Ameristocracy (3 page)

Hearing a noise from outside the room, he turns off the light and hurries forward, but he stumbles over his own feet and goes tumbling, reaching out desperately to catch his fall and avoid making a sound. He catches himself on the bookcase and settles. Then he hears a scraping noise.

Jack spins, shines the flashlight and sees the fireplace swiveling around, revealing a hidden passageway beyond!
“Holy...” cries out Jack.
Suddenly, the doorknob rattles. Keys jangle on the other side as
Charles’s
muffled voice can be heard, trying to give Jack time. Then, the scraping noise again.

Jack spins back to the fireplace and sees it closing. As it does so, the door begins to open...

Jack shuts off his flashlight and darts behind heavy curtains to hide.

A man walks in just as the fireplace settles back into its normal state. Jack peers out from behind the curtains as the man marches over to the bookcase and starts the fireplace swivel again.
The tiniest sliver of light glistens off the man’s cuff link, revealing a cryptic symbol.
Jack gazes intently.
It’s
part flag, part crown, the bars of the flag stretching up to meet the stars as tips on the crown.
The symbol of the Ameristocracy.

And
just like that, it’s gone, as the man disappears into the hidden corridor. Jack steps out from behind the curtain as the fireplace closes back up, the room restored to its original state. Jack stares at the fireplace for several long seconds, and then makes his move. He just
can’t
help himself. He marches over to the bookcase and reaches for it…

“Jack!” calls out a voice.

Jack stops short of the bookcase, turning to Charles, who has just stepped into the room. “We better get out of here. C’mon...” Charles pulls Jack out of the room but Jack
can’t
keep his eyes off the bookcase.

That night, Jack, still dressed in the suit he wore to the White House, sits at his desk, scribbling on a piece of paper, trying to recreate the cryptic flag/crown symbol he saw so fleetingly. Soon, he turns to his computer and starts searching for answers.

Hours pass by as Jack searches the depths of the net and follows countless of dead ends.
But then
he hits the jackpot.

He comes across one particular
site which
seems promising and as he starts to instant message the site owner, he smiles as certain words jump out at him. They are secret tunnel, White House, and Ameristocracy.

A car races down a downtown street, hitting the brakes as it passes a squad car parked next to a sign announcing the speed limit at 35 mph.

Inside the police cruiser, Maggie aims the radar gun through the window. Jack’s in the passenger seat, scribbling on a notepad. “Here we go, here we go...”

A car whizzes past. The radar gun registers... 42. Maggie looks disappointed.
“Seven over.
Not really worth the effort.”

“You ever hear of the Ameristocracy?” asks Jack.

Maggie
doesn’t
even look at him. She just stares out the window, waiting for a good speeder to chase. “That’s the barbershop quartet for senators, right?”

Jack’s nervous
scribblings
increase in intensity just as his rant does.
“Not exactly.
They’re
connected to the old families in
England
, think they’re royalty in
America
. They control major, unelected positions of power, positions that
don’t
answer to the people and give them great authority.
Authority over even those that are elected.”

Another car whizzes past, but slows when they see the cruiser. Red brake lights hit the windshield. The radar gun drops from 41 to 39 to 35 within seconds. Maggie shrugs. “I thought this whole theory was debunked. I saw this thing on 60 Minutes where…”

“60 Minutes?” cries out Jack.
“Corporate media, Maggie.
They’re
safe, complacent.
They’re
not going to blow the whistle. You won’t expose the powers that be when you are the powers that be.”

Maggie grimly smiles. “I guess I should get my news from
bloggers
and internet hacks? Some
schmoe
tapping away at the keyboard in his basement, simultaneously obsessed with secret societies and celebrity gossip? No thanks.”

Maggie lowers the radar gun, turns and sees the hurt in Jack’s eyes from that characterization. She throws her free hand apologetically. “Sorry, Jack, I didn’t mean to…”

“This is different, okay?” breaks in Jack.
“This source is for real. He predicted the Beltway Sniper’s last attack the day before it happened. I think he’s an insider.”

Maggie furrows a brow, reconsidering.

“Look, every time the power structure is questioned, every time the people start to rise up and take back the government they pay for, groups like the Ameristocracy pop up and change things, make sure they keep the government in their grip. They did it with Lincoln and Kennedy.”

Maggie looks over at the notepad in front of Jack, at the sketch
he’s
just put upon it.
It’s
the symbol from the man’s cuff link: the American flag morphing into a royal crown.

Maggie stares at it for a second, and then looks back up through the windshield as a truck rumbles past.
“Expired tags.
Bingo.”

She throws the cruiser into
drive and whips out into the street, siren blaring
and lights flashing. The notepad falls from Jack’s lap, landing in the floorboard.

At the local police station, Police Chief Henry Wilcox, shakes hands and says his goodbyes to a cadre of local politicians before moving toward the front entrance. He stops when he sees Jack walking toward his car, an old beater covered in conspiracy theory bumper stickers. He yells out. “Officer Mitchell!”

Jack turns in his direction and Wilcox moves toward him.
“Yes, Chief?”

Wilcox puts his hand on Jack’s
shoulder,
much as a father would do to a son he was worried about. “Any contact with your dad lately?”

