Harrington had returned to Houston to complete arrangements for the historic Christmas celebration, now just days away. The Tower of Faith had been buzzing not just over Christmas, but the emerging Renaissance, which would establish him as the spiritual leader of a New World Order. Longbridge’s call had come in the midst of his preparations. “Seth, I know you’re especially busy this time of year but I’d appreciate your return to D.C.,” he said. “There’s an urgent matter I need to discuss. Can you come?”
How did you say no to the President of the United States, a close friend no less, whose cooperation was vital to the mission?
Seconds after hanging up, Harrington’s heart lurched and in crippling pain he’d sunk to the floor, there offering his simple prayer: Please heal me, Lord, so I may continue Your divine work, upon which the souls of so many rest.
There’d been no pain since that desperate prayer, nor would there be, he was convinced, as he waited to discover the urgent matter that had brought him to the Oval Office on this bitterly cold afternoon.
“Two months of costly operations, yet the fugitives remain at large,” Longbridge began. “That they’re young professionals with otherwise spotless records — one on crutches, the other a wealthy Virginia baron — only adds to a public persona unhealthy for this administration. It’s surely fueled Adamley’s recent rumblings about a Senate investigation and these new appeals from public interest groups stirred up by Travis Culpepper and Schuyler Waddill. These groups are funded by conservative Americans who put me in office and who have to vote for me again, if I’m to remain in office. They believe, as I do, that this fugitive crisis has gone on long enough, and they don’t see it ending unless I intervene.”
“Intervene how?” Harrington asked.
“By issuing a statement guaranteeing the fugitives’ safety if they surrender and assuring them due process in their criminal prosecutions.”
“But haven’t Thomas and Larry already done that? And how can you guarantee the safety of two dangerous fugitives? You have no control over what they might do. They say they want to surrender, but don’t you think they’d prefer freedom if given the chance? Who can predict what desperate stunt they might pull, like taking a hostage or killing someone?”
Across the desk, Longbridge brooded over these observations. Surrender was a delicate process and would have to be meticulously planned. Still as Seth pointed out, something could go wrong. He couldn’t control the events that might follow or guarantee the results. “You’re right,” he nodded. “I can’t make the statement. So then what should I do?”
“Why do anything? Assuming you still have faith in Larry and Thomas, they’ll soon capture the fugitives and bring this crisis to an end.”
Longbridge frowned. “That’s what I keep hearing. But how long do I wait before admitting these are empty promises they can’t fulfill?”
“Then you have lost faith in them.”
“No, but I’m clearly losing patience. We need to close this chapter soon.”
“Certainly the Lord will see them through it. We must keep our faith, Tom — in Him and those who do His work. You do still believe Thomas and Larry are the Lord’s servants?”
Longbridge studied his friend thoughtfully. Since the Green River tragedy, rumors of conspiracy had run rampant. If there was no cover up, the critics argued, why hadn’t an investigation been ordered? Wasn’t Green River as suspect as Waco? And what about those serious charges against the three Supreme Court Justices, the impeachment advocates shouted.
Did he believe the rumors? Was he prepared to admit that men he’d entrusted with enforcement of the nation’s laws were possibly criminals themselves? Criminals of the worst kind: those who exploited the nation’s trust to advance their own illegal enterprises. Until he was sure this was the case, it wouldn’t just be irresponsible, but suicidal to hint at his suspicion. “Of course I believe Thomas and Larry are committed to the Lord, Seth. If I’ve led you to think otherwise, I apologize.”
“Then what will you do, Tom?”
His eyes hardened with resolve as if addressing the nation. “This operation has been entrusted to the proper authorities and executed in accordance with federal law. As President, I’ve seen that the men responsible are qualified and of unimpeachable character. I’ve let them do their jobs, yet also demanded frequent reports. Further, I’ve kept the nation informed and reassured the people of my faith in the men in charge. Unless you suggest any changes I’ll incorporate this message into an afternoon statement. Beyond that, I’ll do nothing except pray, of course, for a swift end to this nightmare.”
