The Constantine Conspiracy (6 page)
“Are you part of the Replenishment Movement?” asked another reporter, a black man with a gray beard.
Cobb reminded herself to stay calm. “Not officially, although we do agree with the basic message of that advocacy group—the view that white Americans should increase their birth rate.”
“You’re afraid that the white race is about to lose its place of prominence in American society aren’t you? That people of color will soon outnumber Caucasians?”
“I don’t know that I’m afraid of it, but the demographics show that as a truth. People of color are reproducing at a far faster rate than Anglos. By 2030, whites will no longer hold the majority position they’ve traditionally held in our nation.”
“Men and women who practice polygamy also typically reject birth control, don’t they?”
Cobb knew exactly where the reporter was headed and appreciated that direction since it brought her closer to what the stocky man wanted her to say to the public. “You’re correct in that assumption.”
“Do you believe that the practice of polygamy might assist whites like yourself in the effort to maintain the current balance of political power?”
“That is a possibility and I’m glad for it.”
“Don’t you think that’s racist? The notion that whites should continue to dominate the political spectrum?”
“Is it racist to feel proud of your race? If so, then blacks, Asians, Native Americans are all racist, are they not? We’ve seen the movements in their communities to support pride in their race. Why is it wrong for a white to do so?”
“But to the extent you’re doing it?” The black man’s words came faster. “Supporting polygamy so you can have more children so you can maintain political power? And all because you believe that God wants you to do this? Isn’t that what you’re saying? God supports you in this?” The reporter snickered with the last question.
Cobb drew to her full height and smiled inwardly. At last she had the chance to say the words for which she’d received the two million dollars. Words that she personally didn’t believe but had gladly agreed to speak, given the price paid.
“Laugh if you want,” she asserted to her audience. “But hear this clearly: I believe this with all my heart—I support polygamy because I think it makes glad the heart of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”
A
lthough Shannon Bridge typically followed procedure in all situations, this one demanded a slight deviation from that course. For the greater good, she reminded herself as she worked up the courage to do what she had to do. Alter a few things in a way that wouldn’t hurt anyone in order to change something that might harm many.
Back in Steve Carson’s bedroom, Shannon knew she had only a minute to make things right before the cops saw what she didn’t want them to see. She rushed to the body, bent to the ruby-handled knife, and pried it from the wound. Then she laid it down and pulled out the knife from the sleeve on her ankle. Her hands shaking, she carefully inserted the hunting knife into Carson’s hand, then slipped the ruby-handled weapon into the now-vacant ankle sleeve. Finished with the gruesome work, she stepped away, her body pouring sweat, her heart pounding under her ribs like a drunken drummer.
As Rick Carson sped east, he had no clear plan for what to do next. Although part of him wanted to head straight for his grandfather and the protection offered by his vast resources, he had no desire to bring any added stresses to Pops, as the family called him. It wasn’t that Pops couldn’t handle tough situations—heaven knew the man had dealt for years with enough pressure to crush an anvil—but at eighty-three years old, one more stone might finally prove too heavy. Plus, he didn’t see Pops much anymore, not since his dad and mom . . .
Rick pushed away the unpleasant memory and punched in Pops’ number on Luisa’s cell phone. Regardless of the past, the old man deserved to hear today’s news from him, not from some strange detective showing up on his doorstep with his hat in his hands. The phone reached an answering machine, and Rick, unwilling to leave a message about something so important, hung up.
He passed a truck in the Hummer. Where to go next? A long list of names ran through his head—scores of past girlfriends and partying buddies of all stripes, notorious celebrities who littered his days and nights with their company. But none of them seemed right. Odd, he thought, turning left toward Wolf Creek, the nearest town east of Solitude. In a moment of crisis he, a man with a face known to millions and a Blackberry filled with the private numbers of hundreds of people, knew of no one person to whom he felt comfortable turning.
He slowed as he neared Wolf Creek. One thing he knew for certain—within the hour the cops would publish a public alert for his vehicle, so he needed a different mode of transportation in a hurry. He pulled his cash from the case beside him and quickly counted just over a hundred thousand dollars. He reached Main Street as he tucked the money away again, and his eyes scanned the area, hoping but not expecting to see a motorcycle somewhere. With no bike in sight, he turned into the parking lot of a small restaurant and checked it over, spotted a clean, used black pickup near the front door. Okay, showtime. He tugged on the Bulldog baseball cap, grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment, settled them over his eyes, and climbed out.
Five minutes later and twelve thousand dollars lighter in his cash, he stepped out of the restaurant with a middle-aged man from whom he’d just bought the pickup, unloaded his belongings from the Hummer, and piled them into the truck as the man finished getting his things from his vehicle.
“Take care,” Rick said, climbing behind the wheel of his new transportation.
“You leaving that Hummer?” the man asked.
“A friend will pick it up later.”
“Lucky friend.”
Rick shut the door as the man stepped away. From out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a police car driving slowly toward the restaurant. His hands shaking, he sat up straighter, turned the ignition, and backed up. The cop stopped at the red light and glanced his way. Rick nodded slightly, slipped the truck into drive and turned right, drove by the policeman, and headed out of town.
Shannon Bridge disliked hiding anything, but for reasons only she knew she didn’t tell Officers Russell and Baker, the two cops who showed up with the ambulance, that Rick Carson had pulled a gun on her. Neither, of course, did she mention the fact that she’d switched the knives.
