Angels Mark (The Serena Wilcox Mysteries Dystopian Thriller Trilogy) (7 page)

“We have ears in Kinji’s office.”

“You’re bugging the President’s office?”

“Oh don’t look so surprised. You’ve been getting your hands dirty your own self.”

“You know about that?”

“The pictures of her husband with the child. How did you do it?”

“What do you mean?”

President Williams arched an eyebrow. “Don’t play stupid with me. That kid isn’t his. She doesn’t even exist. How did you manage to airbrush a kid who looks the spitting image of him? I want the name of your guy.”

“Okay, you got me.” Paul shrugged. “I don’t know who did it. I have a team that works for me. They took a photo and morphed it, changed her features to look more like his. I hear it wasn’t that hard to do. He has an easy face to copy.”

“It’s good work. I want to use it.”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s nothing wrong with your hearing. I want to use it, you. You’re going to work for me now.”

“No one owns me.”

“Think again. I’ve caught you in this pathetic scheme of yours. What is it you were planning to do, anyway? Did you really think she would hire you if you blackmailed her? That was never going to happen.”

“I know her better than you think.”

“Oh, old school chums. Yes, I heard. Although I’m curious, why did you call it an Academy? My people tell me that your only childhood connection to Kinji is a babysitter in common. A Mrs. Mason, who we’d have talked to, but she’s deceased. Died from a freak accident in the home.”

Paul’s eyes registered the shock he felt.

“You didn’t know she was dead? What’s it to you? Answer me about the Academy bit.”

“We ran into each other when we were about sixteen or so. We made a joke about the old Academy days, Mrs. Mason headmaster. It was sarcasm. Warren Academy is a mobile home with nicotine-stained walls and mildewed furniture. We hated that place, and the nasty slug who ruled it; watching soaps all day, giving us nothing but animal crackers to eat and Kool-Aid to drink, telling us to shut up while puffing away on one cigarette after another.”

A familiar face appeared at that moment. It was the blonde aide from the tarmac. Paul always remembered another good-looking man. The aide produced coffee for the President; no offer was extended to Paul. The aide sat next to John and remained there for the duration of the conversation, which Paul found curious and off-putting. Now he had two sets of eyes starting him down.

“And that’s your only connection to Kinji?”

“Yes.”

“She came from humble beginnings, so did
you.”

“What’s your point?”

“No point. Forming a picture. Tell me why you wanted her to hire you.”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Son, I have no time for this. I have to meet Kinji myself in less than two hours. My staff can dig around and figure this out. If you make me wait for that I won’t be in a generous mood anymore.”

“Generous?”

“I want to hire you, Paul.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Tell me what I need to know. Then I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

“I wanted to work for her so that I could influence that Identity Chip bill. I want it to pass.”

“Ah, now I get it. You want fear mongering to bring more money into your church, your pocket in other words. You and your homely brother Cliff.”

“Clyde.”

John Williams waved his hand to indicate that Clyde’s name was irrelevant to him. “Your plan was, and is, ridiculous. But your blackmail photo is quite good. I hope you are paying those kids you’ve got running your computer lab. It’s not child slavery is it? You got them working in your cult for food and water?”

Paul’s eyes again registered surprise.

“Oh you didn’t think I knew all about your operation? Paul, my guys briefed me about your whole life in about fifteen minutes. It’s all right here.” He tapped the brown folder he held on his lap. “They said I could read it on one of them gadgets, but I like paper.”

Paul knew he was beaten, in way over his head. He was nothing but a two-bit con man compared to the President of the Liberty Union. “What do you want with me?”

“I want you to take that photo of yours to the media.”

“You want to embarrass her?”

“You don’t need to know my reasons. But yes. Making trouble for her keeps her off balance.”

“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

John snorted. “You ain’t no Boy Scout, Paul. You know politics can be messy.”

“Why didn’t you send one of your people to talk to me? Why is the President himself doing this?”

