The Crimson Fall (The Sons of Liberty Book 1) (13 page)

“Who are you?” Adam asked nervously.             

The cab had stopped in front of Garfield Park and the man reached into his coat pocket. Adam tensed, ready to attack the man if he pulled a gun, but instead he pulled out a large envelope.

“I’m a patriot. Just like you. Here.” He handed Adam the sealed manila envelope. “These are your directions. We have a car around the corner with the keys in it. It’s older but it’s something without GPS or a quantum compass, so you can at least hide a little. Be careful and don’t stop for anything but fuel.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me who this woman is.”

“No, you’re not going anywhere without her because you’re lost, Mr. Reinhart. You’re looking for answers and you don’t know who to trust. It’s the same story with us. Going to her will allow the two of you to meet someplace safe from curious eyes and ears.”

“What makes you think I’m lost?”

The other man laughed. “Congressman, don’t play games with us. We know as well as you do that you are lost and looking for answers. We don’t know what your brother told you, who he was working with, or how he even got the word out, but we do know something lit a fire under your ass and we’re curious if it’s the same something we’ve been searching for all along. Don’t hold out on her. She is a good woman who wants to help.”

The man closed the door and began walking away. Adam debated getting out of the taxi and demanding more answers, but something in him knew he wouldn’t get anything else out of the guy. He took the envelope and turned it over in his hands. No markings were on the outside depicting who or where it had originated. He told the cab driver to give him a few minutes as he opened the top flap. He pulled out a small note covered with a smooth flowing blue ink and read the unknown.

Mr. Reinhart,

I’ve been watching you, just as others have begun to, I am afraid. Life has taught me to look below the surface of what people say and do in order to better understand their true motives. Your escapades to stop the president over the past few months have led me to conclude that he had something to do with your brother’s death. And Congressman, as wild as it may sound, I may be one of the few people in this world who will actually believe you. I know the man well enough to know I wouldn’t put that terrible attack last year past him. He was after your brother, I imagine. I cannot offer you direct proof of anything regarding the Dulles Massacre or your brother’s murder, but I might just know where you may find the truth that you seek. I feel we could benefit from one another in our quests to bring that man to justice.

I cannot promise you all the answers, but I will tell you what I know if you come to me. That I can promise. Meet me tomorrow, ten in the morning, at Puckett’s restaurant in Franklin, Tennessee. Use only the car my man has provided; don’t call or contact anyone, and stay away from any FODs as much as you can. It is hard to tell who is watching at this stage of things, so close to the beginning of this nasty fight that’s abrewin’, but I figure he is looking for those who might shed light on his evil soul.

And Congressman, please know that if you do not show up tomorrow, I will not be contacting you again and your search for answers will continue lost and alone.                                                                                                               

Sincerely,

A friend             

Adam looked through the envelope for anything more he might have missed, but he found nothing other than the directions from Washington, DC to Franklin, Tennessee. He wondered who the mysterious woman really was and what she could possibly offer him in his search for the truth. He suspected her answers would be to questions he hadn’t even thought to ask. Still, his mind continued to race with fears and uncertainty. But the one thing Adam was absolutely certain about was the fact that the man and mysterious woman were right.

Without help, he was truly lost.

Out of any other options but determined as ever, Adam soon found himself driving west in an old nineties sedan, racing through the night on a full tank of gas and the hope that he would soon find the answers to his unknown questions.

C
hapter
S
even

Dark Clouds Gather

By the time Adam had turned southwest onto Franklin Road the dawn had begun to break, cresting over the tops of the tall cedar and sycamore trees to the east, shining brightly and obscuring his vision. He held up his hand and squinted, shielding himself from the morning light that assaulted his weary eyes. To his left, a rolling meadow was bursting to life with spring’s first bloom. The field held on weakly to a thin fog as the rising sun burned away the last remnants of the cold dew that had saturated the flowers and thick grass since nightfall.

