The Constantine Conspiracy (31 page)

“You sure that’s all you meant?”

Pops grinned and shook his head. “Get back to me with your decision, Son. I’ll wait to hear.” He shifted to the edge of his seat, almost out of the limo, but Rick stopped him with a tug of the arm.

“Where you headed tomorrow?”

“Funeral, Justice Toliver, an old family friend. Knew your grandmother, mother too. She was like an aunt to her, did you know that?”

“I’m going to see Mom.”

“Good, she’ll like that.” He moved again, but Rick held him still.

“You think Mom knows anything about the Conspiracy?”

“I need to go.”

With that he removed Rick’s hand and stepped out, leaving Rick alone to ponder his future—follow his granddad as Master of the Conspiracy or step into a life of relative poverty. At the moment, neither of the choices appealed to him and he doubted they ever would.

37

Wednesday, midday

R
ick had spent the rest of the night and all the next morning stewing in a mixture of emotional juices. The idea of leading the Conspiracy left him cold, but the thought of losing his wealth and celebrity felt no better. He thought of talking to Shannon, but Pops’ warning about her left him confused and wary, so he left her alone.

Unsure about his next move, he decided to visit his mom, so he called four guards, loaded two of them into his personal SUV and told the second pair to follow. He slipped into traffic past his gates, the media flock behind him like ducks following their mother. He reached Rolling Hills just after lunch, left the media at the security gate, then parked and trudged to his mom’s room. As always, she wore tailored clothing—subtle tan slacks and a green silk blouse—pearls around her neck, and simple but classic black pumps. Not a hair out of place and her makeup smooth on her clear skin. She barely looked up when he entered, her eyes glued to a television screen.

“Hey, Mom,” he said as he sat down beside her. “I told you I’d come back soon. You doing okay?”

She glanced at him but only for a second, then shifted her attention back to the television. A reporter stood in front of the Supreme Court Building talking about the burial of the recently deceased Justice Michele Toliver. Rick studied his mom, her rigid posture, the strength of her face. Too bad her mind had broken. A deep grief overwhelmed him and he found it tough to keep his feelings in check.

“I’m taking you home in a few days, Mom,” he said. “I promised you that, I just have to work through a few more things first.”

“Home here, home here,” she said without looking at him. “Home here.” She started rocking and Rick squatted beside her and hugged her with his one good arm as she moved.

“I miss you, Mom,” he said, his eyes moist. “Miss you so much.”

“Home here,” she said. “Home here.”

He hugged her for another minute, then eased back to his chair. The television screen shifted images, to the green grass, hardwood trees, and headstones of a graveyard.

“Justice Toliver’s last instructions rejected the traditional burial in Arlington National Cemetery,” the reporter said. “So she will be buried instead here in Junction City, Missouri, the city of her birth.”

“A friend,” his mom said, pointing to the screen.

“Justice Toliver?”

His mom nodded. “Old friend, family friend.” She picked up an envelope from the table by her chair and held it out to Rick. “Go to funeral,” she said as he opened the envelope and examined the invitation to Toliver’s burial. “Dead and gone, dead and gone, everybody dead and gone.”

Rick searched his memory as he read the invitation but couldn’t recall any connection to the dead judge, so he handed back the invitation, then took his mom’s hands and held them. “I need to ask you something,” he said.

She glanced at him, then reverted to the television.

“Did Dad ever mention a group called the Conspiracy? Say anything about Pops being connected to it?”

“Cons,” his mom said. “Cons, cons, cons.”

“Yes, Mom, I told you about that. Dad wrote that on his computer, right before his death. CONS for conspiracy.”

“Cons, conspiracy, cons, constipated, cons.”

Rick sighed with grief as his mom continued. “Conservation, cons, constitution, cons, Constantinople, cons, conscription, cons, cons, cons.”

Rick marveled at the word association going on in his mom’s head. “Did Dad ever say anything about Pops and the Conspiracy?” he asked again.

“Pops, popsicle, pop goes the weasel,” she said. “Snap, crackle, and pop. Popeye, Pops, Pops, Pops.”

“You’re a trip, Mom,” he said, shaking his head. “A real trip.”

“Mom’s a trip, Mom’s a trip.”

