• • •
Margaret Jennings’ warm smile does not appear to have faded as the coffin lid that reveals her face slowly closes. It’s several days later, Thursday afternoon in fact, and it’s her funeral. The eyes of her friends and family are the ones filled with tears now, and where Margaret had donned tears of joy, these are tears of graveyard sadness.
One person, however, has very clear eyes, very focused eyes, darting back and forth across the faces she’s studying. Her black leather gloved hands are making meticulous notes on a PDA. She’s noting the names of the people she can recognize, the number of people in attendance, whether they are with a guest, a description of that guest, and any other information with regard to their look and demeanor. And she makes one special note, “No one named Howard has shown.”
She’s young, very attractive, perhaps mid-twenties. She stands close enough to see everyone, but far enough to walk away unnoticed. Reaching a comfortable distance from the mourners, she text messages her findings to someone. Using one hand and, at times, typing without even looking at the screen, she conceals her PDA in the length of her coat sleeve. Her concentration and skill are amazing, and in minutes she completes and sends a report.
Walking to the parking area she slips inside of her rented car still unnoticed, and begins to check local license plates against a government database. She isn’t at it for long before the response to her filed report comes via a vibrating alert on the device. “Project Lifesaver - Phase II, approved. Signed, Deputy Director Danning.”
• • •
In an office in Washington DC, Mark Corey—an assistant to Danning—escorts in a well-dressed FBI agent. He introduces him as FBI Field Agent Manger, William Ramirez.
“So, Danning, long time, how’ve you been?” says Ramirez.
“I’m great, Bill. Yourself? And how’s Marcy and lil’ Becky?”
“They’re great, she’s a dream. As for me, it depends on why I had to drop what I was doing and come over here … tell me, what can I do for you, Harry?”
Danning replies, “Do you have any lunch plans? This is gonna take some time, and I asked for you specifically because I thought, since you know me, you won’t brush this off as being … well, crazy.”
Ramirez jokes, “Sounds like lunch at a fancy restaurant to me.” They both laugh at the inside joke, as they proceed to get comfortable and go over the particulars of the case.
Thirty minutes later, Danning’s assistant returns with their, fancy restaurant food, which amounts to little more than several bags of Chinese takeout. As he enters the office the men are deep in the midst of a discussion in which Ramirez says sternly, “You’re serious? I mean, this sounds logical to you? To you, Harold Danning?”
Danning, struggling to make his case with the FBI man, rubs his brow as he says, “I know, I know. I’m the first to admit that it’s probably a waste of time, and it’s not like me to even look into it, except … you know that I like things neat.”
“Yeah.”
“Neat and in their proper place.”
“Yeah, that’s you, alright.” To which Mark nods his head in agreement.
Danning, “Well, this one’s a left over, but it’s essentially still an active case.”
“Yeah, yeah, but– Oh, thanks,” says Ramirez in response to Danning handing him his order. But it’s a calculated move by Danning to regain the floor.
“It’s an active case,” he says, “and it’s here when I’m setting up my office, so I figure … I’ll put some of my fresh new researchers on checking and clearing out these Goodson’s era projects, you know, no harm no foul, just in case some little something that none of us knew had anything of value.”
Ramirez looks at him crossed-eyed over his serpentine wording and says, “Wow, you know you’re talking more and more like Carol.” Danning smiles. Ramirez continues, “But seriously, so you’re tidying up old cases and this one slithers out and bites you.”
“What?”
“I mean you know it’s too crazy to pursue, but too messy for your sensibilities, to just let die.”
Danning serves himself some chicken and cashews and says, “I’ll forgive your unfortunate choice of words and—well, yes and no. It got messy. First I called over to the Bureau to see if you guys had anything on it; I found out that there was no action, so I had decided to let it go, right? Goodson obviously figured that since it clearly targeted a newly elected president, that two and half years into his term, President Morrison was probably no longer in any danger. Thus he just, as you say, left the case to die. He didn’t close it, but he essentially ignored it. Then, one of my research analysts saw something that caught her attention; making a connection to another case, an Agnes Rains, which is something you guys did have. She thought perhaps the threat was still in play and that it never targeted President Morrison … and that’s when things got messy.”
