Uprising - The Suspense Thriller Part 22

"It's obvious who the a.s.sa.s.sin should be," Jasper said after the interviews were over and the Three Wis.e.m.e.n had retired to the Temple.

"Freedom," Oth.e.l.lo said just as Deon said: "Darnell."

"Darnell?" Oth.e.l.lo repeated incredulously, standing at the opposite end of the conference table. "h.e.l.lo? He's a bit scary don't you think?"

"The brother doesn't give a d.a.m.n about himself," argued Deon.

"Neither does Freedom," said Oth.e.l.lo. "I know this may sound cra.s.s, but when he dies, hopefully any investigation will die with him. And I think it means more if the triggerman has AIDS. I don't know if Darnell has it."

"I'm afraid I'm with Rock Star on this one." Jasper stood in front of the US map, tracing a finger through South Carolina. "The Rastafariana"he looks healthy, manically depressed but healthy. A man in Freedom's position might hold out and not give up any evidence. h.e.l.l, he may even commit suicide on the spot if we're lucky."

"You don't mean that," said Oth.e.l.lo.

"He's a goner anyway," Jasper shrugged.

"So am I, one of these daysa"in theory," said Oth.e.l.lo. "You want I should just put a bullet to my head, too?"

"Both of you, chill," Deon said. "I see your point, Oth.e.l.lo. Besides, I'm not sure I want a brother pulling the trigger anyway. Freedom it is."

"Then we're in agreement," said Jasper, keeping his stare on Oth.e.l.lo.

"For better or worse," Oth.e.l.lo mumbled.

"Good," said Jasper. "Now, we need to know if Freedom's bite is as good as his bark."

THE BACK DOOR to the old bar was unlocked as promised. Oth.e.l.lo, dressed as the old man Joe, glanced both ways down the alley, and seeing no one, took one last deep breath for courage and opened the door. The narrow corridor leading to the bar itself was dark, the only light coming from a lone source in the main room. Carefully making his way past dried-up kegs and stacks of old beer crates, Oth.e.l.lo felt his beard to make sure it was on straight and tugged at the Dodgers cap covering his wig. It was Raider's cap, a souvenir from the night on the cliffs of Malibu.

As instructed, the bar was empty except for Freedom, who was sitting quietly at a folding table near the middle of the room. A lone lamp hanging from the rafters directly above bathed him in a dim pool of light. His back was to Oth.e.l.lo, and for a moment, Oth.e.l.lo watched as Freedom poured a pile of pills from a prescription bottle into the palm of his hands, then popped them into his mouth, threw his head back and downed them with a long swig from a can of c.o.ke.

"Don't worry," he said, not bothering to look around at the old man. "I'm not the suicide type. I ain't got much time left. Why rush it?"

"You're a brave man, Freedom." Oth.e.l.lo drew closer but stopped ten feet away, staying behind him.

Freedom turned around, clutching the can to his chest as if it were a prize. "The old dame like my moxie?"

"She likes your desire to end Jimmy Herman's life."

"Does she now?" he seemed genuinely surprised.

"How serious were you?"

Freedom paused. He took another healthy swig of c.o.ke, then blanched as if the aftertaste hadn't been quite what he expected. After that, he coughed several times, his phlegm thick and loud. "The old lady wants to see me do in Jimmy Herman?" he asked skeptically.

"Would you if you could?"

"Answer my question," he demanded. "Is that what she wants?"

Oth.e.l.lo stammered. The nerves in his stomach rattled underneath the latex beer belly inside his yellow golf jacket. He walked along the bar, moving to Freedom's front side, dragging his wrinkled hand along the countertop. "She wants to help you fulfill your dream of going out in a blaze of glory, yes."

"No s.h.i.t." Freedom sat back in the chair, trying to take it all in. "Like a twisted f.u.c.king version of the Make-A-Wish Foundation."

"Of course, chances are, you'll be caught."

"I wanna be caught. I wouldn't kill the a.s.shole anonymously. What would be the point?"

"But you can never implicate me or her or anybody."

