Pastor Williams made himself as comfortable as he could. The pain in his shoulder was not spreading anymore but throbbed like an abscessed tooth. More troubling was the tingling sensation that was starting in his tongue and the tightness that was beginning to spread across his chest. He knew the others were worried about him but he also knew that he was in good hands – God's. He also remembered that he needed to talk to Paul and Brandon. He felt the need to talk was more urgent now than ever.
“Brandon, Paul,” he began, “I need to talk with you. I wanted to wait until after we got back to Wildwood and everyone had a chance to rest up a bit. However, now I don't think I should wait. Brandon, I know you and Bro. Krankovich have been investigating Joyce's death. I appreciate that. I no longer believe her death was an accident either. In fact, I believe that it was part of an overall scheme to close our church.”
“Close the church! What do you mean?” asked Paul.
“I received a letter about two and a half months ago,” continued Pastor Williams, “from someone working at the Narsch Foundation. I don't know who sent it but it was signed 'A Friend'.”
“Karen,” Pastor Williams interrupted himself, “There is an envelope in my coat pocket. Can you get that and hand it to your husband, please.”
Karen retrieved the envelope and passed it forward.
Paul took the envelope and opened it as Pastor Williams continued. “You can read the letter yourself. There is not much in it. It was actually the other papers in the envelope that concerned me the most.” He paused and rubbed his hand along the bottom of his jaw. The tingling sensation was spreading. “Please read it out loud so your Uncle can hear what it says as well.”
Paul Brown shook out the contents of the envelope. The letter, along with three other papers, fell into his lap. The letter was fairly brief and he quickly scanned it before looking at the other papers. It was undated and looked like it had been typed on an old manual typewriter rather than coming from a computer printer.
“Mr. Williams,” the letter began, “You do not know me but you and another gentleman knocked on my door one time about ten years ago. You invited me to visit your church and tried to share your antiquated view of 'god' with me and told me that I needed to be 'saved'. We had an interesting debate and obviously had some profound philosophical differences. We also differed greatly on our view of who and what 'god' is and what that 'god' expects of us. I appreciated your sincerity and the obvious concern, however naive and misplaced it might have been, for my welfare. Well, maybe now I can return the favor. I recently had opportunity to view several documents, which may interest you. I have nothing to gain by sending this information to you. In fact, it would endanger my position here at the Narsch Foundation if Simon were to find out that I sent it. Still, it is not what I signed up for.”
Laying aside the letter, Paul picked up the other papers. The first was a slightly fuzzy copy of an aerial photograph. Squinting at the picture Paul saw that it centered on the buildings and property of the Wildwood Baptist Church. Two small equilateral triangles, connected by a smaller rectangle, were drawn over the woods immediately behind the church's back parking lot. The strange symbol was circled with a heavy black line and the words “SHAMBALLAH OPENING?” were scrawled alongside. The second document was actually a series of narrow strips, each about 2 inches wide, that had been glued on to a piece of paper from a yellow legal pad.
“Look at this,” said Paul as he held up the second paper. “It looks like someone used one of those small, hand-held copiers to put this together. I remember getting a National Security Agency warning about those things back when I was stationed in England with the Air Force. They were concerned that it could be easily smuggled into a secure building since it was only about the size of a pack of cigarettes or a deck of cards. Documents could be scanned in strips just like this. Looks like the NSA security folks’ concerns were justified.”
The document was headed “Gaia Society - Properties of Interest & Investigation, Wildwood”. It revealed a list of a dozen or so properties in and around Wildwood, Ohio. Some of the properties were check-marked with various dates going back over 30 years written alongside. The church property was listed but unchecked. It was, however, underlined and “GLFOps” was written along with today's date next to it.
“Now that is certainly interesting,” observed Paul dryly, “I've heard of the Gaia Society. That's one of those environmental-wacko groups that want to save the world from the internal combustion engine. Why would they be interested in our property? And, more importantly, what is this “GLF-Ops” along with today's date supposed to mean?”
