NEXT BEST HOPE (The Revelation Trilogy) (19 page)

The guards behind Finis jumped into a second truck which sped away from the courthouse, carrying the accomplices in the opposite direction from Finis.

Slow to react, prison personnel mobilized their pursuit. As precious minutes ticked away, the commander on the ground talked to various people who described the events before he made his decision to dispatch units in all compass directions. A full ten minutes elapsed before he scrambled air support to attempt to locate the vehicles carrying Finis and his cohorts.

Agent Brown and Ert entered the courtroom within seconds of the shots fired by Finis and the guards. They found Link shaken but unharmed. Blackie DeLay cowered under his counsel table long after the threat had passed. After they canvassed the crowd in the gallery and determined that no one was hit, they realized that Judge McNeil was nowhere to be found.

Brown checked the doors leading out of the side and back of the courtroom and found them locked, blocking any retreat. He looked toward McNeil’s chair and saw that it was turned over on its side. He climbed the three steps to the raised platform where McNeil’s bench sat.

When he reached the spot where the judge’s chair lay on its side, he slid it away from the bench. It was then that he saw Judge McNeil’s body tucked under the bench, his head in a pool of blood.

“Medic!” he called as he knelt beside McNeil and cradled his head in his lap. He raised the faintest pulse and felt the judge’s shallow respiration. Ert and Link joined him on the bench and began to plead with Judge McNeil.

“Hang on, Your Honor. Help is on the way,” Link said.

“We’re with you,” Ert said as he laid his hand on McNeil’s chest.

A couple of EMTs finally arrived and carried the judge to the courtroom floor where they stretched him out and began CPR. A few minutes later, more EMTs arrived while the first ones continued to work on McNeil. After about five minutes, they loaded him on a gurney and wheeled it out the back door of the courtroom where reporters shot pictures of the grim scene. The emergency medical technicians lifted the stretcher bearing the wounded jurist into the back of an ambulance, slammed the door and drove off towards the nearest hospital while the mournful dirge of the ambulance siren filled the plains and echoed off the stark cement walls of the justice complex.

Brown, Link, and Ert watched the ambulance until it moved out of sight. They stood together not speaking until Brown broke the silence.

“Tell Sherman I’m back on the case. If I find Ithurial Finis again, his constitutional rights will be the least of his worries,” Brown said to them as he turned and trotted towards his green Camaro in the parking lot.

WHEN CONGRESSMAN FARRAGUT
returned to Link Jefferson’s office, he made sure he had fellow members of the caucus and reporters with him.

“I need to see the acting Attorney General,” he told the receptionist without giving her his name.

“Is he expecting you, Congressman Coonass?” the secretary asked him.

“Tell him it’s about my desire to begin impeachment proceedings against the President,” Farragut said as he stepped away from her. “I think he can make time to see me.”

“Who are all these folks with you?” she asked.

“Some are members of a congressional caucus; others are from the press,” he said.

“Tell the press to haul their asses out of here. The Congressmen can take a seat,” she said.

The members of the press heard her. Slowly they gathered their cameras and coats, nodded to the secretary and went outside to wait in the hall. The Congressmen left, too. They told Farragut he had their proxy to do whatever needed to be done.

“Looks like it is just you and me again,” the secretary said. “Kind of cozy, ain’t it?”

Farragut sat down in the same seat he had warmed on his prior visit. But Link didn’t make him wait long.

“He will see you now,” the secretary said after about fifteen minutes.

When he walked past her desk, Farragut kept his distance and looked straight ahead.

Link stood behind his desk and offered Farragut a seat.

“Are you here to take up talks about impeachment?” Link asked as soon as Farragut sat down. His abruptness caught Farragut off guard.

“I am,” he said.

“Here’s the deal, Congressman,” Link said. “The man accused of assassinating the President just escaped from prison and shot a federal judge in the process. A number of states have announced secession from the United States. Westmoreland is issuing executive orders from Waco, Texas, which allow his henchmen to execute citizens on the spot for misdemeanor offenses. We have riots in many of our cities. In the midst of this, you come to me and ask me to assist you in bringing impeachment proceedings against Bass Whitfield, our commander in chief who has inherited the most difficult situation any President has ever faced,” Link said.

