The Divine Appointment (15 page)

“Tag, did you hear me? It would prove that, wouldn’t it?”

Tag finally turned to Anna, and his face was as pale as death.

Anna raised her hand to her mouth. Her voice was barely audible from behind it. “Oh, no. It can’t be.”

Vicksburg, Mississippi

It rained FBI agents in Vicksburg on Thursday. Within two hours of the explosion, one hundred agents had descended on the port city. They were inspecting every square inch of the burned wreckage that had been the Sheltons’ automobiles. What could be found of Billy Ray’s body was taken to the state medical examiner’s office in Jackson. Forensic investigators with the FBI took control of the body fragments. The neighbors were evacuated, and pieces of the Shelton home were found as far as two blocks away.

The White House, Washington DC

At 10:00 a.m. President Wallace summoned FBI Director Leslie Hughes to the Oval Office. Director Hughes was five feet eight inches tall, bald on top, and thick in the middle. It was impossible for him to button his suit coat. He entered the office with two of his five assistants in tow. The three of them against the president and Porter. Porter liked the odds. The president was perched behind his desk looking very presidential and Porter was standing like a sentinel at his side. The door wasn’t closed completely before President Wallace was on his feet.

“Les, your guys can’t protect Dunbar Shelton? I want to know what’s going on, and I want to know right now.”

Porter knew that Director Hughes didn’t like being referred to by his first name, even by the president. It was Director Hughes or Mr. Hughes, but not Leslie and certainly not Les. That’s why Porter had encouraged the president to use it.

Director Hughes maintained his composure, though. He stood near the sofa and his bodyguards flanked him on either side. He spoke without emotion. “Mr. President, we’re doing everything we can to find out what happened and how. We have a hundred agents—”

President Wallace cut him off with an angry look and a dismissive hand. He marched to the front of his desk, where he was closer to Director Hughes. Porter maintained his rigid sentinel’s post.

“I don’t care what you’re doing now, Les. I’m sure you will investigate, and that will take weeks, if not months.”

“I assure you that it will not be months,” Hughes interjected.

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking!” the president shouted.

Director Hughes looked irritated. The bodyguards recoiled from the president’s yelling. Porter grinned to himself.

President Wallace continued talking. “You almost killed the next Supreme Court justice and one innocent man was blown to pieces. Do you understand that, Les?”

“We had two agents on-site,” Director Hughes began, talking both with his mouth and his hands. “They pulled Judge Shelton and his wife from the house before the house was fully in flames. They probably saved their lives, not almost killed them.”

President Wallace sat on the edge of his desk. His arms were folded over his chest. The contempt with which he held Director Hughes was clearly expressed on his face. “If you had two agents on-site, how did someone get this close?”

“We don’t know yet,” Hughes admitted. “Our guys swept the area before the Sheltons arrived. The bomb must’ve been planted earlier in the week. We’re interviewing neighbors, sanitation workers, and everyone else we can find to see if anyone saw anything.”

President Wallace circled his desk and sat in his executive chair. His demeanor was calmer now. “This was a professional, Les,” he said in a grandfatherly tone. “You know that no one saw anything.”

“You’re probably right, sir, but if I may. We do have one lead.”

President Wallace looked at Porter with surprise and Porter returned the look.
A lead!
One of the bodyguards produced a manila folder and gave it to Director Hughes. He stepped forward and timidly laid it on the president’s desk.

“That’s good news,” the president said. “Let’s see it.”

As President Wallace scanned the contents folder, Director Hughes spoke to no one in particular. “If we can have that video now.”

One of the twenty-five microphones hidden throughout the Oval Office picked up his voice. All the microphones terminated in a communications room on the third floor of the White House.

Within seconds, a panel in the wall across the room from President Wallace’s desk descended to reveal a four-by-six-foot plasma monitor. The lights in the Oval Office dimmed. Porter finally broke his stance and moved to where he had a better view of the screen.

Director Hughes began the presentation. “This is a video from a Mississippi state highway patrolman’s dash-mounted camera during a traffic stop near Clinton, Mississippi. Clinton is west of Jackson, Mississippi, on I-20, toward Vicksburg. Trooper Rusty Jones is the patrolman you will see in a minute. He was wearing a lapel microphone that recorded onto the tape in the dash camera.”

