Washington, D.C.
“Noted Researcher Presumed Murdered,” read the title of the page one article in The Washington Post.
“Shortly prior to our publication deadline,” the article began, “a videotape was anonymously delivered to this news organization. The tape reveals the apparent murder of Dr. Jeremy Raskin, a Baltimore-based physician, women’s’ rights advocate, and stem cell researcher at the Johns Hopkins Medical Institutions. Sources verify the tape as authentic. In a handwritten note that accompanied the videotape, the words ‘Abortionists Must Die’ were printed above the signature, ‘The Southern Cross.’ A Polaroid print allegedly showing the victim holding yesterday’s The Sun was also enclosed.
“As we went to press, the Baltimore City Police confirm that Dr. Raskin cannot be located and is presumed missing. Raskin, a forty-year-old obstetrician-gynecologist, came to prominence last March with the successful growth of adult cardiac cells from fetal stem cells. Locally, he has been a vocal abortion rights advocate.
“Neither The Washington Post nor the combined news media are familiar with an individual or group that calls itself The Southern Cross. The videotape and photograph have been turned over to the FBI for evaluation.”
The White House
“Jesus, turn that thing off,” insisted the chief of staff.
“Mr. President?” asked the Secret Service agent at the VCR’s controls.
“That’s enough,” said President Meredith. “I think we get the point.”
They met in the White House Situation Room, shortly after the president’s daily briefing. The Situation Room, the executive branch’s twenty-four-hour watch and alert center, was intended to provide intelligence and information that could assist in the implementation of national security policy. Occasionally, however, the underground room—also known as WHSR, or the “Sit Room”—was used for urgent domestic matters. That was the circumstance today, after the Post forwarded the videotape to the FBI early that morning. In addition to the chief of staff, who doubled as the president’s national security advisor, also in attendance were the Deputy Director of the FBI, the Attorney General, the chief of security of BWI, and the CIA’s Director of Counterintelligence.
The president rubbed his chin. “This has been verified as authentic?”
“Yes, sir,” said the FBI man. “No question about it. Our lab is trying to get some evidence off the tape and the print, but they look clean. There are traces of talc, which suggests the photographer used latex gloves. Certainly not an amateur.”
“What about the doctor?”
“As of an hour ago, Dr. Raskin was still missing. There’s also a preliminary match on the victim’s blood remains with the Hopkins database. All employee health data is on file.”
“No DNA yet?” the president asked.
“Too early for that, sir. That’ll take days, maybe a week.”
The president looked across the table. “What happened at the airport, Chief?” he asked the security man.
“It was pretty ugly, Mr. President. We’re expanding our cargo facilities, and it happened in one of the new, unoccupied buildings.”
“I can deal with ugly, Chief. God knows I saw my share of it in Vietnam. I just want to know how something like this could occur in a busy major airport. When did it happen?”
“Early evening, probably. I don’t mean to make excuses, but the building’s still under construction. The workmen left at four. The building’s locked, or it’s supposed to be, until a security team comes by at midnight. When they got there, the lock was broken, and the aircraft was inside.”
“Whose plane is it?”
“It belongs to Mid-Atlantic Aviation, a charter company in Delaware. They reported it stolen two weeks ago. There’s no record of it flying into BWI. We figure it must have been trucked in today and put in the building after the workmen left.”
Meredith looked dubious. “And nobody saw it?”
“There’s a lot of unregulated ground traffic, sir. We also had a pretty strong storm.”
“So, this plane just shows up, gets put in an empty building, and is used to chop someone into hamburger?”
The security man lowered his chin sheepishly. “Looks that way, sir.”
Shaking his head, the president looked at the Deputy Director of the FBI. “What about this Southern Cross outfit? What’s their background?”
“They’re a new group to us, Mr. President. But they’re obviously not crackpot novices. An operation like this took a lot of planning. From the anti-abortion rhetoric and the word Cross in their name, we presume they’re a conservative religious organization. Or the activist arm of a very deadly one.”
“No relationship to Islamic terrorists or international groups?”
“None that we can see.”
“A new hate group, then?”
“Maybe. The Anti-Defamation League monitors these groups closely, but they haven’t heard of them either.”
“What about the Southern part?” asked Meredith, himself a Southerner.
“Too soon to talk geopolitics, Mr. President. It might mean something, or it could be a feint. We’re looking at all angles, but we just don’t know yet.”