Brandon Hayes eyebrows scrunched together as he thought for a moment. “GLF-Ops? GLF-Ops? Why does that sound familiar?” Suddenly it dawned on him. “GLF-Ops!” he said while slowing for the traffic light, “The Gaia Society has an unofficial activist arm known as the Gaia Liberation Front. Though it has never been proven, it is thought that the Gaia Society secretly funds the GLF while using it to take direct, destructive, and frequently illegal actions to further its goals. They started out breaking into labs and release animals, spiking trees in logging areas, and pouring sugar into the fuel tanks of heavy equipment at development and mining sites out West. They’ve since gone nationwide and graduated to threats, intimidation, bombings, and arson. They are even suspected in several deaths and assassination attempts.”
Turning right onto Bagley Road, he continued, “The FBI has the GLF on their list of domestic terrorist groups and has been tracking their activities for nearly a decade. So far no one has been able to tie them into the Gaia Society directly. 'Ops' could refer to an operation planned for today. Quite a coincidence that it was the same day Paul and Karen were coming home. No wonder you were concerned this morning, Pastor!”
Pastor Williams lifted a hand stiffly. The tightness around his chest felt like a steel band constricting his breathing. He tried to talk but his tongue felt thick and swollen. His words slurred together, making them hard to understand. “Paul, Brrra- Braan-don” he began, “The date...not coincidence...not me...not me...P-P-Paul...” His words cut off into a moan as he suddenly stiffened in the seat.
“Pastor Williams! Pastor Williams!” shouted Karen.
Pastor Williams sat rigidly in the seat, his breath coming in short, labored gasps. His eyes were glazing over as she grabbed his wrist, desperately feeling for a pulse. It was there, weak, sluggish, and erratic.
Brandon took a quick look over his shoulder at Karen and Pastor Williams. “Hang on!” he hollered as he pushed the accelerator to the floor and flipped on the van's emergency flashers. “We're only a couple of blocks away!” He whipped the old van expertly around a couple of slower cars as he headed for the hospital.
Paul gripped the dashboard tightly with one hand while turning in his seat to look behind him. His wife had braced herself against the back of his seat and was doing her best to steady Pastor Williams. Ben and Alex were hanging tightly onto the seat in front of them. Alexandria's eyes were wide with fear and concern while Ben's lips moved silently in prayer. A sudden movement on the road behind them caught his attention as Brandon suddenly cut the van over in a tight right turn into Southwest General Health Center's main entrance. A dark gray car made an abrupt turn into the hospital behind them, skidding slightly and nearly sideswiping a delivery van.
Screeching to a halt outside the emergency entrance, Brandon slammed the van into park and jumped out without bothering to shut off the engine. “Stay with Pastor Williams! “ he called over his shoulder, “I'll get some help!” He ran into the hospital while Paul hopped out and opened the side door to the van.
Unnoticed, a dark gray Jaguar circled around and pulled into a parking space in sight of the church van. The occupants, the small thin man from the airport and his driver, a larger, stockier man, watched the occupants of the church van intently. The little man held a cell phone tightly as he described what was happening to the unseen listener. He paused for a moment, watching as Brandon Hayes and two ER residents in scrubs hurried out to the van. One turned and hollered back toward the hospital and two aids rushed up with a gurney. They pulled Pastor Williams out of the van and rushed him into the emergency room, followed closely by Karen Brown.
The thin man spoke briefly into the phone and then folded it up with a quick snap as Paul and Brandon got back into the van with Ben and Alex. He watched the van move to a parking space with a cool clinical gaze. He turned to his driver while the van moved from the emergency entrance to a parking space.
“We wait,” he said through tight lips.
“And...?”
“And see what happens.”
“I know what's gonna happen!” his driver interrupted, “That old guys gonna croak!
That's what's gonna happen, even if he's the wrong guy! There was enough of that concentrated salamander juice in your umbrella tip to kill the lot of 'em.”
“Newt,” said the smaller man, shaking his head, “Newt, not salamander. It came from the rough skinned newt, found only in the Pacific Northwest. It is one of the most poisonous amphibians in the world. The only one in North America. Its skin glands produce a powerful neurotoxin that affects the heart and lungs by slowly paralyzing them.”
The driver shrugged, “Whatever! All I knows is it works. Remember that Forest Service survey crew a few years back? They was camped out near Mt. Rainier marking trees for a selective logging cut. A couple of GLF buddies of mine snuck in late one night and dropped a dead salamander they'd found in their coffee pot. They just wanted to gross 'em out. They didn't know 'bout them poison glands all over it. Next mornin' them Forest Service guys get up, pour some water in the pot and don't see the salamander. An hour or so later they start having trouble breathing and keel over. Only one guy survived. He had tea 'stead of coffee. Got wrote up in the local papers but the GLF never got the credit.”
