Nora read the banner, then looked at Ben, then read it again to make sure she was seeing it correctly.
The gangly granny just down the curb from the car let out a whoop. “YES, dammit!” she began shouting. “Yes, goddammit! Preach it!”
The letters were crude, but the message was clear: Long Live Roar on the Shore.
* * *
“What the fuck just happened?” demanded Chid.
The breaking news had come from Vance Evans who’d gotten a call transferred to his cell phone. He’d answered it at his post at the other end of the block.
The telephone interview he was still conducting was with one Jerry Walsh of Fredonia, New York.
“It was simple, Mr. Evans. Nobody was angrier than us bikers over this whole thing. One, they’ve been making bikers look bad by sending these nuts out on bikes. Two, they’ve shut down our favorite event of the year. Three … lot of us bikers look a bit like these assholes and so everyone is lookin’ at us funny now. I reckon they call that racial profilin’ and it just ain’t fair. So when this Baker guy broadcast that he wanted more people to come take over the courthouse with him, we said, hell, let’s blend in and sneak in and see what happens. Maybe we can get this shit over with and get on with the Roar. Do you know they had to cancel Dokken for this shit?”
“That’s the word, yes,” Evans said gravely, making sure the cell phone speaker was positioned close enough to the microphone.
“So we walked in,” the disembodied voice of Jerry Walsh continued. “We hung out. We helped out. They weren’t killin’ hostages or nothin’, they just said they wanted to keep the eyes of the world on the movement. We said, ‘Hell yeah. We’re with you.’ They said, ‘Down with the government, any government not doin’ the will of the people should be overthrown,’ and whatnot. We said, ‘Hell yeah, sure, whatever.’ They said, ‘We’re gonna occupy this building for as long as it takes to get them to change the laws and stop banning the guns the Founding Fathers said everyone should have—you know, cuz the Founding Fathers used to have assault rifles. Oh yeah, and to keep all the foreigners out. We’re gonna send a message to all the foreigners not to even come here. They won’t even fuckin’ wanna come here once they see how serious we are.’ We said, ‘Go for it, man, we’re with you.’”
Vance Evans said, “What was the catalyst for revealing you didn’t share their goals?”
“Well, we’d agreed we’d give them a couple-three hours to get comfortable with us and trust us and then we’d just jump ’em. But my buddy Sam—say hi, Sam!”
A disembodied voice was heard in the background, “Hey there, America!”
“So Sam winked at me and he started a fight. He said, ‘Hey, man, you wanna occupy this shit but it doesn’t look like you brought any beer. How we gonna get beer, man?’ And so this Patriot fucker said, ‘This isn’t about the beer. We’re here to change history.’ And so my buddy Sam said, ‘Any dumb fuck who wants to change American history without a beer in his hand should get his ass handed to him.’ And then he hauled off and hit that guy so hard one of his teeth shot out of his mouth and skittered across the floor.”
“It skittered, really?”
Nora for once thought she was getting a kick out of Vance Evans.
“Hell yeah. Skittered. And then we just started beating the shit out of those assholes and taught them not to fuck with real bikers. And that was it. Some of our wives’d sent this banner along with us—they’d made it, you know, to protest. So Foxy and Jim there just hung it out. Good work men!”
“Good work indeed,” affirmed Evans.
“And here we are.” As she listened to his voice, Nora envisioned the man giving a humble shrug. “You’re welcome, America!”
America watched Vance Evans laugh so hard that he creased his pancake makeup.
“The only question is, what should we do with ’em now?”
The screen was filled with Evans mopping his eyes. At last he said, “I’m pretty sure you could start by opening the doors.…”
* * *
All told, there had only been ten of the Pennsylvania Patriots occupying the building. The group that had entered to help out had been almost entirely Fifth Columnists. CIRG and its SWAT team had a relatively easy task to take the militia members into custody, and then the processing was left to the agents on the ground once again.
Nora, Ben, Chid, and Ford worked side by side with a few of the up-from-Pittsburgh agents as day turned into evening in the chaotic, but mercifully air-conditioned, office on State Street. As they worked, they took turns envisioning the look on Gabe Baker’s face when he got word of how his occupation had failed.
