by D W Bell
The bereaved father entered from the back of the courtroom clutching a bible to his chest, his face downcast and his steps that of a broken but determined man. Slightly disheveled in an immaculately tailored conservative suit, shoes shined to mirrors but with visible scuffs, and a trademark mane of silvery-alabaster hair not quite in place, which had blessed him with the nickname The White Lion of the Lord in happier times, he was the picture of a strong man weathering the storm.
Halfway to the podium he met the eyes of the convicted killer turned back to face him, and, in a moment of physical weakness, stumbled and dropped the Word. A saddened and sympathetic sigh rippled through the capacity crowd as the wronged and grief-stricken gentleman stooped to pick up the book politely but adamantly declining the help of those seated nearby. Looking at the gilded cross on its leather-bound cover with nearly weeping eyes he seemed to draw strength and strode the final distance to the waiting podium buoyed by the Spirit, tall and straight, square-jawed and resolute, powerful in the Lord. Boudreaux smiled to himself and knowingly nudged his candy-sucking confidante at the display, here was a man who appreciated theatre.
And it was theatre, or a theatrical sermon at least. The pastor spoke in soft, sweet tones the memories of his angelic daughter, and nearly shouted fire and brimstone upon the demon who had taken her, a real old school reckoning from the pulpit not often seen in this age of kinder, gentler spirituality.
The man had been weaned on the righteous vitriol of his father’s traveling tent revival, and he held forth with the sanctified vigor of one anointed to force repentance on those who faltered in their walk with the Lord. He sobbed his sorrow and then declared them tears of joy as he turned his face towards heaven in affirmation of his daughter’s acceptance there and then railed red-faced against unrepentant sinners of all kinds, especially those of the flesh. Boudreaux even heard a few quiet amens come instinctively from the crowd as they succumbed to the speaker’s power. Say what you will about the pastor, and the secret scandals that sometimes plagued him, but from his daddy’s dusty tents to his own satellite in space, the man was good with crowds.
He closed with several scriptures, the standard contradicting slurry of Old and New Testament eye for an eye, turn the other cheek, and ultimate forgiveness, then briefly addressed the condemned directly to offer his personal, spiritual forgiveness while acknowledging that earthly justice would be done. “As you have decided to be an animal, I pray your weakness and cowardice are swiftly sniffed out where you are going and have faith my vengeance will be carried out by others of your kind as nature takes its course.”
Visibly drained by his sorrow and exertions the pastor thanked the judge and jury, clutched the open bible to his chest, and walked with slumped shoulders back down the aisle to exit the courtroom followed by hundreds of sympathetic eyes, some welling with tears. Boudreaux happened to catch the man’s eye as the courtroom doors swung open before the mourning father, silently clapping to the delight of the fellow drama connoisseur seated next to him he mouthed, “Bravo.”
The judge called a recess and the chambers of justice were cleared for a lunch break.
―
The sentence was pronounced, and it was indeed a reckoning. Not for the convicted murderer, but for the victim’s family and for all who followed the case. Despite the judge’s strict instructions against emotional outbursts, the courtroom erupted in pandemonium and cries of injustice.
In perceived blatant disregard for evidence and public opinion, the conviction itself had been a struggle to achieve.
In some of the dirtier and more sensational news sources the difficulties had been chalked up to the prejudices of the all minority, possibly immigrant, and barely English-speaking jury showing pity to a fellow undocumented alien who was being persecuted by the white majority.
There were even rumors of threats and payoffs linked to the accused’s membership in one of the more terrifying of the city’s gangs. Some extremist sources saw it as an indictment of wholesome American culture, what with the victim being the pure white child of a sanctified pillar of the Christian church, part of an opening salvo that should finally bring on the race war, but the pastor had always downplayed his connection to those groups.
The jury had been deadlocked for days and there was a very real fear of a mistrial, but, at the last possible moment, the jury somehow unanimously came to their senses and came down on the just side of the law. Guilty of all charges, even the most heinous details that would ensure the perpetrator would never again see the light of day.
