by Martha Carr
“I’m grateful for just about anything these days,” said Charlie. “Strange times.”
No one asked for any names, and Charlie knew the demanded probably already prepped his family not to ever ask anyone their name when in that house. Another protocol.
The water felt good running down his back even if it was a little cold. There wasn’t much in the way of soap. Just a small chip and Charlie tried to be judicious about using any of it. It didn’t feel like anything belonged to him. He washed off as best as he could and when he got out of the shower he found a fresh pair of pants and a shirt waiting for him.
“Thank goodness for the safe house closet,” said Charlie. “Not sure I could’ve talked myself back into those clothes,” he mumbled, as he stepped into the lined work pants. He came out into the living room and found it empty, with only one small lamp light still on. He curled up on the small sofa, grateful for something other than the ground to sleep on tonight and fell into a deep sleep within minutes. His balled-up coat made a decent pillow.
He was dreaming about the last time he saw Maggie, when she was shot as they were running across a grocery store parking lot in Chicago. He was staring at her blood on his hands, wondering if it was his fault when he became aware that somebody was shoving their hand against his shoulder.
“Mister, you better get up. There’s not a lot of time before the sun’s gonna start rising and you said you wanted to go before it was daylight. You better get up.”
Charlie felt the rush of adrenaline and his eyes popped open. He saw that he was inches away from the face of the young boy.
“Your dad know you’re up?”
“No, I snuck out. You better get up. There’s not much time left. Here,” said the boy, as he held out two more energy bars. “Mission-critical, right?”
Charlie sat up and held out his hand to shake the boy’s hand. The boy hesitated and looked toward the door that must’ve led to the bedroom where his family slept. He looked back and Charlie thought about taking his hand back, but he didn’t want to let the boy think that he wasn’t grateful. He waited until the boy took one more look and he put out his hand. Charlie gave him a good, firm shake.
“Thank you for helping me to complete my mission. You’ve done your job well. You better get back to bed before anybody notices you’re gone. I’ll slip out of here and I’ll be gone by the time they get up.”
The boy straightened up and stood taller, giving Charlie a hard nod, as he raised his small hand in a salute.
Charlie returned the salute and slid the two energy bars into his pocket. The boy scampered back into the bedroom and quietly shut the door behind himself.
Charlie slid into his coat and rubbed his face with his hands, trying to will himself into being more wide-awake. His stomach let out a growl and he knew he was hungry but he decided to save the two energy bars for later. He couldn’t be sure when he’d find more food.
He stepped out onto the porch and found a go bag waiting for him. The father had taken care of him after all.
Somehow, all of these small bits of good luck were giving Charlie confidence about finally getting to see his family, if only for a short amount of time. The image of Maggie lying in the parking lot flashed in his mind once again. He only hoped she wouldn’t be too angry to talk to him.
It didn’t take him long to make it to the state highway and he hitched a ride with a small truck that was headed to West Virginia. They made a brief stop at a gas station and Charlie wandered into the store and traded one of the energy bars for a West Virginia keychain. He wanted to be able to tell Maggie he didn’t come empty-handed.
The driver dropped him off just outside of the town where the Circle had hidden his family in Kincheloe, West Virginia in Harrison County. Charlie noticed that the only business in Kincheloe was a small gas station. There wasn’t even a grocery store. He braced himself for the wall of teenage anger that would greet him when he finally saw Maggie.
He didn’t care. Someday, maybe she would understand and get over it. At the very least, he would have his sister back. He would have his parents back. It had been a long road to get here but maybe there were still a chance he could have the life he had imagined years ago. The life that he had rolled out of a car from George Clemente in order to take it back.
He walked the rest of the way, following the directions he’d gotten at the gas station to the brick rancher painted a dark gray. The house was in a small subdivision set off by itself, surrounded by open fields and a few small stands of trees.
He could feel his heart starting to beat faster and he picked up the pace as he got closer, trying to measure his excitement and keep it at bay. It wouldn’t do to break out in a run at this point and draw attention to himself. He made himself breathe evenly as he walked down the road, ambling as if he didn’t have a care in the world and was just getting home from work.
These days, it wasn’t that unusual to see people walking everywhere. Gas was too valuable a commodity. More valuable for trade than for actual use.
He walked close to the edge of the crumbling asphalt, keeping his head down as much as he could to prevent anyone from remembering significant details about them later. It helped that he was the average white male, average build, dark hair. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He got to the small plot of yellowed grass in front of the gray rancher and took a chance, taking a glance at the bay window of the house just as a young woman with long brown hair danced across the opening.
“Maggie,” he whispered, his eyes filling with tears.
He stepped onto the grass and was surprised to feel the ground moving beneath his feet. It took him a moment to realize the ground didn’t move, he did as he flew backward through the air. His last glimpse of the house was of watching the structure deconstruct and the bricks pull themselves apart, quickly being enveloped by an enormous cloud of dust.
He landed hard on his back knocking the wind out of himself and as hard as he tried, it took a few minutes before he was able to stand up on his feet.
