He turned onto Smithson. His street.
He slowed and turned in at his own little one-story manse, its two tiny square columns, its shaded porch. The house was a freshly painted two-bedroom with white siding, probably purchased years ago for whoever was the church’s Junior Minister in those days — Youth Minister, as Franklin was called now.
A full moon highlighted barren overhead branches, a yard of tall, thin, leafless grandfather oaks. Should I get over to the church tonight? he wondered as he shut off the engine. He didn’t want to.
One section of the front walk was broken. He’d always wondered whether to step directly on the crack, or try to space his stride beyond. Tonight he didn’t care.
He walked up the manse’s concrete steps. He’d had a few homeless men stay in the spare room, never any women. The church’s Senior Minister Ralph Maples and his wife Connie were better suited to handle those cases. Franklin had always wondered how they handled things with two young daughters in the house.
Inside, Franklin set Harry’s cage on the floor. Dropped his duffel next to it, shrugged off his black leather jacket. He walked to an ancient floor lamp and turned it on. There was a knock at the door.
He found First Congregational’s Senior Minister standing on the front step.
“I saw you drive by. How are you, Franklin?”
“Okay, Ralph,” Franklin shrugged. “C’mon in.”
Ralph took the couch, leaning back expansively, gut bulging more than usual. Chubby cheeks above a dark, closely-cropped beard tinged with white. The stout middle-aged reverend had been known to eat a dozen donuts in a single sitting.
Franklin took the brown leather chair. Harry gave a soft “Hoooo —” from his cage.
Ralph’s head twisted. “What’s that?”
“An owl I rescued in New York.” At least Ralph hasn’t seen that TV thing.
“Hmmm.” Ralph exhaled. His eyes looked vaguely into the middle of the room. “Very sorry about your sister. A horrible disaster. For so many.”
Franklin stared at him, nearly overwhelmed by Ralph’s casual insincerity.
“A lot of people lost someone,” Ralph smiled a forced kind of pity, “We just don’t know what God’s plan is.”
Franklin’s mouth fell open. God’s plan? How callous! Discomfort flowed into his hands, filled his arms, burned into his shoulders. The pain collected in his chest, twisted his guts. Franklin closed his eyes, forcing it away.
“So look,” Ralph said, “I’m still, uh, counting on you to do the sermon this Sunday. We’ve been getting a lot of requests for you to do it. You’ve been there, you’ve seen it . . . besides, you know, it’s your week.”
Franklin stared at him. My week? Ralph expects me to talk about New York? He shook his head. He didn’t want to go back to the flames, the smoke, the charred, twisted bodies. Not ever again.
Ralph cleared his throat. “And uh — look, Franklin, I don’t like bringing this up. I thought we’d handled it.” Ralph ran a hand across his short dark hair smoothing the sides of the dark beard he hid behind.
That’s right Ralph, drag it out, Franklin thought, taking in the Senior Minister’s shallow elevated breathing, his dilated pupils. He knew what was coming — Ralph’s patronymic posture — legs apart, arms now casually across his bold stomach — expecting deference as his natural due. But the skin on his cheeks is tight. Some part of him is actually conflicted. He’s upset, too. Angry. Attempting to suppress it. And half of anger is fear.
Ralph allowed his own mental chuckle. The church’s younger crowd seems to like Franklin. They relate to him. Again the deacons were asking Ralph what he thought about Franklin’s dark tied-back hair, his jeans, his casual dress. Who cares about the hair, Ralph thought, nostrils flaring. He’d warned Franklin about the other thing more than once already.
“We’ve gotten another complaint, Franklin. You’ve absolutely got to drop the — the therapy.”
“Who complained?”
“I’m not at liberty to disclose . . .”
Franklin noticed the nostrils. Ralph’s expecting a response. Some promise of contrition? Then, for a reason Franklin couldn’t grasp, a momentary sense of irritation overtook him. Maybe it was the totality of the last two days. Whatever — tonight he felt like arguing.
