by Martha Carr
“We have to stay calm in the face of anger and shouting,” said Juliette. “Share the supplies of food and fuel and whatever else they need that we’ve managed to gather. Fortunately we were ready for them.”
“It’s like you learned from all of your elders,” said Tom. “We tried to destroy management by fighting in a civil war with guns, and this time you’re fighting back by openly sharing what you have and trusting that enough people will come over to your side. I only wish we thought of it. The Butterfly Project has become what the Circle should’ve been all along.”
“We’re spreading our own kind of propaganda except it happens to be true. The only difference is we’re treating it like propaganda because that seems to be the best way to spread it like a virus. We’ve even spread fake news that shines a positive light on how everyone is treating each other and posted them online,” said Ned.
“There’s manufactured video and pictures,” said Juliette, “and for some reason if you had a video everyone assumes it has to be true. All of it was staged. Add to that the rule of ten percent, you know, ten percent look at what we post and ten percent of those start to believe it.”
Ned finished her sentence. “And we could predict how many it would take at each rally or online or at any gathering before we had enough people who believed what we were saying, regardless of whether or not each incident was actually true.”
“Your intention was only to win the hearts and minds and get everyone to think that something good was happening,” said Wallis, admiringly.
“Genius,” whispered Father Donald, his hands on his hips. “For once, the ends justified the means.”
“Exactly,” said Ned, “By crowdsourcing everything we inspired an idea that grew into a movement, and since everyone already knew that our intention was to inspire there is no secret memo to find that would point to anything else. So when the opposition tries to come after us we’re ready for them. We identify them, and neutralize them by sharing the same kind of positive fake news on their website.”
“What do you need us to do?” asked Tom.
“Aren’t you a little afraid your nephew’s going to say, nothing?” asked Father Donald. “I mean, after all, our old methods are outdated and no longer useful. We’re like the violent version of your elders that you put in assisted living.”
“We’re still left with the problem of what to do about my father,” said Daniel, a sour look on his face. “We’ve had sightings of my father in the United States, primarily in New York City. One of his favorite rest stops. As far as we can tell he’s making plans to do something and it looks like he’s coming this way. All of his focus is on us.”
Fred Bowers stepped forward, into the middle of the room, silencing everyone. “Every person in here has a reason for wanting Clemente dead. Not captured, dead. There’s not much to discuss.”
“Here, here,” said Helmut, who had also been silent, listening to the back and forth. “And there’s about a million people in parts of Africa and Asia that want his head, even if they don’t know his name.”
“So, we work for peace,” said Madame Bella, “with one glaring exception.”
“Good,” said Wallis. “It’s about time that George and I had a chance to talk, face to face. If we’re all going to reclaim our lives then George Clemente has to die.” Wallis saw out of the corner of her eye a satisfied smile on her mother’s face.
It seemed appropriate to Wallis that the place where it would all finally end would be in her old hometown of Richmond Virginia. After all, for her at least, it was where it all started. A nice little circle.
“How can we be sure he’s going to head here? I thought he was going to Chicago. How are you one hundred percent certain?” asked Tom.
“You told him his son is here, didn’t you?” asked Harriet, as Father Michael helped her to her feet. Her handbag dangled from her wrist. She walked over to Daniel, pushing Father Donald out of the way.
“You look like your mother, fortunate turn of events,” said Harriet, cupping his chin in her hand. “Yes, that’s right,” she said to Daniel’s astonished face, “I knew her. I’ve travelled a lot of roads in my lifetime, most of them quietly, despite what my daughter is fond of saying. Hush!” she said, holding up her hand in Wallis’ direction, even though Wallis knew better than to try and interrupt Harriet Jones when she was on a roll.
“It’s a good thing that you’re a part of this Butterfly Project. A very good thing. Everyone should feel a connection to something. That’s my one regret in life, just the one. I had connections but I had to deny them for most of my life in order to preserve them, guard them. You’ve taken a smarter route,” said Harriet, letting go of his face. “Rigorous honesty,” she said, shaking her head, “what a concept. One last good kill,” said Harriet, patting her purse, “and then we let our replacements take over completely. Well, welcome to the party, Butterflies, it’s about damn time.”
Chapter 7
Charlie Foyle was tired of sitting on the sidelines. First, following behind his family in some small town in the middle of Texas, and now sitting among a group of old Episcopal ministers in the heart of Philadelphia. It wasn’t much easier being in the Order’s compound adjacent to old Christ Church in the heart of Center City than it was in a small town, except he was closer to getting answers, even if the old clerics didn’t exactly like to share information.
Still, Charlie found they were ready when the Great Relief began.
The Order was created with the idea that things could always go very badly and they were used to doing things like stockpiling canned food, just in case. Even though they shared as much as they could with the residents of the neighborhood that surrounded them, there was still enough to go around for the priests. They didn’t have to do as much bartering and even though they chose to turn off the heat for parts the middle of the day in order to preserve fuel, and then again for most of the night, none of the priests had to endure long stretches of freezing cold.