The drive had been lonely and mostly uneventful, with only the crescent moon and his forever racing thoughts to keep him company. He had dialed Sarah’s number in the middle of the night, wanting desperately to hear her soothing voice, but he cancelled the call before it even began out of fear that someone might have been listening. He had debated stopping for coffee and to stretch his legs at a convenience store one hundred miles outside of Roanoke, but one look at the hovering set of eyes inside was all he needed to get back on the road. He hated living in a society where one’s privacy was anything but private. Adam hoped the woman, whoever she turned out to be, would provide him with a way to fight again.

Franklin was a small city outside of Nashville that had experienced unwavering population growth over the previous five decades. Despite its evolution the downtown retained its small-town feel, and by nine forty-five in the morning it was alive with tourists, shoppers, and those out for nothing more than a brisk walk. While it was the type of place Adam knew he would have loved to visit under different circumstances, all he wondered at that moment was who was there to enjoy their morning and who was there watching him; that unseen threat waiting to attack should he let his guard down. He decided to park as close to the restaurant as possible and pulled into the first story of a parking garage just across the street.

Adam left the garage and jogged across the narrow road, failing to suppress a yawn as he entered the small brick building. Inside was a typical All-American restaurant filled with photographs that chronicled past times of the town that had grown up around it. Dangling lights crossed overhead and white shelves filled one entire wall with the best of the local butters, jams, and produce. To his left was a small stage that had undoubtedly granted countless struggling artists hope for one night that they were destined to hit it big. It all reminded Adam of the taverns in the fantasy books he and his friends had blazed through as kids that would give the heroes a place to rest after a long journey. As much as he would have loved to eat a meal and close his tired eyes, he knew this was no fantasy story and that his journey and constant exhaustion had likely just begun.

Adam looked around the room for a sign of the lady he was supposed to meet, but all he saw were the early morning patrons, none of whom gave him any notice. After a few moments, when he had decided she was not yet there, he walked up to the hostess to ask for a seat. Before he could say a word a man he had not noticed before approached him from the right.

“Mr. Reinhart?” the man asked with a thick, backcountry twang.             

Adam tensed, not sure if he should respond. He had expected to meet the woman and now wondered if this man was someone waiting for him on her behalf or the president’s. His paranoia was most likely a result of lack of sleep and all the secrecy that had shrouded his journey, but Adam saw no reason to tuck tail and run quite yet.

“Who are you?” Adam asked defensively.

“The name’s Bill Gordon, and I own a publicity firm here in Franklin with my wife. She’s the one who contacted you earlier, and I think we know just how to help you repair your image and career after all that hard work you did to muck it up.”

“A publicist?” Adam asked in disbelief, “You brought me all the way down here to try and help me repair my career? Is this some sort of dumb joke? I thought—”

“Well hold on there, Mr. Reinhart. I’m not sure what you
thought,
but you might want to hear me out before you go storming out of here or somethin’. We’ve been waiting for the right politician to come along, screw themselves over, no offense, and give us the opportunity to make a name for our small firm. Tell you what, they’re quite packed here today. Why don’t we start over and go take a drive someplace more quiet. That way we can be safe from any . . . curious eyes and ears.” With that, the man winked.

Adam, finally understanding that this was but another ploy to thwart anyone that might have been watching them, nodded his approval. Bill led the way through the busy kitchen that was bustling about with the breakfast chaos and guided them out the back door. He approached an awning and walked over to the passenger door of an old red pickup parked underneath and opened the door.

“Here we are,” Bill said as he motioned toward the cab.

Adam paused, silently questioning whether he had made a mistake coming there in the first place. He had expected to meet the woman at the restaurant, but her absence and all the deception had led him to wonder if this was some ploy of the president’s after all. He tried to make sense of why Lukas might wish to bring him all the way to Tennessee instead of taking him out in Washington, but he quickly cast those doubts aside. He had traveled too far to run at the slightest scent of fear or uncertainty and decided he was willing to risk his safety for answers.

