Finally Free

CHAPTER ONE

Deputy Director Byron Whitacre had been waiting for the turban-headed cleric who had just finished leading afternoon prayers before stepping out of the mosque in downtown Kansas City.

“Mofeed Abdullah, you’re under arrest by the Office of Homeland Security. I hereby charge you as a domestic terrorist under the Patriot Act!" “On what grounds do you make this accusation?”

“You, sir, have frequented subversive websites and contributed your congregation’s funds to terrorist organizations.” The deputy director spoke loudly for the crowd. Maybe that’ll separate their loyalty. He felt hopeful but not optimistic.

Byron’s skin crawled as Abdullah’s fellow Muslims surrounded the two of them. He signaled for backup. Ten ex-football players, now U.S. Marshals, poured from two black Chevy Suburbans parked by the curb. These men were his insurance. They quickly drew their weapons. The deputy director hadn’t really expected the need for a show of force but was reassured that he had anticipated it.

“I’m not sure which sites you are referring to,” Abdullah countered. “Islam is well represented on the World Wide Web, and we all receive news and teaching from Mecca and others around the globe.”

Byron’s hefty backup forced their way through the crowd, jostling the agitated followers of Mofeed Abdullah. Abdullah’s calm demeanor never flinched in the face of deadly automatic weapons wielded by the husky marshals.

“Let’s get going, Whitacre!” Marshal Cross pulled his handcuffs from the leather pouch on his belt. “You two can chit-chat back at your office.”

Byron frowned at his subordinate’s attitude. In all the previous arrests for Homeland Security he had never drawn his gun, but now he saw desperation on the faces of his entourage.

“Back away, people!” Byron forced his voice to remain firm and steady. His slender, six-foot one stature and fair complexion contrasted against the stocky, dark-skinned cleric. His eleven-man squad bullied their way through the crowd, escorting Byron and Abdullah to the armored Suburbans.

Without warning, a robed fanatic sprang toward them, pulling at his chest. Devilish dialogue spewed from his mouth.

“Bomb!”

Cross pushed Byron and the cleric into the SUV. The detonation ripped apart the vehicles’ open doors. The marshal’s heavy frame stiffened and then sagged. Both he and Byron collapsed on the glass-shredded rear seat. The stocky Muslim lay under them.

Tiny embedded shards stung Bryon’s face. He wondered whose blood was dripping onto his hand. Trying to push himself off the floorboard, he hoped to shift the weight of the dead bodyguard suffocating both his prisoner and himself.

As suddenly as the bomb had struck, he could breathe again. Someone had pulled the marshal’s mangled mass from the twisted wreckage. Byron raised himself off the cleric. As he reached under his coat for his weapon, he looked up to see the holy man pointing it within inches of his forehead.

“Put the gun down!” Byron knew he said it, but the ringing in his ears drowned out his voice.

“Put the gun down, NOW!” The adrenaline-spiked blood pounded in Byron’s temples. Surviving the blast to have my brains blown out is not good. Despite death staring him in the face, Byron’s reasoning remained calm. I’ve still got the upper hand here. Except for my gun!

They were at a standoff. Their eyes probed into one another’s psyche. Byron was a Minnesotan of svelte Swedish heritage, blonde, blue-eyed, and an atheist. The fanatical Muslim cleric was short and burly with curly hair and dead, dark eyes. Byron knew that the Islamic religion taught that martyrdom was a sure ticket to heaven or Nirvana or whatever afterlife they believed in. Right now, I would be happy to martyr this ebony-eyed, unflinching fellow and help him along his way to his final destination.

As deputy director of Homeland Security, Byron had only two years experience under his belt. He searched his memory for the proper protocol in such a situation while staring down the barrel of his own Glock pistol loaded with the latest high-tech, government-issue, body-armor piercing bullets. Seconds loomed like hours. He wondered why he had been saved only to be trapped in the sights of his own lethal weapon held by a domestic terrorist.

Though the ringing in his ears was deafening, Byron’s gaze never faltered as he attempted once again to take control of the situation.

“Put the gun down!” Byron screamed, yet unable to hear his own voice, but feeling the veins in his throat bulge. The Muslim’s eyes darted over Byron’s head. For just a split second the hint of a smile appeared and was gone. Now Byron feared not only the steady hand wrapped around his own gun, but also whatever it was that his captor had seen behind him.

Brain tissue exploded, and Byron slumped on the chest of his enemy.

###

Darkness. Thick and sticky.

Byron could hear only his thoughts through the incessant ringing. Got to move, he commanded his stiff body as the darkness evolved into an intense red jelly surrounding him.

Help me! Help me! He could not tell if he spoke the words or just thought them. His worst fear was that no one could hear him.

“No!” he shrieked, as visions of heaven and hell flashed across his mind. The dread of either place being real terrified him. God and the devil both scared Byron Whitacre. Now ‘they’ pulled at his ankles. Was it demons or angels? He couldn’t tell, but panic paralyzed him. Hands clawed at him from all sides. A whiff of acrid brimstone and the sudden blast furnace heat stunned him. This was hell. He was sure of it.

###

“Whitacre! Director Whitacre! Can you hear me?” The lone surviving marshal was frantic. “C’mon guys do something!” he screamed at the medics.

Within two minutes of the explosion, paramedics and local police had arrived on the scene. EMTs yanked the deputy director’s limp body from the back seat. They hurriedly carried him, battlefield style, to a waiting ambulance, sidestepping over the bodies of dead marshals that were scattered around like rag dolls. The acrimonious odor of C-4 explosives hung in the air, burning the nostrils of emergency workers. They scrambled to drag their fallen comrades from certain cremation as the marshal’s two transport vehicles burst into flames.

Massive amounts of blood and tissue covered the deputy director, giving the paramedics no hope of his survival. The marshal dutifully watched as Byron was laid on a gurney for transport and one attendant dutifully searched for a pulse.

“Wipe his face so he can breathe,” the marshal ordered.

Suddenly cold liquid cleared Byron’s eyes. I’m not in hell! He could see the marshal standing over him, surrounded by uniformed officers!

“I’m okay! I’m okay!” Byron shouted to the stunned officers. He saw their lips moving, but all he heard was the incessant ringing. He pointed to his ears, “My hearing’s gone!”

The marshal grabbed a towel from the paramedic. He gently cleaned the deputy director’s face, wiping away the remnants of the cleric’s exploded cranium. He unashamedly gave Byron a big hug. And Byron embraced him back, glad to be alive.

Surveying the carnage, Byron was appalled at the length to which the bomber had gone to defend his faith. Even more horrifying were the thoughts running through his atheistic mind. His brush with death shook his core belief that there is no God--a belief that he’d always staunchly supported. As he was loaded into the ambulance, his mind flashed to Dominique, his long-term, live-in girlfriend. Six months earlier she had converted to Islam. Did she know anyone at this mosque? Maybe my almost dying at the hands of those fanatics will show her the falsehood of her religion. And he began to hope that his injuries would elicit her sympathy.

CHAPTER TWO

Byron’s visible injuries decorated his face and hands. Otherwise, he ached all over. His feet felt as though he had jumped from his fifth floor office window at the Federal Building in Kansas City. After two days in the hospital his ears had finally stopped ringing. They still smarted, however, from his ex-girlfriend’s tirade. Dominique not only remained unsympathetic to his wounds, but she had accused him of attacking her brothers and sisters of the Muslim faith! She revered her fallen fellow believers, her heroes in the fight for religious freedom. He could not understand her fervor. It vexed him to think that religion could so easily subvert a staunch, opinionated person like Dominique.  His career as deputy director of Homeland Security depended on stopping fanatical religionists--whether they be suicide-bombing Muslims, abortion clinic-destroying Christians, or fanatical ex-girlfriends! Since this recent close encounter with eternity, Byron resolved to prosecute anyone who tried to convert the citizens of the United States into believing in a supreme being, including, if necessary, his beautiful ex-girlfriend.

Home at last in his empty apartment, Byron’s heart suffered more than his body. Everywhere he looked he was reminded that she was gone--from her knick-knacks absent from the coffee table, to the empty space in the office where her computer usually sat, to the half empty bedroom closet.

He replayed her accusations--the deranged bomber dying in the blast, the lone marshal shooting the cleric and his follower, and the Muslim who pulled Marshal Cross’s dead body off Byron.

She called me a murderer even though I never fired a shot! They were the ones that slaughtered an entire platoon of United States marshals!

Looking into the mirror over the double sinks in the bathroom, Byron gingerly touched his scarred and bandaged face. He noticed the absence of Dominique’s cosmetics and toiletries. How many times had he watched amazed as she performed her artistry? Today all he saw was a four-day growth of blonde stubble. He had not shaved since the bombing. Byron stripped to shower for the first time since coming home from the hospital. The steaming water soothed him even as it stung his back. He reached for the shampoo. Nothing! The shelf was empty.

Without thinking he called out, “Dominique! Will you get—?” He caught himself.

“Fool!” he muttered out loud. “She took everything—even the shampoo! Damn! The soap, too!” Dripping, Byron shut off the water. Reaching for the towel next to the shower door he cursed again. He was forced to dry his wet but unlathered body with his pajamas. Then the phone rang.

“What’s next?” In his frustration, Byron raced naked from the bathroom to the living room to answer the phone.

“Whitacre!” he barked into the receiver.

“Goodness, Byron. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, sir,” the dripping, naked deputy director lied to his boss.

“Well, good. Just called to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine, Mr. Shoat.” Byron wished his boss had called him on his cell so he could have retreated to the bedroom to at least put on a pair of sweats.

“Is the memorial service still tomorrow?” He hoped to end this cordial call quickly.

“Yes. Yes, it’s scheduled for noon at the Greenlawn Funeral Home. That’s the one in Overland Park. Think you will be up to going? I ‘m sure it would encourage both the Marshal’s department and the entire Federal Building staff to see you there.”

“No problem, sir. I’m sufficiently recuperated, but I might need a ride.”

“Dominique won’t be accompanying you?”

“No, I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Byron hesitated. “I guess you didn’t hear about her tantrum in my hospital room. She accused me of being the murderer, if you can believe that!” Byron had revealed more than he had intended. Wishing to avoid further embarrassment, he sought a quick close to this conversation. “So, if you wouldn’t mind having your driver swing by on your way, I’d appreciate the favor.”

“Of course, that would be fine. Say, eleven o’clock?”

“Great. See you then, sir.” Byron slammed down the phone and made a dash for the bedroom.

