A Thousand Years of Darkness: a Thriller

by Charles W. Sasser

  “Blackmail?” Trout had blurted out in astonishment. That was during his early idealism stage.

  “Politics. Like insurance.”

  Wiedersham’s Vigotti banged on the top of his desk. He snapped into the phone, “How could Kimbrell have lost them? Gonzalez, you could replace that doofus with Barney Fife and be ahead of the game... Of course, that cop knows something or he wouldn’t be snooping around with her. They have to be stopped, the sooner the better...We can’t have that loud-mouthed cunt taking Baer’s place and rousing the rabble... Just get it done.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Washington, D.C.

  They had banged until they were both sweaty and out of breath and tangled in sheets. The bedside light was back on. Trout noticed he was starting to develop a little paunch from soft living and too little exercise. Judy didn’t seem to mind either it or his balding scalp. She wasn’t like Marilyn. She caressed his forehead, wiping off sweat, and then kissed him there.

  “Want a beer, darling?” she asked.

  She was smiling, gorgeous but as brainless as a cow.

  “What do you have?”

  “Bud or Bud Light.”

  “Bud Light.”

  Senate Majority Leader Wiedersham would never drink a beer unless it was imported. Pretentious ass!

  Judy got out of bed, as naked and innocent as a baby in her nudity. She padded into the bathroom first and left the door open. He heard her brushing her teeth and taking a leak.

  “For God’s sake, Judy! Close the door.”

  He hated hearing women use the bathroom.

  At a newsstand on the way over he had picked up a copy of Truth with the caricature of Anastos riding a donkey off a cliff. He had only briefly looked at the issue before when it arrived on Wiedersham’s desk. He opened it now to the One Year Ago article by Sharon Lowenthal and read it carefully while Judy finished in the bathroom and went to the kitchenette for beers. No wonder Wiedersham and the White House had their shorts in a bunch.

  It was a little troubling to Trout as well, in what it portended for his own career if this Lowenthal woman continued Jerry Baer’s campaign. Deep down where he sometimes thought he no longer had a down, he was disturbed and a little frightened by the changes Anastos, George Zuniga and the White House “czars” were about to foster upon an unsuspecting nation. A lot of change that left very little hope.

  He was staring up at the ceiling, hands behind his head in deep thought, when Judy returned with two beers in plastic promotion glasses from Taco Bell, on them colorful images of Spider Man. Classy. He sat up in bed with the sheet covering his legs and accepted one of the beers. Judy snuggled under the sheet with him. She tapped her plastic glass against his.

  “Over the gums and down the hatch, watch out, belly, here she comes.”

  Trout took a sip.

  “Judy, what happened in Oklahoma at the cemetery? What do you know about this man Kimbrell?”

  Pentagon Prepares for Economic Crisis

  (Washington)—Speaker of the House Barbara Teague announced today that the U.S. Government is preparing for widespread civil unrest. The defense intelligence establishment, she said, is looking at the threat to national security caused by the worldwide economic downturn.

  The Pentagon has launched a year-long exercise called “Unified Quest.” A Pentagon spokesman said they are looking at responses that may be necessary during a national collapse that could force the military to keep “domestic order among civil unrest and deal with fragmented global power.”

  White House spokesman Dewey Gubbins said a crisis could mean the suspension of Posse Comitatus that prevents U.S. troops from acting against U.S. citizens...

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Green Country, Oklahoma

  When Big C came outside the cabin at first light, Nail had Sharon’s rental Saturn pulled up to the shed’s open door with battery jumper cables running between it and the old green Chevy pickup inside.

  “I’m going to try to kick it over,” Nail said, ducking under the cables and climbing into the pickup. The pickup whined and gasped, but it finally caught and began rattling along until it finally leveled out and ran smoothly. Big C disconnected the jumper cables and hung them on a nail in the shed.

  “You got wheels, man,” he said approvingly. He stopped and looked down the mostly-overgrown road. “Maybe we should get some food and guns and block off the road and shoot any sucker trespass until this shit over.”