"I don't even know who the f.u.c.k you are."

"I'm somebody who can make your dreams a reality."

For a moment, their eyes locked, as if in that instant, Freedom understood that there was no old lady, only Joe, who wasn't Joe at all, but someone with far more at stake than some faded Hollywood actress.

"Go on," Freedom said, not letting on if he now possessed this truth.

More nervous now, Oth.e.l.lo retraced his steps down the bar, back toward Freedom's backside. "She can make it happen. Give you the time, place and means to a.s.sa.s.sinate Senator Evil, after which you'll be on your own, no help from ACTNOW, Level 3, me or my boss and her friends. After you do it, you'll never see me again. She's not in this to go public in any way, shape or form. She will, however, set up an untraceable, overseas bank account for you with enough to afford a hotshot lawyer and make the rest of your life as bearable as possible, but that's it. End of her involvement."

The bar fell silent. Only the flow of traffic outside permeated the air. Freedom stood up, his chair tipping over in the process. He walked around the room in circles as if he were a restless animal, contemplating his next move. In the process, he banged on the bar with his fist, then kicked over the podium, then circled some more and knocked over a stack of folding chairs resting against the wall. Oth.e.l.lo watched, trembling in fear, but Freedom barely acknowledged him. Finally, Freedom stopped in the middle of the room, near the table, out of breath.

"f.u.c.kin'-A, man, f.u.c.kin'-A."

"That's how he said yes," Oth.e.l.lo told Jasper and Deon in the Temple later that night. "Then he turned to me, extended his hand and said, 'Show me the way to the promised land.'"

Jasper eyed his partners. The three of them were standing in a loose triangle next to the map of the US. "Now we know the who. All we have to figure out is the how."

THE JIMMY HERMAN MUSEUM of American Decency was alive with antic.i.p.ation as work crews labored to put the finishing touches on the three-story tribute to the senator and his ideas. Outdoors, a crew of five groundskeepers laid the final patches of rich green sod on the pastoral gardens leading up the front entrance, while other workers busied themselves with parking signs, flower planters and folding chairs for the upcoming opening ceremony. Inside, underneath the filtered sunlight shining through the atrium, Deon stood in the lobby, flanked by Winston Callahana"Big Daddy's oldest son and head of museum operationsa"and Jacob McCallister, cultural curator.

"h.e.l.l," Winston was saying, "you got your Holocaust museums, your museums of tolerance, neon, television, your ethnic museumsa"no disrespect to you, Deona"what more could we do for the man who's given forty-eight years of his life to this great state than to honor him while he's still alive?"

Deon smiled a fake smile. "Still you can understand why I would want a tour of the place before I actually commit to being here for the opening."

"I'm just sorry the senator had to jaunt up to Capitol Hill this morning," said McCallister, a pudgy man who was about as masculine as Charlie. He led them to the first exhibit, the Jimmy Herman Room, which was an oversized replica of his Washington office. On the walls were hundreds of old campaign b.u.t.tons, posters and photos of Herman through the years.

"This here screen will play all his most famous speeches over and over," Callahan said as he rubbed his permanent six o'clock shadow and stood next to a large monitor.

"Once he's gone," McCallister walked behind the solid oak desk, "we're debating putting a wax figure of him sitting here, contemplating, kinda like the statue of that thinker."

Better make up your minds fast, thought Deon.

For sixty excruciating minutes they led him through the museum. There was the Interactive Room, where kids could play computer games testing their morals on big colorful screens, the History Room, where families could dress up like their ancestors and have their picture taken against various American backdrops: Southern plantation, deck of the Mayflower, protesting at a right-to-life march. There was also a movie theater, which would show, as Callahan put it, "the few great family films the cesspool called Hollywood has put out." And there was something called the Hall of Greats, a large two-story corridor lined with wax figures of men. "Great Southern politicians," McCallister explained, noticing the confusion in Deon's face.

