The Forgotten War: Chapters 31 – 35

As the bishop led them all up the basement stairs Campbell wondered if Grant was alright, lying there in the car, asleep. He didn’t want to have to wake him up. Besides, he probably had a general idea of what they were talking about anyway.
He also wondered what it was the bishop was going to show them.
If the library was in the basement what could possibly be upstairs that could be more important than anything else the library had offered?
All he was going to have to do was follow suit like everyone else was at the moment.
Lestraude was close behind the bishop, also pondering what the clergyman thought about him, and the implications that amounted regarding the nature of his Brotherhood. Had the bishop been right after all? Was his Brotherhood obsolete to the world and dangerous enough to commit such vicious crimes as Pitt had suggested?
He didn’t want to believe it for one second, but he couldn’t help but feel an inkling that told him he had made a mistake in joining the Masons.
Grace was simply a nervous wreck. She was having trouble handling the riddle-like nature of the bishop at the moment. All she wanted was to find her husband and get him home safe. Whether that was going to happen or not was beyond her comprehension. All she could do right now was have hope and faith that a favorable outcome would be reached.
Kate was beside herself. She wanted John to have his father back safe, but the thought that he was in double inner turmoil had her concerned. She loved him so much and wanted him to be happy no matter what he asked of her, but she felt that he wasn’t going to chance, or that he was going to chicken out on her.
She certainly didn’t want that.
They came to the top of the staircase and came back into the lobby where they had entered, now following the bishop through a short, narrow hallway into what was the drawing room.
Here there was a bookshelf that looked miniscule to the one they had previously witnessed, but there was an impressive amount of books on it. Not only was it full of upright books, but there were so many that some had been put on top of those ones and others set in front, their spines and titles hanging slightly over the edge of the shelf.
Pitt briskly made his way to the shelves and searched them all with his gaze, bending down to peer on the lower shelves. Down there he found what he was looking for.
He straightened up and turned around to reveal what he had grabbed. It was a standard sized paperback (5 x 8 inches), the cover was a bright orange color and on it there was a black and white, contrasted image of the globe with a black scythe and mallet jutting from pole to pole.
It was hard not to notice was the cover was trying to convey. The hammer and scythe was the common symbol associated with Communism, specifically the Soviet Union.
The titled read World Revolution by Nesta Helen Webster.
“This, my friends,” said Bishop Pitt, “is the plot the Illuminati set long ago. A history of its progression through history and the affects of the Perfectionalist philosophy. From Weishaupt to Castro and beyond… This was the book that exposed the plot that the masters of Freemasonry are possibly at the moment following.
“Though the Illuminati originally wanted to destroy religion – as was Weishaupt’s plan – they eventually concocted a grander one than that: To destroy Civilization as we know it. At first it may have been religion, but they soon realized that religion wasn’t the exact problem to begin with. Order was. Religion was nothing more than an obstacle. Take it away and you had the masses at your fingertips – that is, if the Illuminati were able to convince the world that religion wasn’t needed.
“Soon you had the worlds first full-blown atheists.”
He turned and placed the book back onto the shelf, in a spot that was not originally where he had found it.
Lestraude was close to being curious and said, “So then the message that the Freemasons are trying to convey would be?”
Pitt looked him over. “That religion is poison and should be eradicated by any means necessary.”
“But then what is so important about the Illuminati goal within the Freemason’s own?” asked Campbell.
Pitt smiled. “The Freemasons are only concerned with turning the world into an atheistic one. Though that is a threat unto itself it is not the one that is the most threatening. As has been said, the Illuminati infiltrated the Masons and leaked their philosophy into their’s, giving rise to the current ideals they possess today.
“The Illuminati still exist, I guarantee you. They’re still within the high ranks of the Masons even as we speak. The Freemasons, to them, are nothing but a tool they can use to carry out the plot against Civilization.”
Lestraude stepped forwards a little, shifting in his stance, looking for the right words to say, then they came out.
“So then,” he said, “you’re saying that it isn’t, technically, the Masons you are so at odds with?”
The bishop declined his head and pondered it for a moment, then said, “I guess you’re right, Inspector. It’s the Illuminati I’m more concerned with. But, nevertheless, the Masons are adhering to Weishaupt’s philosophies, and it’s because of that that I am still at odds with the Masons, even if it is slightly declined in fervor.”
John, this whole time, was quiet, listening to what was being said, thinking about it all the time they were there.
“But still,” Lestraude said, “we have no certain, concrete proof that it is the Masons that have kidnapped Mr. Campbell. However, if it’s all that we can get at the moment then we’ll have to act on it as best we can.”
