by Martha Carr
The ticker sped up even faster with questions and concerns and even an argument or two.
“I don’t expect it to be something that we answer today. I just want to put forth the idea that we expect to exist long after George Clemente is defeated. We can continue to call ourselves the Butterfly Project and we can leave the Circle and Management behind us, if that’s what the majority wants. We will continue to rule by group conscience. There are bound to be things that come up that we don’t expect, that don’t neatly fit into what we know how to do. But as long as we’re willing to work together in an open forum without first wondering what’s in it, I know we will be okay. Everyone knows how to get to the Pastebin site and we’ve already set this discussion up, so leave comments or ideas to build on. I know all of this is still awkward but we’ll find a way so that everyone is heard.”
“Okay,” said Will, leaning over to speak into the mic. “Every group of one hundred has nominated someone to speak for them today. Each spokesperson gets five minutes to voice concerns, ideas and questions into the town hall and then post it later into Pastebin for further development. Group one? Ready to go?”
“Sure, we have more of a simple idea,” said a young man with close-cropped hair on the sides and a long stream of hair down the middle that was pulled into a ponytail in the back. “We think this is something that’s already happening organically.” He held up his arm and showed off a shimmering tattoo of a butterfly on his upper right arm. “It’s a tattoo of an Apollo butterfly. We wanted to put it out there for everybody else. Not a tattoo of a project we belong to or of a past that we survived but of a family that trusts each other. The Butterfly Family.”
Suddenly there were arms being shown all across the screens with different variations on an Apollo butterfly. Silver with small red and black dots. “We’d like to hold a group conscience and nominate this as our new family insignia,” said the young man, “it will be our coat of arms and our promise that whenever we see this symbol we will take the person in as family.”
“We are the Butterfly Family,” said Ned.
Each group took a turn bringing up their item for the agenda and noting where it would be on the site for further discussion. Occasionally the discussion got overheated and opinions started to fly but it didn’t take long, with a little help from the moderators for the conversation to get back on track.
It seemed all anyone needed was a reminder that their voices mattered.
It was never far from Ned’s thoughts that they were all still in danger. It was all well and good to act as a family and to encourage each other but somewhere out there was a man hell-bent on seeing them all dead. If he couldn’t get them to bend to his will, and that would never happen then George Clemente’s only other solution was to permanently wipe them out of the way.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that not all of them would make it into the next chapter and he couldn’t help but wonder who he would lose, as he looked around at the people in the room with him. They really had come to be family to him.
“No one here is going to die,” whispered Juliette, holding onto his arm. “We have a thousand eyes and ears all looking out for each of and you have a view very special people right here who are doing the same.
“Not trying to eavesdrop on the lovebirds but she’s right,” said Will.
“Yeah, she is right. For once, let’s make sure it’s Clemente who pays and not one of us. It’s time to end this,” said Jake.
“Is this a good time to interrupt?” Tom Weiskopf stood at the door. “Can I borrow Ned?”
“Is this Circle business?” asked Ned. “Then, you can ask me in front of everyone. It’ll save me from having to explain to them later. I’m sorry Uncle Tom but I’m not going to keep anything from them. That’s the old way and I’m done with it.”
“This will take some getting used to,” said Tom. “I’m not saying you’re wrong,” he said, hurriedly. “It’s just you spend an entire lifetime playing cloak and dagger and suddenly your nephew grows up and becomes this great man who not only won’t make himself in charge of everyone, he makes a point of making sure everyone’s included. I don’t know, this is throwing me for a bigger loop than finding out that George Clemente wants to control the waterways.”
“There’s room for everyone,” said Jake, quietly. “I’ve already talked to my dad about being the part of the Butterfly Family. There’s no reason we should leave anyone out. If we do, then we’re no better than anyone else. The only thing that can keep you out of the Butterfly Family is if you don’t want to be a part of it. You don’t want to work with us.”
“Yeah,” said Juliette. “The original members of the Butterfly Project will always remember how we grew up together and what it meant to all of us to have some kind of family for all those years. Have a future we can look forward to even if we had to fight for it. But what we have is not so fragile that we can’t open it wider and include others. We meant what we said,” she said. “We are going to trust each other.”
“When we come across someone,” said Ned, “who violates our trust by trying to harm someone else then we will deal with it. There will be consequences and we will come up with those together as well.”
“I’m not sure how open, then you’re going to be to my offer, Ned” said Tom with a shrug. “I’ve talked it over with Esther and I plan to mention it to your parents but I wanted to see if you are interested in being the next Keeper of the Circle. I’m getting older and I’ve been blown up once too often. I’m thinking it’s time to retire.”
“Here’s a suggestion someone made on Pastebin,” said Ned. “Rather than trying to keep the Circle going, why not invite everyone in to be a part of the Butterfly Family. Instead of imitating Management as a means to keep them at bay, or at least from completely taking over why not open up the ranks of the Butterfly Family to everyone we come across. A worldwide family that operates as a group conscience. It’s already started anyway. It started the moment we sent out our ambassadors to every corner of the world after the Great Relief.”
