World at War. David T. Maddox
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primitive in computer skills. This website is solely a work of the Lord.”
“I know who can do that,” David Barnes jumped in. “Darrell Reed. He could do that in his sleep.”
“Well, wake him up,” the president directed, “and get him to whoever is in charge of this website. If believers who have been praying were also to pray for God to reveal activities or people connected with the plan, God might open their eyes and use this as a means to reveal the danger and enable us to overcome.”
“Yes, but be very careful,” the Bookseller warned with unusual bluntness. “God has been using this website to unite believers around the world in the call for America to make a decision to repent and be on the Lord’s side. It is not an intelligence effort, and if it is misused or even used for the wrong purpose, we will lose even what we have. Please don’t change your focus. Tomorrow remains the key to having God provide the answer, however it is to be provided.”
“I do understand,” the president responded respectfully, “but I believe that God may have made this website available for many reasons beyond what we now know, and that when He has accomplished what He desires, it will no longer be available. This may be part of His plan.”
“You may be right,” the Bookseller answered. “God always moves in ways that man cannot duplicate and take credit for themselves. It is always something that only He can do or can enable a person to do.”
“Mr. White, David, and Darrell are real believers. You can trust them. I will put David in charge from the government side, and he will coordinate with Darrell to get the site changed so that communication can be both ways if the others agree.”
“I need to get back, sir, and pack and prepare for today’s service,” the Bookseller said. “I will need some way to communicate with you or whoever you want me to communicate with.”
The president took a card and wrote down the number of the secured phone that never left his presence. “Here, Mr. White,” he said, handing the card to the Bookseller. “You can reach me on that number any time of the day or night. Use it. I will always take your call.”
“If you don’t mind, I am going to have David go back with you to meet with your friends about the website so that he can coordinate with Darrell and get that up and running as soon as possible — that is, if they agree it is what God would have them do.”
“That is a good idea, Mr. President. It is imperative that someone who knows what would be involved comes and explains it to the group.”
“I have one last request before you leave,” the president said. “May we pray together?” Without question, everyone stood, took hands and formed a circle, and began to pray.
Susan’s Note
Arriving at the rent house, Sally Johnson and Pete Samson forced open the door and entered what was obviously another crime scene. What they saw was reminiscent of what Special Agent Andy Samuels and his FBI strike force had encountered when they stepped into Farsi’s house, only five times worse. It appeared to be a slaughterhouse that had been stripped of anything that could provide knowledge of who lived there or what they had been doing.
“I’m calling forensics,” Samson said. “There is nothing obvious here. Maybe they can find something.”
“While you do that, I am going outside for a minute,” Sally said. “I can’t take any more of this. I have seen too much blood this week. What kinds of people are capable of such inhuman conduct? What could possibly motivate this?”
“I think you know the answer to that,” Samson replied. “You of all people should know. You encountered them at the Security Fair, College Church, and this morning at the daycare. Their hatred is beyond belief. It’s certainly not human.”
Leaving the house and finding a seemingly peaceful place among some trees in the front yard, Sally sat and cried. The impact of the past days had taken an tremendous toll on her. The killings, her friend Tom Campy’s injuries, and now Susan Stafford’s death had left her emotionally exhausted. On top of that, they were nowhere close to finding out about the larger risk of which the president had warned. She mixed her tears with prayer and was suddenly reminded of the note taken from Susan Stafford after she died. She opened the plastic bag to uncover the envelope which contained the note and began to read.
If you have found this note, then hopefully by God’s grace I am dead, and hopefully, I died better than I lived. My life was a waste. I was evil and cruel beyond human imagination; cold and uncaring until my eyes were opened to the truth of what I had become and I screamed in horror at myself.
I WAS the one you called the Williams’ shooter. I am solely responsible for all the hurt, injury and death, and am without excuse. I deserve the cruelest punishment and death ever devised for what I did, and I know what that is. It is crucifixion. I deserve to die that way.
I cannot change what I did, or I would. I am so sorry now for the pain and anguish I have caused. I am unworthy of anyone’s forgiveness, so I will not even ask.
I have one request. In the upper left drawer of my desk, you will find a journal written by two very different authors. It chronicles the horror story as a daily diary from the day my evil plans were conceived to the day before you find this note. In it, you will learn of pure evil confronted and hopefully changed forever. It is a story that those who have suffered at my hand need to hear, and those who have been evil like me need to read. I said that there were two authors; I believe the journal will make clear how that could be.
I ask that my journal be given to the Bookseller, to whom I surrender all rights so that it can someday be published. I wish for every dime made to be distributed to care for those I have injured, for the spouses of those I killed, and for their children through some kind of entity headed by Sally Johnson, who held out her hand to me in friendship. It does not in any way resolve what I have done, but it is all I can do. Again — I am so sorry.
Susan Stafford
The tears became a torrent as Sally held the note and wondered how this could be. After taking a moment to collect herself, she placed the note securely back in the plastic bag and returned to the house. “Pete, we have to leave here right now and get to Susan Stafford’s house as soon as we can. There is something there we have to get — now.”
“What are you talking about? This is a crime scene; the place where the terrorists lived. The forensic team hasn’t even gotten here yet!” Samson responded in disbelief.
“Pete, shut up and give me the keys to the car. I’ll drive, and you read this,” she said handing him the note. “Then you will understand.”
Grumbling under his breath, he threw Sally the keys and followed her into the car. Just as the forensic team arrived, they were on their way, siren blazing.
Chapter 3
A Truly Lasting Memorial
Thursday, February 14–MD minus 25 days
Oblivious to what was going on beneath the surface, Dr. Janice Girds continued with final preparations for a special posthumous presentation. They were to honor Abdul Farsi as the teacher hero of the Security Fair at Thursday night’s American Teachers Society’s opening banquet. The conference would be dedicated to his memory in honor of his sacrifice.
“What a significant opportunity we have been given to raise the public’s perception of a teacher’s love for his students. We must also see this as an opportunity to attack the president’s insane perception that we are at war with all Arabs and Muslims,” Girds declared to the executive committee gathered to review the final program. “We have a message to send to the American people, and for once we should have an audience to hear. Two of the major networks have agreed to cover the presentation. Tonight is our night.”
“Be careful not to make this overtly political,” Sandra