Meredith eyed the Attorney General. “Is there anything I should know on the abortion front? I haven’t heard of any clinic problems. I thought it was pretty quiet.”
“It is,” the AG agreed. “Abortion-related violence is at its lowest level in years. Part of that’s because abortions are way down. We have no indication this is part of a new trend. Not yet, anyway.”
“Seems to be a hell of a lot we don’t know,” the president said, slowly filling his pipe and deliberately tamping down the tobacco. “What about Raskin himself? Isn’t he a stem cell expert?”
“Yes, sir. Dr. Raskin is—or was—someone who did abortions, but he was also a well-known cell biologist. He did a lot of his work with private funding, which let him get around Federal guidelines. He was outspoken and very controversial. That may have made him a target.”
“Something certainly did. I may not agree with his line of work, but no one deserves to get chopped up like that.”
“The tubing, the jet engine,” the chief of staff observed. “That’s supposed to represent an abortion machine, right? Jesus, talk about making a statement. The ultimate eye-for-an-eye-message. Keep aborting pregnancies, and we’ll abort you.”
“Thank you for that insight,” said the president. He sighed wearily. “I can’t say I like hearing how depressingly little we sometimes know. One thing is sure. With CNN already onto the Post story, the whole country will get wind of it by noon.”
“A very important consideration,” agreed the chief of staff. “You can’t have your fellow citizens thinking they can knock off whoever they disagree with.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Beat ’em to the punch, Mr. President. Preempt the media.”
Press conferences could be arranged at a moment’s notice, but the eleven a.m. appearance by the president surprised even veteran White House correspondents. As the reporters hurriedly took their seats, Meredith stepped up to the podium that bore the Presidential Seal.
“By now,” he began, reading from prepared remarks, “many of you have heard of the tragic death of Dr. Jeremy Raskin last night. Dr. Raskin was a dedicated researcher and physician whose life was brutally ended by enemies of tolerance and dissent. He leaves behind a widow, two children, many grateful patients, and a country dedicated to stamping out mindless violence.”
The journalists took hurried notes, wondering where the president was headed. Meredith was a skilled orator whose words were easy on the ear. It was unusual, however, for him to give an unscheduled press conference, except in cases of dire national emergency. For something akin to a eulogy, why not let a staff member handle it? They wondered about the intent of his remarks.
“This administration’s policies differed from the views espoused by Dr. Raskin. While he favored abortion on demand, we consider it an option only in dire circumstances; and while he did pioneering work with fetal stem cells, we favor research on embryonic stem cells only. But whatever our differences, there can be no discounting the dedication Dr. Raskin gave to his patients. For that reason alone, we mourn his death. But beyond the loss of a skilled caregiver, there is the larger question of why certain extremists feel that radical means are the only avenue of legitimate dissent. We cannot, and will not, let that view prevail. As Americans, we cherish our differences, not try to limit them.
“Federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies are working together to solve this cowardly crime. We will spare no effort to bring the perpetrators to justice. Freedom of speech and expression are among our most cherished principles. In our country no man may abridge the freedom of another, nor succeed by force in imposing his will. Those who try will learn that justice can be both swift and harsh.” Ending the brief address, the president folded his remarks.
“Mr. President,” shouted one of the journalists, “are you saying that Dr. Raskin was murdered because of political views in the areas you mentioned?”
“It seems that way to us. Out of respect to the family, we’ve asked that copies of the Post videotape not be made public. But those of us who have seen the tape are convinced it was intended to make a statement.”
“A follow-up, sir, if I could. Do you think this signals a return of abortion-related violence?”
“First of all,” said the president, “I’ve been informed that events like this are at an all-time low, and we don’t think it’s the start of a pattern. Second, Dr. Raskin was a champion of many causes, some of them controversial. He was outspoken about his views. In addition to abortion, he was a supporter of fetal stem cell research and human cloning. At this point, we’re not sure which issue his killers may have been reacting to.” He pointed at another reporter.
“What about the group that claims responsibility, Mr. President? The Southern Cross?”
“We’re looking into that. It’s not an organization that the FBI or domestic counter-terrorism experts are familiar with. We’re asking anyone who can provide information to contact their local police department or the toll-free number we’ve established.”
“Sir,” said another correspondent, “aren’t you concerned that your remarks might alienate your core constituency? After all, most of the people who supported you didn’t share Dr. Raskin’s views.”
Meredith’s gaze drifted across the pressroom, and for several seconds he seemed to stare blankly at the wall.