  “What makes you think it’s ever going to be over?”

  “They ain’t no God if them motherfuckers win.”

  Big C took his leave immediately after a breakfast of coffee and beef hash from a can. He shook hands with Nail and they nodded at each other; there was no need for words between them. Sharon hugged the black cop.

  “Go fishing or something,” Big C advised. “I call you in a day or so after I get the sting set up.”

  He mounted his red Ford pickup and headed toward eastern Oklahoma and “Green Country.”

  * * *

  Up until recent years, banks were reluctant to lend money to people east of the Grand River in that swath of northeastern Oklahoma known variously as the Ozark foothills, the Cookson Hills, the Cherokee Strip, or, in the hyperbole of the Bureau of Tourism, “Green Country.” The Cookson Hills had a legacy of outlaws and violence. From Indian Territory days into the Twenty First Century, infamous and not so infamous badmen and badwomen had fled into those rugged hills to rely on the close-mouthed and suspicious inhabitants to protect them from the law. Here hid out Jesse James, the Daltons, Belle Starr, Al Jennings, Ma Barker, the Kimes Boys, and Charles “Pretty Boy” Floyd. Nearly every old barn from Sallisaw to Pryor carried with it a story that “Purty Boy” once hid his car in it.

  It was not surprising, therefore, that militia might have sprouted and flourished where people were a unique, independent breed suspicious of authority, quick to temper, backward by urban standards, and slow to accept outsiders and the outside world. Yet, even here, times they were a’changing. There had been a time when a black man ignored at his own peril the hand-lettered sign on a back road to nowhere, Nigger, don’t let the sun set on your black ass.

  In Sallisaw, Big C borrowed a phone at a service station to telephone Lieutenant Jack Ross and let him know James Nail was in a safe place.

  “We trying to stay off of cell phones except in emergencies,” he explained. “Feds can trace them by satellite they want to.”

  “Kimbrell and his Homies are sniffing around like garbage flies,” Ross told him. “Wherever James is, tell him to stay there. I’ve arranged to carry him on medical leave as long as we can. There are plenty of witnesses to what happened at ORU without bringing James in. But they’re still playing bloodhound when it comes to James and that girl.”

  “They trying to stop Sharon before she get back on TV where it harder to shut her up,” Big C said. “James ain’t likely to give up till he got somebody by the balls—and Kimbrell ought be afraid them balls are his.”

  Big C took I-40 east from Sallisaw and turned north on the Central High road to a crossroads known as Akins, in the cemetery of which Ron Sparks had recently been lynched. From there, roads into the Cooksons got rougher and rougher until some weren’t much more than graveled trails through the woods. There were farms with decent houses next door to unpainted shacks with half-naked kids playing in the dirt. If the commies, environmentalists, anti-modernists and various other wackos had their way, Big C thought, everybody in America would be living in shacks. Except the people’s keepers, of course.

  Colonel Josiah Mosby lived in a rundown double-wide mobile home near the isolated community of Bunch on Big Sallisaw Creek. He claimed to be descended from John Singleton Mosby, the famous Confederate leader of Mosby’s Rangers. He assumed the honorary “Colonel” after he and Greg Morris organized the Defenders. As far as Big C knew, Josiah had never actually served a day in the military.

  When Big C alighted from his pickup, thr
ee dirty-faced little boys in shorts tore around the end of the house chased by two black-and-tan hounds, a goat, and three geese. The elder of the trio, about nine, waved. But instead of mobbing Big C with rough affection as they usually did when he came calling, they stampeded onto the wooden add-on porch. Alice held the door open for them. Mosby’s half-Cherokee wife gave a febrile wave and ducked back inside with the children. The Colonel came out and closed the door behind him. He shook hands rather formally and the two men walked to a wooden bench underneath a shade tree and sat down. Big C, puzzled by the strange behavior of friends, stared at the trailer.

  “Don’t mind them, Corey,” Mosby said. “Ol’ Ranger died last night from tangling with a ’coon he treed. Alice and the kids was attached to that dog. So, what’s going on? Heard anything more about Sparks being hung in the cemetery? What reason could Logan and Morris have to do something like that?”