“You’re an oily little snake, Paul. You wouldn’t be loyal to a staffer. But you’ll be loyal to me, won’t you?” The President leaned forward and locked his steely blue-gray eyes with Paul’s. Satisfied, he relaxed his posture. “See? We understand each other.”

“That’s all you want me to do, leak the photo?”

“No. That’s not all.”

“Then what?
And what about hiring me?”

John chuckled. “Someone will pay you. You’ll find money in your account.
Untraceable to this office, of course.”

“And what do I have to do?”

“Leak the photo. My people will pick you up when I want you again.”

Paul tried to think of something more to ask, but couldn’t come up with anything.

“Paul, we’ll be watching you. Your church? It’s infested. Your home? It’s infested. My people say you have a bug problem. Feel like you’re being followed? You are.”

7

“All the leaves are brown…” Serena crooned into the microphone, aiming for a bluesy groove with her vocals.

“All the leaves are brown,” her daughters echoed.

“And the sky is gray,” she sang, feeling the lyrics heavily in her heart. Minnesota winters were harsh and long, so very long.

The girls echoed dispiritedly. Tom, their son, and their youngest daughter plucked away on their acoustic guitars. Serena tapped out a beat on the cowbell attachment on her snazzy red drum set, her Christmas present from Tom. Their eldest daughter played a pink electric guitar, which didn’t really fit the sound of this particular song, but no one cared. With no audience to worry about, their standards were relaxed.

Last year, while acclimating to their new life in a rural area, and avoiding popular family activities where they would be seen by too
many people, they joined a bluegrass group composed almost exclusively of friendly and warm senior citizens. The group welcomed their young son into the fold, teaching him how to play both the harmonica and the guitar. The rest of the family sat watching, week after week. Eventually the girls in the family felt comfortable singing along. Tom decided to take up an instrument, and was advised that the mandolin was an easy one to start with. After mandolin, he took up guitar.

One thing led to another, and before long the formerly-known-as Bridge family had evolved into their own family band. Now they stayed home and rehearsed their own line-up of songs. Sometimes they posted their sessions on the Internet to share with the world. By now, they didn’t seriously fear that anyone would recognize them.

America, just one year after the bombing, had already changed so much that no one would care who they were, or what had happened back then when the world fell apart. No, the Bridges would be left alone, and could probably shed their Meadows persona whenever they wanted. And they could leave Minnesota, where they were light and sun deprived and craving color.

But until Tom found a new job, here they were, suffering through another long frigid winter, with no warmth in sight. Jobs were hard to come by, and it would take a miracle to be on their way to a new life anytime soon. So, for now, they stayed in their roles as the Meadows family. To make themselves feel better they turned every light in the house on, lit their faux wood stove, and played music.

“I’d be safe and warm if I was in L.A.”

“If I was in L.A.,” the girls droned.

“California Dreamin’ on such a winter’s day…” Serena felt the tragedy of the song. There was no California post-bombing. Would life ever feel good again? How could the world recover from this evil? Would they ever recover?

She was shaken from her thoughts when the music came to an abrupt halt. She watched Tom bolt from the room. “Phone!” the kids yelled in unison.

Ah! Maybe a job offer!
Serena prayed silently. Unbeknownst to her, their three kids were doing the same thing.

Tom was back in a flash.
“Telemarketer.”

Everyone groaned, wallowed in self-pity for a moment, and then started back up again, “All the leaves are brown…” Their session went on for four more songs before they wrapped up their evening.

They always ended with the song “I’ll Fly Away”, and since snacks followed their music session, everyone moved fast after hitting the final note, all leaving the room at the same time. By the time they hit the last verse, “Just a few more weary days and then, I’ll fly away. To a land where joys shall never end. I’ll fly away…” they were hungry.

They scrambled up the stairs and into the kitchen, but Serena had fallen short with the grocery shopping and hadn’t prepared anything special for after-music snacks. Tom suggested that they go out, which was met with a round of cheers, a flurry of clothes-layering activity, and a mad dash to the mini-van, which was still drive-able, but barely. Once behind the wheel, he turned to Serena, “Where to? We could just go to Red Wing, or if you want to go someplace bigger we could go to the Cities.”

