by P A Duncan
“Can you stay?” he asked, as she repacked the unloaded gun in the case. “I mean, sometimes you can pick things up by watching someone else.”
“Sure. I have plenty of time.”
His shooting was impressive, effortless, and showed his long years of practice. Mai wished he’d brought a rifle, too; she wanted to assess his acumen as a sniper.
An assassination? Someone involved with Killeen? No. That was over too quickly. It was too small a gesture to be symbolic. It didn’t fit the mold of The Turner Diaries.
When he finished, Carroll folded their targets as souvenirs and asked her to have a coffee with him.
The two cops had left, and she and Carroll were the only patrons of the shop. Carroll went to the barista, and Mai sat at a small table near a window. Carroll soon brought a tray with two mugs and two muffins. They drank some coffee and nibbled at the muffins in silence.
“Where’s your work located?” Carroll asked her.
“Boston. Well, Cambridge. The people who run the charity let me stay in a small apartment above the office. I work in exchange for free rent.” She made a point of glancing around and lowered her voice. “As you’ve guessed, I’m not here at the auspices of your INS.”
“That wasn’t too hard to figure out. Are you in a safe part of town?”
“Near Harvard. I’ve never had problems, but if I did, it’s not like I could call the coppers.”
He looked away from her, the muscles in his jaw working.
“I hope my situation isn’t disturbing you,” she said.
“No, no,” he said, looking at her again. “Not your situation but that you have to live that way.”
“It’s all I’ve known.”
“I stay away from government notice because I want to, but you do it because you have to. That’s a hard way to live.”
“As I said, I don’t know much else. The place in Boston is the first stable environment in a long time.”
“What happens if you don’t bring in enough money for the charity?”
“Let’s not think about that, shall we?”
He frowned, though not in anger. “Siobhan, I’m giving you my mailing address. I’m on the road a lot, but L.D. checks my mail for me and can get in touch with me. If anything, anything at all, goes wrong for you, go to ground somewhere and write me. I’ll work something out. A new identity, even. Don’t hesitate to ask for help. Okay?”
Taken back by the sincerity, Mai hesitated to answer.
“Promise me, okay?” he said.
“Of course,” she said. “That’s noble of you, lad.”
“I’m not kidding, you know.”
“I know. Thank you.”
He lay his hand over hers but withdrew it almost before she registered the touch.
“I read some of the book last night,” she said. “It’s grim.”
“I think you know life is sometimes grim, Siobhan.”
“That I do.”
“And sometimes you have to do grim things in the cause of freedom. I think you understand that, too.”
“In Ireland, we think of America as a haven. What you’re telling me contradicts that, even given I’ve only been here a few months.”
“Don’t take what I say as gospel. Read the book and look around you. The parallelism isn’t coincidence.”
“We all dream of the day we’ll send the Brits back across the Irish Sea, but things in that book… The Day of the Rope. Something like that would lower us to the level of barbarians, not freedom fighters.”
In The Turner Diaries, the Day of the Rope referred to an event after the revolutionaries brought down the federal government. They hanged anyone not white or with a Jewish taint. Every street light and lamp post displayed a rotting corpse. When she’d read that section the year before, images of the Balkans had come back to her.
“Shooting a man trying to kill you is one thing,” Mai continued. “Killing people because they don’t agree with you is another.”
His flinty eyes narrowed at her. “The very arbitrariness and unpredictability of political terror is what makes it effective.”
That was almost a quote from the Diaries.
“That’s the point of the Day of the Rope,” Carroll said. “People were put on the lists for off-hand reasons, some people were killed without opportunity to appeal, some were let off as object lessons. Maybe that’s the way it has to be.”
Now, that sounded like one too many Serbs she’d encountered after their ethnic cleansing. “It’s too bleak for me, Jay, that book. Nuclear bombs. Genocide. You must not like people.”
