NEXT BEST HOPE (The Revelation Trilogy) (30 page)

“If, however, you give me back my life, I will pledge to work with you to bind up our wounds, to forge a lasting peace among our people. It won’t be the kingdom of God, but it will be the best we can make it together.

“Now, do what you must. And may God be with you.”

When Whitfield finished talking, he stepped back two paces from Westmoreland, folded his hands in front of him and bowed his head, his eyes closed.

Westmoreland stood still while he looked at Whitfield. In his head, he heard the echoes of his stump speech, the phrases he had used to describe the man who had now offered him his life. He recalled the standing ovations when he called Whitfield the devil, the cries from the crowds for the Lord to strike the President dead. He thought of the meetings with Ithurial Finis, the lives lost to build the movement.

With his right hand, he unsnapped the cover on his holster. He placed his hand on the pistol and pulled it.

Leon watched as Westmoreland held the gun to his side.

“Frank, you are the sword of the Lord. Strike him down. Strike him down,” Leon yelled at the top of his lungs.

Frank turned and looked at Leon. Then he put the pistol back in its holster.

“President Whitfield, today the battle is the Lord’s,” he said.

Whitfield looked up and saw the tears in Westmoreland’s eyes. Westmoreland walked to the President and extended his hand. As President Whitfield reached out to take Westmoreland’s hand, Leon reached inside his coat and drew his Glock 9 mm pistol.

“No. No,” he said as he pointed his gun toward the two leaders and placed his finger on the trigger.

•  •  •

Brown heard the shot ring out and traced the sound of the explosion to a spot east of the CM command post near the intersection of 15
^th
Street and Constitution Avenue. He saw Finis as he fled east down Constitution.

When Brown reached the corner, he looked to his left where a group of CM soldiers huddled around a man lying on the ground. The man was wearing a business suit.

In the distance, he could see Westmoreland and Whitfield, who had hit the ground when they heard the shot, beginning to get up, apparently unharmed.

“What the hell?” he said as he ran after Finis.

Ahead of him, he saw Finis run up the ramp to the side entrance of the National Archives Building, shoot the lock off the door and go inside. When Brown reached the building, he pulled his pistol, chambered a round, and burst through the door.

Finis was nowhere to be seen. Brown began to search for him. He came to the steps that led upstairs to the main exhibit hall and listened. He heard the faintest sound of footsteps on the stairs above him. He craned his neck to catch any sight of Ithurial but saw nothing. With his gun stretched out in front of him, he climbed the stairs, stayed close to the wall and reached the edge of the magnificent domed room that housed the founding documents of the United States.

In the center of the room, Ithurial Finis stood with his back to Brown, leaned with both hands against the thick glass that preserved the U.S. Constitution. He paid no attention to Brown as he studied the document. His gun was not in his hand.

Brown pointed his pistol at Finis as he approached him.

“Sometimes a man can be wrong about things, Agent Brown,” Finis said as he continued to look down at the ancient writing.

Brown didn’t answer him.

Finis stood up straight and turned to face him. Brown had his gun aimed at Finis’ heart, six feet from him.

“You think I am nothing but a crazy religious fanatic who has allowed his mis-guided faith to turn him into a cold-blooded killer, a man without conscience or feelings. You’re wrong about that. I thought Bass Whitfield’s predecessor and later Bass himself were Satan’s henchmen. A few minutes ago, when I witnessed President Whitfield stand toe to toe with Westmoreland and offer his life to save the country, he proved me wrong about that. I thought J. Franklin Westmoreland was the man God would use to bring in his kingdom. I was wrong about that, too. I know now that we won’t see God’s kingdom on this earth.

“I thought Leon Martinez was a worthless piece of shit. I wasn’t wrong about that,” Finis said.

“It looks like Leon may have gotten what he deserved,” Brown said.

“It’s hard to know what anyone deserves,” Finis said.

“The law says you deserve to be in prison or executed,” Brown said.

“I know. But I also know that when I killed Leon just now, I probably prevented a war that would have cost tens of thousands of innocent lives and ultimately proved nothing. How does that fit into the legal equation?”

