THE RING

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Martin Dougherty lay in bed awakened by the wind howling outside. But now it was only

3 a.m and still in bed he listened to the wind that woke him. It was coming in gusts

some stronger than others but all enough to merit recognition. Half awake it was as if

he had moved to another world. No point in getting up–no way was he going out to the

patio in this! Repeated wooden crashes from the gate outside slamming open and shut;

the syncopated calling from the swaying trees that warned of the strength of the

approaching gusts; and the occasional slapping of branches against windows and walls.

The swaying trees were telling him that this world would not tolerate the comforts of his

previous world, and that life would never again be the same. No, the wind would remind

him that the status quo had been shaken and that the world would never again be easy.

No rain, just fierce noise and the threat of the unknown. The wind carried with it the

unknown and the foreshadowing of change. Its intensity and frequency were codes for

the karma it carried. Wind is felt; wind is heard; and wind is experienced. Martin lay in

bed feeling the intensity, listening to the sounds and experiencing the mystical yet angry

wind, trying to interpret the meaning. The inner shaman in Martin failed to provide

solace in his interpretation. What was yet to come was unknown but he knew that it

would continue to include memories of what was past. Memories that alternated from

precious to heartbreaking and foreshadowing a future that remained terrifying.

The noises Martin was hearing were reminiscent of many nights in mountain tents in

mountain campgrounds as diverse as backpacking in wilderness areas to improved

campgrounds in Rocky Mountain National Park. Early summer would bring those

winds. Night winds that attack down-canyon making tents dance hysterically while

being held in place by small metal stakes that no one really believed could possibly be

up to the task. Sometimes Martin would camp alone but more often it was with his

family. Warm thoughts returned of the nights with twin daughters Kristi and Kim nestled

in a sleeping bag exhausted from their day-hike and oblivious to the raging winds. Born

on the same day they were so different yet they had a bond that was beyond the

conception of an only child like Martin. Younger son Ken, four years younger, snuggled

for warmth in between Karen and himself but would not distract from the look that Karen

would give him saying, “the tent is going to hold up right?” He would gush his confident

response as he wondered himself. Those winds were different. The mountain winds

were fierce and cold. These winds didn’t cool. Instead they merely stole comfort and

replaced it with dry, sterile memories.

Their family camping slowed as the girls became teenagers and started lobbying for the

beach. Martin thought Kim would have continued but knew that she wouldn’t stand up to

Kristi’s clear proclamations that the beach was now preferable. Martin never liked the

beach. Ken took up the camping mantle and even now, years later, would cajole Martin

into a one or two-night backpack but backpacking was becoming less appealing as the

ground was growing harder and less inviting since turning 50. Oh how he wished that

Karen was there in bed beside him! He wanted to turn to her and see if the wind had

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awakened her. He wanted to go back to the mountains with her—she enjoyed it as

much as he—but that was not to be. No one deserved to die that young—especially

her.

Karen and Martin had grown up oblivious to each other in small towns in the thumb of

Michigan—they always used their left hand to show people where that was located.

They had moved to Colorado at about the same time, Karen to go to the University of

Colorado for undergrad and Martin, following an undergraduate economics degree at

Michigan State, to the University of Denver Law School. Karen was attracted to the

proximity to the ski slopes; Martin to the distance from Michigan. The thumb of

Michigan is about as flat as flat. Occasional school excursions to the small Michigan ski

hills had caught Karen’s interest and when her family took a vacation to Colorado in her

teens she was hooked. Martin as a teen was flat out bored. An only child he was top of

his class but felt that was a low bar. His parents were older, had worked the family farm

all of their lives and he simply saw no future in sticking around. His four years of college

had convinced him that farm-life simply wasn’t for him. Despite knowing that the farm

was supposed to become his, he knew he was going to disappoint his parents by

declining–and he suspected they knew so too. Karen got a teaching certificate, Martin

admission to the bar. They met shortly after Karen was hired for a teaching job just

south of Denver and as Martin was hired in Downtown Denver with a labor relations

firm obtaining the moniker, “MD JD”. Shortly thereafter they married and started a

family, settling in South Denver half-way in between the two. Karen was committed to

her teaching and Martin to his thriving career as a labor lawyer. With their three

children, they cultivated a close-knit family and quickly bought a larger home in the area

that they never considered leaving.

