by Paul Heatley
At the top of the stairs, they come out into the kitchen. Linda, Michael’s wife, is at the counter, making herself a coffee. She smiles at them as they file through. Michael goes to her, and she kisses his cheek.
“How you doin’, Linda?” Harry says.
“Good as ever,” Linda says. “Y’all doin’ well?”
“That coffee sure smells good,” Ronald says.
“Just brewed it up fresh. You wanna cup?”
“Nah, best not,” Ronald says, looking like he already regrets his decision not to partake. “I’d best be on my way.”
“Same here,” Peter says, pulling open the back door. “I’ll talk to y’all later.” He leaves, closely followed by Ronald. Michael and Harry exchange a look; then Harry gives Linda a brief embrace, says his goodbyes, and makes his own exit.
“What was up with him?” Linda says, drinking.
“Who?” Michael says, though he’s sure he already knows.
“The Terminator.”
Michael shrugs it off for now, just says, “He’s got some stuff on his mind. He’s pissed off Anthony got away.”
“Mm.” Linda nods, like she’s just as annoyed. “How was the meeting? Make any progress?”
“Not particularly.” He tells her what they talked about, though doesn’t go into his potential suspicions regarding Peter’s brother.
Linda takes a seat at the kitchen table, still listening. She nods along with what he says, occasionally drinks her coffee. When he finishes, she says, “You’ll find the son of a bitch. One way or another. No one can run forever, and he can only hide like a coward for so long.”
“Could take us years.”
“Could do, but you’ll never forget. I know what you’re like, all of you. Y’all won’t give up. You’ll track him to the ends of the earth if you gotta. But let’s be honest here, Michael. You killed his woman and his mongrel baby in one fell swoop. You really think he ain’t gonna try to come back here? Right now, he’s lying low, healing up, but you gotta believe he’s gonna return eventually, try some shit.”
“That’s true.”
“So it’s unlikely that, in time, you’re gonna have to look all that hard.”
Michael smiles at her. “We’ll just let him come to us.”
“Exactly. Just always be ready for him.”
“Hell, you know me,” he says, leaning down to kiss her. “I’m always ready.”
6
Peter doesn’t go straight home. He goes to see Steve.
There’s a reason Peter is known as Terminator and his brother is known as Skinny. Even before Peter started pumping steroids into himself, he’d always had the better genetics. Taller and broader, he’s almost twice the size of Steve. He’s more committed to the cause, too. Steve is in the life, sure, but he’s never really been a part of it. Peter knows it, and he knows the others know it, too. Steve commits only half-heartedly. If it weren’t for Peter keeping him in line, keeping him in the ranks, he’d have tried to get out years ago.
Steve is at home. He always is. Doesn’t look too surprised to see his brother when he answers the door. “Hey,” he says. “You need somethin’?”
“I was nearby,” Peter says. “Just thought I’d stop in, see how you’re doin’.”
Steve’s eyes narrow at this. “Somethin’ up?”
“I need a reason?”
“I guess not, but you usually show up with one.”
“You gonna invite me in, or leave me standing out here in the cold?”
Steve steps aside, opens the door wider. “It’s hardly cold,” he says. He walks through the house, heads to the back where his bedroom is. Peter follows. Steve spends most of his time in his room. On his computer. Video games and message boards – this is his life. When Peter reaches the door, sees that Steve has settled back down into his computer chair, he can’t help but roll his eyes. Steve resumes his paused computer game, as if his older brother weren’t here.
“You can’t leave that alone for five minutes?” Peter says.
“I can,” Steve says. “If you ask me to.”
“I’m asking you.”
Steve keeps playing. Blasts a few more space aliens; then he hits pause. He swivels the chair around so he can see Peter, lets his hands dangle down into his lap.
Peter looks him over. Everything about him lives up to his nickname. His arms and legs are like sticks. His stomach is concave. Peter is pretty sure he could wrap one hand all the way around his neck.
“Well?” Steve says.
“Oughtta get you out to the gym with me,” Peter says.
“That it?” Steve sounds exasperated. “You came here, get me to pause my game, all so you can tell me somethin’ you’ve told me a million times before.”
“That ain’t why I came out here,” Peter says. He’s trying to be casual, though he knows he carries an air of menace with him no matter how he is trying to act. It has been commented on many times by many people – friends, girlfriends, family. “I’m just making a little conversation first is all, see how you are.”
“As you can see, I’m fine and dandy.”
“You look pale and sickly.”
“Don’t feel it. That’s just how you see the world, Pete, ’cause the rest of us don’t always look like you.”
“You gonna leave the house at all today, or are you just gonna sit in here and play your little video games?”
Steve shrugs. “Ain’t decided yet. I might need to pick up some groceries, so I might go out to get them later. As far as anything else goes, no, I ain’t got any plans. Besides, you need me here. For my frequent customers. They need me here, too. They’re probably gonna start showing up any minute now – you should stick around, check a couple of them out. Then you’ll see what pale and sickly really looks like.”
“I ain’t gonna wait around to check out any junkies.”
Steve laughs. “That’s a sight of weakness you just can’t tolerate.”