“I’m not sure I have that much trust in me,” said Tom, sheepishly. “I’ve seen the dark side of humanity all too often and I’m afraid I’ve come to believe that’s what we refer to more often than not.”
“Then I suppose it’s time for a change,” said Juliette.
“Besides, Uncle Tom what do you have to lose? In my short years I’ve seen a civil war, kidnappings, family murdered, and natural resources threatened. I’ve probably forgotten some of the horrible things that have happened. When have your methods ever truly worked? So, I’ll ask you again. What you have to lose?”
Tom startled and looked at each of the young faces in the room. “You make a good point. I guess what I have to lose is a sense that I’m in control. But as you point out, it’s time for a change. I’m willing to try.”
“That’s all it takes,” said Ned.
Chapter 13
Charlie Foyle had been tracking George Clemente all day long. He was exhausted and hungry but he was determined to keep going and not lose the trail. Besides, he had found it difficult to sleep ever since the day he had seen Maggie flit across the window just before the entire house had blown up, killing his family.
He found himself back in Richmond, Virginia parked outside of a no-tell motel on Midlothian Avenue on the South Side. An old Management Watcher who owed him a favor for saving his life while he was still undercover with George Clemente had tipped him off.
The cold night air helped wake him up as he got out of the car. He kept the forty-five in his hand as he headed for the stairs. He wasn’t planning on a conversation and he didn’t care who saw him going in to Clemente’s room. Once Clemente was dead he didn’t care what happened. Management can capture him, which probably meant a death sentence. The police could get a hold of him and prosecute him. Any outcome was fine with him as long as Clement he was dead.
Or the Circle would find him first and spirit him away. Maybe even give
him a medal. Anything was possible. There was only one thing that was certain to him and that was that Clemente finally had to die.
If he had only done the right thing before he got out of that car that afternoon, Maggie and his parents would still be alive. He believed he was responsible for that and for anyone else the Clemente had already killed since that day.
It was time to pay the price for both of them.
His informant had told him that Clemente had gone in to the room earlier that day and no one had seen him leave yet. He knew the information could be bad.
He shoved that thought out of his mind. The sooner Clemente was dead, the sooner Charlie could finally get some sleep.
Charlie was trying to decide the best way to break into the room so that he could get a shot off and kill Clemente when he saw a familiar car pull up and park near the motel’s front office. The Lincoln black town car with gold lettering just above the handle parked on the side of the office that couldn’t be seen by most of the rooms but in full view of Charlie Foyle.
Father Donald got out of the passenger side as Norman Weiskopf and Helmut Khroll quickly got out as well. Charlie ducked down as they all took a quick look around before heading into the office.
“This changes everything,” he mumbled. He waited till the door of the office closed before he got out of his car and tucked the gun under his arm. No need to make anyone try and stop him before he even got to the room.
Charlie took the cement stairs that ran up the side of the building, two at a time and took a short jog down the open second floor till he got to room 215. The final resting place of the man who murdered his family. He quickly moved to the other side of the heavily curtained window and banged with his fist on the door.
“George Clemente!” he shouted, as he quickly ducked to the side and crouched down. More than most, he knew the tactics of George Clemente and could anticipate his next move. A shotgun blast broke apart the cheap door in the very center leaving a large ragged hole.
Charlie quickly swiveled till his gun was level with the hole and he started shooting at anything that moved in the room. He thought he saw the burly, hairy figure of George Clemente running for the bathroom and he fired off a shot. He heard a satisfied growl before the figure disappeared and was out of view.
That was all it took for someone to fire back at Charlie, hitting him in the shoulder, slamming him into the thin metal railing behind him. He let himself roll quickly onto the concrete floor and managed to fire off his gun two more times, holding them at bay. But he knew he didn’t have long before the guards would outnumber him and end the day.
He had to hope that the shot he did get off was enough to fatally wound Clemente.
Just as the handle of the door started to turn and Charlie had lifted his gun to fire again someone grabbed him from behind and started dragging him out of the way.
“No, no!” cried Charlie. “It has to end here today!”
“And it will,” said Norman Weiskopf, as he struggled to pull Charlie further out of the way. Father Donald neatly stepped over both of them pulling a gun out of his cassock pocket and fired at the first head that appeared out of the door, easily dropping the man.
“Were you ever really a minister?” asked Helmut Khroll, who was bringing up the rear.
“I offered you a gun,” said Father Donald, as he continued to fire through the door. Someone from inside was returning the fire.
“I’m more of a warrior with words,” said Helmut. “Journalists aren’t known for carrying guns even when we’re covering the news in dangerous places. It’s just not our style.”
Father Donald fired through the door and there was the sound of a body dropping suddenly, hitting the floor, followed by silence. The men waited a moment and when they heard nothing Father Donald lifted his foot and kicked in the door with a shiny black Florsheim.
“The Order of the White Rose is bad ass,” shouted Helmut, as he followed Father Donald into the small room.
They quickly search the room and found three dead bodies, all rogue Watchers. On the back wall of the room was a fine spray of blood where Charlie had shot someone else.