“Good thing!” snorted the other man. “If they had we would not have been able to use the poison as successfully in other cases since then.”
“Yeah, but I hate having one of those little guys die just to take out some planet killer.”
“Small price to pay to save Mother Earth! Besides, that newt is bound to come back in a higher form after being used for such a noble purpose.”
Twenty-some miles away an angry Simon Narsch let out a stream of profanity and slammed his silver-tipped walking stick down hard. The slim hickory shaft splintered on impact, leaving yet another dent in the hard walnut surface of the massive desk. Cursing yet again, the old man flung the ruined stick at his son, Arnold, who was seated uncomfortably in an oversized leather armchair across the room.
At 92, Simon Narsch, III, Founder and Director of the prestigious Narsch Foundation, was still an imposing figure. Tall and slender with an aristocratic carriage befitting his Prussian ancestry, he exercised religiously and jogged daily, rain or shine, every morning around the perimeter of the Narsch family estate in Wildwood. He looked a mere ten years older than his son who, at 62, was grossly overweight and terribly out of shape, a constant source of friction between the two.
As the past President and CEO of Narsch Industries, Simon enjoyed a spacious corner office on the sixth floor of the Narsch headquarters building. It overlooked a carefully preserved and tended stand of some of the last remaining virgin timber in Northeast Ohio. From his chestnut paneled chambers he oversaw the Narsch Foundation while wielding a great deal more influence than anyone suspected over the company that his immigrant grandfather, had founded in 1891, especially the research and development division. His son, Arnold, had taken over the family business upon the unexpected death of his older brother, Simon Narsch, IV, 25 years earlier in a remote mountain village in Haiti. The elder Narsch still refused to talk about it, though he had been there when it happened.
“Bah! Idiots! The wrong one indeed! How could they miss?” demanded Simon, stalking back and forth behind his imposing desk like a caged lion, “Now we have to alter some of our most important plans! You know as well as I do that young Paul Brown is the real threat. All our forecasts and readings pointed to him! That old man was nothing. We would have had no trouble with him, not when the time came. Everything was set. How could that fool miss?”
“It was an accident, Father,” soothed Arnold. “These things happen. We'll compensate.
I've already instructed our agents to watch and wait outside of the hospital. I—” “Instruct them to stay out of sight and follow them home from the hospital as well!” in terrupted his father.
Arnold sighed, “Already done, as I started to say before you interrupted.” “At least you have done something right today,” sneered Simon, “I suspect Brown will be staying with his dear uncle, Brandon Hayes. I would like to be sure before we decide what to do next.”
“Maybe we can deal with that thorn-in-the-flesh, Hayes, once and for all as well.” “Indeed!”
Placated for the moment, Simon Narsch sat down behind his desk, motioning for his son to leave. Arnold struggled to his feet and lumbered out of his father's office. When the heavy oak door closed, Simon slid open a desk drawer beside him and removed an intricately inlaid wooden box. Placing the box on the desk in front of him, Simon ran his hand briefly over its ornate surface. Composed entirely of apple, cherry, and other fruit woods, a series of occultic symbols and runic letters decorated its exterior.
Depressing a hidden catch, he carefully slide open the top and withdrew a bright red silk bag and a round copper stand. Reaching into the bag he took out a large dark blue sapphire and laid it reverently in the copper stand. Reaching around to the wall behind him, Simon pressed several buttons, which closed the heavy wool drapes and dimmed the lights. Another button and a solitary spotlight stabbed down from above spearing the crystal with a narrow beam of light.
The sapphire glowed in the intense beam. Blinking several times, Simon's old eyes focused on the gem as an incredibly beautiful five-pointed star began to burn deep within the stone. He placed his hands so that the thumb and index fingers of his right and left hands formed a triangle around the base of the crystal's copper stand. Slowly he bowed his head and began chanting quietly...
Meanwhile, back at Southwest General, the Brown's were waiting anxiously in the ER waiting room. Brandon stood just outside using his cell phone. He was calling Pastor Williams' family and several key members of the Wildwood Baptist Church to let them know what had happened. Ben Brown came running out as he was hanging up.
