by Brock Law
stairs he craned around, trying to filter out the concealing darkness. Nothing shifted through the hot eddy of the night, which drew up beads of sweat to his forehead.
The front door was within reach. Confidently, Will raced for it and assaulted the handle. Looking over his shoulder one last time, he pulled the door open and jimmied through without having to distress the hinges too far. With the lock in place a moment later, he bounded down to the sidewalk and rushed away.
The early morning was tranquil with a still atmosphere in contrast to Will’s prophetic dream. The street was vacant. Cars were all nestled closely along the curb. As quickly as he reconnoitered the absence of other pedestrians, he skipped forward into a jog. Skirting the corner he dashed off towards Independence Hall, beyond which was Christ Church.
No one impeded his progress, or at least he didn’t notice anyone watching him as he sped through intersections and hurdled over tree roots that grew up through the pavement. The thought that something publically disturbing had happened perplexed him as he guessed at the meaning of Franklin’s call.
Each avenue that he passed was as vacant as the previous one. The city’s population was depleted from sleep and the usual summer exodus to the beach. Trying to maintain some semblance of normality, Will restrained his determined response with short repetitive strides until he eventually reached the Hall.
Without stopping to check for traffic, Will accelerated across Chestnut Street. Hopping over the cobblestones and darting past the glass-enclosed Liberty Bell, he reached the open grasses of Independence Mall in full gallop. Christ Church’s steeple rose into the starry night.
Sirens penetrated his ears, stirring the worry which Franklin had tried to impart to him. Will’s legs burst again at the cry of trouble. His flight was exacerbated by the spinning of red and blue lights emanating around the graveyard in which Franklin was supposedly buried. He shot between park benches and over short retaining walls with growing concern for whatever threatened the colonial ministry that was once the sanctuary of the signers during the Continental Congress. Lines of police cars and an ambulance were parked in the street next to the church. A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk with Franklin and the Washingtons at its head.
“What’s going on?” Will stammered as he sidled up to them.
“Looks like a break in,” Martha guessed. “The police have been inspecting the cemetery.”
“Did you see anything?” Will asked.
“Nothing. They’re not letting anyone near,” she responded again in place of her husband’s troubling silence.
“I heard gunfire,” Franklin said. “A volley of shots was exchanged. As I came out, the interceptors were converging on the church.”
“Look there,” Martha pointed.
Three paramedics emerged from the cemetery entrance pushing a gurney. A police office lay under the cloth, groaning and clutching his arm. The left side of the shroud was stained with a stream of blood. The EMS team packed the officer and all their gear into the back of the ambulance and pulled through the police barricade.
“This is much more serious,” Washington said quietly.
“And so public,” Franklin worried.
“They’re getting bolder,” Martha interjected. “Hiding the holy relic in the place where we all worshipped during our time in Philadelphia makes perfect sense. That’s precisely why we did not hide the Grail here.”
“We will not be able to fight them,” said Franklin, “not if their arsenal includes violent resistance to authority.”
Washington responded, “Ben, we must show in force tomorrow night.”
Franklin objected, “They are the embattled and desperate remnants of a squadron of elite murderers. It would end the same.”
“Think of Vivienne,” Martha urged. “If they’ve broken into Christ Church on a whim, then she hasn’t told them anything yet. That worries me even more than if she had. Think of what they might be doing to her.”
Franklin hushed them, “I know, but they’ll just keep taking hostages until one of us gives it up.”
Martha asserted, “This just became a capital crime. It has to be done now.”
“We could draw them into the open to be caught,” Will offered.
As Franklin pondered heavily, Martha reinforced, “If this is what they’re willing to do for immortality, they’ll burn the whole city until they get it.”
Clearly distraught by the imprint of fear that the Nazi had scored him with in their first encounter, Franklin sighed with a reluctant pitch in his throat. He wiped his glistening eyes and retired from the crowd that was enlarging to view the spectacle. At the onset of the surrendering tears of failure, the four of them looked up at the church.
