The Whisper Box (17 page)

Mac had to get inside the house to find more ammunition, more food, and any other items he could find to help him. This was starting to seem like it was going to be another long night of defending himself against gunmen and nature. He stood there for a second, making sure he did not hear any more noise from the house. Noise would indicate a second gunman helping his wounded partner or the man on the ground struggling to get up. He had to be absolutely certain that there was no movement in the cabin. Just when he was about to turn and walk towards the house, he was overcome with tremendous fear. He would be out in the open for fifty yards. If there were someone up there waiting for him to show himself, he would be a slow moving target that would surely be hit. He felt weak from fear in spite of the adrenaline pumping through his body. Mac could not just run off into the woods. There was too much to gain by going back to the cabin.

Mac stood there for fifteen minutes or so, reflecting on his life. He gave a great deal of consideration to the last few days. Rattling and slithering about fifteen feet away interrupted his thoughts. He decided then, and only then, that it was time to head back for the cabin.

He took off in a sprint. His heart was pounding throughout his entire body. His nerves actually hurt because his body was filled with terror. He never took his eyes off the cabin-door. Every ten steps or so he would look at the windows, hoping not to see someone standing there with a rifle aimed at his head. Seeing nothing of the sort, he kept running as fast as he could.

McFarland Hart was a decent athlete as a young man, his strongest attribute was his speed. One day, when he was ten years old, a neighbor's German shepherd chased him. Mac raced down the street and blew away this young, healthy German shepherd. The dog actually gave up. Mac never forgot how he had felt that day. He always remembered the feeling he got that day. Still, as hard as he had tried, throughout the rest of his teen years, he could not match that speed. He tried so many different ways, like pretending he was scared when he played baseball, but that feeling never returned. Tonight he found that speed again. He realized it was an extra gear that the body reserved only for true, intense, self-preserving fear. As his body kicked into overdrive, he felt as if he were flying through the sky. He could have still outrun that German shepherd.

He approached the entrance to the house and stopped to the left of the door. He looked inside and saw no one; except the body lying on the floor. Mac decided against going into the basement for the gas mask on the first dead man. It was too dark down there and opened up too many options for the unexpected. If he got to the cabin and took the second dead gunman's mask before the gas really affected him, he would be fine. Also, he was not sure if he could handle the sight of John Harris's dead body in the basement. It would weaken him emotionally and he needed every form of strength right now. Besides, the man he had just shot still had his gas mask hanging around his neck.

He went right in the door that he had shot the second man through. The gas was still lingering in the air, though not as potent as before. He worked on the dead man's gas mask. He noticed that the shot had struck him right below the throat. Mac was extremely lucky to have even hit this man, let alone right below the throat.

He slid the mask over his head and ran through the cabin looking for a backpack of some sort. He saw one on the floor near the fireplace with the name 'HARRIS' embroidered across the back of it. He would wear it as a tribute to his friend. After picking it up, he started looking for food and ammunition. He found four guns that were all loaded, and found two boxes of bullets. Raiding the refrigerator resulted in finding a box of doughnuts. A shirt was hanging on the back of John's chair, so Mac removed the sweaty, bloody one he was wearing and changed into it. He re-wrapped the sling that helped support his broken shoulder. He thoroughly cleaned his new bullet wound and his snakebite, which was already healing. He grabbed the First Aid kit he had used the day before.

When he was done packing, he sat down for a minute to catch his breath and consider his next move. He desperately wanted to use the phone. He thought about calling Michael, his office clerk, but decided against it. He no longer trusted anyone and had no idea what to do next.

