She then walked down the paved path to Greenhill’s Main Street, where Church members congregated for various activities. There was a general store, a medical facility, a recreation hall, a gym, and other amenities one would find in any subdivision of an American city. Three apartment buildings held over a hundred units for singles and families. As Greenhill was the Church of Will’s main headquarters, many members lived in the apartments and worked for the organization. Wilkins owned a private jet and thus had an airstrip built on the premises. The main attraction was the beautiful church, a large sanctuary used for Sunday services and other meetings. It resembled a massive Roman Catholic cathedral, and every side was covered in gorgeous stained-glass windows. When Wilkins was in town, he usually delivered the sermons. Even non-Church members would come to the compound from all over the country to hear him. He was essentially a rock star.
Greenhill was fairly isolated from other communities in Virginia. Located just east of Interstate 95, the compound was south of Coal Landing and west of Arkendale. Around the northwest bend of the lake were other villages, streets, and recreational facilities. Willow Landing Marina wasn’t too far. Nevertheless, the area Greenhill occupied on the north shore of Aquia Lake was private and quiet. No member was a prisoner, of course. Anyone could come and go as they pleased. Residents often visited Stafford, Garrisonville, and Garrisonville Estates, the closest sizable towns. And if one wanted to go to a big city, Washington, D.C., and its sprawling suburbs were less than an hour’s drive away.
Helen entered her building, inspected her personal mailbox in the lobby—it was always empty, but she checked it daily, anyway—and then climbed the stairs to the second floor. Her one-bedroom apartment was as good as anything one might find in any city, and the rent was nominal since she worked for the Church. It was comfortable and homey, decorated with knickknacks she’d collected over the years and with Church of Will iconography. Her favorite was a framed, autographed poster of Charlie Wilkins, who pointed at the viewer à la Uncle Sam and asked his signature question in a dialogue bubble: “Will You?” The Church was all about taking control of one’s destiny and finding and applying inner strength to get through life on a daily basis. Wilkins believed that each individual should follow the “Will” of the common man, collectively bound as a desire to be governed only by the “Supreme One” and not by men or women who made false promises and led people into partisan politics, paths of war, and financial catastrophe. The Supreme One was not necessarily “God” but could be if that was what an individual wanted to believe. The Church of Will allowed its members to interpret the religion in any way they wanted, as long as certain creeds were followed.
She poured a can of soup into a pot to heat up on the stove, then went to the bathroom to wash her face and hands. As she dried off, she gazed at her features and repeated the mantra Wilkins had drilled into her.
I am pretty. I am worthy. I am Helen McAdams and I have the Will.
Most men found her attractive, she thought. Helen felt them gazing at her. And why not? She was thirty-one years old, thin, and had a pleasant face. She had dated a few of the Church members, but nothing ever came of it. Her shyness and insecurity played a big part in her failure to land a lasting relationship. Her college boyfriend—well, she didn’t like to dwell on what happened there. Since then, Helen’s love life had been closer to the latter end of the hit-or-miss scale.
They say “loneliness is just a word,” she thought to herself.
Six o’clock. Time to turn on the TV.
She returned to the living room, switched on the set, and went back to the kitchen to pour the hot soup into a bowl. She grabbed the open but corked bottle of white wine from the fridge, poured a glass, and then took her supper to the couch in front of the television.
The news was just ending. The top story concerned the New Model Army’s attack that morning on an Internal Revenue Service building in Cincinnati, Ohio. Three bombs had gone off simultaneously, destroying an entire side of the structure. Luckily, it was prior to rush hour, so only forty-something people were injured. Two fatalities. If the explosions had occurred during the workday, the death toll would have been disastrous. In many ways, Helen was sympathetic to the NMA’s cause, but she was strongly against violence. The fact that innocent people were sometimes “collateral damage,” as Cromwell liked to call it, was deplorable. Still, the New Model Army and other splinter militant groups were successful at inciting the unrest that existed in the country. Helen felt that if enough people were unhappy, the government would have to change to accommodate them.
