by Glenn Beck
While Landers worked exclusively within North America, his colleagues had sat across similar tables all around the globe. They’d watched this same moment of truth dawn upon a hundred self-styled luminaries: Hussein, Qaddafi, Chávez, Kim, Duvalier, Mugabe, Karimov, Amin, Shwe, al-Bashir, al-Assad, Mubarak, Thein Sein, Afewerki, Biya, Zenawi, Ahmadinejad, Castro, Assad, Déby, Obiang, Museveni, Lukashenko—as the wheels of progress turned year by year the puppet list grew longer.
There’d been a real piece of work in Gambia who insisted on being addressed as His Excellency Sheikh Professor Alhaji Dr. Yahya Abdul-Azziz Jemus Junkung Jammeh. That hubris was short-lived indeed. Behind closed doors this one now answers simply to Hadji, and he’s learned to accept this private mockery without objection. To such a man the reward for giving up his dignity was worth that small price paid. In return for doing as he was told he got to dress up like a real head of state, parade around in a long limousine, and indulge in his unique perversions with reckless abandon. And, if he continued to play his cards just right, he would also get to die in office of old age.
Obviously not everyone has the right stuff, both to get on board and then to ride to the end of the line. It remained to be seen on which side of the ledger the name of today’s candidate would be written.
“Now then, George,” Landers said, “what will it be? Death in obscurity, or an excellent chance to attain all your goals simply by playing a minor role in mine?”
Outside, that growing storm in the northern sky had nearly arrived and a low roll of thunder filled the silence as Pierce considered what his answer would be. To his credit, his deliberation didn’t last very long.
“What is it that you want me to do?”
Landers smiled, replaced his glasses on his nose, and opened his folder once again. “First, you need to call back the men you’ve sent after Molly Ross. She’s in our thoughts, believe me, but we’re going to let her go for now.”
After a seething moment George Pierce looked up at the guard beside him, who’d long since seen which way the wind was blowing and quietly reholstered his gun. Pierce gave a nod to pass along the order, and when the man had left he looked across the table again with something like respect in his eyes. Close enough for today, in any case.
“And what next?”
“What next?” Landers said. “Next, Mr. Pierce, we’re going to spit upon our hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.”
Chapter 9
In a sudden swoon of vertigo Thom Hollis snapped wide awake with a start, heart pounding, drenched in a frigid sweat and clutching the quilted comforter like a slick lifeline. His throat was raw and his breathing labored, and though he felt all these physical things and knew that the warm, darkened room around him must be real, it still took the solemn march of several seconds before he could assure himself he was alive.
With the heavy curtains drawn there was just enough daylight seeping in to gauge the proportions of a large guest suite and trace the outlines of unfamiliar furniture. A silent figure stood backlit in the doorway with what appeared to be a basket in its hands.
“Who is that?”
“You called out just before,” came the quiet answer. “You’re safe now. Your friend Molly and all the others are okay, too.”
Bedside lamps lit with the click of a wall switch and the woman who’d been standing there came into the room. The wicker basket she held was filled with pressed and folded clothes, and she placed it on a low dresser, pulled out a wide drawer, opened a closet, and began to put away the laundry.
“You’ll have to pardon me, ma’am—but who are you, and where am I?”
She spoke to him as she worked. Her tone was genuinely pleasant, though hued with the good-natured patience of one who was explaining something very simple for the second time around.
“I’m Cathy Merrick. This is my dad’s place. This is your room, and these are your clothes—the tatters you wore when you got here, along with some other things I figured might just fit you. The rest of the family met you for a few minutes yesterday night. In the state you all were in, I guess I’m not too surprised if you don’t remember.”
But he did remember, vaguely. The face reflected in the dresser mirror was handsome and mature, with clear brown eyes that seemed subtly amused by some unshared thought just behind them. These features were framed with dark brown hair that fell easily around her shoulders. A wisp of mid-thirties premature gray played here and there, along with the sort of highlights the sun would have left throughout a life lived in the great outdoors.
She looked more familiar, in fact, than his own more distant image alongside her in the glass. The man there looked quite thin and substantially younger than he felt, all due to the extra weight he’d gradually lost over their long winter on the run. He touched his cheek—the skin was clean-shaven for the first time in years.
“Oh, that reminds me.” She came over to sit next to him, then took his chin to turn the far side of his face toward the nearest lamp. “You’ve got a cut here at the jawline that probably should have had a couple of stitches a few days ago.” As he moved to feel the spot she stopped his hand with a gentle smack, as one might correct a greedy child about to take another cookie out of turn. “Just leave it be; we’ll see how it heals. I had to shave that part to treat the laceration, and then you looked kind of funny that way, so I took off the rest.”
She must have noticed he was fixating again on his transfigured face in the mirror across the room. “For heaven’s sake, that bushy old beard’ll grow back if you want it to. And you told me you didn’t mind; you were talking to me all friendly just like you were downtown with the boys at the barbershop.”
“I hope I didn’t say anything I should be ashamed of.”