Mac finally picked up the phone to beep Grant Winchester, but there was no dial tone. He ran to another phone, hoping that the first one he chose was just out of order, but there was still no dial tone. The gunmen had obviously been very thorough. They had blown out the tires, and cut off all lines of communication. Mac ran to the computer, planning to e-mail Grant and tell him what was going on, when he realized the cut phone lines would prevent any e-mail. He sat in the computer desk chair and thought. John Harris had to have had a walkie-talkie of some sort. He could not remember ever seeing one on him, but all the Forest Rangers have something of the sort. He could picture the prototypical Forest Ranger wearing brown pants, leather boots, a green velvet padded jacket, a heavy gun strapped to one side of his waist, and an equally heavy walkie-talkie strapped on the other side. For ten or fifteen minutes Mac searched the cabin, but there were none to be found. As much as he dreaded it, he had to go to the basement and search his friend's dead body. He had no choice.

Howard Farnsworth sat in the Oval Office with his eyes fixated on one of the twelve televisions across from his desk. He had ruled this room for almost eight years now and could feel the weight of the world pounding down on his broad shoulders. He could also feel the end coming. He had traveled down a long path, dodging bullets from every direction over a thousand times. His entire career was founded on bullying and beating. No one had ever been able to touch him, but he was finally about to go down and knew it. Just as he had always planned, he refused to go down easy. He would see this all the way through.

About nine years ago, he was in a whirlwind of trouble. Media outlets from all around the country came swarming at him with questions about his past.

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While in college, he would go to an occasional party or two. One night he and some fraternity brothers decided to take some hallucinogenic drugs. They were all having fun, laughing and talking with the sorority girls. One girl in particular, Linda Browning, was acting extremely friendly towards him and his fraternity brothers.

Howard convinced her to come back to the fraternity house where he would give her a tour and show her all of the “secret files”, which held copies of previous tests, and notes from classes offered at the university in the past. They already had most of the professors' tests in these files. The professors never made new tests it seemed; they just re-issued a random selection of old ones. Howard promised to provide her with a test or two for her current Biology course.

When they arrived at the house one of Howard's fraternity brothers, Matt Snow began fondling her. Howard knew Matt was aggressive in everything he did. He never minded mixing it up in a local bar and, especially, helping himself to a woman. Howard and his friends were members of the most exclusive fraternity at Yale University. They had an understood diplomatic immunity. Laura told Howard that Matt had offended her and she needed to leave. Howard begged her to stay, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. The kiss was accompanied with a fondling of her breast. Linda backed away and tried to run, but Barry Stienham grabbed her and tried to tell her that they would let her go only if she swore to secrecy about what had just happened. Linda, however, made a grave error. She told Howard, Barry, and Matt, that she was going to go to the highest authority to turn them in.

Howard was flying high on his drugs, as were his friends, which compounded their outrage. Matt slammed the innocent young freshman onto the couch and lay on top of her. Then Howard ripped her T-shirt off. Linda tried to scream until Matt Snow hushed her with a palm to the mouth. They gagged her with a towel lying nearby and began telling her exactly who they were, yelling expletives at her and threatening her life. Upon Howard’s request they decided to keep her tied up. Howard and the others walked around the huge house making sure all exits, and entrances, were locked.

Howard was the first to respond to the obvious increase in their victim's screams. Matt had taken the rest of her clothes off. She rocked, shook, and grunted on the couch as tears streamed down her face. Her eyes were frozen with fear, but with her legs and arms bound, she could go nowhere. Matt took off his pants and began to situate himself on top of her. Linda's grunting grew louder and more frantic. In spite of his involvement, Howard was infuriated by his friend's actions. He punched Matt across the back of the head. Matt got up and lunged at Howard. Barry responded to the ruckus and broke up the wrestling match.

Howard decided that there was no way to settle this without ruining the promising careers they all had in front of them, especially his. One brother's action was not about to get in their way. It was in their best interest to dispose of the young woman and hide her body. His brothers agreed. Even though Howard came to the woman's aid in the end, the damage was still done. All of them helped to bind and gag her, so they would all fry. They all took part in the murder of the young coed that night in their fraternity house. They drove the body seventy-five miles north and buried it twelve feet underground in the woods. The body was never found and no one ever suspected them.