It was now nearly 5:00. Martin’s mind continued wandering as the clock played games,

skipping fifteen and twenty minutes at a time as he alternated between dreams and

memories. His thoughts were oblivious to the occasional interjection of a thud or a bang

outside. A level of satisfaction warmed him with the knowledge that just like the diligent

precautions he would always take when camping there was no present danger tonight.

Just as in life, Martin was cautious and cognizant of possible threats and prepared for

them. He understood that conservative trait and attributed it to his upbringing on the

farm. He could remember his father making contingency plans for everything. There

might be some things to clean up once the sun rose but there was nothing to really

worry about. He made sure tree limbs were away from the new house and that

everything was secure outside. It was a simile of Martin’s life—storms could rage but he

would feel insulated due to his preparation and calm demeanor. The outside could be in

turmoil but within himself Martin had a safe haven. The only anomaly was the accident

that took Karen two years prior. He wasn’t over it and he never would be. A day didn’t

pass without wanting to tell her something and hear her response. The pain would

never stop but neither did life, despite his efforts to slow it down. Martin didn’t really

want either the pain to pass nor the morning to start.

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Karen was tall, thin and outgoing, making Martin an easy mark. She would push her

long straight brown hair back, smile at him with a surprisingly devilish smile that she

knew he couldn’t resist. Despite her dark complexion her strong blue eyes penetrated

his soul. They brought out the best in her and people noticed. Some women are

“high-maintenance,” Karen was low-maintenance. She liked to pull her hair back, wear

little make-up, and dress in jeans but what Martin saw was a beauty queen and as time

went on the years were good to her. She turned his head every morning as he tried to

figure out just what she saw in him. Martin was always surprised that she had even

been attracted to him to begin with and for over twenty years he did his best to make

sure that never changed. She had little competition as Martin had basically been dating

only his law books for years. Also tall, about six-foot two, he was strong and sturdy but

even more attractive to Karen was Martin’s strong streak of empathy–his first concern in

all situations was the feelings of others. As serious as Martin seemed to his peers, she

saw a playful side too. He would often repeat a line from an old song by the Eagles:

“Don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy.” His black hair which was now

“salt and pepper” and blue eyes were off-set by very light skin–he was constantly afraid

of the sun. When pulled into social encounters by Karen, Martin was most comfortable

in his coat and tie out of fear that he would embarrass her. He saw in her the ability to

pull him outside his comfort zone and enjoy a life that he knew he never could have had

on the farm.

Karen’s only fault was her complete lack of interest in cooking. She just didn’t care. To

her, cooking simply made a mess that would have to be cleaned up. That was probably

how she stayed so thin all her life and it forced Martin into becoming the family cook.

At first he was lost in the kitchen but within a few months he was planning the menus,

doing the shopping and preparing the meals. He found that he actually enjoyed it and

soon became proficient enough to cook for guests without fear. He left behind the bland

farm-fare of his youth and expanded his tastes to most any fare other than Indian–he

and curry just didn’t agree. Karen would challenge him with recipe ideas that he

seemed to consistently master. They would regularly invite friends over to try out

recipes, confident that Martin could pull it off. She also made him do his own wash–a

skill that is absent in farm-raised men. He was now very thankful that he could be

self-sufficient enough to perform both tasks.

Settling in South Denver had been a good move. They were drawn to it and bought

there despite not really understanding how they could afford it but they loved the mature

neighborhood and saw a quiet place to live that just seemed like home. Neighbors

knew each other and even today many still had memories of their children participating

together on the local swim team. Mature trees provided shade for Karen’s early

morning runs that over time were turning into early morning walks. They had a stable of

neighborhood friends and both had friends from work. Their careers had prospered and

life was good.

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As the kids grew, Karen pursued her teaching career in a district south of them. Martin

couldn’t imagine anyone more qualified than Karen to teach children and Karen loved

third graders. She was approaching 25 years of service and former students still would

reach out to her knowing that they would always be remembered and get a reply. This

on top of raising the three children of her own–she was amazing. All marriages require

the partners to “figure it out” and Karen and Martin had figured out how to make it work.

The girls had now graduated from high school and moved on. If pressed even Karen

might admit that she would like to keep Ken around longer. Both Martin and Karen were

proud and comfortable in watching their children grow and become independent. Kristi

took dibs on all of her mother’s best traits and had headed off to school in Boston. The

small, liberal arts school was a great match for her focused direction in life. The only

trait she took from her father was an inquisitive mind and a high SAT score which led to

a pre-law program. Martin feared that she was in too much of a hurry in life–She was

engaged to be married, she was approaching her final year in a program that would

graduate her with both her undergraduate degree and her law degrees–that was Kristi.