  “They didn’t do it. The Homies executed Ron,” Big C said. “Somebody in the Defenders snitched him off.”

  The Colonel bent over and hung his head and clasped his hands around his bony knees. He was about forty, more lean than thin, with the big hands and big nose and small head common to many hill people.

  “How was Logan and Morris mixed up in it then?” he asked.

  Big C shrugged. “Either they saw who killed Ron or they know who the snitch is,” he speculated. “You and me talked before, Josiah. Maybe we oughta take look at that new guy from Muskogee, uh—?”

  “Tom Fullbright.”

  “Seems our problem start after he show up. Don’t he pal around with Luther Hawkins? Colonel, if you call a meeting of the Defenders, say for Friday night, I think we can flush out our forked tongues. Besides, I know a lady the Defenders might want to listen to.”

  They discussed the details. The Colonel suggested holding the gathering in the old abandoned church at Akins. Big C didn’t think it a good idea to congregate so near the cemetery where Sparks ended up dead.

  “All right,” Mosby conceded. “There’s a one-room schoolhouse at Bunch that ain’t been used for school since I was a kid. I’ll pass the word to the men.”

  “Make sure Fullbright and Hawkins show up.”

  They stood up.

  Usually, Alice brought out lemonade. Big C cast another glance at the trailer. The two hounds lay draped across the porch steps, blinking against flies and with their tongues lolled out. Alice peeped out through parted curtains. She closed them when she saw Big C looking at her.

  “They really taken Ranger hard,” the Colonel said.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Keystone Lake

  Sharon tugged on Nail’s hand after Big C left. “James, you promised we’d go fishing. I don’t think I can bear another can of hash or pork ’n beans.”

  He realized what she was trying to do, take his mind off Jamie, and it was okay. He didn’t know how he would have made it through these last days after his daughter’s death without Sharon, who was valiantly endeavoring to get them both past their mourning period. Even through his grief, he found delightful the graceful way she walked and the way her hands swept and dived through the air when she talked.

  They scrounged a couple of fishing poles from the cabin. Nail turned over a rotted log and found some juicy grubs for bait. They walked together to the creek and sat on the fallen log. They caught a couple of fat channel cat, some bluegill and a crappie. Nail cleaned and filleted them. Sharon promised they’d have fresh fried fish for dinner.

  “With a can of pork ’n beans,” she added with a laugh.

  They both kept busy the rest of the day to keep their minds occupied. It was too painful when they slowed down and began to think. Nail cleaned his truck and took a walk in the woods, old memories of better times with Jamie flooding his thoughts. Sharon remained in the cabin working on another article for Truth. Nail tried not to think about her either, the way she kissed him goodnight on the cheek. They were merely two needy people drawn together by loss. Romance was the last thing either needed.

  She fried the fish for dinner. They kept the conversation light and airy, self-consciously so. After nightfall, mosquitoes or no, they sat on the log by the creek underneath an amazing canopy of stars and held hands. She lifted her face to the stars and sighed deeply.

  “Oh, look!” she exclaimed, pointing. “A shooting star. Quick. Make a wish.”

  “I don’t believe in wishes.”

  “I’ll make a wish for both of us then.”

  She closed her eyes tightly, then opened them again. “It’s done.”

  “What did you wish for?”

  “It won’t come true if I tell you.”

  “You can tell me if it comes true?”

  “Yes. Afterwards.” Her face was still uplifted.

  They were quiet for awhile. He felt comfortable with her. He liked the feeling.

  “Looking up into the heavens puts everything in perspective,” she said presently. She continued after he failed to respond. “We humans are so infinitesimally small. Mankind’s problems, even though global, pale in comparison to the universe. James, even if we try real hard, no way can we possiblly comprehend the meaning of infinity or forever. How can anyone gaze into these marvelous heavens and not see the face of God?”

  He looked up and all he saw was the face of his daughter.