In 1991, the case was reopened. As Howard understood it, an anonymous person called a police station located seventy miles from Yale and said that they saw the young woman, Linda Browning, leave a party with some men the night she was reported missing. The anonymous person knew one of them as the man running for President of the United States. The police acted quickly and notified the media.

They located Matt Snow early the following morning. The media dedicated every minute of their time to this new story. Howard was shaking with anticipation. Within a day of intense questioning, Matt Snow had admitted to the murder, but swore that Howard Farnsworth had absolutely nothing to do with it, that he had not even been there. According to Snow, Farnsworth had stayed at the party that night while Matt, and Matt alone, took Linda Browning home. He raped and killed her and burned her body in the woods that night. His story was most believable. He even gave details about the girl that Howard had met that night and how all of the other fraternity brothers made fun because Howard sat on a bench talking to her all night. He said that he was bothered by this murder for almost forty years now and was glad to confess. He was brought to trial and sentenced to life in prison without parole.

The day before Matt Snow confessed to the murder at Yale University, Howard Farnsworth felt destined to rot in a jail cell. He would have killed himself before going to jail and facing the humiliation. In fact, he would blow his brains out right there in his Senate Office. He sent someone who worked for him to find Matt Snow. He left Barry Stienham alone because he knew that he might need him someday. The Senators hit man found Matt Snow later that night. He told Matt that if he took the rap for the murder and cleared Senator Farnsworth's name that he would be tended to in prison. He would be protected forever, sure to serve the easiest life sentence ever bestowed upon a convicted murderer.

The alternative was simple. If he did not agree to help the Senator in his time of need, he would kill him, right there, right then. He would then go into his son's office, kill him, and then continue on down the family tree. After that was done they would find his wife and beat and rape her, just like Matt had done to Linda Browning decades before.

Howard made sure that Matt Snow had no choice. Snow cursed the Senator, but agreed to testify and turned himself in two hours later. He knew that these men meant everything they said so he never opened his mouth. Howard Farnsworth never visited him in prison. The day after Snow was sentenced, Howard made a speech shaming his old fraternity brother, pumping out fake tears while discussing the murder. He was now clean again.

The anonymous informant to the police department was never found. This was a thorn in Howard's side because there was obviously someone out there trying to take him down. He would remember this forever. Whenever people popped up with an obvious vengeance against the Farnsworth steam engine, they would get squashed just in case he or she was the one who knew about the night at Yale University.

He sat there at his desk thinking about the past and the future. Was the informant from the Yale murder actually Laura Greene or someone she knew? Now that she was dead, were all of his troubles about to be resolved? Yes, he had to see this thing through.

Just then the news broke about the tragic death of a pilot aboard the CNN jet at Washington Dulles Airport. According to the reporter, the pilot was forty years old with a ten-year-old son and an eight-year-old daughter. He also left behind his loving wife and both parents. He had died from a gunshot wound to the head, but it had also been determined that he had struggled violently with another person.

Also found aboard the jet was the body of Timothy Anderson. Investigators could not find much information on him, but were still searching. He had apparently died in the bathroom from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Howard Farnsworth just shook his head and paid a silent respect to his faithful soldier of so many years.

The reporter continued as President Farnsworth inched closer to the television. Grant Winchester, who was aboard the jet originally, was nowhere to be found at the moment. He was not a suspect yet, but he was definitely needed for questioning. A ten-year-old boy told police that he could have sworn he saw Mr. Winchester headed down the main corridor. When he told his mother “the man from television was over there” she simply responded with, “Wow, honey. Grab your sisters hand.”

President Farnsworth sat in his chair motionless. He reached for the remote control and turned up the volume. He had received a call from Barry Stienham, of CNN, less than an hour ago. Barry was right. Grant was definitely not going to follow the orders from the people who paid him. Howard Farnsworth picked up the phone and called Barry Stienham.

