The Constantine Conspiracy (20 page)

Charbeau knew from the outset that Mabel Bridge offered him a most unusual challenge. Women like her knew a lot about hard knocks, and that made them largely immune to his normal tactics. Although beating her up would eventually break her, he suspected she wouldn’t crack fast enough for him to find Carson in the time frame he needed to find him. He also knew that offering cold hard cash would just insult her. Women, not even the weakest of them, didn’t generally put their kids in danger to beef up their bank account.

“You know who I am?” he asked Mabel, his face close to hers as she sat shackled in a straight chair beside her bed.

“I don’t know your name, but I know of your work,” she said calmly.

“I take it you’re not impressed by what I do.”

“Enemies of the Lord never impress me.”

He laid a hand on her cheek and patted it gently, but she tried to bite him, so he jerked his hand away before her teeth landed. “I see you’re not totally against violence.” He chuckled.

“Destroying evil by any means seems fine by my moral compass.”

“So you think I’m evil?”

“You don’t need me to answer that.”

“Where’s Rick Carson?” he asked, careful to avoid her teeth.

“Who’s he?”

“My momma always said I shouldn’t hit girls,” he said. “And I generally like to do what my momma said. But you’re pushing me hard.”

She snapped at him again and he smacked her lightly on the back of the head, then dodged left. “Games,” he said, “you want to play games.”

“It’s no game to me.”

“Where’s your daughter? You do know who she is, right?”

“She’s where you won’t find her.”

“Oh, I always find my prey, maybe not right off but soon enough.”

“You won’t find her by wasting your time trying to scare me.”

Charbeau chuckled and surveyed the room. Multiple photos decorated the walls. Shutters but no drapes covered the windows. A hand-carved cross hung on the wall over the center of the canopied bed. “You believe in Jesus, I see,” he said.

“With all my heart.”

“Where’s your Jesus now? Why ain’t he protecting you, your daughter?”

“She got away, didn’t she?”

“But you didn’t.” He faced her again. “Why is that? Why did the Lord let her escape but not you?”

“The Lord’s ways are mysterious. Not my place to understand all of them.”

He squatted to her but kept his distance from her teeth. “Look,” he offered gently. “I seen your type down in Louisiana all my life—Bible babes. My granny was just like you, tougher than dried shoe leather. Ladies like you got character, I get that. So I ain’t gone insult you with any more physical harm. I trust you’ll appreciate my generosity in that regard.”

“You’re a real sweetheart.”

“I need to find Carson,” he continued. “That’s all I want out of this. Not you, not your daughter. Just Carson.”

“Like I said, I don’t know anybody named Carson,” she lied again.

He shook his head. “I’m trying to be reasonable here, professional-like. But you ain’t cooperating.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

He paused, trying to figure a way out of his dilemma. Mabel perplexed him. “What do you care about Carson?” he asked. “And don’t give me that tripe that you don’t know the name of the man you just helped escape. What’s he to you? To your daughter?”

“So that’s his name.” She almost smiled. “Shannon likes him, I think, nothing to it but that.”

He sighed, suddenly weary of the banter. “I’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “Who you are, who your daughter is. When I do . . .”

“When you do, what?”

He paused and she filled the silence. “You’ve asked me who I am, who Shannon is. So let me ask you something—why do you want Carson? What’s he to you?”

Charbeau grunted. “I’m the one asking the questions here.”

“Suit yourself.”

Charbeau rubbed his head, a migraine threatening. He had to find a way to pry what he needed from Mabel. But how? Nothing threatened her, so that meant he had to offer her something she wanted. “Okay,” he finally said as an idea occurred to him. “I’ll offer you a trade.”

“You don’t have anything I want.”

“Not money, my dear, nothing as mundane as that.”

“Nothing else either.”

He stared into her eyes. “Clues,” he said. “The one thing that interests you—clues to who I am, who I work for, what we plan to do.”

“I won’t give anybody up, not even for that.”

He slapped her, harder this time, then jerked away to avoid her snapping teeth. “I don’t expect you to give me anybody,” he agreed. “We trade, one tidbit for another—fair for fair, tit for tat. You see how it’ll work?”

Mabel’s eyes searched his and he saw interest in her face. “We call it Operation Domino,” he offered. “It’s a big deal, believe me on that. Now it’s your turn. How far away is your daughter?”

Mabel hesitated; bit her lip as he waited.

“I won’t know the direction,” he parried. “You give me the mileage, that’s all.”

“Within five,” Mabel said. “That won’t help you much.”

“Most likely within two weeks,” Charbeau said.

“The timetable for your operation?” Mabel asked.

“You’re so astute. Carson and your daughter fled by boat, am I right?”

“Sure.”

Charbeau moved to the window and stared out. “They in a public or private place?”

“That’s two questions. Your turn before I give anything else. You’re behind the recent events, correct? The so-called Christians doing the awful things?”

“Of course we are,” he said, facing her again. “You wasted that one, my dear.”

Mabel dropped her head, disappointment written in her eyes.

“They in a public or private place?” he asked again.

“Private.” She looked up. “How many people involved in Domino?”

He shrugged. “Hard to say, depends on who shows up.”

“Who shows up? What does that mean?”

“We’re trading remember? Does Carson still have the cell phone he brought here?”

“No.”

Charbeau’s shoulders slumped. “I counted on using the cell to locate Carson.”

“Breaks my heart you’re so disappointed.”

“I’ll need to see the phone.”

“In my pocket,” she said, glancing at her apron. “No harm in giving it to you now.”

Charbeau pulled the phone out and dropped it in his back pocket.

“So this is a public event you’ll hit,” Mabel said. “Whoever shows up for it, right? An indefinite number means a public event.”

