by Martha Carr
A Little More
Haven’t started the Wallis Jones series yet? Turn the page for a sneak peek at The List Conspiracy – Book One in the Wallis Jones series
Chapter One
The stout, elderly Episcopal priest pressed the palm of his hand hard against his chest, willing the sharp jolt of pain to go away, squeezing his eyes shut for just a moment as he moved as fast as he could along the crowded sidewalk without bringing attention to himself.
There was no time to stop and catch his breath.
His heel caught the edge of a curb as he stumbled, falling against a man who was busy scanning the crowd. The Reverend looked directly at the man and relaxed his face for a moment, trying to look unconcerned.
He quickly took in the expensive clothing and the rigid posture that was out of place at a St. Patrick’s Day parade in downtown Savannah. He moved out of the man’s reach just in case he had fallen into a trap.
“So sorry, my son,” he said, as he smiled and turned away before the man could answer. The other eight members of his Order would already be out walking the grid and he could feel the seconds ticking away, faster by the moment. He caught a glimpse of the minister from the nearby Diocesan office walking through the crowd, shaking the occasional hand as he made his way toward his first appointed drop point in the other direction. Too many clerics headed in one general direction would have caught someone’s eye, even in this crowd.
Time was running out. They needed to find the Keeper, or at least the thumb drive that was always with her.
“Thy will be done,” he mumbled, trying to calm himself as he hurried, pushing through the throngs of revelers that lined both sides of Liberty Street straining to see the parade.
His knotted hand loosely gripped an old copy of the Book of Common Prayer. He had hurried out of St John’s rectory not realizing the small book was still in his hand.
He could see the Six Pence Pub through the crowd that was still gathering along East Liberty for the parade. There was a tight knot of early morning drinkers spilling out of the bar’s door, most of them holding mugs of green beer and laughing too loudly for a Saturday morning. Several were wearing large plastic sunglasses with the words Beer Goggles painted around the edges.
Reverend Michael squeezed past a group of girls standing in the doorway who were giggling at the antics of the men at the bottom of the front steps. He pushed through just as the same man from earlier caught him by the elbow at the bar.
“Reverend, do you have a moment?” he asked, gripping the parson’s elbow tightly.
A Watcher had identified him.
The cleric straightened out his other arm, letting the small, thin knife slide forward into his palm. He swiftly thrust the tip of the blade into the man’s side hard enough to make him recoil but not enough to cause more than a shallow puncture. The Watcher let go as the cleric shoved him hard enough to topple the man into the crowd, green beer sloshing everywhere.
“The drink will kill you one of these days, son,” he yelled over his shoulder as he ran through the kitchen and out to the small office in back.
The owner was nowhere to be seen but there wasn’t time to find him. The Reverend quietly shut the office door and locked it, shoving a chair under the handle. He grunted and felt another sharp pain in his chest as he pulled the large filing cabinet away from the wall. The cabinet teetered as a drawer suddenly popped open, nicking the cleric in the ribs just beneath old, ropey scars made the same night years ago, when his hand was crippled. He dropped the small prayer book and took a deep breath, wrapping his arms around the cabinet as he shoved with his hip.
It slid over just enough to reveal a low, wooden door. He pulled out the small flashlight dangling from his keychain and shone the black light on the wooden frame.
The mark of the saltire was there with the right key of excommunication drawn in haste over the left for absolution. The Episcopal symbol was reversed. So Carol was still alive and knew she was in trouble.
Two short diagonal lines next to the two keys meant she was making a run for the Pirates House right by the river. He could feel his heart beating faster as he saw her final mark. The thumb drive was still with her. They were too close to her for her to take a chance by leaving it at any of the checkpoints.
Reverend Michael got down on his hands and knees, feeling the thick scars that wrapped around his waist straining as he quickly crawled through the opening. There was no time to worry if someone would follow behind him. There was only a question of who would get to the river first.
He passed out of the hidden door onto East Perry Lane and started to move faster, leaning forward until he was falling into a run.
He ran through the center of Oglethorpe Square and came out onto East State Street trying to pick up speed.
“Reverend Michael, are you alright?”
It was a parishioner walking with her family in the direction of the parade.
“Last rites,” he said, gently patting her on the shoulder, as he kept moving.
The Pirates House was on Broad Street with a passage in the back that led directly onto the edge of the Savannah River.
Reverend Michael pushed inside the restaurant through the throngs of people till he reached the main room and the handwritten pages of Treasure Island that were encased on the wall. He shone the black light on the case and saw the sign of the Ionic cross.
“No,” he gasped and felt the blood drain from his face.
