Power (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 8)

by Thomas Hollyday

  Ferrars pushed through the crowd and came up to them. He was excited, his face red.

  “We are proud of our volunteers in the streets outside. A tribute to Cole Tinker.”

  When Ferrars slowed his rant, Loggerman asked, “You promised my daughter would be here.”

  The leader calmed, started to walk away, then answered over his shoulder, his face still red. “I am still trying for you. You must prepare your speech.”

  He turned and handed Loggerman a sheet of paper. “This will be on your teleprompter. It simply says you are interested in the ideas of Tinker Institute. You will welcome all ideas that will help citizens receive the benefits of energy.”

  He added, “You can add to this but I suggest, since the crowd will be Tinker supporters, you not become too critical of us.”

  Loggerman studied the paper and nodded. “I do want to get out of here alive.”

  Ferrars looked at him and, with one of his smiles, said, “Yes, you will be surprised at the crowd’s interest in your thoughts.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Green drapery hung from the walls of the stage. Brightly painted models of oil well derricks and huge steel power lines contrasted with a stage decorated with huge black cauldrons with flames spurting. Massive assemblies of flickering lights spread a pervading green light. The symbol of the Tinker Institute hung on the center of the podium, the green circle around a white center but placed with authority over the flashing logo words

  Free Energy For All.

  Loggerman sat next to the podium in one of the chairs arranged in line order. Patriotic notes of America The Beautiful throbbed against his ears and tumbled over the massive audience as it cheered in waves like at a sports event. From time to time a young woman or man in a green uniform walked to center stage and with waving arms pumped out slogans.

  We hold it to be self evident our energy must be free

  The crowd mimicked again and again these often repeated words. Yells of Tinker’s first name gave continued emphasis to the people’s enthusiasm. To the left of the stage a huge screen showed current video segments from the website Tinker Time to continued applause and whistles both human and electronic.

  Stagehands bustled to prepare for Cole Tinker’s speech. Loggerman sat at the center chair and Ferrars took his place two seats away. He was reading a document, flipping a page every few moments. His face was intent on the material. Elizabeth was on Loggerman’s left side and Spire sat at his right.

  The applause came in spurts as officials moved on the stage. The crowd murmured. Lights flashed across the ceiling of the theater in waves of green. Finally, Ferrars stood up and came forward still holding the papers.

  A sliver of light went across their faces from the stage and some of the faces. The audience stood to applaud and cheer more loudly. Ferrars moved to the podium and looked out on the people. For a moment he turned back towards the curtain. His face was shining with excitement and pride which Loggerman could see even above the glare of the theater lights. Ferrars turned back to the crowd and looked slowly from side to side, pausing to wave to a person here or there. In the moving green light Ferrars grinned showing his teeth, obviously enjoying his role with the crowd. Ferrars’ mouth appeared to savor as if he were eating his favorite meal.

  Loggerman recognized the features of a dictator in training, one with an ugly scar.

  The applause for Ferrars began to subside. The crowd shouted in rhythm “Cole. Cole. Cole.”

  The demand forced Ferrars to step back from the microphone. Elizabeth’s face was troubled, uneasy. Ferrars nervously looked behind him again. He began to applaud also, his face toward the curtain where Cole was supposed to enter.

  Loggerman realized why Ferrars had come out. He was playing for time. Their man was drunk. Ferrars and the others were trying to sober their star so he could carry off the speech. Drunk or not, the staff would have to produce Tinker. He could hear staff shouting behind the curtains.

  The applause was ecstatic when Tinker entered. The guards moved him quickly along. Loggerman could smell the whiskey as Cole went by. Cole’s feet were above the ground by a good six inches. The guards carried him. The great leader was still drunk. A little girl dancing on the tips of her father’s big shoes would be a good analogy to the predicament of the Tinker leader. His drunkenness made him little more than a child. After balancing Cole against the wooden stand, they stood back a few feet, checking their guns to portray to the audience they were security guards and not attendants. The out of control audience applauded insanely.

  Ferrars signaled the speakers to line up beside Tinker. Loggerman found himself next to Cole. He could smell the heavy liquor mixed with strains of coffee. Ferrars was on the other side of the big man.

  Tinker raised his head and seemed to sober up with the noise. He reached for his speech notes already on the podium. He waved them at the crowd and waited for more happy shouts before speaking. When he started to speak, Loggerman could tell the leader had snapped into a state of alertness. The words were clear and well spoken in the strong voice Cole Tinker had for his followers.

  Loggerman looked out at the audience. Many on the front row were Tinker true believers with campaign buttons on their shirts and banners across their chests. Some had colorful signs. Teenagers danced in frenzy in the aisles. Three girls stood up and, before the floor security could get to them, they had ripped their blouses open. Their bras sailed through the air to arrive at Tinker’s polished shoes.

  He held up his hands for silence. Not even the sound of a cough sounded in the auditorium.

  The Pope could not have done better, thought Loggerman.

  “Energy for the People!” he shouted and the audience went wild again. Once again the uproar shook ceiling lights with the thunder. They chanted “Energy. Energy.”