“Uncle Brandon,” he called slightly out of breath, “Dad sent me to get you. The doctor is on his way to talk with us and wants you to be there.” Two sets of eyes watched intently as Brandon turned off his cell phone and headed back into the hospital with his great nephew, pausing briefly to let a police officer enter ahead of them.
“I'd sure like to know what's goin' on in there.” muttered the driver.
“I thought you said that you knew what was going to happen,” replied his partner peevishly.
“You know what I mean! I just hate sittin' around like this.” “You know our orders...”
“Yeah, sit and wait.”
Paul and Karen were on their feet talking to a doctor as Brandon and Ben walked into the waiting room. Alexandria was sitting nearby, perched nervously on the edge of her chair. Ben went over to sit with her as his uncle joined his parents and the doctor.
The doctor, a young Asian man who looked to be in his early thirties spoke first. “Mr. Brandon?” he began with a slight Chinese accent, “I am Doctor Pol. Li Pol. I understand that you are the one who brought Mr. Williams in.”
“Well, I was the driver...”
“But you are the one who came first into the ER to request assistance, yes?” asked Dr.
Pol.
“Uh, that's right” answered Hayes.
“Please,” continued Dr. Pol, gesturing to a small room nearby, “Would you and Mr. and Mrs. Brown accompany me. It would be better if we talk in private.”
Karen glanced at her husband. He knew the look, and he knew what the room was used for. It didn't bode well. Karen turned away and called quickly to Ben and Alexandria. She instructed them to behave themselves and said they would be out in just a few minutes.
She followed the others into the room. As she started to close the door behind her a hand reached out and stopped the door suddenly, startling her. She looked around quickly and was surprised to see a police officer behind her.
Dr. Pol held up his hand in protest, “A moment alone please, officer.”
The officer obliged and stepped quietly back out into the waiting area while Karen closed the door.
“I am very sorry,” began Dr. Pol, “We did all we could. Unfortunately, Mr. Williams was unresponsive by the time you brought him in. We tried everything we could but were unable to resuscitate him. I am truly sorry.”
Paul wrapped his arms around his wife who began to cry quietly, blinking back tears of his own. Brandon sat down heavily. “What was the cause of death?” he asked somberly.
“Unfortunately, the new privacy laws prevent me from discussing the cause of death with you. Mr. Williams did not—was unable—to fill out a privacy release form when he came in, authorizing me, or anyone at this hospital, to release personal information concerning his case. I can only discuss his case with his next of kin. All I can legally tell you is that he has died.”
Dr. Pol lowered his voice and leaned forward, “It is a stupid law, but I will tell you this. Please do not repeat it outside of this room. Mrs. Brown, from what I observed, I believe you are correct. It appears that something was introduced into Mr. Williams' shoulder, which caused a detrimental neurological effect. What, I do not know. Neurology is not my specialty. I do know, however, that it did not act like a typical poison and was too fast acting for a typical infectious pathogen.”
“Hence the police officer outside,” said Brandon, “You had to report it to the local police to be investigated.”
Dr. Pol nodded, “Yes, I hope you understand. Again, I am very, very sorry. Now, I must let the officer in so he can take your statements. Someone from the hospital will be along shortly to ask about next of kin contacts for Mr. Williams. Please, if there is anything further I can do for you, you can contact me through the hospital later.”
Dr. Pol opened the door and stepped out into the waiting area, holding the door for the police officer to enter the room. Paul Brown called Ben and Alex in through the open door as well. Li Pol smiled sadly at the Brown's children as they passed by. “This part never gets any easier,” he thought to himself.
About 45 minutes later, the officer left with a stack of statements and a hospital representative stepped into the room with some more papers. “Hello. My name is Ms. Hamblyn. Please accept my condolences,” she said, “Just a few more forms. I need to find out who the next of kin is and how to get in touch with whomever will be in handling Mr. Williams affairs.”
“Most of his family lives out of town,” answered Brandon Hayes, “All but his daughter, Janet. She lives in Wildwood. I think his oldest son, John, Jr., is the executor though. He lives in Colorado. His attorney, Chuck Krankovich, can tell you for sure. I believe he has a copy of Pastor Williams' will on file in his office. He can probably fax you whatever information you need and make any necessary arrangements. I—I've got his number right here.”