Always one with a mission. She was also doing an internship with a firm. Kim was

much more pragmatic and much more athletic. She was also the more social of the two

which was fed by her long-time participation on swim teams from the time she was six.

She never let her social side interfere with her focus. Year-round early morning

practices were a relentless routine not only for Kim but also for Karen and Martin to get

her there. They certainly felt validated when Martin’s alma mater, Michigan State,

offered a swimming scholarship. She jumped on it and left for East Lansing creating an

even deeper bond with her father. Martin had no problem with MSU as it was only a few

hours from his parents who needed to be visited more often anyway. He wanted to get

back more but there was always something and this would provide an additional reason

to visit. The week after she left Kristi headed to Boston leaving Ken to fend for himself

with his parents for three more years.

The Dougherty’s had been rightly proud at their graduation. There had been the usual

teenage issues, but none had gone unsolvable or over the top. Thank Karen for that.

Despite working she was always there for them, listening, observing, disciplining and

loving. Martin knew enough to always agree and to be supportive of Karen’s decisions

regarding the kids. He knew that as the kids grew older the issues would have bigger

consequences but fortunately none came to fruition. He was always envied when

talking about family with his fellow law partners. Ken was finding his way. Active but

not great on the lacrosse team he had a lot of friends, had asked a girl on a date, and

was incredible working with his hands on anything put in front of him. Ken was growing

into a physical clone of Martin. His love of science made him a bit of a nerd at school

but he didn’t particularly care. He also had a mechanical aptitude the source of which

mystified his parents.

Martin rolled over and looked at the clock again. Six-thirty. Time to get up and feed

Kitty. He managed to take an hour before he moved outside. It was another beautiful

spring day in Tucson. Cool in the morning—Martin liked to sit on his patio and drink his

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coffee in the early morning–the really early morning. Coffee had become an addiction in

law school and he still enjoyed it in the morning or if he was trying to stay awake driving

but he found that hot tea relaxed him and would replace coffee if he had something that

he wanted to figure out or if he just wanted to relax. Normally his routine started around

4:30. Karen had taken in a stray cat just before he moved–named it Kitty. She loved

the cat, he was indifferent. They chose to feed him Meow Mix because he looked like

the tiger-cat on the package. For some reason Kitty seemed to take more of a liking to

Martin than he did to her and much to Karen’s chagrin Kitty followed Martin around like

a dog. Now, two years later, he had become a part of Martin’s pre-dawn routine. After

rousing him from bed Kitty would follow him out to the kitchen and sit with him until he

got bored and then go back inside to sleep some more–but once Martin was awake

there was no going back to sleep for him. The early morning time had always been time

that he had to himself; the time when he could plan his day; the time when he could

refocus on the “big picture”. Here he found the early morning cool and despite the

pending eighty-degree afternoon, Martin had to wear a heavy robe to sit outside on the

covered patio. The patio was north facing and avoided the ravages of the desert sun.

For two years now the patio had become his refuge from the bedroom and its

emptiness. It wouldn’t take very long for him to complete his ritual today as he didn’t

have much to plan. He sat in the comfortable chair he brought with him from Denver,

turned on the television, and placed a book on the large, outside dining table. He used

a covered fire pit for his coffee . He had been surprised how much he had enjoyed the

firepit in what Tucson called winter. The warmth was welcome as evening temperatures

drove most natives inside. Perhaps because he had never really finished moving the

reminders of Denver to it, the patio lacked the scar tissue that engulfed him in other

rooms.. Thoughts would hug him, wrapping his body with feelings that alternated

between warm and cold but on the patio he seemed free. There he was also sheltered

from the wind.

Kitty seemed to know that they would not find an early morning on the patio and he was

leaving Martin alone. Somehow this cat seemed to understand him better than he did.

The sun would come up. Martin dozed back off awaiting the welcoming warmth of the

sun enthusiastically penetrating through his easterly window that he purposely leaves

uncovered. The wind stirred the trees and blew memories. The memories were

bittersweet. Martin and Karen had made a plan. Together they thought that their world

was under their control. Man plans, God laughs.