It was with relief after the verdict was read that the pastor prepared the victim impact statement he had presented at the sentencing hearing, confident now that the true justice of the Lord would surmount any obstacle and providence was on his side. Had he not been blindfolded as the Lady Justice in his faith, or deafened by the internal roar of his impending triumph, he might have heard the Wheels of Justice slow and grind to a halt, and seen the Department of Homeland Security agents as they darted around the courthouse, from backroom to backroom and chamber to chamber, just before the jury signaled that they had a decision.
A stunning upset the press had called it. Although sentenced on paper to the maximum penalty allowed by statute in the Great State of California, the convicted felon would be remanded to the custody of the Department of Homeland Security in preparation for deportation to, and presumably incarceration in, his country of origin.
The media spin was that a prison sentence in the criminal’s impoverished homeland was much nearer a de facto death sentence than anything California could provide, but those in the know knew that a deal had been made for incriminating information regarding the organization to which he belonged, and upon arrival and processing the prisoner would quietly walk out the backdoor of the jail into a new, government-sponsored and protected life. Free.
The influential preacher was connected enough to truth through back channels, but at that point Pandora’s box was wide open and all the evil had escaped, and no amount of money, or influence, or prayer could shut it back again. Now his tears were real, there was no hope remaining, parting with the silver lining of the fable.
―
“Reverend, my condolences.” Boudreaux extended his hand to the defeated pastor, interrupting the low conversation he was having with his handlers just inside the frame of the constantly rolling news cameras. With daily international broadcasts, it was no wonder that this team would milk the media for all it was worth.
“Thank you, son. May the Lord bless you and keep you. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
“It really was a beautiful sermon, pastor, and true. It spoke to my spirit like the hellfire preachers of my youth. You’ve practically got me ready to gird on my sword and march against evil! I imagine it’s difficult to truly transmit that depth of passion over the airwaves.”
“For my money though, your preaching is at its purest with the troubled souls in the pews at your feet, but I suppose with technology we must go where the sinners are. I myself was reared Southern Baptist, but I have become unfaithful with the temptations and tribulations of this wretched place.” With a cowed and apologetic nod of his head Boudreaux presented the pastor with his card, “Although an unworthy and imperfect man as any, perhaps I can aid you in this time of trouble.”
The pastor accepted the card and glanced at it with a spark of recognition and turned to his companions, “Gentleman, the Shepherd’s work is never done. I must tend to the flock by witnessing to this young man in private. Please see that we are not disturbed as we pray and fellowship together.” All the men nodded in quiet obedience and moved into positions on the sidewalk blocking access to the reverend with pseudo-military precision.
“Hallelujah. Walk with me, reverend.” Boudreaux smirked and led the way to a bench just off the courthouse steps, his breath smelling of sweet key lime, whistling a few bars of “A Closer Walk” in a slow, New Orleans funeral warble.
―
“I am not
a rich man, Boudreaux. Besides, Romans 12:19 admonishes the faithful against avenging ourselves, leaving it to Him, ‘Vengeance is Mine’ and so on. I’m just a humble country pastor who’s been blessed with the far-reaching voice of technology. What you are suggesting may appeal to the baser nature of my anger, but we must rise above these animals that desecrated my daughter, not adopt their tactics. In Luke 12:3, Jesus says ‘Therefore whatsoever ye have spoken in darkness shall be heard in the light; and which ye have spoken in the ear in closets shall be proclaimed upon the housetops’, we just use a satellite a little higher up than the housetops.”
“Exactly so, reverend. I ask the Lord’s and your forgiveness for suggesting such a thing to one who walks as closely with Him as you do, but I fear our fellowship must now turn to confession.”
“As you say, you are not an individually rich man, but that is because the church funds, which are truly substantial, are held in a shell corporation from which all your worldly needs are met in exchange for tending to the spiritual needs of the world. If I may be so bold, Jesus said in Luke 22:36, ‘…he that hath no sword, let him sell his garment, and buy one.’ And I think you will agree, it is the red letters that hold the truth.”