Finally, Wilkins’s aptly titled variety show, Will You?, came on, with its catchy theme song. Will You? was one of the highest-rated TV programs, and it wasn’t on a regular network or cable channel. Charlie Wilkins owned his own cable network, and he filled it with not only his signature show but also other Church of Will–sponsored dramas and sitcoms, made-for-TV movies, news features, and even cartoons for children. Millions of viewers tuned in. Will You? was part talk show, part musical variety acts, part political rhetoric, and part evangelical recruitment. The show was taped in a studio inside the mansion at Greenhill when Wilkins was on the premises (otherwise, reruns were broadcast). Tickets were a hot commodity, and it was said that the show attracted more tourists than the Lincoln and Washington Monuments or the Smithsonian Institute.
At last, the reverend appeared to welcome the studio audience and viewers at home.
Charlie Wilkins was in his sixties; he had a magnificent mane of white hair and sparkling blue eyes that melted the hearts of housewives everywhere. He was terribly handsome, which had a lot to do with his appeal. When he raised one eyebrow and grinned—a signature trait often lampooned by stand-up comics—his eyes sparkled and he exuded goodwill. Mostly it was his charisma and charm that won people over. He was witty, upbeat, and he spoke with the voice of an angel. The smooth timbre of his baritone speech had the power to mesmerize listeners. If he had claimed to be the Second Coming, which he didn’t, it was likely that a lot of people would have believed him. There were critics, however. The extremely outspoken ones considered Wilkins just another wacko leading a “cult.” Others were more moderate. While they dismissed Wilkins’s “godliness,” they admitted he was a smart and fascinating personality who had earned and deserved respect. Even Americans unsold on Wilkins thought he was entertaining at the very least.
After the preliminary stand-up monologue and jokes that rivaled anything heard on late-night variety shows, Wilkins announced, “Tonight’s guest is none other than presidential candidate Senator Dana Shipley Linder. I know the anticipation is building, so let’s get the word from our sponsor over with quickly and get to the main event! We’ll be right back.”
As always, Wilkins’s own companies provided commercials for the network. The reverend’s fast-food restaurant chain, Charlie’s, had become second only to McDonald’s as the go-to eatery for people on the run. The food was more expensive than other chain fare, but Charlie’s specialized in guaranteed healthy, organic products. The grass-fed, free-range beef and chicken were from farms owned by the Church of Will, and no artificial chemicals were added to the meat or vegetables. Helen liked it a lot. There was a Charlie’s in the Greenhill Town Center, and she ate there several times a week. Everyone in America was familiar with the Charlie’s logo—a cartoon depiction of Wilkins’s white shock of hair with the word “Charlie’s” scribbled where the face would be.
The program resumed and the reverend introduced Dana Linder. As the main challenger to the incumbent president, Mark Burdett, Linder’s star had risen rapidly after the creation of a new party to rival the Democrats and Republicans. The America First Party began as a grass-roots movement but quickly grew to a nationwide tidal wave. Blaming the Democrats and Republicans for excessive and endless partisan fighting in Congress, the America First Party promised to end all that. Already, America First Party candidates had taken many seats in the House and Senate in the midterm elections.
With the presidential election coming up in just over a month, the pundits were predicting an upset. Burdett would lose out on a second term, and for the first time in recent history, a non-Republican or -Democrat would take the White House. Linder was the woman likely to fulfill that prediction.
Dana Shipley Linder was in her late thirties and had served as a representative from Maryland. She was tall, dark-haired, and attractive. There was no question that she was intelligent and had her finger on the pulse of America. Helen admired her.
“Thank you for coming on the show, Dana.”
“Charlie, all you have to do is ask, you know that. I’d do anything for my childhood preacher,” she replied, beaming.
Wilkins laughed and rolled his eyes. “Some of you may not know that, but, yes, it’s true, when Dana and her brother, Darren, were orphaned as children, I was their pastor and family friend. I looked out for them. I like to think I gave them both the guidance that helped them grow into splendid adults.”