###

“Places like this always give me the creeps,” Byron leaned over and whispered to his boss. They were sitting toward the front in the large chapel of the Greenlawn Funeral Home directly behind the families of the ten deceased marshals. His stomach did a sudden flip-flop. He rose quickly and made a beeline down the side aisle for the rear exit, ignoring a quizzical look from Willis Shoat.

Byron hoped to melt into the crowd of mourners standing around in the foyer. The chapel was packed with family members, so well-wishers and friends had to stand outside. There were speakers hung near the ceiling on either side of the doors, so that everyone would be able to hear the proceedings. The elation that Byron felt for having survived kept him from grieving the loss of his comrades. Also, pulpit rhetoric irked him. It went against all he believed--or didn’t believe. All the talk of the ten men being in a better place grated on him, especially since, when he thought he was dead and in hell, he’d concluded that it wasn’t a better place. So we lie to each other to try and make ourselves feel better, Byron reasoned as he weaved his way through the crowd.

“Whitacre! Byron Whitacre! Over here!”

A meaty hand waved above the crowd from a corner near the exit. Fat chance of making it outside without at least someone recognizing this face, even with all its blotches and scabs. Red-headed Agent Kelly, from his office was waving vigorously at him. The two didn’t have much contact with one another except, for the weekly meetings involving the entire staff of the Homeland Security office. Maybe he can give me a lift away from here. Byron changed his course and headed toward the portly man.

“Good to see you here, Byron. You’re looking better than I expected after your ordeal.” Patrick Kelly complimented his superior, extending his hand. “What are you doing out here? I figured you and Shoat would be front and center for the ceremonies.”

“Anything that resembles a church freaks me out,” Byron grimaced. “I had to get the hell out of there. Everybody was so sure those poor marshals were in a ‘better place’ when religion is what killed them.”

“You up to walking?” Kelly asked. “There’s a pub a couple doors down the street, and nobody will blame us if we start our own wake a wee bit early. I’ve already seen enough flasks tipped in here to whet my thirst!”

“Anything to get out of here.” Byron agreed as they made a hasty retreat.

Unaware that they were being followed, Patrick and Byron entered the dingy tavern. The bar ran the full length of the long narrow room. Liquor bottles were crammed on shelves across the wall behind the bar. A pool table took up most of the front area, and in the back booths lined the walls. Once their eyes adjusted to the gloom, they made their way past the pool table and sat down at the bar.

Lifting their glasses, Patrick offered the Irish toast for luck.

“It’s crazy that Muslims think its okay to kill people who don’t practice their religion.” Byron tossed back a double shot of whiskey. From the corner of his eye, he thought he noticed a stir from the booth behind them.

“In Ireland, it’s the Protestants bombing the Catholics. They preach God is love, but they’ll kill you if you don’t conform.”

“Ha-ha! You got that right!” Byron nodded, signaling for refills.  The bartender delivered a bottle to the occupant of the booth behind them, and then came back around and refilled their glasses.

“Did you hear about that little town south of Springfield?”

“You mean where the leader of the Strategy to Constrict the Unilateral Liberty of Religion died?”

“Or was killed, along with the local Guild president and those two witches,” Patrick added.

“You think?” the deputy director responded with a snort.

“Definitely! The four of them died after the S.C.U.L.R. sent their best attorney from New York down there. Lucius Black was supposed to stop the Lakeside, Missouri, city council from forcing Christianity on everyone inside the city limits.”

“How were they going to enforce that?” Byron had read the headlines but ignored the body of the story in the Kansas City Star the week before.

“They’re doing it right now! They abolished the property taxes, forcing the public schools to close. Now the only options for educating their kids is to either send them to Christian schools run by churches or home school them! You and I both understand the harmful indoctrination those poor kids are in for.”

“That’s despicable, going after the children like that!”

“That’s not all. With help from the churches, the Chamber of Commerce is issuing their own money!”

“Oh, come on! I can’t believe the Federal Reserve isn’t all over the Attorney General to squelch THAT stupid plan!” Byron, a Yale graduate, had taken enough economics courses to know that the Federal Reserve was composed of private bankers that loaned American currency to the United States government. The amount owed to those bankers comprised the national debt. Even as a college youth, Byron had figured out that the bankers only created paper money equaling value of the loan but not the currency required to pay it back. Pretty slick, he mused.

“The Lakeside Chamber claims it’s just like using travelers’ checks, and, get this--all of it is supposedly backed by gold!”

“Gold?”

“That’s what they claim!” Patrick chuckled and ordered a third round of drinks.

“I remember when you could redeem your paper dollars for silver,” the bartender said as he set the refills before Byron and Patrick and gave them their change. “It used to say ‘Silver Certificate’ across the top instead of ‘Federal Reserve Note’.”

“Yeah, but it says that it’s legal tender, too.” Patrick pulled a dollar bill from his pocket and smoothed it out on the bar.

“The definition of legal tender is anything two people agree to exchange for something of value,” the barkeep commented over his shoulder as he once again served the silent patron in the booth behind them.

Patrick examined the bills that the bartender had placed on the bar as their change and commented softly, “You notice he didn’t have a problem ‘exchanging’ our dollars for a few drinks.”

“No problema!” Byron chuckled, as the last drink went down smoothly.  The liquor relieved the aches and pains from the bombing, and for the first time in four days he relaxed. “You’d think the IRS would be interested,” he mumbled, thinking out loud.

“Speaking about the IRS, have you seen that hottee compliance officer?” Patrick gave a low whistle. “Kitty Koldwell. I saw her scores in the basement shooting range. Not only is she a looker but a crack shot, too! You probably don’t want to mess with her!” Patrick chuckled.

“I hadn’t noticed her scores, but I’m sure she’s seeing someone.” Byron chortled. The liquor was definitely relaxing him. “By the way, Dominique and I are no longer an item.” The occupant behind them grunted, and Byron cocked his head towards the sound.

“Since when?”

“It’s been three days now.”

“She broke up with you on the day after the bombing?”

“Would you believe at the hospital?” Byron’s head drooped.        “She converted to Islam six months ago and blamed me for killing her fellow believers at the mosque!” Byron heard another grunt, followed by a curse in Arabic. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He glanced at his partner who was calmly fingering his drink. Reassured, he laid his fears aside. “She even went so far as to say I ought to receive the death penalty!”

“What a bitch! Oh, I’m sorry, Byron.”

“You’re right. She left with her clothes and even took the shampoo, soap, and towels. Now that’s a bitch!”

“No bitch!” a man growled in an unmistakable Arabic accent. He stood six inches from Byron and Patrick.

Not twice in the same week!

Both men grabbed their weapons.

CHAPTER THREE

Sunlight streamed through the bar’s entrance momentarily blinding the two government men. The Arab hoisted his curved dagger, and before Patrick and Byron had time to react a dull thud sounded. The Arab’s arms dropped as he slumped between the two officers.

“You two all right?” Willis Shoat’s deep voice boomed. He held his gun at his side. The three defenders of the homeland looked down at the unconscious man lying at their feet. Byron knew the Muslim would wake up with a dent in his skull where Shoat’s gun butt had connected. The bartender peered out from his refuge behind the bar.

“Whitacre, you’re a marked man!” Shoat exclaimed, as the three holstered their weapons.

“It’s okay, folks, Homeland Security,” Agent Kelly reassured the wide-eyed patrons.

“Kelly, you got it from here? My driver’s going to wonder what’s taking so long. The deputy director and I have some unfinished business.”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick assured Shoat as he handcuffed the unconscious body lying between the barstools.

“Let’s go, Whitacre!”

Willis Shoat didn’t speak as the two were driven home. Byron was still shaking from his second brush with death.

“For your safety, Byron, I’m assigning you a case out of the area where there are no Muslims. Yet even there somebody’s going to have to watch your back.”

“Where’s there, if you don’t mind me asking, sir?” To Byron it sounded like a reprimand and a demotion all rolled into one.

“There’s some undercover work to be done in a small town south of here, and you could use a little vacation, couldn’t you, son.”

“Certainly, sir. It would be a good time for a fresh start,” Byron agreed as their vehicle pulled up in front of his apartment.

“Too bad about Dominique. She would have been an excellent cover while you get the feel of Lakeside.”

“Lakeside, Missouri? Agent Kelly and I were just talking about it.”

“We’ll talk about the controversy surrounding there when I get back from all the local interments of the marshals across the country. Please, please, stay inside and recuperate for a couple of more days. You’ve been through a rough time, and I don’t want anything to happen to you while I’m gone. Then, if you’re up to it, you can take a fishing trip. And by the way, thanks, Byron, for making the effort to attend the service. I’m sure it was an encouragement to the entire staff to see you up and about.”

A fishing trip, huh?

As Byron got out of the director’s car in front of his building, his mind switched unexpectedly from fishing to Kitty Koldwell. Out of the blue, for no reason at all, he wondered if she was as good with a rod and reel as she was with a gun.

That’s a ridiculous thought, he mused, fumbling for his key.

Once inside, he headed for the liquor cabinet. Surrounded by the reminders of his broken heart and with his body feeling the two recent close encounters with death, he began to mask his pain the only way he knew how—with either liquor or work or both. So he spent the next several hours at his computer, drinking and researching the takeover of Lakeside, four hours south of Kansas City.

As he studied, the thought repeatedly nudged his mind that something fishy was going on between the leader of the City Council, David Trimble, and Jack Stanton, Lakeside’s police chief. He knew that small town politics often had a circle of corruption, but how the local churches and the Chamber of Commerce played into it mystified him.

Was it just a coincidence? Or were there some underhanded dealings going on?

Byron listed the events in chronological order to see if he could detect any illegal dealings. From what he saw, it looked like treason against the United States government!

The earliest news clippings told of the Christians majority elected to the City Council.  Byron made himself a note to check with the IRS to see if they had any case against a Lakeside church for politicking from the pulpit.

Within months, the City Council had passed a Home-rule amendment to the city’s Charter in an attempt to block governmental intervention when they abolished property taxes. It was repulsive to Byron that adults could manipulate the laws to effectively deny the funding of public schools. It was beyond belief that the churches would stoop to such a low tactic, forcing all the children in their community to either attend parochial schools and be indoctrinated with religion or be cloistered in a home-school environment.

It’s just not right! Byron thought, as he clicked on the next newspaper article.

Pastor Jonathan Wolfe’s picture along with the president of the local Chamber, Theona Meacham, appeared at the top of the story. They held a large mock-up of a one hundred-dollar check. The headline called it a “GOLDIE”, which the article stated was an acronym for God Ordained Liberty Device. Byron didn’t have a clue why the church and businesses became partners in an obvious pyramid scheme. However, what puzzled him most was why the FBI or the Federal Reserve’s bank examiners, or maybe even Kitty Koldwell and the IRS, weren’t putting a stop to this flagrant rip-off. His brow wrinkled at the thought of this female agent whom he had never met.

