by Martha Carr
“There’s no such thing as a silent drill,” said the Bishop. “Mister Bowers, I’m glad to see are still among us. I had my doubts at times. I knew you would be of service once again to all of us. I will leave you men to this. I’m afraid at my advanced age all I can do is redirect everyone’s attention above ground away from this tunnel. At least this side of the tunnel.”
“That’s a lot, Bishop. Thank you,” said Father Donald.
“Are you planning to dig while wearing that cassock?” asked Helmut, giving a wink to Father Donald, as he put on a pair of work gloves and picked up one of the pics.
“Won’t be the first time, won’t be the last, I hope,” said Father Donald, as he picked out a shovel with a rounded edge. “We’ll have to go slowly. We can’t risk breaking all the way through the wall. Unfortunately, this is a one-time deal. We either succeed or bad things happen.”
“Very motivating,” said Helmut, as Father Donald unlocked the door and opened it to reveal a solid wall of dirt and stone, compacted to look as if it had always been there.
Bishop Crane stopped at the door and looked back at the wall. “Normally, that door is never open until someone from the Circle sits in the presidency. It’s usually a glorious moment where hope is reborn. This is the first time that I know of in any generation since the Circle has existed in this country that we have open that door for an emergency. It’s not a good sign. However, I’m thought of as an optimist and I will keep a good thought,” said Bishop Crane as he headed up the old wooden stairs toward the main floor of the Cathedral.
Helmut took a swing with the pick, gently pulling out a thin large chunk of the wall. He used the edge of the pick to pull out another sizable piece and pressed on the opening to see if he could tell how much give there was to go.
“How thick did he say this wall was?” asked Helmut.
“He said it was ten feet, solid,” said Fred.
“That’s right,” said Father Donald. “I helped construct it.”
Helmut gave him a nod and said, “got your hands dirty, I admire that.”
“We take this to one-foot in thickness,” said Fred. “And then we use the hand drill to make a narrow opening so that we can see who’s coming and going, but the thinner we make the wall, the quieter we will have to be.”
“We don’t have much time,” said Helmut, as he swung the pic again at another section.
“What makes you say that,” asked Fred, as he shoveled the dirt off of the floor and into the wheelbarrow.
“There’s a cabinet meeting coming up to discuss the appointments to the thirteenth Circuit Court. My guess is it’s crucial to whatever’s left of Clemente’s plans. If you haven’t noticed his deal with China has not completely fallen apart. If he’s to salvage any of it he’ll have to still get permission from your government to make a trade deal with China, and I’m guessing a few other countries. The way they’ve been moving around judges like Lego pieces that can fit anywhere has Clemente written all over it.”
“I suppose,” said Helmut, as he strained to take another swing at the wall, “even Clemente occasionally has to work within the system, even if he’s rigged it in order to get his way. Do you think he knew all the pieces of the plan from the very beginning?”
The fine tip of the pick met with the wall and a large piece hit the floor with a thud.
Father Donald put his hand heavily on Helmut’s shoulder.
“A little more finesse will be needed if we are going to pull this off without getting ourselves killed first.”
“I saw the diaries that his son Daniel stole,” said Fred. “I read them all. You can see in them that he knew all along what had to be done if he was to get his way. He stole money from Management as a distraction. It was never a backup plan. He didn’t need the money but he did need people to think that he was planning to do something with it. Everyone got caught up in following the money and he knew they would. He kidnapped Norman Weiskopf to distract the Circle and he got Wallis Jones to stand up in front of the Management elders because he knew she could get them to actually listen about a truce between the two mammoth enemies. But all he really wanted to do was get them to turn on each other. It worked beautifully. All it took was one bullet in the head of one revered Management elder.”
“He was behind everything,” said Father Donald. “He started the war just to distract us all. While we were running around shooting each other he was quietly making deals and going on about his business. It’s amazing that he survived this long.”