The kids immediately voted for the Cities, and Serena had no objection. They set off down their long gravel driveway. The kids plugged in their iPods while Tom and Serena chatted. The forty-five mile road trip was comfortable, even though the skies weren’t any cheerier than they’d been earlier in the day.

About half an hour into the trip, Tom interrupted Serena’s passenger-side conversation with him mid-sentence. “I think we’re being followed.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I know you haven’t been Serena Wilcox, private detective, for over a decade, but haven’t you noticed?” Tom glanced at the rearview mirror.

“No? You really think someone is following us?”

“Yeah.
He was on our road. I figured he’d be turning off eventually, but he’s still with us and we’re already in Apple Valley.”

“What are the odds someone would be on our road and still behind us? You must be right. Maybe someone saw us on those YouTube videos and recognized us. I knew we shouldn’t have put those up there.” Serena looked in the side-view mirror, wondering which car was tailing them.

“Why would anyone care about us?”

“I don’t know. Following up on the arson? Which car is following us?
The SUV right behind us?”

“No, he’s three cars back now. I don’t think it’s about the arson. Could be someone we know?”

“Here in Minnesota? I don’t think so. Everyone we’ve met here knows us as the Meadows. Besides, why would they follow us all the way to Apple Valley without signaling to us in some way?”

“What do you want me to do?”

The kids by now had taken interest in what their parents were talking about and all three were eavesdropping. Serena turned around in her seat to face them. “It’ll be okay, don’t worry.” She looked at Tom and said, “Pull over in the next populated parking lot you see, pick a restaurant.”

Tom came up on a restaurant quickly, as they were in the heart of Apple Valley. He parked the van in the first parking spot available. “What now?”

“Just wait. He’ll come to the van.”

A “gecko green” metallic VW beetle pulled into the parking lot and parked one space over.

“Is that him?”

“Yes.”

“How could I have missed
that
?” Serena laughed.

“Because you’re you.”

The driver of the VW unfolded himself from the tiny car quickly and easily, with the agility of a teenager. He strode purposely over to the mini-van.

“But I never forget a face. I know that guy,” Serena said quietly.

The young man approached the driver’s side of the van and stood patiently waiting for Tom to open the window. Tom glanced at Serena.

“I’ll explain later, go ahead and open the window,” she said.

Tom pressed the button to let down the driver’s side window, the only window control that was still operational on the mini-van. He looked expectantly at the blonde twenty-something man who was smiling at him.

“Hey,
Tom, isn’t it?” he began.

“I’m sorry, you are?”

“Otto. You probably noticed me following you back there.”

“Yes. Your car stands out.”

Otto grinned wider, looking like he’d been crowned Homecoming King. “Can we talk? Want to go in?” He nodded toward the Broadway Pizza entrance.

Tom looked at Serena, who nodded. “Sure,” he said.

Otto didn’t wait, but headed straight for the door. Tom closed the window and said, “How do you know him? Who is he?”

“Well, he’s not Otto. He’s Bryce. Or maybe he was lying the first time around. Or maybe he’s not Bryce
or
Otto.”

“You’re sure you’ve seen this guy before?”

“Yes, sure. He was my server at the restaurant the night I was driving back from the fire. So maybe this
is
about the arson. Should we just go? Keep on driving and not come back?”

“No, let’s hear what he has to say. He can find us again if we run.”

“He doesn’t look like somebody to be afraid of. We better go in, he’ll wonder what’s taking us so long.”

The Bridge-Meadows family joined Bryce-Otto in the empty reception area of Broadway Pizza. After a few pleasantries were exchanged with the hostess, the group was seated. Serena initiated conversation as soon as the hostess left them alone.