The same story contained a sidebar highlighting the police chief’s proposal requiring every citizen of Lakeside to receive firearms training and possess a weapon. Byron wondered why the Bureau of Alcohol, Firearms, and Tobacco hadn’t squashed that plan. All they would have to do, Byron mused, is to list everybody in Lakeside who tries to purchase a gun as ‘Denied’ on the FBI’s instant check computer. Byron made a note to contact the local ATF agent and offer his suggestion. He knew that since the amalgamation of the entire country’s security forces came under the auspices of Homeland Security, he and his boss had the ability to implement such a procedure. They had already black-listed most citizens whose surname remotely resembled Middle Eastern heritage as well as militia members and those who surfed suspicious websites. Byron saw no violation of the second amendment, since it was years ago that the Ninth District Court of Appeals had ruled that the Constitution gave no specific rights of individual gun ownership. The armed state and federal government employees were nearly unanimous in their belief that society would be safer if the entire populace was unarmed.  But Byron also knew that since September eleventh people had been arming themselves for protection. He just hoped it wasn’t going to backfire in their face in Lakeside like it had in Waco over a decade before.

Home-rule, closed public schools, gold-backed money, and one hundred per cent gun ownership. What does all this have in common with the Strategy to Constrict the Unilateral Liberty of Religion and the Guild? He knew there was an answer to that question somewhere.

Byron’s mind raced as he scanned the account of the deaths ten days prior, including that of Hamilton Fischer, the founder of S.C.U.L.R., who was killed in the same incident as the local Guild president and the two witches.

Byron leaned back in his chair and stretched. He had lost track of time until his belly rumbled. He decided on pizza, but instead of the half-and-half Dominique and he normally shared, he ordered the whole thing with all of his favorite toppings. Byron expected that a six-pack of Old English 800 would dull the gnawing in his heart. He didn’t care that his mind would be dulled as well. Further research would simply have to wait.

After phoning for pizza, Byron changed from the suit he had worn to the funeral into his favorite blue sweats. He was beginning to hate going into the closet. Dominique had loved glitzy dresses and bright jewelry and shoes, and seeing the emptiness made him wish the pizza boy had been and gone and that he had already downed a couple of beers. At the sound of the doorbell, he hastened from the bedroom.

That was quick! He looked through the peephole.

The young man in front of his door was dark-complexioned with tousled black hair, thick eyebrows, and the signature Middle Eastern nose, prominent and chiseled. Byron quickly profiled him.

“Who is it?” Byron reached for his gun hanging in the entry closet.

“Pizza delivery!”

“Damn!” In light of the recent events Byron was jumpy with indecision. He wasn’t going to chance it, even though the teen did carry an insulated pizza bag. “Just a minute!”

He grabbed the phone, and hit redial. The recollections of his morning had him shaking again.

“Luigi’s Italian Deli. Luigi speaking.”

“Uh, this is Byron Whitacre at 405 Terrace. I just placed an order for a large deep dish pepperoni and anchovy. I know this is going to sound really strange, but could you give me a description of your delivery boy?”

“Hey, Mister, your pie’s gettin’ cold, and I got two more deliveries!”

“Coming!” Byron hollered as the deli owner rattled off an adequate description. Somewhat satisfied, Byron thanked the man and hung up.

Sticking the cold barrel of the Glock behind his back, he cautiously opened the door, using it as a shield. A lump formed in his throat and his heart pounded as he watched the teenager reach slowly into the insulated warming bag. With one hand on the doorknob and the other fingering the pistol, he watched for the thin square box to emerge. As the aroma of yeasty crust and pepperonis greeted his nostrils, he sighed with relief. He apologized profusely and tipped him a twenty.

“Whoa!” The teen’s eyes bulged and his jaw dropped.  “Thanks, man. Thanks a lot! Make sure you ask for Tony next time you order and I’ll get ya’ your order super quick!”

“Sure thing, Tony.” Byron kicked the door closed and set the hot pizza box on the counter. He quickly opened a sixteen-ounce can of Old English 800.

He guzzled half, thinking, This is not what I signed up for! Maybe Lakeside would be a good change of pace. He finished his first and second beers before the effects of the alcohol calmed him. Scooping up two lukewarm slices of pizza, he headed for the living room.

With pizza and beer in hand, he sprawled on the leather sofa, wondering why he accepted the deputy director’s position. He had hoped to make America safe from radical religious terrorists. His research showed the most extreme religious group in the United States was the Fundamental and Evangelical Christians. They were the most vocally opposed to the court decisions eliminating the offensive mention of God in the Pledge of Allegiance and on money. Their battle cry was “Take Back America”.

Byron considered how the Homeland Security Staff had followed the case of various outspoken pastors who were found guilty of hate crimes against gays and lesbians. Now that same-sex marriages were legal, the ‘Intolerants’ had been silenced. Byron wasn’t sure if their views had changed of if they had gone underground. And that was what concerned him about Lakeside.

Have the Intolerants converged on Lakeside like the orange-robed followers of Bhagwan Shree Raj Neesh did in Oregon over two decades ago? Now that’s an ugly thought!  Or is this a re-enactment of the highly-armed Branch Davidians of Waco?

Byron was seventeen when army tanks attacked the Davidian compound and burned it to the ground, killing all seventy-five men, women, and children. Byron recalled his father commenting that he thought Christians were supposed to obey all those in authority.        “That gun-toting David Koresh is just like Jim Jones!” he had said. Under the spellbinding leadership of Jim Jones, 900 people drank poisoned Kool-Aid and followed that cult leader to their deaths.

I wonder if that pastor, Jonathan Wolfe, is another Jim Jones? Byron tossed his last empty beer can towards the trash can and missed. He ignored his half-eaten pizza.

Will I be any safer in that small town with everyone packing a gun?

A gray haze filled his brain, and with that Byron passed out, oblivious to the coffee table strewn with empty beer cans and a cold, half-eaten pizza.

CHAPTER FOUR

Byron staunchly refused the medication to ease his physical pain; however a weekend without Dominique drove him to drowning his misery with drink. As a result, he was quite hung over on his first day back at the office.

“Mornin’, Mister Whitacre. Glad to see ya’ back,” the security guard greeted while performing the perfunctory ID check of the deputy director’s badge.

Byron felt a lot worse than he wanted to let on. “Thanks, Bill. I’m still stiff, but I’m going to make it. Looks like you’ve got a few more troops to help secure the building now.” He smiled weakly at the man charged with keeping all unauthorized personnel from using the private elevator.

“Sure do. Kansas City is on Orange Alert status after the bombing, and I sure feel more confident with the extra staff.”

“Me too, Bill. Keep up the good work.” The elevator doors slid shut and Byron ascended to the fifth floor and the Homeland Security office.

“Your identification, sir,” the camouflage-clothed Marine demanded as the doors opened. Byron did not anticipate seeing the added security. He expected them to be well hidden in the everyday, office hubbub. He displayed the plastic ID badge hanging around his neck.

“Excuse me, Mister Whitacre, you’re the one, aren’t you?” Admiration showed on the MP’s face. I mean the deputy director that survived the bombing, right?”

“Yes, I’m the lucky one,” Byron acknowledged.

The momentary stop for protocol had allowed time for staff members to congregate in the reception area. Much to his embarrassment they applauded his return.

“Thank you, folks. It’s good to be back, but your commendation should go to the fallen marshals. Especially Marshal Cross. Without his heroism, I wouldn’t be here today.”

Byron made his way past the receptionist’s desk and through the group, smiling and shaking hands. Some patted him gently on the back or shoulder. He could tell they were concerned that even a soft pat would hurt his bruised body. Nevertheless, he appreciated their affection. A sharp, right turn and down a hallway, and he entered his secretary’s office.

“Morning, Patti,” Byron hoped to pass by her desk without any more acclaim. His ego wanted to bask in the glory, but his conscience knew he was no hero.

Patti Smith was middle-aged, rotund, and dressed like his grandmother, but she was an extremely efficient secretary. She had been in the position before he became Deputy Director, and he really didn’t know how he could ever get along without her.

“It’s great to have you back, sir. But are you sure you’re able to return so soon?” Patti’s compassion usually irritated him, but today he appreciated it. “I’m still a little shaken myself,” she continued. “I feel so awful for the families of those marshals. How are you really doing? I know you must have more than your physical injuries, especially over dealing with the situation with Dominique, too.”

Byron winced at the mention of her name. Patti perceived it instantly and said, “I’m so sorry. I probably shouldn’t have gotten personal, but if you need an ear, you know where to find me.” She gave him a motherly smile and returned to the business on her desk.         “I’ll have all the data for your 10:00 A.M. conference with Director Shoat in a jiffy.”

“Thanks, Patti.” Byron smiled and then checked his watch. He had forty-five minutes until the meeting between the different agencies under the auspices of the Office of Homeland Security. The enforcement departments of the Secret Service; Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms; FBI; and the Federal Reserve Board, which included the IRS and the bank examiners, would all attend today’s emergency meeting. It was scheduled to last four hours with a catered lunch break, but Byron knew from experience that it would run longer. He was glad he wasn’t scheduled to speak.

Sitting at his desk, he transferred his updated files from his laptop to his desktop computer. Then he logged into the Alert section of the office’s system. Here every action of the hundreds of thousands of cases was prioritized by the threat level each posed to the American public. Each case of every governmental agency under the Homeland Security umbrella was constantly being updated with information received either electronically or from field agents. The Patriot Act had given broad access into the records of anyone whose profile exhibited any proclivity to dissension. Byron mentally noted that the top ten cases all involved religion--either Islam or Christianity. He noted on his legal pad that the number one threat location was Lakeside, Missouri!

“You ready to get back to it?” Willis Shoat stuck his head into Byron’s office.

“Yes, sir!” Byron answered, trying to sound more enthusiastic than he felt, while he gathered his paperwork for the meeting.

“Good. Glad to hear it. See you in the conference room.”

###

“Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" Kitty Koldwell slammed her car door. “Not again!” She stood beside her car, surveying the damage. In a split-second she had swerved to avoid being crushed by an SUV. By so doing, her low-slung Mazda Miata sideswiped the curb, putting a nasty crease along the bottom of the passenger door. Kitty knew her baby was still drivable, but the SUV hadn’t even stopped. That infuriated her more than the damage done to the car!