“I don’t really understand the problem, Ralph.”
Ralph flushed.
“The problem is,” voice taking on a hard edge, “you’ve simply got to turn our members’ difficulties over to God!”
“Haven’t the Old Testament Jews always claimed the spoken word to have a healing power of its own?” Franklin asked softly. “Yahweh, for example. The tetragrammaton name of God?”
Franklin watched Ralph’s increasingly deep breaths. He’s trying to stay calm.
“Look, I’ve spoken to the deacons,” Ralph tried. “You’re very popular — especially with our younger people. And your ability with languages has proven extraordinarily useful with some of our ethnic members —”
“Aren’t I merely using words to help people who want to change themselves? God’s instrument, helping those who help themselves?”
Ralph’s face moved into the darker red range. But Franklin wasn’t done. “Haven’t you ever asked yourself how I’ve been able to learn so many languages so quickly, Ralph?”
“That’s neither here nor there, Reverend! The deacons regret having to ask me to tell you this —” Ralph paused, trying to get his anger under control, aiming at an apologetic look. “We’re getting complaints from parents — rumors you’re even practicing hypnosis.”
“I am.”
The Senior Minister’s fish lips bulged like a Lake Erie bass. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
Ralph struggled to push himself up off the couch. “We may not be stiff old Anglicans here at First Church, but we still have doctrine! Unless you modify your approach — move immediately to Scripture and prayer exclusively — well, I’ve been sent to tell you the deacons are talking about taking some type of action.”
So that’s it, Franklin realized. Sorry about your sister. But knock off the therapy or — “Translation, Ralph? Toe the line or else? Or else they’ll what, replace me?”
Ralph’s eyebrows rose. “Prayer is the answer, Reverend.”
“What if what I’m doing is God’s answer to somebody’s prayer?”
But he was talking to Ralph’s back. The door was already closing behind him.
Jack’s Advice
Marc Praeger, the most powerful man in the world and the largest man in the room, sat on one side of the round metal conference table, carefully watching his boss, blue-eyed, fair-haired, President Christopher Wall.
Inside Praeger’s calm exterior, he felt tremendous irritation. Down the hall were the consoles that would launch nuclear warheads against any country on Earth. Rain down atomic destruction. Decimate millions, perhaps the entire population of the planet.
Yet, before doing anything else — listening to threat assessments, considering what first steps the government might take — the President was whispering orders to one of his staff to attend to a series of odd architectural changes to his personal suite.
Wall turned his blue eyes — unsteadily, Praeger thought — to the argument in front of him.
“We had to shut them down. Radiation spread by wind is the greater threat,” NSA Leighton answered. “A direct hit on one of those nuke domes could mean another million deaths. Maybe more.”
“It’s cold outside,” said the SecDef.
“Not that cold,” the NSA shot back. “Still plenty of oil, gas and coal units running in the West, thank God.”
President Christopher Wall felt isolated. Too many conflicting opinions. Sometimes Wall just felt like targeting some random terrorists and pushing THE BUTTON. The final solution.
He looked at the other men around the table. Thin gray-haired FCC Chair Willows looked as though he were perpetually startled. Fed Chairman Gunt’s craggy face
always gave the impression he was in a bad mood. Why are they still here?
His mind flashed to the image of the man who’d once handled Wall’s job so brilliantly. He hoped to speak to Jack tonight. I could use some good sound advice. Christ, the man handled those damn Cuban missiles, didn’t he? He turned to his Chief of Staff.
Marc Praeger had been watching the President. Not yet finding the cue he was waiting for, Praeger answered vaguely, “I don’t really know, sir.”
“Nobody has any idea who’s behind the New York bomb?” Wall directed his voice to the telephone system, “William?”
CIA Director Sloat had, so far, not spoken up. “Not yet, sir,” croaked Sloat’s toadlike voice, jet whine in the background. “I’m on my way out to you as we speak, Mr. President. Evidence is somewhat limited by the destruction. We are assisting the FBI in assaying components of the bomb’s waste material, looking into transport and banking records — as well as several other lines of inquiry. I expect to have something solid by the time I arrive.”
