The Illuminati (45 page)

Harriet had told herself the same thing a hundred times since their nightmare had begun. She mentally recited what she knew was God's direction, “Why do you worry so for tomorrow?” But somehow it didn't seem to help. She knew her anxieties were not for Randy's safety, or even her own. They were for Matthew. She couldn't seem to let go and trust God—at least not the way Randy seemed able. Inside, Harriet knew the truth.

She had always gone to church and Sunday school, even as a little girl. When she was thirteen, she had even dedicated her life to Christ. But mostly, she knew she had reacted to the other kids who were dedicating their lives. She hadn't really surrendered to Christ. She had surrendered to peer pressure. In some circles, peer pressure meant drugs or sex. In hers, it meant becoming a Christian. It was what her parents had wanted most of all. They needed a showpiece to display in church: their lovely Christian daughter.
It had all been so easy
, she thought,
first Christian school, then Christian college
. All the while, she felt resentment and rebellion but never showed it.

Her single act of rebellion had been Randy. When she met him, he was a senior at Clemson and most definitely not a Christian. Her father had demanded that she not date Randy, so they dated secretly. After he graduated from college and was accepted at a law school in Alabama, they eloped. For a while, she had been afraid that her father might die from a heart attack. But after a year or so, her parents accepted the situation, with reservations.

Then, in his second year of law school, some of the campus groups invited a Christian speaker and Rhodes scholar to speak one evening. She had attended out of curiosity and Randy had gone with her. That evening, Randy heard a message that changed his life. When the invitation was given, Harriet was shocked to see her husband go forward.

From that point on, Randy never looked back. He devoured Christian books and never missed an evening of studying his Bible. Within a year, it was Randy who was pulling a reluctant Harriet to seminars and rallies. She went with him, but somehow she knew he had something she did not.

All these years
, she thought,
all these years I knew something was wrong inside. I was just mouthing the words and playing the role
. Then she realized,
I might have gone on that way for the rest of my life
.

Suddenly Harriet blurted out, “Randy, I have to tell you something. I'm not sure I'm a Christian.”

“I know, honey,” Randy said with no condemnation in his voice.

“You know!” she said in astonishment. “You mean you knew I wasn't really a Christian and you didn't say anything all these years?”

“Would you have listened if I had?”

Harriet thought about it for a minute, and then she answered, “No, I guess I wouldn't have, not until this happened. I played the role so well, even I had come to believe it.

“I know now that I need Christ,” Harriet said as her eyes filled with tears again. “It's not what we're going through that terrifies me. It's the fear itself.”

“Harriet, you need to know that I'm just as afraid as you are most of the time. It's just that I know God is still in control, and even if we all die, I'll still believe that.”

“I know that too, Randy. I saw the peace Mom had when Dad had cancer. I see that same peace inside you. That's what I want.”

“I do have a peace that I didn't know was possible. I guess that's the one thing that has sustained me through all of this. When I'm the most frightened—like when those kids tried to attack the van—God seems to take over my will and strengthen me.”

“That's what I want with all my heart,” Harriet exclaimed.

Randy led his wife through the plan of salvation that she had heard so many times before. But this time it was for her. She committed her life, her family, and their future to Jesus Christ.

“Remember, Harriet,” Randy said as they hugged each other. “Fear is a normal, human emotion; panic is not. Knowing God is absolutely in control is what conquers the fear and eliminates the panic.”

“I know what you're saying, Randy,”Harriet said as she dried her eyes on the kitchen towel. “But I feel so much better now. I know God can give me what I have lacked all these years—peace.”

Randy kissed his wife like it was the first time. He felt closer to her than he ever had. But there were still people out there who needed their help. “I've got to go, Harriet,” he said.

“I understand, Randy,” she said. “I want you to go. I'll pray God will lead you to someone who needs our help.”

Randy left the cabin feeling like he had just received the Nobel Peace Prize—only from the Lord.

Driving into the small community of Winder, Randy saw a long line of people waiting at the entrance to the courthouse. “I wonder what's going on,” he said aloud. As he passed the local post office, he saw a notice posted in the window that Data-Net IDs would be issued every Monday from 8:00 A.M. until 5:00 P.M. Since it was Monday, that explained the line. He decided to take a chance and find out what he could. He parked the old pickup truck a block away and walked back to where the line stopped.

“What's up?” he asked an older man standing at the end of the line.

“This is worse than getting car tags,” the frowning man responded. “You'd think they would have a better system.”

“What's the line for?” he asked as he took his place in line.

“What do you think it's for?” the older man gruffed. “It's that new ID. I wasn't gonna do it, but then I got a notice from Social Security that I wouldn't get my allotment anymore if I didn't have the right ID.”

Randy could feel his heart thumping.
So it's finally come
, he thought.
The tattoo under the skin. It's the next step toward the MARK!

“I thought the president said the ID would be strictly voluntary,” Randy said more to himself than to the old man.

“That may be the official position on the news, but just try to buy somethin' now and you'll see. The only scanner that works is the one that reads the ID on your hand. It's voluntary all right, if you don't want to eat.”

If it's come to Winder, it's probably everywhere in the country
, Randy concluded.
With the focus on the Middle East crisis, who's going to object?
He knew he could no longer use Data-Net, since he wasn't about to get tattooed. Then it struck him like a hammer.
They'll start screening for people without the tattoo as soon as the system is totally in place! It won't be safe to walk the streets anymore
.

“How many people are left to get the ID?” he asked.

“Well, I'm a ‘W',” the old man said, stopping to stare at Randy.“Henry Wallace. I guess I'm nearly the last. Say, what's your name? Didn't you get a notice to report for the ID?”