“Thank you, Inspector,” said Pitt, lowering his head slightly in respect.
“So now the question is: Where do we look first?”
The door to the office opened with a loud thump as the young man struggled to bring Brian Campbell into the room still tied to the chair. This was the first time that the master had ever seen the young man display such an amount of strength before…
And he was impressed.
Campbell still had the bag over his head and the master was not happy about that. “I though I told you to take it off his head?” he said.
“Sorry,” said the young man, strain in his voice as he violently set the chair onto the floor, creaking with the weight that Campbell forced upon it. The young man then whipped the black bag off of the Brian’s head.
Now that he could see he turned his head and did his best to get a good look at his mysterious captor’s face. He had to stress his eyes to turn as far as he thought he needed to, but in the end they became watery and he had to blink and turn them around to their normal position, which now gave him a direct glance at a man he though he would never have seen ever again in his life.
Suddenly, Campbell’s expression turned as disdainful as he could, his brow lowering to the extremity of its limits. Hate burned in his eyes.
But now he knew that the person orchestrating this new offensive was the logical choice.
Why else would Brian Campbell be in the position he would be now. He had never disclosed any of his theories with anyone but Bishop Pitt. It made sense that the puppet master was who he was glaring at in fury. It was the only other person who would know what Campbell knew about the Masons and their plans.
“Thank you very much, sir,” said Campbell to the young man.
“Don’t thank me yet,” was the reply and the young man then left the room, slamming the door in frustration.
The master took a cigar our of one of the desk drawers, clipped the tip, and set it between his lips as he stroke a match and lit it.
“You still smoke?” asked Campbell. “I thought you would have had the good sense to quit ages ago. You’re certain to get mouth cancer. And if that happens then you won’t live to see your dreams come true.”
The master ignored the comment on mouth cancer, puffed a few stokes of smoke, then held the cigar where he could see it.
“I never really liked the flavored ones,” he said. “Who would want to pass a chance to let the smoke from a real cigar float in one’s mouth?” Another puff and he successfully blew a smoke ring. “Couldn’t do that with the scent of strawberries clouding your focus.”
There was a short silence and none of them said anything, just staring down each other, seeing who would be the first to flinch.
“You don’t look away,” said that master. “You must really hate me. I thought that it would go away like puberty, but I guess I was wrong in that assumption.”
“Guess you were,” said Campbell.
“Well, since you’re so hell-bent in your hatred toward me the logical thing to do in the end would be to kill you.”
“Is that right?”
“You should have remembered the oath you took the day you decided to join us…”
“I didn’t decide, I was forced.”
“It’s the way things worked.”
“Only because your superiors want to control people. That’s all this is: greed!”
“You are in no position to speak to me in that manner, son…”
“I’m not your son!”
“And yet you are the fruits of my loins.”
Grace was in the drawing room, on the phone. She had just dialed a number and was waiting for someone on the other end of the line to pick up. After a few rings it didn’t sound as if any was and soon a messaging machine picked up.
“Hi,” said a elderly, woman’s voice, “you’ve reached Marge Campbell at 814-___-____. I’m not here at the moment so please leave a message after the tone and I’ll be sure to get back to you as soon as possible.”
Then came the beep.
“Marge, it’s me, Grace. I’m calling to find out if you’ve heard from Brian recently this evening and if so could you tell me what it was? I didn’t think to call you at all and now have the police with me here. We think that your son has gone missing…” She couldn’t say any more, didn’t want to tell Marge that her son was possibly going to be killed in the next half hour.
John, Kate, Pitt, and Lestraude were all in the same room, sitting on the couches and love seats that furnished the room.
Lestraude was the first to speak after the phone call. “We need to start looking now!” he said. “He’s sure to die if we don’t take immediate action. No offence to the bishop, but we’ve spent more time here than we should have. It’s good that we gathered some form of information on Mr. Campbell, but something needs to be done.”
“What do you suggest, Inspector,” asked Grace.
“You, your son, Mr. and Ms. Simmons go check on your mother-in-law. The bishop and I will go and have a search party go out to any location that we may deem worthy of scrutiny on our way to my office.
“Are we agreed?”
Everyone nodded.
“Then let’s get a move on, we have less than 30 minutes before Campbell dies.”
Their relationship had never been the same when Brian had reached his teens. He was getting great grades in school and was likely to get a scholarship to Mt. Aloysius, the highest one that they give even today.
The deciding factor in their iffy relation as father and son had been determined when Brian’s 18th birthday was around the corner. It was Masonic tradition that the son follow suit of the father, the punishment being less severe than it had become at the moment.