“All these things prove that Bass Whitfield is not capable of handling the job,” Farragut said. “The country would be better off without him.”

“The country would be better off without you, Congressman. President Whitfield has displayed remarkable courage and depth of leadership. It’s not his fault somebody is trying to overthrow the government,” Link said. “As far as I am concerned, your actions, and the actions of your caucus, border on treason. If I can charge you with treason, I will. As I told you before, I will not help you advance a political agenda that supports the CM, the avowed enemies of this country. You need to decide where your loyalties lie, Congressman. When I play ball, it’s hardball,” Link said.

“Like you did when you let Ithurial Finis waltz right out of the courthouse?” Farragut said. “Maybe we need to impeach you, too.”

“Impeach this,” Link said as he picked up a souvenir World Series baseball from his desk and threw it as hard as he could at Farragut. The ball beaned him on the forehead and Farragut felt his head to see if he was bleeding. Link could see tears in Farragut’s eyes, tears like those little boys try to hide from their friends for fear their friends will call them sissies.

“I’ll have your job for this,” Farragut said as he pushed himself out of the chair and marched towards the door.

“I serve at the pleasure of the President,” Link said. “You can go to hell.”

Farragut pressed his monogrammed handkerchief against his head as he cut a wide berth around the secretary on the way out.

“Looks like a pretty good shiner you got there, Congressman,” she said. “You might want to stick your head in a bucket of ice for a while. I hear that helps.”

Outside the door to the Attorney General’s office, the reporters took one look at Farragut, got out their note pads, and started asking questions while digital cameras recorded every grimace on his face.

Link’s secretary got up from behind her desk and went in to see the Attorney General. When she walked in, he was slumped forward in his chair, with his hands on his knees as he looked out his office window at Washington. She sat down and waited for him to acknowledge her.

“I guess I may not sit in this office much longer,” he said after a while. He never took his eyes off the scene out his window. “I probably shouldn’t have assaulted a sitting Congressman with a baseball.”

“We’re playing for all the marbles now,” she said. “Farragut and his cronies are a bunch of crooks and political shills. They don’t care about anything but advancing their political agendas. I guarantee you he’s in bed with Westmorland or Leon or both. He can’t have it both ways. He either needs to stand with the United States or CM. Until he does, he deserves exactly the treatment you just gave him.”

“I hope Bass sees it that way,” Link said.

J. FRANKLIN WESTMORELAND
paced his office overlooking the Baylor University campus in Waco, Texas, like a lion that had traded one cell for another. He was fast learning that it was harder to govern than to pray.

He was also learning that there were few people he could trust, even among the Christian aristocracy who brought him to power. Stanley Nussbaum was the only man who had his ear.

“Leon has made a mess of everything he has touched,” Nussbaum said as he watched Westmoreland walk back and forth. “He’s making a grab for power, but he’s reaching too high, too fast. You can’t believe anything he tells you.”

“The time will come to deal with him,” J. Franklin said. “But right now, I need to restore order and get our military plan together.”

“Military plan?”

Westmoreland walked to a large map of the former United States that hung on the west wall of the office. He had marked the seceding states in red. He took a wooden pointer from the rack under the map and slapped it against the wall. The point stuck into the map at Washington.

“The kingdom of God will come when we take the United States away from the pagans who control it. The Lord has shown me the way. We will strike at the snake’s head, cut it off and throw the whole beast into the Potomac. Then we will see righteousness in the streets of New Israel from sea to shining sea,” Westmoreland said.

Nussbaum studied his friend’s face for a minute. He walked over to the map, reached out his hand and touched it where the pointer had made its small crater at the nation’s capital. He looked out Frank’s window where the Brazos River flowed past the campus and saw a couple of college kids in a small row boat enjoying a late afternoon cruise. As he watched, the young man stopped rowing long enough to reach down in the boat and pull a package from a picnic basket. He handed it to his girl, picked the oar up again and turned the boat around so they could drift towards the marina. The girl reached over and kissed him and hugged his neck, and they held hands until Nussbaum lost sight of them.

