Divine Fury (40 page)

The banner behind the car that read simply: “I’m Andrew Harper” would be tall and stay close to his Caddy to block the view from the rear.
 

Campaign workers would mingle with the police and would hold their campaign signs high and keep them moving on the sides and in front of the convertible.
 
The crowd could see Harper through the signs but anyone with a gun would have to pick their opening and be lucky to get a clean shot.

Connors would make Harry Blount sit in the front seat of the Caddy, although it was traditional to have the grand marshals’ spouses or partners next to them sitting atop the back of the convertible.
 
Instead, on Harper’s right would be Nestor Cruz, a sergeant who was president of the Pride Alliance.
 
Connors was confident that Nestor would know when to use his weapon and would use it effectively if it came to that.
 
Better yet, Cruz was huge.
 
He would block Harper on the right and, if necessary, he could push Harper to the floor of the car and sit on him for as long as Connors wanted.
                        

Finally, Connors herself would sit on Harper’s left.
 
Her weapon would be in a shoulder holster inside a light jacket.
 
It was too late to transform her hair into a giant afro to more completely block Harper from the side.
 
But she still could be effective as Harper’s human shield.
  

* * *

After leaving the Soldiers of Christ Ministry offices and withdrawing what he had in the bank, Brent Daggart had made his way up the coast of California to San Francisco.
 
He rented a room at one of the cheaper motels on Lombard Street in the Marina district.
 
He spotted a Kinko’s copy center down the street.
 
On Wednesday evening, he walked in, rented one of their computers for 30 minutes and sent an email to Steven Walberg.
 
When he returned the next morning he found Walberg’s reply.
 
The army vet said he would be at the Harper rally.
 
He’d be the thin guy with no hair underneath his blue Chicago Cubs cap, carrying a small backpack.
   

He had the rest of the day to wait for the rally.
 
Daggart walked the few blocks north through an area filled with small apartments to the bay.
 
He headed east past the marina along the water’s edge and up the jogging trails running to Fort Mason.
 
When he paused periodically to catch his breath he turned back to look at the Golden Gate Bridge.
 
The red-orange spans of the graceful structure reached over the bay to the brown hills of Marin in the distance.

Daggart had gotten past his anger at Rev. Jimmy Burgess and his disappointment at being banished from the ministry he had helped build.
 
Instead, he was resigned and determined.
 
That Burgess had succumbed to the worldly concerns of success and money rather than grasping the importance of their greater mission hadn’t surprised him.
 
Daggart knew that what others might view as fanaticism he considered as simply doing his duty without fooling himself.
  
True success was not to be measured in viewership or revenues, but whether he could meaningfully stem the tide of moral decay.
 
He would sacrifice anything to do that.
 
Few others would.
 
He had always known this journey was one he might have to make alone.
       

Daggart wandered the streets until the evening.
 
He retrieved his car from the motel parking lot and drove across the city to the downtown district.
 
He found parking a few blocks north of the rally and walked quickly to Justin Herman Plaza as the first speakers were warming up the crowd.
 
He spotted Walberg wandering in the throngs and followed him at a distance, just keeping him within sight.
 
When Harper finally appeared on the platform and Walberg moved close to the candidate, Daggart’s heart pounded with anticipation.

Then he saw the confrontation with Lee, and followed the reporter at a distance as he pursued Walberg.
 
When Daggart heard the shots, he went back to his car and then cruised the area in the direction where he had last seen the two men heading.
 
Once Daggart saw the police cars arriving, moving fast with lights flashing, he went looking for Walberg.
 

With Walberg in his car, Daggart left the Telegraph Hill area quickly, avoiding the police cars that were converging on the neighborhood.
 
They retrieved the backpack with the C-4 that Walberg had left behind when he started chasing Lee.
 
Then, they drove to the Sentinel Hotel where Walberg quickly packed his bags.
 
They arrived at Daggart’s motel and ferried Walberg’s gear up to the room. Then, they knelt down with their forearms resting on one of the beds and prayed for the success of their mission.
  

Late the next morning Brent Daggart came into the hotel room carrying a large plastic bag from Long’s Drug Store.
 
He pulled out a small jar of black face paint that Walberg had requested.
 
Then, he dumped out four rubber masks, the type that go over your entire head, and put them on one of the beds.
 

Staring up with empty eyes and silly grins were three former presidents and the current Oval Office resident:
 
George W. Bush; Bill Clinton; Ronald Reagan and Richard Nixon.

“They didn’t have a lot of choice,” said Daggart.

Walberg studied them.
 
He didn’t say anything to Daggart.
 
He hated Bush and Clinton.
 