“The courts will have to sort out that one,” Brown said.

“Agent Brown, we are alike, you and me. You have killed people that you shouldn’t have and saved others that didn’t need saving.”

“Yeah, and I am trying to make up for it,” Brown said. “I’ve seen the error of my ways.”

“I hope I have, too, Agent Brown,” Ithurial said.

“Turn around slowly and put your hands behind your back, Finis,” Brown said.

Finis did as he was instructed. Brown slapped the handcuffs on his wrists, pulled Finis’ pistol out of his holster and stuck it in his belt.

“Let’s go,” Brown said.

In one movement, Finis snapped the handcuffs, spun around and hit Brown in the head with them. Brown fell to the marble floor dazed. Finis grabbed his revolver from Brown’s waist band and pistol whipped him with the six-inch steel barrel. One blow was all it took.

Finis stood over Brown as the agent lay unconscious on the floor. He bent down next to him and checked to make sure he was still breathing, took out his cell phone and dialed 911. When the dispatcher answered, he said, “There’s an officer down inside the National Archives Building. He needs medical attention.” Finis hung up the phone.

“Next year in Jerusalem,” he said to Brown as he turned, ran down the steps, and walked out into the spring afternoon.

In the distance, he heard the sounds of the CM convoy, already in motion, on its way back home.

A WEEK AFTER
the showdown, President Bascom Whitfield stood on the top step of the Lincoln Memorial and looked out at the pool that extended towards the Washington Monument. In the distance, he saw the dome of the U.S. Capitol building.

The last week had seen the winds of war dissipate. Already he had a summit set up to put flesh on the bones of the agreement he struck with Westmoreland on the battlefield.

He turned and walked inside the memorial where Sherman Aloysius, Ert, Leadoff, Link, and Agent Brown admired the statue of the sixteenth President.

Whitfield moved to the wall on his right hand where he could read Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address.

“It’s quite a lesson, isn’t it, General Aloysius?” Whitfield said.

“Which one is that, Mr. President?” Sherman asked.

All the men listened as he read aloud: “Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God; and each invokes His aid against the other.”

“I guess things haven’t changed much in the last one hundred and fifty years,” Leadoff said.

“We can only hope that we have learned something from our national history,” Ert said.

“We have learned that there has never been a President like Bass Whitfield,” Link said. “What you did last week to avert a replay of the Civil War should earn you a memorial as awe-inspiring as Lincoln’s.”

“Amen,” Sherman said.

“If Brown could have held on to Finis, it would have been a clean sweep,” Link said.

Brown, still sporting a bandage on his head, looked at the floor, a sly grin on his face. “He is one tough sumbitch. I’ll give him that,” he said.

“I doubt we have seen the last of him,” Link said. “We’ll catch him when he surfaces.”

•  •  •

Whitfield took Ert and Leadoff by their arms and got them off to the side for a minute. “I guess you guys didn’t know what you were getting into when you came to work for me,” he said.

“It’s been quite an adventure, all right,” Leadoff said.

“I have imposed way too much on you. Now that the tempest has calmed a bit, I want you to know that I will release you back to Kilgore so you can get on with your lives.”

“I thought we were just hitting our strides,” Ert said.

“Me, too,” Leadoff said.

“Just think it over,” Bass said. “Either way, I’ll be calling on you for your help.”

“You can count us, Mr. President,” Ert said.

•  •  •

In the Oval Office that evening, President Whitfield sat at his desk. He reached in his drawer and took out the file that contained the notes Ert had made from Joshua Issacharoff’s journals. As he read through them, he shook his head in disbelief. He put the file away and took the Bible in his hand. He turned to 1 Samuel 17.

“The battle is the Lord’s,” he read.

He closed the Bible and sat for a long time looking out the window.

The End

Please enjoy the following excerpt from Stephen’s book,
Last One Chosen.

Special Agent Quanah
Parker Brown parked his black, windowless Ford Econoline van in front of a small, white frame house in a sleepy neighborhood in Kilgore, Texas. He racked the slide to chamber a round in his Glock 9mm semi-automatic pistol and prepared to arrest or kill the person identified by intelligence reports as the most dangerous man on the planet.