“So technically what I propose will be directly funded by God, channeled through the tithes and donations of his people. Thereby, ultimately, making this particular vengeance His as per the biblical directive.” Boudreaux offered the man one of the hard candies he had swiped from the old lady’s purse.
The pastor laughed a little, “So, backsliding Baptist and biblical scholar rolled into one, eh, Boudreaux? I think the Southern Baptist Convention might disagree with your interpretation, but it is an interesting philosophical exercise, nonetheless.” He accepted the proffered candy.
“However, retribution against a single heathen will not halt the rising tide. This town and the country as a whole has been subverted into a den of iniquity, modern Sodom and Gomorrah spread nationwide by rap music and permissive cultural norms. It’s enough to make a God-fearing Christian pine for Judgement Day.” The pastor had slipped briefly into his singsong sermon voice as his emotions rose, but he dropped his head and sighed it out as he unwrapped the little green treat.
“You see they got me rapping on the air now? Shows I connect to the young folks and that God is cool, they say. I say it’s nothing but another inroad for the Devil to mock and corrupt our venerated devotions. What’s worse, I ain’t any good at it. Can’t seem to find the beat.” The pastor popped the candy into his mouth and softly sucked, consoling himself like a baby with a pacifier.
“Dear Lord, bless your heart.” Boudreaux patted the troubled pastor on the back consolingly and pretended to be struck by a thought. “Preacher, I think you’re on to something. Yes, I’m sure of it, you’ve hit the nail on the head.”
The pastor’s head turned towards his strangely insightful confidant with a quizzically hopeful look, “I’ve done what?”
“Your beautiful daughter is lost to us, may she rest in peace, and smiting her corruptor in the name of God would feel righteous in the moment, but would leave you empty and unfulfilled as you lived on in a wicked world that hadn’t changed.”
“But, what if, rather than marching against the corruptor, we marched against the corruption itself? A larger campaign to affect true, lasting change! Induce fear of Christ in the heathen, like the old days!” Now it was Boudreaux’s turn to modulate his speech with the highs and lows of oratory excitement.
“A campaign? Just what are you getting at?” The pastor sat up straight, nervously inching away from his increasingly animated companion.
“A crusade, pastor! A crusade!” Boudreaux, now apparently wild-eyed with religious fervor grasped the unsettled preacher’s hand that held the bible between both his palms, “Fire and sword in the name of the Lord! With your resources you can finance the crusade to reclaim our once Holy Land!”
“You’re crazy…” the preacher recoiled from the unexpected fanatic next to him and started to signal for his men but hesitated when Boudreaux just as suddenly shifted back to calm.
“I am as God made me, reverend, besides, there was a time when the insane were thought to be especially touched and favored by God.” Boudreaux released the pastor’s hand, glanced at his timepiece, and pulled the cigarette case from his jacket pocket.
“I don’t understand. Are you suggesting an open war on sin? How would that even work?” The preacher looked exasperated by the idea, but there was a glint of interest in his eyes that did not go unnoticed.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways.” Boudreaux lit his cigarette, took a drag, and leaned back casually with his arm draped across the back of the bench exhaling the honeyed, clove-scented smoke, “I realize this is still a period of mourning for you, and you have my sympathies, but once your soul has quieted enough to hear His clarion call to battle, you will see.”
“Harness your grief to till the fetid soil of our country so wholesomeness and spiritual nourishment can once more thrive and grow from its pure heart. Under your command we can serve as the secret army of the way, the truth, and the life.”
“John 14:6.” The pastor clutched his bible close as he watched Boudreaux rise to his feet to leave.
“My work here is done. Reverend, it’s been a pleasure.” He stamped out his cloven smoke and left the prospective client sitting alone on the unyielding courthouse bench, lost in implausible thoughts of righteous retribution, wreathed in the sweet-smelling smoke of damnation.
Chapter 19
The mission had gone well, flawlessly as a matter of fact. But even the rare accolades distributed by the notoriously close-lipped Charlie did nothing to salve the empty ache in the pit of John’s stomach.