Brian’s solution to exclude himself from that fate was to marry his wife, Grace. She was a beautiful woman back then, still is to this day. She shared his apprehension and disdain towards his father and nonetheless wanted to be with him anyway. She knew it would help him and they were secretly married right under Malcolm Campbell’s nose.
When he did find out he discovered that the newlywed couple had gone on honeymoon to Kentucky and were said to move in there.
One day Malcolm received a phone call from his son. Brian told him that he was never going to speak to him again, that they were discontinuing their communication via any medium whatsoever and that this would be the last time Brian’s father would ever hear his voice. Malcolm would never see his grandchildren, or even find out their names or faces.
But now Malcolm had his son right where he wanted him.
After that phone call Malcolm became a different man, becoming something that he believed he should have been the whole time he was alive; realized that it could be a tool to use in accordance to the goals of his Brethren (and his subjects and superiors). Those above him would strive to accomplish what he would do tonight, in a few minutes more.
He had been planning for this night since that phone call, articulating all possibilities, but what he hadn’t counted on was the fact that the police would get involved this early.
He had confidence, though, that they would, in the end, succeed. The Grand Architect was on their side after all. This was more His plan than any mere mortal’s…
Or so that’s what he told the young man, ignorant fool as he was.
Nevertheless, the Masonry world was soon to know that someone was clever enough and bold enough to take a course of action that gave results, and in the end the rest of the Brethren would follow in his footsteps.
He would become the hero of the age, and age of the fall of religion and the rise of Reason. All would be resolved and the world will be a better place.
Science was to rule the minds of men as it should have been since mankind first could walk on legs.
His son refused to speak to him no matter what he decided to say, and Malcolm was beginning to get frustrated with him, but he didn’t want him to go just yet.
The door to the office opened and the young man returned, pointing at the watch on his wrist.
“It’s time I get a move on, master,” he said. “Midnight’s upon us.”
“Don’t take him just yet,” said Malcolm. “I want him to stay till the third hour.” He paused and looked at his son, a smile curling on his face. “Take Marge first, she is the moon after all, the mother.”
Brian’s eyes went wide. “What did you just say?”
But the young man was already gone, out to fetch the woman who was apparently going to be the first to die tonight.
“You fucking bastard!” screamed Brian. “You’d really go that far for a lost cause?”
“Who said that it was a lost cause?” replied Malcolm.
Now he had his son’s attention.
Grant woke in the back of the Neon and noticed that the car was slanted sideways a bit. What was going on here?
He sat up a little bit and looked out through the windows to see where he was. Outside it still looked like the exterior of the Cathedral and the rectory beside it, the kindergarten on the opposite street corner.
Directly across from him, Grant could see another car parked in front of the gravel parking lot.
And there was a man inside it, looking toward the door to the rectory. Whoever it was, judging by the motions of the shadowy silhouette, looked impatient. Shifting in the driver’s seat, resting his head back and letting it hang forward. There was something in his hand that Grant couldn’t quite make out because of the angle.
There was the sound of a car coming up from the intersection at the end of the block, heading up the hill, headlights flashing in their direction.
Before he let himself become visible, Grant wanted to make sure that the person in the other car wasn’t a whacko, so he ducked down and waited for the car to pass before peering through the window again.
He was certain that the unknown individual in the other car couldn’t see him, the lighting was the same at this point in the block.
He watched for a few more minutes before laying down again on the back seats, pondering what was happening.
Grant didn’t really care right now what everyone inside the rectory were talking about. He was just there for the moral support on Mrs. Campbell and John’s side of the predicament. Honestly he didn’t know what was going on and why they were at the Cathedral. His best guess was that it had something to do with John’s father.
There were certain points where Grant would wake up a few times, and before he jumped back into his dreams he heard some mention of murdering and killing and kidnapping. He certainly hoped that none of that had happened to Mr. Campbell, but as long as the police were apparently involved any possibility was going to be considered.
And right now the thoughts of a killer were quite high in Grant’s mind. After all, there was a mysterious silhouette sitting in the opposing vehicle with something in his hand – possibly a gun – and the fact that the car was slanted to one side…
As if the tires were taken out on that side.
In that case Grant had to assume that the guy across from him at the moment was bad news. Why else would he hang around the place where he punched out the tires?
There was still a job that needed finished, or there was an obstacle that was in the way of success.
There really wasn’t much Grant could do except…
He searched inside his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. But before he did anything with it he raised his jacket over it so that the backlight wouldn’t noticeably shine, hence drawing any attention to the creep in the other car.
He dialed John’s number and put the device to his ear, waiting for it to ring.
Though he had no knowledge of what the hell was going down, he knew that it was the right thing to let the rest of them know that there was someone outside waiting for them to come out.

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