He stumbled through the smoke and thick air full of dust and particles of the house, willing himself to move forward in the direction where the house used to stand. He was too afraid to move any faster, worried he might stumble across the body of someone he loved.
“Maggie, Maggie, Maggie,” he said, over and over again. His knee banged hard against the outer brick layer of the house and he crawled over the top falling to his knees searching through the rubble, tears streaking through the dirt that covered his face.
Suddenly there were hands under his arms holding on tight and pulling him backward.
“There’s nothing you can do here, son.” People had appeared from neighboring houses and it took two men to pull Charlie away from the remains of the house where his family used to live.
There was a sharp crack, followed by a sizzle as the remains exploded, and a ball of flame appeared, rising above the house.
“Gas line is probably ruptured,” said one of the men dragging him away. “There’s nothing left to do. I’m sorry for your loss.”
They dragged Charlie to a large tree that sat across the street from the fire. He struggled to get up and run back a couple of times but there were always people around to stop him and he never got far. He never heard a cry, never saw anything to tell him who was in that house but he knew. His family was gone. Everything he had done for the past ten years had suddenly become pointless. He devoted his life to a cause so that he could one day he could have a normal life and give them all the choices in the world, and in the end it didn’t matter.
Charlie rolled over onto his side and threw up the energy bars, and Slim Jim’s he had taken from the convenience store in Ohio, along with a lot of mucus and smoke. He sat there with his arms across his knees, retching and sobbing as an old woman rubbed his back, saying, “There, there. They’re not suffering now.”
Her comforting hand only made him cry harder for everything he had never really gotten to enjoy.
It took a while but a new thought overcame him. He realized he had nothing left to lose and felt a kind of freedom he had never had before. He could do one last thing and take every chance in the world and it wouldn’t matter to him. He would kill George Clemente by any means necessary. After that, he would see if there was anything left to his life. If there was a point. All thoughts of helping the Butterfly Project were gone. There was only one thing he wanted now.
Chapter 8
“A team effort isn’t going to work here,” said Fred. “He’ll see us coming. I don’t know how Clemente does it but he convinces people all the time to do his bidding, and you know they’re all watching us. Helmut and I can finish what we started.”
Helmut put his feet up on a nineteenth century table, drawing a glare from Father Donald.
“I didn’t really think you cared about such things, Father Donald,” said Helmut, as he dragged his feet off of the table and brushed the dirty imprint off with the sleeve of his shirt.
“Do you think that Management has figured out yet that Saint Stephen’s Church is the southern headquarters of the White Rose Order? That’s right, everybody knows it,” said Helmut.
“How many years have you been trying to stop George Clemente?” asked Father Donald, sounding annoyed, ignoring Helmut’s comment.
“More years than you, but less than Father Michael,” said Helmut, pointing at both of the ministers.
“This is why it won’t work,” said Fred. “And I’ll say the one thing that nobody here will say. You two clerics, you won’t kill him when you get the chance. You’ll hesitate. That’s all it will take.”
“We’re interested in justice,” said Father Donald, sitting down wearily in one of the high-back bishop chairs.
“That’s exactly my point. I’m not interested in justice anymore. Just interested in this being over with the least amount of damage to anyone else.”
Father Michael stirred as if he had just woken up and sat forward slapping his knees with his hands. “I suppose when it comes to George Clemente that would be a great description of justice. Now, now,” he said, waving a hand up at Father Donald, cutting him off before he could say anything. “There comes a time when you have to recognize the obvious. There are men born to a generation who can never be contained and have to be stopped. To do any less is an exercise in naivety that will cost thousands of lives, if not more. I won’t be a party to that.”
Father Michael looked like he was lost in a daydream just for a moment. “But Father Donald is right, as well. George Clemente is the cockroach after the nuclear warfare. Almost impossible to kill. It will take all of us and not all of us may survive. I hazard a guess that one or two of us will donate our lives to the cause. I myself hope that I’m one of them. I’m an old man who’s seen a lot and I’ve served well. It would be all right with me.”
Helmut rolled his eyes and said, “A touch dramatic don’t you think?”
Fred punched him hard in the arm, hard enough to get a yelp out of Helmut.
“Enough bickering,” said Fred. “We work together. Besides, if we don’t work together we’ll both be after the same thing, increasing the chance we’ll cross paths and make things worse. So, we do this together. The only thing I insist on is that we start with one common goal. Whoever gets the kill shot takes it without hesitation. His son, Daniel Kozak has already laid out the bait. If that weren’t enough, Wallis Jones and her family are back in Richmond and Clemente has to have an idea that they had something to do with the Great Relief. That has to be pissing off Clemente. He’s got to be changing his travel plans and heading here, instead.”
“Our only problem is not knowing where Clemente will show up,” said Helmut. “But I have an idea. It’s a good one but it won’t be easy to maneuver. There are rumors going around Washington that our new President owes her new position to our common enemy, George Clemente.”
“Why is it you two don’t look surprised?” asked Fred.