  Oil Ban Judge Dies of Overdose

  (New Orleans)—The body of New Orleans Federal District Judge Orville Fielding was found this morning in a French Quarter alley, dead of an apparent overdose of amphetamines. Witnesses and acquaintances stated they knew the judge was addicted to “speed.” Adele Raineau, a well-known Bourbon Street prostitute, said Fielding had visited her earlier in the night on a “personal matter.”

  Judge Fielding made news when he struck down President Anastos’ ban on deepwater oil drilling in the Gulf of Mexico after the AP oil spill disaster. The ban was under appeal by the U.S. Justice Department.

  Following the announcement of Fielding’s death, Judge Walter E. Durant said he would immediately reinstate the ban to halt any drilling in the Gulf for at least a year...

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  New York City

  Senate Majority Leader Joe Wiedersham gave his chief of staff Friday and Saturday off and two Broadway tickets with the stipulation that Trout meet a man at a Park Place address on Friday afternoon. The man’s name was not important, Wiedersham explained with a mysterious smile, only what the man had to say. Trout telephoned Marilyn and tried to sound apologetic about not coming home. Surprisingly enough, Marilyn wasn’t upset. In fact, she seemed almost cheerful, an unusual condition of equilibrium for her.

  She said. “My brother told me this is vital to our career.”

  What did she mean—our career?

  Trout hung up and called Judy to take a cab and meet him at Dulles. He didn’t particularly like New York and certainly didn’t relish spending time there alone. He didn’t particularly like D.C. either. He couldn’t recall anyplace he really liked.

  Judy showed up at the airport looking like a common hooker with lots of cleavage and a short skirt with her thighs showing. “Like it?” she beamed.

  “Ummm.”

  “You said I should wear something nice.”

  “I hope you brought something else,” he fussed. “I’ll dress you from now on.”

  “The only thing you want is to undress me. I got jeans in my carry-on.”

  “Go to the Ladies and change now. For God’s sake, wipe off some of that makeup. You look like a...”

  He caught himself.

  “A what?” she demanded.

  “Just change. And hurry.”

  She returned shortly in jeans. Pouting. She had seemed strangely distracted since her return from Oklahoma. They hardly talked to each other on the flight. He stretched his legs in First Class and picked up the latest issue of Newsweek. The cover story: We’re All Socialists Now. He cast it aside and took Judy’s hand.

  “I’m sorry, ho
ney,” he said. “I’ve been under a lot of stress.”

  She withdrew her hand. “If’n you want another Marilyn,” she sulked, “you should have stayed in the hog pen.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what it means.”

  She still wasn’t talking to him when the cab dropped her off in front of their Manhattan hotel and he continued with the taxi to keep his appointment. He’d send her some chocolates, the Wal-Mart kind she liked with the cherries. She had probably lost her cherry when she was twelve and out playing doctor in the barn with her brother or cousin in Oklahoma. If she wasn’t happy by tonight, he wasn’t getting any and may as well have come to New York alone. What was it with women that they had to be so fucking difficult, always thinking of themselves?

  Park Place from Ground Zero north was packed with a demonstration in progress, thousands of people jammed into the concrete-and-glass canyon to get blasted from microphones on a hastily-raised platform. It had something to do about unions and banks. It seemed everyone in America was pissed off about something and getting more pissed off every day.

  Trout’s cabbie was pissed off because he had to detour. He cursed in Arabic.

  * * *

  The man who greeted Trout on the eighth floor of the Park Place building was about fifty or so and, in a crowd, would have been as unnoticeable as an old rusty well bucket, to use a Judy euphemism. Until he opened his mouth, at which time he spoke with authority and conviction. The man said to call him “John,” first-name-only, but Trout knew from the moment he walked into the little cubbyhole that this wasn’t really John’s office, that John wasn’t his name, and that John had probably been dispatched by George Zuniga to vet the new guy to see if he were a congressional candidate worthy of being backed by the wealthiest, most influential and most powerful man in the universe. In fact, that was what John told him before frisking him with the skill of a NY street cop, apologizing profusely while explaining that they couldn’t afford to take any chances with a hidden wire or recorder.