Hitman Damnation

FOURTEEN



The Church of Will’s recruitment center was busy.

Ever since Dana Linder’s assassination, Helen McAdams had noticed an increase in membership applications. Ten to twenty people from all over the country showed up at Greenhill daily wanting to join, asking how they could volunteer, if there were any openings for Church jobs … but Helen and the other recruitment staff had to reject them, because all of the on-site apartments were taken. While many applicants could live away from the compound, come and go, and still join the Church, those who wanted to live on the premises were placed on waiting lists or sent to Church branches in other states.

Sundays were particularly popular, not only for applicants but for tourists and the curious. When Wilkins wasn’t available or was traveling, morning services in the sanctuary were conducted by various assistant pastors called “adherents.” These men and women took turns at the pulpit, and most of them were eloquent, captivating speakers. But no one was like Charlie. When it was known that he was present at the compound, visitors flooded the gates to hear him speak. Hundreds always had to be turned away. Helen considered it a treat when Charlie was present. She supposed it was similar to when lucky Roman Catholics visited the Vatican and the pope was in town to preside over Mass.

Even so, Helen barely had time to work at the recruitment center. Ever since Charlie Wilkins had announced his candidacy for president, all the personal assistants were putting in extra hours per week. Wilkins had hired a completely independent campaign-managing committee, and the key players had moved into the mansion’s guest rooms. Helen’s new responsibilities included conveying orders and requests between the committee and Greenhill administration. Thus, the past several days had been nonstop. Normally all Church members had the day off on Sunday, except for those involved in sanctuary services. However, with the new political developments, Helen and the others were expected to be available at any time.

After that morning’s service, Wilkins had told her she wouldn’t be needed in the afternoon, as he had business with his guests. So, having nothing better to do and not wanting to be by herself in her apartment, Helen decided to work at the recruitment center. Staying active was always a good thing. She found that if she spent too much time alone, unpleasant thoughts crept inside her heart.

For some, memories were cherished. For Helen, the past needed to stay where it belonged.

“Daydreaming again?”

The voice startled her. Helen turned to see Mitch Carson standing by the desk.

“Oh, hi, Mitch,” she said. “No, I was just thinking: Where are all these people going to go?” She indicated the long line of applicants straggling out the center’s front door.

“We’ll find places for them—if not here, then in other branches. But we can always use the volunteer work if they’re willing to keep their homes where they are.”

Mitch Carson was the general manager of Greenhill. That meant he was technically Helen’s boss, but of course any orders by Wilkins superseded what Carson instructed her to do. In his sixties, single, and efficient to the nth degree, Carson was not well liked by most members. Slightly effeminate and possessing a somewhat high-and-mighty demeanor in his dealings with others, Carson was definitely a yes-man to Wilkins and a no-man to everyone else. Because he had been with Wilkins since the Church’s inception in the 1970s, Carson wielded a lot of power at Greenhill on the administrative side.

“By the way,” he said. “We have space for a groundskeeper slash maintenance man.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Philip died last night. Heart attack.”

“Oh, no! I’m so sorry to hear that. I liked Philip.”

Carson shrugged. “He was old and he’d already had, what, two or three bypasses? We knew he wasn’t long for this world.”

“He was good at his job.”

“Until he got ill and could hardly work.”

Helen thought Carson was being insensitive. “Will there be a memorial service?”

“I haven’t been able to talk to Charlie about it yet. In the meantime, though, if you have any applicants who could fill the bill, Philip’s job is open, as is his apartment.”

“Okay. How soon will it be cleaned out?”

“I have a crew working on that right now. It’ll be ready for someone to move in this evening.” Carson looked at his watch. “I’m supposed to meet Charlie and the Colonel here. They’re a few minutes late.”

“Charlie’s coming here?” she asked. The man rarely appeared in front of recruits.

“The Colonel wants to evaluate all the security measures we have in place at Greenhill.”

Carson stood for a moment in silence. Helen guessed what was bothering him.

“You knew Dana Linder, didn’t you?” she asked.

“I watched her grow up. Her brother Darren too.”

“Did you know their mother?”

“I did. Wendy. I also knew their father, Eric. They were both early and very loyal members of the Church of Will when we were first starting.”

“What happened to them?”

“Eric was out hunting and was accidentally shot. If I remember correctly, it happened just before the kids’ twelfth birthday.”

“Oh, my, how awful!”

“Charlie never liked hunting and always cautioned Eric against it. We all wish Eric had listened.”

“What was Wendy like?”

“Very sweet. Quiet. Poor woman got cancer and passed away some years after her husband. Charlie took that hard. They became close after Wendy lost her husband.”

A murmur of excitement grew among the applicants in line until it peaked with cheers. Carson perked up. “There they are.”

Charlie Wilkins was outside the door, shaking hands and signing autographs. His guest, “Colonel” Bruce Ashton, stood at attention behind the reverend. Ashton’s hand cautiously cradled the ivory-handled, nickel-plated Colt Single-Action Army .45 “Peacemaker” on his belt, allegedly chosen because it was the same revolver carried by famed World War II general George S. Patton.

