Armageddon Conspiracy (17 page)

She defrosted the bacon in the microwave and put the muffins in her toaster oven to thaw. A few minutes later the bacon was soft enough for the frying pan, and shortly afterward, the kitchen filled with its mouthwatering aroma. She split the muffins once they softened then cracked eggs into a blue crockery bowl that had belonged to her grandmother. Her ability to do something simple and physical
was like a balm. Twenty minutes later she took two heaping plates of scrambled eggs, toasted muffins, and crisp bacon into the den.

“Wake up,” she ordered.

Brent opened his eyes. His lips were dry and cracked.

“Sit up and eat,” she said in a deliberately cold voice.

Brent winced, but he struggled into a half-sitting position and took a plate. He glanced down at the blanket she’d thrown over him, lifted the corner, and peeked at his boxer shorts. “Did you take advantage of me?”

Maggie ignored the comment as she fixed him with her toughest glare. “Who is Spencer McDonald?” she demanded, repeating one of the names he’d babbled as she bandaged him.

At her mention of the name, Brent’s attempt at humor vanished. He took a few bites and then began telling her a convoluted story about how he’d gone to work at Genesis Advisor at the request of the Justice Department, how some bogus FBI agents and a bogus lawyer had embezzled his client’s money, and how he’d found bodies in his client’s townhouse. Finally, he told her about the assailant with the knife in the parking garage.

“You’re working for government?”

Brent nodded. “For a woman named Ruth Simmons.”

“You have anything in writing that proves it?”

“No,” Brent said.

Maggie made a mental note to call Ruth Simmons, and then asked, “How about the FBI Agents or the lawyer, could you pick them out of a lineup?”

Brent nodded, as he continued to shovel food.

“What about the guy with the knife and the driver of the van?”

“The guy with the knife,” Brent nodded. “But I never saw the driver’s face.”

“You think they’re all tied to the money?”

Brent nodded, some of the old spark returning. “If they made me disappear, the Feds would keep on thinking I took the money, but they’d never find me.”

“How did they set this up?” she asked.

“I’m guessing through somebody I work with.” His gaze turned inward, and his shoulders slumped. “Only I’ve got no way to prove it.”

Maggie nibbled at her eggs and thought for a minute. “Have you considered the possibility that this is why you were hired?”

“Only about a hundred times in the past few hours. I tried to call Simmons on the cell phone she gave me. It’s supposed to reach her twenty-four seven.” He shook his head. “She hasn’t been answering.”

On an emotional level Maggie believed him. As she listened to his story the rational part of her brain was becoming persuaded as well. His story triggered another association deep in her subconscious, but she pushed it aside because the extrapolations seemed too fantastic. “Is there anybody else who might be able to help you? Someone at work?”

“One guy, and I should have heard from him by now.” Brent’s head shot up, and he patted his shirt pocket. “Shit!” he said. “He may have been trying to call me. I turned my cell phone off to save the juice.”

He tried to swing his legs to the floor and then groaned and fell back. “Stay here,” Maggie commanded. She stood and headed out the back door. The sun was over the trees, and in the early light the dew-drops in the grass glistened like tiny diamonds. The air had a foggy,
romantic quality, and for a few seconds she could almost imagine that it was a weekend morning and she and Brent were still together.

She raised the garage door and saw the Volvo, and her spirits plummeted. She knew the car was stolen even before she pulled the registration from the glove box. It hammered home the fact that Brent was wanted for murder. It didn’t matter that she loved him. She had an obligation to uphold the law, and she couldn’t escape it.

She grabbed his cell phone off the seat then leaned against the car roof with her face in her hands. She let out a quick sob, but after a second she bit her lower lip and straightened. Get a grip, she told herself as she headed back to the house. She knew what she needed to do.

BRENT SAW THE CHANGE THE
moment Maggie returned with his cell phone. Her eyes had grown murky, her expression distant, and he knew it had been the discovery of the Volvo. He was too exhausted, his brain too full of sand to try and explain, and he watched her turn and walk out of the room.

He checked the phone, cursed himself for having turned it off and saw that he had six missed calls from Ruth Simmons and three messages from Smythe, the first from around eleven thirty last night. In it, Smythe’s normally superior voice betrayed an anxiety he’d never heard.