“Sir?” prompted the questioner.
“Sorry. Mind was elsewhere. Could you repeat that, please?”
“I asked if you were worried about offending party conservatives with your remarks about abortion and fetal research.”
“No, John, I’m not. My views remain the same and haven’t changed one bit. But this is not an issue that people of conscience should keep quiet about. When an innocent man is sacrificed because of his beliefs, a serious injustice is committed. It doesn’t matter that his views may have differed from mine. If voters disagree with what Dr. Raskin stood for, the place to make their feelings known is at the ballot box. We are a nation of laws. I am here today to emphasize that this administration will pursue those laws with vigor. If some of my supporters differ with me on this, so be it. Reasonable men may disagree on important issues, but in the end, justice will prevail.” Waving to the reporters, he walked from the podium, ignoring the continued chorus of questions.
“Core constituency,” said Smith, slowly elongating each syllable. “That supposed to be us? Sumbitch don’t have much gratitude, does he?”
“What happened to dancin’ with the girl that brung ya’?” said the second man. “Seems to me the man has himself a memory problem, right, Sean?”
The man called Sean concentrated on the ash of his lit cigarette. He rolled the Marlboro between his nicotine-stained fingers, staring thoughtfully at the wisp of smoke that curled from its tip. “He’s a politician, C.J.” Placing the filter in his lips, he took a deep drag. “That means he’s a professional liar. Memory and gratitude have nothing to do with it. It doesn’t matter what platform the man ran on. You’ve heard of politically correct? He’ll say whatever the money and the polls tell him to say.”
They were drinking beer at a comer table of the Dew Drop Inn, a claustrophobically small tavern on the outskirts of Lynchburg, Virginia. Finishing their previous night’s work at the airport, they left the videotape at the entrance to the newspaper’s editorial offices. Using a voice scrambler, Sean had phoned the city desk to check outside for a special package. Then the men immediately drove south in the stolen van. The rain provided excellent cover. Never exceeding the speed limit, they attracted no suspicion and had no interruptions. The storm tapered off around Charlottesville, and by the time they reached the motel, there was only inconsequential drizzle. After dumping the van and changing cars, they turned in for the night.
They were an unlikely trio. Long and lanky, a tall farmer’s boy, C.J. Walker’s scarecrow façade concealed the strength in his sinewy muscles. He was the one who had wielded the sap. The man called Smith, the van driver who was twice C.J.’s age, had a sandpaper voice roughened by years of cheap whiskey and unfiltered cigarettes. His unshaven cheeks bore visible white stubble. The third man, the photographer, was unlike the others. Shorter, more visibly compact, he had a leader’s sureness of movement and a no-nonsense demeanor. His name was Sean O’Brien, and he was the obvious man in charge.
“You know what they can do with their goddamn politics,” said the gravelly-voiced Smith.
“It’s politics done got him elected,” observed C.J. “We voted him in, we can vote him out.”
Sean smiled. “That’s the American way, C.J. The power of the polling place. Very democratic.”
“I ain’t no Democrat.”
“No, you’re not,” said Sean. “And you’re also not the kind of guy who has the patience to wait for an election. Besides, it looks like he’s going to get reelected. You think most people think the way we do? Hell, they love ol’ Bobby Meredith.”
“I was just sayin’, it ain’t right.”
“No, it’s not. People should have a little more integrity and stick to their word. They should remember their principles a little better. But once they’re in Washington, you can’t depend on them anymore. You’ve got to depend on yourself.”
“Amen to that,” croaked Smith, taking a swig of his Bud.
“Question is,” Sean continued, “what are we going to do about it? We know what we believe in. Taking care of the doctor showed ’em we’re serious. We just won’t put up with that kind of shit. But if we thought we were sending a message they’d understand, forget it. You heard what the man said. We might have to think again. Maybe take matters into our own hands.”
C.J. stared at Sean several seconds before a smile slowly spread across his face. “Don’t be shittin’ me, man. What’re you sayin’, Sean?”
“I’m saying there are times you give up, and times you circle the wagons and fight. I don’t think there are quitters in the Southern Cross. When you know what you want, sometimes you have to go out and get it. Remember, we’re just an instrument. In the end, God speaks through us. His will be done.”
“You got somethin’ specific in mind, don’t ya?” C.J. said, his excited eyes aglow. “I jes know it!”
“That’s a fact,” said Smith. “I can see them wheels turnin’.”
