Devolution (26 page)

“Missing?”

“Yes, sir,” the other man replied.

“What about the damage to April’s car?” John pressed.

“We are investigating.”

“Listen,” John said, his patience thin, “you guys were supposed to protect her! You were supposed to protect me! I depended on you, and you failed me.”

All the anger he had suppressed throughout the day was being released.

“Mr. Nolan, this was not our fault.”

“That’s the damn problem!” John shouted, his voice echoing throughout the garage. “It’s never
anyone’s fault!
People promise all this stuff. But when it falls apart, it’s never anyone’s fault! I’m sick of it!”

In a powerful motion, he let out a bellowing scream and punched the side of his car. Both the sound of the impact and his piercing cry recoiled off the bare concrete walls and parked cars. As he shook the pain from his hand, his breathing slowed. It appeared the only thing he had to show for his outburst was bruised knuckles and a dented door panel.

In an instant, John’s anger subsided. In a more mellow and defeated voice, he uttered, “Can I go home, now?”

The man’s voice contained little understanding. “We’ll be in touch.”

John could not have seemed more disinterested as he stepped into his car.

*

The next morning, John awoke alone. As he slowly emerged from his slumber, he groggily rolled over to drape his arm across his girlfriend. His abrupt union with the cold side of the bed served as an abrupt reminder of the day before. Today surely would be another challenge.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

John moaned. The deep thump of someone striking the front door hurt his head. He sat up and dropped his feet to the floor, catching a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror. The young man barely recognized the disheveled soul that matched his bloodshot stare. He ran his hand over his days-old beard.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

“Hold on!” he called out, shuffling across the bedroom. He threw on the clothes he’d had on the day before, still splattered with April’s blood.

He arrived at the door, realizing he’d forgotten to lock it the night before.
Get it together, man.
With a sharp intake of air, he turned the knob and pulled the door open.

“Mr. Wickham?” John was surprised. Wichkam’s body was fully covered. Dark glasses and a hat concealed his face.

“I know you have been through a lot, Mr. Nolan. This won’t take long.”

John stepped aside, allowing his visitor to enter.

Wickham lowered himself onto the sofa. John followed, settling two cushions away.

“I’m not one to deliver bad news, but I think you need to know this.” Wickham pulled a dozen or so photos out of his jacket and handed them to John.

“Someone who saw April’s accident took these.”

The first picture appeared to show a police officer standing next to April’s car. The dense fog slightly hid the images, but the blanket of snow on the road and the time stamped on the photos convinced John they were authentic.

“Take a look.”

John squinted his eyes, studying the hazy figures, one after another, until he got to the last of the small stack. “Oh, my God!” he whispered, pulling it closer.

Wickham sat by, letting the visuals do the persuading.

This picture was unlike the previous. In the others, the officer merely stood by April’s car. In this one he appeared to be on the attack. Much of his upper body was hanging in the vehicle via a shattered window, his long arms grabbing at April’s body. Despite the blurry image, John could make out the look on April’s face—sheer terror.

The anger John experienced the previous night returned with a vengeance. The culpability he mostly placed on himself for not accompanying her that morning was now entirely directed at those who had assured her safety.

“Can I keep these?” John’s glare couldn’t break from that final image.

Wickham played it sincere. “They’re yours.”

“Who took these?” John again paged through the photos, looking for anything he may have missed.

Wickham shook his head. “They don’t want to get involved. You understand. I know it’s hard, John, but you needed to see these.”

In a brief fit of rage, John slammed the pictures down on the coffee table and stood. Wickham instinctively leaned away from John’s threatening gestures.

“Goddamnit!” John hollered, stomping to the back of the couch, his hands on his head. He whipped himself around, leering at the photos strewn across the table.

Wickham played it down, silently encouraging the young man to come unglued. He figured a little prodding wouldn’t hurt.

“Though we tried to locate the officer, we can’t find him.” He paused for a few seconds. “The government could be protecting him.”

These pictures raised more questions than they answered, and John wasn’t sure if he should feel anger or sadness. He didn’t know if he ought to scream or cry. Should he feel sorry for himself? For April? Or would it be best if he simply began to plot his revenge?

From the outside, John appeared to be experiencing a meltdown. From the inside, the meltdown had begun the day before. And it all played right into Wickham’s plan.

“I’ll go, now.” Wickham dolefully made his way to the door, applying his hat and glasses. “If you need
anything
let me know.”

John was leaning up against the far wall, his elbows propped against the drywall, his head resting in between. The young man acted like he didn’t even hear his guest announce his departure. All his thoughts and the memories of the past eight months swirled around his head. He thought back to what the chancellor told him about when you know what is right. He recalled April’s comments about standing for a cause while understanding the circumstances. He savored the rage he once had for the Cambridge History Department, and lamented the anguish he experienced while watching tears stream down his mother’s face. He considered that enigmatic pamphlet and the government’s weak defense of its contents. He felt the pain of millions of his countrymen who desperately needed some hope. He vividly remembered the intense rush he felt when a sea of people wildly cheered his name.

John’s conscience was not prepared to deal with this indecision. He had been taught as a child to honor Great Britain, to respect Her; to cherish Her. Yet, he was also taught to act in Her best interest. He contemplated the perils of joining FreeGB while understanding the outcome would determine his place in history. Victors are heroes; losers are villains. His limited role in affecting the outcome—and therefor his own legacy—restrained his full engagement. His name was being used, but his soul had remained neutral.

I know I am a patriot!

I will do what is right.

What is right?

