by Martha Carr
“Look, I’m sorry, it’s all I’ve got,” said Norman, his hands out to his sides as if he was arguing his case in court. “I want to be damned sure we get to fight another day. I know Tom. This is real and he said there’s no time to waste. We either leave quickly now with no one right on our heels or we end up with a worse scenario. I’m not willing to take that chance.”
Wallis’ eyes filled with tears. “How do we tell him? And my mother?”
Norman pulled her close. “Your mother has guards outside her door at all times. No one can get to her.”
“But she’ll wonder where we are.”
“No, we’ll make sure someone tells Harriet and if anyone understands, it will be Ned’s grandmother who has shot off a gun twice in our vicinity, to protect him. We will tell Ned to get in the car. A long explanation is just not a good idea for a newly minted teenager.”
“He is going to hate us for a long time to come,” said Wallis. “We haven’t even told him about his grandmother. This isn’t how we usually do things. Just when it seemed like he was thawing just a little.”
“May he have a very long time to hate us, then,” said Norman. “But for now, we have to go.”
There really wasn’t much time.
George Clemente wanted to make sure he had everything he needed before he made his move this time. He was tired of all of the recent failures so close to what should have been the final steps and his claim at last to lead all of Management.
He already had a stranglehold on Management’s finances, worldwide, and that had taken him years to do, siphoning money into different accounts. Now, he needed to win the hearts of the people and Harry Weiskopf, the unwitting fool was going to help him do it.
After the boy was dead, George could finally kill Harry and take credit for killing the traitor himself. He would claim that Harry had faked his own death and out of bitterness and half-crazy had killed his nephew in order to claim himself as a force to be recognized. That would all be reported posthumously. Harry’s family would never believe he was capable of any of it but that didn’t matter. Millions of people who wore the small flag pin to show they were proud of being a part of Management would believe the story till it became a fable of sorts.
And this time Clemente would make sure that Harry Weiskopf was really dead.
But not till he served his purpose. “Come on, Harry,” said Clemente, smiling and putting an arm gently around Harry’s back. “Your brother called. He wants to hear your side of things, give you a chance. Seems your family has a real soft spot for you.”
Harry smiled and let Clemente lead him out to the car. After all, it was all he really wanted, someone to understand.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Father Donald drove as fast as he could toward East Broad Street and left his car in one of the Medical College’s parking lots that was intended for physicians, hoping that someone would recognize the familiar gold cursive lettering of his name beneath the driver’s side handle on his black Lincoln Continental and give him a pass.
At this point, it didn’t matter. He needed to get to the church that was snugly tucked between several of the medical school buildings before anyone else did.
Monumental Church sat between Twelfth and College Street, facing what had been H Street and was now called East Broad Street. The church was built as a tribute to the first great urban disaster of the new country. In 1811, the Richmond Theatre was a glorious, brick structure with several stories broken up into three layers of box seats and balconies that entertained some of the greatest names of the barely minted, United States of America. The plays were always well attended and the new theater could hold well over five hundred people. After the fire, the church had replaced the theater as a tribute to the dead.
Some of the city’s founders who had helped build the new church had known all about the true origins of Management and that was when a deal was struck with Management. The Circle was tasked with watching over their part of the secrets, no matter the cost. The church had seemed like a natural resting place for an old diary.
Father Donald ran the last block toward the church, the heavy, iron key in his jacket pocket pulling his coat on one side as the other side of his jacket flapped in the wind. Several people stopped and looked as if they wanted to say something to the minister.
Locals were easily worried by over the top displays and particularly from their clergy. They would assume that something terrible must have happened and want to come to the Reverend’s assistance.
But there wasn’t time to reassure them that everything was fine. He stopped, though when he got to the steps at the front of the Episcopal Church and could see that the three-foot high monument shaped like an urn that sat in front of the stone porch was missing.
He tried to take a few deep breaths and waved at the people who were still watching him. They were prepared to jump in and help out if he would only give them instructions.
That was all they needed. A few made comments as they turned away about clergy and how much things had changed, but they all looked relieved to be left to their day.
Father Donald felt his knees shake a little as he started to walk up the stone stairs and got closer to the empty space where the stone urn had sat, just yesterday in tribute to the seventy-two people, mostly women who had died in the fire of 1811.
Just a year after the new theater had been built, one day after Christmas and a delay, a packed house had come to see a popular actor and were all in a jovial mood. The governor of Virginia was there, along with his family, as well as several other well-known politicians and local bluebloods, first families of Virginia.
Many of them had met in the new theater to discuss forming a committee to talk about how to deal with this rapidly growing power that was migrating from Europe and called itself Management. Some of those in attendance that night were even known to be a part of Management and had come to the Circle to talk about a deal.