“Because we’re not,” said Father Michael. “It’s the entire point of the Order to be aware of world events in order to keep the balance between any forces that happen to be in charge. We have no absolute confirmation but we don’t really need it. The man who assassinated President Haynes, Rodney Parrish was a known associate of Richard Bach. We just put the pieces together to form the puzzle. Bach is a long-standing member of Management and lately he’s been seen in the company of David Whitaker, another Management operative who’s become a rogue Watcher. He’s working with Clemente, which won’t surprise anyone.”
“Suddenly, Bach who’s never managed to rise above director in Management is called by the new President and finds himself, her key advisor. It’s an amazing leapfrog of good fortune,” said Father Donald.
“Shit!” Said Helmut. “It was payment. What a twisted part of the story. The man helps assassinate a president and is rewarded by working for his replacement.”
“Along with access to all the water he can drink, I’d imagine,” said Fred, grinding his teeth.
“So what is your plan?” said Father Michael, sitting back and briefly shutting his eyes.
“We use the tunnels to our advantage. The ones that run under Washington. We thin out the wall of dirt and mortar in the tunnels that normally gives access to Circle operatives to the Washington Cathedral. It’s been made to look like it was never there, ever since President Reese took over. I believe it is the one secret we can be sure that even Clemente doesn’t know. I think we can also be sure that Clemente is going to use those tunnels. He won’t be expecting us and he definitely won’t be expecting us to come out of nowhere. If we time it right we just might be able to kill him without losing anyone on our side. It won’t matter that they find out about the door after that. Either we’ll all be dead and we failed or Clemente will be dead and we can take President Reese down with him,” said Helmut, in a rush of words, his German accent growing thicker.
“You’ve chased him across the entire globe for your entire career,” said Father Michael, admiringly. “You are actually the first and only person who started to see the threads of his master plan years ago. Unfortunately, not enough of us paid attention to what you were saying.”
“I wasn’t paying enough attention either,” said Helmut. “If I had put the pieces together better and sooner, seen what he was really up to, I would’ve made you listen.”
“Father Michael,” said Fred, gently. “We will need to use you to our best advantage. Your negotiation skills with the Bishop to convince him to let us open up the door. It’s against all protocol and I imagine there will be pushback and we don’t have much time.”
“Thank you for that,” said Father Michael, smiling. “That was a little of the old Fred Bowers that I haven’t seen in well over a year. She used to soften you so much.”
Helmut raised his eyebrows as if he wanted to say something. The room grew a little tense.
“No one ever says her name anymore, Maureen,” said Father Michael. “She deserves for us to talk about her. Do not act like she was never here,” he said, clapping Fred on the back. “Okay, I will do my part, whatever is asked of me. But let’s get going. Time is of the essence. The George Clemente I’ve always known is at his worst when he’s cornered and when he feels like something of his has been taken away. Lately, he’s decided the world is his and a young man named Ned Weiskopf took it away from him. Frankly, if Clemente cannot think of a way to get what he wants he will become even more dangerous because he will have nothing left to lose.”
Father Michael reached out and gently tapped Fred on the knee. “You know, Fred even in the midst of your grief you were careful not to harm civilians and you behaved like a good soldier. That day that you killed all of those operatives and management on the streets of Richmond, you ended the war. So few will admit that, which I find disappointing. Clemente will solve things the exact same way you did but on a grander scale and without regard to who he is taking out.”
“This won�
��t be easy to pull off,” said Father Donald. “We will have to work quietly and quickly and the entire time we’re digging through a wall we won’t know if Clemente’s already passing by. This could be a fool’s errand.”
“Do you have a better plan?” asked Helmut. “Well then, we should get started.”
Bishop Lionel Crane met Helmut and Fred at the side door to the Cathedral in the middle of a work day. Father Donald had walked in the main doors just ahead of a regular service that was held every day at lunch and made a point of saying hello to a few people before making his way to the back. Father Michael slowly made his way around the church to the entrance the ministers normally used to come and go without disturbing the visitors.
It was at least an attempt to go undetected. After all, just beneath their feet and a dozen yards of dirt and stone scurried George Clemente and his minions.
“Come on,” said Bishop Crane, as he turned and headed for the labyrinth of hallways inside of the Cathedral. “I’m not surprised you’re here,” he said, not even turning around as he hurried down the hall. “I’m only surprised that it took you this long.”
Helmut glanced over and shrugged at Fred as they kept up with Bishop Crane.
“All of the tools you will need are already down in the tunnel. I’ve had them here for quite some time. It’s best to be prepared. I knew this would occur to someone at some point and by then it would be too late and too obvious to try and get all the necessary equipment. Best to bring things in one at a time when no one was looking.”
The anteroom just off of where the tunnel was blocked off was filled with shovels, and there were pics and buckets piled up high in a wheelbarrow.
“It’s like we have gone back in time before electricity was invented,” said Helmut, looking at all of the tools in dismay. Fred was already quietly taking off his winter coat and folding it neatly off to the side, before rolling up his sleeves.
