Fallen Masters (53 page)

“Who are you people?” Bobby asked. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m Dr. Tyler Michaels, and this is Nurse Rae Loona. We came here to find the President’s son, to save him if we could,” Rae said.

Bobby looked surprised. “What do you mean, save him? How did you know he was here?”

“Mama G told us,” Rae said.

“Okay, so the old lady is sending in all the troops, it seems,” Bobby said.

“But it appears that the President’s son is here, and unlikely as that may seem, we are here, too.”

“Yes it does. It is all beginning to fit together now,” Dawson said. “Don’t worry about Dr. Michaels and Rae. I have a feeling in my gut that they are good guys.”

Sirens could be heard now as police cars and ambulances were speeding toward the scene.

“Doc, have you got him stabilized enough to leave him for the EMT people?” Bobby asked.

“Yes, I think so.”

Bobby handed the key to Tyler. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know who to trust anymore. But, for some reason, I trust you. Get the kid, and get him out of here.”

Tyler and Rae hurried into the warehouse, then back to the last door on the right. When they unlocked it, they saw Marcus sitting on the bunk bed. They expected to see him very frightened, but he was smiling at them.

*   *   *

“Hello,” Marcus said.

“Hello, Marcus. Don’t be frightened,” Tyler said.

“I’m not frightened. Dad told me you would be coming for me.”

“Your dad?” Rae asked.

“Yes. He’s here with me now. You can’t see him, and you can’t hear him, either. That’s right, isn’t it, Dad? They can’t hear you or see you?”

“That’s right,”
POTUS said.

“We want you to come with us.”

“
You can trust them,”
POTUS said.

“I know I can, Dad.”

“Mikey, I believe this kid really is talking to his dad. Mr. President, I’m sorry you were shot. I want you to know how proud I was to have you as President of the United States,” Rae said.

“Tell Rae Loona I appreciate that,”
POTUS said.

“Dad said, tell Rae Loona that he appreciates that.”

“How did you know her name?” Tyler asked.

“Dad told me.”

“I told you, Mikey, Marcus really is talking to his dad. But, Marcus, we have to get you out of here now, while there is still time.”

“Tell them to take you to the Hollywood Grand Theatre.”

“Dad says take me to the Hollywood Grand Theatre.”

Tyler, Rae, and Marcus hurried out of the compound and toward the Escalade. They met up with Anderson and Dawson and told them what—supposedly—a dead President had told them to do.

And Anderson was left with one of the most important decisions of his life.

*   *   *

Bobby Anderson made one of the most critical decisions of his law enforcement career. Against all protocol, but going with his strong instinct in this moment, he allowed Dr. Tyler Michaels and Nurse Rae Loona to accompany Marcus Jackson Jr. to the Hollywood Grand Theatre. He had never felt a “hunch”—a term he hated violently—as strongly as he felt this one. It was a voice in his head that kept telling him to do it.
Rae and Tyler have a role to play and a reason to be here, just as Dawson and Charlene do—just as Bobby Anderson, big-shot FBI investigator does.…
It was the same voice that had guided his thinking to the truth about the Belfast killings: that they were a part of this conspiracy of forces beyond his understanding. And then there was Mama G. She told him to trust these people, and while it may be going against everything he had ever been taught about security, Anderson knew in his heart that it was the right thing to do. He nodded and sent Rae, Tyler, and the boy into their car.

“Come on, Dawson, let’s get out of here, too,” Bobby said. “I don’t want to be around when everyone gets here. I don’t want to answer any questions, and I honestly don’t know who to trust.”

Bobby and Dawson were two blocks away when they saw the first of many emergency vehicles speeding to the scene.

*   *   *

At almost that same moment, Intercontinental Airlines Flight 1331 from Miami to Los Angeles crashed in the western Nevada desert, killing all passengers and crew. It had been a normal flight up to that point, and weather had been clear, with a strong tailwind that promised to deliver everyone on board early to LAX. Later it would be determined that a very small superheated meteorite had pierced the right wing of the aircraft, a freak accident—a one-in-ten-million occurrence.