“Oh no, you were quite the complimentary gentleman, even if you weren’t strictly conscious. Exhaustion and running yourself half starved for weeks on end begins to play some havoc with the mind.” She looked at him, with the slightest frown on her face. “You really can’t recall?”
He shook his head, then pushed himself up through some sharp aches and pains to sit back against the headboard. “I don’t even remember getting into this bed.”
“Last night, while I was looking after some of the others, the men came to let me know you’d fallen asleep in the shower. So, we cleaned you up real good and dried you off and I found something for you to sleep in, and then we put you down for the night.” She checked the clock on the wall. “That was about twenty hours ago.”
He felt his face getting red. “You all got me dressed?”
She smiled at him, took his wrist, found the pulse, and turned her head aside again so she could watch the second hand as she counted the beats. “I was married for eleven years, I’m a rancher’s only daughter in a family of nine, and I’ve been called upon to patch up farmhands and cowpokes since I was a teenager. Don’t you worry, Mr. Hollis, you can rest assured I came across no undiscovered country.”
“Try as I might, I’m finding little solace there.”
“Do you have a headache at all?” Now she was running her hands over his unkempt hair, as though checking for signs of an unreported blow to the skull.
“No.”
“The boys tell me that you fainted out there, when they found you.”
“I wouldn’t put it like that, exactly. Just let myself get stretched too thin, I guess, and the burden got the better of me.”
“And they also said that even after that you insisted on walking back into the woods all alone to bring out your people.”
Hollis nodded, though much of the memory was there only in bits and pieces.
“This loss of consciousness, has anything like that ever happened before?”
“I’ve had a . . .” He sought the proper words for a moment. “Since I got back from the war I’ve had a bad spell or two. Hadn’t happened in years, though. They told me that stress could bring it on. And I guess I’m just not as young as I used to be.”
&nb
sp; She frowned a bit, and the transition from casual conversation to thinly disguised bedside exam was smooth and professional. As she continued he answered her questions and complied with each prompt and instruction, following her moving finger with his eyes, extending his arms and touching his nose, pressing against her outstretched palms with his own when so directed.
“Do you feel any nausea, or dizziness?”
“No, I don’t.”
A young lady arrived with a small wooden tray of fruit, bread, sliced cheese, and a tall glass of water. She handed the food to Cathy Merrick, the two exchanged some quiet words, and then the girl left again the way she’d come.
“Mom thought you’d be hungry,” Cathy said, “but don’t eat too much too fast.” She rearranged some things, slid the tray onto the nightstand within his reach, and then walked over to the window. “You missed lunch already, so some of that can tide you over until dinnertime. Now, are you ready to see some sunshine?”
“I think I am.”
She pulled the heavy outer drapes aside to the edges of a large bay window behind them, then drew the inner curtains by their braided cord. “There you go,” Cathy said. “That’s the best view we’ve got.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll send Tyler by to see you when you’ve had time to take care of your necessities.” She retrieved her basket and started for the door. “He’s my son, and he’ll walk you around the place a bit, just so you can get your legs underneath you again.”
Hollis was so absorbed in the magnificent view of the grounds beyond the window that he managed only a slow, inadequate nod in answer to her question. “Thank you,” he heard himself repeat after a while longer, though when he glanced her way he found she’d already slipped out by then to leave him to his thoughts.
Chapter 10
Though his sleep had been troubled, it had served its purpose. After such a lengthy day of rest, in fact, Hollis felt he might never need another.
When the escort Cathy Merrick had offered failed to arrive in due time he decided to venture out on his own.
The hallway was spacious and meticulously rustic, all hardwoods and polish with native art hung here and there and simple Shaker furnishings. An old grandfather clock stood watch in a narrow alcove. Next to the clock was an oil painting of some stern pioneer who’d survived Red Cloud’s War only to be reluctantly captured in canvas and hung up in a gilded frame.
At the far end of the hall the space opened out into a soaring log-framed atrium with several cozy sitting areas, well-stocked bookshelves, and a massive fieldstone fireplace that easily spanned twelve feet from end to end. This all engendered a homespun, welcoming atmosphere that nevertheless carried more the feel of a fine country hotel than a private residence.
He found Molly’s suite near the corner. The door had been left half open; she was seated at a mirrored vanity near the far wall, facing away, wrapped in a woolly plaid dressing gown. Two older women attended to her, one fixing her hair in a braided ponytail while the other held her hands and finessed a long-neglected manicure. They didn’t notice him as they fussed and smiled and spoke among themselves, and he didn’t interrupt. For the moment he knew all he needed to; she was fine.
When Hollis looked to the atrium again he saw a young man of maybe sixteen years, sitting off alone in the corner of the large space. He was slumped down in a reclining posture, feet up on the burl-oak slab of a coffee table, completely absorbed in the content of an animated screen in his hands. On the assumption that this was the boy assigned to be his guide, he walked over and sat nearby.
“Are you Tyler?”
“Hold on.”