There were too many people standing around drinking, right in the entrance to the passageway. He pushed out the front door again and shoved people aside trying to get to the river’s edge.
“Hey, old man, what the hell?” said a young man dressed in green running shorts and a t-shirt, still wearing his number from the Shamrock Shuffle that was ending over on River Street.
Reverend Michael quickly scanned the crowd for the Watcher but there were too many people. He scrambled to the back of the restaurant and found the older entrance to the tunnel blocked by empty boxes. He pushed them over and pried the door open as a splinter dug deep into the skin of his hand.
The narrow opening was barely wide enough and he squeezed through and into the wider tunnel.
The hard soles of his shoes sank into the soft sand that covered the floor of the tunnel as he raced the last few blocks toward the river. As he grew closer he heard a commotion and a woman suddenly cry out.
He reached the end of the tunnel and looked out at the two men who had her pinned against the sixteen-foot sailboat. She had almost made it. Reverend Michael let the knife drop down again as he started to cross the narrow road behind Magnolia Spa to make a run at them. Perhaps he could distract them long enough for the Keeper to slide into the river. The swift moving current would quickly carry her away and other boats were awaiting her at different points along the river. He was certain this would be the last act of his vow.
“Never again,” hissed Carol Schaeffer before there was a crunch and her neck was snapped. Reverend Michael doubled over as he pulled back into the shadows and pressed his body against the interior of the tunnel. He fought the bile rising in his throat as tears came down his cheeks.
“My God,” he cried out, “We have failed,” he said quietly, tasting the tears on his lips.
“Oh, but failure is really a personal inventory, don’t you think?”
“George Clemente,” Reverend Michael hissed, as he pressed his back harder against the wall to keep from falling over. “They let you loose on the world again.” He felt his throat tighten as he tried to get out the words.
The Watcher sneered. He was holding the Reverend’s old copy of the 1928 Book of Common Prayer.
“How’s the hand?” asked the Watcher. He was tapping the Reverend’s prayer book gently against his chest.
“None the worse. Management must really be trembling to unleash a jackal like you in their midst.”
“More of a promotion, really. World events have changed and the times call for people lik
e me with a unique ability to focus.”
“There are more of you,” said the priest, trying to cover the feeling of panic creeping up his spine.
“Oh yes, spread across the world.”
“Much like the plague.”
The Watcher stepped closer and Reverend Michael felt himself involuntarily flinch as the Watcher let out a laugh that resembled a low grumble.
“I prefer to have closure in everything, don’t you? No matter how long it takes.”
“For once we agree,” said Reverend Michael and lunged at the Watcher, grabbing him around the throat, digging his thumbs deep into the Watcher’s windpipe. He could feel the delicate muscles begin to shred. The Watcher grabbed his hands and squeezed as hard as he could till the pain became almost unbearable for the minister and he let go, just a little.
The Watcher boxed his ears and pulled away, as he shoved the priest to the ground. Reverend Michael felt his ribs crack as the tip of the Watcher’s boot made contact, pushing into his side, over and over again. He curled up in a ball and prayed for God’s mercy until he could see his chance.
His arm darted out and caught the Watcher’s foot in mid-air pulling him off balance. Reverend Michael kept lifting the foot as Clemente fell backward. His back landed hard against the old Georgia clay bricks, the wind knocked out of him.
Reverend Michael got to his feet as quickly as he could. Easy now, deep breaths. The last thing he needed was to throw up or pass out. The knife slid forward till the handle was securely in his hand. He dropped to his knees next to the Watcher and dug in, but only the tip was able to puncture the skin. The Watcher grabbed his wrist just in time and was quickly regaining his strength.
The Reverend picked up the only other weapon he could find and brought his arm down as hard as he could, willing his twisted hand to hold on to the prayer book as he slammed the spine into the Watcher’s head over and over again. He raised the knife again, ready to at least exact revenge.
“What’s going on in there? Over here, there’s more of them.”
A police officer stood at the entrance to the tunnel and was waving frantically for help. It was the only thing that stopped Reverend Michael from finishing what the Watcher had started forty years ago. He slid the book, wet with blood, into his pocket and rose to his feet. Wiping his hand on the inside of his jacket, he staggered out toward the light.
“Mugging,” he whispered to the officer as he looked around for a familiar face. He started to sway just as an arm came around his back and pressed painfully against his broken ribs.
“I have him, Officer.” It was Reverend Wright’s voice. “We’ll get him to medical care.”
“The ambulance is on its way,” the cop protested. “He really doesn’t look good.”
“I agree, we’ll make a point to hurry,” said Wright, nodding in the direction of the car.