“You certainly did, Charlie,” she said. “And you were so young then!”
He wagged a finger at her. “Now, now! I’m still young! And so are you! And that reminds me, Dana. Happy birthday!”
The audience applauded, and the candidate blushed and waved away the adulation. “Charlie, that was a month ago. You’re a little late.”
“But I haven’t seen you since. I understand you had a spectacular party.”
“Oh, we did. John and the children and I threw quite the hootenanny in Towson. I’m so sorry you were away and couldn’t make it.”
“I am too. You know I would have been there if I could.” He took her hands and held them. “Anyway, I hope it was a happy occasion.”
“It was. Of course, it would have been better if … if Darren had been there.”
Wilkins nodded with a sympathetic look on his face, as the audience applauded again. Many members whistled their appreciation.
Helen considered that much of Linder’s popularity was because she had a hero brother. Darren Shipley was a marine who had died in Iraq while on an important mission to sweep insurgents out of a building. There was a massive explosion, and Darren perished in the flames. A savvy media reporter covered Shipley’s demise, and the America First Party capitalized on it. The public embraced the story of the handsome marine and his gorgeous sister, he a national hero who sacrificed his life for his country, and she a politician who was destined to change America.
It made good politics.
Wilkins continued the interview. “In another month, Americans will go to the polls to elect our next president. I understand you have a heavy campaign schedule.”
Linder nodded. “You know how it is, Charlie. As we approach the finish line, it just gets more intense. But you know, Charlie, I have you to thank for all this.”
“Me?”
“It was you who suggested I run for public office when I was younger. Your influence spurred me on. And I’m going to do you proud.”
“That’s a wonderful thing to hear, Dana. Is there anything you’d like to say to the American people?”
“Yes, there is.” She looked straight into the camera. “All of you out there, I know and understand your frustration. President Burdett is completely out of touch with what’s happening. His foreign policy is a disaster. He actually tried to make peace with terrorist groups and nations considered to be America’s enemies in an effort to influence gasoline prices. That failed. Our economy and unemployment rate are worse than ever. We have militant groups wreaking havoc on government property. President Burdett has turned the National Guard into storm troopers. In an effort to control the militants, the National Guardsmen are hurting innocent civilians. Well, I’m fed up, and I know you are too. I’m fed up with the Democrats and the Republicans and their constant bickering. They never get anything done. Two years ago, the people spoke and placed many America First Party candidates in office. I believe that’s going to happen again on Election Day. If I’m elected president, I promise to bring America back to the people and not into the hands of big government, which is squashing you all like insects.”
Wilkins raised a finger to attract her attention.
“Yes, Charlie?”
“How do you answer critics who say your candidacy is really an advertisement for the Church of Will? Everyone knows you’re a member and you believe in our tenets.”
“I’m glad you asked that, Charlie. I just want to point out that more and more people are turning toward these tenets, as you call them, whether they know it or not. But let me make it clear that my following the Church of Will is personal. Past presidents had their religions. I have mine. And while the Church gives me values to follow and practice, it doesn’t mean I’ll be bringing the Church into the White House. That said, I refuse to be a hypocrite. Much of what the Church teaches can be applied to the running of a country. The Church asks its members to act on our inner Will. Well, I’m asking the country to act on its inner Will too!”
Applause. Hoots and hollers.
Helen smiled. She was definitely on the same page as Dana Linder. There was no question that the woman had her vote.
Before the next commercial, Wilkins said, “In the interest of fairness, I invited President Burdett to be on the show next week, and he accepted.” The audience greeted this statement with boos and catcalls. Wilkins held up his hands. “Now, now. Let’s be respectful, folks. The president has as much right to be on Will You? and to speak his mind as Dana Linder does. I look forward to welcoming him.”