Walking Harrington to the door, he expressed his deepest regret over the fugitive crisis. “Travis Culpepper has contributed so much to my administration. It’s difficult to lose someone of his caliber.”
“Doing what’s right is never easy,” Harrington reassured him. “The Lord said there’d be sacrifices and, so it seems, He was right as usual.”
Longbridge nodded. “I must say, He’s seen fit to provide me with a wonderful friend and adviser who’s not just molded me into a successful politician, but guided me safely over treacherous roads.”
“I’ve done no more than the Lord has asked,” Harrington shrugged modestly. “If accolades are due, they’re His alone.”
Longbridge studied him solemnly now. “I gather the excitement of the special Christmas celebration has put some additional stress on you. You haven’t seemed yourself lately. No medical problems, I hope?”
This unexpected probe startled Harrington. Speculation over his health could threaten his position in the administration. “I’m fine,” he smiled convincingly. “My last checkup couldn’t have been better. As you say, it must be the excitement.”
Hours later, he summarized the meeting for the group gathered in the Lakeland study. “I’m glad he listens to you,” Streeter sighed. “I can’t imagine anything worse than his personal guarantee of the fugitives’ safety, especially since we’ve planned their swift executions. With Green River no longer an option, they’ll take place at the site of capture, or as close as circumstances permit.”
“What about this latest report on their location?” Harrington asked.
“We haven’t yet confirmed the trucker’s identity, but his information is consistent with what we already know,” Chapman explained. “The Northwood Sheriff’s dispatcher who received his call tried to determine his identity but experienced problems with the connection. We’ve discovered, however, through available satellite detection that the call, from an untraceable cell phone, was made within a forty mile range west of Lacey’s Truck Stop, where the trucker believes they jumped on; it’s a supposition made more credible when you consider a rundown inn is also nearby. A place called the Kennesaw.”
“Why did the trucker call the Northwood Sheriff?” Harrington asked.
“Because Northwood was his last stop,” Chapman replied.
“Yes, but he’d covered up to forty miles since that stop. What made him think the Northwood Sheriff would have jurisdiction?”
“He’s a trucker, not a lawyer,” Streeter said. “What difference does it make what he thought?”
“Possibly a lot,” Falkingham mused. “Especially since the fugitives weren’t found where he claims they jumped off; and neither his identity nor the specific origin of his call have been confirmed. How do we even know he was a trucker? Possibly he was more interested in the Northwood Sheriff’s activities than in reporting the fugitives’ location. Does anyone know what the Sheriff was doing when the call came in?”
Chapman glanced at his notes. “The dispatcher, who was unable to make radio contact, located the Sheriff a quarter-hour later engaged in a search with our people.”
“A search of what?” Harrington asked.
He suddenly looked ill. “A small inn, west of Northwood on Route 51... the Kennesaw.”
“Tyler made that call!” Falkingham snapped. “I bet he was sweating bullets inside that inn and knew he had to get your boys to bite on a fast one. He must’ve gotten a good laugh when they scrambled off like rabbits.”
Harrington suddenly felt sick, too. “Find out where that call was made,” he turned to Chapman. “And search that inn immediately. If we’ve fumbled the ball again, at least tell me we’ve reduced the search area?”
“It’s been redrawn based on this latest report,” Streeter confirmed. “Northwood is the new axis, with a forty mile radius, about one-tenth the size we were working before. One thing’s certain: the fugitives are inside this area with a concentrated force of six hundred men, two hundred patrol cars and a fleet of choppers. Checkpoints have been established at every junction. No vehicle can get through without proper ID. We also plan to search every building and question every person inside the zone. This time, the fugitives will be caught.”
Harrington wasn’t interested in his worthless assurances, but with assuring that no detail was overlooked. “Is Lake Superior in this new zone, and have you considered it in your strategy?”
“Northwood’s on its coast,” Chapman replied. “Police cutters have already sealed it off.”
“Why haven’t the fugitives contacted the Markhams?” Lamp addressed another concern.
