Free The Constantine Conspiracy by Gary Parker Page A

of years of labor. But the outsiders couldn’t see everything. And the biggest thing they couldn’t see was simply this—Augustine craved, yearned, ached for the day when the name of Jesus would disappear forever from the face of the earth.

11
    Tuesday
    R ick drove over two thousand miles in the next thirty-six hours, stopping only for quick bathroom breaks, fast food, and a three-hour stint of fitful sleep at a cheap motel. He paid for his room with cash and dyed his hair and beard dark brown with a treatment he bought at a crossroads store somewhere in Missouri. He changed cars two more times—spending another twenty-one thousand of his cash—and now drove a seven-year-old white Toyota.
    He spent the first twelve hours concocting a scheme to get to his mom, talk to her, then escape without ending up in jail. Just one problem with his idea—he needed an accomplice to make it happen. Not wanting to involve anyone else, he went back to the drawing board, but came up with nothing that worked for a one-man gang. Finally, he concluded he had to have help. But from whom?
    The sun went down and he kept thinking. About daybreak a name came to him and he knew he’d reached the right conclusion. But would the guy do it? No way to know except to ask. But should he put an old friend in danger? Maybe in trouble with the law? He hadn’t seen him in close to three years and hadn’t spent any real time with him since their senior year in high school. Would the old friend forgive him for his fame? The differences between them that had cast Rick into the spotlight and left him behind? Rick weighed his chances all morning, then knew he had to give it a shot, so he made the call on Luisa’s cell, failed the first two times but reached the man on the third try. To Rick’s relief, the old friend instantly agreed to do as Rick requested, no questions asked. The next few hours passed quickly, and now the time had almost arrived.
    Rick checked his watch as he neared North Atlanta, and traffic picked up. Almost 5:00 p.m., just before dinner. Perfect. Keeping his eyes open for cops, he eased off Interstate 75 and turned in and out through a series of tree-lined streets until he reached the one he sought. He drove even more carefully now, his nerves on edge, expecting at any moment to hear a siren telling him to stop. Thankfully, though, none sounded, and Rick finally saw what he was looking for maybe fifty yards away. He pulled his car to the nearest parking space, switched it off, and sat for a few seconds to catch his breath. Within a few minutes, he’d most likely be in jail. But not before he had his chance.
    Adrenaline suddenly flooded his bloodstream and all vestiges of weariness left him. It was time. Do it, do it, do it. Rick pulled his cap tighter, grabbed his bag with the cash and other belongings, and hopped out.
    Traffic whizzed up and down the street, but nobody challenged him, and thirty seconds later Rick ducked into the back of an empty brown van—the refuge his accomplice had promised to deliver. Again as agreed, a clean gray uniform— pants and shirt—lay on the passenger seat. Rick picked it up, stepped to the back of the van, and changed clothes. Then he pulled off his hat, smoothed his hair, and moved back to the driver’s seat. After switching on the ignition, he surveyed the street and saw a police car about two blocks up; just as he had expected. Cops always watched family members of suspects. Undeterred, he shifted the van into drive, pulled past the police, then turned right, drove a couple of minutes, then turned right again. Straight ahead, the back gate of an expansive private property beckoned—acres and acres of pine, oak, maple, and dogwood. Rick knew from previous visits that a stream ran through the center of the grounds and a waterfall splashed through a fountain that fronted the stone mansion housing fifty inhabitants in palatial splendor.
    He fell into line behind two other delivery trucks as they