“We’re more than even, you sonofabitch,” Smythe said. “I went back and pretended there was some work I’d forgotten to finish up. Betty had already gone home and Biddle’s office was locked, but Wofford’s assistant was there. I chatted her up and got her a Coke, then I
stood in the stairwell ‘til almost ten o’clock.”

Brent smiled as he pictured Smythe hovering in the shadows. His pulse quickened as he heard what came next.

“She finally went to pee, and I snuck onto Wofford’s computer. One of the phone numbers was in his trash file. Lucky for you he forgot to erase it. The name that went with the number is Howard Turner. I’ve got more, but it’s too long to leave on a message. Call me!”

The second and third messages had come in at midnight and one a.m. “Where the hell are you? Call me!” Smythe said both times. Brent lay back on the couch and allowed himself his first breath of hope.

He checked his watch and saw that it was already six fifteen. Smythe would be up and just about to leave for the station. Knowing his cell phone could be traced, he dropped his feet to the floor and sat up. His stomach had stiffened, and movement brought a tearing feeling. He looked down, saw that the butterfly bandages seemed to be holding, and then gritted his teeth and stood.

He hobbled into the kitchen and saw Maggie slumped at the small table, her eyes unfocused. He took her cordless phone from the wall, shuffled back to the den, and dialed Smythe’s cell phone. The number rang until he got a recording. He hung up, found Smythe’s home number on his BlackBerry, and dialed. The number rang, only this time there was no answering machine. Probably Smythe’s wife on the computer, he thought.

He waited five minutes and tried both numbers again. Still no answer. “Damn,” he said. He felt a huge surge of gratitude for the risk Smythe had taken. He couldn’t wait to hear the rest of his message and then offer to take him to New York’s best restaurant by way of a
thank-you. Hell, he’d take the Smythes to Paris if that was what they wanted!

He heard Maggie’s chair scrape the kitchen floor. A second later, she stood in the doorway, her face grim.

“It’s time,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “I’m turning you in.”

Brent looked up and saw exhaustion and worry carved in her face but also determination. “Not yet!” he said. “I’ve got a name!”

Her face flooded with anger. “You come back into my life and expect me to risk everything for you?”

“I’m just asking for a little time.”

“You’re wanted for murder. You stole a car.” Her voice shook with emotion. “I can’t keep you in my house.”

Her vulnerability struck him. It made him want to go over to her and cup her face in his hands, but he held back. “Give me a few more hours,” he said. “Please!”

“I’ve already given you too much time!”

“A couple hours! These guys have been flawless! If they even suspect I’ve got a lead, they’re liable to vanish completely!”

“What do you expect to do?” she demanded.

“Get something!” he shouted, sitting up, ignoring the pain. “You’ve got to let me try!”

She turned away and looked into the kitchen. “I just hope you’re worth it,” she muttered.

Brent slumped back on the pillows. “So do I.”

FRED WOFFORD STOPPED AT PRESCOTT
Biddle’s gates, took a deep breath, and tried to punch the entry code into the keypad. His hand shook, and he hit the wrong numbers. He cursed then took a rattling breath and tried again, once more his fingers shaking out the wrong code. He tried a third time, and the gates finally swung back. He headed down the driveway then braked at the small guardhouse located around the first curve, just out of sight of the road.

A man wearing a blue blazer and gray flannels stepped toward the car. He had an earpiece in one ear and a small microphone at his lapel, and even though he recognized Wofford, he walked around the car, peered through the windows, and tapped the rear hatch. Wofford hit the unlock button, and the guard opened the hatch and glanced at the boxes inside. “Mrs. Biddle order all this?” he asked.

“I believe they’re expecting guests in the cottage for a few days,”
Wofford replied. He tried for an easy smile, as though delivering cases of foul-smelling stuff purchased from a Middle Eastern grocery was nothing out of the ordinary.

The guard raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He closed the tailgate then bent to his lapel mike. “Clearing Mr. Wofford,” he said. “Silver Mercedes SUV, New York plates, one passenger. Going to the cottage.” The man listened then nodded. “Roger.” He saluted Wofford. “Have a good day.”