Silence fell for several seconds. The television went to a commercial and his mom turned to him. “Rick,” she said as if seeing him for the first time.

“Yes, Mom, right here, it’s me. I’m taking you home soon.”

“Steve’s dead,” she said.

“I know Mom.”

“I miss Steve,” she said.

“So do I, Mom.”

“You’re here.”

He squatted again and put his good arm around her shoulders. “I’m right here.”

She raised her eyes and scanned the room. “Pop’s a weasel,” she said to the ceiling. “Pop’s a no-good, crawl-out-of-a-hole weasel.”

Rick leaned closer but said nothing while his mother’s eyes finished sweeping the room. Finally, she faced him again. “Home,” she whispered. “Afraid to go home, afraid, afraid, afraid.”

“Of what, Mom? Tell me.”

Mrs. Carson glanced left, right, and over her shoulder, then leaned in close as if to tell a secret. “The weasel, the weasel, Pop goes the weasel.”

“You’re afraid of Pops? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Mrs. Carson scanned the room once more and held her index finger over her lips, a warning to hold his voice down. “Watch the weasel, the weasel, the weasel.”

“Pops?” Rick tried again. “Why are you afraid of Pops?”

“Weasel hard to catch, weasel hard to find, watch for the weasel, weasel take your mind.”

“What?” Rick whispered. “What are you trying to tell me?”

The commercial ended and Mrs. Carson examined the room once more, then her attention shifted back to the news and she said nothing else. Rick held her as she shivered, and the reporter outlined again the unconventional news of a justice who wanted her heirs to lay her to rest in the graveyard of her hometown.

38

W
hen Rick left his mom, he headed straight to Shannon’s room. No matter what Pops thought of her, he needed to talk to her about this. To his relief he found her sitting up, her eyes bright. “You look better,” he said, pulling up a chair.

“I feel stronger, my lungs are clearing. What about you?”

“Shoulder is good, almost like new. My sling should come off in a day or so.”

“Where have you been?”

“I picked up Pops at the airport last night, had a long talk with him. Spent the night trying to figure things out, then went to see Mom today. I’m bringing her home soon as I can.”

“That’s good, Rick, real good.”

He took Shannon’s hands and rubbed them for several seconds. “Pops admitted the Conspiracy,” he finally said.

“That’s interesting.”

He quickly repeated what Pops had told him.

“How did he explain your dad’s death?” Shannon countered. “Said a rogue ally did it while trying to kill me. Seems I’m next in line to lead the band and the murderer wanted me out of the way so he could have a shot at it.”

Shannon squeezed his hands. “The Succession,” she said. “It goes to a male heir first, if one exists and he accepts it.”

“Pops said I’ll lose everything if I don’t accept the role.”

“Everything?”

“Money, status, all I’ve known since birth.”

“You can live without all that,” Shannon said. “Normal people do it all the time.”

“I’m not normal people.”

“Sure you are.”

“I’ve never thought of myself that way.”

Shannon raised her eyebrows. “Maybe you should.”

Rick considered the idea for several seconds but didn’t like where it led so he dropped it and focused on the most pressing reason he’d rushed to see Shannon. “I think Mom is afraid of Pops,” he said.

“That’s odd.”

“Tell me about it. I think she’s trying to communicate something, but it comes out all mixed up, hard to follow, figure out.” He described the conversation with his mother.

“Watch the weasel?” Shannon asked.

“Yeah, nutty, huh? She said ‘Pops is a no-good, crawl-outof-a-hole weasel.’”

“I had a thought,” Shannon said. “Why is your mom at Rolling Hills in the first place? As much money as your family has, why isn’t she at home?”

“I never thought about it. Better care at Rolling Hills, I guess. They’re more equipped to handle her—barred windows, medical staff in place, things like that.”

“But your family could afford all that, right?”

“Of course.”

Shannon’s words came slowly as she said them, almost as if measuring each one to see if it fit. “So maybe she is afraid, doesn’t want to live too close to your grandfather.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know, she’s your mother. But weasels are crafty, known for their guile.”

“Weasels live in holes in the ground, out of sight, tunnels running here and there.”

“Weasel words, words you can’t trust, words that a person speaks to get out of something, to keep from revealing the whole truth.”