  Tinker quieted them down again as he began anew.

  “Seeing you, being with you, I can get the strength to go on. I remember the early days at my family’s gas station. Then I knew we had to help the people. It is with you we will win. From now on the energy future we win will be your victories. As you travel through the cities of America and someday the world you will travel in the company of our people, the great Tinker organization of the world. Everywhere you go there will be Tinkers, people devoted to our purpose, people who want Energy for The People.”

  “Make him King, King of the Working People.” The crowd began to repeat this over and over.

  Cole smiled and waved his right arm at the crowd, his head moving from side to side. He let the chant go on and on, building in crescendo until the auditorium walls seemed to shake each time the word “King” was roared out. The crowd repeated “King” over each time louder. One time Cole looked behind him at Ferrars and smiled as if to say “See what I told you, my friend?”

  He had not escaped all his liquor and started to fall sideways. The guards rushed up and steadied him, placing both of his hands back on the podium sides.

  Cole quieted the people now and said, “No, I’m not going to be your king, but I appreciate the offer.” The people roared out approval again, the chant as loud as ever.

  Cole got the signal from the television producer. National networks had picked up his speech. He continued, his face posed for the camera, “Tonight I want people all over the United States and the world to follow me to a new destination.”

  The audience had become silent.

  “Tonight we talk about the future. The world becomes smaller each day, each minute. We know the rich have taken the best places for themselves. We intend to get our share of energy from their storage sites so we may have the same wealth ourselves, for our families and our children’s children. I predict new places for us to go, new farms and cities to build, new horizons to plan our future.”

  The audience waited for his next words. “I speak to you of space travel and exploration. The day will come when we must go out into space. I want all of us to have a part in this. I want to make sure the conques
t of space will not serve only a few. Today, your taxes buy progress in space for the wealthy to enjoy. I propose your taxes will buy your own future.

  “When there is a great change among the people, when a shift in the common mindset rules the world, the shift must have goals.

  “Today we speak of a change in how the energy of this planet is ruled, how it will be given to all for equal benefit not only among the wealthy but among the energy poor, not only in our country but in our country’s dealings with other countries. We have learned in the past we needed food for the poor and now free food is our right. I tell you today we also need energy. All must share.”

  “Too often in the past your leaders have advised you to struggle and live only with the present. The true power behind the leaders, those who give orders to the leaders, grow rich on the present and on the future. I say to you the future is yours. You will control the energy. It will be free to you, not to them.”

  “Let me introduce your friends. These are leaders in energy who speak to the future who honor the Institute.”

  Elizabeth and Spire moved Loggerman towards the lectern and Tinker’s right side. Ferrars joined them at Tinker’s other side. The crowd stood again and the lights waved across the crowd. The applause grew.

  “This is John Loggerman, from the Henry Company of Nigeria. Please welcome him.”

  Loggerman felt a hand behind him pushing and guiding him to a place against Tinker’s back. A rough hand moved him downward. He lost balance, stumbled and fell. He tried to rise. The hand held him down. He struggled to his knees, looking at Tinker’s waist. He felt something wet trickling down on his face. He looked up at Tinker’s coat.

  He recognized the knife from its hilt, buried in Tinker’s back. It was his grandfather’s Marine Ka-Bar. The blood increased and spurted out on the stage. Tinker mumbled his words, still introducing them, “He has praised my Institute managers...”

  The audience grew silent as their leader fell back on the kneeling Loggerman.

  Tinker gasped, “Oh my God, he’s killed me. Ferrars, he’s killed me.”

  Tinker stretched his arms up in the air and staggered forward against the lectern. The guards rushed forward but could not hold him. The podium tipped forward and fell into the crowd with a crash of breaking wood. Tinker, his arms flailing at the air, followed, his body tumbling into the mass of people who pushed against the edge of the stage. The people moved backward in awe as the heavy bloody man writhed on the floor, his back ejecting streams of blood at them and the planks of broken wood.

  A hiss spread among the crowd like the air going out of a balloon.

  Elizabeth screamed, “Call the paramedics!”

  “Get our security in here,” Ferrars yelled.

  Loggerman heard running feet behind him. Out in the hushed auditorium, the slap of the great fans tried to circulate the humid air far above them.

  Cole Tinker’s face showed intense pain, his mouth gurgling, beginning to foam blood forth over his lips. The blood dripped down on his white shirt, creating odd-sized red patterns. A guard woman had reached his side and Cole’s left hand grasped her fingers. His other hand grabbed the microphone which had pulled loose from the podium and lay on the floor, its wire across his chest. The hand slapped at his speech notes, scattering his papers among the close onlookers who fought for them. Their faces were anxious even with the horror of the moment, to take this last wisdom their leader provided them.

  Cole raised up a few inches, tried to speak, fell back, and died.

  Lights were intermittent around the walls and the crowd became angry, shouting now, “Kill the bastard who did this!”

  “Stop this man,” Elizabeth shouted and Loggerman looked to see who was trying to escape.

  Then he knew.