“There was one other thing that the diaries pointed out,” said Fred, as he continued to shovel the dirt. “He believes he’s on the side of the right. He believes he’s doing us all a favor. He has a plan for all of us and he believes that if he can regulate the most basic necessities that we will finally give up fighting amongst ourselves, and always trying to best of the person next to us and just do what he wants.”
“So, in other words, take us back to Roman times and we are the slaves on the ship. Row, row, row,” said Helmut.
“Every demigod misses the point,” said Father Donald. His black cassock was covered in a thin coating of brown dirt and sweat. “I can take trying something and failing but only because I know I can try again. There’s something magical about wondering what might work and if it’ll be bigger than I can even imagine. But take away that chance and a good part of the sweetness of life goes with it.”
It took hours for the men to break down the wall and get close enough to the actual entrance of the tunnel. From time to time, younger clergy would appear in the doorway with plastic bags that they filled with the growing pile of dirt. They carried the filled bags upstairs to surreptitiously pile them up in one of the empty rooms. It wasn’t the first time they had been called on for such a duty but it was the first time they had to do it so quickly and with such great stakes.
Helmut’s arms and back ached from the labor and every time he moved he felt a twinge that made him wince.
He saw Fred look over at him once or twice but he never said anything. That was one of the things that made their friendship so easy. Fred tended to let people take care of themselves and if Helmut wasn’t going to ask for help, Fred wasn’t going to offer.
“You should eat something,” said Bishop Crane, as he came in and set down a white paper bag with the name Al’s Deli stamped on the side.
“What did you barter for those?” asked Helmut.
“A little sacramental wine,” said the Bishop. “The hardest part is still in front of you and you’re going to need every ounce of strength if you going to pull it off. George Clemente is not the youngest of men and yet he will fight you as if he is a herd of lions. Don’t be foolish so late in the game, eat something,” he said. “I have to head back upstairs. There’s an unusually large crowd for the evening service. Don’t read anything into that. These are interesting times we live in. Some people are there because they need to know that something out there might be able to right the ship. I suspect many others are just looking for a warm place to sit for a while until the soup kitchen opens around the corner. I will leave you men to it,” he said as he disappeared once again out of the room.
“Deli meat, the worst,” said Helmut, as he took a large bite. “It’s a wonderful thing that if you get hungry enough even cardboard taste delicious,” he said with a full mouth as he swallowed without hardly chewing. “You know we’re almost through the wall.”
“I know,” said Fred, giving him a long look. “Remember our agreement. Whoever gets the chance, the kill shot, takes it. No one tries to rescue somebody else, instead. I want to make sure we are all in agreement.”
“Cold blooded,” said Father Donald pausing, “but necessary. We will step on the cockroach.”
Chapter 9
“What are you doing?”
Detective Jason Busby, who was known as Buster to everyone, including the locals he regularly arrested, was watching his partner, Detective Arnold Biggs stare off into the dist
ance. It was always a sure sign he was coming up with a plan that wouldn’t be sanctioned by their captain and would involve at least a little risk and some potential bodily harm.
He was getting a little tired of waiting for Biggs to stop ruminating and let him in on the details. They were sitting outside of the gambling house run by Mac where the daily numbers were known more commonly in Richmond, Virginia as combinating. Small time gambling in a large open, cavernous room full of just as many cops and local politicians placing a bet as it was employees of Mac’s dressed in the familiar dark suits with skinny ties. It was really a glorified warehouse with a small office in back where Mac liked to stay and watch everything on a closed circuit.
Combinating had fallen off just after the Great Relief had started but it didn’t take long before the bets came flowing back in, more than ever before. Mac had given everyone a bigger line of credit and was paying off a lot of bets in canned food or bottled water, waiting for the day when money stabilized and he could send out his collection team for what he was owed.
The two detectives knew that Mac was good at taking the long view.
