Shadowed Page 7

  “Summarize it for me, Jack,” Paul said. “What’s the scope of this operation?”

  As they walked, Jack explained. “The whole Columbia Region, but for our purposes, the D.C. area, which is littered with cars, many with bodies inside. Trust me, we respect those bodies, even though we’re stripping them of clothes and IDs. We leave the corpses where authorities and families can find them.”

  “And you abscond with their stuff, including their cars.”

  Jack nodded.

  “But won’t there soon be a database filled with vehicle identification numbers of cars stolen?”

  “Of course. We’re not just tuning up these cars, Paul. VINs are being traded, plates—you name it. If you were to need a car, for instance, we would find one owned by someone with your height and weight and build, give you his ID, your VIN and plate would match the car make and color, and if you behaved yourself behind the wheel, you should be safe. Let me show you the paint shop.”

  That’s where Paul recognized the real need for the mask. A dozen cars were in various stages of sanding, preparation, taping, and spray painting. Nearby, body damage was corrected too. Jack signaled Paul to follow him out.

  They climbed back into the golf cart, but Jack stopped in the middle of a long corridor, far from any ears. “You look a little nonplussed, Paul.”

  Paul cocked his head. “Processing it. You’re just doing what I’ve been doing with NPO for years, but I guess I didn’t expect it from this side of the conflict.”

  “Well, we don’t kill people except in self-defense. And we are on the right side, after all.”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t see how we could compete, keep ourselves alive, stay in the battle, if we didn’t fight with creativity.”

  “What do your elders think? Anyone have a problem with the stealing?”

  “Sure,” Jack said. “We pray a lot. Talk a lot. Argue a lot. I’m in charge, so I have to face the music on this. If I’ve been all wrong, God will hold me accountable. I don’t know what else to do, Paul. I can tell you this: I never go against a majority vote of the elders.”

  “But it doesn’t have to be unanimous?”

  Jack shook his head. “We don’t have time to find our way to that kind of a consensus every time.”

  “I’d like to meet your elders.”

  “And they’d like to meet you. They see you as some sort of a spiritual giant, you know. They’re eager to sit at your feet, have you bring them great spiritual insights.”

  Paul shook his head. “Your tone tells me you know better. I’m newer at this than most of you, probably all of you.”

  Jack nodded. “I know. But you’ve been on the front lines, a true double agent.”

  “But God blew my cover. I’m nothing but an international fugitive now.”

  Paul looked at Jack as if to ask why they were still sitting in the middle of the hallway and to give tacit permission to move on, but it was clear Jack had something on his mind. “Got another minute? ’Cause I’ve been consumed by something.”

  “Well, my calendar is pretty full today, Jack, but I’ll make time for you.”

  “I’ve got a good—really good—right-hand man here, Paul. Like me, he is single, no family. Frankly, I think he’s interested in my niece, and that’s okay, as long as it doesn’t distract him when I give him the reins.”

  “The reins?”

  “You mentioned you’d go squirrelly down here, and you just got here. Imagine being here as long as I have. I gotta tell you, Paul, I took my brother’s death pretty hard. He was the one who was always venturing out. I held down the fort. I couldn’t even go to his funeral, because I would have become a known quantity to prying eyes and they would have likely followed me right back here.

  “But you know there is a family of undergrounders around the country that communicates via e-mail and phone regularly. We’ve become friends and comrades even though we’ve never met.”

  “You know what the NPO calls all of you, don’t you?”

  Jack nodded. “The zealot underground. I know they mean it pejoratively and want to liken us to Nazis, Al Qaeda, extremists, and all that. Tell you the truth, I kind of like the name. We’re not extremists. We’re not murderers. But in the biblical sense, yes, we are zealots. And the Lord knows we’re underground. I think it describes me and my friends pretty well.”

  “I’ve met a lot of them.”

  “I know you have. And I want you to introduce me.”

  “That could be a very risky, very pricey social exercise.”

  “Oh, believe me, Paul, it’s more than just to get me topside and meeting new people.”

  “What then?”

  “How about I tell you after we drop in on Roscoe Wipers?”

  13

  THE MEETING WITH WIPERS had to be delayed yet again as Paul talked longer than he expected with Arthur Demetrius of Demetrius & Demetrius in New York.

  Arthur, the surviving brother and one of few believers in the colossal precious-metals conglomerate, didn’t even ask what Paul was calling about. He just jumped right in to his own agenda. “Paul, I miss you, man. Wish you were here, counseling me, teaching me, guiding me.”

  “I miss you too, Arthur, but I don’t have much to offer in the way of—”

  “So what do you make of the big curse? I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t know how it is there in Chicago, but in a—”

  “I’m in D.C.”

  “Whatever. In a city like New York, you can imagine we have a mess. An unbelievable mess. I lost a huge percentage of my employees. A lot of companies have. People are still trying to sort it all out. I can’t for the life of me figure how anyone can doubt God now; can you?”

  “Hardly. I—”

  “I mean, what are they, blind? Listen, Paul, tell me something: how much time do you think we have?”

  “Time?”