Brandon wrote down Chuck Krankovich's name and number and filled out a few of the forms to the best of his ability. When he finished Mrs. Hamblyn, thanked him for his help and said that the hospital would contact Mr. Krankovich and the next of kin.
Brandon and the Brown's gathered their things together and slowly walked out of the hospital. Heavy dark clouds had moved in, threatening rain. Wearily they climbed inside the van. Brandon put his key in the ignition and started the motor but did not put the van in gear. The clock on the dash glowed 9:16 AM. Pastor Williams was gone.
“We should call people,” began Brandon.
“Yes, we should,” agreed Paul, “But we need to call Someone else first.” With that, Paul bowed his head silently. The others in the van followed his example. Paul began to pray quietly as the tears began to flow. “Oh, Lord,” he began, “You have said in Your Word, 'Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints'...”
“Well, that’s that! The old guy must be dead for sure,” said the driver of the Jaguar, as he watched the Browns and Brandon get into their van. Suddenly he nudged his partner in the ribs, “Hey!, what'er they doin' now?”
“Praying, I suppose, you imbecile,” replied the thin man. “You know how these 'Bornagain' types are. Most of them are still locked in that unenlightened, backward Judeo-Christian spiritual concept of an all-knowing, all-powerful god who exists outside and apart from the universe but never seems to do anything for them. Still, it often gives them great comfort to pretend to talk with their god at times like this. I often wonder—”
The chirping of the thin man's cell phone cut him off. “Yes,” he answered, “I see...yes...understood.”
He clicked his phone shut and turned to his partner, “They have confirmed that the man who died is the Reverend John Williams. He is, or rather was, the pastor of the Wildwood Baptist Church. We are to follow the van discreetly and determine where Paul Brown will be staying. Having done so we are to return and await a decision for when and where the next attempt on Mr. Brown will be made.”
Inside the van, Paul Brown had finished praying. Karen had sat in the back with Alexandria who asked if she could pray too so they prayed together. When they finished Ben asked to pray as well. Brandon closed their impromptu prayer meeting a few minutes later and then, after making sure that everyone was seated and buckled in, he put the van in gear and pulled out of the parking space, heading for the exit.
The driver of the dark gray Jaguar started his car up at the same time and pulled out smoothly a few car lengths behind them. He carefully maintained his distance as the red van ahead of him turned right onto Bagley road and headed for the highway. The van's right turn signal began flashing as it approached the entrance ramp for I-71 south but it abruptly turned off into a fast food place just before the highway. Cursing, the driver of the Jaguar was forced to drive by rather than risk following them into the restaurant. He stepped on the gas and accelerated by. “Have to go around,” he said, “Keep an' eye on 'em.”
The Jaguar headed under the highway and made a U-turn at the next intersection. He circled around while the van made its way through the drive-through. Doubling back he pulled into a gas station and waited.
“That's interesting,” remarked Brandon Hayes, as they waited in line at the drivethrough.
“What's that?” asked Paul.
“That car,” said his uncle pointing down the road at a dark gray Jaguar pulling into a gas station down the street. “That car just passed us as we pulled in here. Just a few moments later it came back down on the other side of the road, turned around, and pulled into that gas station.”
“Maybe they need gas?”
“Why did they park away from the pumps, then? Besides, it looks awfully familiar. I think I saw it at the airport. Looks just like the Jag that almost hit me when I went back out to the van while Pastor Williams was waiting for you inside.”
“Now that you mention it, it does look a bit familiar to me as well. Looks sort of like a car that pulled abruptly into the hospital behind us. The driver must have been in a hurry because he narrowly missed a truck. I only got a glimpse of it then, though. I was somewhat preoccupied at the time.”
Ben spoke up from behind, “I saw that car at the hospital too, Dad! It was parked there when we left. There were two men sitting in it and it pulled out behind us as we left.”
“If I were of a suspicious nature,” observed Brandon, “I would say it almost looks like they were following us.”
“Oh, Uncle Brandon,” objected Karen, “Why would someone be following us! I think you’re just a little jumpy after what's happened. Pastor Williams' death was so sudden and unexpected that I think we are all a little on edge. Let's just get some food and head back to Wildwood where we can all get some rest and decide what to do next.”