Looking through the pile of papers in the file, Ramirez adds, “Yeah … and you like things neat. Well, I certainly wasn’t aware of this one; and I have to admit this old woman’s death prediction is kinda weird. But perhaps he already debunked it as bogus. Perhaps there’s a very good reason why Goodson didn’t pursue, maybe he just forgot to close it. Did you go through all his notes?”
“Yes, I’ve got them right here. There’s not much to it, and what he did do, he went about the wrong way. He went looking for this Howard person like he was a murder suspect, and wound up doing little more than opening a file. He made a notation about, if we can find the old woman, and if she dies as the kid supposed, then we might start an investigation. To be honest I think they found all this late and—well, most of what you see here was gathered by my research analyst and junior investigator that I’ve got doing some reconnaissance.”
Ramirez, incredulously, “Junior analyst slash reconnaissance? Where are you on this?”
“I just authorized her to go to the next phase.”
“Which would be?”
“Phase II.”
“Really, so you’ve got an agent assigned, and you’re, I guess, hoping that I will send someone?”
Swallowing his food, Danning is just able to say, “Yeah, that’s my thought.”
“And who did you send on this, very likely wild goose chase?”
Danning, with caution, “Actually, I’m thinking of a field promotion.”
Ramirez replies with disappointment, “Harry, not this analyst, would-be investigator.”
“She’s made this case, she found the old woman, she dug into it from the beginning and would not let go. Even Goodson notes that when that woman was located the case might move forward. This girl is the one who found her and connected all the dots. She did all the research you see here.” Ramirez is shaking his head in disapproval. Danning continues his justification; “It was an empty folder when I gave it to her to research.”
Ramirez interrupts, “She’s a research analyst Harry, that’s what they do!” Taking a moment to compose himself, he adds, “So you’ve got this analyst, a junior investigator working– I’m guessing, undercover. Did you even bother to call Goodson to see if there wasn’t anything more to this? You’ve yet to locate this Howard person, who in your own notes you call a person of interest, and who, according to this hotshot girl, didn’t even show up to the funeral. You know he could have been there and she just missed him! Which is probably for the better ’cause what was she gonna do if she saw him? Does she even have a firearm? What, is she your niece or something? Is she a knock out?”
Danning’s assistant, Mark, chimes in, “Boy is she ever!”
Deputy Director Danning interrupts. “Look, I don’t mind a little joking but this has nothing to do with the girl’s looks. In fact the implication is insulting. This girl has passed all her evals with high marks, top ten percent in marksmanship, and there’s nothing preventing her promotion. Yes, it will skip her forward a step, but so what. She was the only one to connect the kid’s chat room conversation to this journal, the only one
to figure out who was the old woman, Jennings, and locate her. She made the connection to Agnes;” getting agitated, “and until somebody can explain how anybody, much less some kid, can predict when someone was going to die—twice mind you, and do it eight years before it occurred … predict it down to the day, down to the clothing she would wear, when I have proof here in my hands that this person died of natural causes—I don’t care what anybody says, or thinks, or jokes. But if that same kid says,” he flips open the folder to read verbatim, “Your newly elected president is going to die in seven days, I don’t care what Goodson said, did, or didn’t do—my job is very clear!”
The room is dead still, and dead serious. Ramirez looks at the printout from the chat, looks at the digital pictures of the news on Margaret’s death, looks at the death certificate … then flips out his cell phone and calls his office. He tells his secretary that he wants to attach Denver Field Agent, Albert Hinton, to a case over at the secret service. He wants him to report to (reading off of the case notes) Agent Lauren Coles within the hour. Danning looks him in the eyes with gratitude.