Stanley thought of another cruise many years before when he spent his last twenty-five dollars to buy him and his best girl tickets for a moonlight cruise on St. Andrews Bay in Panama City. They saw none of the promised dolphins, and half-way through the two-hour trip, rain pelted the deck and drove them to cover. Under that drippy awning, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a box that had a ring with the smallest of diamonds set in it.

He snapped back to the moment.

After his demonstration at the map, Westmoreland returned to his chair where he sat lost in thought. He paid no attention to Stanley, apparently unaware that he was still in the room. On his desk lay a pile of documents that Nussbaum knew were various executive orders Westmoreland’s staff had drafted. J. Franklin read one, then another, not taking enough time to study the details in any of them. After he flipped through each document, Westmoreland took a quill pen and dipped it in ink. Then he signed each order with his characteristic flourish.

“Frank, I’m not feeling that well all of a sudden. I think I need to go to the apartment and get some rest,” Nussbaum said.

Westmoreland finally looked up at him. “I’m sorry to hear it, old friend. Can I pray with you for your quick recovery?” he asked.

“Of course, if you wish,” Nussbaum said.

Westmoreland rose from his chair, came around, and placed his left hand on Nussbaum’s right shoulder. He said a short prayer and patted Nussbaum on the back as he turned to leave.

“Stanley, will you hand these to my secretary on your way out?” Westmoreland asked as he handed him the stack of executive orders.

Stanley took them, grabbed his briefcase, opened the door to the office and closed it behind him on his way out. He tucked the orders under his arm and walked passed Westmoreland’s secretary and several staffers on his way outside. It was almost dark when he stepped out of the building, the temperature just cool enough that he donned his light jacket. He strolled through the campus taking the long way to his apartment. As he walked, he started singing an old hymn that popped into his head. “
There is a fountain filled with blood, drawn from Emmanuel’s veins
,” he sang before he stopped himself. He felt chilled and cut his walk short.

When he entered his student housing duplex that served as his temporary home in Waco, he turned on the light to find he had company.

“Stanley, I hear you weren’t very kind to Blackie DeLay, the best lawyer in Houston,” Leon said from his seat on the couch.

“How did you get in here?” Stanley asked as he looked around the room and saw Ralph sitting at Nussbaum’s computer, playing some sort of game. Ralph waved at Stanley without getting up and turned his head back to the monitor.

“Do you think you are the only person with connections around here? I’m afraid you may be under-estimating me,” Leon said.

“I have nothing to discuss with you, Leon. You are no friend to the movement or Frank Westmoreland, so you’re no friend of mine,” Nussbaum said.

“Oh, you’re wrong about that. I am a great friend of the movement, and I am trying to save Westmoreland’s ass,” Martinez said. “If Ithurial Finis ever tells what he knows, Westmoreland is toast. By helping him, I help Frank; it’s as simple as that. The best thing for everyone is for you to play along. Westmoreland gets to look like a prophet, I handle the government, and Bass Whitfield’s country becomes a thing of the past, a relic subsumed by the New Israel. It’s all within our grasp if you will let me run things. I admire the way you gave DeLay the quick dip. It was a move I might have tried. But it would be better if you would coordinate things with me. It will save us a lot of trouble.”

Nussbaum sat down on a banged up wooden chair at the kitchen table. He took the stack of executive orders from under his arm and dropped them on the table where Leon and Ralph could see them. Leon walked over, took his hand and spread the documents out on the table so that he could see each of them. He read through them quickly and noted Westmoreland’s signature.

“I think Frank truly believes he is the Prophet of New Israel,” Nussbaum said. “I’m not sure whether it is better to follow a would-be prophet or a would-be king. What do you think, Leon?”

“Jesus said we should be wise as serpents, but harmless as doves,” Leon said. “Your first step towards wisdom is realizing that I am the man for the job.”