Jack shakes his head.
“No, sir.
We aren’t exactly in touch these days.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” replies Wilcox.
“Everything else going alright?”

“Well, actually, there’s something I’m working on.”

“I hope it’s studying up for the detective’s exam.”

“Not exactly,” says Jack. “Sir, what would you do if you thought a crime was going to be committed, or at least that you knew criminals were assembling where they shouldn’t be, but you had no proof and no one seemed to believe you?”

Wilcox regards Jack curiously. “But you truly believe you’re onto something?”

“Definitely,” nods Jack.

“Hunches have long been credited as a part of police work.
But
the fact of the matter...
I’m
just offering up some advice to you here, one cop to another... is that hunches don’t close cases. If
you’ve got
no evidence, then you’ve got no case. Understand what I’m telling you?”

Jack nods.

“Good. If you ever need anything, just ask, okay?”

“Okay, Chief.”

“And if you have any luck getting through to your father, let me know. You’re not the only one who’s concerned about him.” Wilcox turns and heads back into the station.

It’s
dinnertime at Jack’s house.
Nancy
is working through her steak quickly, but
Jack’s
not eating a bite of his tofu and stir-fried vegetable dinner.

“This is big,” muttered Jack.

Nancy looks at him. “You’re not eating, Jack. I prepared that vegetarian meal just for you.”

Jack
doesn’t
listen to her. “It’s enormous.
A nefarious secret organization working out of the White House.
This is so massive.”

“You sound just like your father,” says Nancy.

Jack glances up for the first time. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“He was always so competitive.
Had to be better than everyone else.
What do you think that great big house in
Virginia
’s
about
?
Ego.
But
Jack, please remember, Charles is your friend.
He’s
only looking out for you. And he’s trained to spot a threat like the one you’re describing…”

“So am I!” yells Jack.

Nancy continues. “So if he thought there was any real issue, you know he would deal with it. So before you start spreading these accusations around…”

“I understand,” breaks in Jack. “I understand just fine. You think
I’m
crazy. Just like him.”

Ding-dong.
The doorbell sounds. Jack grins. “That should be Charles now...” He rushes out of the room and into the hallway.

A few moments later, the two of them are in the living room. Charles stares at Jack. “You can’t be serious.”

“Come on, man,” pleads Jack. “You
gotta
get me back inside.”

Charles shakes his head. “You really have gone off your nut.”

“I need proof.”

Charles looks at him.
“Proof of what?”

“Of what’s going on in there. That the Ameristocracy is operating out of the White House!”

“Ameristocracy?” cries out Charles. “Just listen to you!”

“Don’t play dumb. There’s a secret tunnel connected to that bedroom that leads…”

“Where, Jack? Where would that secret tunnel supposedly lead?”

“That’s exactly what we have to find out.”

Charles shakes his head in disbelief.

“You don’t know what they’re capable of,” pleads Jack.

“Oh, and you do?”

“No, but...”

“But what?”

“But someone should.”

“Forget it, man. I’m not going to risk my job for your wild goose chase.”

“Charles, listen to me. You think I’ve gone off my rocker, right?”

Charles
doesn’t
answer.

“So then why don’t you get proof? Proof that
I’m
nutty as a fruitcake. Get me inside
again,
let me see what’s what. I come up
empty,
I’ll sign the commitment papers right then and there.”

Charles shakes his head. “Jesus, Jack, that’s not what I’m talking about. I just think you need a little help.”

“I do need help.
From a friend.
What do you say?”

Charles looks down into his glass.
He’s
not saying no. Jack
can’t
help but grin. “I knew I could count on you.”

Back in the White House, in one of the many hallways, Jack and Charles round a corner and make their way towards the bedroom that Jack once hid
inside
. With a glance around to make sure
they’re
not being watched, Charles unlocks the door and they hustle inside.

But
the portraits on the wall seem to be watching. Soon, the sound of scraping wafts out from the bedroom. The entrance to the secret tunnel
is being opened
.

Inside the tunnel is a honeycombing maze of rooms. They look like bunkers.
Steel doors with heavy locks on them.
Jack scurries toward a big room on the end, with Charles moving slowly behind.
But
Jack’s enthusiasm wanes when he gets to the door and tries to turn the knob.
Locked.
He tries another. Same result.
And
another and another.
Until...

“Here we go,” says Jack. The door
creaks
open and Jack and Charles step into the underground room.

It’s
empty.
Floor to ceiling, wall to wall.
Nothing but space.
No maps, no computers, no people doing devious things.
Nothing.

Jack stares. “Empty...
Nothing here.”

“What exactly were you expecting?” says Charles.

“I don’t know,” mutters Jack.
“Something.
Anything.”

Charles looks at him. “Look, Jack, I can’t say that I’m happy it came to this, but at some point you
gotta
face reality. This isn’t what you think it is.”

But
Jack isn’t listening.
He’s
scanning the room, noticing things.
A clean square against an otherwise dusty wall.
Lines coming out of phone jacks but leading nowhere.
A few errant pens and pencils left unnoticed against the wall.

“They cleaned it out.”

“What?”