Barry was made aware of what had happened about fifteen minutes before. When he heard what police knew about the pilot, the other man in the bathroom, and the unknown whereabouts of his star reporter he became very panicked. When the phone rang, he was almost too scared to pick it up.

“Hello, Barry Stienham here.”

“Barry, this is Howard, what the fuck is going on here?” asked the President.

Barry cleared his throat, “I have no idea, Howie. I told them to watch Grant, not to let him get out of their sight. The dead men on the plane were not the boys I called to take care of this. I have no idea what happened there.”

“Well have you heard from the little boys you called to follow Grant?” The President was now definitely talking down to Barry Stienham, “King” of CNN.

“No, not yet, but I can assure you that I am on it and will have an answer within minutes.” Barry’s voice cracked as he spoke.

“Barry, I can destroy you like an unwanted puppy. You know that, right?”

“Yes Howard. I know that. It will be taken care of immediately.”

Two minutes later, the President's personal line rang again. It was Barry Stienham. His voice more stern this time, he told the President that Grant was in the chartered flights area right now trying to charter his own jet to Columbia, South Carolina. Barry had his finger on things. Grant's flight would take off in thirty minutes, but Barry was going to inform the police of Grant's whereabouts right now so he would be taken into custody immediately.

Howard Farnsworth laughed. Then his voice grew loud, “Are you dumb Barry? Are you an absolute fucking moron? You are going to let this kid, who has a ton of credibility with our country, possibly more credibility than I do, I might add, you're gonna' allow him to talk? You are going to call the police to go get him? Why don't we just get him a fucking limo to our fucking trial also? Maybe we can get someone to roll a red carpet up to the fucking witness stand! Yeah! Me and you, in our fucking shackles, can roll a red carpet right up to the stand! Are you fucking stupid? I'll take care of it from here you dumbass.”

President Farnsworth slammed the phone down and called Beau Middleton and Art Stoudamire. They were some of the most rugged men he had in his secret cabinet. Art took a bullet for Howard about eleven years ago. Howard always promised Art special treatment after that. He needed him now. He told Art that he needed them both to get to Washington Dulles airport immediately. They needed to force their way onto a jet that Grant Winchester was trying to charter. Art had flown in Vietnam, so Farnsworth knew his old buddy could do the job. Once they were in the air, Art was to make Grant Winchester an offer he could not refuse.

Art and Beau drove to the Airport. They walked into the bottom entrance, showed their airport identification, and continued towards the chartered flight area. They exited the airport from one of the gates and were now walking around outside, where the flights actually pulled up. They walked around the left side of the building and saw the chartered aircraft sitting outside of the terminal. This had to be Grant's plane, as there was only one plane and Grant was taking off in five minutes. There were no windows on this corner of the small building. The only view of the outside was through a row of narrow windows at least eight feet from the floor. Unless someone was standing on a ladder inside the corridor, they were undetected. Art and Beau rushed up the steps of the jet.

Once they were inside they both revealed their pistols and headed into the cockpit. The two pilots who were inspecting the equipment looked up at them, obviously startled.

“Hey, who are you? You are not allowed up here!” snapped one of the pilots.

Art put his gun to his lips, like a mother would tell her child to hush with her finger and spoke through gritted teeth, “Shut the fuck up. You are both going to take your clothes off right here and give them to us without saying a word. Then, you will be tied up, gagged, and placed in that closet. What you do in there is your business, but whatever you do, don't say a fuckin' word until we release you. Understood?”

The smaller pilot answered his mugger, “Are you going to fly the plane? Do you know how to operate an air...”

Art landed a solid punch right to the sternum of the pilot. He fell into Beau's arms. Art added to his speech, “So you're the fuckin' dumb one, huh? What part of “shut the fuck up” do you need repeated? I will blow your fuckin' brains out buddy. I do this for a living. I kill people like you for my paycheck. Now shut your fuckin' hole!”