What had been billed in the mission file as a fortified compound and waystation for a drug and human trafficking cartel had turned out to be a few ramshackle tin huts thrown together in a heap just outside Greater Metropolitan Bumfuck, El Salvador. At least the layout was the same as the kill houses the team had trained with back at Eagle’s Nest. Beyond that, nothing was as advertised.
Some sentry activity listed in the mission briefing turned out to be a couple mangy, emaciated mutts tied to stakes that the point man shot on the way in, more out of pity than to defuse any danger.
Light to medium fortifications materialized as twisted up chicken wire and more of the same scrap corrugated tin that composed the buildings of the shanty town leaned up against the fence posts where the actual fence had fallen down.
Platoon strength resistance meant a little less than 50 targets sound asleep under threadbare blankets. Under cover of darkness his team cleared every building and room, multiple fire teams working through the compound with suppressed weapons in perfect synchronization, just like they’d trained. It wasn’t until Smith saw one of his shooters drop a woman coming out of an outhouse that he began to understand why things felt wrong. She was just a kid.
He saw the drag team bringing up the rear and setting fire to anything that would burn as they moved to meet up with Smith and the others to ensure nothing escaped. Just as he’d planned.
Needing to know, John darted into the last hovel just inside the fence line and looked at the carnage inside. A restless, too small leg had fallen from under the thin cover, and now dangled still and lifeless, dripping black blood in the silent dark. Knowing in his heart what he would find if he pulled back the blanket, Smith stifled a sob and quickly turned to leave.
A woman from the burn team had just limped up to doorway and met him as he exited, “Sir?”
“Burn it.” John flipped down his goggles to hide his tears, barked orders to gather the team, and led the broken-down crew to the pickup rendezvous.
―
“Well, look what the cat drug in! Take a seat, sport.” Boudreaux was projecting his affable persona, what his staff thought of as his good mood, but, as always, mood or emotion had nothing to do with it.
“I gotta hand it to you, boy. I thi
nk we’ve finally found your niche here. I hear your mission threw a couple curveballs, but you adjusted and pulled out the big win without a hitch. And that gang of cripples is really starting to look up to you. Bravo. Seriously, son. Well done.”
The somewhat sincere praise and compliments struck John like physical blows. He had completed the mission with the precision that he had been trained to deliver, and it was laudable in that respect, but perfect, faithful adherence to devilish orders was still service to the Devil. “There was no hostile force there. We didn’t find anything but a few machetes, a couple beat-up shotguns, and some old hunting rifles.”
Boudreaux cocked his head to the side in curiosity as he looked up from the papers on his desk, “Well, lucky break, then. A win is a win in my book.”
“There were women and children, noncombatants.” An inflection of betrayed anger crept into John’s voice as he locked eyes with the man behind the desk.
Boudreaux leaned back in his chair and clasped his fingers together across his midsection, plainly amused, and smiled back at his guest, “Now that’s a shame, but work such as ours often involves a bit of collateral damage. No omelet without breaking a few eggs, as it’s said. Simply the cost of doing business I’m afraid, distasteful as it is.”
“Truly, the fault must be laid at the doorstep of your trafficker friends. It’s downright negligent and unscrupulous to house civilians in a place like that, knowing what goes on there. You don’t see us promoting any ‘bring your kid to work’ days around here. Preposterous!”
“Let’s have a drink to calm your nerves. I told you this was rough work, no need to get all morose on me now.” Boudreaux moved to the bar and poured two fingers of bourbon in two crystal tumblers, set one in front of Smith and reclaimed his seat with the other in hand. “You ran a clean mission, son, and, if you’ll quit being a pussy, Charlie wants to put you in charge of the Redshirts for the foreseeable future. I’ve always thought it was an underutilized asset, but under your leadership I think we can finally get our money’s worth out of those broken bastards, really expand their capabilities. So quit crying over a little spilt milk and drink your bourbon. Cowboy the fuck up.”