That night, the audience was overflowing with nearly six hundred people, eighty of them children. Everyone had come to the theater to relax and wind down after the festivities from Christmas. There were people from every age and background packing the house along every level and every balcony.
The good mood continued just after the first act when the curtain came down to signal an intermission, and backstage a boy raised a chandelier, still lit, toward the ceiling entangling the ropes, catching scenery that was hoisted near the roof on fire. No one in the audience was aware for a bit longer that there was a problem. The curtains were hiding the growing emergency.
Panic struck when the roof caught fire and the building was quickly engulfed. The narrow doors quickly became clogged with people.
Most of the Management in attendance survived and the negotiations continued with the Circle as they tried to create a balance that would stop anyone from every turning America into a monarchy. Even Management was more interested in democracy in the early days.
One of the Circle members at the table was a new Episcopal minister and a member of the Order of the White Rose, sworn to assist the new Circle.
The Order quickly offered to take over the protection of the diary. They recognized how ingrained Management already was in society and they feared what Management might someday become if there was nothing to keep them in their rightful place. Their message of a middle class as a ruling force was intoxicating and it was clear that saying anything against Management or how they did business would only cause people to turn away and stop listening.
It became necessary to keep the diary hidden, until a different time came when they might know better what to do with the truth.
Father Donald walked around where the large stone urn that was nearly three feet tall had sat and toward the front door of the church. The door was unlocked. He was already too late. He felt for the outsized key in his pocket and wondered how he would tell the others.
He went in and moved more slowly down the middle aisle of the empty church, steppin
g gingerly across the thick red carpet. There were white footprints in the carpet that looked like several men had tramped up and back several times. It was not a good sign.
At the altar he knelt for a moment and asked for help, whispering, “If it’s your will, I’ll follow you,” he said, trying to gather his courage.
At the back of the altar was a narrow door that led to a small anteroom where the minister would have one last moment to pause and take a deep breath before heading out in front of the congregation. The room had a small Persian carpet, placed there in order to hush the sound of shoes clicking across the wood planks while everyone was sitting in pews out front. The carpet was still pristine. “Please God,” he whispered.
Father Donald peeled back the carpet and pulled up the trap door underneath. It led to a walkway that stretched underneath most of the church and held the remains of the Richmond Theatre and the brick pilings that had survived the fire. The ground underneath was a mixture of Virginia clay and ash preserved by the new building overhead.
The minister pulled out a large rag, neatly folded from inside his coat pocket and carefully folded back the edges, removing the iron key and dropping the rag onto the floor. He held onto the key as he lowered himself into the space and dropped the last few feet, steadying himself for a moment as he landed.
He was in the tallest part of the cavernous space and felt a certain reverence for what had happened on the grounds. First the fire that took so many lives and then only months later another decision was made that would eventually be passed down to him.
He pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket that shown a thin light he could follow till he found another trapdoor that led to the resting place of fifty-four women and eighteen men.
The trapdoor was impossible to see unless someone knew where they were looking. Two hundred years of settling dust had obscured most of the original floor from the Richmond Theatre.
Father Donald hesitated for a moment as he shown the flashlight in different directions, taking in what was still preserved from that night. The red brick pilings were still mostly intact and showed the original foundation of the theater.
Outside the temperature was dropping but in the deepest parts of the church, the air was close and hot and the minister had to wipe sweat from his face as he pulled up the trapdoor and set aside the panel. Underneath was the marble crypt that held the remains of everyone who had died trying to get away from the flames.
He pulled out the large key that Harriet had gotten from its resting place at Hollywood Cemetery by using the first key that she had been entrusted to guard. The two keys that made up the mark of the saltire and the Order of the Rose Resistance.
He got down on his knees and rested a hand on top of the crypt as he leaned over to the right side and felt along what was by now familiar to him. He had been appointed to be the one in charge of watching over the diary for well over thirty years and had on regular occasions over time make sure that everything was in working order.
The minister had to lean in to the right, balancing himself with his hand, as he got at an angle where he could insert the key and gain enough leverage. He turned the key, listening to the sound of the tumblers scraping until there were three distinct clicks. A panel that was two feet long and six inches tall fell forward on hinges, revealing an old, worn circular leather pouch that fit neatly in the space. Father Donald pulled out the pouch and opened it up to see that the diary written by Wallis Jones’ ancestor revealing the truth about the origins of the group that came to be known simply as Management was still intact.
He sat back on his heels and felt his first wave of relief.
As he suspected, Management had believed that the proof was hidden in the monumental urn outside and had taken the entire thing away in the night when everyone would be safely tucked in bed.
Then they could crack it open like an egg and find out what mysteries were inside the stone. Fortunately, there would be nothing to find.