She jumped back into the driver’s seat and roared back into the morning traffic. She zigzagged her way through traffic, keeping an eye out for cops. Kitty didn’t need another ticket to go along with her next insurance claim. Her premiums were high enough already, and this third accident in two years could put her into the ‘assigned risk’ category. That was not what she wanted. She had purchased the red Miata at an IRS auction on a whim, not taking time to consider the insurance or the trouble she could cause by driving such a car.

Now, being alert, but not overcautious, Kitty sped down I-435, hoping to make up for lost time. Her boss, Internal Revenue Service Midwest Director, Dick Libid, had called her at home last night. All the department heads under the Office of Homeland Security had been called to a special meeting, and Willis Shoat requested her attendance. As a field officer Kitty had rarely attended any of the IRS meetings, let alone set foot on Homeland Security’s floor of the Federal Building. She felt flattered that the director of Homeland Security had personally requested her attendance at the meeting. They had never met, but maybe the IRS Commissioner had put in a good word for her. Kitty was up for a commendation for her arrest of a local pastor and the asset seizure of the entire Calvary Temple church facility. Her thoughts snapped back to the present as she swerved the little Miata into the garage. Spying an out of the way parking slot, she jerked the wheel and screeched to a halt.

Dick Libid sidled into Kitty’s office moments after she arrived.        “Ready for our meeting upstairs?” Without waiting for her reply, he announced, “I've got a surprise for you.”

Kitty drew up her guard, immediately wary of Dick’s advances. She gave her boss a look that froze him in the doorway.

“I was just going to say that the Commissioner is going to award you a commendation for the Calvary Temple job.”

“You're joking! Really?” A big grin spread across her face.

“Really! Would I lie to my number one...ah, Kitten?” Dick winked.

Kitty rose threateningly from behind her desk, purposely revealing her pistol under her coat. “No more ‘Kitten’ from you or you won’t be the boss around here much longer! Get my drift?”

“I was just teasing.” Dick retreated from her office, but not before his eyes looked her over once more. Kitty sighed and, shaking her head, dropped into her chair. Just as she was checking her e-mail, the phone rang. She snatched it up before the end of the first ring.

“Koldwell!”

“Morning’, Miss Kitty. This here's Floyd Bender, you know, downstairs in the marshal’s office.”

“Yeah, Floyd. How’s it going?” Floyd had helped her arrest Calvary Temple’s Pastor Collier.

“I'm doin’ just fine, but I thought maybe you’d be interested to know that we're puttin’ a wiretap on a pastor’s phone line down in Lakeside.” That Floyd had lived all his life in the south was evident to all the first time he opened his mouth. Many people, hearing Floyd talk, assumed that he was a few bricks short of a full load, but Floyd was sharp and competent at his job.

“Does it pertain to the death of that guy, Hamilton Fischer, from Secular?”

“The sheriff who asked for the tap thinks it does.”

“Really?”

“Yes, ma’am, and I know how’s you got a thing against preachers and all, so I was thinkin’ you might wanna get an earful.”

“Well, Floyd, that’s mighty nice of you to think about me.” Kitty couldn't help mimicking his southern accent. “But I don't know that I’ll have time to run down every time that pastor is on the phone.”

“We're gonna be recording it for the sheriff,” Floyd informed her. Then lowering his voice, he continued, “I got my buddy to listen, ‘cause not only did that Secular fellow die down there in Lakeside, but the president of the local Guild did too.”

“I’m not following you, Floyd.”

“You see, it’s like this, Miss Kitty. I belong to the Guild too, and when I do some fishin’ down in those parts, the brother-in-law of the president, may he rest in peace, takes me out on the lake. Anyways, it just seems a might peculiar that them two guys both kicked the bucket at the same time an’ at the same place.”

“That is strange. So what’s that got to do with the Marshal’s office placing a tap?” Kitty, out of habit, impatiently motioned with her hand for him to keep going.

“He was there when they keeled over dead.”

“What! Where?”

“It was some big doin’s at a city councilman’s house, and the sheriff down there thinks the local police chief, who was there too, is trying to cover up something’. I’m just tryin’ to get some answers for my Guild brother, ‘cause right now the coroner done listed the preliminary cause of death as heart attack for both them fellers.”

“Two heart attacks at the same time? That is strange. Listen, Floyd, keep me informed. If there’s any hanky-panky going on with that pastor, I want to know about it, okay?”

“I figured ya’ might. See ya’, Miss Kitty.”

“Yeah, Floyd.”

###

Hoping to avoid another round of congratulations, Byron arrived late at the meeting. He slipped through the side door. The liaison from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms sat next to the United States Marshal for the Midwest. Alongside those two departments, now under the jurisdiction of the Office of Homeland Security, were three black-suited FBI agents. Bob Barkley from the Secret Service and the bank examiner from the Federal Reserve, Peter Young, were in attendance because of Lakeside’s issuance of their own monetary scheme. Normally the local director of FEMA sat in on these biweekly update meetings, but today his seat was filled today by a dark-haired beauty Byron didn’t recognize.

Willis Shoat acknowledged Byron with a short nod and continued the briefing. The others around the oval mahogany table did the same. All except the new woman. Byron turned his head to avoid her stare. As he did so, he felt his face blushing bright red.

“Everyone, I’d like you to meet Compliance Officer Kitty Koldwell.”

Ah, so this is the beauty Agent Kelly was talking about! Well, he was right! He watched as the overweight, mostly forty-something and balding male department heads greeted the beautiful newcomer.

“Glad to have you aboard, Miss Koldwell.” Byron felt himself blushing again.

“Officer Koldwell. Thank you, Deputy Director Whitacre.” Her reply drew muffled snickers and raised eyebrows from the group. Byron gave her a curt nod and averted his attention to his boss.

“All right, let’s get down to business, everyone,” Shoat barked, opening a large folder. “I hope all of you have been keeping abreast of the news out on Lakeside. This morning’s meeting will be used to synchronize all the different agencies represented here into one plan of attack. After lunch, we’ll lay out the strategy.”

The ATF was admittedly concerned over the police chief of Lakeside, Jack Stanton, and his plan to arm every citizen. Even more disturbing was that business owners and their employees were being given close-combat firearms training by Stanton who was a former Vietnam Green Beret.

Tim Thompson, the local FBI head, reported that no links to any subversive groups had been detected through their databases. He had been monitoring all web traffic as well as vehicular movement, in and out of Lakeside, ever since the city council passed the controversial home-rule amendment. Peter Young, the quintessential bean counter from the Federal Reserve, claimed to have run a trace on everyone with a bank account in Lakeside. Byron sensed that everyone else in the meeting was as surprised as he was to learn that, according to the nerdy Federal Reserve accountant, mortgages and car loans were practically non-existent,. But what was most astounding to Byron was the fact that no one carried a balance on any of their credit cards!

“We have reasons to believe,” Dick Libid spoke up, “that the religious leaders in Lakeside have not only violated their nonprofit status by preaching politics from the pulpit, but they are circulating a plan to circumvent income taxes by using gold-backed travelers’ checks as cash. The Chamber of Commerce and the churches down there are issuing what they call ‘GOLDies’. That’s an acronym for God Ordained Liberty Device,” Director Libid scoffed.

“We’re also aware that somebody’s been stockpiling gold bullion,” Bob Barkley, the head of the local Secret Service, contributed. “But no one has been able to track down where they’re keeping it.”

“How do you know it’s staying in the country and not finding its way overseas?” Byron asked, looking up from the notes he was jotting down. He was trying to see a common thread in each department’s analogy. That’s what his office was all about. Instead of each department chasing suspects around the perimeter of the crime scene, it was Homeland Security’s job, and Byron’s specialty, to coordinate all of them, thus eliminating attacks by both foreign and domestic enemies.

“Since 9-11 everything is going through metal detectors. They’d have to be shipping it out ingot by ingot,” Barkley replied.

“How much are we talking about?” Byron pulled out his calculator and began punching in figures.

“In dollars, a billion maybe two.”

“What’s that? Fifteen to thirty thousand pounds on today’s market?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And who are ‘they’?” Kitty asked. “It sounds like the Secret Service has already determined it’s the work of one group.” Byron admired her initiative to join into the discussion. Dressed in a charcoal gray business suit she appeared to be one of the guys. However it was hard to miss the tight tailoring that accented her breasts and the low neckline of her white satin blouse.

Byron and most other officials involved in security had a habit of profiling everyone they saw, and Byron suddenly flashed on the thought that her boldness and dress might indicate that she was a lesbian. But she sure doesn’t fit the idea of a tattooed ‘Dykes on Bikes’ persona. Yet her demeanor definitely does. With that thought, Byron quickly tuned back in to the meeting to hear the answer to her question.

Barkley spoke up, “We’ve been tracking the flow of gold since before September eleventh in our hunt to follow the money. The bulk of these gold bars were purchased through precious metal commodity dealers one to two, maybe three, at a time over the past five years. They held them for their owners, and we tied most of the buyers back to bona fide estates and corporations, and even some family trusts, that were all legitimate. Only a few hundred ingots are owned by individual parties.”

“So, you’re saying that these specific gold reserves are suspect?” Byron wanted to clarify, not only for himself, but he was concerned that some of the others might not be following what was going on.

“Until a year ago, no. The brokers have slowly divested these assets for their customers in a deliberate, piecemeal fashion. That led us to believe it’s all going to the same place.”

“And you believe it’s going to Lakeside, Missouri to back the ‘GOLDie’?”

Barkley shrugged, “The Lakeside gold has got to be coming from somewhere. They’re the only ones openly talking about a large gold reserve.”

“Provided they really are backing it with gold,” Libid cautioned,        “It could just be another scam.”

“True, true,” Willis Shoat finally spoke up. “But that kind of money could easily fund a major terrorist operation. I’m not saying the little burg of Lakeside has threatened any violence, but they are arming all the townspeople.”

“The Fed is particularly concerned if this GOLDie can be redeemed for gold. That means that whoever is behind the funding will have to be breaking the bullion down into some sort of coin,” Federal Reserve bank examiner, Peter Young, said.

“So what if they do? Then it’ll be easier to trace it,” Barkley reasoned.

“True,” Libid agreed. “But if it catches on and spreads to other pro-Christian communities, the IRS would be hard pressed to collect the income taxes on transactions using the GOLDie currency and coin.”

“How so?” Byron wondered out loud.

Kitty rolled her eyes. “The IRS only has jurisdiction over money issued by the Federal Reserve. You know, Federal Reserve Notes,” she said sarcastically. “We don’t collect taxes on foreign currency and that’s exactly what the GOLDie would become—a monetary unit issued by, quote unquote, another nation.”