Still, the Order was careful to hide their good fortune. It would’ve exposed their true mission if a lot of their neighbors realized that the priests were prepared when the monetary system of the world was turned on its head. Charlie imagine that they would have been called a doomsday cult and everyone would’ve looked at them suspiciously no matter what they said or did or how much they helped out.
At first, he drew the line at wearing the long black cassock and instead opted for a more casual dress. But after one too many questions from someone on the street who wondered what he was doing for the priests who lived in the building he decided it was better to blend in rather than insist on his old identity.
All of the Order’s preparation had left Charlie with very little to do. He was disconnected from the Butterfly Project, and had not received orders for any new mission since he’d arrived.
All he had to do was think about the past, what he had missed and what he had done. He wondered how his sister, Maggie was doing and if she had healed completely by now from the gunshot wound she had gotten in Chicago. Maybe his family had even put down roots where they had landed. Chances were, without Charlie they were more likely to stay put. No one would be looking for them anymore.
He wanted to help get George Clemente. He missed Maggie and his parents and the waiting was driving him crazy.
It was made worse because they were put into such deep hiding by the Circle to protect them from the rogue Watchers in Management that no real communication was allowed.
It was too dangerous. George Clemente had done a good job of making the world think that Charlie had helped kill one of their oldest and beloved members.
The buzz was that he was in the pocket of Wallis Jones and had been a plant all along. It was partly true.
He was a Circle operative placed among Management at a young age for the express purpose of being used at a future date but only in an emergency. When he was recruited by Management, no one knew that the reason would be George Clemente, a one man
wrecking crew capable of tying the world into knots.
It had been months since he had last seen his family and the only communication had been a few printed-out emails saying they were fine, handed to him by a third party. He couldn’t even be sure they were real.
“I know this doesn’t feel like a mission.” It was a young priest that Charlie had seen around the building the past couple of weeks. He was brought there from the White Rose Order’s satellite in Savannah Georgia.
“Sitting still isn’t a mission,” snapped Charlie.
Charlie was still having nightmares left over from when he was a mole inside of George Clemente’s operations. He kept seeing the face of the man, Alphonso, that he strangled on a street in New York City behind piles of trash just to keep his true mission from being known by Clemente.
In the end, Charlie chose to expose his identity to Clemente.
Clemente had shot an old man in the face at close range for no other reason than to frame Wallis Jones. It was Charlie’s breaking point.
Just as they were making their getaway outside of the Jefferson Hotel in Richmond, Charlie opened his car door and let himself fall out, rolling to the side of the road. It was all it took for Clemente to realize Charlie was on someone else’s side.
“This feels the same as about every other mission I’ve been on, lately” said Charlie, looking down at his hands. He wasn’t interested in making new friends. He wasn’t even very good at it. Too much time spent among killers and pretending to be someone he wasn’t.
“Observing everything and waiting for something to happen?”
“That about sums it up.”
“It’s always better to respond than to react,” said the young priest. “I’m Father Gabriel,” said the priest, putting out his hand. “My first name is really Michael but there’s already a Father Michael and his personality and his legend are so big it was just easier to go by my middle name,” he said, letting his hand hang in the air until Charlie reluctantly shook it.
“That’s better. I found that the waiting is easier if you don’t do it alone.”
“I completely agree,” said Charlie, surprising himself by confiding in the priest. “Which is what makes this so painful. I feel the absence of my family more sharply. So much waiting with so little information. At least before when I was sitting next to Clemente I knew when something was happening. I knew my family was safe. Now, I don’t really know anything at all and I find that it’s worse.”
“Let me get this right. You are happier sitting next to a homicidal maniac than taking a break with mostly old, doddering white men who are trying to save the world.”
Charlie felt the tightness in his chest east just a bit but he couldn’t bring himself to smile. “That about sums it up.”
Father Gabriel crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned back just a little, studying Charlie. “You must really be close to your family. I admire that. I don’t have much of a family, myself. That makes it easier to be a part of the Order, as you might imagine. Although, at times not having real roots to speak of, you know the kind that make you dread Thanksgiving around the table and love Christmas around the tree, is hard to bear, particularly late at night.”
“You seem to know a lot about it,” said Charlie, growing sullen again. He suddenly wanted to be anywhere but there. He looked out one of the long tall windows that lined the entire wall of the old building and could see that the sun was quickly setting. That part of the neighborhood in Philadelphia didn’t have buildings taller than three or four floors and it was still possible to see a bit of sky.
He got up suddenly and started walking for the door, almost knocking into Father Gabriel. He didn’t feel the need to tell him where he was going or even that he was leaving. He figured his departure would be explanation enough. He was tired of always having people looking over his shoulder wondering what he was doing. The only way to stop it was to stop talking.