John knew his physical commitment must also be accompanied by a spiritual one. He also knew the two would be difficult to fuse into one. The man he needed to be was obvious, however, that man’s principle resolve was not.

I will make a difference!

I will matter!

To this point, John had succeeded in suppressing his own passion and growth. Now, he could no longer be unengaged. His fear of risk had faded with April’s chances of a full recovery. His devotion must be absolute. And at that moment, for the first time, it was.

Wickham waited at the door. As he turned the knob to leave, his host called out.

“Wait!” John turned away from the wall to face his guest. His eyes were puffy, his sleeves damp with the remnants of his emotions. “Are you having a rally tonight?”

Wickham stood in the entranceway holding the door open. “Seven o’clock.”

“Put me on the list of speakers,” John stated, his cheeks flushed. “I have an announcement to make.”

*

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming to this most historical event,” began the announcer as he spoke to a capacity crowd. The old barn had never been this full. So many people had attended on this cold December night that televisions and speakers were placed outside the venue to allow the overflow of spectators to join in. “I would like to welcome all of our fellow patriots from around the nation.”

The man cheered with raised arms and pumping fists. The congregation joined in. Throughout the country and its provinces, packed assemblies watched on giant screens. This was to be a momentous night and word spread quickly.

“It is my privilege this evening to introduce a great man. A man who conceived of our movement long before any of this was deemed possible.” The crowd began to ramp up. “A man who has stood by this cause with great vision and unyielding determination. And look at us now!” he cried, flinging his arm out in recognition of their immense following.

The followers erupted.

“My friends, my countrymen, I give to you the man whose dream is to return this nation back to its rightful owners.”

The barn pulsated at a deafening volume.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Warren Wickham!”

Wickham jumped onto the stage amid the zealous cheers and fanatical screams. The dozens of satellite rallies reacted in full. The proud father of the movement approached the announcer with a magical smile. The mic exchanged hands following a celebratory hug. Wickham soon found himself alone on the largest stage of his life. And he was in no hurry to begin.

“Thank you. Thank you,” he said repeatedly as the acclaim continued. “Please,” he said, motioning for the masses to calm. His humbleness was only accompanied by the famous wave to no one. “I appreciate it, so much. Thank you.” The old barn floor produced a level of noise that drowned out his words. “My friends, we have a lot to get to tonight.” His admonishment only served to ignite the crowd.

“My fellow patriots,” Wickham continued when the merriment finally tapered off. “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we? I remember the first rally we held just a few months ago. I think it took more people to set up than showed up.” The crowed offered him a polite chuckle, though the statement was far from true.

“Now we are nearing the level of support that is necessary for us to greatly advance our cause. However, our work is not nearly finished. We will continue knocking on doors, talking to people on the streets, handing out fliers and distributing information. What we are doing is working well. It’s vital we continue with the same level of intensity and integrity. The satellite rallies looked on with eager eyes.

“In reality, I realize you are not here to listen to me. You’ve listened to me enough.” His mouth curled up in a humble smile. Again, the crowd appeased him with a muttering laugh. “You came here to witness history. You will not be disappointed.” Wickham made his way to the far side of the stage.

“The person that I am about to introduce to you will be a great addition to our movement. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor, my privilege, to introduce to you the newest member of our cause and the man who will help lead us to certain victory. The man behind the book,
Constitutional Correctness
. I give you,” Wickham shouted into the microphone, “Professor John Nolan!”

The eruption was the most deafening, yet. The people waved their arms wildly. The scene was the same outside the barn, and at every rally around the nation.

John emerged from the shadows of the stage. He had never imagined such a moment in his life. The old barn was so loud it hurt his ears. As he approached the top step, the sheer magnitude of the crowd began to reveal itself. His first rally had been impressive. This one inspired awe. The tingling sensation and sense of worth he experienced before materialized once again. Powerful chills scattered throughout his core. Goose bumps rose on his skin, and he had yet to even reach center stage.

To John, the events seemed in slow motion, like his mind was not able to process it quickly enough. After all, it was only one year ago this young man set out to write the document that would lead to this national moment.

When he finally reached the stage deck, the magnificent vision stopped him. The sea of people cheered wildly, waving flags and holding up signs expressing their devotion to the cause, and to John.

If only April could be here,
he thought
. It would be perfect.

Warren Wickham was in no hurry to present John the microphone. He wanted the professor to take it all in.

“What do you think?” Wickham finally asked, as he approached John and extended his hand. The question required no response, and John didn’t bother to give one. They both simply scanned the crazed mob, in admiration of its beauty.

On the opposite side of the stage, the crew rushed to set up the podium from which John would deliver his speech. In the meantime, the two men walked to the front of the stage where Wickham symbolically offered John to the crowd. Wickham stepped aside, extending his arms toward the featured guest.

There was no mistaking the importance of this moment for Wickham and his followers. John’s ideas were the basis for their entire movement. Now, they had been legitimized by the very person who had written the Constitution they not only endorsed, but were determined to live by. This was the catalyst they needed to take the resistance to a new level. As the year came to a close, the political momentum heading into the spring and summer would be theirs. And the government, via the Internet, watched it all unfold with troubled eyes.

The goose bumps still had not subsided as John approached the podium. Wickham had since walked off stage, turning over his entire operation to its newest recruit. The masses had not yet begun to yield in their enthusiasm as John prepared to give the speech he had penned earlier that day. He nervously placed it on the podium and glanced over the first few lines. His respiration was frantic and shallow, his brow beaded with sweat. The thought of how many people were watching only increased his desire to throw up. Whether he was ready or not, John was about to give the speech of his lifetime, and what he hoped would become one of the most consequential political sermons in history.