They holed up in the conference room. Every once in a while, Nora would try to sort out if Evan Sanchez was talking to Baker yet about Pete—now that he had the right number to call.
A few times, indulging her, Ford would disappear for a while and then return, shaking his head.
“Well, are they heading back out there yet?”
“The action on the Patriots’ part won’t be until tomorrow, Nora,” Chid reassured her.
“But isn’t it like we said? If we keep them from killing Pete they won’t be able to provoke a confrontation? If we go and just snatch him…”
“They’re working on it, Nora,” was all anyone would tell her, before returning the room to the non-silence of tapping keyboards. Each one was merging the new information about William Martin into the story of Gabriel Baker and the still-unfolding drama.
It was pitch-black outside when Ford leaned forward again, studying the screen. “After the bankruptcy, Martin brought in a company to turn the brewery into some kind of shopping center,” he said. “They had some investors but needed the city to buy into it—they were attempting to win the grant that the city sets aside for revitalization projects. Martin himself didn’t have enough and his business’s credit by this time was bad; the bank wouldn’t loan him the money. The proposal was defeated by the city council.”
Chid tapped his own laptop screen, smirking a little. “Any guesses as to its most vocal opponent?”
The other three responded, “April Lewis.”
Nora asked, her heart beating in her ears, “I don’t suppose the bank that refused him was PNC, was it?”
Ford gave her a look expressing that that would be too much, but started hunting anyway. “Right again,” he finally confirmed.
They gave a collective sigh.
“So much for the crazed ideologue,” said Chid. “These were very calculated crimes seeking very specific results.”
Nora looked at him. “So what the hell, then?”
“So. High drama. He’s played every one of his followers, like a maestro,” Chid added, enjoying the metaphor. “He gets them to rob a bank, ostensibly to buy weapons. But I bet he also needed money. Even if he did buy more weapons for the stockpile, he probably kept plenty of cash for himself.”
“Well, hell, his bombs didn’t improve,” chimed in Ford. “It was still ammonium nitrate at the synagogue, give or take a new trigger mechanism. Even though he made off with all that cash.”
Chid nodded. “Then, he gets revenge on the judge who ruined his life, who happens to be Jewish. He gets revenge on the black city councilwoman who trashed his last attempt at a business project. He not only kidnaps her but tries to get some money out of her family. At the same time, he allows his followers to make mayhem, taking all the possible attention of law enforcement agencies off of him.”
They all exchanged glances.
Ben eventually asked Chid, “Look, we’ve sorted out who Martin is, his motivations, but it seems like he could have done all this with significantly less hassle.”
“Well, clearly,” said Chid. “But all this … it’s elaborate and erudite and he’s made a splash.”
“How do you think he hooked up with Baker?”
“That’s the question that’s making me crazy,” Chid said frankly.
“What do truck drivers and beer magnates have in common?�
� Ben asked.
Derek Ford walked out of the conference room and returned with a large sheaf of paper.
“What?” Chid asked.
“I’d printed up all the tax information, remember? And all the penalty information from the IRS? I just want to look at the employment history, see if there’s anything that could link him to Martin. Anything they had in common.” He riffled through the papers.
“When did we say he’d moved to Erie?” he asked absently.
“In 2003,” said Chid.
“He started working as a driver for the Erie Brewers in 2003,” said Ford, tugging a paper out of the pile.
“Is that…?” Ben asked.
But Chid was already nodding. “Martin’s Brewery. As we said, shut down in 2008.”
“And then all of a sudden Baker’s out of work. And stays out of work. No options.”
“I don’t see any other evidence of employment after that.”
“But somehow ex-boss and ex-worker hook up. Who radicalized whom?” Nora asked.
Chid ventured, “I would assume we have a symbiosis. Baker needed a visionary, someone to articulate and put a spin on his alt-right mayhem. Martin needed minions to enact his revenge.”
“But he was poor, right? He had lost everything,” Nora said.