"Oh," Deon said warily, staring at one that looked suspiciously like Abe Lincoln. Briefly he imagined the man's great-granddaddy whipping and shackling Deon's great-granddaddy. Or lynching him. Or raping his wife. Then suddenly, the figure began to speak: "The nuclear family is this country's greatest a.s.set," it said, moving its eyes and hands like a robot. Deon leaped back; his tour guides laughed.

"Them's just animatronics," Winston said, standing near a switch on the opposite wall. "You been to DisneyWorld, ain't ya?"

Deon stood there unamused, his attention shifting to the end of the hall and a door marked: RESTROOM, STAFF ONLY.

It was the only room he came to see today.

"Time to tinkle," he informed his hosts with the kind of facetious grin he used in his Hanes underwear ads.

"Don't you go to DisneyWorld after all them championships?" said Winston, but Deon walked away, pretending not to hear.

"Perfect," he said once inside the restroom, surveying the one stall and adjacent urinal. His heart pounding, he entered the stall and locked the door. It was there all right, just above the toilet: a square metal plate on the wall, twelve inches by twelve inches with one screw at the bottom. It led to a water valve of some sort, Jasper had said. He retrieved a pair of black leather gloves from inside his baggy Nike jacket and put them on over his slightly trembling hands. That accomplished, he pulled out a screwdriver and began uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the screw, all while Jasper's words ran like a soundtrack through his mind.

Security will be tight. No way will Freedom or anybody else get a gun through the gates. Unless the gun is already there, waiting.

Once done with the screw and the screwdriver, he set them both on top of the toilet tank. With his left hand, he lifted up the metal plate. With his right, he retrieved the gun, a nine millimeter, which was also inside his jacket, wound tight in plastic bubble wrap. Holding it with one hand, he bobbled it, almost dropping the whole package, he was so nervous.

"Steady, man," he said aloud. "This is for you, J-Boy."

But he was getting ahead of himself, he realized. He set the package on the toilet tank and quietly released the metal plate. Then he took out the duct tape from his jacket, ripped off a piece with his teeth, and once again lifted the metal plate, this time taping it to the wall and exposing a hole at least a foot deep and the small water valve near the bottom of it.

These are the blueprints to the whole mess of insanity. There's an employees' restroom here with the perfect place to stash a gun. All we need is a South Carolina basketball legend with nerves of steel to pay the museum a pre-opening visit.

He ripped off seven strips of duct tape, hanging them on the side of the toilet tank. He started to worry about taking too much time.

How will Freedom get in? Easy. Somewhere underneath all that wild hair and those ear, nose and lip rings is a clean cut, wholesome white boy, probably one who, if he dyed his hair blond, could pa.s.s for Bruce Jones, CNC journalist.

Trying to be meticulous but swift, Deon placed the duct tape over the plastic wrap containing the gun, making sure to leave excess tape hanging from the sides. Then he held the gun up to the underside of the metal plate and pressed the excess tape onto the plate. With that completed, he peeled off the tape keeping the plate open and slowly brought it down so that it was parallel to the floor. It worked; the gun held.

I'll get Bruce down there on some kind of premise. But he won't make it to the ceremony. We'll have to put him to sleep like Oth.e.l.lo put us to sleep when he kidnapped us, knock him out in the hotel. Freedom then takes his press pa.s.s and gets the waiting gun. Goodnight, Jimmy Herman, forever.

The gun securely in place, Deon closed up the hole and screwed it shut. Then he took a much-needed deep breath and used a toilet seat cover to wipe the waterfall of sweat cascading off his face. It hadn't been that difficult after all, he decided. Just in case anybody was listening, he flushed the toilet and made d.a.m.n sure he collected the screwdriver and tape and stowed them inside the compartments in his jacket. He then unlocked the stall door and made his way toward the exit, ready for some more attempted brainwashing from Callahan and McCallister. He was back on autopilot now, about to swing open the restroom door and put on that ol' D.A. charm for another twenty minutes max, he figured. Then, as his right hand reached for the k.n.o.b, he gasped at what he saw.

He was still wearing the black leather gloves.

"Oh my G.o.d, oh my G.o.d, oh my G.o.d."