  A commotion started behind Loggerman. He turned as Ferrars and several of the guards ran toward him. A few people were climbing the edge of the stage reaching for him.

  “The king’s dead!” Ferrars screamed, the scars of his face outlined in red. “This man is the killer! You killed him!”

  Loggerman struggled but the guards held him. Wet spit hit against his face and he could not wipe it off so the fluid dripped slowly down his cheek. Shoes and other hard pieces of clothing and furniture fell around him and some hit with stinging blows on his head and arms.

  “Lynch him on the stage!” yells came forth.

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s an oilman.”

  The crowd began to scream in unison, “Lynch him. Lynch him!” Loggerman knew unless something happened to save him, he’d probably be dead very soon.

  The guards pushed him. He was manhandled through the back stage rooms and into the street outside the theatre. He looked up outside and saw a glow rising, bubbling in the sky. He thought, They attacked the Baltimore oil storage tanks.

  Loggerman stumbled along the wide Baltimore street as Tinker guards protected him from the mob which constantly tried to get at him, trying to rip at his flesh and clothes. “You’ll get yours with a lot of pain,” one shouted into his ear, the spittle wet.

  A woman screamed, “He killed the king. He did it. He’s the one.” She pointed at Loggerman, waving to others who stood on the street to come forth and help her get revenge. In all Loggerman’s experience he had never seen hate like the anger in this woman’s eyes.

  “Use a knife on him like he did on the king!”

  Calmer voices hollered back, “Let the courts take care of him!”

  “No way. He’ll get him a fancy lawyer and get off. He’s got connections. Can’t you see? People like him never get to jail.”

  “Oil companies will never let him fry. They thank him for doing this. Their lawyers will get him off.”

  “All the more reason to hang him by his neck right now.”

  Fists hit him. He tried to shield himself from the violence and the projectiles and trash onlookers threw at him.

  Spire arrived, moving past the guards. “Bastard!” she screamed, as she kicked his stomach, knocking him down so her high heels could stab his face into the concrete street.

  He looked up through his puffed eyes. She smiled as she inflicted the pain. The yelling angry voices faded as the rough concrete scraped his face.

  He was hit again in his head and he heard no more.

  * * *

  Stephanie’s phone app buzzed. She quickly entered her code and read the alarm.

  01 538-539 21 55

  01 100 -1

  She gasped and put her hand over her mouth. Her friends had exploded the tank in Baltimore.

  Further down she read a new horror in the news. This time she wanted to scream but her mind instead reeled.

  Cole Tinker has been murdered.

  The symbol -1 was unmistakable.

  Part Three

  “My knife never went empty”

  From letter to his wife dated August 28, 1776

  written by a corporal in Major Mordecai Gist’s Maryland Line

  Following the Battle of Long Island

  Chapter Seventeen

  Doctor Mike had not informed Loggerman she was coming to the conference center to hear him speak. She took a Greyhound bus to Baltimore from River Sunday. On the bus, most of the travelers were Tinker fans from River Sunday. She sat by herself but traded pleasantries with other passengers. Many of them were clients of her clinic who were bringing their families to hear Tinker.

  Getting through the crowds and into the theater was a major effort. As she walked from the bus station, her arms became filled with brochures and papers impressed on her by the protestors who had invaded the streets. Some were against the free energy program of the Tinker Institute. On the other hand, some wrestled their opponents to give her opposition pamphlets. She managed to break through the abundance of fervent people and enter the building lobby. She pushed through another mass of persons to find the ticket table.

  She was asked if she had a Tinker Identification card. She lied to the rosy-cheeked middle
aged woman at the admission table, claiming hers had been stolen when she struggled through the crowds outside.

  “So much violence out there,” the woman asserted with a firm nod and gave her a ticket, smiling. “You’ll like this location. It’s bound to be a good view of Cole.”

  Her seat was in the center of the middle section. She sat back in the sparse plastic chair. On both sides of her clusters of Tinker fans swayed back and forth in support of the main attraction. She spotted Loggerman in a group of Tinker officials who had stood up and moved around the podium to welcome the speaker. He was too far away to see her. Besides, she did not feel comfortable waving to him. After all, she reckoned he was an enemy to these spectators and she did not want to draw attention to herself.

  A massive yell terrorized her as it swept through the audience greeting Cole Tinker. He had finally walked to the lectern. The fans stood and raised their hands in a massive salute to their leader. Tinker moved his hands to quiet them. The audience stopped instantly. Quiet reigned.

  He began to mumble and bent forward to see his speech on the screen in front of him. The cheers began again, rhythmically calling “Free Energy. Free Energy.”

  Tinker said, “Welcome.” He looked from side to side, smiling. Then he looked down at his side and appeared to lose his place in his speech. His right hand moved from the podium to try to reach his back.

  He slumped forward, his heavy bulk pushing the podium forward. Cries went up from the crowd. Screams mixed with questions of wonderment could be heard in the theatre.

  Loggerman fell forward against the tumbling Cole Tinker. As he tried to stand, a smear of blood showed on his shirt and suit. He tried to get up, reaching his bloody hand to Tinker’s back.