Ashton had arrived from overseas and accepted the job as director of campaign security for the candidate. Everyone always called Ashton “the Colonel,” although he wasn’t currently an enlisted officer. Helen had met the man on the few occasions when he visited Greenhill, but she knew very little about him. In her time at the compound, he had appeared only twice. He lived in the Middle East somewhere. A mysterious character, Ashton was in his fifties, always wore military garb, and conducted himself as if he was giving orders to enlisted men. The truth was that he was once in the U.S. Armed Forces, served in the first Gulf War and some in Iraq, and then retired. Afterward he set up a security business for Americans on business in the Mediterranean area. Apparently he and Wilkins were longtime friends, so when the post became available, the reverend made the call to Ashton.

Several tourists and applicants wanted photographs with Wilkins, and the candidate warmly obliged. It took nearly fifteen minutes before Wilkins and Ashton were able to get inside the center.

“… not so safe, in my opinion,” Ashton was saying. “You can’t just expose yourself like that from now on.”

“Colonel, that’s hogwash,” Wilkins replied. “These people are here to see me, they’re here to volunteer for the Church, and they’re the folks who will elect me to office. Of course I’m going to greet them and sign autographs and pose for pictures. That’s what presidential candidates do, Colonel.”

“Well, we’ll have to be more careful when we’re outside the compound, that’s all I’m saying.”

Wilkins looked at Carson. “Mitch, we need you in the conference room up at the house in one hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Helen, you know the Colonel, don’t you?”

Ashton squinted at her and held out his hand.

“Yes, we’ve met before,” Helen said as she shook his palm.

“I remember,” Ashton said. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Helen is one of my personal assistants in the mansion,” Wilkins said. “She’s also the liaison between the campaign committee and the Greenhill administration. Anything you need, talk to Helen here, or to Mitch.”

Ashton nodded at both of them.

Wilkins led him away. “Are you hungry? We could get a bite to eat in the cafeteria before the meeting.…”

When they were gone, Carson shot Helen a look and said, “I don’t like that man. Why would Charlie hire a mercenary to be his head of security?” Then he walked away too, following Wilkins and Ashton.

Helen paid no attention to Carson’s rhetorical question. He always seemed to be cranky about something. She tolerated her boss as much as anyone could. Helen figured he resented her being appointed liaison to the campaign committee over him. Wilkins had quite correctly informed Carson that his knowledge and experience running Greenhill was invaluable and that he couldn’t be pulled away from that responsibility.

“Helen? Could you come here, please?” She got up from the intake desk and went over to Gordy, who was interviewing applicants. “Can you help do interviews? Unless you’re busy doing something else?”

“No, no, I can do that.” She addressed the next person in line and said, “Follow me, please.” She went across the room to an empty desk and sat, gesturing to a chair in front of her. A woman handed over her paperwork and told Helen that she came all the way from California to join Wilkins’s group in Virginia.

“There are two branches in California,” Helen said. “One near San Francisco, and one near L.A.”

“I know, but I understand Reverend Wilkins spends most of his time here. After all, this is where his mansion is. It was so exciting to see him outside just now!” the woman gushed.

Helen had to disappoint the woman and tell her there were no openings for apartments, but if she’d like to find a place to live in one of the neighboring villages, she was welcome to become a member.

It was like that for the next hour. One by one, they entered and sat at her desk, mostly women of all ages, but also a few men who were more interested in the sexier job of working on Wilkins’s television program.

It was nearly five in the afternoon when a tall, bald-headed man approached Helen’s desk. She was immediately struck by his presence, for he emitted a powerful charisma and intangible sense of high intelligence. He wore blue jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, and a backpack. Incongruously, he carried a leather briefcase with an odd flowery symbol embossed on the side.

“Hello,” she said. “How can I help you?”

The man spoke with a shyness that she found endearing. “Um, I’d like to join the Church of Will. They said I should talk to you.” He handed her the paperwork.

“Have a seat, Mr.…”

“Stan Johnson.”

“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Johnson.” She held out a hand and he shook it. His skin was warm and coarse, but, more significant, his touch sent a spark of excitement up her arm and into her chest. She blinked and for a moment was dumbstruck.

“Ma’am?” he asked, releasing her hand. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I’ve been distracted today; there’s a lot going on here, as you can imagine. My name is Helen McAdams. Where are you from, Mr. Johnson?”

“Iowa.”

She scanned the application and noticed that for “Skills” he had written: “Good with hands, tools, gardening, fixing things.”

“Oh,” she said. “Mr. Johnson, I think you might be in luck. It just so happens we have an opening for a groundskeeper and maintenance man. I see here that you do that sort of thing. Is that something that would interest you?”

The bald-headed man’s dark-blue eyes pierced her, almost as if he could see and study her very soul.

Then he smiled warmly.

“Yes. It would.”