“That’s not it at all. I don’t think people are bad. Some are, yes, like some in the government. Some are pure evil. Most people are neutral, like the contributors you complained about. They don’t want to distinguish between absolute right and absolute wrong. That upsets their cushy lifestyles. They follow bad leaders like sheep, but when people like me, like us, make them face the truth, they think they’re being good citizens by denouncing our extremism.”
Still reflecting phrases from that damned book. She hadn’t realized how much it had imbued his thoughts. “So, no good to kill them all, then? Kill a few as examples? I ask you, then, who decides who dies?”
He blinked at her harsh tone. He leaned closer, his voice as hard as hers. “What is it the IRA does to women who fraternize with the British or Loyalists?”
“They’re giving aid and comfort to an enemy.”
“But who decides they deserve to have their heads shaved, to be tarred and feathered, and strung up on what? Oh, yeah, a lamp post.” His smile was triumphant, tinged with cruelty. “Whether you know it or not, Siobhan, you get the point of the Day of the Rope.”
“What about innocent people caught up in your revolution?”
“Pawns. It’s regrettable. I mean that. You’ve got to see the big picture, the good that will come in the end. Besides, IRA bombs kill innocent bystanders.”
“Maybe, but I never did,” she said, thumping the table with a finger. “Our targets are military ones. We can’t control the fact the cowards take cover behind the innocent.”
“Maybe that’s why you haven’t succeeded.”
That was all macho bluster. Let’s see how far I can push you, lad. She gave him a cold glare and said, “Thanks for the coffee, Jay. I’ll be going.”
He laid his hand on her arm but with no force behind it, an unexpected gentleness given the size of his hands. “I’m sorry, Siobhan. Sometimes I get talking about that book, and I forget myself. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She’d seen that shift before, as if he’d flipped a switch inside his head. She said nothing and waited.
“That Day of the Rope stuff,” he said, his eyes softening. “I don’t advocate that kind of thing, but something has to be done or there’ll be no one left to question tyranny. And we have to fight tyranny. That’s what this country is all about. Some of us may die in the fight. You know that. Please, don’t be mad at me.”
Her approval. That’s what he sought. Who else’s approval would he seek? Some leader on the fringe?
“Apology accepted,” she said. “Don’t forget, America doesn’t have the monopoly on patriots who’ve died in the fight against tyranny.”
“I won’t.”
“How did you know what the IRA do to whores?”
“I looked it up in the library.”
Had he read up on Ireland because of her? Had he told her enough to warrant a recruit attempt now? No. All he’d done was talk a lot of crap.
His hand gave her arm a light squeeze, and she met his eyes. He blushed again and glanced away. His hand left her arm, and they finished their coffee in silence.
When they stood beside Mai’s car, Carroll shoved his hands in his pockets, and asked, “Are you coming to the show later?”
“No. After today’s meeting, I’ve got to head north. I’ve got donations to return.”
He blinked, as if warding off tears. “Wa
it a sec,” he said. “I need to give you my address.” He took a small notepad from a shirt pocket and fished a pen from his pants. He wrote on a page, tore it off, and handed it to her. “That’s where you can write me.”
She took the notepad and pen from him and wrote down the cover address in Boston. She jotted the phone number down, too. “Do you have a phone?” she asked.
“I move around too much.” He looked at what she’d written and smiled. “You gave me your number.”
“It’s the charity’s line, but you can call me there. If I don’t answer, leave a message where I can reach you.”
“Are you sure it’s okay to call?”
“Of course. Don’t call collect, though.”
“I won’t. I’ve got one of those pre-paid phone cards to make calls with.”
“I’m a one-person staff, so I’ll be the only one answering. Is there nowhere I can call you?” she asked, entertaining the notion of a wiretap.
“I’m, uh, between apartments right now. When I’m on the road so much, a phone’s a waste of money. When I bunk with friends or whatever, I’ll call and leave a number. I do like writing letters, though.”
Unusual for the burgeoning internet age, she thought, but realized how easy it might be to get him to write something incriminating. “I’ve got to be going,” she said.