“All of that could fit . . . if we accept that Pops is a weasel.” Shannon smiled briefly, then shifted back to serious issues. “He’s confusing you with his confession, you know that, don’t you? It’s a smart maneuver—tell part of the truth to keep the rest of it, the most vital part, hidden.”

“The man posing as your dad did that. Made me believe him, almost got you killed.”

“Your grandfather is doing the same thing.”

“You could be doing it too. That’s what Pops says.”

Shannon chewed a thumbnail for a moment. “Yes, I could. So you have to make a decision who to believe.”

Rick dropped his head into his hands. “I’m lost, Shannon,” he confessed. “I have no idea what to do, who to trust. Everything Pops said makes sense. But then you tell me something totally different and it makes sense too. And Mom, she’s out of her tree, but she’s telling me something.” Shannon shifted to one elbow and propped her chin in her hand. “I was lost too, Rick. But I found a way out, not on my own, of course, but with God’s help—”

He threw up a hand to stop her. “Don’t go there. I’ve already told you—that’s not for me. I’ll find my way through this, no help from your precious Jesus.”

“Why do you do that?”

“What?” He studied her eyes, saw anger in them. “Do what?”

“That ‘precious Jesus’ sarcasm. It’s mean, not like you, least what I’ve heard when you’re talking about other things. Why such a sore spot about the Lord?”

Rick hesitated, not sure how to answer. “I’ve never thought about it,” he finally said. “Just the way I feel, I guess. I have a certain disdain for piety, Christianity in particular.”

“And I’m asking why. Somebody of faith hurt you somehow? Cheat you? Disappoint you?”

He shrugged. “Not that I can recall. To be honest, I’ve never known that many Christians—an Episcopalian here or there. Luisa and her son Tony, they’re more conservative, practicing Catholics, I think. But that’s about it. My parents didn’t run in religious circles.”

“So you’re operating out of ignorance, is that what you’re telling me?”

“To some extent, yeah, I suppose that’s true.”

Shannon sighed but didn’t criticize. The silence hung between them and Rick recognized she was right; he’d dismissed her beliefs for inappropriate reasons. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Not for rejecting your faith but for acting so superior toward it without ever hearing it out. That’s dishonest and snobbish, and I hate that in people.”

“I do too.”

“Won’t happen again.”

Shannon reached for his hands again and he took hers and held them.

“I have no doubt you believe what you’ve said about Pops,” he said. “But you understand why I can’t accept it, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Sure. But he’s fogging things up and we’re running out of time. I got a call from a superior earlier. A tsunami is coming, mark my words. They’ve talked to Mabel. It’s going to be a public event. Less than two weeks. We don’t know where, when, or what, but clouds are gathering. We need you to search things out, but I won’t push you—you have to discover this for yourself. I just hope it’s not too late.”

“I won’t accept the Succession,” Rick assured her. “I’ve made that decision. No matter what it costs me, that path isn’t for me.”

“I’m thankful for that, at least.”

“I’ll be pretty broke, without a job. And I’ll have no friends, or only a few.”

She patted his hand. “You’ll get a job, make new friends.” “I don’t have any skills.”

“A Harvard man? No skills? Spare me. You can always teach.”

“That’d be a hoot, me in a class of tenth graders teaching English.”

They sat still for several minutes while the sun dropped. Rick watched Shannon, the smooth rhythm of her breathing, the simple elegance of her face.

“Pops asked me if I was falling for you,” he said.

She said nothing.

“Why don’t we just leave here?” he whispered. “You and me. I’ve got a few dollars left. We’ll run away from everything.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” she said quietly. “We’ve known each other less than two weeks.”

“Who cares about that?” he warmed to the idea as he spoke. “We ditch the chaos. You’re right, I can teach, I can do a lot of things, you can too. No problem. We’ll be normal people, like you said.”

She shook her head. “Look, Rick, I care for you, more than I can say. But . . . you’re in fantasy land, searching for a way out of a confusing situation. A few days after running off with me, you’ll be looking for somebody new.”

“You don’t have much faith in me, do you?’

Shannon sighed. “Look, Rick, you’re not a believer, that’s your choice. But that means we’re different, too different. I’m not one of your one-night-and-gone girls.”

“I realize that—why do you think I’m attracted to you?”