“Yes! That’s right, Officer Koldwell,” Peter Young agreed. “That’s why we need to locate the gold and confiscate it right away. You all know the Treasury is issuing a completely new series of every denomination next month, and all the old bills will become obsolete the month after that.”

“We also understand the reason for the new Federal Reserve Notes. They are being issued to flush out all the money held anonymously both overseas and here in the States,” Byron reminded everyone. “But why the rush to confiscate the gold? Wouldn’t it be better to let them buy their so-called travelers checks with the old currency and then not accept them when they turn them in for the newly issued bills?”

“Wars are funded by bankers over the control of a nation’s currency. If the gold-backed medium of exchange catches on the Fed chairman will have no way to control inflation and deflation by increasing or decreasing the supply of money. Everyone who uses the GOLDie will be benefited by the fact that there isn’t any interest collected on it. Do we need a refresher course on Economics 101? The United States government is limited by the Constitution to only being able to coin gold and silver as money. They borrow money the Federal Reserve creates out of thin air, actually a computer entry, really.” Peter Young’s condescension was obvious.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Barkley retorted to the nerdy Federal Reserve accountant. “We’ve gotta find it first!”

“Calm down, people!” Shoat commanded. “I think we all agree. Lakeside is where the gold is, and I know that each agency would love to bag it to supplement their own budget. But that’s not going to happen.” He was struggling to restrain his temper. “Under the asset forfeiture laws, each of your agencies will get a percentage according to the actual workload you contribute to the case. Understand? I’ve chosen Deputy Director Whitacre to head this investigation.” Before Byron could acknowledge his appointment, his boss continued.

“Officer Koldwell will assist Byron in the investigation. They will be operating undercover in Lakeside, Missouri--as husband and wife.”

For Love of Liberty

PROLOGUE

I knew all along she was a witch! How could I have been so damn stupid! Lucius Black sat on the edge of his client’s bed, stunned by what he had done. Her sleeping form lay motionless behind him. The pale moonlight shone on her bare back. Cold shivers ran down his body.

Hurriedly, but with great caution, he pulled on his pants. His hands shook. Any minute now and she will be awake!  Just then the bed creaked. Panic cramped his stomach. He took some deep breaths very softly, trying with every fiber of his being to maintain control.

I’ve got to get out of here before she wakes up! Grabbing his shoes and resisting every impulse to run, he tiptoed slowly from the room and down the hall.

He arrived at the front door. As he reached for the knob, the foyer floor squeaked. He hesitated for only an instant and then silently slipped his bare feet into his soft, Italian leather, Salvatoris. A deft turn of the doorknob, and the New York attorney escaped from his worst nightmare.

He fumbled for the keys to the rented Cadillac. Nausea swamped his stomach. He struggled into his shirt and flung his jacket to the back seat. The reality of what he had done stunned him. It sickened him to recall the previous four-hour tryst that had begun as an innocent victory dinner.

Yesterday, the city council of Trinity, Missouri, had capitulated to his lawsuit, filed on behalf of his client, an adherent to the Wicca religion. But dinner was honestly all he had intended, and how she had seduced him was foggy to the usually sharp-minded attorney.

He was about to turn the key in the ignition when his stomach constricted and the sour bile rose up into his throat. He flung open the car door, barely in time to throw up in the driveway.

Two more retches of his inadequately digested dinner, and he was able to wipe his mouth on his shirtsleeve and start the car. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. In spite of his frantic desire to race to his hotel, he managed to back the car slowly and smoothly out of the driveway. He wound shakily through the narrow, moonlit streets where branches shook in the wind like witches’ gnarled fingers, and the pre-dawn shadows danced like demons across the countryside.

His nagging thought on this frantic drive was, What if Catherine finds out? But by the time he was standing under the stinging spray of the hotel shower, furiously attempting to scrub off his impropriety, he had convinced himself that she never would.

CHAPTER ONE

“No, Hamilton, absolutely not! I know it’s been five years, but the answer is still no!” Lucius Black sighed and settled the phone more firmly between his neck and shoulder.

He gazed out the window of his tenth floor New York townhouse, overlooking the Hudson River toward his boss’s office. He could picture Hamilton Fischer sitting behind his monstrous mahogany desk on the thirty-fifth floor complex of S.C.U.L.R., the Strategy to

Constrict the Unilateral Liberty of Religion, more commonly known as ‘Secular’.

Lucius didn’t appreciate Hamilton Fisher calling on his day off. He had invested eighty plus hours a week for eighteen months on his last court case. He needed a break. No longer a young law student who could survive on decaf and no sleep, the rigorous work schedule had taken its toll on his thirty-five year-old body.

He had planned to stay home and relax in his sparsely furnished pad. The frosted pale blue interior accented with gray steel, glass, and charcoal leather furniture invigorated him. Lucius felt it mirrored his personality and his desire to remain uninvolved on a serious level. His ex-wife hated it, saying it reminded her of a huge deep freeze. Perhaps, Lucius thought, that is why I like it! It reminds me of Catherine.  His ex-wife, Catherine, hated it, saying it reminded her of a huge deep freeze. Perhaps, Lucius thought, that is why I like it! It reminds me of her.

One room was different. Only one room in his high-rise condo did not exude this frigid ambience that kept people at arm’s length. Catherine had asked for and received his permission to decorate the bedroom where his son and daughter stayed every other weekend. Lucius hoped that Cat’s influence in their room would make the children feel more at home when they were with him. She had transformed it into a Southern Living showcase. Golden oak beds covered with quilted blue and green flowered spreads coordinated with cheery sunrise-yellow walls. This gave a homey, country feel to the room that clashed with the rest of his digs. Lucius considered the complete collision of styles unsettling to the organization of his methodical mind, so he kept the door closed at all times when the children weren’t around.

“Lucius, Lucius, Lucius,…” His elderly mentor sighed, bringing him back to the present. “All we want you to do is go back to southwest Missouri for a fishing trip. Take your fly rod and gear and go catch some big trout, and while you’re there test the waters for your next case. It’s one the whole nation will be talking about.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I had one of our researchers in the Kansas City office following the local politics in Lakeside. The city council there is about to pass a home rule amendment to the city charter. And you, my boy, are going to be right in the thick of it!”

“How do you figure that will make national news?” Lucius clicked the button for the speakerphone and hung up the receiver. He walked over to the couch and sank into its deep leather cushions.

“In the last two elections,” Hamilton answered, “a coalition of churches put together a slate of candidates that ousted four of the seven natives from the Lakeside city council. Now these new members are proposing an amendment that will close all the public schools! Then private Christian schools or home schooling will be the only options other than moving to another school district. The amendment also declares that Lakeside will become a tax-free zone--whatever that means.”

Lucius pictured the sneer on Hamilton’s face as he continued.        “And because the local churches allowed the four new council members to crusade from the pulpits, the IRS is looking into the possibility of a non-profit status violation as we speak.” The pause on the other end indicated that the soon-to-be-retired senior litigator was taking a deep drag on his Meerschaum pipe. Lucius could almost smell the sweet smoke as he waited, knowing that his boss was lofting three perfect smoke rings over his head.

Finally, impatient, Lucius broke the silence. “Are you sure?”

“It’s true. Our office informed the local IRS division about the impropriety of the Lakeside churches, and immediately an agent sent me a copy of the IRS directive stating they were beginning an investigation into our allegation. That should start the 501(c)(3) rescission process against the churches involved,” his boss chuckled. “It’s great using the Internal Revenue Service to intimidate those kooks.”

Lucius yawned. This wasn’t the first time he had heard Hamilton Fischer ridicule their lifelong foe. Lucius came to work for S.C.U.L.R. as an intern twelve years earlier, while attending Harvard Law School. He had been tutored by Hamilton ever since. Hamilton was the driving force behind S.C.U.L.R.’s attack against Christians. He unabashedly accused Christians of trying to force their beliefs on all Americans, and Lucius followed tightly and obediently in his mentor’s footsteps. Now it sounded as though Hamilton thought Lakeside, Missouri, might be the next major victory for the firm and Lucius’s ticket to fame.

“So do you think that those hick preachers will cave like always?” Lucius calculated that this might be an easy victory. “They never want to lose their non-profit status ‘cause they’re only in it for the money anyway. They probably think people will continue to donate to the church without getting a tax break, but it won’t take long for most preachers to realize how absolutely shallow their parishioners are.”

“You’re so right, son! If the news hasn’t already reached every tax-exempt church, it surely will once the IRS gets involved. The loss of their non-profit designation means the loss of the preacher’s free ride, plain and simple.”

Lucius couldn’t help but smile at Hamilton’s affirmation.

“Now about your vacation, you leave the day after tomorrow. I’d like to meet tomorrow afternoon to go over the details. How’s two o’clock?”

“Yes, sir. Two’s fine.

“Good. Clear your schedule for the next month. I’ll reassign those two little cases you’ve started, so bring along any contact info the staff will need.”

“A month?” Suddenly Lucius had a catch in his throat and almost choked . He didn’t want to be away from the city or absent from seeing his kids for that long of a stretch.

“I’m sending you on an all-expense-paid vacation for a month, and you’re complaining? Listen here, young man, this could possibly be the case that puts Lucius Black on the varsity team of litigators in America. More importantly, our board of directors would move you to the top of the list of my successors. Now do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I do. I’ll see you tomorrow at two.” Lucius cleared his throat, pleased at the prospect of being considered for the position of president of S.C.U.L.R. This could be the beginning of all his dreams coming true.

“All right then.” Hamilton Fischer ended their conversation with an abrupt click.

So much for a relaxing day off, Lucius thought, stretching his arms out in front of him, and, joining his fingers, he let out a deep sigh as each of his knuckles cracked.

He phoned his secretary, and they divided up the clients to be contacted. Finally, after having pizza delivered for dinner, Lucius began trying to reach those with whom he had scheduled appointments over the next month. He hoped his two children would understand as he purposely put the most distasteful call at the end of the list - the one to his ex-wife.

CHAPTER TWO

Having finished his business calls, Lucius grabbed the remote and headed to the couch. He watched the evening news and channel surfed in an attempt to delay his call to Catherine. Nevertheless, his thoughts kept returning to his last case in southwest Missouri five years before. He blamed that case for Catherine’s and his divorce. For years his long workdays had strained their relationship. Then followed the death of five-year-old Tyler. Their firstborn son drowned at a lake in the Catskills while they were on a family vacation. That, of course, devastated them both. ‘The Ex’, as Lucius referred to Catherine, blamed him. Consequently instead of turning to his marriage partner during those first few weeks of mourning he sought solace in a bottle

He then spent the next two months in Missouri on his ill-fated assignment. His S.C.U.L.R. client was a self-proclaimed, practicing witch of the Wicca religion. The case back then was against a small town with ‘To God Be the Glory’ as its motto. Being away from two-year-old Jordan, their new baby girl, Denise, and his grieving wife were the coldest and loneliest times he could remember.