“Hang on. I promised you something.” He jogged to his car and opened the trunk, returning with something cupped in his hand. He pressed a small, heavy box into her palm. “Here,” he said. “I hope you’re not mad at me.”
“I’m a forgiving person.” Alexei’s laugh echoed in her head.
Carroll leaned down and kissed her cheek. She smiled at him, and he nodded and went back to his car. As he drove past, he flashed her a peace sign.
When he was out of sight, she looked at what rested in her hand.
A box of body armor-piercing, 9mm bullets, brand-named Black Talons, nicknamed Cop Killers.
4
Deep-Seated Insecurities
Mount Vernon, Virginia
Two days after Mai and Alexei returned from Pensacola, a courier delivered the first letter sent by John Thomas Carroll to a Boston post office box. Mai studied the nondescript envelope and writing paper—from a notebook of some sort. His handwriting was more print than cursive, blockish and slanted to the left.
She read aloud, “I wasn’t exactly truthful about having a phone. I don’t have one because it’s too easy for the government to tap. Same reason I don’t have a computer even though I learned how to code in high school. I use computers sometimes at a public library but only a few minutes at a time, so I don’t leave a trail.”
“Ah, yes, your average, everyday paranoiac,” Alexei murmured.
“You’re reading over my shoulder,” Mai countered. “If you’re going to do that, make your commentary meaningful.”
“Good grammar, excellent spelling,” Alexei replied. “Complex sentence structure.”
“He skips from topic to topic, though. An exuberant tone.”
“Because he’s wooing you,” Alexei said.
She rolled her eyes. “I think I’ll respond and thank him for cuing me in about phones and computers and government tracking.”
“Good move. Give him some local color about the area, people you encounter. Verisimilitude.”
She almost rolled her eyes again. She’d planned to do that.
Alexei read her draft, suggested no changes, and went back to his search for Patriot City.
Mai readied the letter for a courier to take to Boston and mail.
A few days after that, the phone set up in the home office for the mission rang, and Mai let it go to voice mail. Carroll left a long, rambling message, including his upcoming schedule for gun shows and a declaration he hoped to see her soon. That same day, the courier brought another letter: Carroll’s schedule in writing plus some pamphlets—from Patriot City.
“Maybe I should ask him where it is,” she said to Alexei. She recognized his expression; he was about to conduct covert surveillance lecture number 101. “Joking,” she said.
The letters arrived in a steady stream over the next couple of weeks, as did the voice mails. She had lots of recordings of his voice and plenty of examples of his handwriting. The letters had been post-marked from Arizona and several surrounding states. Mai spread the letters across her desk top and studied them. Among The Directorate’s wide range of subject matter experts was a graphologist, who was also a retired psychiatrist. Time for a second opinion.
Alexei was making dinner, meaning she wouldn’t get the “graphology is fake science” lecture. Mai made a call, left a message, and waited for a reply.
The Plains, Virginia
Danielle Bergman opened her front door, her menagerie of cats and dogs at her feet. Mai was again amazed that this diminutive woman had once taught a chimpanzee to fly an aircraft simulator as a psychology experiment. How she’d come to graphology, Mai wasn’t certain, but perhaps Danielle moved from science to pseudo-science and back again to ward off boredom.
Danielle’s black and tan hound, Charles, reared up and plopped his paws on Mai’s shoulders, his soulful eyes peering at her. When she, Alexei, and Natalia had moved into the Mount Vernon house, Natalia had pushed for a dog, with Alexei’s support, “to give the child the full family experience,” he’d said. That was far too suburban for Mai, and she’d firmly declined. Now, as the recipient of dog breath and sloppy dog kisses, she remembered why she preferred horses.
“Charles!” Danielle said. “Down!”
When he didn’t move, she took him by the collar and dragged him away.
“He’s still such a puppy,” she said.
