“Other than diddling some new altar boys, do we have any clue what’s going on there?”
“No, sir.”
“I thought we had an excellent source?”
“We did. He’s…uh…indisposed at present.”
Shelby, listening to this exchange, realized that Stavros’ source must have been Coughlin. That made sense, she thought. Coughlin had been something of a maverick in the Church, supporting gay marriage, opposing celibacy requirements for priests, even showing up at a pro choice rally. An idea started to crystallize. “Sir?” she said, getting Stavros’ attention. “This all sorta makes sense. I mean, Kerry Coughlin was a pretty good friend to our movement. Now it looks like he has been taken out.”
“Shelby, do you think that God came down and punished him? Are you nuts?”
“No. No, I’m not saying that at all! But we haven’t really figured out what is going on. Whatever it is, it’s big, right?” The other nodded.
“Whatever it is, our Idiot-in-Chief might not have wanted Coughlin sticking his nose into it, gumming up his plan.”
One of the others at the table asked, “What did they do, drug him?”
“Who knows?” Shelby answered. “We’re dealing with the FBI, for God’s sake. It could be some bio-weapon they’re working on.”
Another asked, “You think that the FBI slipped some anthrax to a Catholic archbishop?”
“Yeah. I mean, at least it’s possible,” Shelby said defiantly.
Stavros interjected, “Any government that would kill three thousand of its own citizens just so they could start a war for oil is capable of anything.”
Stavros turned to “Sally Fleming” which, Shelby knew, was not her real name. “Sally,” he said, “Do you have any insights for us?”
Clearly frustrated, she answered, “No. None at all. My source is suddenly out of the loop, as well.”
He seemed concerned. “Do you think they are suspicious?”
“Not at this point,” she answered cautiously.
Turning to address the group again, he said, “I am not used to being in the dark. I’ve spent too much money and worked too hard to be suddenly unable to get the intelligence that we need. Does anyone here have anything that might shed some light?”
Janet Shuck, who normally worked the west coast and lived in Berkeley, responded, “No insights. I just have a question. Does anyone know anything about this Craig McWilliams?”
Stavros shook his head, saying, “It looks like they are planning on making him the poster boy for this Elohim. That’s a good reminder, Janet. We need to find the guy.”
Willy asked, “What do you mean – find him? He’s right under our noses at the Hoover Building.”
Again, clearly irritated, Stavros answered, “Willy, that’s not Craig McWilliams. I don’t know if it’s an actor…maybe he had a twin…but it’s not McWilliams. McWilliams was a paraplegic, for Christ’s sake!”
“Maybe,” said Shuck, “they’ve been planning this for a while. You know, like a couple of years. That would be enough time for some plastic surgery. Either way, I think he’s the key. The ‘street’ hasn’t been too impressed with the ranting of an obviously nuts bishop, but a guy rising from his wheelchair is getting way too much attention.”
William Stavros thought for a moment. “Janet, you’re right. If we could find the real Craig McWilliams and roll his ass out in front of the TV cameras, imagine what effect that would have on next election. I’m going to devote some serious resources to this, including some investigators.”
Addressing his press liaison, Linda Lincoln, Stavros asked, “What’s the take on this in the newsrooms?”
“A little frustrated,” she answered. “They’re on board, in their guts, but the public pressure is overwhelming. None of them feel comfortable appearing too skeptical. Everybody’s pissed about Sheila’s scoop on McWilliams. It has turned her into an instant star. Now they’re all running around acting like Woodward and Bernstein, looking for another miracle to report. You’ve seen the coverage. Since this thing broke, people all over the world are coming out of the woodwork, claiming all sorts of stuff, from spontaneous healings to visitations from the Virgin Mary. And the same members of the press, who normally ignore the crackpots, are breathlessly reporting it all. Right now the momentum is on their side.”