“Here’s the thing, boys,” Sean said, stubbing out his Marlboro and placing his palms on the table. “Sometimes when it’s hard for a man to learn, he has to be taught a different lesson. Something he’ll understand.”
“Like what?” C.J. asked.
“Like something that hurts. Losing something important, for instance.”
C.J.’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t get it.”
“What he’s sayin’,” Smith said, gesturing with his beer can, “is that if you want to run with the big dogs, you gotta get off the porch. Time to move up to the big leagues. Right, Sean?”
Sean smiled at the aphorism. “Something like that. Maybe our last statement wasn’t impressive enough for the folks in Washington. Maybe it’s time for some serious loss.”
“I’m with you, Sean,” C.J. nodded. “Just point the way.”
“Remember, gentlemen. Life is precious. All life. And sometimes you have to lose life to appreciate that. It’s the Lord’s way.”
Smith’s expression grew solemn. “Thy will be done.”
Bethesda, Maryland
To her, he looked like a shorter version of NSYNC’s Justin. Michael’s straw-colored blond hair was a little longer, perhaps, and a little straighter, falling with horsehair flatness to the mid-point of his head, where it abruptly ended in a fade. Also, his chin might have been a bit more prominent. No matter. To twelve-year-old Tommie, he was the most gorgeous male she’d seen in her young life.
Not that she’d seen all that many. There was her father, naturally, who she thought was probably handsome, in a father’s kind of way. Recently, she’d begun noticing the way older women glanced at him, sidelong glances that lingered when he wasn’t looking. Then there were all the entertainers on TV and in magazines, but seen from a distance, they were plastic people. There was a neighborhood boy Tommie liked when she was five, but she was just a kid then. Anyway, it was before she’d been injured. Now that she was older, she had different feelings—new, confusing emotions that both buoyed and battered her.
The strangest part was, Michael hardly even talked to her before they became cast members in the school play. They were rehearsing The Tempest, a production that some might consider advanced for the sixth grade in a public school, but one that was considered appropriate for the bright, well-heeled youngsters in the private schools of Washington’s suburbs, where the children of diplomats, politicians, and upper-echelon government employees were educated. The project was begun last May, toward the end of the fifth grade, when the Shakespearean work was read aloud in class and parts assigned. Tommie was given the role of Ariel, while Michael played the charming young Ferdinand. They’d had all summer to learn their lines.
Tommie liked the fact that Ariel’s character—a fairy spirit—was supposed to be invisible. Somehow that made it a lot more believable for her to zip about the stage in her wheelchair without feeling ridiculous. Before the school year began, Tommie had gotten together with her best friend, Heather, to go over their lines. Heather had been assigned the part of Miranda, the play’s fifteen-year-old heroine. From the start, there was no question that Tommie was the better actress. Despite her handicap, she had a keen memory and delivered her lines well. This was a great help to Heather, whose power of recall was suspect, at best. By the time school began after Labor Day, Tommie was polished and poised, while Heather, with Tommie’s assistance, had improved to the point of adequacy.
Once fall rehearsals began in earnest, however, everything changed. It was because of Michael’s presence. During the summer, he had grown and filled out. Similarly, Heather, who was already tall and attractive, had begun to become a woman. During the summer when Tommie had rehearsed with Heather, she’d joked about her friend’s increasingly noticeable curves, development that Tommie lacked. But once the semester began and Tommie saw the way Michael and Heather were looking at one another, all joking stopped. Tommie suddenly felt self-conscious and inadequate. Her former theatrical confidence fled like a startled deer. Not only did she blank out her lines, but she lapsed into tongue-tied inarticulation. She grew to hate the play, just like she hated her looks.
Who would look at her, anyway? Everyone kept telling her she was pretty, but Michael and the other boys never once looked her way. Even if they did, she doubted they would see beyond her wheelchair. She’d give anything to be normal, or at the very least, to be able to walk again.
“Tommie?” prompted the drama coach. “Earth to Tommie, you’re on.”
“What?” She’d been looking at Heather, whose beaming smile, even across the stage, was fixed on Michael, who’d just perfectly delivered her lines. “Oh, sorry.”
“Full fathom five thy father lies,
“Of his bones are coral made,”
“Come on, Tommie,” interrupted the coach, “get with it. This isn’t a funeral. You’re supposed to be singing, right? Start again, and show a little life, okay?”
To her credit, Tommie tried. But her heart just wasn’t in it. It couldn’t be. Now that she’d given her heart away, it would take a while to reclaim it.