Father Donald quickly put the top back on the leather canister and leaned back down to replace the thin, marble front piece, putting the key back into the lock and fixing everything back in its place. He put the trapdoor back into its place as well, gently pushing down till it was all level with the floor and retraced his steps back to the other opening.
He hoisted himself up, grunting from the effort and scraping his wrist, thinking that this used to be a lot easier when he was younger, as he finally lifted himself to where he was sitting on the edge, his legs still dangling in the opening.
He leaned over for the rag he had left behind and carefully wiped off his clothing and his shoes till the old clay dust was removed and would leave no trace of where he had been on the carpets.
The key was wrapped back in the rag and put back in his pocket as he rolled over onto his knees and pulled himself upright.
A flurry of sound suddenly came from what must have been the front door of the church and was quickly getting closer. Father Donald stood still, listening and instinctively felt for the key in his pocket. Several voices arguing about something as they came toward where he was standing.
The minister had been trained for moments like this and knew it was best to keep moving in an orderly fashion and get it right than panic and try to force the trapdoor back into place. It would never work. It was designed to fit snugly in only one direction and took a small amount of patience to do just right. Father Donald looked at the piece of floor in his hands and at the pattern of the floorboards and took two steps gingerly across the opening till he was holding it just right and placed it in the opening, pushing down with some effort.
He rolled the carpet back into place and listened again for a moment, trying to figure out exactly where the voices were coming from so he could make his escape.
“There was nothing in it, so does it really matter what you thought?” demanded an angry male voice. Father Donald thought it sounded like an older man, and he knew at once what they were arguing about, as he tightened his grip on the leather pouch.
“It has to be in this church somewhere and we are not leaving until we find it, even if we have to tear this place apart to find it,” yelled the man.
Father Donald quietly moved toward the far door that led into a narrow hallway and ended by an exit that could take him out into the alley. He had almost made it to the outside but had to stop when he realized that the intruders were heading straight for him. They had not walked straight up to the altar but were circling around and were right in his path.
He turned back toward the small anteroom and wondered if he should hide the pouch to delay its exposure when the door from the altar popped open and he felt his second wave of relief that day.
“Reverend Michael,” he whispered as loudly as he dared. “What are you doing here?” he asked. The elderly minister was a long way from his region.
“There’s not enough time to explain. Keep moving,” he said, pulling on the younger minister’s sleeve. “You need to get out of here. Take the side door on the Gospel side of the church. There’s a car waiting for you out there. I’ll hold them off.”
“You will?” The thought of leaving an elderly minister behind to hold off what sounded like several men stopped Father Donald in his tracks for just a moment.
“Get out of here,” hissed Reverend Michael. “Now! There are more important things and you will have to trust that I know what I’m doing.”
Father Donald looked at him for a moment as he passed him in the doorway near the altar of Monumental Church and tried to think of something to say. “God be with you,” he whispered, knowing that the minister was doing what they had all pledged to do when they joined the Order.
“Now, go,” said Reverend Michael as he swung the door shut in Father Donald’s face and he could hear the door on the other side of the room bang open with some considerable force. There was no time to linger and find out what happened. He quickly closed the space between himself and the far side of the church and found
a waiting car with two more ministers from the Order sitting inside with the car idling. They left without looking back.
Father Donald kept mumbling prayers under his breath for the elderly minister he had left behind, as he held the pouch and its contents close. The diary was still safe in the hands of the Circle.
Reverend Michael had shut the door to the altar as quietly as he could and braced himself against the door. The first one through the other door was exactly who he had expected.
“Good afternoon George, we meet again,” he said to George Clemente’s angry face, beet red with frustration.
“Where the hell is it?” yelled Clemente. Reverend Michael could see what looked like a large thug behind Clemente and a very worried older man that Reverend Michael recognized as the missing Harry Weiskopf.
Harry seemed to want to be somewhere else. They were an unusual grouping to come to fetch two hundred year old proof of a conspiracy.
Reverend Michael was counting in his head, calculating how much time Father Donald needed to get safely out of the church and then to get away in the car. He wanted to give him enough time to deposit the leather pouch with the next messenger so that Clemente would lose the trail completely, again.
“I noticed that the church is missing something out front. Don’t you already have what you came for?”
Clemente shoved the minister hard, making him bounce off of the door he was leaning against and shouted, “Give it to me. This is a waste of time. We will find it anyway.”
“There is nothing here to find,” hissed Reverend Michael, “except salvation, if you were so inclined.”
One of the larger men rushed at the older priest but Clemente held him back and came at Reverend Michael himself, ready to strike him across the face. The priest ducked and caught only a glancing blow as he struck his toe hard against Clemente’s knee, making him squeal in pain. He toppled onto Reverend Michael who used the opportunity to pull his keys from his pocket and slash Clemente across the face with the side of his keys, making him scream even louder in pain.
