in scarves as the wind blew packages being held by the handle back and forth.
“Never seen wind change direction like that,” said Fred.
“Lake effect,” said the Father. “You focus for that long on what bothers you, that’s all you ever see.”
Fred turned away from the window. “I’m not actually a minister. You do remember that, right? For me, this is just a costume, a necessity.”
“There have been stranger beginnings.”
“Don’t start,” said Fred. He looked around the wide-open room filled with a mixture of heavy, wooden furniture and folding chairs. “To even get this place above freezing must be hurting the pocket book of the cause,” he said, grimacing. He was sure there was a breeze blowing around his ankles.
“You’ll be happy to know, then, the Diocese sold the building. This will all be torn down soon,” said Father Michael, “and replaced with sixty-five glass-enclosed floors. The Diocese gets the first couple of floors in exchange.”
“Sixty-five floors of what?”
“Condos, I believe. Most people shared your opinion about the cost. Rather clever that they not only sold the land but the air rights overhead. I understand that the floors right above the Diocesan’s head will be parking, Chicago style,” said the old cleric, piling his hands, one on top of the other, over and over again. “Not to worry. All done within the family. A Circle company will be in charge of the project and another will be the new owners. I suppose that’s progress.”
“I don’t worry as a rule,” said Fred. He walked over to the large maps laid out on a Victorian table with scrolled legs made of walnut and shined to a dark black. “Do you have something against computers? Electronics in general?” asked Fred, looking over the map.
“Yes, I do. Things can be stolen from thousands of miles away on a computer, sometimes without you ever becoming aware anything is missing. You take one of my maps, I can see that it’s gone. Simple math.”
“We don’t have a lot of time,” said Fred. “All the pieces of George Clemente’s plan are becoming visible and fitting together. That’s not good news. He’s at the last stages and once he’s got an operating system to move the water from one country to another, and secured favors or power in exchange, he will be hard to stop.”
“I fear that even if he were finally killed, by then the infrastructure would sustain itself and all of the worker ants would just keep going, causing further harm on a global scale,” said Father Michael. “Evil feels empowered right now and that can spread, much like a nasty virus. The small piece of fear or hate that someone has carried around quietly, inside of themselves becomes emboldened. Its own kind of mob mentality.”
Father Michael went to look out a window at the end of the long room. “This city is never more beautiful than when it is first covered by snow. All of the wonderful architecture stands out against the blanket of snow and light is everywhere, even at night.”
He turned back around and clapped his hands.
“You know, I’ve been warning people about George Clemente since my hair was a lovely chestnut color,” he said, tilting his head of stark white hair toward Fred for inspection.
“I’m growing tired of this cat and mouse game, especially since we seem to be stuck in the role of mouse. Is he here? Daniel Kozak was our entire reason for coming to Chicago.”
“Changing the topic?”
“This looks like it’s becoming the epicenter of something,” said Fred, ignoring the comment. “A little focus would be a useful idea.”
“George Clemente was from the Midwest and his son, Daniel was from here. He wants to return some day to live here. But, this city is crawling with Clemente supporters. He’s taking a great risk meeting us here but he refused to let us gather at the children’s home. He didn’t want to put all of the children at risk.”
“The Butterfly Project,” said Fred, picking up an ornamental egg from a nearby desk.
“It’s a strange thing about the Episcopalians. They leave out two-hundred-year-old Faberge eggs worth millions,” said Father Michael as he delicately took the egg away from Fred, “and find special storage facilities for every book they ever bought. I suppose it’s all that five-hundred-year-old guilt we can’t shake off from abandoning the Romans.”
“Did you know that Ty Nichols reached out to me? It was days before he died alongside President Haynes.”
“What did he want?”
“I don’t know. I never got the chance to ask him. But something must have been bothering him if he figured out how to reach me.”
A heavy oak door opened slowly as someone fiddled with the loose brass door knob. The secretary from down the hall gave a last shove and came in still looking composed.
“She has to do that a dozen times a day,” said Father Michael, raising a bushy white eyebrow, as he slowly shook his head, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Father, Mr. Kozak has arrived,” she said. Fred noted the layers of sweaters she was wearing making her look padded.
“Can you show him into my temporary office, Gladys?”
“Certainly,” said Gladys, as she left the room, pulling the door shut, first by holding onto the frame with both hands, and at the last moment using the handle. Fred rolled his eyes.
“It’s a wonder the Order does as well as it does on a dime store budget,” he said, sounding annoyed.
“You often focus on the things that don’t matter. It’s getting in your way, and by proximity, my way. Keep it up and it will get someone killed that you didn’t intend to shoot.”
“Little bitter for an actual man of the cloth,” said Fred, following behind Father Michael as they took a smaller side door almost hidden by the enormous bookcase built on either side and filled with volumes of rare books.
“Anyone who chooses a spiritual path for a profession is still a human being with all of the necessary foibles. The difference comes when the chips are down and we’re still searching for the solution we know has to be there. My vow is a constant challenge not to give up,” he said as they wandered down a narrow hallway wit
hout windows, lit by old gas lamps on the walls that had been converted and were lit by low wattage Edison bulbs.
“What is it with all of these tunnels?” asked Fred.
“So much of what the Order of the White Rose does has to stay hidden from everyone and glass is very transparent. Besides, all of these wonderful tunnels left behind all over the country. Well, it would be a shame not to put them to good use.”
Father Michael stopped in front of a door, pausing for a moment before he gave a short rap on the door while turning the glass handle. “I’d think you’d like a tunnel,” he said, as he held the door open for Fred. “Warmer and your hide is not being constantly hunted. There’s a price on your head, if I recall, from more than one source. We are your only allies at this point in history, Mr. Bowers.”
“Not only. There’s Wallis Jones.”
Father Michael nodded. “Yes, you make a valid point. Wallis and Norman both see things differently from their peers. Ironic that they are now being hunted as well.”
“Daniel Kozak,” said Father Michael, ignoring Daniel’s outstretched hand and enveloping him in a large bear hug. Daniel seemed surprised and let himself be hugged but it took a moment before he returned the embrace. Snow fell away from his dark green down coat and floated down to the floor, quickly adding to the puddle surrounding the Sorel boots on his feet.
Father Michael took a step back, keeping an arm on Daniel’s shoulder, smiling broadly. “You don’t remember me, I can tell, but I baptized you. Yes? Ah, well, those were turbulent times. I knew your mother, Eleanor quite well. Wonderful, strong woman. You have her wonderful green eyes.”
Daniel stood stiffly next to him, not moving, watching Fred settle into the small sagging couch.
“You’re Fred Bowers, aren’t you?” asked Daniel.
“From the look on your face, I’m going to guess that you’ve already heard quite a bit about me,” said Fred, hiking up the cassock so he could cross his legs.