Ameristocracy (7 page)

Suddenly, the wet reins slip from Jack’s hands. He almost tumbles off, but grabs the horse’s mane just in time as the horse jumps the hedge! “
Aaaaggghhhh
!!”

Charles walks down a street in D.C, his mind racing.
He’s
deep in thought. A car rounds the corner behind him, and rolls up behind him. Charles cocks his head, senses it following him.

He starts moving faster. He’s about to break into a full sprint when the car lurches forward and cuts him off. The passenger door flies open and Charles looks inside.

It’s
Maggie. She stares at Charles. “Charles Long?”

“Who wants to know?” asks Charles, curious.

“A friend of Jack’s,” replies Maggie.

Meanwhile, Jack rides the horse through thick foliage, trying to stick to a thin, winding trail.
He’s
starting to look exhausted and, as his energy fades, he leans down against the horse’s neck, resting against the grand beast.

His eyes close
momentarily
, but flick open when the loud noise of a shotgun breaks through the silence. The horse spooks and tears into the thick bushes as Jack
struggles
to hold on. Branches fly everywhere as the horse thunders into the bush.

Jack loses his grip on the horse’s reins as the horse tears down a steep hill. He clings onto the animal for dear life, but falls off when the horse makes a tight turn to avoid a cliff-like descent.

“
Aaagghhh
!!”
Jack screams as he hurtles down the embankment. Dirt has turned into mud and he slides past numerous bushes, coming to a stop a few seconds later. He takes a few deep breaths before standing. He glances around. His eyes come to rest upon a hidden cottage.

Surrounded by heavy brush,
it’s
clearly designed not to be noticed. Jack starts to walk towards it,
then
pauses.
Thinks.
He then resumes his walk as he marches up to the front door. He knocks and waits.
No answer.

Jack starts to knock again, but before he makes contact, the door draws open, revealing Thomas Miller, a living, breathing contradiction. Half survivalist,
half intellectual
. Cargo pants, t-shirt revealing rippling muscles, reading glasses perched atop his nose, a smart gleam in his eye. “Who are you?”

“Thomas Miller?”

“I said, who are you?”

“Jack Mitchell.”

Thomas grins when he hears the name. “So you are...” He turns and heads inside, leaving the door open as an invitation to follow him.

Jack does, and after getting a drink of water from the sink, he sits down.

Thomas stares at him from across the room. “Internet says it’s the biggest manhunt since those snipers.
Doesn’t
matter what you did or didn’t do. All that matters is what they say you did. For all intents and purposes, you might as well have.”

“Unbelievable...” mutters Jack.

“So what are you doing here?”

Jack looks at him. “My father spoke of you before he died. Like he wanted me to come see you, but couldn’t say it out loud.”

Thomas staggers and stumbles backwards before clutching the counter to steady himself. The news of Spencer’s death clearly shakes him. “He’s dead?
 
I’m sorry, that’s just…”

“Tragic,” breaks in Jack.

“To say the least.
God, all we lived through in the Army, everything since, but now, to hear you say it... Spencer’s gone.”

A long, tense moment.
Neither says a word, both casting looks to the floor, both remembering Jack’s father. Then Thomas speaks. “Well, no point keeping a secret anymore...” He makes his way over to the bookcase and takes out a book. He pulls a lever and the bookcase slides open to reveal a secret room.

He enters the room and Jack follows.
It’s
a conspiracy theorist’s dream.
Newspaper clippings on the walls.
Printed pages from
blogs
.
Photos.
But
it’s the subject matter that is so compelling. Kennedy, Oswald, Ruby. Lincoln, Booth. Dick Cheney, Saddam Hussein.
The World Trade Centers.

And
in the very center, a detailed chart connecting surveillance photos of scores of high-profile men and women to one central symbol in the middle: the flag crown.
The symbol of the Ameristocracy.

Thomas speaks. “Your father was feeding me info about the Ameristocracy for years. It was his little way of fighting back even when he
couldn’t
be seen taking up arms against it. I put that info out there.”

Jack realizes that Thomas is the very conspiracy theorist that he has been communicating with all along.
 
“So you’re the guy online…”

“The one and only.
A lot of
people hear what I have to say, but few know my face. Good way to be in my estimation.”

“Sounds great to me right now.”

“Yeah, you’re upside-down in that equation right now.
But
things will get straight soon enough.
So long as the truth gets heard.”

Jack shakes his head, realizing something. “Wait... If
you’re
... Then you sent me to Donald William.”

Thomas nods. “I guess I did.
I’m
sorry it turned so ugly, but I assure you, my intentions were good. You see, William was a regular reader since I identified the origin lab from the anthrax letters. Probably
didn’t
realize I could reverse analyze the feed and find out who was reading. Point is, he had the info, so when you started posting questions about the Ameristocracy, I figured
I’d
send you his way.

“Well, at least the word’s getting out there.
Whatever the consequences.”

Thomas nods. “You’ll be glad to know the increase in chatter has been overwhelming lately. In fact...” He glances over at the running computer at the desk. “I was IM-
ing
with someone about it when you showed up at my door.”