The day has gotten away from Ramirez, and he packs up his things to head out. He looks at his watch and says, “I guess I’ll get home early for a change, and surprise Marcy and Beck.”
Danning, “Boy, that kid really has changed you.”
Ramirez, contemplatively, “Yeah.”
“Thanks again, Bill.” He gets up to shake his hand.
Ramirez, “Hey, why else have friends? Besides, it’s not my neck; I mean, I hope you don’t mind me saying but, no matter how you slice it, looks like a hard road for you, old friend. Either you’re the goat for chasing fairytales, or the goat for … well, good luck, Harry.”
Harold Danning knows exactly what his friend did not want to say. What no one wants to think. But it is his job to think of such things. He then sits and turns his attention to the preparation of Phase II.
• • •
That night, Friday night, Deputy Chief, Danning, is again wrestling with this case after dinner. His wife Carol has never seen him in such a state. She knows the nature of his work, but she also knows her husband, and that he is never this uncomfortable. She stands quietly behind him and rubs his shoulders as he stairs into their fireplace.
“Sweetheart,” she says, “I don’t remember you ever being so tense.”
Without breaking his gaze for a moment, he says, “Carol, I need to ask you something.”
Eagerly she replies, “Yes, sweetheart.”
“Are you by any chance planning on killing the President of the United States of America in the next forty-eight hours?”
She breaks into a full smile, and bringing her cheek down to his says, “Noooo, I’ve got the dishes to get done.”
Sobering from his light smile, and continuing his gaze, he finishes, “In that case, I need to tell you that I’m afraid … ’cause come Sunday this time he could be dead and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”
In The Cold Of The Night
The fire cracks as fresh wood is added. Joseph Market gazes at the fire, admiring the passion and integrity of the flames. The thin but strong 14-year-old heads back outside of the large suburban home to get a few more logs. It’s supposed to be a cold night, perhaps even snow, which would be very uncommon for this part of New York in September. He brings extra wood anyway, mostly because he knows his mom loves a good fire. As he stares deep into the flames again, he can almost hear faint sounds—sounds of voices. His mind goes back to the first time he helped bring firewood in, back when he was five years old … when he was hearing voices about things yet to come.
His attentive mom comes in from the kitchen; she notices the nice warm fire … and her son’s mesmerized state. She chooses not to be curious and instead just comments on the fire, “Perfect! Just the thing to go with my late night cocoa.” She is a little vulnerable this evening. Cold nights like this cause her to long for her husband. He’s a great man, a loving father who serves in their church and a good provider for the family. But a recent promotion has him working later and later hours and opting to sleep in town one night out of almost every week. Tonight is just such a night. She tries not to let it get to her, but with her other son away at college for the first time, the house feels extra empty. She is a wonderful lady, well liked by everyone really, and the glue that’s keeping this busy family together as members begin to pursue their own interests. But tonight, her binding powers are feeling diminished, and she’s a little down. So she chooses not to delve into what may or may not have had her youngest son lost in thought. She too remembers a time when he heard voices, so this evening she’s opting for peace and simplicity. If only wishing made things true.
• • •
It’s 7:00 pm, and Deputy Director Danning finds himself cornered by his own wife. “Who’s this sitting in my living room? Who am I talking to?” Following him as he goes into the kitchen she adds, “I have never known anyone who is as determined as you, who never believes that there is nothing he can do about anything!”
Even as despondent as Danning is, he has to acknowledge the perfect awkwardness of what his wife has just said. Turning towards her he says, “Never believe there’s nothing about anything?”
Fighting back a smile, she blocks his path and retorts, “Harold, you know what I mean.”
He shakes his head and looking away says, “Sweetheart, I know, but this is just so different, so … X-Files.”
She reaches out and touches his arm, and looking him in the face says, “Sweetheart, if you don’t know what to do, find someone who does and ask him.”
Recognizing his own words, he’s slightly encouraged, but still responds with agitation. “Yes, I know, I agree, but there is no one else to ask! This case is not typical, not normal! Haven’t you seen me with the Bible here? The only one who knows is God!”