Lucius remembered winning her case after the Christians wimped out and agreed to change the motto. Being an atheist, he delighted in a fight between Christianity and another religion, and lately he was defeating the Christians every time. Either he got them to settle before going to trial or he placed the case before a liberal judge. Whichever way it went, he credited his expertise.

Yet still Lucius recalled bitterly that he had crossed the line and slept with his client, the witch. Contemplating indiscretions during his marriage was not out of character for Lucius, but they had always remained just that--fantasies. I still don’t believe how easily I fell into that witch’s trap. He shook his head and turned his attention back to the television. But as easily as he flipped the channels, his mind flipped back to Connie, the witch.

He rationalized that Connie, must have cast a spell on him. And while Lucius didn’t believe in spells, nothing else made any sense. He shuddered at the thought of himself in her bed. Something that happened that night he knew created a permanent emptiness in his gut.

Then, out of the blue, Connie called Catherine and told her about his transgression! I still can’t figure out what possessed that witch to ruin my life. That call was the knife that severed the last remaining thread binding my family together.

Catherine immediately filed for divorce and later moved upstate which Lucius knew was to discourage him from exercising his court ordered, every-other-weekend visitation with Jordan, now eight, and Denise, who had recently turned a precocious six. And Lucius was abandoned to muddle through the rubble of his life.

Now he faced another case in Missouri. Already he felt the apprehension of returning to the scene of his crime. Maybe within the next eighteen hours, before I meet with Hamilton, I can come up with some sort of excuse…but no, he would see right through me.

Night had settled when Lucius finally dialed the phone for his last and most difficult call of the day.

“Hello, Catherine.” He spoke coolly. He always attempted to give her the impression that he hadn’t been hurt and even now felt indifferent to their situation.

“Oh hi, Lucius. How are you?”

“I’m okay, I guess. How are the kids? Are they still up?”

“They’re getting their PJ’s on. Would you like to talk to them?”

He was slightly surprised by her friendly tone. She must have had a good day.

“No, that’s all right. I don’t want to disrupt your schedule.” Lucius attempted to chide her a little. He believed Catherine’s schedules for the children were more for the purpose of irritating him than for their benefit. “I’ve got to be out of town for about a month, and I wondered if I could come up tomorrow around five and take them to that diner they like. That way I can explain why I won’t be able to pick them up for a few weeks. If that‘s all right with you?” He let his voice trail off, hoping for a positive answer after his foolish criticism.

His harsh attitude once again triggered the unhappy memories of his childhood. Lucius had promised himself he wouldn’t be like his father, yet sometimes he could hear his dad’s voice in his own, and it terrified him. How many times, he wondered, did his severity come across to Catherine like his dad’s had to his mother and him?

When Tyler was born, Lucius vowed to prove that he could be a better daddy to his children than his own father had been to him. Then his little boy’s drowning and the divorce robbed him of that opportunity, and he no longer could control the situation. He determined that the court imposed absence from Jordan and Denise would be the only similarity to the unhappy childhood he experienced under the harsh demanding dictator that reared him with the aid of a belt. An only child, Lucius spent his adolescence trying to follow the myriad of rules laid down by his disciplinarian father. His withdrawn mother turned to drink as she and her son failed to measure up to the endless demands of the over-controlling, loveless man.

“Sure, that would be fine.” Catherine’s answer returned him to reality. “You’d have them back by seven, right? Their bedtime is eight o’clock on school nights, you know.”

“Not a problem. I appreciate your understanding.” He was somewhat befuddled by her cordial response and the warmth in her tone.

“If you’d like, you could stick around and put them to bed, and afterwards maybe we could talk. I have some important news.”

In the half-decade since the divorce, they had engaged solely in small talk, mostly about the kids. Her announcement and caring attitude aroused his curiosity.

“Something to do with the children?”

“No,” Catherine spoke softly. “It’s something that’s happened to me.”

“You’re not sick, are you?” His mind quickly ran down the list of diseases a young woman of thirty-two could contract. He had taken his annual physical only the week before, and the doctor had recommended cutting back on fried foods to lower his slightly elevated cholesterol level. He also decided to lose the extra twenty pounds he had gained since college. All in all, Lucius thought proudly, it was a good checkup for being in his mid-thirties “No, no, nothing like that. I’ll tell you tomorrow. I have to finish getting the children to bed now. So tomorrow at five then, okay?”

“Sure. See you then.”

“Bye, Lucius.”

Even though the phone went dead, he still held it to his ear. First Hamilton, and now Catherine. Everyone in Lucius’s life seemed to put him at the mercy of tomorrow. His Rolex showed that he would have to wait twenty-one more hours for his ex to answer the questions racing through his mind.

###

Minutes passed while Catherine sat and stared at the phone. She hated the fact that his voice still quickened her pulse. How can that be, after all the pain? In high school and college, she had dated lots of men, but none of them left a lasting impression.. For Catherine it was love at first sight. He swept her off her feet into a whirlwind engagement, and in less than a year they were married.

Catherine smiled at the memories, but then shook her head to force them out of her mind. Too many times, she ended up replaying images of Lucius being in bed with that other woman. All the bitterness and anger she had harbor towards herself for Tyler’s death and towards Lucius for abandoning her wanted to swallow her back into misery. She couldn’t afford that. She had come too far to look back.

The children’s giggles brought her back to the present. She rose from the chair, stretched, and smiled, thinking how God had blessed her.

Tomorrow. . . Lucius will be here tomorrow. What I have to tell him will be the end of everything for us. 

CHAPTER THREE

Two ten! Lucius impatiently glanced at his watch again. It isn’t like Hamilton to be late. One of the many things Hamilton had instilled into Lucius from the onset of their relationship was time, billed in tenths of an hour, was money. And S.C.U.L.R. attorneys didn’t work cheap. So where is he anyway? Lucius stood and strode over to the secretary sitting behind her paper-strewn desk.

“Did Mr. Fischer by any chance leave a file out for me, Claudia? I might as well get a start on our meeting before he gets back from his lunch engagement.”

“Does it have to do with Lakeside, Missouri?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

Lucius took the thick folder she handed him and leafed through the documents it contained. The S.C.U.L.R. research department documented the history of a church known as Spirit Fellowship. The file noted that one of their members, David Trimble, also a newly-elected city council member, had devised a plan to circumvent the state of Missouri’s mandatory automobile insurance law. The report claimed that the church required its parishioners to enter into a trust agreement making the church the trustee. Basically, Lucius understood, the people gave their vehicles to the church.

I can’t believe people could be so foolish as to trust the priest--or whatever he calls himself--after all that has surfaced from the Catholic Church!

He read that Spirit Fellowship had even acquired a fleet gasoline card, and the church retained the yearly two per-cent rebate for administrative costs.

What a scam! Even if those who buy gas with the card do get a five-cent per gallon discount. The only good thing I can see about it is the mandatory professional driving course the church initiated for those purchasing the insurance.

Lucius leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. He had advocated tougher driver training ever since he unsuccessfully defended a shuttle bus driver involved in a fatal accident on an icy thoroughfare. His argument in court claimed that the state of New York, as licensor, never adequately trained his client regarding evasive action on slick surfaces. Lucius’s premise held the state ultimately responsible for the driver’s actions, since it had trained and licensed him. The report from Lakeside showed, by the insurance actuarial tables, that those enrolled in the Spirit Fellowship insurance program reduced their loss ratio to one-third of the national average, thus confirming Lucius’s position.

Just as Lucius was turning to the rough draft of the position papers, Hamilton Fischer came barreling into the room.

“Sorry, Lucius.” Hamilton acknowledged his tardiness with a brief nod, feigning sincerity. “And thank you, Claudia, for giving him the Lakeside file. Glad you weren’t wasting time waiting for me, Lucius. Come into my office, and we’ll get on with it.

“Yes, sir. I got through most of it.” Lucius winced with irritation at the hint of a reprimand.

“Good, good.” Hamilton pushed open the heavy, floor-to-ceiling, dark walnut door into his spacious, corner office. “Claudia, hold all my calls.”

The two attorneys settled into soft, burgundy leather chairs around a mini-conference table. Someday, Lucius thought, this could all be mine! The rich, wood-paneled office held a commanding view of Hudson River traffic with a peek at Central Park. He’d dreamed of having an office like this since the first time he set foot in it. However, unbeknownst to his mentor, becoming S.C.U.L.R.’s star litigator was not his goal. Instead, he longed to start his own firm and be captain of his own ship. He figured that if this case was intended to catapult him into the spotlight and be the key to unlocking his dream, then his total attention needed to be directed toward his boss.

“So what do you think of that Spirit Fellowship documentation?” Hamilton opened his briefcase, withdrew his own thick folder labeled ‘Lakeside’, and placed it on his desk. Then, he expertly tamped his Meerschaum, settled it between his teeth, lit it, leaned well back into his deep leather chair and proceeded to loft his trademark three perfect smoke rings in the direction of the ceiling.

Watching Hamilton’s ritual, Lucius attempted to disguise his boredom. Lucius intercepted his desire to sarcastically raise his eyebrows, which would make obvious his disgust at the old man’s ego.

“I can’t comprehend how gullible people are when it comes to religion. Why would anyone give up ownership of his car to the church? And the gasoline credit card scam--that cleric must be making a tidy sum off that two-percent. I wonder what else he’s cheating on.”

“There are definitely other skeletons in his closet. And that’s why you need to go fishing.” Hamilton winked. But with the pipe clenched in his teeth, it looked more like a grimace. “What we need is a client who has been unduly discriminated against, whose rights have been violated. Not necessarily by that church, but by the action of the Lakeside City Council. More specifically by the newly elected, self-serving, religious fanatics that now hold the majority of the seats. We already know when push comes to shove, the churches will back down. But if this amendment passes, which seems inevitable, then it’s our duty to knock down those pious, high-minded bigots. If you can find the nut that started this take-over, we can crack him. Like I always say, take out your rival’s quarterback, and the opposing team’s offense will end up fumbling the game away.”

“They always do, don’t they?” Lucius smiled in agreement. “The report mentioned a David Trimble. He’s on the council and attends Spirit Fellowship, too.”