Peter feels his lip curling. Steve is the only person who can get away with talking to him like this. Anyone else would have been warned by now. Anyone pisses him off too much, they swiftly get a punch in the face. Not too many people piss him off, and certainly not on purpose.
“Listen, I’m here to talk about Anthony,” Peter says, getting to the point.
The humor goes out of Steve’s face. He runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth, over his teeth, causing his lips to bulge. “What about him?”
“You were close with him, weren’t you? He spent most of his time here, with you, dealing.”
“So? That was the job you and the rest of the council gave him. It wasn’t my decision.”
“But you spent a lot of time with him. You probably talked a lot, found stuff in common, had private jokes, all that kinda shit.”
Steve shrugs, repeats, “So?”
“You consider him a friend?”
Steve runs his tongue over his teeth again, stares off to the side. Peter is pleased by the expression on his face – it doesn’t look happy. It looks pissed off. Betrayed. “I guess I did. But now he’s just another race traitor.”
Peter nods, but tries not to let his satisfaction show too much. “He’s still alive.”
“I know. I heard.”
“You know how he’s still alive?”
“Cops showed up before y’all could finish the job.”
“Word’s spread.”
“It’s a big story.”
“But how’d the cops know where to find us? That’s the bigger story. Someone must’ve called them. Told them where we’d likely be, how to find us.”
“Could be. Maybe y’all just got unlucky; it was a random patrol.”
Peter shakes his head. “They came straight for us, lights flashing, sirens blasting. They were looking for us. Nothin’ unlucky about it.”
Steve looks at him, his face impassive.
“Was it you?” Peter says.
Steve’s eyes narrow; he gets belligerent. “You fuc
kin’ kidding me right now?”
“I gotta be sure.”
“You wanna be sure? Then I’ll tell you what you do – you go find that motherfucker, bring him back here, and I’ll put a bullet through his head my own damn self.” He stares, defiant. Peter notices how his fists have closed.
Peter tries to stare him down, see how well he holds it. Steve doesn’t back down. Peter isn’t entirely convinced, but he feels better than he did when he first got here.
“All right, then,” he says. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“You bring him to me, you ain’t gonna have to take my word,” Steve says, still flaring. Looks like he’s ready to spit, but they’re indoors. “I’ll show you.”
Peter checks the time. “I gotta go,” he says.
Steve takes a deep breath through his nose, settles back, calms himself. “Work?”
“That’s right.” Peter is a doorman. The bar is mostly frequented by supremacists and allies. On occasion a black or a Latino will wander in, not understanding the situation, but they quickly get the lay of the land, drink up and leave.
Moreover, the bar is unofficially owned by the Right Arm. It cleans their money, the money they make from the likes of Steve, and many others dotted around the town of Harrow, selling drugs.
Peter straightens up. He looks at his brother one last time before he leaves, like he can find the truth of his questions in one final glance, like it will be written upon him, or on the walls. Steve has been convincing today, but convincing enough? Peter isn’t so sure. Perhaps he’s blinded. This man is his brother. If it was one of the others – Michael, or Harry, or Ronald – would they feel the same way? Or would they see straight through him, know whether he was telling the truth or lies?
“I’m out of here,” he says.
“Have a good night,” Steve says. “I won’t walk you out. You know the way.”
7
Tom has reached New Mexico, still has a few hours to go before he reaches his father’s home. All the way out of Arizona, he’s felt sick. Can’t shake the feeling that something bad has happened.
If Anthony’s gotten himself into trouble, it won’t be the first time Tom has had to pull him out of it, clean up his mess. Growing up, their whole lives, Anthony always seemed able to find mischief, to fall in with the wrong crowd, or to simply piss off the wrong people. And every single time, Tom has been there for him. Tom has talked down the angry shop owner Anthony was caught stealing from. He’s paid bail, he’s paid fines, and he’s kicked ass on more than one occasion.
Way more than one occasion.
There are scars on his body that rightfully belong to his brother.
What concerns Tom the most this time around is the presence of Alejandra. She’s mostly been a calming influence in Anthony’s life, or at least so Tom believed. If he’s been falling back into old habits, this worries Tom. With Alejandra so close to him, has she been dragged into it?
She’s pregnant, though … surely Anthony wouldn’t be so stupid? He wouldn’t put himself, or her, at risk when they have a child on the way.
Right?
Tom puts the radio on, trying to distract himself. The news is on. Senator Seth Goldberg talking about his anti-oil bill again; then the airwaves are filled with the voices of his detractors. The DJ takes calls from people, both for and opposed, and Tom can’t take it as they spit their vitriol, whichever side of the fence they’re on. He turns the radio off, thinks about putting in one of his CDs, decides against it. Decides instead to just drive in silence. The noise wasn’t helping anyway, just making things worse.
He remembers the last time he visited Anthony and Alejandra, down in Texas. It had been a while back, maybe half a year, still a while before he’d made the decision to go AWOL. Remembers how the atmosphere in their home had been fraught, how something had seemed off, like their smiles and their laughter were forced. It felt like they were worried about something, something they were keeping hidden from him. He’d asked them, enough times, if everything was all right, but they just kept nodding, kept forcing their smiles, and assured him that yes, everything was fine, never better.