“Biggs, what the hell. You said you had a plan and that’s why I agreed to drive over here. We’ve been sitting here now for thirty minutes. What’s the plan? There’s nobody left to investigate. Oscar Newman is dead. Rodney Parrish is dead. By now, their dancing together somewhere in hell. Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly decided to take down petty gambling in Richmond?”
Biggs scratched his chin, making a noise against the growth that had appeared. “Do that, and it’d be like taking out cable. Everybody would take to the streets with torches.” Biggs let out a sigh and pulled out the small notebook he always kept in his glove compartment, flipping through the pages.
“Something’s been bothering me,” said Biggs.
“Clearly.”
“Rodney Parrish.”
“Not that again,” said Buster. “It’s a federal case. He went out big. He assassinated President Haynes. How he managed to get into the secure hotel room and do his thing, slice a President’s throat in one easy move is not our problem. Besides, he didn’t even make it out the front door before the Secret Service took care of the problem for us. Who helped him is for the feds to figure out. There’s plenty for us still to do.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Biggs, squinting as if he was putting up with a headache. “That’s the problem. I think this is a Richmond problem. You know, no matter what happens, anywhere in the world or how big a conspiracy might be, everything eventually becomes local. I think this is originates here.”
“Oh, so now it’s a conspiracy.”
“You get three liars in a room each agreeing to tell a story other than the truth and you have a conspiracy. You kill a President, nobody can tell you why and you know you have a conspiracy even if you can’t name the three guys.”
“Your point?”
“Those three guys are from somewhere. Eventually, everything becomes local,” he said with more emphasis. “You know how they say follow the money? I think this one is follow the blood trail. You follow Rodney Parrish in his long career as a serial killer for hire and I think you find who hired him.”
“In Mac’s gambling house?”
The front door of the combinating room opened and out stepped Paulie Browning, and his oversized friend, Ralph. Both of them had grown up with Rodney Parrish.
“If anyone knows anything more about what really happened and who’s behind this, I’m betting it’s those two,” said Biggs as he opened the door to their unmarked cruiser.
“Shit!” said Paulie, as he turned to go back into the combinating building to hide among the crowd that would be milling about on a Friday afternoon. It was their busiest day. Everyone had just gotten paid and they were anxious to try and make their small wages into something more. Usually, the only one who got richer was Mac but it didn’t stop the multitudes from trying.
“You know I’ll follow you in there,” said Biggs. “Ralph don’t even try moving. I can outrun you without even running.”
“You know those fat jokes hurt my feelings,” said Ralph. “I have a thyroid problem. Well documented.” He pulled on the lapels of his black suit that looked too tight around the arms. “How’s the boy? What’s his name, Maynard?” said Ralph, grinning as he glanced over at Paulie.
Paulie was shaking his head, not even looking at Ralph.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean,” said Detective Biggs, his hand grazing across his holstered gun. The smile instantly dropped off of Ralph’s face.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Ralph.
“How would you even know his name?” asked Buster, squinting and looking Ralph up and down.
Ralph looking over at Paulie again but Paulie was still looking down at the ground.
“Can’t say,” said Ralph, which was all Biggs needed to know. Maynard, Biggs teenage son had made his way into the combinating room. Ralph wasn’t saying anything else because Mac would have killed him for talking about any customer, even a teenager.
Didn’t matter how small the bet or how young the customer, no one ever said anything about anyone’s business in the combinating room.
“I know why you’re here,” said Paulie, doing his best to change the subject. “It’s a special kind of stupid ridiculous that you think we’d know anything about how to kill a President.”
Biggs made a note of how Ralph’s eyes grew wider when Paulie mentioned the killing of President Haynes. It was a good sign. He knew something was making him afraid and now all they had to do was get it out of him.
“We could all take a ride and talk somewhere else?” said Buster. “I can understand if you don’t want to talk on the streets.”
Paulie held up his hands in front of them, palms out toward the two detectives. “Say what you have to say right here, unless you think you can arrest us for something. I’m not going anywhere with you. One of these days you’re gonna try and muscle the wrong person.”