In fact, it was that very idea which frightened him the most.

Adam got in the pickup and watched the other man carefully as he circled the vehicle and climbed into the driver’s side. The man immediately took out one of the devices Rob had used earlier, twisted the top, and cranked the truck to life as soon as the top turned blue.

“Here,” Bill said as he handed Adam a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses before leaving the rear parking lot. “We’re safe from audio surveillance for now, but this is just in case Lukas has anyone on the ground watching us. Feel free to say whatever you wish now. Sorry about all the smoke and mirrors, but we’ve managed to keep most of ourselves a secret so far and we don’t plan on letting down our guard anytime soon.”

“What is this thing exactly?” Adam asked as he picked the device up and examined it. “I saw Rob Bruger with one a couple months ago and then your guy in DC last night.”

“We call it the
Stonewall
. Lukas and the feds know about it, or at least they think they do. It’s an audio scrambler that jumbles sound to the point where virtually no one can reconfigure it and listen in on what’s being said.”

“So they can’t hear a word we’re saying?” Adam asked.

“I said
virtually
didn’t I?” the man replied with a grin. “We know the feds have the capability to decipher any audio we try to encrypt. So we used that to our advantage. That little guy is a quantum computer that uses existing audio to completely fabricate a conversation between up to fifty different people. It then broadcasts that fake dialogue in a frequency that only digital microphones and listening devices can pick up. Right now, if they have their ears tuned in on you, which we both know is likely, I reckon all they’re hearing is you sitting there listening to my public relations spiel. They think the name
Stonewall
is referring to the high blockades of security we’ve built up around ourselves. In reality, it was named after good ol’ Stonewall Jackson. Say what you will about the civil war and the Confederacy, but that man’s diversions and deceit were legendary and almost cost the North the war.”

“So if we’re safe from anyone listening then why didn’t your wife come and meet me like she said she would?”

The man burst out laughing as though Adam had told the joke of the century. After a few awkward moments of one-sided laughter, he wiped away a couple tears and replied.

“Look, my name is really Bill Gordon, but she is most definitely not my wife. If she does ever remarry, I don’t know if I’ll congratulate or pity the fool. She’s devoted to the family she’s lost and seeing them justice. If any man caused her to fall in love with him, she might just kill the poor fella’ for distracting her from her work. Besides, I said we’re safe from ears, not eyes. We’ve got ways around that too, but they’re not exactly . . . portable. Here we are.”

They had driven for only a few minutes, passing the old shops and the nineteenth century Victorian homes that had been preserved or restored to showcase their full glory, before they pulled off the main road. Trees arched overhead, forming a canopy of blooming branches for them to drive under, as they approached a detached garage.

“You can ditch the cap and glasses for now,” Bill said as he stopped the truck. “Be yourself and be honest. It’s taken a long time for her to warm up to you, but she fought to bring you in even though the others were not all convinced.”

Before Adam could inquire about just who the
others
were, Bill got out of the truck. Adam exited too and together they left the driveway, walked around the back of the house, and entered into a gardener’s paradise. Red roses, purple lilacs, pink tulips, and dozens of other flowers filled the air with a springtime aroma. Low-cut and perfectly trimmed hedges bordered the stone path that the two men walked on. At the end of the footpath an old woman kneeling down in the dirt was tending to a patch of blue hydrangeas. Without turning around she spoke in an elegant and slow southern accent as she continued to work.