Within the precincts of the Tribunal, a shout of triumph arose. Another manifestation of the awesome power of the dark energies as they massed in strategic locations around the Earth to create just such havoc and instill fear in people everywhere.

CHAPTER

95

After Bobby dropped him off at the hotel, Dawson had only one thing on his mind, and that was to get up to his room and take a shower. He stood in front of the elevator, suitcase on the floor beside him, watching the numbers count down, hoping it didn’t stop anywhere on the way down. It reached the lobby and the doors swooshed open. The elevator was empty, and Dawson was glad. He stepped in, then turned to punch his floor on the number panel.

“Hold that elevator!” a female voice called, and Dawson felt a moment of frustration. He didn’t want to share the elevator with anyone, not as grubby as he was. He wanted to push the close button to hurry up the process, but he thought better of it, and pushed hold.

“Thank you. It seems like these elevators take forever,” the woman said as she stepped into the elevator.

Dawson’s breath was taken away by the beauty of the woman. Her skin was a smooth, mocha latte color. Her eyes were large and expressive, her hair jet black. Then, even as he admired her beauty, he realized who she was. This was Charlene St. John, the famous singer.

“You’re Dawson Rask, aren’t you?” Charlene said.

Hearing his name come from her lips was like a blow to the solar plexus. He was amazed—and if he admitted to himself, flattered to no end—that she had recognized him.

“I am a big fan of yours,” Charlene continued. “And I’ve seen you doing interviews on television.”

“You are a fan of mine?” Dawson said. “I—I don’t know what to say. I mean, you are, arguably one of the most famous people in the entire world. I just got back from Australia, and they love you down there. Oh,” he added quickly, “I just got off the plane a short time ago. Excuse my grubbiness.”

Charlene laughed, and to Dawson, her laughter sounded like the tinkling of perfectly harmonized wind chimes.

“You call it grubby, I call it masculine,” she said.

“Oh, I assure you, Miss St. John—”

“Can’t you call me Charlene? I mean, as one ‘famous’ person to another, don’t we have that right?” She emphasized the word
famous
to indicate that it was tongue in cheek.

“I would hardly put myself in your league. I am famous only to the person who happens to be reading my book, and notices my name.”

A moment earlier, Dawson had wanted the elevator to race up to the fifteenth floor. Now he wished it would creep up. He was enjoying this time with Charlene St. John. No,
enjoying
wasn’t quite the word, enjoying didn’t cover it. He was intrigued by her, and for the first time since Mary Beth had died, he felt a connection, a real connection to another person. That she was drop-dead gorgeous hadn’t escaped his attention either.

*   *   *

Charlene, in turn, was shocked by her reaction to this man. Not since Ryan died had she even so much as thought of any kind of a relationship with another man, and yet there was a definite spark between them.

The elevator stopped on the fifteenth floor and the doors slid open. There was nobody waiting. In a move that was so uncharacteristic, nobody who knew Charlene could believe it of her, she punched the hold button. She felt as if another hand was moving hers, and she suddenly felt a familiar presence standing next to her. Could it be—?

“I wonder who pushed the button on fifteen?” she asked.

“No clue,” he volunteered.

“A ghost?” Each of them said exactly the same thing at exactly the same time. They laughed.

“I don’t believe in ghosts—” Again, they spoke simultaneously, the words tumbling out without thinking. He chuckled, and Charlene rolled her eyes in amusement.

After a somewhat awkward pause, he asked, “Do you think two famous people could have dinner together in this town without causing a problem?”

She looked at Dawson directly in his eyes. “Better yet, want to go to the Academy Awards with me?” She had just blurted it out, but it felt prompted, somehow. Then it dawned on her with a certainty born of her entire life’s experience: It was Ryan. He had brought them together somehow and was prompting her to keep the conversation going.

She pulled her business card from her purse and held it out to him.

*   *   *

Meanwhile, Dawson Rask was speaking: “Like this. Me all grubby and all? And no car.” Dawson smiled. He felt touched by her seeming awkwardness. Beneath it all, he could sense her sincerity and genuineness. He
liked
her. World famous, though she was.