“That still won’t be you,” said Buster.
“There’s something that’s been bothering me,” said Biggs. “And you know how I am when I can’t answer question. I’m not going to let it go until I figure it out. That means if it takes two years, if it takes an entire decade, if it takes till the day I die I’m not going to let it go. And I’ll bother as many people as I need to bother in order to find out the answers. So, unless you’ve really taken a liking to me and you’d like to chat with me every so often for the rest of our days, however long it takes, and I’ve got good genes in my family so it could be a while, let’s just get a few answers now.”
Paulie let out a loud tsk and glanced back over his shoulder at the door to the combinating room. There were no windows to look through. Mac wasn’t big on people being able to spy on him, even if he liked spying on everybody else. There were cameras set up everywhere. It helped to keep the cheating to a minimum and the violence down to almost nothing.
Mac didn’t tolerate either one very well and he tended to overreact and make a lesson out of everything. Paulie knew the detectives could only hassle him but still, he looked afraid of something.
“Go ahead ask your question. Let’s get this over with.”
Biggs stepped up closer to Paulie until he was inches from his face, making Paulie breathe faster. It was hard to tell whether or not it was out of fear or anger or maybe a combination of both. It wasn’t something Biggs did often and surprised even Buster. Usually he reserved that kind of behavior for a felon who was giving him a hard time.
“This must really mean something to you,” said Buster.
“Oh yeah, it does,” said Biggs, staring straight into Paulie’s eyes, not moving his head. Paulie turned his head to the side, squeezing his eyes shut and scowling.
“Come on, man, quit spitting in my face.”
“Here’s the thing that bothers me. Alice Watkins. June Reynolds. Ray Billings. Lily Billings. Harriet Jones. And then, there’s President Ronald Hayn
es. What do they all have in common? I’ll tell you. Rodney Parrish.”
“Harriet Jones is not dead. Never known Rodney to leave anyone alive,” said Ralph, as Paulie gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs and he let out a squeak.
“Don’t bother your friend,” said Biggs, still staring directly at Paulie. “At least he’s not stupid enough to keep lying to us about a dead killer. But he does bring up an interesting point. Ralph knows who Harriet Jones is and that she’s not dead. Interesting, don’t you think? Why is it he knows an old lady from the suburbs?”
Paulie gave a shrug and another tsk, as he shrugged his shoulders like he was disinterested in the whole thing. Biggs gave him a hard job, banging him back against the brick wall behind him. It caught Paulie off guard and his head swung back hitting hard against the bricks. “Ow, man! What the fuck are you doing?”
“You can’t get a good answer out of somebody with a concussion,” said Ralph. “Tell him what he wants to know, Paulie. It’s none of our business and what do we care. The only person who would’ve cared has died. I’m tired of protecting some stupid, coward from the West End anyway.”
“Shut up, Ralph,” said Paulie.
Biggs poked Paulie in the chest with his finger as two regulars came out of the combinating room. They looked away from the incident happening right by the front door. No one was going to want to get involved.
Buster and Biggs made a point of not looking directly at them either. It was an unwritten rule in Richmond that no one bothered Mac and his business. It might’ve been technically against the law but every town ran on two sets of rules. The ones in the books and the ones everybody had tacitly agreed to.
“So, how do you know Harriet Jones?” asked Biggs. “We think she’s the one that got away. Parrish was following her one night in the Hollywood Cemetery but either he lost her trail.”
“Which we doubt,” said Buster.
“Or he got called off the job.”
“That goes without saying,” said Ralph. “Rodney Parrish never did anything without a paycheck. It was something I admired about the guy. He didn’t really hate anybody, even those old ladies he knocked off. If they weren’t been home when he was robbing them he wouldn’t have stuck around to do them any harm. It was just their bad luck,” said Ralph, as if he was talking about a fender bender instead of a homicide. “But if somebody called it off at the last second, old Rodney would still have gotten paid.”