“He’s definitely one we’ll target for intimidation.” Hamilton Fisher droned on, continuing his briefing. However in Lucius’s mind he was already on his way to upstate New York and what used to be his family.

###

Lucius parked his new silver Beemer at the curb and turned off the key. Here goes nothing! He cracked all ten of his fingers, deliberately, one at a time, and then ran them through his thick, curly, black hair. A glance at the front porch of his ex-wife’s Craftsman-style bungalow windows glowed brightening the damp April evening air. No signs of life, indicated to Lucius that the kids were probably intent on their homework and Catherine busy in the kitchen. For an instant he dwelt on a memory of the moments right before dinner. He could almost see her ash blonde hair bouncing as she bustled from stove to sink and hear her humming in her sweet soprano. Then he stopped his reminescence. No sense going there.

He removed the roll of antacids from the breast pocket of his hand-tailored, Italian suit and popped one into his mouth. Perhaps assuaging the heartburn would dull the heartache as well. Lucius hated the fact that he still hurt. Most of the time he was able to bury the pain beneath a strong bravado. But coming face to face with his beautiful ex-wife always brought it right back to the surface.

He dreaded facing Catherine and telling her that his new assignment would be taking him back within a few miles of that unfortunate location. Even though he’d argued with his boss about it, in the end he believed had no choice. So he was going to Missouri.

Slamming the door on his car and memories, Lucius steeled himself to face his family. He approached the house slowly, trying to postpone the inevitable. He resented having to tell the children that he wouldn’t be able to pick them up for his next few weekend visitations. This shouldn’t be a big deal. They’ll get over it. But in the back of his mind, he remembered the times he got dressed, expecting his dad to take him somewhere. And he waited and waited. In the end, Dad said, “Sorry,” in a voice that even a kid could tell held no regret.

Before the divorce, when the kids were small, Catherine had always taken a back seat to the firm, and now he appeared to be giving Jordan and Denise the same treatment. Although, in his mind, he still justified his absences. When the kids are older they’ll appreciate that their father helped stop the over-zealous, religious bigots from trying to rule in the schools and in government.

Lucius also felt apprehensive about the news Catherine had for him. He hoped she wasn’t planning on moving farther away, but it suddenly struck him. She’s found another man! 

CHAPTER FOUR

Lucius climbed the front steps of the quaint, three bedroom bungalow and paused to crack his knuckles once more before ringing the doorbell. He ran his hands through his hair again and realized they were sweating, even in the cool spring evening air. “Don’t know if the pressure is worth it,” he mumbled to himself.

“Daddy!” Jordan squealed with delight, opening the leaded glass door. “It’s not Friday!”

“It’s not?” Lucius responded with mock confusion as he swung his son up on his back. “Where’s Sissy and your mom, Sport?” Scanning the cozy living room, warmed by a crackling fire in the stone fireplace, he glanced through the arch leading to the dining room just in time to see the kitchen door fly open.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Pint-sized Denise tore through the entry, her blonde braids flying straight out.

“There’s my girl!” With one hand around his back holding Jordan up so he wouldn’t be strangled by his son’s death grip around his neck, Lucius reached down and swung his daughter under his other arm. The children laughed and squirmed so hard that he had to kneel down on the floor to get a better grip.

Their mother’s feet came into his line of vision first, her sandals, and her toes, neatly polished. Then the mint green stretch slacks, accentuating her long legs, and, as he raised his eyes, a perfectly coordinated fuzzy angora sweater came into view. Catherine had a flare for style, and Lucius couldn’t help admiring her still shapely figure, even after birthing three children in rapid succession. Her face glowed and exuded a youthful vibrancy. Her hair shined like a halo in the flickering firelight. She appeared more beautiful than he remembered from when he had last seen her less than two weeks before. His eloquent verbiage that had swayed many a difficult jury crumbled to the floor as he greeted her with a soft wolf whistle.

“Lucius!” Catherine chided, avoiding his eyes. “How are you?”

“Fine.” His answer rang hollow even to his own ears. Maybe it was his attraction to her incredibly good looks, or memories of the few times that he’d let down the wall to his soul, but he suddenly felt extremely vulnerable.

“Will you have dinner with us?”

He tried to hide his astonishment. He hadn’t even had time to fill her in on his plans for the evening with the children or, actually, to recover from her beauty.

“Are you sure? Well… Yes, I’d love to!”

“Jordan, Denise, take your father to your bedrooms and show him some of your school projects. And, Denise, get out your scrapbook for your daddy to look at, too. Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes.” She walked away with a confident smile.

Sharing dinner together after all these years felt bittersweet to Lucius. He poignantly remembered the many times he had disappointed his little family by calling with a last minute excuse. But fond memories also rekindled as he contemplated how well mannered Jordan and Denise behaved in the presence of their mother. He’d never admitted to her how he ordered takeout or took the children to McDonald’s during their visits with him, fearing her disapproval over their meal’s lack of nutritional value. Sitting down to eat at the glass dining table in his condo was a rare occurrence, and proper protocol, let alone any attempt at etiquette, vanished when the children spent time with him.

After dinner, Lucius helped them with their homework and then gently mentioned his upcoming, month-long absence without mentioning his destination. He didn’t know whether to be disturbed, disappointed, or relieved when his announcement was met with childish indifference, so as eight o’clock approached, he volunteered to put them to bed.

Every so often he caught glimpses of Catherine as she busied herself cleaning up in the kitchen and overheard her on the phone giggling. It had been a long time since he’d heard her laugh. Their biweekly encounters always had an aura of mandatory, cordial though frosty interaction that masked their disappointment in one another. Yet this time seemed different, and he wondered if it had something to do with her news.

He read a story to each of the children and gave them a good night kiss on the forehead. Lucius had never experienced any sort of affection from his own parents, but he had been a willing student to Catherine in order to be sure his children felt loved.

When he joined Catherine in the living room, she handed him a cup of steaming coffee, with just the right amount of cream. Her thoughtfulness pulled at his heartstrings. Tonight, for some reason, he felt like an adolescent schoolboy beholding his first love. Sitting on the embroidered couch across from her as she rocked in the antique rocker she had inherited from her grandmother, Lucius once again absorbed her beauty. I wish I could erase the last five years. She is so beautiful. If only I could make it right again.

“Well, I have had an interesting month,” Catherine began hesitantly.

“Tell me about it! Mine, too. But go ahead, give me your news first.”

“Well, it actually began when we first moved here almost four years ago. The family next door has always been so sweet. They’ve helped us out on many occasions, making sure we were settled in and all. And they invited us to their church, which, of course, I declined numerous times.”

“Always trying to convert someone!” Lucius retorted, shaking his head.

“No, not really. They were very gracious, never overbearing. But over the years that we’ve been neighbors, I’ve been able to see a difference in their lives. They have given selflessly whenever I needed anything. If my car wouldn’t start because I left the lights on, or when Jordan flushed one of his toys, they were always right there with a helping hand. The older boy shovels the snow from the walk and driveway in the winter, and when I offered to pay him he told me that the Bible says helping the fatherless and widows is true religion.”

“The gall! Jordan and Denise aren’t orphans! And you certainly haven’t been widowed. At least I’m not dead, yet!” Lucius was appalled and insulted! Christians always have a way of appearing holier than thou.

“No, Lucius, of course not physically. But that’s what the children are missing – an everyday father figure. And I do often feel like a widow, all alone after losing my soul mate.” The longing look in Catherine’s hazel-green eyes was unmistakable, and Lucius exhaled deeply. He yearned to reach out and touch her.

“Since Denise started school, I’ve been faced with hours to fill,” Catherine continued. “And all the things I tried didn’t relieve the hopeless feeling I was experiencing. This month capped a year of searching for a direction for my life.”

“That’s great, Cat! So, where are you headed?” Lucius took another sip of his coffee.  He hoped that she was finally going to let bygones be bygones and they could resume being a family. He felt confident enough to turn on the charm in hopes that the evening would end with his spending the night. He leaned forward and looked deep into her eyes. He wallowed in their depth.

“To heaven, actually.”

“What?” Lucius blinked.

“Lucius, I found that in all my searching, someone was actually looking for me. And like a lost sheep, the Good Shepherd found me.”

This rhetoric sounded all too familiar. Many times his adversaries impugned that he was lost and needed saving. He couldn’t comprehend the words coming from his ex-wife’s mouth. Is this some sort of bad joke?

“I’ve asked Jesus to save me and give me eternal life.”

Blood rushed to his head. His ears rang, and he couldn’t speak. Lucius tried forming words but nothing came out. Finally he shook his head in disbelief.

“He’s given me His Spirit, and I’ve become a new woman. The old Catherine passed away, the one who couldn’t forgive you. He’s taken away all the bitterness I felt towards you. Jesus forgave me, and, Lucius, I have forgiven you.”

Holding his head in his hands, his fingers raked his hair. A team of confounding voices screamed in his mind. How could she do this to me! I’m the liberator of those deceived by religion. But wait… If she forgives me then maybe we are getting back together. No, that can’t be… Now she’s the enemy!

“You’re kidding, right?” But he knew she wasn’t. “How could you?” he groaned. “You know my whole life has been directed at eradicating the false hope of religion. And now you’ve bought into the lie!”

"All I know is once I was blind, but now I see. I see the truth. Jesus is the truth, but I never knew it until I had tried everything else and nothing worked.”

Lucius sat stunned and speechless. A look of abject shock shone on his face. Her calm unsettled him, and his thoughts grew more confused. He fought to concentrate on the conversation. These conflicting feelings for the woman he still loved, and his entire reason for living, headed toward a crescendo that threatened to break the outward equanimity on which he so prided himself. With a flicker of hope and straining to keep his voice under forced control, he finally asked, “So where does that put us?”

Catherine sighed and studied her hands in her lap. “Though at times I’ve hated you, I realize now that in reality I hated what you did and not you personally. But Jesus restored all the years of love that I missed from you with his love for me. Jesus loves you too, Lucius, and so do I. He can forgive you and make you new again, too. Then we could have a fresh start.” She looked at him hopefully.

“You don’t have any idea what you’re asking.”

“Yes, I do. But what good is it for you to gain the whole world if you lose your soul?”

“You can only lose your soul if you believe in something beyond this life. And I don’t.” Sorrow flooded his gut and his thoughts plummeted from the pinnacle of expectancy a few short moments before, but now sorrow flooded his soul. Any hope of getting back with his family crashed around his feet.

As if Catherine could read his thoughts, she added, “Your life is not who you are, Lucius, but whose you are.”