“I recognize you, from about a year ago. You were at a Perkins, not too far from here. It was near Christmas. You were wearing a name tag that said Bryce, you were my server.” Serena said this calmly, as smoothly as if she was talking about the weather.

Bryce-Otto looked surprised, but quickly recovered. “I didn’t expect you to remember me. Yes, I was waiting tables there.”

Tom said, “Why were you following us?”

“I was watching you before you torched your own house. Why did you do that, by the way?”

Tom and Serena didn’t bother to disguise their horror. They didn’t know what to say. What could they say?

Bryce-Otto laughed and clapped Tom on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, man. I’m not after you or anything.”

“What is this about?” Serena asked. She looked at her three kids- all three were noticeably frightened. None of them had spoken a word since they overheard that someone was following them.

“How did you know something was about to happen? We assume you faked your death because you thought someone would come after you? Why did you think that? What did you know, and how did you know it?” Otto-Bryce was suddenly serious now; his Homecoming King vibe had disappeared. In its place was an expression that transformed his features into a person who seemed both cunning and powerful.

“Who are you, really?” Serena asked.

“I work for someone important, let’s leave it at that. Now, you obviously feel nervous right about now. You know- that I know- that you lit your house on fire and skipped out, created a new identity for yourselves and are hiding under Paul’s mega-church, which is a fraud, by the way. He’s a con man.”

“We thought so,” Tom said.

“They helped us hide. We haven’t been to any of their meetings since that first month,” Serena said defensively.

“We want you to go back.”

“To the meetings?” asked Tom.

“Yes. We’re watching Paul and his fugly brother Clyde. We need eyes and ears on him.” Bryce-Otto halted his interrogation while their server took down their order. Serena ordered a deep dish Chicago style pizza, planning to eat very little of it. The last thing her stomach needed right now was pizza.

After the server had left, Bryce-Otto continued, “Let’s go back to what you were doing when you torched your house. I was watching you then, you’d triggered off a few alarm bells in my organization.”

“What organization is that?” asked Tom, knowing he was unlikely to get an honest answer.

“I’m not at liberty to say. But we were watching, looking for anyone showing signs of prior knowledge of the bombings. And you obviously knew something.”

“And so did you. You couldn’t do anything to stop it?” Serena countered.

“You didn’t report anything. You lit your house on fire and ran.” Bryce-Otto squinted up his eyes and fixed them into a stare that was intended to intimidate Serena, but failed to do so.

“What could I say that anyone would believe? I was watching the news; I had a really bad feeling. I had a vivid nightmare that I felt was prophetic, but I’m no psychic, at least not proven to be. I had a couple dreams that relatives died, and then they did, but, they were sick at the time so it was kind of a logical conclusion. I dreamed that the United States was going to be hit with nuclear bombs, and I believed the dream was real. We took a leap of faith that my dream was a real warning, and we did what we could to keep our family safe.”

“And your husband went along with this? You burned down your own house based on a dream?
And safe from what?  You were already in a safe area of the country. Why move? Why hide?” Bryce-Otto shook his head. “I don’t believe you. You knew something. What did you know, and how did you know it?”

“Safe from the government,” said Tom.

“I had a bad feeling that the government was going to fall apart after the nuclear bombings, and that we’d be better off if we were not in the system. I can’t explain why, just a bad feeling,” Serena insisted.

Bryce-Otto looked from Tom to Serena; and back again. “I can’t tell if you people are crazy and delusional, or if you’re lying. If you’re crazy, you got it right – bombs happened. WWIII, everything hit the fan. So you’re not crazy. Which means you must be lying, because I don’t believe in that psychic dream crap you’re giving me.”

“My mom isn’t lying. She had a dream. And we left because something bad was going to happen,” Carrie spoke up, causing everyone at the table to look at her. She stared back at all the faces. “Well, it’s true. My parents are not crazy, and they are not lying.”

Bryce-Otto leaned across the table and said in a raspy whisper, “Tell me about your mother’s friend. The one she e-mails in Iran. Her
friend have a dream too?”