They walked as quickly as Reverend Michael’s injuries would allow over to a black Lincoln Continental with the name of the Georgia Diocese in small gold lettering just under the door handle. Next to the words was a small, discreet depiction of two keys, one silver and one gold laid across each other.
Reverend Wright opened the back door and helped the brother into the back seat, gently sitting him up against the leather.
“We failed,” said Reverend Michael to the cleric already sitting in the back seat. He gripped his arm, trembling. “We lost everything.”
Reverend John didn’t look at him but said to the driver, “Take him to Bethesda Home for Boys. They’ll know what to do.”
“The list, the list is gone,” whispered Reverend Michael, his breathing becoming more labored.
“I was a step too late as well. The list is in their hands for now but that is for another day and different people. We have a vow to fulfill. As soon as you’re able, you’ll join us.”
“Wisconsin.”
“Yes, we’ll be fine until you can join us. Rest now, it’s in God’s hands.”
“What have we done? If they find out…” Reverend Michael began to weep. “You can’t take me to Bethesda. It will only confirm the list.”
“There is still hope. Do not forget about the one who lives in Richmond. We’ve managed to at least keep that identity a secret, even now. We still have a chance to stop them.”
Martha’s Notes (A Bowers Christmas – The Wallis Jones Series – A Holiday Short Story):
Written December 4, 2016
Thank you for not only picking up this holiday short story, a little holiday munchie with two fan favorites – Maureen and Fred Bowers, but for reading it all the way to the end, and NOW you are reading this as well. I am very grateful for each and every reader. It’s a great feeling for any author.
The next book, The Circle Rises is up for pre-order on December 22nd and will be out for you to read on January 9th, including in Kindle Unlimited (KU). My plan is to have a new book in the series every 22 days and to make sure that happens I’ve already written a few ahead and have run the books through the best readers – Diane Velasquez and Dorene Johnson. I’m still hard at work on another book further along in the series, making sure there are must as many plot twists and that the pace keeps your heart racing as the conspiracy grows and grows.
The holiday season is rushing up fast and the weather in Texas is cooperating and has turned cold and overcast. My neighbor a block away that I can see clearly out of my backdoor is in his usual festive mood and has the multiple blinking lights all over his house that he keeps on all night long. My dog, Lois Lane, a deaf Catahoula regularly barks at them in the middle of the night, sending Christmas cheer throughout the neighborhood.
My favorite Christmas memory is from the year I was eight years old and set my alarm clock to go off at two a.m. to check and see if Santa Claus had brought the one thing I wanted most in the world. My own bike. I had been borrowing a bike from the Dafts’ house down the street that was way too big for me. I had to step on a curb to get on the bike and throw myself onto a lawn to dismount. Mrs. Daft kindly tolerated my riding style over the protests of her daughters.
That early morning, I crept into the living room with my younger brother, Jeff, who was also hoping for a Christmas miracle. There was no moon that night and the room was so dark we couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces. It didn’t occur to me to bring a flashlight.
We put out our hands and felt the soft cotton of new clothes and the sharp edges of a new board game, but no bike. My heart was quickly sinking. Just as I was giving up hope, though, my toe nudged something and there was a sudden crash as one bike, hit another. We were both so happy we didn’t care and hurriedly set the bikes back up in the dark and scurried back to our beds. I convinced myself no one in the house had noticed and lay there waiting for the first morning light. (The rule was we could get up when the sun came up.)
In the morning, we finally could see one large purple Schwinn bike next to a smaller, gold-colored bike for my brother. They were the most wonderous things we’d ever seen. We weren’t the richest family on the block (my dad was a minister with five kids who finally got us our own TV by taking out a $100 loan from the bank) but that day I felt like I was as we steered our bikes out into the thick Philadelphia snow, finding patches where we could finally ride, just a little on our new, prized possessions. Dad stood at the door, chuckling, asking if we didn’t want to wait till he shoveled some of the snow. Still one of my favorite memories.
Merry Christmas to everyone and Happy Hannukah. May you all make memories that last with all of your family and friends.
You can pre-order The Circle Rises, Book Four in the Wallis Jones series starting December 22nd, 2016 on Amazon. On sale and available in KDP starting January 9th.
If you enjoyed A Bowers Christmas Short Story, please consider leaving a good review at Amazon or Goodreads. Your kind words and encouragement help any author.
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I am the author of five books and my newest work, A Bowers Christmas Short Story is a holiday short story in the Wallis Jones series.
I’ve also written a weekly, nationally-syndicated column on world affairs and life that has run on such political hotspots as The Moderate Voice.com and Politicus.com. My work has run regularly in such publications as The Washington Post, The New York Times, USA Today, The Wall Street Journal, The Chicago Tribune and Newsweek.
