who had more DUI convictions than most people had socks, blasted through a red light. Kathy had barely held onto life, sinking into a coma on the way to the hospital. The drunk, however, had stumbled from the wreckage of his piece-of-shit pickup truck with a broken nose. His blood alcohol content was four times higher then the legal limit, and the floor of his rig was scattered with beer cans and empty whiskey bottles.
Kathy had lingered in the ICU on a breathing machine for weeks. Maggie had sat quietly with Charlie at the hospital until the fateful day Charlie made the decision to turn off the life support. He had sat alone in her room long after the doctor and nurses had gone. Maggie waited outside the hospital for Charlie for hours but finally left, deciding Charles wasn’t going to leave the hospital anytime soon.
Maggie was waiting in the wings when Charlie decided some months later to step out of the shadow of his wife’s death and return to his life and career.
Charlie was still standing on the fringe of the circle of people as the man continued to rant and rage. Several people in the crowd, including Charlie, asked questions. Finally, Charlie began walking back toward Maggie, a look of deadly seriousness on his face. As Charlie threw some money on the table, he motioned to Maggie that it was time to go. Grabbing her purse, Maggie joined him as they elbowed their way back through the crowd and onto the sidewalk.
“That guy is a limo driver, and he just came from picking up some big shot at Dulles. Says they’re shutting down the airport. No flights in and no flights out. He also said the airport is surrounded by armed troops.”
“What? Why would the armed forces surround the airport?”
“I have no idea. But it’s not just the army, Maggie. Homeland Security is on the streets as well. And who are those guys with the National Security Force? I have never heard of that agency before.”
“I hadn’t heard of them either until I ran across those NSF agents at the checkpoint,” Maggie said.
“So what now, Charlie? What’s the plan?” she asked, clutching her purse close.
“I think it would be safest if you stay at my place tonight. Then tomorrow we can listen to the president’s speech, just like that crazy woman Koontz told us to do. The president’s speech will hopefully clear this whole mess up. I just hope it doesn’t confuse things even more. In any event, we will know where we stand.”
As they walked through the dark toward Charlie’s car, a police helicopter hovered just a couple of blocks away. Its bright spotlight flickered back and forth illuminating the street below. A voice blared over its loudspeaker warning people to remain in their homes.
Chapter 4
“MESSAGE,” the voice said loudly. Startled, Charlie opened his eyes but remained motionless on his oversized couch, still wearing his clothes from the evening before. The light filtering through the living room window of his apartment told him it was early morning. “MESSAGE,” the voice repeated, but louder and with more annoyance in its voice.
Charlie sat up straight, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“MESSAGE!” screamed the voice, clearly pissed off this time. Charlie reached out and snatched his cell phone off the coffee table. He couldn’t remember why he had chosen such an annoying message ring tone, but it sure did the job.
He began to eagerly read, hoping for any bit of information about what was going on.
TUNE INTO YOUR LOCAL TELEVISION OR RADIO STATION AT NOON EASTERN STANDARD TIME FOR AN EMERGENCY MESSAGE FROM PRESIDENT MARCUS BARAKAT. LIVE STREAMING VIDEO OF THE PRESIDENT’S IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT AVAILABLE AT HTTP:// WWW.WHITEHOUSE.GOV.
Charlie lay back on his couch and covered his eyes with his forearm. He still couldn’t believe he and Maggie had witnessed the killing of Phillip Elliot. Charlie had hoped it was just a bad dream. It wasn’t.
Charlie had dabbled in the journalism profession for years, beginning as the editor of his school newspaper and yearbook. He liked to write, taking thoughts and ideas and creating colorful, visual stories for others. It was true some stories, covering a track team awards ceremony and such, were dull. He often thought of the time he was scolded after covering a National Honor Society luncheon. “Goody Two Shoes Gather for Crumpets,” was the headline he had created that earned him a trip to the principal’s office. Later in life, Charlie would describe himself as the ranking school nerd because he carried a 35 mm SLR camera everywhere. He took pictures of teachers, sporting events, and other students. One day, during homeroom, Charlie spotted the school bully sitting across the room busily picking his nose. Like most other students Charlie had been victimized by the bully. He had been pushed, shoved, and verbally abused. Silently, Charlie reached into his camera bag, retrieved a zoom lens, and waited. Charlie began to click pictures the second the bully had his finger stuck up his nose past the first knuckle. The following morning, Charlie spotted the bully in the hallway where he was teasing a younger girl about her clothing. The bully began to smile as he made the girl cry. Marching up to him, Charlie presented the bully with an 8 x 10 glossy photograph of him sitting unconcerned, picking his nose. Paper-clipped to the picture was a note from Charlie that read, “Bully anyone else and this picture goes in the yearbook.”
After that, the tough guy began to leave everyone alone. Charlie saw the impact that photography could have when the bully never made eye contact, nor spoke to, Charlie Ashman ever again.
Early every morning as other students played dodge ball in the school gym, Charlie worked in a converted bathroom under the bleachers developing film and printing pictures. Charlie was smart and figured out a way to make money. He would take action pictures in the afternoon of the high school jocks playing sports. He would then develop the film and print the photographs in the morning. He sold the black-and-white glossy 5 x 7 prints to the jock’s girlfriends during school. The young, love-struck girls would buy all of Charlie’s pictures and he, in turn, would use that money to finance his growing collection of cameras, lenses, and accessories.
As a junior, Charlie worked his way onto the local newspaper in his small town in Maine. The editor, Percy Pascoe was an old-school, hard-nosed newsman who cut his teeth at the Chicago Tribune before moving to Charlie’s small town to buy the Custer Free Press. Though the town and readership was small, Percy Pascoe rode his news staff hard and edited every article and story like it was a big-city publication. When Charlie brought Percy Pascoe a story on a suspicious business fire, Percy returned it with a large red rejection stamp on the cover page. This only served to make Charlie work harder. He began seeking out story ideas and kept submitting them to the hard-nosed editor. Sometimes he got a rejection letter back, often weeks later, and other times he just heard nothing. Finally, Charlie broke through the tough exterior of Percy Pascoe when he researched and interviewed everyone he could about the possible failure of a local dam. Charlie had come home from school to find that his mother had received a phone call from Percy Pascoe. He had skipped through the small talk with her and simply left three questions he wanted Charlie to follow up on for his story. He was on the job the next morning. Charlie rewrote the article with the requested interviews and delivered it to Percy Pascoe in person. There was no fanfare, in fact the editor, Percy Pascoe, a large man, sat scanning the manuscript, ignoring Charlie who sat across the desk from him. Finally, tossing the story onto his desk, he looked sternly at Charlie.
“I’m not paying you for this story, but I will give you a byline.”
Charlie nodded,