The church sat glowing from inside out, lit by spotlights and the whirring mounts of the police cruisers. Officers streamed through the doorways. Others were busy with the ceaseless job of taping off the cemetery and pushing back the spectators. Up the street towards the Hall, more cop cars stalked down the streets with search beams. The tall arched windows on both levels released the reflective luminance from the white walls garnishing the pews and pulpit within. The sturdy railings that trimmed the pointed roof and mud hued bricks holding up the righteous spire stood quiet from the indignity of insurgence. Between the windows the early blues of dawn distinguished the building’s shadows which wept down the holy walls and into the sacred turf where broken thirteen-starred flags were strewn about chaotically. Sorrowfully, the commemorative majesty of the manicured yard and attentive headstones were trampled by the nocturnal assault. The multitude of spectators looked on and covered their mouths with gasps of shock.
“Come Ben, try to get some rest and regroup with everyone at breakfast,” Martha urged. “Why don’t you stay with us tonight, William?”
“What would I tell my family?” Will reasoned. “I have to look after them.”
“This is a damned mess,” Franklin admonished.
“We will find them,” Martha assured. “If we must dig in our heels, then we have time as our ally.”
“Not to mention, home field advantage,” Will added.
“If they cannot be speedily captured, then we will use the whole city as our noose to tighten around them,” Washington fortified.
“They’re hunting like tourists,” Will informed. “We should be able to get ahead of them.”
With overwhelming malice, Franklin concluded, “The thing in which I am the foremost expert. Let the trap be set.”
With Franklin’s determined words, and a firm hug from Martha, they parted. The immortals brooded away, deep in calculation. Will, his adrenaline sleepily diminishing, tiredly strode off alone.
Patience And Fidelity Of The Soldiery
Leaning against the edge of a brick wall at the corner of a dark street, gripping a cup of coffee, Will clung to the shadows. He was laced up in leather work boots, sturdy denim and a toughly stitched shirt. He was ready for action, at least outwardly. Inside, his mind was chattering vehemently. As the cup vibrated in his hand, it buckled under the absent-minded power he usually reserved for clasping a wet football. His weight shifted anxiously as his feet fidgeted and tapped the pavement.
Will heard a honk at the intersection and his head shot up. A colossal black pickup truck rolled over and halted in front of him. The window slid down revealing a stoic Washington.
“Ready?” Washington greeted.
Will nodded and opened the passenger door. Even at his height, he had to use the step bar to enter the enormous vehicle. As soon as his door banged shut, the pulsing engine cranked up. The weight-free hauler jerked forward when Washington pounded the accelerator, and voluminously galloped across Broad Street. Will peered around the spacious cab.
Realizing the light payload, Will gulped and asked, “Just us?”
“We need to make the convoy look as big as we can,” Washington stated tactically.
“I was worried you’d show up on the bike.”
A faint grin appeared on Wash
ington’s face, “No, this is what I transport the horses in. It has a lot of reinforcement.”
After that, Will and Washington sat silently in the truck. The General listened to no music, nor had he any digital devices of any kind despite the new truck’s technological capabilities. The interior was completely Spartan, except for a miniature portrait of a youthful Martha, clipped above the vents. Will noted that Washington was dressed similarly to himself in dusty boots, jeans and a stained blue shirt. The General sat straight, stiffly attached to the steering column and displayed exacting concentration. Not confident enough to interrupt, Will awkwardly sipped more of his coffee and watched the city blur by through his tinted window. They charged through the financial skyscrapers, crossed the river in front of 30th Street Station, and coasted down on to the Schuylkill Expressway.
“It should only be thirty minutes to Valley Forge, if I remember correctly,” Washington stated.
Will inquired, “And how long by foot from Whitemarsh in the snow?”
Washington’s mouth flattened with reminiscence, “They still teach that in school?”
“Of course,” Will replied.
“Eight days until the last man reached camp,” Washington recalled. “Eight long, icy, hungry days, followed by months more of the same.”
Washington went silent again. Will focused on him for a moment, not sure if he had more to say. Turning respectfully, he looked out his window at the lights across the river.
Washington