The big-screen cell phone the boy was interacting with was more visible from this distance. He was playing a game, it appeared, dragging and tapping with a finger to slingshot cartoon birds toward a series of breakable structures.
Hollis watched and waited through another similar level or two, and then, seeing no intent in the boy to stop what he was doing, he got up to leave. “I don’t mean to be a bother,” he said. “I can show myself around.”
“Jesus, just a second,” the boy huffed. “I’ll be right with you, okay?” He sighed and went through a quick procedure to save his progress and put the device into standby. “She told me to give you the tour, so I’d better give you the tour. I really don’t need my mom any further up my ass today.”
The impulse to apply a swift discipline to another person’s offspring had rarely been stronger, but for a couple of weak reasons Hollis simply took a deep, cleansing breath and put it aside. Despite the boy’s offhanded discourtesy to his absent mother, Hollis was reluctant to spoil his still-sunny mood by calling out the offense. Also, he was a guest, and it might test the bounds of hospitality to start a conversation that could easily end in a headlock. So he let it pass and only followed as the boy tucked away his phone and walked on ahead.
“If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble for you,” Hollis said.
“Don’t get too excited, bro,” Tyler replied. “There’s not that much to see.”
• • •
The most expensive home in America is not in New York, or Honolulu, or Beverly Hills, but in Wyoming. This wasn’t that home, Tyler was quick to note, but the once-humble Merrick ranch was regularly in and out of the top ten whenever such lists were compiled.
As they walked, through a series of one-word answers and bored descriptions from his guide Hollis was gradually able to glean a better understanding of the place and the people who lived there.
The boy’s ancestors had made their substantial fortune in cattle, mineral rights, and various speculations. Since frontier times no part of the estate had ever left the family’s hands. Today the spread was best known as an upscale dude ranch and a twelve-thousand-acre training facility for working horses and their riders. The roster of regular clients included people of all stripes, from reclusive billionaires and celebrities to national rodeo stars. There was also a long waiting list of normal-Joe vacationers who might save up for years in order to flee their teeming cities for a few precious weeks of a saner, simpler life.
These days the lion’s share of any profits quietly went toward charitable endeavors. Throughout the summer the ranch played host to a number of youth retreats from service groups, and no child’s request from the Make-A-Wish Foundation had ever been denied.
The guest annex where Hollis and the other new arrivals were staying was of relatively new construction. On the private side of the atrium the original house had been built around, added to, and augmented with modern conveniences. Most of the growing lineage of the Merrick family made their home in those quarters, and they all made their living off the land. Tyler’s great-grandmother, in fact, still stayed in the rooms she’d shared with her late husband back when this place was still just a small, hand-built outpost in the heart of a lot of rugged, untamed land.
The ranch was normally closed to guests during the harsh winter season, and without much public explanation it had remained closed well beyond that time this year.
This is where Tyler Merrick’s understanding of the recent goings-on became sketchy and incomplete. Whatever was currently happening, the details were being guarded and shared on a need-to-know basis, and evidently there was a lot he didn’t need to know. Still, he seemed to have a sense that something slightly unlawful might be afoot this week. While that clearly didn’t trouble his morals he seemed very curious as to the clandestine nature of these latest guests.
It turned out that Tyler was new to these surroundings himself. His parents had finally split up after a long separation and sold their house in Albuquerque as the assets were divided. His mother, Cathy, had left her life as a successful graphic artist, moved back to her childhood home, reclaimed her maiden name for them both, and dragged her son along into this socially barren wilderness to start all over again.
While the boy had met these relatives over the years he’d never imagined he’d one day be living with them. Thoug
h he didn’t say so, despite any warm welcomes it would be hard for even a well-adjusted teenager in such a spot to feel like anything but an outsider.
The tour concluded at a small wooden pier on the lakefront, and they went to the end and sat down on its edge to rest. Having now walked a bit of the grounds, as far as Hollis could see it was all as picturesque as it had seemed through his window. But more striking than the view itself was how these surroundings made him feel. For the first time in months he found he could look at the horizon with no dread of what might soon be storming over it.
He heard a distracted, private laugh next to him, and Hollis glanced that way and leaned to read what was on the screen. He was so alarmed by what he saw that he nearly knocked the boy into the lake as he snatched the phone from his hands and canceled the entry before it could be sent.
Tyler’s immediate verbal reaction went quiet in mid-profanity. Even if he didn’t know what he’d almost done, it seemed by the look on his face that he knew he was in trouble.
“I’m sorry—”
“I’m afraid sorry’s just not gonna cut it,” Hollis said. “Your folks told you we were lying low here, didn’t they? And you know what that means, don’t you?”
“I said I was sorry. God, I didn’t mean anything—”
“What you typed was Showing some hilbilly around the farm. Somebody please shoot me.” Hollis put the deactivated device into one of his pockets and its battery into another. “First off, you need to be careful what you wish for. Second, there are four l’s in hillbilly. And third, I imagine the reason your mother is up your backside so often, as you say, is because she damn well needs to be. Every year you get older, the mistakes you can make get bigger, and the consequences get harder to survive.”