His knees buckled. He held both hands in front of his face in desperation and began a staggered dance around the room, repeating, "Oh my G.o.d," at least a dozen times. His whole life had been an instant away from being over, done with, kaput. He wanted to let out some kind of shriek, but choked it back. After several moments and pleas to himself for calmness, he gathered his senses, then took off the gloves and stashed them where they belonged, inside his jacket.

"I did it!" he told Jasper and Oth.e.l.lo in the Temple a day later, omitting the glove incident. "And I did it good! Smooth as James Bond or Richard Roundtree Shaft." He was too excited to sit, instead circling the conference table, reliving his nervousness.

"Then we're just about set," Jasper said. "You'll get word to Freedom?"

"As good as done," Oth.e.l.lo said.

"We should go," said Jasper to Deon. "The less we're in LA now the better. Go back to Chicago, be seen having a good time without a care in the world." He turned to Oth.e.l.lo. "I have to admit, Rock Star, you've done good."

Oth.e.l.lo smiled a proud smile. "We all have. I consider us friends. My first real gay friends outside my manager, and, well, my boyfriend."

Deon walked over to them, towering over his two partners. "Maybe we should get together after this is all over, have a summer barbecue with our lovers."

Jasper's face turned serious. "After this is over, I think we should lay low, let the Fund run itself and forget about all these other levels for while, maybe not meet for six months to a year, depending on the fallout."

Both Deon and Oth.e.l.lo looked at each other, realizing Jasper was right.

"So maybe we celebrate beforehand?" said Deon. "We've never done anything social."

Jasper considered it, then said: "I have a ranch in Virginia, pretty secluded. If I turn the staff loose, we could have our run of the place with no worries."

"Lovers included?" asked Deon.

"Not mine," said Jasper. "We've been having problems. But you two bring yours. I'd like to meet them."

"Did you tell Charlie about this?" Oth.e.l.lo asked Deon.

"Not Jimmy Herman, no. I don't know how he would react to...killing."

"You tell Raider?" Jasper asked Oth.e.l.lo.

"No, same reason as Deon."

"Bruce will never know about this," said Jasper. "It's better this way, fellas. I know it's d.a.m.n near impossible not to tell someone, especially the person you're most intimate with, but think about what we're all risking here. Is this a secret your lovers can carry to their graves?"

"I don't want to think about it," said Deon.

"Then don't tell," warned Jasper. "This is not like the Fund or even the counter-bashing. Someday in the future, we'll all be able to be social together and we can talk about it to each other."

"I'm sure we'll need to," said Deon. "For therapy, if nothing else."

Jasper gathered up his suit jacket from the chair. "Until the ranch."

"But we must make the date around something I've been planning for quite some time now." Oth.e.l.lo's eyes lit up with antic.i.p.ation.

"And what might that be?" Jasper asked teasingly.

"Well...." He hadn't asked Raider yet, but Oth.e.l.lo was praying to the G.o.ds his new boyfriend would agree to attend their first ever gay pride parade togethera"Oth.e.l.lo as the old man Joe and Raider as his blond hunky self. For the last week, Oth.e.l.lo had dreamed of nothing but the two of them basking in the annual celebration, holding hands in the light of day, acting romantic and carefree along with hundreds of thousands of their gay brothers and sisters. "Just a special date," he said to his partners, not wanting to hear any objections to what would surely be Joe's last public outing. "With my man."

"Then we'll be in touch," Jasper said, and with that, he and Deon left.

For a while, Oth.e.l.lo remained in the Temple, sitting on the table and glancing around the rooma"at the US map, at the TV monitor, at the revolving fireplace upon which he made his entrance during that first meeting of the Wis.e.m.e.n. The orgies of the past seemed light-years away now, their only remnant the sculpted orgy on the ceiling. He lay down on the table and studied the angelic figures reaching out for one another with raw unabashed pa.s.sion. I've come so far, he thought, his vision blurring in the whiteness of the plaster. So why do I feel as if I still have such a long way to go?

FIFTEEN.