There!
Praeger caught it. A small eighth-of-an-inch movement. The tiny telltale tilt-jerk. Tic-tic — tic! the top of Chris’s head moving suddenly to the right.
He leaned in to the President’s left ear, speaking softly. “Are you sure you want to do this? I mean the speech is ready and all . . . but I don’t know . . .”
Wall suddenly straightened. “That’s enough, gentlemen,” he said strongly now.
“But —” stuttered SecDef Scanlon.
Before anybody could get a word in, the President rose and left the room.
One of the perks of the job, smiled Christopher Wall. The President closed the door on the last of the NORAD moving crew. Stretched his six-foot frame out on the eight-foot-long antique mahogany four-post bed. Marc, Willows, Gunt. Those guys are so damn tiring. He closed his eyes and waited.
He loved the rustic old Lincoln bedroom. He’d made the NORAD guys finish putting it back together before doing anything else. Military construction moved fast. Within twelve hours they’d packed it all up in D.C. — the armoire, the light gray curtains, this fantastic bed — moved it all and reassembled it. Even matching the paint. He couldn’t tell the difference!
“Chrisss,” the voice hissed in his ears, bringing a smile to his face, a sense of awe and relaxation to his body. President Christopher Wall opened his eyes to a golden glow coalescing at the right foot of the bed.
The man standing angelically within the glow wore a dark suit and tie. His famous face, recognizable worldwide, was marred by serious injury. “I’ve been paarticularly interessted in taalking with you tonight, Chrisss.”
Wall let out a huge sigh of relief. “You came.”
“Where elsss would I be?”
“The room’s in order, I had the draperies freshly laundered — the wound looks much better, Jack!” Chris said gaily.
“Shhhut the fuck up, Chrisss! Let us not get into that ssshit tonight. We have got ssssome very paarticulaar itemsss to discusssss.”
“Yes, of course, Jack.” Such charisma — despite the injury — just love the sound of those open Boston a’s! I wonder if he’s ever helped any of the guys on the job before me.
“The heaart of the question you are asssking yourself is this: What’sss to be done about New York and Virginia Beach?”
“Exactly!” Oh, it felt so much better, just to have Jack here. The pressure was on somebody else. Anyone who’s handled Russian missiles pointed at the U.S., certainly ought to know what to do about an atom bomb or two. But Chris Wall couldn’t stop his eyes drifting back to the bloody gaping hole, the rear missing quarter of the man’s head. Doesn’t seem to bother him much though, does it?
“People are sscared sshitlessss, Chrisss. Beyond ssssimply running the typical investigationsss into who’sss behind a paarticularly baad disaassster . . .”
Disaaassster! Chris laughed to himself. Ever since childhood, Kennedy had been his favorite. He revered the man as a mentor. He’d seen all the former President’s old videos. Memorized every single word of the man’s speeches. His way of speaking had changed a little. It’s only that sucking sound when he speaks. It’s not so bad! Mainly those extra s’s. He laughed. Kind of a wind-tunnel effect.
“ . . . they need a return to feeling sssafe, Chrissss. They cherisssh that feeling more deeply than freedom itsself. It is paarticularly important they know the United Statesss has both the will and the weaponsss to sstand up for our responsibilitiessss.
“If, in your next Executive Orderss, you find yourssself required to modify certain privilegesss the citizensss of our great country have traditionally thought as rightsss in order to protect that sssafety they sssso dessperately crave and desserve, I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”
“That’s very wise, Jack.”
“Whatever you do, Chrisss, don’t EVER tell people what you’re really up to. Deny everything. I cccertainly didn’t admit to what we were doing down in Cuba. I will ssee you again ssoon, Chrisss . . .”
“No, Jack! Maybe you can stay a bit longer this time — please? I can’t tell you how much your counsel means to me.”
“I have to go.”