Wofford started moving again, leaving his window down. The sea air was soft against his face, the bright morning light adding an extra touch of splendor to Biddle’s acres of lawn and flowers, but the beauty was illusory. Dread chewed the lining of his stomach as he thought of what was hidden just ahead.

Clearly, Biddle’s security people remained ignorant of the three men in the little stone cottage. Thank God. Only a tiny group knew—Biddle, Wofford, their two secretaries, Reverend Turner, and the two sheriff’s deputies from Turner’s church. Each of them had sworn a sacred and holy oath to the prophecy and the promise of bringing Jesus back into the world!

Wofford tried again to focus on that one supreme goal and prayed that Jesus would banish his fear. Only, it didn’t work. Panic squeezed his insides. He stopped the car in the middle of the driveway, opened the door, and hung his head out the side. He retched, but only a few drops of clear liquid since he’d thrown up everything hours ago.

He closed the door and wiped his lips with the back of his wrist. His own vision was so different from Biddle’s. It always had been, but Biddle’s revelations had overpowered him—just as they had all the others. Only, when he was alone he had such horrible doubts. Would
a loving God really want this?

At times he suspected Armageddon was meant to signify a war fought in people’s hearts, as the religions of the world struggled to find one God together. But Biddle insisted otherwise. It needed to be an actual war, with millions dead. Anything less, and Jesus would not return.

Well, Biddle was getting his way, he thought bitterly, as his recollection of the orders he’d given the previous night made him want to vomit all over again. The call from Reverend Turner had set everything off. It had come in around nine o’clock, followed by a second call an hour later from the firm’s security people.

He hadn’t been able to reach Prescott, so it had been his decision. Yet again he had begged God for courage, but those prayers had not been answered, not last night and not today. Nonetheless, he’d called Turner and given the order he knew Biddle would have given. Sometime around dawn, after hours of sleeplessness, he’d swallowed some Valium and finally nestled within its soft comfort. Only now, a little over four hours later, the drug was a faint memory.

Yesterday everything had been going perfectly—even his phone conversation with Lucas. Wofford knew he’d done well. He’d sounded angry, even felt angry, as he’d focused his anxiety and let it pour out. Only now . . . he lifted one hand from the steering wheel and made a fist. His fingers felt sticky. It was irrational, but he imagined them covered with blood.

How could Biddle insist this killing was God’s work, unavoidable, the only way to the prophecy? How had he let himself get pulled into this? Already it was out of control. The original plan called for only Faisal and his butler to die, but the news reports said a third person
had been in the house, a woman. And then that poor man in the garage! Ironically, Lucas, the greatest threat to them all if they hoped to stay out of jail, was still on the loose.

But young Smythe! He’d had a wife and child! That
had
to be a sin beyond forgiveness. He put his face in his hands and let out several convulsive sobs. He’d accepted Biddle’s vision as far as he could, but now he knew he’d run out of strength.

He raised his head and looked around. How long had he been there? He had stopped where the driveway forked, the right fork leading to Biddle’s house, the other to the stone cottage and the dock. This surely was a sign from God—the fork of the drive, the fork of the serpent’s tongue, the choice. He needed to move, but it took every ounce of his will.

A moment later he drove into the stone courtyard and used his shirtsleeve to dab the sweat from his scalp. His bowels were water. A blast of resentment ran through him directed at Biddle, safe in Russia right now, his alibi ironclad. It was Biddle’s job, not his, to handle these animals. Fuck! Wofford thought, uttering an unaccustomed silent curse.

He climbed from the car then froze when he heard a sound at his back. He turned slowly and spotted a man hidden in the deep shadow of a pine tree. A scarf wrapped his face, covering everything but delicate eyes and what looked like a narrow band of bruised, bandaged flesh. However, Wofford’s gaze went straight to the machine gun aimed at his stomach. He raised his hands. “Please . . . I only brought the food,” he stuttered.

The man looked back down the driveway. “You were supposed to call first.”

“I know,” Wofford said, nodding, appalled at his mistake. “I forgot. I’m very sorry.”