“Well, ask him,” she says, trying to find some hope in her husbands eyes.
But he just cannot take her comment seriously and says, “Look, I’m struggling here, struggling and running out of time!”
Discouraged she now lowers her head and slightly under her breath, mutters, “Maybe that’s why you’re struggling.”
His face registers a little annoyance now. Lifting her chin so he can see her face he asks, “Sorry? What was that?” She holds her ground and just looks him in the face with one of those you know what I mean type looks that only a wife can give. He rubs his brow and with some aggravation continues, “Carol, darling, I don’t have your faith, you know that, but I have done everything I can, and yes, I have even prayed!” He works his way past her and goes over to the coffee maker and says in a huff. “God doesn’t just carve answers out of stone for me, alright! If he wants to tell me what to do, then I’m all ears!”
“Honey, you’re very agitated. I’m sorry, obviously this is really big.” She walks over and takes his hand again. “Let me just say that, yes, I have faith, and I believe in you! I believe you are in this position for a reason! If God’s allowed you to be in this job at this time, then you are the right man, in the right place, at the right time! So stop worrying about what’s the right thing to do and to ahead and do the thing you believe is right.”
Danning refreshes his coffee, and cleaning his glasses he thinks for a moment. Then, suddenly, he looks at his watch and says, “You know, you’re right … and I’m sorry. You’re right.” In route to the home office, he kisses her, and grabbing his papers he relocates there.
It was a triple-meaning kiss, part thank you, part I’m sorry, and part good night, and she is fine with all three. She understands that this will be a late night, and she is grateful that he is at least working from home. She heads upstairs with a content smile on her face.
At his desk he calls Ramirez on his cell phone.
Ramirez, who is just shutting down to leave the office, sees that it’s Danning on the caller ID and takes the call. He continues the conversation while in route to his car. The dapper FBI m
an is determined to get home, but Danning’s concerns have him nearly as perplexed in choosing the best course of action. Stumped, he winds up sitting in his car working it out with his old friend.
“So we are certain. There’s going to be a fire tonight.”
Danning, over the phone, “Yes, according to what we have from the chat, it’ll begin just after midnight, Eastern.”
“So if I’m gonna have Hinton stay on this, which I agree makes sense, he’s gotta get on a plane about … oh, ten minutes ago.
“It’s just too important to risk not having him there. I’ve already got the arrangements made on my end. Everything he needs, except business cards will be in the car. If you can get him on one of your planes–”
“But according to our little prophet, no one dies in the fire.”
Danning, flipping through pages corrects, “We don’t know that no one dies, it just doesn’t say that anyone dies—and all of a sudden I’m talking like my wife again,” he adds with a bit of amusement at the realization.
“I hear you, but you make a better point than you realize. I mean, honestly, either we believe these things or we don’t! If the kid was going to die, don’t you think a premonition telling about a death would say that the prophet dies? If we believe this stuff, then there’s no reason to insert an agent tonight, since no one dies, and the fire is supposed to happen anyways. But if we’re concerned, then that means we don’t completely believe this stuff, which means, why are we wasting our time?”
“Bill, so help me, if you go back onto this loop again I’ll– Look, we’ve decided that we’ll proceed as if this is a credible source, right? Thus we know, based on prior pattern—I know you Bureau guys are all about prior patterns—we know that everything indicates there will be a fire tonight. We know—again assuming—that it will mark the end of the prophecies. What we don’t know is if this kid, who somehow may be the savior of our president, will get killed in that fire. We don’t know how or from whom he’s getting his information; that by the way so far is approximately eighty percent accurate.” Danning looks out his window and commiserates, “Honestly, at this point I’m inclined to provide protection to every one of the twelve thousand four hundred and seventy residents of that town, at least ’til Monday when this whole thing is over!”
The Journal: A Prophecy, A President & Death Page 2