“I’m who I am! The only one who calls the plays in my life is me!” Lucius barked loudly, imitating Hamilton Fischer’s frequent use of football analogies.

“You certainly are the god of your life, but it’s eerie that you chose those words to describe yourself.”

“I’m not following you. I am who I am.”

“That’s God’s name in the Bible, the Creator of the universe, the great I Am,” Catherine countered.

The thoughts in his head became jumbled all piled up on one another like a gang tackle dog-pile. Well, I am god, at least of my universe. So, why isn’t it working the way I want it to? If she hadn’t become a Christian, we could have gotten back together. Why wouldn’t God want us to be a family?

“What am I thinking? There is no God! Those Christians next door have somehow persuaded you that someone else can fix your problems. If you hadn’t made such a big deal over one little misstep and had gotten over it, you would never have become so bitter and resentful.”

As a child, he had always shifted the blame off himself to someone or something else to deter his father’s anger. His courtroom practice was the zenith of that character deficiency. But, outside those hallowed halls, it didn’t always win--and especially not in his marriage. Lucius attributed his blame-shifting to his childhood. The habit was too ingrained in him to respond any other way.

“A month ago, Lucius, your comment would have devastated me,” Catherine calmly replied, her mouth curling up slightly at the corners. “But, I’m not going down that old road. Jesus has filled my heart with true love, joy, and peace. I’d like you to experience how wonderful it can be, but I guess now’s not the right time.”

“You’re right! Now is definitely not the right time! I have to leave.” Grabbing his coat from the hall tree by the door, he turned and caught himself taking in her beauty one more time. He could feel tears looming. “You think you believe in God, but I’m going back to southwest Missouri for a case that will show all of America that Christians are using religion to force their moral views on this whole country. By winning, I’ll prove to you and to the world that this god thing is nothing more than a smoke-screen for a power grab!”

“Save your closing for the jury,” Catherine interrupted as she held the door open for him. “I’ll be praying for you.”

###

Lucius whipped his Beemer down the narrow country lane leading to the highway. Catherine’s new found faith had blindsided him. Now his mission was directed at saving her from the deception of Christianity and from infecting his children with it.

I’ll show her! I’ll show her! He roared blindly down the Interstate, as tears threatened his vision and his mind rampaged on a plan of attack for his case in Lakeside, Missouri. Thankful that he was already packed, fly rod and fishing gear included, he now focused on the morning flight out of JFK

###

Catherine watched the lights of his car disappear in the darkness. Her heart ached for him. Perhaps I should have waited to tell him, but then when would there ever be a good time?

Tonight she had come close to running into his arms when he smiled at her. I could have had him back, I know it. I know he would have come back tonight if I hadn’t broken the news to him. She sighed and went into the kitchen. She put water into the kettle and turned on the stove. A cup of tea will be soothing.  Maybe it will ease my disappointment.

“Oh, Jesus, I trust you. You know I do. It’s just…” She covered her face with her hands. “It would have been wonderful to have Lucius back in our lives. Why did he have to be in such a friendly mood tonight? You have washed away all my pain and filled me with such joy and contentment! But now. . . now. . .” A flood of unsettling emotions hammered her in the wake of Lucius’ departure.

The kettle screeched. She rose and turned off the stove. She poured the steaming water over a chamomile teabag into her favorite yellow mug. She walked into the living room with her mug and curled up into the overstuffed chair next to the fireplace. She picked up her Bible from the coffee table and placed it on her lap. Flipping through the pages, her eyes rested on Proverbs. . . “Trust in the Lord with all your heart. . .” Relief flooded her soul. He knew what she was going through, and He cared. “Oh God, you are so good. Please show Lucius the truth.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Lucius smelled her fragrance, a sensual blend of jasmine and vanilla, before he heard her voice.

“Excuse me…”

He was sitting in his first class seat waiting for the plane to leave the runway. He raised his eyes to behold a shapely, bright yellow, silk blouse approaching his face. To avoid the collision he leaned to the right, towards the empty seat next to him. With that maneuver, he looked up into a pair of hazel eyes that took on the golden hue of the blouse.

She was beautiful, bubbly, looked fresh out of college, and was unabashedly flirting with him. First, she coyly stretched across his face in a failed attempt to stow her overnighter in the overhead rack. Then she feigned shyness in asking for help. Lucius was not unaccustomed to such overt attention. His angular jaw, intense blue eyes, and jet-black hair provided his six foot two, if slightly overweight, frame an intimidating presence. It also attracted the opposite sex, much to his delight, and often his downfall.

The absence of a wedding ring, long since tanned over, made him fair game. Most times he was up for the sport, much like his fencing matches in college--parry and thrust, parry and thrust--but not today. While the stunningly beautiful redhead next to him was only a game to be played, lately the effort to play seemed greater than the thrill of winning. Right now catching fish interested him more than catching her.

“Thanks! I don’t know why I packed my carry-on so full.” Her voice reminded him of champagne bubbles. “My luggage is so jam-packed they almost charged me extra! Can you believe it?”

“The airlines are getting quite stringent about the weight restrictions, but I’m sure some of the two-seaters, as I call them, are more of a concern. As petite as you are, they should let you carry on as much as you please.”

Lucius focused on his lap when she blushed at his observation. He certainly hadn’t meant it as a come-on.

“Why thank you. Two-seaters…” She giggled, and Lucius found himself fighting the desire for champagne. Regretting that he couldn’t have champagne right now, he decided that any drink would taste good.

“I’ve never heard them called that before. That’s cute.”

Lucius chuckled too, as his new traveling companion drew him into her flirtatious conversation. Normally on top of his game, Lucius hesitated to join in her seemingly innocent banter. But as the conversation progressed, his resolve to concentrate on the latest fishing magazine he had picked up at JFK swiftly vanished.

Her name was Susan and her destination Springfield, Missouri, Lucius’s destination. Her effervescence drew him like a magnet to iron. At her suggestion, they both had drinks in their hands by the time the plane pushed back from the gate. The roar of the engines attempted to drown out her toast to a safe flight and new friends. With a clink of their tumblers, the plane lifted off the ground.

His first drink of the day slid smoothly down his throat The burning liquid induced a comforting sensation. Lucius felt the inhibitions flow out of his body and his muscles relax.

“Not bad,” Lucius commented.

Susan smiled. “If there’s one thing I learned in college, it was how to hold my liquor.”

“Let’s see about that.” Lucius motioned for the flight attendant.       "Another round for the lady, please.”

“And for the gentleman as well.” Susan faced him, looking directly into his eyes. “I’m not about to drink alone.”

“Now that wouldn’t be very chivalrous of me, would it?”

Throughout the remainder of the flight, he and Susan drank and flirted. Susan laughed more often, and Lucius kept ordering more drinks for the both of them.

“It’s my turn to pay,” Susan reached for her wallet. “You’ve paid for the last two drinks. I won’t have you think that I’m some of kind cheap—“ She hiccoughed loudly.

Lucius laughed. “You were saying?”

Susan covered her mouth. “How embarrassing! That was loud enough for the entire plane to hear,” she laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks.

Lucius reached into his back pocket for his handkerchief and held it out to her.

“I doubt that.” He ignored a disapproving glare from a matron across the aisle. He also ignored her as she whispered to the elderly gentleman seated next to her. Old fogies. They should mind their own business!

“Still feel like paying?”

“Oh, yes!”  Susan handed the flight attendant a wad of cash.

“Lucius.”

“Hmm.”

“Have lunch with me when we land.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Please!” She grabbed his arm and pressed it against her chest.        “Pretty please.”

Distracted, Lucius didn’t respond.

“It’ll be my treat.” She looked deeply into his eyes.

“Oh no. If I’m having lunch with you, I’m paying.”

“Does that mean yes?”

His eyes drifted down to where her blouse was askew, revealing a lace bra and smooth flesh.

“You’re a bad influence.”

“It wouldn’t be much fun if I wasn’t,” she winked.

###

After the two-hour layover for lunch in St. Louis, they boarded their plane for the forty-five minute flight to Springfield. As they deplaned arm in arm, Lucius felt somewhat proud to be seen with such a beautiful woman, and he couldn’t recall when he had experienced a more enjoyable flight.

As they headed to the baggage claim Lucius remarked, “I’ve got to get some coffee if I’m going to be competent to drive my rental car. Care to join me?”

“I would, but I see my friends. Thanks for making a boring flight so much fun.” Stretching up on her tiptoes, she gave him a swift peck on the cheek and departed. The game was over.

Back to earth and out of her spell, Lucius stood for a moment, slightly taken aback at the abrupt end to the flirtation. Amid feelings of confusion and disappointment, he made his way to an espresso stand. Endeavoring to refocus, he quickly downed half of a king-size cup of the strong java. Woozily, he balanced his drink while he stooped to pick up his carry-on bag.

“Oh! Excuse me!” He heard the apology at exactly the same moment the last of his scalding coffee cascaded down the front of his suit.

Quickly bending over to prevent the steaming flood from traveling further down his body, Lucius bellowed, “Damn! That’s hot!”

“Here! Let me help you! I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you!” The little man apologized profusely, grabbing a wad of paper napkins and holding them out toward Lucius.

Lucius’s anger transcended the temperature of the brown blotch on his expensive suit as he continued to blot his silk tie and lapels.        Handing him another bunch of paper napkins, the clumsy assailant laid his business card on top of Lucius’s luggage. “I’m truly sorry! Let me pay for the dry cleaning. Just send me the bill.” Getting a disgruntled response, the small man turned and was quickly lost in the crowd.

“You bet I will!” Lucius said to no one in particular as he tossed the soggy napkins into a nearby trash can. He snatched up the man’s business card and glanced at the name. “Oh, no!” Lucius groaned. “David Trimble!”!

Tea parties? Marches? Revolution? Patrick Henry’s “Give me liberty or give death” turned from willing to die for liberty to willing to kill for liberty! Have we crossed that line yet? Armed revolution is no longer an option.  The British and the Colonists both had muskets. Now the citizen’s best weapon is maybe an M-16 rifle –  the government has an F-16 fighter… plus! If the faithful wait until the courts in America ban the Bible, believers will be singled out. Or we can band together as citizens of Heaven and force the government to recognize our enclaves as nations much like the Indian nations. (“Hang together or we will surely hang separately”. –  Benjamin Franklin). The Spirit is warning us that it is time to separate ourselves like the Pilgrims did from burning-at-the-stake persecution.

The prudent man foresees the evil and hides, but the simple pass on and are punished. Proverbs  22:3

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