“I know where your family is,” said Father Gabriel, quickly, all in one breath.
Charlie stopped at the door and didn’t move, didn’t even take a breath.
“I have the address. It should be yours, at least your decision whether or not you go and see them. After all, you’ve done more for this cause than a lot of other people and we trusted you to sit next George Clemente all those months. Surely, we can trust you with the safety of your family.”
Charlie slowly turned and looked directly at Father Gabriel. It wasn’t something he did often these days, look directly at anyone. At first, Father Gabriel didn’t move. He seemed to be waiting for Charlie to say something. But Charlie already knew everything he wanted to know and Father Gabriel was either going to give him the address or not. There was no need for words.
“Right, the address. I saw this as a bigger moment,” said Father Gabriel, trying to make light of the moment but it didn’t work. He waited a half second and then shrugged at Charlie.
“Alright, I’ve got feeling that once I give you this address we won’t see much of you again. I would say I’d miss you but I’m pretty sure everyone would say they barely knew you were here. You left the lightest impression. It was as if you were willing yourself to be somewhere else,” said the Father, as he went to one of the old desk pushed against the wall and opened a long thin drawer pulling out a posted note and a pen. “That should be your choice, too.”
He quickly scribbled and address and drop the pen back in the drawer, shutting it.
“Here you go, all yours. But remember,” he said, as he pulled his arm back at the last moment and Charlie’s hand hung in midair. “Be careful about what you do next. A lot of good people went to a lot of trouble to bury your family in plain sight where no one could see them.”
He raise his eyebrows, and turned his head as if he was trying to get a response out of Charlie, but Charlie stood there motionless, his hand outstretched willing to wait forever for the small piece of paper.
The priest finally relented and slowly placed the note squarely in the middle of Charlie’s palm, folding his fingers closed around it. “With all due speed, then.”
Charlie took one long look at the address, committing it to memory and tore the small piece of paper into even smaller bits throwing different parts of it away in different trash cans in different rooms.
He wasted no time discarding the costume he had been wearing for the past weeks, folding it carefully and leaving it on the end of his neatly made bed that was really nothing more than a cot. He found a piece of notepaper in a cleric’s office and left a one-line sentence propped on the short nightstand next to his bed.
‘Thank you for everything,’ it said.
He packed everything else into the backpack that he had arrived with and left just as the sun fully set on a night with a full moon, easily lighting his way as he walked down the street. He knew he would never be able to take a direct line to his family. That there were eyes probably following him right now.
Even with all of that, though, Charlie was confident that he could shake every tail and somehow show up at his mother’s doorstep. He wasted enough time already.
They were the entire reason why he rolled out of the car that day and left George Clemente and his mission. It was ironic then that he ended up separated from them again, and this time by the Circle and the Order.
Watching from a second-floor window, Father Gabriel admired how Charlie walked down the middle of the sidewalk, instead of slinking close to the building trying to stay out of the light.
“Hello? Yeah, it’s done. Of course he took the address. It’s the only thing he’s wanted since the day he was separated from them. I told you we just had to wait long enough, till he was desperate enough and he’d go straight to them. No, it’ll take longer than that. He still is a good Circle operative. He’s going to zig and then zag a couple of times, so I’d give it a week. But he’ll be there soon enough.
Father Gabriel hung up the phone and went to a small room that was in a hall of small rooms. A
bove each door was the name of a saint. Whoever occupied the room, no matter how long was expected to contemplate why they got that particular name. He took off the cassock he was wearing and folded it, neatly placing it on the end of the bed just like Charlie had done.
However, he didn’t leave a note. There was no point. He didn’t care what they thought about his leaving in the middle of the night.
He had completed his mission for George Clemente and it was time to go back to his fold. He was a dutiful rogue Watcher and even more importantly, the former best friend of the late Alphonso who was strangled and left on top of a pile of trash in New York City. Gabriel was sure it had been Charlie Foyle. The revenge he had waited for was unfolding nicely.
Charlie eventually found his way to the seedier parts of Philadelphia, paying with canned foods he’d taken from the Order’s pantry, at an hourly motel and taking a room on the first floor in the corner by the ice machine. He unscrewed the lightbulb nearest his room, leaving it in shadows.
He took one look at the stained, threadbare comforter on the bed and decided it would be better if he sat in the chair. He left the room only once to go to a nearby corner store where he traded a knit hat his mother had made him for a box of hair dye, jet black, a box of Twinkies that was covered in dust and crushed on one side, and a pair of cuticle scissors. It was all they had. The store owner started to argue for more and Charlie turned to leave without saying a word.
He stopped him before he could get out of the store and looked deflated, saying, “All right, all right, we have a deal.”
Charlie never doubted that they did. The store was empty and there wasn’t much left on the shelves. Any kind of barter was better than nothing and a hat was more useful in a Philadelphia winter than a box of hair dye or pair of cuticle scissors. The Twinkies were a pleasant surprise.