One thing he’d picked up on was the way Anthony kept checking his phone. He tried to be sly about it, to slide it out of his pocket and hide it behind his thigh while he regularly inspected the screen, but Tom noticed. Whoever it was, Anthony didn’t respond much. Only once or twice. He kept looking, though. It got to a point, eventually, where it felt like he was eager for Tom to leave, like Anthony all of a sudden had somewhere he needed to be.
He remembers how they saw him off, Alejandra walking him to the door while Anthony held back, checking his phone again. “It’s been lovely to see you, Tom,” she said. She smiled at him, and it was the first time that day it had felt genuine, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but notice how tinged with sadness it appeared.
“It’s been good to see you too,” he said. He had the Santa Muerte pendant on him, wearing it like a necklace so she could see it. It had been a gift from her. To keep him safe.
Alejandra hesitated then, looked back inside the house, searching for Anthony, checking if he was approaching. She turned back to Tom, opened her mouth, hesitated again, as if she wanted to say something but was afraid to do so.
“What?” Tom said, trying to encourage her. “It’s fine, tell me.” He looked into the house over her shoulder, saw Anthony was nowhere in sight. “It’ll be just between the two of us if you like. I won’t tell him anything you don’t want me to.”
She hesitated further, too long, and then Anthony was beside her. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Just a friend, he needs a favor.”
Tom nodded along, though he didn’t believe a word of it. “Sure.”
“Well, it’s been good to see you, bro,” Anthony said, sending him on his way. “Don’t be such a stranger, huh?”
“Well, I can’t promise that,” Tom said. “But I’ll be sure to be here when the baby’s born.”
Alejandra cupped her stomach, then reached out and embraced him. “Stay safe,” she said, into his ear.
For a moment, Tom can feel her breath again, speaking those words in his ear, tickling his lobe. He grits his teeth.
They were in Texas. Why would Anthony now be with their father in New Mexico, and why no mention of Alejandra? Have they split up, is that why Tom has been summoned? He doubts it’s anything as banal as this. He can’t imagine why he would be drawn into a domestic squabble between his brother and his pregnant girlfriend.
Tom doesn’t know what it is, why he’s needed, and he won’t know until he reaches his father. Until then, his mind will continue to race, to imagine ever new and worrying scenarios that flip his stomach, tighten his throat.
Earlier in his journey, when his thoughts became too much, he pulled over, tried to call his father. There was no answer. Jeffrey’s burner phone rang out. He left it to ring out. This made Tom feel worse. He hasn’t tried to call again.
He wants to get there sooner, as fast as he can, but he can’t speed. Has to maintain a low profile. Can’t run the risk of being pulled over, for being caught over something as stupid as a speeding ticket. Especially not now. Especially not when he has such a bad feeling about why his father and his brother might need him.
8
Special Agent Ben Fitzgerald sits in the office of Supervisory Special Agent Jake Lofton and bites down on the inside of his cheek. It’s an old habit, a nervous habit, goes all the way back to when he was a child. He chews and he chews, the wet flesh there getting all tattered and frayed, the taste of blood filling his mouth. The way he’s felt after recent events, he’s amazed he hasn’t chewed a hole right through.
Jake Lofton wants to talk all about the recent events. “Did you hear what the papers are calling it?”
Ben releases the bloodied cheek from between his teeth long enough to say, “No.”
“They’re calling it a Night of the Long Knives style purging,” Jake says, raising his eye
brows. “I’ve seen them literally call it that, Part Two. You believe that?”
Ben shrugs one shoulder. “I suppose it’s fitting.”
The two men are stationed in the Dallas field office, but what happened extends further than just Texas. It hit New Mexico, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and Arizona, too. Twelve men and women killed in one night, each one of them undercover with various neo-Nazi cells. Their details leaked, seemingly from within the FBI itself. No one else could have had this knowledge.
The various cells acted fast, each one independent of the other. If they’d known they were going to make such a big noise in one night, in five different states, it’s questionable whether they still would have gone ahead. On Jake’s desk and in Ben’s lap are the names of the twelve men and women killed. It doesn’t say how they died, but Ben knows. Knows that if he looks at this name, they were set on fire. This one was shot through the head. This one had their hands cut off, then their throat slit. One of them was Jewish. She was crucified.
Two names are missing from the list, though. Jake is unaware of them, but Ben knows them. Hasn’t been able to stop thinking about them.
Anthony Rollins and Alejandra Flores.
He doesn’t know where Anthony is now, but he knows exactly where Alejandra is. What happened to her haunts his dreams.
But he can’t talk about it. Not with Jake.
Jake puts his paperwork aside. “Listen,” he says, leaning forward. “Our undercovers are getting antsy – they look at this, they know it’s a leak, they’re asking themselves, What if it happens again? What if it happens to me? They want out. Half our people with white supremacist cells have already gotten out, a lot of them unofficially. They aren’t waiting around to see if this is going to turn into a national thing.”
“Can’t say I blame them,” Ben says.
“No, neither can I, but it’s still leaving us in the lurch. How many did you lose?”
“On the night, or since?”
