by Gordon Ryan
Commander Shaw, Captain Jeffs, and First Sergeant Krueger arrived at the appointed hour and parked their Jeep Cherokee two slots down from Wolff’s BMW. Wolff walked to their car.
“Glad you could make it,” he said through the open driver’s window of the Jeep.
“It’s not a good time to be public,” Shaw had responded tersely.
“You’re right. That’s why I asked you to come together. It’s time for us to lay low. I’ve brought the money we discussed,” he said, continuing to glance around the parking area. “I think the three of you should get out of the country. In six months to a year, I’ll be in touch again. Instructions are in the briefcases. This is just a setback, Shaw. We’ll be back in operation sooner than you know.”
“Is that right?” Shaw asked, a slight sneer in his expression. “It’s not your name on the wanted posters, Wolff. If my guess is right, you’ll be out of the country in the next twelve hours.”
“And so will you, if you’re smart. What makes you think I’m so protected from fallout?”
“Your kind always are. Just give us the money, and we’ll be out of here.”
Wolff returned Shaw’s stare, slowing smiling and nodding. “I’ve got three briefcases, each with a passport, false identity cards, and $100,000. Think you can live on that for a year or so, Shaw?”
“Back off, Wolff,” Shaw said. “It’s probably five percent of what you got.”
“First Sergeant,” Wolff said, looking past the driver into the backseat, “would you mind giving me a hand?”
“Get the money, Otto, and let’s get the hell out of here,” Shaw ordered.
Otto Krueger exited the vehicle, walked with Wolff several steps to the BMW, and retrieved the three briefcases.
“The black one is yours, First Sergeant,” Wolff said, opening the briefcase to show the money and papers, “gray for Shaw, and the brown is Jeffs’. The new IDs are inside. Do you know where you’re going?”
“We’ve made plans,” Krueger answered, nodding.
“Together?”
Otto Krueger glanced toward the Jeep and then back at Wolff. “Yeah, right. Like I’m going to hang with these losers.”
“See you next time, Otto. You’re a good man to have around in a tough situation. I’ll look forward to working with you again,” Wolff said, extending his hand to shake Otto’s.
“Don’t count on it, Wolff, or whoever you are. I trust you less than I trust them, and that ain’t much,” he said, turning and quickly covering the distance to the Jeep.
From the open window of the driver’s seat, Shaw voiced a few expletives and spun his wheels as he left the parking lot. Wolff’s last view of the Shasta Brigade leadership was of Commander Shaw starting down the access road to I-5 North.
Wolff entered his BMW and drove out of the lot toward the I-5 South on-ramp. He paused at the top of the ramp, looking north toward the tawny colored Jeep. Reaching into his glove box, he extracted the same small transistor control box he’d used while playing golf with Shaw some three months earlier. Wolff glanced again at the rapidly departing vehicle, extended the antennae, and triggered the signal.
The resulting fireball, some half-mile north on I-5, destroyed the Jeep Cherokee and a small Honda Civic that Shaw was in the process of overtaking. After viewing the carnage for a few seconds, Wolff threw the BMW into gear and entered the freeway, heading south toward the San Francisco International Airport.
“Air France is pleased to announce the boarding of Flight 83 for Paris De Gaulle. We will now begin boarding our first-class passengers, if you please.”
The sunset was magnificent as usual, but John Henry Franklin had come to accept the spectacular evening display as routine. Seated comfortably on the veranda of his home at Sea Ranch, he quietly rocked in his chair, contemplating his losses and the evaporation of his former international political alliances, none of whom had bothered to return his calls for over two weeks. The disappearance of Jean Wolff and the unauthorized withdrawal of over $30 million from the Cayman Island account that had been used to fund the patriot movement were the latest evidences of the collapse of Franklin’s empire. His control over events and people had diminished considerably. But not for long, he comforted himself. As Franklin saw it, money always brought out the best in people, and if nothing else, John Henry Franklin had plenty of money.
“Coffee, Senor?” Consuela asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Franklin replied.
Consuela stepped to the small food cart and poured a cup of coffee, adding the usual two spoons of sugar and a dab of cream, along with the touch of whiskey John Henry Franklin had always enjoyed on these evenings when he sat on the veranda and allowed time for reflection.
“From Carmen, para su placer,” she whispered.
“Excuse me?” Franklin said.
“Nada, Senor. Just a special blend from my sister’s daughter-my niece, Carmen.”
“Ah, well, please thank her for me, Consuela.”