As Danielle marched Charles off to some other part of the house, Mai felt her knees being pawed by a Jack Russell terrier and a mutt about the same size. A Golden Retriever, the elder statesman of the brood, and the three cats studied Mai from the far end of the hallway.
“We’ll talk in the living room,” Danielle called from somewhere.
Careful not to tread on any paws, Mai made her way down the hall and into the living room.
After several minutes of shooing the other dogs and the cats away, Danielle came in, a bit breathless, and plopped on a sofa, sending a cloud of pet hair into the air around her.
“How are you?” she asked. “It’s been far too long, hasn’t it? There’s tea steeping in the sun room. We’ll move there in a bit. You look a bit pale. I bought some lovely croissants from the French bakery in Middleburg this morning. I want you to have two, with butter and jam.”
The mid-morning sun had warmed the sunroom to a comfortable temperature, and the tea was scalding hot, the way Mai liked it. The two women drank and ate, exchanging small talk about Natalia’s equestrian progress. Danielle also schooled riders and boarded horses on her small farm.
When the tea cups were on the first refill, Danielle donned her half-glasses and picked up a file folder. “Well, Mai, I must say this time you sent me quite an interesting puzzle,” Danielle said. “I’d like to get him in a room and psychoanalyze him back to the womb.”
“You’ve piqued my curiosity.”
“How much interaction have you had with him?”
“A brief, initial meet. A few weeks back I spent several hours with him over a two-day period.”
“Really? The way he talks about it in these letters, I thought it would have been much more time and far more intimate.”
“Uh…”
“Not that kind of intimate, though understand he probably thinks of it as that kind of intimate. Have you formed your own conclusions about him?”
“No. Inferences.”
“Good,” said Danielle. “You’ll be more open to my thoughts. Let’s get started. First of all, he’s well-organized and has a good aptitude for concentration.”
Mai recalled the precise arrangement of Carroll’s trailer, the display of his goods on the table at the gun show, and his personal appearance. She gave Dani
elle a nod.
“His writing has lots of harsh angles. The down strokes are forceful, heavy. I’m sure you noticed he underlines a lot. That implies rigidity. Multiple underlining of words or phrases means considerable agitation, even anger. When someone challenges his world view, he’ll be defensive.”
Mai remembered their “debate” in the coffee shop. She nodded again to Danielle.
“Sometimes, his punctuation—the question marks, the exclamation points—are larger than the words,” Danielle continued. “That means he’s energetic, perhaps erratically so. The anger I mentioned? That’s likely constant.”
“How do you mean?”
“He’s angry at something or someone all the time.”
Mai had seen flashes of anger, yes, but she shook her head. “I didn’t get that impression at all.”
“He’s getting to know you, an attractive woman he has sexual interest in. He’ll mask it, or he’s been that way so long, he knows how to keep it from manifesting. Once he’s more comfortable with you, he’ll let you see more of it.”
“A test for me?”
“Yes. To see if it puts you off. Did you notice how his script is what I called crouched?”
“I thought it blocky. What does crouched script mean?”
“Most of the time, he feels like an animal backed into a corner. He feels a lot of tension, pressure; feels he has little control over things. Control is important to him. He’ll have emotions that border on volatile, but he’ll keep that hidden from you because showing his true self means giving up control. This also means he’ll have difficulty not only establishing but also maintaining relationships, especially with women. It will take you a while to earn his total trust, if you ever do. You’ll have to show him unconditional affection.”
“I don’t work that way.”
“Good Lord, I’m not suggesting you sleep with him. What I mean is, you’ll have to prove yourself as his friend beyond what you would with an average person. You’ll have to be the person he can express his inner feelings to and know he won’t be rejected. His circle of friends will be small and tough for you to break into, and he’ll likely attribute that lack of friends to others, not to his regressive nature. It’s a nurturing thing, you see. He probably got enough in early childhood to keep him from being a serial killer, but now he pushes nurturing away because, again, it means giving up control. Do you know anything about his relationship with his mother?”