Lucy lay next to the elevator on the cold concrete floor of the basement level, which housed the vault, thinking, "am I dead? No. I can feel the floor's cold, and my head and hand hurt. Why aren't I dead?" The fog in her head started to clear. "Crap. He shot Dalton! There were more shots. Oh my God,–Brian! Where is Brian? I wasn't supposed to be here! Can I lift my head to see him? The bigger guy who knocked me down isn't looking–no, there he is. He has a mask. I can't look. I'll close my eyes."

The smell of gunfire remained. Shouts and panic flowed around her. Seconds seemed like minutes, and minutes seemed like hours. Lucy's left hand felt something sticky.

Sticky and warm. Unable to resist the urge, she turned and opened her eyes to look. She gasped as she realized Dalton's blood covered her hand. Dalton was a co-worker and part-time security guard. She remembered, "he shot Dalton, but then he hit me on the head. So why didn't he shoot me?" Lucy and Brian didn't usually work Sundays, but, short in the vault today, Lucy and her husband Brian volunteered to come in. Lucy had left her entry card in the car, so Brian had gone in first, "Where is Brian?"

Lying next to her was Dalton. She had seen Dalton around the bank but didn't know him well. His chest had a massive hole, and his blood flowed toward her. He worked in the guard room with Brian and was with the masked man as they exited the elevator. Lucy remembered passing the elevator as it opened with Dalton falling next to her, dead. She recalled a blow to the back of her head. "The alarm. I know I heard it." An alarm had gone off and then stopped. It had been quiet forever, but she remained motionless on the floor. Footsteps. She heard footsteps. They got louder. Lucy could feel the vibration on her cheek. It was the gunman. He stopped. "Is he going to kill me now?" Then continued out, leaving her on the floor. Lucy's body went limp.

After what seemed like an eternity, she gathered her thoughts. "I have to get up." She wiped the blood from her hand on her sweater. Repulsed, she removed it and wiped the blood from the rest of her arm and her blonde hair. She threw it to the ground. "The guard room. I need to get to the guard room." Moving quickly, she hesitated–her head hurt. She feared passing out again but managed to limp to the guardroom, where she opened the door to a bloody sight. Three men, one on the ground and two still in chairs sat motionless, bleeding from gunshot wounds to the face and body. The one on the floor was Brian. "Oh my God," she exclaimed as she fell to the floor and hugged his body. "He's dead! Others–are there others?" She went to the vault and pulled open the door that sat ajar. "No one here." A noise from an adjacent room distracted her. The door was locked, but there were people behind it. She pounded on the door, and the noise stopped. "I need to get help."

Running now, she stumbled through the underground tunnels toward the exit. As she opened the door to daylight, an officer tackled her. The two-hundred-pound male police officer grabbed her and held her down. "There are people inside," Lucy screamed. She could feel the cold rain starting to soak through her blouse. Officers poured past her into

the building. There she was handcuffed and placed in the back of a patrol car. Sobbing, she passed out.

In the Dulles Airport club room, Ray Payton sat in a comfortable club chair overlooking

the tarmac as he reviewed his notes. Violent thunderstorms passing through the

Washington, D.C. area had delayed his flight by at least another hour. Hours earlier,

Ray had been in the comfort of a conference room in the Alexandria country estate of

possibly the country's wealthiest person and a member of The Four. This cabal of four

men held more wealth and power than imaginable. The public might recognize their

names, but the public would never know them by "The Four," as they were referred to

by the few that ever reached this inner circle. Each of The Four had deep roots in the

Confederacy. One was a descendant of a leader in the Wilmington Massacre, another

to the founding of the Klan, the third to the founding of the John Birch Society, and the

fourth controlled a considerable portion of the nation's media. Their fortunes were

created from holdings of southern pine lumber, paper mills, shipping, and cotton.

No household in America–and few overseas–lacked products from companies they

owned or controlled. There were times when their power was exposed, and public

opinion swayed against them, but with their control of the media, The Four knew they

could quickly create a contrived crisis that would distract the public, leaving themselves

as old news. Over time, they diversified holdings from consumers to the government

and media.