“Si, Senor, but you can thank her yourself, Mr. Franklin,” she said, pushing the cart through the double French doors.
Puzzled, Franklin ignored her parting comment, thinking she was talking to herself. The woman had been acting strangely of late. Perhaps she needed a vacation, or better yet, early retirement. He returned his gaze toward the ocean, watching as the sun concluded its daily journey over the United States of America. Thereafter, somewhere beyond the International Dateline, and 7,500 miles south-southeast, it would begin its new day rising above the eastern shores of New Zealand.
At that same moment, Daniel Rawlings and Nicole Bentley were relaxing on the wrap-around deck of Dan’s father’s home in the Bay of Islands. The trip to New Zealand had been prescribed by Dan for the convalescent benefit of the reluctant patient. Nicole had gone to her sister’s home in Connecticut, where she had spent three weeks with her nieces and nephews and regained her strength. Then came Dan’s offer of a trip to New Zealand to meet his father and the New Zealand branch of the family. In addition to almost immediately liking the beautiful and gracious woman, Tom Rawlings had seen the healing that Nicole had brought into Dan’s life, and for the first time in several years, Tom could see that Dan looked forward to his future. The elder Rawlings couldn’t have been more pleased for his son.
Shortly after dawn the next morning, the gardener found John Henry Franklin still seated in his rocking chair, dead, with a ghastly picture of a truck full of dead Mexican immigrants pinned to the lapel of his expensive silk smoking jacket. The old gardener failed in his frantic attempt to find Consuela, the housekeeper and domestic help manager, to report the tragedy.
Consuela, now well-rested and content in her comfortable Mazatlan retreat-a place she had acquired from the proceeds of her years of service to her deceased employer-had no doubt that John Henry Franklin had been unable to thank her niece, Carmen, for her unique coffee blend. His kind of devil, Consuela thought, as she prayerfully fingered her Rosary beads, does not mingle with the saints.
Epilogue
Rumsey, California
December, 2012
From the hillside above and behind Jack’s home, Dan watched the clouds form patterns over the western slopes that ringed Rumsey Valley. Looking down the hill at the neatly kept, twenty-acre almond orchard, Dan could see, in his mind’s eye, a six-year-old boy running after a man as they worked to change the sprinkler pipe. The boy, struggling to keep up and to carry his share of the burden, wrestled with the eighteen-foot sections of aluminum pipe, which were not heavy but unwieldy for such a young lad to maneuver between the symmetrical rows of almond trees. Dan continued to envision the scene as the older man watched the lad, his young grandson and protege, who was the latest in the line of pioneer ancestors who had settled the valley many years earlier.
As the boy and his grandfather worked together, the man would relate the history of their pioneer forebears-tales of struggle in the early days, of victory and failure over the elements, of life and death. And the vo
ices became real to the young lad. Those voices were muted now, put to rest with the completion of Voices in My Blood and the immortalization of those whom he had come to love vicariously. The remaining voice, now seemingly heard again as Dan continued to look down at the tidy orchard, was that of the old man as he spoke to the boy.
Have I told you the story about my father and the time he came face-to-face with a cougar up on the east bench? Well, it was getting on toward dark, and. .
Now that singular voice had been stilled-mingled, Dan surmised, with that of Grandma Ellen’s as she had called for the old man to join her. Dan’s view of the orchard, so small and insignificant on a worldly scale, was obscured by the very real tears that now filled his eyes and filled his heart, empty for so long, until. .
Nicole slipped her arm gently through Dan’s as they stood, viewing the California valley, which now remained part of the whole-part of the heritage his forebears had forged with their blood. Blinking the tears away, Dan covered Nicole’s hand on his arm and looked softly into her eyes, unspoken words passing between them as they surveyed the landscape, newly discovered by the woman, but part of the soul of the man.
“Have I told you the story of Jack’s house?” Dan asked, nodding toward the old, weathered farmhouse. “It’s the fourth house in a series.”
Nicole smiled at Dan, listening to his life and family history and absorbing it into her character.
“In 1866, when he came out after the Civil War, Howard Rumsey drove his Conestoga up this valley and staked out his tent, not far from where the house now stands. In four months, he’d built their first home-a two-room log cabin. Three years later, after a mill had opened down the valley, he made the round trip each week to bring freshly milled lumber to build his wife a proper home. That home stood for nearly thirty-five years, and then, shortly after the turn of the century, Jack’s father built his home, a few yards from the first.