The video showed the gray hood of Trooper Jones’s patrol car and a Lincoln Town Car with Alabama plates. The blue lights from the patrol car reflected off the Town Car and the pavement. After a few seconds Trooper Jones was seen walking from his car toward the Town Car.

“Increase the audio,” Director Hughes spoke into the room.

The volume increased, and Trooper Jones’s voice could be heard. “You’re going a little fast, aren’t you, buddy? Where’s the fire?”

“It’s been a long day, Officer,” a voice from inside the car said. The contrast between Trooper Jones’s Southern drawl and the Northern accent of the driver was discernible. “I was just trying to get to Jackson and perhaps was going a little too fast. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“I’m sure it won’t. I need to see your license and registration, please.”

“If you could just let me go this one time, I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Sir, either give me your license and registration or step out of the car.”

“You’re making a mistake, Officer.”

Trooper Jones placed his right hand on the handle of the nine-millimeter pistol strapped to his hip and took two steps back.

Porter, glued to the screen, hardly blinked.

“Step out of the car!” Trooper Jones ordered.

The blast of a gunshot reverberated through the speakers in the Oval Office. Both President Wallace and Porter jumped. Porter watched as Trooper Jones’s head snapped back and his body crumpled to the ground. The Lincoln Town Car sped away and the video continued to show Trooper Jones’s lifeless body lying on the pavement. His nine-millimeter pistol was still in the holster. The screen went black.

Director Hughes walked toward the screen. “State police were on the scene in seven minutes. Roadblocks were set up throughout the area, but the guy slipped through somehow. The car was found abandoned near Ridgeland, Mississippi. It had been reported stolen two days earlier in Tupelo. The tags were stolen from a junkyard near Culman, Alabama.”

“What’s that got to do with the bombing at Judge Shelton’s house?” the president asked.

“We think this is the guy who planted the bomb.”

President Wallace and Porter shot another look at each other. Then the president turned his attention back to Director Hughes. “If that’s the guy and you can catch him, I’ll take back everything I said earlier and what I said before you arrived.”

Director Hughes smiled. “Bring up the close-up,” he said into the room.

The screen flickered again and an image appeared.

“This is an enhancement of the driver’s-side mirror,” Hughes explained. “The driver’s face appeared in it briefly. Probably less than half a second, but that was enough. We were able to get enough of the face to make an identification, although not a hundred percent.”

“Who is he?”

“We think it’s Joe Moretti, a made member of the Italian Mafia with the Colombo family in Brooklyn. You have our file on him there in front of you.”

The image disappeared and the lights became brighter. Porter rapidly blinked to adjust to the light.

President Wallace picked up the folder and scrutinized its contents. “You think? When will you know for sure?”

“We’re analyzing the voice from the driver with known recordings of Moretti. We should know later today if there’s a match.”

President Wallace straightened in his chair, and Porter returned to his position beside him. “Can you find him?” the president asked.

Director Hughes nodded. “We can find him. It might take some time, but we can find him.”

“Well, don’t just stand there. Go find him,” the president ordered.

President Wallace and Porter watched Director Hughes and the bodyguards leave. All three looked very confident.

“You know he won’t find him, don’t you?” Porter asked.

President Wallace rubbed his forehead in anguish. Porter shared his concern. They were prepared for political battles over Judge Shelton’s nomination, but an assassination attempt had been beyond their wildest thoughts. And they were relying on Director Hughes, of all people, to find the culprit.

“You’re probably right. He’s an imbecile, and I probably should fire him. But he did get this video. He might stumble onto something else. We’ll give him some time.”

The White House, Washington DC

President Wallace relaxed in the sitting room of the living quarters on the second floor of the White House and completed his morning devotional. It was Friday, the day after the Shelton car bombing. He was still shaken. He had tossed and turned all night. Two people—fathers, sons, husbands—were dead because someone didn’t want Dunbar Shelton on the Supreme Court. The president had spoken with Judge Shelton yesterday afternoon by telephone. He said he was all right but didn’t sound all right.