Helen finished her soup, drank the last sip of wine, and took the bowl and glass into the kitchen. She’d clean up later. The recruitment center opened at seven o’clock. One never knew who might come to Greenhill to sign up, especially after Linder’s rousing speech.
She spent a few minutes in the bathroom reapplying her makeup and brushing her long brown hair. Yes, she was pretty. There was no reason in the world why she couldn’t attract a decent man. Who cared if she’d had some … problems in the past? That was exactly what it was. The past.
Helen turned off the television, put on her jacket, and left the apartment. The evening was young.
If it turned out to be uneventful, tomorrow was another day.
FIVE
Roget paid me my fee. One perk was that Roget offered me a ride on his private plane to Rio de Janeiro. I thought that might be a nice place to visit and hunt for work, so I took him up on it. It was also convenient, because I could bring my briefcase on board with me. It contained my handguns. They’re AMT Hardballers, but I call them Silverballers because of the pearl handles.
It was a Lear business-class jet, so the cabin was small. It held twelve passengers, but I was the only one aboard. There was no flight attendant. I never saw the pilot, but a voice over the intercom told me to fasten my seat belt and all that. We took off from Montego Bay in the afternoon and I was on my way.
The Jamaican news was full of Corado’s death. Emilio Fernandez was taken in for questioning. The States sent an FBI agent down to interrogate him as well. Corado was wanted in a few countries. I guess I saved a lot of taxpayers’ money, since the guy would never have a trial. Corado was scum, and I had no problem extracting him from the planet. I wasn’t sure exactly what Roget’s beef with Corado was. Maybe Corado was muscling in on Roget’s territory. Roget didn’t seem to be the most up-and-up kind of guy either. For all I knew, his business was human trafficking.
Not that I cared.
As the plane left Caribbean airspace, I reclined the seat and tried to relax. I was hoping to get some sleep on the flight, but I felt a twinge of anxiety. I had taken my pill earlier, but I was starting to wonder if I needed to take two at a time. They said people gain a tolerance for the stuff. So far, that hadn’t happened to me. I guess that was because I’m different.
We weren’t in the air ten minutes when we hit turbulence. It was bad too. I looked out the window and saw that a storm had appeared out of nowhere. The clouds were dark and threate
ning. Lightning flashed across the panorama, and the plane lurched violently. It felt like the jet had gone through a cloud of plutonium. I expected the pilot to make an announcement or something, but there was dead silence from the cockpit.
I waited in my seat a few more minutes, but I usually could tell when an airplane was having trouble. We were losing altitude. There was nothing below but ocean. I didn’t like the looks of it, so I unbuckled my seat belt and moved up the aisle to the cockpit door, which was closed. I banged on it and shouted, “Hey, in there! What’s going on?” Again, dead silence. I banged again.
I went back to my seat to fetch one of the Silverballers. I opened the briefcase, grabbed the handgun, inserted one of the seven-round magazines, a .45 ACP, and returned to the door. One blast was all it took.
Imagine my surprise when I pulled it open. There wasn’t anyone in the cockpit. No pilot. No copilot. Nobody.
I’ve had a little experience with planes, so I jumped into the pilot’s seat. If I just leveled the aircraft and kept it from crashing into the sea, I’d be happy. But the control column didn’t respond. It was stuck. That’s when I noticed the black box with the red lights on it. It was attached beneath the dash. The plane was controlled by remote.
The Silverballer coughed again. The box shattered to pieces, and at the same time the plane jolted hard. Looking out the window, I saw that one of the engines was out. Great. Flying on one engine in a storm. The aircraft wouldn’t respond when I moved the control column.
Time for plan B.
I got up and searched the cockpit for a parachute. If the plane was going down, I wanted to beat it to the water and, hopefully, with a softer landing. But of course there wasn’t a parachute in sight, so it was back to the cabin. I searched the overhead compartments. They were all empty. I looked under the seats. At least there was a flotation device. I grabbed it and put it around my chest. I knew I had to blow into the tubes to inflate it. That could wait.
Raymond Benson Page 4