He motioned for the other three agents in the van to stay put, stepped out of the vehicle, walked to the door and knocked three times. His gun hung by his right knee while he checked the location of the rising sun and positioned himself so that it shined over his left shoulder directly into the eyes of whoever came to the door.

In a few seconds, he heard the sound of footsteps inside.

“Who is it?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Federal Agent Quanah Parker Brown. Please open the door, ma’am.”

Minerva Johnson slid the door half way ajar and peered out through the crack. She had her gray hair pinned up in a Pentecostal bun, a robe wrapped around her to cover her nightgown.

“I need to speak to Josh,” Brown said.

•  •  •

Joshua Issacharoff had arrived at Minerva Johnson’s house fifteen minutes before, let himself in the front door and ascended into the sweltering August attic to work on her air conditioning unit.

“I’ll get him for you,” Minerva told Brown. She closed the door and left him alone on the porch.

Ms. Johnson walked to the hallway and stopped at the foot of a ladder that swung down out of an opening in the ceiling.

“Josh, there’s someone here to see you. He says he’s a federal agent.”

She heard the old rafters creak and moan as Josh made his way back to the ladder. In a minute, he climbed down the steps.

When he reached the floor, he took a rag out of his hip pocket and wiped the sweat off his face.

“That was good timing, Ms. Minerva. I just got her running again for you.” He motioned with his head towards the attic. “You should be a lot more comfortable today than you were yesterday.”

Minvera Johnson patted Josh on the arm.

“I can always count on you to take care of an old widow woman,” she said.

Josh smiled at her, turned and walked towards the door. He didn’t hesitate when he opened it and stepped out on the porch to face Agent Brown.

“Joshua Issacharoff?” Brown asked him as Josh stepped outside on the porch.

“I am he,” Josh said.

“I’m Agent Quanah Parker Brown with the United States Department of Homeland Security. I need for you to get in the van.” He waved the Glock at Josh.

Josh walked down the sidewalk to the van. As he approached the rear of the car, the doors swung open and the agents inside took Josh’s arms and pulled him into the van. They ordered him to lie face down while they quickly bound his feet and hands, taped his mouth shut and draped a black hood over his head.

“Let’s get the hell outa here,” one agent yelled to Brown who was behind the wheel again.

Minerva Johnson, who had witnessed the events through her kitchen window, rushed out into her front yard in time to see the van squeal around the corner and disappear out of sight.

“Lord, have mercy,” she said.

Sweat ran down
Ert Robert’s nose as he worked at his desk. A hometown boy who had come back to practice law, he stayed busy doing all the things local lawyers do in small East Texas towns. Personal injury and criminal cases consumed most of his time. His stint as a prosecutor had given him the trial experience that had served him well through the years. Town folks knew him as a nice guy, who happened to be a pretty good lawyer.

“Greenpea,” he called to his secretary. “Where’s Josh? He should have been here by now.”

Josh was always on call. Seldom would more than a few minutes pass before he called back to find out what needed fixing.

Minutes turned into a couple of hours as the sun rose higher in the sky, parching the land with heat that had remained constant since May.

“You want me to call him again?”

“Let’s give him a little longer,” Ert said.

Ert had seen Josh earlier that morning at the coffee shop. He figured he was at someone else’s place toiling to get the AC working.

The coffee shop crowd was a fixture at Kilgore’s Circle Café where Ert served as toastmaster. This morning’s discussion had centered on the current hot topic, queers marrying.

“Brother Billy, what do you make of it?” one of the guys asked the pastor of the First Baptist Church.

“The good book says it’s an abomination,” Brother Billy responded. “If we don’t get a handle on it, the Lord will punish our land. September 11
^th
was nothing but His way of giving us a wake-up call,” he added.

“The Lord let those Muslim terrorists kill all those innocent people because some gay guys in New York City wanted to marry each other?” Ert asked. “Don’t you think that’s a little extreme on His part?”