Stavros shook his head. “This is really clever. I’ve got to hand it to those bastards. Have god visit just before an election.” All watched as Stavros fell silent, his hands clenching and re-clenching, the veins on his temples so visible that the others could have counted his pulse rate, which was obviously sky high. Closing his eyes, he seemed to meditate for a minute before speaking. “We have to get the White House back. We can’t let them steal it again.” His voice was soft but the intensity was unmistakable. He fell silent again.
No one else spoke for minutes. Eventually, Tom Gleason, the second oldest person in the room, after Stavros, and a long-time activist going back to the anti-war Viet Nam protests, asked, “Mr. Stavros, have you ever considered that this might be real?”
The leader’s eyelids snapped open, his gaze fixing on Gleason. “Are you nuts?”
“Well, it’s possible,” he replied, unintimidated. “Has anyone considered it?”
Sighing loudly, and clearly trying to control his temper, Stavros answered, “On the seventh day, man created god. All religions, all of the bullshit deities of the past, have been methods of control for governments to keep the people in line. The so-called word of god has been rewritten so many times to fit the current political philosophies that it bears no resemblance to the original scripts, if there ever were any. When you don’t have enough troops, enough spies to infiltrate your own neighborhoods, or enough technology to watch every move your subjects make, you create a god and tell the people that if they step out of line, they’ll go to hell. It extends your presence and has been used by every power-mad king and dictator since the beginning of recorded history.
“Science has explained where we came from. It has explained how the universe started. There are no mysteries anymore that they can point to from their pulpits to justify the existence of their god. Einstein and Darwin have replaced god, at least in the minds of anyone above the level of moron.
“This Elohim,” he spat the name out with disgust, “isn’t the real thing. He can’t be because there is no god!”
א
Pacing in his motel room, Lynn Sheffield took a long hit on the joint. When he first arrived, he was concerned that the maid would notice the smell and get him busted; now he did not care. ‘How much worse could things get?’ he thought to himself. His unlucky interlude with the Nazi Reynolds, right in front of Shelby, not only ruined his chances of working with the cause, but it was also the reason that reporter got the video of the crippled, or he should say, ex-crippled FBI agent.
The marijuana did not calm him as it normally did. If anything, it made him feel worse. Sheffield sensed that things were at a major turning point in the country, maybe even the world, and he wanted to join the army…the right army…William Stavros’ army…before it was too late. He had not even tried to contact Shelby. The look on her face as she backed away from him on the steps of the Hoover Building was message enough.
Dropping heavily onto the bed, he flipped open his laptop and connected to the free wireless Internet. Opening his e-mail account, he found the home page for takebackourfreedom.com. Near the top of the page was the “contact us” menu. Pulling it down, he found the e-mail link for William Stavros. The outgoing e-mail form in Outlook popped up, the cursor blinking in the subject line. Taking another hit, he hit the caps lock key and entered “STOP THE BASTARDS.” He tabbed down to the text box and typed:
MR. STAVROS, I AM ANGRY BEYOND WORDS AT WHAT IS HAPPENING IN OUR COUNTRY. SINCE THE SIXTIES, WE HAVE MADE GREAT STRIDES IN FIXING PAST WRONGS. WE HAVE FOUGHT AND DIED FOR FREEDOMS THAT OUR ANCESTORS ONLY DREAMED OF. NEARLY GONE ARE THE TYRANNICAL AND REPRESSIVE LEADERS OF THE
PAST. OUR JOKE OF A PRESIDENT, IN JUST A FEW YEARS, HAS NEARLY TURNED BACK THE CLOCK. IN HIS WORLD, ABORTIONS ARE REMOVED FROM CLINICS AND RETURNED TO BACK ALLEYS, GAYS AND LESBIANS GO BACK INTO THEIR CLOSETS, THE ENVIRONMENT IS DESTROYED SO THAT MORE OIL CAN BE PUMPED AND REFINED, FREEDOM OF SPEECH IS GONE FROM RADIO, TELEVISION AND MOVIES, AS WELL AS THE PUBLIC SQUARE, AND THIS COUNTRY REVERTS BACK TO ITS UGLY HERITAGE OF ADVENTURISM AND IMPERIALISM…ALL IN THE NAME OF GOD. AS HE AND HIS FAT-CAT FRIENDS GET WEALTHIER – THE REST OF THE WORLD HATES US MORE AND MORE, THE POOR IN OUR OWN COUNTRY GO WITHOUT MEALS OR HEALTH CARE, AND THE EXTREMIST RELIGIONS BECOME THE FOURTH BRANCH OF OUR GOVERNMENT. FOR MANY YEARS I HAVE FOUGHT ALONGSIDE MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS FOR THE CAUSE, BUT ALWAYS ON MY OWN. I AM SO FURIOUS NOW, AND SO CONCERNED BY THE THREAT, THAT I BELIEVE NOW IS THE TIME TO JOIN THE ARMY…YOUR ARMY…BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE. THERE IS NO TASK TOO MENIAL, NO REQUEST TOO REPUGNANT, NO ORDER YOU CAN GIVE THAT I WILL NOT PERFORM. PLEASE, I BEG OF YOU, TELL ME WHAT I MUST DO TO BE ALLOWED TO FIGHT AT YOUR SIDE.