Randy panicked a little. Two other people had turned to stare at him too. “I've been out fishing for the last few days,” he said. It wasn't a lie. He had been fishing with some of the others living in the cabin.

“Well, you should have a notice at home,” the old man said gruffly. “Don't bother to use your card unless your name starts with a ‘Z'. I tried mine this morning and it don't work. I just hope they can get me in before closin' time. I can't wait a whole week. They only come here on Mondays.”

“Yes, I saw that at the post office,” Randy said. “That's why I came.”

“Well, I don't care what letter you are. I was here first,” the man said threateningly.

“It's okay,” Randy said politely. “I can take it another week. I'll come back next Monday. With the length of this line, I don't think I could get in before five.”

“Yeah, and these birds won't stay another minute either,” the old man groused again. “Government!”

Randy walked slowly away from the line and toward his truck. He was suddenly aware of being followed. In spite of himself, he picked up his pace. Behind him, the footsteps also quickened.

“That was really stupid of me,” Randy chided himself. “I should have known they would have someone watching to see who didn't get an ID.”

He felt the panic rise inside and fought back the temptation to run for the truck. He knew it wouldn't do any good. Whoever it was could catch him before he could get out of town. And with the truck's tag number, it would be only a matter of time until they traced him back to the cabin.

Stupid!
he told himself.
You were stupid not to even change the tags
.
Now Harriet and the others will be caught too
.

He was almost to the old truck. Instead of stopping, he walked on past.
Maybe they won't know I came in the truck
, he thought.
At least it will give Harriet and the others a little more time. If I'm late enough, maybe they'll run . . . but where can they run?
he thought dejectedly.

He glanced around. The man he had seen out of the corner of his eye earlier was nowhere in sight. He relaxed a little.

Maybe it was just my imagination
, he told himself.
Probably just somebody heading home
.

Suddenly a figure stepped out from behind one of the buildings lining the old street.

“I think you passed your truck,” he said almost nonchalantly.

A surge of adrenaline pulsed through Randy. He fought back the urge to run and replied, “I don't know what you're talking about. What truck?” For the first time since the madness began he wished he was armed. He didn't mind that he was caught, but he had jeopardized seven other people now.

“Mr. Cross, we've been looking for you,” the man said. He was only of average build but Randy could see that he was heavily muscled, and the way he carried himself showed he had no fear that Randy would be a problem.

“What do you want?” Randy asked, resigned to his capture. What would they do with him and the others? Even as he thought about what capture might mean, he felt relief flood over him.
At least Harriet knows the Lord
, he thought, smiling.
God will sustain her just like He has me
.

“Mr. Cross . . . Randy, I represent a group committed to helping Christians . . .”

“What?” Randy blurted out. “You're not part of the government, then?”

“Yes and no,” the man said. “But let's go to your truck. I don't want to attract too much attention.”

As they walked toward the old Ford, Randy asked, “Who are you? And how did you know who I am?”

“In time,” the man said quietly as they got into the truck.

Randy turned the key and the faithful old machine roared to life with the first turn. “Where to?” he asked.

“Head out Highway 20,” his passenger said.

As Randy drove slowly along the streets heading out of town, a thousand thoughts crowded his mind, but he resisted the urge to pressure his passenger. Once they reached the outskirts, the man began to tell a story that seemed so incredible Randy probably wouldn't have believed it, except for his own experiences since the riots.

“My name is not important at this point,” Agent Shepperd said as they drove. “I am, or at least was, an FBI agent on special assignment with a branch of the secret service. Something happened to me several weeks ago that changed my life.”

Shepperd began to relate the story of Bob and Ellen Cofer, including their arrest and internment in the detention center. “As far as I know, they were shipped out to a more permanent facility somewhere in the West,” he said.

“I can't believe it,”Randy said, shaking his head. “Or more accurately, I guess I can believe it, but I'd rather not. I heard rumors about concentration camps for Christians, but it's still hard to believe.”

“I know how you feel,” Shepperd agreed. “I was called back to Washington after that episode. My common sense told me I wouldn't be able to make any difference if the powers that be knew how I felt. So I decided to make up a story about disliking Agent Tooms, which was not entirely untrue. I pledged my full cooperation with the roundup of the terrorists—apparently people like you. Tooms is a pig, and because of his bad record, he was sent as a guard to one of the camps in the West.

“I spent several weeks in Washington researching this so-called terrorist group. What I discovered frightened me enough to make me realize I had to do something to help—not the government, but your group. I convinced the attorney general's office that I could locate the terrorists' strongholds, so I was reassigned to Atlanta. Apparently there's been a strong resistance movement here because of Elder's capture and, try as they might, the secret service has been unable to locate the underground's base camp.”

“Then how did you find me?” Randy asked.

“I made contact with the underground here a few weeks ago. Actually I arrested Rod Wilton, one of the leaders.”

“I know Rod,” Randy said angrily. “He worked at the Johnson Space Center before transferring to Scientific Atlanta; he has a Ph.D. in mathematics. He's no more a terrorist than I am. Those idiots in Washington are purging some of the best brains in our country, just like the Nazis did in Germany.”

“Hold on,” Shepperd replied, raising his arms in a mock sign of protection. “I'm on your side. I didn't turn Wilton over. Instead I helped him to reach a safe house just outside the city. It took some doing, though. The CRC group was convinced that I was a plant from the government for a long time.”

“I can believe that,” Randy said coolly. “I'm still not sure you aren't.”

“Listen, if I wanted to get the rest of the group you have hidden, all I would need to do is trace the tags on this truck. I'll bet you didn't even bother to steal a new set of tags, did you?”

Randy turned a shade of pink. “No. It belonged to my dad. It's been parked out on his old farm for years.”