“I have always considered myself to be one of the lucky few to have discovered at an early age that a garden can be one of the most intriguing and romantic things this world has to offer for the human soul. Yes, yes I know many people see them as nothing more than a place to snap a quick photo, or to take a slow walk through—or even as the perfect backdrop to lower to one knee and ask that special someone if she would spend the rest of her life with him. That is how my late husband proposed over forty years ago and it was how my daughter was asked as well, God rest both their souls. I guess many people don’t think much about a garden anymore—let alone tendin’ one—but the true pleasure doesn’t come in short walks and moments that are preserved only to memory or photograph. No, the real joy comes in working it, caring for it, and sheltering it from the storms overhead so that you may know the true happiness of watching something as simple as a single flower grow from seed to blossom.” The woman stood up and turned around, brushing her gloved hands off on her faded jeans. “Oh look at me ramblin’ on. Sometimes I just get carried away thinking about the little things when I should be talking about the bigger picture. Small thought is what I’ve always called it.”

Though older, she was a slender and pretty woman that Adam thought in all probability had been a bombshell in her youth. Long white hair interspersed with hints of dark brown draped down onto her shoulders, framing a face that held a loving smile. At first Adam thought she looked familiar, but just as a word could hide itself on the tip of a tongue, so he couldn’t think of a name. She looked at him and spoke as though she could read his mind.

“You must be wondering just who in the world is this old lady. While we haven’t yet met in person, I have had my eye on you for the past few months, Mr. Reinhart. Not many men, no matter what they believe, would work so hard to stop a seemingly good idea that the most powerful man in the world has introduced to the tune of monumental applause. You have been working hard for this country for quite some time and I have been working for you too. I’ve been prayin’ that I am doing as much as I can to help prepare this nation for what is coming. In a way, I have watched you grow from a man that was nothing more than one of the many suits on Capitol Hill into quite the freedom fighter. And to see you come so far and be so ready to do what you must for what you believe in brings me a joy much like the joy of my garden.”

“Ma’am,” Adam said, “I mean no offense, but who the hell are you?”

The older woman laughed. “Oh where are my manners. Goin’ on without a proper introduction. My name is Elizabeth Holt. My husband was Michael Holt, owner of Holt Firearms before it became H.C. Industries. My only child was Sue Holt, better known by her married name Suzanne Chambers before her . . . untimely death. Both of them, and others like your brother I suspect, were murdered by the man who now calls himself the president of the United States. So, now that you know my name, why don’t you pick that jaw of yours up off my carefully preserved walkway and we’ll head on inside to have ourselves a nice glass of my finest lemonade?”

To say Adam was shocked would be an understatement. She was a spitting image of the president’s first wife, Suzanne Chambers, or rather, a thirty-year older version of the woman. He realized his mouth was hanging open like a fool and he quickly closed it. Bill nodded to her and left without a word. Elizabeth and Adam walked through the back door of a large green Victorian home and entered the family room.

Inside, their footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor and traveled throughout the tall vaulted room. Pictures hung everywhere showcasing the friends and family of Elizabeth Holt. The two of them took a seat at a small table that had two glasses of iced lemonade waiting.

“I do apologize for draggin’ you around one way and the other. This is one of Mr. Gordon’s homes and he was kind enough to lend it to me for the past couple years. Nothing romantic between the two of us, thank you very much. He’s a good friend of mine and knows Rob Bruger, one of the few who vouched for you. Rob created a device, very much like the
Stonewall
that I presume you’ve seen. Only this thing takes a little more juice to operate. It creates a digital shelter around the property that hides whatever’s underneath from any nosy satellites or drones that might try to steal a peek. I had you go to Puckett’s because I didn’t know whether or not you would show up. We’ve only a handful of safe houses now and the last thing I wanted to do was risk this one here on an uncertain asset. We know the feds hear pretty much everything anyone says in public, but to the best of our knowledge Lukas and his friends still don’t suspect a thing about our little schemes and I’d love to keep it that way. Besides, Puckett’s is about the most welcoming place I have ever dined at and when I wrote the letter I had it on my mind. Can’t blame a girl, could you now? I’ll have to give you a jar of the best local hot sauce they sell this side of the Mississippi. Rudy Jacks it’s called and I will tell you what, it’s to die for.”