“A few more minutes . . .”
But the golden glow had already faded, taking the man with it.
President Christopher Wall sighed. He couldn’t really complain, could he? He’d been worried Jack wouldn’t show here in Colorado. It was much too dangerous to go back to D.C. But as it turned out, wherever the Lincoln bedroom went, Jack went too! Wonderful!
Fire
“Watch out!” one of the firefighters yelled — black rubber coat, black hat — pulling a hose back from the flames. “It’s coming down!”
Everon and his crew watched in horror as the walls of a four-story apartment building imploded around itself like an old Vegas casino. Like Cyn’s apartment in New York, collapsing beneath Franklin’s feet. Flames roared and crackled straight up into the frigid evening air.
Three buildings on the north side of Hamilton were on fire. The one in the middle was disintegrating. Tony G’s Deli sharing its right wall looked ready to go next.
And the fire isn’t going to stop there.
The Williams’ system map had not been difficult for Everon to memorize. The substations — the switchyards that routed power through the system — seemed to be named after famous power people. Thomas — for Thomas Edison, he supposed. Nicola — Nicola Tesla? And Alessandro — Alessandro Volta? From what Everon could tell, the fire would burn right on through the deli into Alessandro Substation, something Williams Power customers couldn’t afford to lose.
The street was cordoned off. At a barricade, evacuated residents shivered in bathrobes and slippers, watching as everything they owned was destroyed. Halfway to the next corner, several firemen were handling a hose that ran back to a fat red tanker truck. None of its spray was aimed at the flames. They were sending water over the burning buildings — to wet down those on the block behind.
The captain in charge recognized Hunt Williams and waved Everon’s people in. An old woman in a pale-blue housecoat and fuzzy blue slippers followed them. She ran up to the captain as they approached.
“My furniture!” she pointed frantically. “All my paintings! Please — can’t you stop it?” She pointed at the wood and brick building next to the one that had just gone down.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. We haven’t the water to spare.”
“But my apartment’s not even on fire yet!” She wore no makeup. She looked like someone’s gray-haired grandmother who’d just gotten into bed. “My things!” she pleaded. “It’s my life!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. We have to stop the fire from spreading to other blocks.”
“You’re wetting the buildings behind mine. Why not mine?”
“They’re on the other side of the back alley, ma’am.”
A fire break, Everon realized. A technique usually used to fight forest fires. No hydrants were in use.
There was no water pressure.
As she stared at him her face changed. Her eyes glittered. She walked stiffly away, mouth set in hatred.
“We send the trucks over to the Delaware River, suck up a tankful, then rush it back here,” the captain yelled to Hunt over the fire’s roar. “We haven’t got the water to saturate what’s burning. If we let that group of apartments in the center burn, maybe we’ll be able to contain it. If the wind doesn’t pick up.”
Water companies failing, Everon thought. Critical patients at hospitals surviving on backup generators — they need fuel too. Without power, gas stations can’t pump. Pretty soon these guys won’t be able to drive their trucks.
“It’s all we can do,” the captain said. “Fires are sprouting up all over Trenton. Our backup fuel’s down to a quarter of our reserves.”
“What caused this?” Nan coughed as smoke drifted their way. “It can’t be electrical, there’s no power to this area.”
The captain pointed to the crumpled building. “A lady in the upstairs apartment was cooking over her fireplace and spilled some grease. It spread to the carpet.”
Everon pictured the map Hunt had given him.
Alessandro Substation fed power to a lot more than just this neighborhood. He pointed to the end of the block. “Captain, we need you to save that substation on the other side of the deli.”
“Is it operational?”
“Not at the moment.”
The captain shook his head. “Then we have to let it go. It’s a natural fire break between the buildings. Mostly just tubes and wires, isn’t it?”
Lines from Alessandro Substation run south, Everon knew, and east!
The fireman continued, “We have to restrict our efforts to the buildings on the other end —”
Search For Reason (State Of Reason Mystery, Book 2) Page 13