Brandon Hayes pulled the van up to the menu board. Alexandria watched wide-eyed from the back seat as they placed their orders. The Browns had not gone through a drivethrough in Hawaii and she was too young to remember them from the last time she had been in the States. There were no drive-throughs in Tunoa and fast food was virtually nonexistent.
A light sprinkle began as they pulled up to pay at the first window. By the time they collected their food and headed for the exit the rain picked up in intensity as Brandon flipped on the lights and the wipers. He paused for a moment while Paul asked Ben to give thanks for their food. While the others began to eat he took a sip of his coffee before pulling out onto the road and turning onto the entrance to the highway. Out of the corner of his eye he noted the gray Jaguar pulling out as well.
The old van accelerated smoothly up the ramp and merged with the traffic. The southbound traffic wasn't much lighter than the northbound, though the morning rush was nearly over. They reminisced about Pastor Williams and shed a few more tears as they headed down the road. Ben, in the back seat, became engrossed in the passing scenery as his sister nodded off with her head on her mother's lap. He eventually fell asleep as well. The others gradually lapsed into silence, grieving silently. Brandon watched carefully in his rear view mirror and noticed that the mysterious gray car had followed them onto the highway and was maintaining a discreet distance.
Paul borrowed Brandon's cell phone and called his old friend Kevin Farnham. Paul and Kevin had practically grown up together and had been friends since kindergarten. Both had been saved in 1971 during vacation Bible school at Wildwood Baptist Church under Pastor Williams' ministry. They had graduated together from Wildwood High School in 1980. Kevin had gone into his father's contracting business while Paul had gone off to Ohio State University. Kevin had been very active at church until his wife, Rebecca, had lost a child that they were expecting about six years earlier.
“Kevin,” said Paul into the phone, “Hi, how are you and Becca and the kids? ... Oh, we're fine. It was a long flight, good, but long. Karen sends her love... Yes we're headed to Uncle Brandon's house now. Listen, I wanted to tell you. I didn't know if you would have heard by now but something happened to Pastor Williams... Well, we don't know exactly. He got poked with an umbrella at the airport and there must have been something on it. By the time we could get him to Southwest he was completely non-responsive. Karen couldn't believe how fast it affected him... Yes, it was all very sudden. A few minutes later and he was gone. Just that fast... Yeah, Uncle Brandon called Bill and Janet Bartlett earlier. He also got a hold of Chuck Krankovich as well. Bro. Krankovich was going to call church members. Janet was going to call her brother John, Jr., out in Colorado as well as her sister Julie in Maryland. ... Yeah, I'm sure that they will be coming in to help make their dad's funeral arrangements. ... No, I'm not sure about the others. George and his family might be able to make it from England but I doubt Jackie and her family can get back from Samoa in time. It would take them nearly three days; even assuming there is a flight going out today or tomorrow. They're almost as far away as we were in Tunoa.”
They chatted for several minutes more before Paul clicked off. He folded the phone shut and handed it back to his uncle. They continued on for a few minutes more in silence. Paul's uncle broke the silence quietly. “Paul,” he began, “Tell me again what happened at the airport.”
Paul paused for a moment, so much had happened that it seemed days ago. Doing his best he recounted the events inside the airport while his uncle listened closely.
“What did the guy with umbrella look like again?” Brandon asked.
“He was small, thin. He said he had a bad knee that gave out on him. That's why he stumbled. But now that I think about it, Karen's right, he didn't limp on his way out. I didn't pay much attention to it at the time because I was more concerned with Pastor Williams and the bags. Why do you ask?”
“Well,” said Brandon, “I have been trying to figure out what's bothering me. Shortly before you came out of the terminal a small thin man carrying an umbrella came hurrying out and jumped into a dark gray Jaguar parked ahead of me. He seemed upset and was griping to the driver about missing someone at the airport. I remember the car because it almost hit me when they pulled in. That and the fact that it seems to have been following us ever since we left the hospital.”
“You mean that car that you pointed out when we stopped for breakfast?”
“Uh-huh. If you look behind us you'll see it about five cars back. I've sped up and slowed down several times and it always maintains about the same distance.”
“Why would somebody be following us?” interrupted Karen from the back, “Maybe it's just a coincidence.”
“There's an easy way to find