“Then, in 1945, after Jack came home from his generation’s war, and after his father died in ’48, Jack tore down both houses and built the house you see down there now. He took care of his mother there until she died-that house is over sixty years old and has seen its day.”
Dan turned to look at Nicole, taking her face in his hands, stroking her hair, and bending to kiss her softly. He thought how she had stood by his side, risking her life to save his, and he felt his love for this woman welling up inside him.
Nicole’s recovery from the gunshot wound had taken longer than anticipated, and her medical retirement from the FBI, required because of a collapsed lung that had not healed completely, had been a hard blow from which she had not yet fully recovered-a lifelong career dream shattered.
“Jack had only one child,” Dan said, “my mother. In his will, Jack left all this to me. It’s time, I think, for a fifth house, but. .” Dan stopped.
“But what?” Nicole asked.
“But it’d be empty, Nicole, unless you would share it with me. I know I’ve been hard-pressed to let go of the past, and you’ve been very patient with me. But I also know that you know I love you.”
Nicole returned Dan’s kiss, then laid her head against his chest for awhile, the two of them content to stand and watch the sunset gather over the western end of the valley. She’d noticed, the first time he came to the hospital after returning from Washington, that he had removed his wedding band. She had taken it as an admission that he had let go of the past and that he loved her.
“What will you do, Dan?” she said, not lifting her head from his chest.
“Well, for one thing, I’ll continue to write. There are a lot of stories left untold.”
“And?” she said.
“And Governor Dewhirst is not going to run again,” he said, a grin on his face.
At that, Nicole raised her head and looked into his eyes. “So you thought you’d remain in politics?”
“I’ve thought that perhaps I could contribute to the effort. I’m still a bit young to fun for governor, but I might try to keep my legislative seat for a few years.” He smiled. “We still have this secession issue to deal with. It’s not really a done deal yet. In fact I’ve received an invitation to meet with several state and national elected officials from Oregon, Arizona, and even Nevada. They want to discuss some options. That will be in January. I don’t have a handle on what they want, but I intend to listen. Nicole, since being elected, I’ve learned a lot. In many respects, the secession mania has been a diversion, helpful to the current crop of elected officials actually. California is financially destitute. As a state, we have so many resources, so much to offer, but we also have the largest welfare rolls, the most claim on meager resources, the largest share of illegal immigrants. We could do better, but maybe we simply can’t turn the direction of the federal government.”
“Do I hear the beginning of a shift in your thoughts about secession? A positive look at becoming separate?”
Dan hesitated, continuing to look over the western slopes. “I don’t know yet, Nicole. Some of our Founding Fathers came reluctantly to their rebellious position. They were loyalists initially. I need to be more inquisitive, more open. California could work independently. Despite our current financial crisis, we do actually have the total package-far better than many existing countries. I’m not speaking of treason. I’m thinking about political alliance, shifting priorities.”
“And you want to do something about that, right?” Nicole said, softly pressing the issue.
“Only if you’d share it with me, Nicole. That’s the only way it would matter. John Adams could not have accomplished what he did without Abigail. And we helped to build it together, didn’t we? Just like my ancestors. We rightfully earned our place in this valley.”
“I suppose we did,” she responded, raising her eyes across the valley to the far west mountainside where their lives had been in jeopardy. “I suppose we did.”
“Well, then,” Dan said, bracing her shoulders straight so he could face her head on. “Will you help me start one more generation of voices-voices to keep this valley alive?”
Nicole looked slowly around the valley and then returned her gaze to Dan, who stood patiently waiting for her to respond.
“Mr. Rawlings, have I ever told you the story of my first American ancestor, James Bentley, and his trip from London to the colonies?” She smiled.
Dan looked at her for a moment, his smile broadening as her response took root in his heart, her family stories about to be mingled with his ancestors’ stories, her answer to his question couched in family tradition.
“No, you haven’t,” he said, “but I think I’m due.”
Her words came slowly at first as she described her own heritage, anticipating in the telling how these two streams from separate sources would be joined together.
Dan only half heard the words, lost again in the vision of the old man in the orchard with his eyes lifted toward the couple on the hill, smiling and waving at the two of them. They sat there together on the hillside, overlooking the expanse of Rumsey Valley as the sun dropped beneath the western ridge. Stretched before them was a destiny-an old valley in a new state-a home forged in courage by the voices that yet reverberated through the canyons and in their hearts.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-fe90a4-eb61-4e4e-d5b5-f691-18d7-0b66f1
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 06.06.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.54, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.3 software
Document authors :
Ryan, Gordon
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