Jack stares at him. “Thomas, this is real.
Very real.
More than something to speculate about, more than something to
blog
about.”
He pauses, thinks,
then
resumes. “Something’s going to happen.”

“What?”

“I don’t know exactly. I need to…”

“Build the case.”

Jack looks at Thomas and smiles. “You have been talking to my dad.”

Thomas grimly smiles. “He liked to give advice.” He steps out of the way and Jack moves forward, scanning the room and putting the pieces together in his head.

A series of images flash through his mind...
The cuff links, Donald William’s dead body, the SUVs chasing the limo, Spencer dying.

“They’re taking down anyone who stands in their way,” yells out Jack.

“But who?” questions Thomas.

Jack closes his eyes and another image flashes through his mind…
Lombard
walking through the White House and Phelps interceding to stop Jack from talking to him further.
Then Lombard saying to Jack, “We’re bringing change to Washington...”

Jack spins, grabs Thomas by the arms and shakes him. “They’re going to assassinate the president in the White House!”

Jack’s eyes dart around the room, picking up more and more information, working on overdrive as he puts the whole plan together in his head. “They’re going to kill the president, blame it on Islamic terrorists and consolidate power.”

Thomas nods. “It’s Lincoln all over again. Kennedy…”

“Not if we stop it,” breaks in Jack.

“What do you have in mind?”

Jack spots a phone on the corner of the desk. “Can I use that?”

“Safe call?”

“About the only one I could make right now.” He puts a call through to Maggie’s desk at the police station. No one answers. He hangs up.

“Well? Any other contacts?” asks Thomas.

Jack thinks. He produces the picture his father gave him. Spencer’s blood
is smeared
on the photo, including a bloody thumbprint on Wilcox’s chest. He mutters to himself. “Know who to trust...”

He puts a phone call through to the station again, but this time to someone else.

Wilcox answers almost straight away. “This is Wilcox.”

Jack hesitates, unsure of how to begin. They both swim in the dead air.
Then…
“Chief.”

“Jack?”

“I’m being set up,” says Jack.

“Jack,
you’ve
 
gotta
stop running. Bring yourself in.”

“It’s Frederick Phelps.
The war hero.
He’s
the one who killed William.
And my father.”

“Spencer?”

“Yeah, Chief.
He’s gone.”

“I’m sorry, son.”

“Me too.
That’s
why you’ve got to help me get these guys. Phelps is working for a secret organization called the Ameristocracy, and
they’re
plotting something big. The president is in danger. Are you getting this?”

“Just come back and help us, Jack. If
you’ve got
information, you need to come back and work with us. We’re all worried about you.”

Jack tenses, analyzing Wilcox’s tone. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

We can’t straighten
all of this
out as long as you’re a fugitive.”

“You’re just
gonna
lock me up and call it a day, aren’t you? Do I sound like a killer, Chief?”

No answer.
Jack tries again. “Do I?”

Wilcox replies. “You sound like those conspiracies finally made you crack! We can help you, but you’ve
gotta
come back before things get worse.”

Jack slams down the phone in frustration. He casts a weary glance up to Thomas. “We may need to stray from the traditional approach here.”

Thomas grins. He likes Jack’s style. “Manpower won’t be the problem.”

Jack frowns. “No? Then what will?”

“Access,” answers Thomas.
“Into the White House.”

“Well...” considers Jack. “I’ve been able to do that.”

“Since you’ve become a fugitive?”

Jack thinks about it and realizes Thomas is right. Nonetheless, picks up the phone again and dials.

“I’m guessing you’re not calling the appointment secretary,” grimly smiles Thomas.

Jack waits for the cell phone to ring and then hears a voice answering. “Agent
Long
speaking.”

“Charles...”

“Jack, I can’t help you anymore.”

“I just need you to get me inside. We…”

“No. And that’s final.”

“Charles…”

“Goodbye, Jack. Don’t call me again.”

Jack hangs up the phone and stares down into his drink.

“Not the friend you thought he was, huh?” ponders Thomas.

Jack shakes his head. Thomas sees the hurt in his eyes.
“Tough being alone.
Low on allies.
But
they’ll come.
Best to focus on the task at hand, figure it out.”

“Figure what out?”

“Who.
And why.”

“I’m just trying to stop them. That’s all that matters.”

Thomas looks at Jack. “Who stands to gain from killing the president?”

“The Vice President?” queries Jack.

Thomas nods.
“Naturally.
Anyone else?”

“Look at the Renewed Society plan.
A lot of
people want to derail it. Oil companies, drug companies, defense contractors, health insurers, mortgage bankers.
Could be any of them.”

“Could be all of them.”

Jack slumps at the sobering thought.

Night falls over the city and Jack’s house
is surrounded
. Two police cruisers sit parked out front. Countless news vans fill up the street all around. Throngs of curious bystanders stare from across the street. In the upstairs window, Nancy’s face is visible.

She watches the commotion. Behind her, Jack’s computer room
is taped
off with yellow crime scene tape.

Nancy finally pulls away from the window and turns her attention to a framed photo of Jack in his police uniform. She swallows hard, unsure what to think anymore.

As the sun slowly rises, a man approaches the cottage, moving slowly, looking around nervously. He makes his way to the front door and knocks.