They had held the reins of power the past 12 years while America slid deeper into the toilet.
 
He admired Reagan.
 
But would he want to be connected to what Walberg had planned? That left Nixon.
 
Walberg picked the Nixon mask and held it in front of his face.
 
It was smiling at him and he grinned back.
     

They had the rest of the day to kill.
 
Daggart had made several trips to the Bay Area from his base in Southern California.
 
But for Walberg, it was his first visit.
 
Daggart decided to take him over the Golden Gate Bridge and along the coast to the Marin headlands.
 
It was part of the National Park system with beautiful views along the coast when the fog was absent.
 
Best of all, there would be few people and those there would be hiking or scrambling around the rocks and old military installations.
 
They wouldn’t be studying people’s faces and possibly matching them to whatever photographs or artist renderings were in the newspaper.

The drive there was quick.
 
They pulled over near a couple of abandoned battery sites that had once held artillery guarding San Francisco Bay from Japanese invasion during World War II.
 
Hiking trails led up into the hills that held only waist-high scrub brush scoured by the strong Pacific winds and dried to a dark brown by the desert climate.
 
They took a path at random and hiked for half an hour until they reached the top of a ridge with a clearing. They had
 
a view of the beach below with the sparkling, dark blue ocean washing up against it. The afternoon sun warmed their faces.

Walberg had seemed ill at ease since Daggart had picked him up on Telegraph Hill.
 
Daggart knew the syndrome.
 
It was like sitting down with the headmaster.
 
He wasn’t technically a priest or a pastor, but he was close enough that many people treated him like one.
 
Daggart needed to change that.
 
He needed Walberg to feel in charge, not timid.
 

“God can do great work when he’s allowed,” said Daggart, gesturing to the view below them.
 
“It’s when people, institutions and horrible choices get involved that God’s work becomes unrecognizable.
 
Stopping the downward spiral. Stopping the slippage.
 
That is the hardest thing to do.
 
That’s why we’re here.”

Walberg gazed out over the ocean and nodded his head in agreement.

 
“I’d like you to teach me something, Steven,” said Daggart.

“What?” asked Walberg.

“You have all the training…from the army,” said Daggart.
 
“I want you to teach me about the guns, the explosives, tactics, everything you can.”

Walberg straightened noticeably.
 
Daggart could see him take on the mantle of teacher.
 
That was what he needed him to do.
 
That’s exactly what Daggart wanted.
 
He needed Walberg to feel in control.
 
That was more important than whatever the army vet might actually teach him.

On the way back, they made a quick detour to Sausalito where they took the car through a Burger King drive-through.
 
They ordered two Whoppers and a large coffee for Walberg who was driving.
   

Back at the hotel, their room became an armory.
 
Walberg stripped both the Beretta and the SR-25, cleaning and oiling all the parts.
 
He laid out the blocks of C-4, the detonators and the wiring.
 
Late into the night, he kept a running commentary, explaining what he was doing and the functions of all the parts.
 
And as he talked, he formulated the plan of what they would do the following day.
  

* * *

Enzo Lee was packing up everything he would need for the parade the next day.
 
Backup notebook.
 
Extra pens.
 
Press pass.
 
He had his briefcase in hand and had pushed his chair under his desk when the phone rang.

“Hello.
 
Enzo Lee,” he answered.

“Yeah.
 
Uhh…right,” a young male voice answered.
 
“Are you the one who, uh, who wrote the story?
 
The story, ah…ah, you know.
 
The one about this guy from Montana?”

“Montana.
 
Yes,” replied Lee.
 
“Steven Walberg.
 
I wrote that one.
 
Do you have any information about him?”

“Well, yeah!” said the young man.
 
“I saw him.
 
Umm…I saw him this afternoon.
 
He came in the drive-through.”

Lee had gotten reports of more than a dozen sightings of Walberg in the three days since his photo had first appeared in the News.
 
He knew that the SFPD had received several times that number.
 
None of them had proven useful.
 
Virtually all of them were from well-intentioned people who just made a bad match between the photo in the newspaper and someone they’d encountered.

“Okay,” said Lee, holding the phone with his chin and neck while he pulled out his chair, sat down, pulled out a notebook and began taking notes.
 
“So, what’s your name and where did you see him.”

“Yeah.
 
Okay.
 
My name is Chet.
 
‘Chet’ short for Chester,” said the caller.
 
“It was at the Burger King.
 
That’s where I work.
 
In…ah…Sausalito.”

“Sausalito?”

“Oh yeah,” said Chet.
 
“It’s on Donahue Street.”

“All right,” said Lee.
 
“Why don’t you just tell me what happened, Chet.”