“True.” Charbeau weighed how much further to go. With the information he’d already gained, he knew enough to significantly narrow the search for Carson. A call to Mr. Augustine would place enormous resources at his disposal, enough to pinpoint every private home on the lake, to find any connections between Mabel Bridge and the owners of those homes.

“Do you own the place where they’re hiding?”

Mabel laughed but without joy. “I’m not so ignorant that I’d answer that,” she said.

“My guess is no,” Charbeau said. “Women like you don’t keep enough money to buy a second house. But somebody close to you, maybe a relative does own it, is that correct? Otherwise you wouldn’t feel comfortable sending Ms. Bridge there in the middle of the night.”

“I’m tired of this game,” Mabel said. “I’ve said all I’m going to say.”

Charbeau stooped to her, his chin within inches of her mouth. “In a moment I’ll leave you,” he said. “Then you’ll find a way to flip over your chair, drag yourself to the door, and holler for the neighbors. But I’ll have the location of your precious Shannon and her famous friend before that happens, and when I find them their nighttime escapades will end.”

“You harm them and you’ll regret it the rest of your miserable life.”

Charbeau shook his head. “I regret nothing, dear lady, never have and never will.”

Mabel snapped at him, but he’d already backed away, his body wracked with laughter as he flipped off the light and strode from the house. Mabel Bridge amused him, he concluded, almost enough for him to offer mercy to her daughter when he found her and her worthless companion.

24

R
ick finished his sixth peanut butter cracker while Shannon swallowed the last of a bag of trail mix she’d found in the pantry and threw the wrapper in a trash can in the kitchen. Feeling a bit stronger, he eased to a sitting position and watched with great interest as Shannon sat down again, lifted her backpack off the floor, and settled it in her lap.

“You well enough to talk a few minutes?” she asked.

“What’s in the backpack?” he asked in return.

“The answers to all your questions.”

“You can stuff all that into one backpack?”

“More than you’d think.”

He settled back, wincing as his shoulder touched the sofa. “Okay, mystery woman, illuminate me.”

“Once you know you can never again not know. You sure you’re ready for that?”

Rick stared at the spider webs in the ceiling’s corners for several seconds, then faced Shannon again. “A stranger murders my father, then you, my pretty protector, appear out of nowhere. I get shot in the middle of the night for reasons I can’t imagine. Now you tell me that your backpack contains the answers to all my questions. How can I refuse such knowledge?”

Shannon stood and stepped to the window, her back to him, and stared out. Sensing her indecision, Rick stayed still and watched her struggle with how much to reveal. When she pivoted his way again, her eyes were determined but also fearful.

“Did you watch the video I sent to your phone?” she asked.

“I’ve been racing to Destin and dodging bullets, so no, I never quite found the time. Then I left the phone with Mabel.”

“I taped a video from the television in the panic room,” she said. “That’s why your father left the code behind.”

“What’s on it?”

“It’s going to sound insane, but you have to hear it all before you say anything, reach any conclusions.”

“I’m all ears.”

Shannon perched on the seat across from him and started to talk. “The video showed a piece from a documentary. In AD 312 a Roman general named Constantine faced a general named Maxentius in a battle at the Tiber River outside of Rome. The stakes were as high as they could get—the winner of that battle would become the emperor of Rome. Maxentius’s forces outnumbered Constantine’s by almost four to one. The night before the fight Constantine saw a vision in a dream. Historians of the time say different things about what he saw, but most agree he saw a flaming sword, with a handle decorated with rubies shaped in the form of a cross.”

“Like the knife found with my dad.”

Shannon nodded. “Above the sword, Constantine saw four Latin words—‘
per is mucro, victum
.’”

“With this sword, conquer?” Rick asked.

“You know Latin?”

“High school, three years. I was a nerd, what can I say?” “You’re pretty funny for a guy with a bullet in his shoulder.”

“Just tell the story.”

Shannon smiled, then continued. “Before this vision, Constantine cared little about anything religious. Romans, as you probably know, worshiped all kinds of gods at the time—a pluralistic society. Constantine apparently believed in none of those gods.”

“Weren’t Christians persecuted before this happened?”

“On and off for three hundred years. Previous emperors slaughtered thousands of Christians. Called them traitors, blamed them for most of Rome’s problems. Many people believed they were cannibals.”

“As in the words of Jesus from the Lord’s Supper—this is my body, take and eat of it.”

“You’ve taken communion?”

“I had an Episcopalian girlfriend once.”

“Anyway, many people in ancient Rome took the words at face value—didn’t understand their spiritual meaning, believed Christians were eating people when they took the Supper.”

“So Constantine saw this dream the night before the biggest battle of his life?” Rick asked, eager for the story to continue.

“Yes, took it as a portent, a sign that he should pledge his allegiance to Jesus, not unusual in that era, leaders fighting in the name of this god or that one.”

“Not so unusual in this era either.”

“You’re right about that. So, the next morning before the fight, Constantine had his men mark their shields with a new symbol, the Chi and Rho, the X and P, the Greek letters for the name of Christ.”

“I take it he won the battle that day,” Rick stated.

“You should go on
Jeopardy
. Yes, he routed Maxentius and his men, took the throne of the Empire.”

Rick shifted position as his wound started to throb again. “An interesting history lesson. But what’s the link to me? Other than a knife decorated with ruby crosses impaling my father’s hand to his desk?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Enough for what? Connect the dots for me. How does a battle 1700 years ago tie to my dad’s death? And where do you come into this—what’s your role?”

Shannon stood again, then picked up her backpack and pulled out a book the size of a New York phone directory. “Here’s the part you won’t believe,” she said, sitting down beside him and opening the book. “The part I still have trouble accepting and I’ve known about it for . . . well, for a while.”