“They must assume the family’s phones are bugged,” Chapman replied. “Still, they’re certain to make contact at some point. What other choice do they have?”
“What’s the situation in Snow Peak anyway?” Mann asked.
“Quiet for now. Markham’s in St. Paul until Friday.”
“How do we know the fugitives haven’t contacted him there?”
“They’d obviously disguise their voices,” Streeter said. “Maybe they just haven’t been identified on the tapes yet. We’ve bugged every phone within a hundred miles of Markham, and Nicholas is screening every call.”
Falkingham lit his last Dunhill, crunching the empty pack in the ashtray. “After our public guarantees, Longbridge will go ballistic when they’re not taken alive.”
“I’ve made him aware this is a real possibility,” Harrington said. “As desperate killers, their actions can’t be predicted, much less controlled. And just because they’ve convinced people they want to surrender doesn’t mean they won’t resort to violence when the time comes. I’m referring to the shootout that’ll take place.” He glanced at his watch. “What else, gentlemen? It’s getting late.”
When no one responded, he adjourned the meeting. As the three justices left, he and Streeter waited for Chapman to call Snow Peak. He found them at the front door, minutes later. “Nicholas is confirming the origin of the trucker’s call and reviewing recent phone conversations from Markham’s home and insurance agency. If there’s anything suspicious, we’ll know in the morning.”
Hours later, the phone rattled the darkness. “Good news,” Chapman reported.
“At this hour, it better be.”
Streeter chimed in, “Larry, in his typical fashion, has understated the developments.”
Both dummies on the line together - the news must be special indeed, which Chapman now confirmed. “We’ve determined that the trucker’s call and the one to the insurance agency originated from the same cell phone. The caller claimed to be moving his business from Dallas to Snow Peak. When the secretary said Markham was out of town, he wasn’t interested in talking to anyone else. But he had plenty of questions, making it clear he was on a fishing expedition.”
Harrington now sprung up in bed. “Are you saying Waddill was the caller?”
“A report just received confirms it,” Streeter replied. “The captain of a Caribbean cruise ship has a passenger on board named Martin Kennesaw, who owns the inn we discussed earlier. Kennesaw’s identified Waddill from a photo shown him by an ex-girlfriend on the same cruise. He stated that he rented Waddill a cabin the same morning he left and didn’t think anymore about it until meeting up with the ex-girlfriend.”
Chapman added, “The inn’s being secured and the state boys withdrawn, so we can dispose of the fugitives the moment Nicholas and Leopold arrive. If they attempt a last-minute escape, it would logically be in the direction of the eastern forest, where our guys are now concentrating.”
Harrington glowed. Everything was falling into place; certainly the Lord was responsible.
Streeter offered another promising possibility. “Whether or not Waddill realizes it, his call to the agency may have uncovered the nugget we overlooked.”
“What do you mean?” Harrington asked.
“During his conversation with Markham’s secretary, it came out that the agents go fishing twice a year at Copper Harbor. Their boat is stored at the marina there, something previously unconfirmed.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the lease isn’t in the agents’ names we checked. It remains in the previous owner’s name, the one who died four years ago. Robert Hunter. Our agents are en route to Copper Harbor now to search the storage unit. We’ll know soon if it holds the chest.”
Chapman laughed. “It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?” he said. The Jew flies to Minnesota, lamenting all the blues he’s missing on the Outer Banks. Later, while trading fishing tales with Markham, he learns about the storage unit at Copper Harbor.”
“One leased to a dead man,” Streeter added. “And also the travel records suggest one he almost certainly visited for the purpose of dumping his treasure chest.”
“That must be it!” Harrington rejoiced. “We’ve searched every other conceivable place!” Would the next hours see the fugitives finally captured and the chest recovered? “Call me the instant you get word.”
Hanging up, he gazed joyfully out the window. What a wonderful Christmas it would be! What a grand era they were marching into! With the Lord’s blessing, he would soon lead the flock to salvation. And faithfully they’d follow and love him, as they loved the Lord.
He pondered this as the next thunderbolt struck.