Father Donald kicked in the bathroom door that was locked from the inside, holding up his gun and ready to shoot.
All they found was an open window and splatters of blood everywhere.
“He’s gotten away!” said Helmut.
“We need to get going,” said Norman, rushing into the bathroom. “Charlie is in a bad way and we need to get him some medical help.”
“Should we split up?” asked Helmut.
“You planning to trail him on foot?” asked Father Donald. “Come on, let’s get Charlie to the nearest hospital. I can call from the car and let the Order know that George Clemente is wounded and nearby. There are others who can look for him. He won’t get far.”
“Besides, by now there is a small army of people want George Clemente dead. If the order doesn’t find him first, one of them might. His time on earth is limited,” said Norman.
Norman took a handkerchief out of his pocket and put it into the wound in Charlie’s shoulder, pressing down hard. In moments, the blood was seeping through turning the white handkerchief red.
“You’d better take all the shortcuts,” said Norman. “He’s bleeding pretty fast and I’m not a doctor but it doesn’t look good,” he said, as Charlie’s eyes rolled toward the back of his head and his head lolled to one side. “Call my wife. Tell her Clemente is on the run.”
“Hello, Wallis?” asked Helmut, holding the phone up to his ear. “George Clemente is wounded but he got away. We thought you should know.”
Norman saw Helmut hesitate and wondered what Wallis had asked, certain of the question. Helmut’s next words told him he was right.
“No, Fred isn’t with us,” said Helmut, his voice wavering. “I left him with Bishop Crane. I’ll have to explain later. There isn’t time right now. Charlie Foyle is with us. We got here in the middle of a battle and Charlie shot Clemente but he was wounded in the process. He’s bleeding pretty badly, I have to go.” He hung up the phone before Wallis could ask any more questions, particularly about Fred Bowers.
“I’m going to have to tell her,” said Norman, who had taken off his blue silk tie and was using it on top of the handkerchief to try and stanch the blood.
Wallis hung up the phone and wondered if she should pack up and go back to Alan Vitek’s house where it was safer. She was in the middle of moving a few small items back into their newly renovated house.
“Fred Bowers is dead,” she said softly, as if she was telling the house. She always knew when someone was evading a question. It’s what had made her such a good family court attorney. She could sense when she was closing in on the truth and knew when to press harder. This was not one of those times. Putting off the news wouldn’t change anything.
Some of the joy she felt at being back in her house had faded away. She looked at the newly framed pictures of Madame Bella and herself, and of Ned and Juliette and wondered if she should do it later.
“No,” she said, with a sigh. “Don’t put off living.”
She picked up the frames and made herself head upstairs slowly to the master bedroom. She arranged the two pictures on the long low dresser right by the door, where she would see them every day. She lovingly ran a finger over the top of the picture of Ned and Juliette and felt a twinge in her heart, knowing she would see less and less of Ned as he got on with his own life.
“You are one aggravating bitch.”
Wallis swung around quickly to find George Clemente standing in the doorway of her bathroom. He was leaning against the doorframe and had left red handprints up and down the frame where he was trying to balance himself. She could see behind him on the floor were crumpled towels, all streaked red with what she knew was his blood.
“There are a lot of people looking for you,” she said, gripping the dresser behind her to keep herself steady, as she worked her hand toward the drawer
that held the pink forty-five her mother had insisted she take.
Her hand grazed the brass pull just as Clemente raised the gun and pointed it at her face. She dove for the floor as a bullet cracked the mirror behind her, showering her with a spray of broken glass.
George Clemente lumbered toward her, his gun still raised and as he came around the bed Wallis put up her hands, in a weak attempt to hold off the end of her life.
“No,” she yelled. Not at Clemente but at her mother, Harriet Jones as she stumbled into the room, still weak from the stroke, her cane raised overhead. She brought it down hard on George Clemente’s back, making the shot go wild, burying itself somewhere in the dresser off to one side, saving her daughter’s life, yet again.
Clemente fell hard to his knees and let out a yelp as he raised his gun and shot at Harriet, hitting her high in the chest.
Wallis rolled to one side and wrapped her hand around the biggest piece of glass she could grab, feeling the sharp edges cutting into her skin as she raised her arm and lunged at Clemente, burying the glass deep into his throat until the point came out the other side. She dragged her hand down, listening to the satisfying ripping sound of his skin and the end of George Clemente’s life.
Clementi dropped the gun and wrapped his fingers around his throat trying to stop the gush of blood as it poured out of his throat. He drowned within seconds, falling backward in a role against the carpet, a look of surprise on his face.
“Mama!” Wallis dropped the glass and crawled on her hands and knees as fast as she could toward her mother’s prone body. She lifted up Harriet’s head pulling her into her lap and brushing the hair off of her face.
“Mama,” she said, softly. “We got him, mama. George Clemente is dead.”
Harriet opened her eyes and said, “I’m not surprised. After all, you’re my daughter.” A small rush of air left Harriet’s mouth and her body went slack as Wallis pulled her closer, holding on tight.