  “You know, on earth. How long will God put up with this? Doesn’t He have to intervene, even more than He has, if you can imagine that?”

  “Jesus told His disciples that not even He knew when the end would come, but that only the Father knew.”

  “But there have to be signs. He sure seems to be asserting Himself lately, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Can’t argue with that. The signs are wars and rumors of wars and nations rising against nations, but even then, Jesus said that would be only the beginning of the end.”

  “Well, let me go out on a limb here, Paul, and see what you think of this. You got time?”

  “For you? Sure.”

  “I can’t imagine God letting this go on for even another year, but let’s give Him the benefit of the doubt. You once told me that to God a day is as a thousand years and a thousand years as a day.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Pretty insightful, I’d say.”

  “It’s hardly original. It’s biblical.”

  “Well, of course it is. All right, I’ve been doing some figuring. For some reason God has made me ridiculously wealthy. I mean, I could set aside half my means and still have more than enough to do what I’d like to propose for the next twenty years. And regardless of God’s economy of time, as you call it, I’d bet my life none of us is going to be around two more decades. Curious?”

  “About what you’d like to propose? Are you kidding?”

  “Okay, here it is. You’ve got underground factions in every one of the seven regions, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I know these represent lots of different cells and groups, but they’re pretty much centralized by state.”

  “Right again,” Paul said.

  “Okay, get this. I know some regions are bigger, needier than others, but for the sake of argument, I’m treating them all as equal entities. Say I put a sea of money in a protected Swiss account. If every state underground withdrew five million dollars a month for the next twenty years, it would not exhaust the fund.”

  Paul was speechless. How was that p
ossible? He thought he had a hint of the expanse of Arthur Demetrius’s holdings, but he had underestimated by perhaps a hundredfold.

  “Are you there, Paul?”

  “I’m here, Arthur. What has put this in your head?”

  “Practicalities. The market could change overnight, so if I put away a portion of my net, it’s protected. And I certainly don’t need it, especially if our time is limited. How much does a man need? I spent my entire life trying to acquire things for myself, and I’m sick to death of it. Besides, even doing this, as I say, I still have way more than anyone could ever spend in a lifetime.”

  “Arthur, this would even the playing field between the international government and the zealot underground.”

  “Even it? With this last curse, I’d say things have swung our way already.”

  “Maybe,” Paul said, “but Chancellor Dengler has a way of digging in his heels.”

  “Well,” Arthur said, “then I say let him try to compete with these kinds of resources.”

  * * *

  Jae saw the signal from Angela and followed her gaze to Brie, who sat in a storybook-listening circle quietly weeping. The girl looked embarrassed and appeared to be trying to stanch her tears.

  Jae went to her and asked if she was tired and would like a nap. With that, Brie burst into sobs, embraced her mother, and followed her back to their quarters.

  Jae sat with her at a table. “What is it, honey?”

  “I don’t know,” Brie said. “I guess I just don’t know what to think. Everything’s different. We were at Grandma and Grandpa’s, and Uncle Berl and Aunt Aryana were supposed to come over. Then something really bad happened and we left and came here. Aren’t we going to go home to Chicago? What about my real school?”

  “Don’t you like this place?”

  “’Course I do, and I love Miss Angela, but what is this place and why are we here?”

  Jae prayed silently. She was in a spot. How much to say? She wanted to tell the truth, but a lot of this was way too much for an eight-year-old.

  * * *

  Paul was still reeling from Arthur Demetrius’s plan when he and Jack finally sat across from Roscoe Wipers.

  Here was a haggard man. His hair was greasy and mussed, his eyes bloodshot. His face was red and raw from where he had rubbed it with his free hand. The wrist on his cuffed arm looked tender.

  “I told them to get you a shower this morning,” Jack said. “That not happen?”

  “It happened.”

  “The way you look, all this mess, has come since then?”

  Roscoe nodded miserably. “You got me; you win; I’m done.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Paul said.

  “You pulled off a good plan, Stepola. You too, Pass. I never did figure out where I was. You scramble the GPSs down here, just in case. So NPO doesn’t know where we are, thinks we’re moving anyway, thinks I’m dead. My partner is dead. I know I’m next. Why don’t you either put me out of my misery or give me that sidearm you deafened me with in the night and let me do the deed myself?”

  “You really want to die?”

  “’Course not, but you have no use for me now. Be serious. Trading places, believe me, I’d off either one of you.”

  “Thanks, Roscoe. We appreciate the thought.”

  “Just being honest.”

  “Yeah,” Paul said. “That’s your style: lying to us until we prove you wrong. Do you really have a death wish, or do you just want to be reassured we’re not going to kill you?”

  “Well, that would be nice.”

  “We’re not going to kill you,” Jack said.

  Roscoe looked truly surprised. “You’re not? Promise?”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  The tension seemed to drain from Roscoe’s face and neck, and he appeared to relax. His voice fell weak and became whiny. “May I ask why?”

  “You’ve been with us all this time and you still don’t know what we’re about?” Jack said. “I’m insulted.”

  Roscoe studied him. “No, I know,” he said. “I don’t doubt you guys are sincere and all that. Thing is, I was a liar, a double agent, out to get you, would have had you all obliterated if I had the chance. You’re not going to try me, fry me, nothing?”