The sitting room had been only slightly redecorated when the president and Lauren moved into the residence. Former President Mitchell’s wife had completely redecorated the entire living area, and the Wallaces didn’t think it was a wise expenditure of the people’s money to remodel it again. So they had made only a few modifications to personalize the White House living quarters.

President Wallace had already showered, shaved, and dressed for the day. Dark blue suit, white starched shirt, and a navy-and-white-striped tie were his attire, although he hadn’t yet put on his suit coat. He usually conducted his devotions in the Oval Office, but today for some reason he was inclined to spend time with God before going downstairs to the West Wing. So, while Lauren was preparing herself for her busy schedule of First Lady activities, President Wallace sat on the cream-colored sofa in the sitting room and studied a familiar passage from Jeremiah 29. Even though he had read the passage dozens of times, it took on a new meaning today.

Before long President Wallace found himself praying aloud, on his knees, by the sofa. The room was completely silent aside from his voice.

Awe flooded through him as he spoke directly to God. “Your Word says that you know the plans you have for me, and that gives me great peace and at the same time great humility. But I don’t know what’s happening. Two men are dead, and Dunbar and Vicki were almost killed. How can that be in your plans?

“Lord, I pray for the families of Rusty Jones and Billy Ray Bolton. Love and comfort them. Hold them in the very palm of your hand and protect their hearts and minds. I also pray for Dunbar and Vicki. I pray that you will heal their bodies and their minds.

“Father, your Word also says that you cause all things to work together for good to those who love you. I stand on that promise and believe that something good will come from these terrible events.

“I know that you have placed me in this position of trust for some purpose, and my desire is to be completely in your will. I pray that the decisions I make will be guided by your hand and will fulfill your purpose for this great country. I pray for wisdom and discernment. And I pray that you will restore this great country to the God-fearing nation it once was.”

President Wallace continued to pray—praising God, thanking God, and worshipping God—for the better part of thirty minutes before being interrupted by a knock on the door by one of his security detail.

The Faulkner residence, Jackson, Tennessee

Eli arose earlier than normal on Friday and slipped on a pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt before tiptoeing from the bedroom to the adjoining study. It was still dark outside—daybreak was at least an hour away—and Sara was sleeping. He softly closed the door that connected the bedroom to the study and triggered the lamp on the top of his desk. Stretching back in his leather desk chair, he propped his feet on the desk and clasped his hands together behind his head. It was a sitting position he used often—particularly when a case was eating at him.

The Grissom case had begun to weigh on him over the last several days, and he’d hardly slept last night. Sara was right. Murder cases always burdened him, but this one was beginning to make all the rest pale by comparison. He felt as if he had been deceived by Anna into taking the case.

But was it really deception? Had he made the assumption that Tag was the father of Anna’s unborn child—if she
was
pregnant—without asking the correct questions?
It doesn’t matter now
, he tried to convince himself.

The other troubling part was exhuming Jessica Caldwell’s body. Disturbing an interred body just didn’t seem right. It would upset the Caldwell family, but that couldn’t be helped. It might prove that Tag was, in fact, the father, but that was a risk Eli was willing to take.

Eli lowered his feet to the floor, closed his eyes, and crossed his arms.
Why does this case bother me so much?

As soon as the words passed through his mind, he recalled his and Sara’s conversation at the Loveless Café. Perhaps it wasn’t the case itself that was weighing on him. Perhaps it was a burden for the souls of Tag and Anna Grissom. At that moment, a yearning to share the gospel with them began to grow. It engulfed much of the space that his self-pity, from their perceived deception, had. His disgust and distrust didn’t totally disappear, but now he had a renewed focus.

The River Region Medical Center, Vicksburg, Mississippi

Judge Shelton’s hospital room at River Region Medical Center was dimly lit. After he was cleaned up and examined from head to toe, the medical personnel decided his injuries weren’t very serious. That was a relevant term. They were serious to him, but not life threatening. But as a precaution, his treating doctor had admitted him to the hospital for observation the previous night and had prescribed continuous oxygen because of his extensive smoke inhalation. He told Judge Shelton that he could leave later that day. He had showered and put on clean navy blue pajamas and was resting in his hospital bed. The tubes running to each nostril aggravated him, and he tugged at them repeatedly.