He noticed that he had left on the caps lock and decided it was fine; it added to the emphasis. Lynn ran spell check and read it over once. The “I beg of you” in the last sentence felt like a bit much to him, but he moved the cursor up to the send button and clicked it.
א
Sheffield’s e-mail found its way through various routers to reach the takebackourfreedom.com site in a matter of seconds. It joined the 31,222 other e-mails in the queue that were waiting to be read. A specially designed filter read the body of the text. Finding certain key words and phrases that fit the profile, it forwarded Sheffield’s e-mail directly to William Stavros’ mailbox, where it joined a much smaller group of 312 in the queue.
א
Dressed in a simple black robe and sandals, the old man walked the stone corridor alone, on a task that could not be assigned or delegated. He breathed slowly and deeply, trying to pull in as much of the musty smell as he could because he loved the smell in the lower levels. He believed that it was the fragrance of the holy. The scuffing sound of his sandals bounced off the walls and ceiling, not just next to him but from in front and in back. The sound reverberated to and fro, resonated and amplified until it sounded as though there were many who made this trek. He believed that many were walking with him.
Arriving at an ancient iron door, he removed the massive key from his pocket. It took the pressure of both hands to turn the key within the lock, twisting until he heard the loud “clunk” of the lock disengaging. With great difficulty, he was able to pull open the door enough to allow him access. Stepping inside, he immediately dropped to one knee and blessed himself, pausing longer to say a silent prayer. He was in the holiest of rooms, a place where few men had even been; he was fulfilling a responsibility and keeping a promise made many years before his own birth. Rising, he placed his torch into the iron holder mounted to the wall. The flames danced across the stone walls, ceiling, and floor, making them all seem alive. Walking with great hesitation, he approached the coffin that rested upon the stone pedestal in the center of the room. The coffin was also stone, carved granite, lovingly crafted by the faithful so long ago. The bottom was chiseled from a single slab, so there were no joints. The top, chiseled from a separate slab, was ground to a nearly perfect tolerance. He could see that there was no gap between the bottom and the lid. The lid overhung the sides by three inches so that a sufficient grip could be established. Carved into the lid was a simple cross.
Asking, yet again, for blessing, the old man went to work on removing the lid. He found that in addition to the perfect joint between the base and the lid, someone had also sealed the joint with a substance that might have been beeswax. He had brought along a crow bar and, by lifting mightily and inserting the bar, was able to lift one end of the lid high enough for it to clear the notch that the stone masons had chiseled. As he struggled, he reflected briefly that it was fortuitous that this task did not befall his predecessor near the end of his reign. He immediately replaced this thought with the belief that sufficient strength would have been found if it had been needed.