  “We’re going to keep you confined, if that’s what you mean. But no. We don’t kill people we don’t have to. It’s not what we’re about.”

  Paul was surprised to feel the stirrings of actual compassion for Roscoe. That could come only from God, but still Paul couldn’t fight the conviction that it was premature. “Fact is, Wipers, part of our whole faith thing is that we believe there’s always hope for everybody. We kill you, that’s the end of the hope.”

  “You’re not going to see any jailhouse conversion,” Roscoe said.

  “That’s up to you and God,” Jack said.

  “God!” Roscoe spat. “Don’t put Him and me in the same sentence.”

  Paul glanced at Jack. “Maybe we ought to kill him.”

  Roscoe’s head bobbed as he traded off staring into the eyes of each man.

  “Don’t worry,” Paul said. “That’s just our flesh talking. God would have us spare you. So be careful how you refer to Him around us.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  * * *

  Jae felt like a failure. She couldn’t for the life of her find a way to explain Uncle Berl’s death to Brie. She said he and Aunt Aryana had a car accident. That made Brie cry all the more, of course, but it didn’t answer any questions. Something in her little girl’s demeanor, however, persuaded Jae that she was ready for at least some modicum of explanation about why the family seemed to be on the run and in hiding.

  Jae started slowly, telling Brie that she had been born into a country and a culture where very few people believed in God. “In fact, the leaders made it against the law. If people chose to believe in God and Jesus or any religion, they had to do it secretly, in hiding.”

  “Like here? Is that why we’re here? We’re breaking the law?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I thought Daddy worked for the government.”

  “He did. But when he decided that God was real and became a believer in Jesus, we had to hide.”

  “I’m scared, Mommy.”

  “I am too, honey, but I believe in God too and that He will take care of us.”

  * * *

  Greenie (“Please don’t ask”) Macintosh was standing outside Jack Pass’s office when Jack and Paul returned. It was clear to Paul that the man was a bundle of nervous energy. He looked like anything would be preferable to waiting, and he was bouncing from foot to foot, studying his little notepad, searching for something on his PDA, and generally trying to stay productive—or at least busy—until he found out what Pass wanted.

  He was a small, thin, wiry man in his late thirties with very short black hair, a prominent nose, slightly bucked teeth, and buggy eyes. He looked eager. To do what, Paul couldn’t guess. But this was clearly a man of action, maybe ideas.

  Greenie wasn’t much for fashion either. He wore what Paul would have described as a janitor’s outfit and scuffed, sensible shoes with inch-thick rubber soles. His pants and shirt were green denim and were missing only the name patch above the pocket.

  And, of course, despite the plea during their introduction and handshakes, Paul had to ask. “Greenie?”

  “Okay, listen, I’ll tell ya, but then that’s the end of it, deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “I’m Irish, sure, but my ma saddles me with a first name you’d kill your best friend over. Get this: Grenadier. Yep. Grenadier. Somebody who lobs grenades. We’re a warring people in a warless world. I complain and moan so much about it when I start school that she tells me all along she meant to give me a normal nickname, like Greg or Gil, something like that.

  “I like Gil, so I try that out on my friends, and what do they say? They tell me I’ve always looked like a fish and a little green a
round the gills. So nobody calls me Gil. It’s Greenie.”

  “And you’ve accepted it. That’s good.”

  “I didn’t say that. Resigned to it is more like it. Anyways, I’m Jack’s right-hand man, assistant chief elder, and heir apparent—though there’s precious little to inherit in this hole. He wanted us to meet. I mean, I wanted to meet you too.”

  14

  JAE WATCHED CAREFULLY as Brie rejoined the kids and sidled up to Connor. On one hand Jae worried how such news would hit him, but on the other she trusted Brie to share it better than she herself could.

  Connor looked nothing short of amused and ran to Jae. He leaned close to her ear and said, “Is it true? Are we bad guys?” as if nothing would give him more pleasure.

  “If it’s wrong to believe in God and Jesus,” Jae said, “yes, Mom and Dad are bad guys.”

  He nodded and ran off. There would have to be a lot more talking.

  * * *

  Greenie moved as if his head were on fire, sat as if he’d rather be standing, and talked as if he’d rather be acting. Paul decided to be forthright. “People respect you around here?”

  “I think they do,” Greenie said.

  “They do,” Jack said. “They know he speaks for me, and nobody ever sees him loafing. That carries weight.”

  “You want the responsibility, the head job?”

  “No,” Greenie said quickly, leaning forward. “No, sir, I don’t, and I would suspect any man or woman who did. This isn’t about head anything. This is about serving people and getting a job done, so let’s just say I’m willing. Reluctant, but willing.”

  “Reluctant?”

  “I’d rather not see Jack out of here, frankly, and I think his scheme is harebrained, if you want to know the truth.”

  “We tell each other the truth around here,” Jack said.

  “So I gather,” Paul said. “Better remind him I haven’t heard your idea.”

  Greenie wheeled to face Jack. “You haven’t even told him yet? Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves then?”