*   *   *

“Yes,” she said. Inside, she could not believe she had just done this. But she had felt moved to ask, and she felt drawn to him, suddenly and powerfully.

*   *   *

Dawson took the card. It was a business card with no name, just a telephone number. “All right,” he said simply. “Thank you.”

When Dawson reached his room, he set his suitcase down, then started toward the bathroom, stripping out of his clothes along the way. When he stepped into the shower he just stood there for a long moment, letting the needles of spray massage his jet-lagged body.

He began singing in the shower, but not just any song. He was singing the song Charlene was best known for:
Someone, Somewhere
.

I’ve a life to live

Open up my heart and give

To someone, somewhere

I know that we will be together

Heart touching heart forever

Someone, somewhere

CHAPTER

96

When Charlene reached her room, she saw a beautifully wrapped gift basket on her bed. The card read:

To Ms. Charlene St. John—

We are so pleased you chose our hotel. Please accept this gift basket, as a symbol of our appreciation. From the manager and staff of the Ritz-Carlton, Los Angeles.

“Well, that’s very nice of you,” Charlene said aloud. “But I didn’t choose you, Paul Maxwell did.” She smiled. “But I am the one who will get to enjoy it.”

Taking off the gold foil wrap, saw a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon Napa Valley, vintage 2007. There were also a few bars of Swiss dark chocolate, two blueberry muffins, and several packets of gourmet coffee. There was also, she noticed, a corkscrew. She uncorked the wine, poured it into a wineglass that was on the bar in the room, and let it sit there to breathe as she took her own shower.

She had just returned to her suite after a rehearsal of the Academy Awards ceremony at the Hollywood Grand Theatre. As she was showering, she thought of Dawson Rask, the man she had met in the elevator. Dawson Rask was best known for his Matthews character, in his thriller novels. But Charlene liked one of his earliest books,
Moon Song,
a story about a Midwestern man trying to adapt to New York, and a hip New York girl that he met on the subway. They have nothing in common but love, and share everything but time. One week before their wedding, she is killed by a mugger. It was that, the sudden and unexpected death of one so dearly loved, that drew Charlene to the story. It was more endearing to know that he, too, had lost his wife and had plugged into that type of loss and was writing about it from his own experience.

When she finished her shower, she put on her dressing gown, then looked at her cell phone to see if anyone had called while she was in the bathroom. No one had.

It was three o’clock, four more hours until the Academy Awards ceremony. Charlene sat in the lounge chair, picked up the remote, and turned on the TV. She had thought there would be nothing but endless coverage of the upcoming Oscar night, but instead there was a picture of a warehouse and several police cars.

“We don’t know exactly what happened here today,” a male reporter said, standing in front of all the activity and speaking into a handheld microphone. “The police were summoned by a 911 call and arrived to find four men out of commission, and one seriously wounded man—the wound, apparently, self-inflicted. There was one uninjured survivor, Private Matthew Dagan, and this is the intriguing part, Diane. Private Dagan says that they were a special military guard unit to protect young Marcus Johnson, the son of the late President.

“Everyone has believed, up until this time, that the President’s son had been kidnapped. Now, what makes this even more intriguing, is that the officials at Fort Ord, as well as officials at the Pentagon, deny that there was any such military operation taking place here. And now, to add to that mystery is the fact that if the President’s son was here, he is here no longer. According to Private Dagan, he left with a man and woman, who had identified themselves to Dagan as a doctor and a nurse.”

“Phil, did they take the boy by force, or did he go willingly?” Diane’s voice-over asked.

“Apparently he went willingly,” the on-site reporter replied. “There were two others here, who also left, one of whom had identified himself to Dagan as an FBI agent. Again, according to Dagan, Marcus seemed to know both of them.”

“What about the self-inflicted wound?” Diane asked.

“Yes, well, we have no further information on that—his wound was quite serious, and he was taken to the hospital immediately.”

“And Private Dagan?”

“As you can tell from the report I’ve been giving you, Dagan was a good source of information. However CID agents from the army have since taken Private Dagan into custody, and I haven’t been able to follow through for any more information.”