Slowly, lovingly, he rotated the lid to the side. The masons of the day, having received explicit instruction, constructed a stone pillar to the side of the pedestal at the height needed to rest the lid, once swung aside. Retrieving the torch from the wall, the man returned to the now partially open coffin and looked within. He immediately saw the skull, spine, and clavicle. Bending over, he slowly kissed the forehead of the skull, tasting the ancient dust on his lips. Redirecting the torchlight, he found the reason for his efforts. Resting upon the rib cage, directly over where the heart once had beaten, and still clutched by the skeletal fingers, was a wooden box with a rose carved on the lid.
Reaching in with his free hand, he slowly rearranged the fingers so that he could remove the box. Doing so, he placed the box on the coffin lid. He then reached back inside and carefully placed the fingers so they crisscrossed the rib cage. Satisfied that he had conducted himself with the appropriate reverence and respect, he replaced the torch in the wall mount, placed the box on the floor out of the way, and wrestled the lid back onto the coffin.
Chapter Sixteen
Elohim glanced at Reese and said, “It seems that we have finally reached the topic that you and I have planned to discuss. Before I can answer your question, Walt, I will need to explain something about time and the original plan. Let us begin with some basic premises. For the purpose of this discussion, are you willing to grant that I created man in my own image?”
Penfield thought for a moment before responding, “I’m not ready to accept that you are our creator; however, I can easily concede that we are of the same image.”
“That will suffice for now. Can you tell me why biologists have done so much more genetic exploration with fruit flies than with turtles?”
“Yes, even an old physics boy like me can answer that one. Life spans…each fiddling with the genes requires a new generation to be born for you to determine the results of the experiment. The life span of a fruit fly is weeks, and a turtle lives for hundreds of years; therefore, your tinkering can continue for thousands of iterations on the fruit fly, while your grandchildren would be waiting for the results of your first experiment on turtles.”
“Very good. What if you don’t care about fruit flies? What if the only thing that matters to you is the progression of the turtles?”
“Well…you’d have to set up an experiment, leave lots of notes, and hope that future generations would follow up.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. I asked, ‘What if the only thing that matters to you is the progression of the turtles?’ How would you solve the dilemma?”
“I don’t know.”
“There is only one other option. You would need to speed up the process.”
“How would you do that? Accelerating the life cycle of the turtle, if it could be done, would probably have other ramifications on the turtle that would be undesirable. It might not be a turtle anymore.”
“That is precisely the point. You would not accelerate the life cycle of the turtle, you would accelerate the environment.”
A look of disbelief came across Penfield’s face. “Accelerate the environment? You mean, like fast forward the tape? You can jump forward in time?” he asked, barely concealing his sarcasm.
“No. I am as governed by the laws of the local environment as you. I cannot ‘jump’ through time.”
Reese asked, “Local environment? Why would you describe it as such instead of saying ‘the universe’?”
Elohim grinned. “Still paying attention, I see. Bear in mind that the Earth and, in fact, the solar system were created strictly for the benefit of nurturing mankind.” Gesturing toward his own torso, he said, “I am as subject to entropy as you. I am aging as we speak, at the same rate as all other things here. Were I to remain here on Earth, I would grow quite old rather more quickly than I wish. In Heaven, I age at a rate consistent with that environment…which is conside
rably slower.”
Looking more curious than amused, Penfield asked, “So you have slowed down time in Heaven?”
“My dear Walter, either Heaven is slower or the Earth is faster. It really is a relative thing, you know.”
“Very funny. So, what you’re saying is that there is a time dilation and the difference between Heaven and Earth, I can’t believe I’m saying this, is that Earth’s time moves faster than Heaven’s?”
”Time dilation?” Reese queried.
Elohim explained, “Albert Einstein, the dear man, stated that if you had a person on each of two objects, and one of the objects was moving faster than the other, each body would experience a different rate of time passage, with the faster body experiencing slower time than the other.”
“Okay,” Reese said, “I’ve read about this. Is it really the case?”
Before Elohim could answer, Penfield interjected somewhat testily, “Of course it is. It has been proved experimentally.”
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