“I couldn’t stop Carson,” she explained simply as Luisa led the group to the bedroom where Steve Carson’s body lay. “I threatened him, pursued him. But he beat me to his vehicle, headed East.” All that was true; not a lie in any of it.
The cops stopped outside the room and faced Luisa to question her, but she shook her head and looked terribly confused. “No Englais,” she said insistently, “no Englais.”
Momentarily giving up on her, they ordered her to stay put, then turned to Shannon again, and she led them inside the room.
Russell, the eldest of the cops, took the lead as they looked over the room. “Need some boys from Helena to take a look at all this,” he said as he slipped on gloves and moved around the scene. “They’ll bring in all the gizmos, tag and bag everything, all that fancy stuff. This is way past what we can handle in Wolf Creek.”
Shannon pointed them to the computer and the three-word statement on the printout.
“What you reckon that means?” Russell asked Baker, pointing to the words.
“A puzzler for sure,” Baker said, looking at the printout without touching it. “But looks like a deliberate drug OD to me. We got a needle and a note, no signs of an intruder. Expect this place is videoed, right?”
“The knife is a little odd though, don’t you think?” Shannon asked. “What kind of person does that to himself?”
Russell studied the hand wound for several seconds. “Who can figure rich folks?” he asked, a touch of disdain tinting his tone as he moved back to the desk. “They do all kinds of foolish things.” He tugged on the desk drawers but found them all locked.
“So what do you think?”
“Above my pay grade to think much of anything,” Russell said, taking off the gloves and scratching his nose. “But if it is foul play, I’d bet on the son—maybe a dispute, money or something. The kid injects the old man with the drugs, then uses the knife for some kinky reason only his therapist can figure. I’d sure like to talk to that boy, that’s what I’d like to do. Too bad you couldn’t keep him still till we got here. You say he left in a Hummer, just drove away?”
Shannon almost mentioned Rick’s weapon but again refrained. Although she had no reason for it, she sensed something good in him. A fault of hers, she knew, always looking for the best in people, always believing in a person’s virtues more than their failures. But she couldn’t help it. Her personal experience told her that no matter how low a person sunk, they could mend their ways if they wanted.
Baker’s walkie-talkie squawked, and he clicked it on and walked out of the room to answer. Russell raked his eyes over the scene once more, then shook his head and left with Baker. Shannon waited behind, her instincts telling her that something—she couldn’t figure what—was left undone. She checked over the desk once more but saw nothing new, so she paused and stood over the body. What happened here?
Poor Steve Carson, she thought. No matter how he died, he didn’t deserve it; so senseless, so violent.
Shannon started to leave, but Luisa suddenly entered the room, a finger to her lips, asking for quiet. “Here,” she whispered, handing Shannon a tiny key. “I remembered this. Mr. Carson gave it to me two, three weeks back, said if anything happened to him I should give it to Rick, but Rick’s gone so I . . . you deliver it to him.”
“Did Mr. Carson tell you what it unlocked?”
“No, just said give it to Rick.”
Acting on a hunch, Shannon peeked past the door, heard Baker and Russell down the hallway but out of sight. “How’d you get past them?” she asked Luisa.
“Come up back stairs.”
Shannon nodded, then quickly grabbed the key and rushed to the locked desk drawers. She slipped the key into each drawer in succession and each one opened. The first three were completely empty, almost as if recently cleaned out. But the bottom right drawer held a small metal box, also locked.
She checked on Russell and Baker again and heard them drawing closer, their voices more audible.
“Go,” she whispered to Luisa. “Out!”
“Here,” Luisa answered, handing her a slip of paper. “My cell phone number. You call Mr. Rick if you want.”
Shannon took the paper, stuffed it in her pocket and waved Luisa away. Then she yanked the metal box from the drawer, unlocked it with the same key, and found a miniDVD inside. For a moment her conscience kicked in and she hesitated, but then she moved past her guilt, grabbed the DVD, and slid it and the key into her back pocket. Then she dropped the box back into the drawer and shoved it shut just as Russell and Baker stepped into the room.
Atlanta
N
ot everybody hired by the stocky man accepted his job because of the money. So far as Buster Will cared, the emotionless robot who hired him could take the million bucks and buy a lifetime supply of personality with it. Buster wanted face time instead of money—Fox News, CNN, internet blogs,
New York
freaking
Times
. His face plastered over anything and everything for days on end. He foresaw books written about him, people studying his life, the whys and wherefores of his motivation.
Just like them Columbine
boys,
he figured.
Historic dudes, those kiddos.
“Do the deed,” the stocky guy told him. “The press will follow.”
Buster smiled as he imagined the results of the havoc he’d wreak. The FBI would drive his three-room trailer to one of their labs, take it apart piece by piece, and study every inch. Police psychologists would pore over his spotty school records hoping to find clues to his troubles. The military would hand over his files—reveal his exploits in Iraq, the suspicion of assault on an Iraqi woman in addition to the numerous ribbons he’d collected for bravery and duty. They’d declare him a man of contradictions or something complicated like that. Doing a good thing one day, something wicked the next. Somebody would visit his momma in prison and ask her about his childhood, his bad grades, spotty school attendance, his six years in a foster home after his momma went to jail for meth use. Somebody would point out that he never knew his daddy. The softheaded do-gooders would excuse his deeds; blame his environment, his momma. They’d find somebody to point out that he’d been abused as a boy—tied to a radiator, beaten with a broom handle, left out in the cold in February—all that nonsense.