In addition to newspapers, radio, and television stations, they controlled all supply

sourcing to the numerous southern military bases. Their fortunes grew with the help of

questionable foreign entanglements and a growing interest in outsourced services to the

military, their involvement sheltered by the hundreds if not thousands, of media outlets

they controlled. No market lacked local television, radio stations, and newspapers,

which they owned or controlled with extensive advertising dollars, weaving a massive

web of influence. And their power was not simply economic. Their dollars owned

politicians of the highest level. Bills could only pass Congress with their approval. They

even owned the current President, who contacted them regularly through

intermediaries.

Ray Payton was unique. The Four trusted few people, but Ray had an essential role in

their organization. He was their fixer. He first encountered The Four as an

undistinguished Southern lawyer. Against all odds, he had caught their attention with his

audacity in bringing a suit against Charles Snow, one of The Four. That encounter

resulted in Ray obtaining a position in their organization and eventually reaching his

current level. In exchange, The Four now owned him, paying him well to implement the

ideas of The Four while maintaining the plausible deniability of the principals.

Ray was good at his job. Ray was also a loner. He had no family, and moving from

South Carolina to Washington, D.C. left him with few friends. He was forced to

discreetly remain vague about his employers, even with his few acquaintances. In times

of introspection, he would be ambivalent: "I have won the game, but so what? I went

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into law to help people and wound up helping the wrong people. I'm successful but can

never share it with anyone anyway, so what's the point?"

Ray had been in that conference room dozens of times for meetings; however, this

meeting was different. As he sat and listened, Ray could hardly believe what he was

hearing. Ray had worked for The Four for approximately six years and had never heard

of such a plan. "Are they panicking?" he asked himself. He also knew enough never to

question a member of The Four.

He sat by himself, examining his yellow pad repeatedly as he shook his head. "This is

amazing. They didn't like the results of recent elections, but this," Ray shook his head,

"If they were only influencing an election! This is even more than I could have

imagined." For the first time, he considered expressing concerns to The Four regarding

their tactics but instead allowed his body language to convey his displeasure. Today,

Ray drafted a memo to Charles Snow, one of The Four, indicating that he thought they

were going too far. What if their attempt to sabotage the election failed? Who was going

to take the fall? Worst of all, if his concerns were met with anger, making The Four

angry was not a good career move, so he worded his concerns carefully. The Four

wanted him to find someone capable of completing their task, but the risk! "I wonder

what they will do with him afterward–or if he fails?"

Ray knew there was only one person he wanted for this job. Ray had worked with

Thomas Jamison for years--there would be no second choice. Jamison was uniquely

qualified and could be completely trusted to accomplish this task. Their relationship

began years ago when Ray identified a nearly messianic quality in a physically

unassuming individual who possessed a hunger to "return America to those who

deserve it." Following his discharge from the Army, Ray tested him by helping finance a

faux military compound in rural Arizona. He recruited other zealots, trained them, and

readied them for the revolution. He proved his military skills and loyalty in the gruesome

demolition of his compound, murdering all except the most loyal. Ray would give him

information on a "need-to-know" basis without revealing the complete plan, nor would

Jamison demand it.

Virtually no one knew Thomas Jamison by his name; he was only known as Truth. At

five foot four, one hundred twenty-five pounds, and with long dirty blonde hair pulled

back into a ponytail, he was not physically impressive; however, this was offset by

piercing black eyes that penetrated deep into one's psyche. Some aptly observed that

Truth did not walk into a room; instead, he floated. When Truth spoke, a mystical force

took control, and no one who had ever lived to tell, would question his authority. What

he said was the truth. Ray watched for two years as Truth developed his followers into a

well-organized militia despite having to raise most of the money on his own and was

sure that The Four recognized the asset they had in Truth. After some poorly executed

missions from a larger compound, The Four unceremoniously ordered the destruction of

the Arizona compound, bringing Truth to Michigan and entirely into their fold. There,

Truth inherited a fully funded organization offering more opportunities for Truth, whose

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desires perfectly intertwined with The Four's. Again, Truth flourished and climbed to the

highest level of their trust.

"Truth may be the only person who can accomplish this," Ray thought. He recalled Truth

shooting out the front tire of a speeding car one hundred yards away. "Tomorrow

morning, I'll be sitting across from him. It should be interesting. Truth has been

preparing for this all of his life. But, of course, if it doesn't work, there will be no more life

for him." Ray closed his notebook. "I hope they are right. Truth is more than capable;

however, he also can be a lone wolf. I remember the missions he did in South Carolina.

He's a survivor. He will look after himself."