Two FBI agents stood guard outside the door to his room and a dozen others were either in the hospital or patrolling the parking areas. One attempt on his life was one too many. There couldn’t be another. There was a soft knock at the door and then it opened. His son, John Edward, entered, followed by Judge Shelton’s three daughters.

“Hey, Dad. How are you feeling today?” John Edward asked.

Judge Shelton was glad to see them and glad they looked like their mother. They all had her deep black hair, with the exception of Missy, who had somehow acquired a blond-hair gene from his side of the family. He pressed a button on the bed railing that raised the head of the bed to more of a sitting position. The children gathered around and took turns giving their father a hug.

He squeezed each one tightly. “I’m doing fine,” he said. “A little sore, but that’s about it. They’re going to let me leave this afternoon. Have you checked on your mother this morning?”

Margaret spoke up. “She finally fell asleep a few minutes ago, the nurse said, and we didn’t want to wake her. She couldn’t get comfortable last night with that cast on her left arm, so she didn’t get much rest.”

“She might need to stay another day or so,” Vivian said.

“How’s the house?” Judge Shelton asked.

The siblings looked at each other.

After two or three seconds, John Edward answered. “It’s gone, Dad. Completely destroyed.”

“Everything?”

“We might find a few things to salvage, but not much.”

Judge Shelton felt sick to his stomach.
A lifetime of memories gone, just like that
. “Did you talk to Billy Ray’s widow like I asked you to?”

“I did,” John Edward replied. “She was very grateful that you offered to pay for the funeral. They don’t know yet when the FBI will release his body.”

Again there was an uncomfortable silence. The siblings eyed each other again. Margaret nudged John Edward.

He spoke with hesitation. “Dad, we’ve been talking. We want you to withdraw from this Supreme Court thing.”

Judge Shelton shifted position in the bed and grimaced. He ached all over, but his physical pain paled in comparison to the fear he had for his and Vicki’s safety. His kids were scared, too. Concern was evident on their faces, and with good reason. Somebody out there wanted him dead, and none of them would rest easy until he or she or they were apprehended.

“Why do you want me to withdraw?”

“This was too close,” Margaret said. “We don’t want to risk losing you or mom.” She sounded like a lawyer.

But he wasn’t a quitter. His father had taught him to see through to the end whatever he started, no matter how tough the going got.
Would Dad say the same thing about this?
Judge Shelton was certain he would.

“I lay awake last night thinking about that very thing,” he said slowly. “Part of the night I wanted to quit, and I almost called the president. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that if I withdraw, then whoever did this wins. They get exactly what they want.”

“But, Dad,” they protested in unison.

He held up his hand to stop them from continuing their protest. “When your mother is awake, I’m going to talk to her about this. If she is against my continuing, then I’ll reconsider. But I don’t plan on letting them—whoever they are—win.”

The law offices of Elijah J. Faulkner, Jackson, Tennessee

Eli was back to his putter to think. It was Monday morning, the third week of June. Sara had surprised him with an automatic ball returner for his birthday, but it worked only if he made a putt. He still had to walk across the room to retrieve the balls that rolled past, and that happened more often than not. He kicked his black leather loafers to the side and aligned his next putt. His necktie dangled, in the way.

Eli had thought about Tag’s case most of the weekend. It had drained him. He hadn’t been able to work much on any other project in the last two weeks. Other files were piling up and he didn’t like it, and some of the clients regularly gave Barbara an earful. Sara commented again about the pressure she could see he was under.

Things were weird. Tag claimed to be sterile, but two women he had a relationship with—Anna Grissom and Jessica Caldwell—were both pregnant. Or at least Anna claimed to be pregnant. There was no proof of that fact other than her and Tag’s word, and Eli wasn’t convinced he believed either of them. The pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit. The
clink
of the putter head tapping a golf ball was audible but didn’t break his thought process. No wonder he was missing so many putts.

Jill knocked softly on the door frame in the middle of his backswing and entered his office. The putt sailed wide right.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Her voice was full of mockery.