“But he had kept enough land to train a militia,” Chid replied.
Ford added, “And starting in the 2010s, the alt-right is piling up funds, kicking into full swing starting in 2014. If Martin offered land and vision, Baker could have used the networks he had tapped into back in Ulysses, August Kreis and all those fellows, to arm and support them. In election season, positing Martin as the intellectual mastermind of a truly comprehensive movement might push the Pennsylvania Patriots into the top spot for recipients of the windfall.”
They rested a moment, each nodding slowly. It was a good theory, though still just a theory.
Nora, restless, tapped the screen of her laptop. “It looks like the Benedictine Sisters of Erie have another soup kitchen a block from here. By the baseball field.”
All three men looked at her. “So?”
“So soup kitchens don’t close for Armageddon. I’m going to walk over and see if anyone can help me understand the Martin family better.”
Chid and Ford cast a skeptical glance.
She frowned at each one in turn. “You got a better way to kill time until they kill Pete?” she demanded.
Ben shrugged. “I certainly don’t. Let’s go.”
They slipped out of the room and down the stairs, then out onto the street. The downtown was still crowded with people attempting to keep the “victory of the people” spirit alive and well since the failed occupation.
“What do you think we’ll find?”
Nora shook her head. “I have no idea, Ben.”
When they pushed open the door to the Ladles of Love Soup Kitchen, they were greeted by a plump elderly woman in a ratty yellow cardigan.
“Welcome!” she said.
Nora smiled at her.
The room they’d entered was painfully spare, though every wall was filled with pictures clearly drawn by small children and signed in uneven, wavery script. An open kitchen was visible beyond the dozen tables set up with folding chairs on all sides of them. The room smelled of slightly charred toast and chicken-noodle soup. About a dozen men and a few women and children sat scattered throughout the room.
“Are you hungry, children?”
It took a moment for Nora to comprehend that the “children” in question were herself and Ben. Nora was, in fact, starving. It always seemed to hit her when she least expected it. But she shook her head. “We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” she said in her least confrontational voice, as she and Ben discreetly showed their badges. “We would like to ask a few questions if we could.”
The sister was unfazed. “Of course, child. I’m Sister Mary Catherine, director here. What is it concerning?”
Nora didn’t know how to start.
Ben jumped in. “About ten years ago, Carole Martin left a house to your order. Designated as a soup kitchen? On Peach Street?”
But the sister was nodding. “Of course, yes. What about it?”
“We’re trying to get a few insights into Mrs. Martin’s decision. Is there anyone here who knew her?” Ben said.
“I knew her,” said Mary Catherine, frowning slightly. “What is the issue?”
“Is there somewhere we could talk?” Ben asked.
Mary Catherine nodded. “Of course.” She led them to the far table.
From out of the kitchen, a slightly younger woman crossed the room. Her mouse-brown hair was closely cropped. She wore an intent but curious smile. “Is everything okay, Mary Catherine?”
“Yes, Ann-Marie. These federal agents want to ask some questions. Could you find them some coffee?”
Ann-Marie nodded and went back to the kitchen.
“Sister Mary Catherine, why did William Martin’s mother leave more assets to your order than to her son?”
“Ah,” said the sister, her blue eyes clouding over. “Will,” she murmured. “They called him Will. She had wanted to name him Wilhem, you know, after her brother. But she worried about anti-German sentiment even then.”
Nora said, “She shared her thoughts with you?”
“She did. With very few in fact. But I happened to have been lucky enough to know Carole. She was … a gentle soul. Very kind.”
“What happened with her son to upset her?”
Mary Catherine shook her head sadly. “Oh, poor Carole. You know, she loved that boy madly, but he was always in trouble.”
“How so? We found no arrest records for him,” said Ben.
“No, no, nor will you. I meant in trouble with other children. Bullying him—he was a small child, a frightened little boy, you know? Very sickly as a boy. And then he was always weak as a youth. The children in school tortured him, you know?”
“What was wrong?”
“Well, honestly, the doctors could never agree. But he just had a weak constitution—poor immune system, I suppose they’d say now. And I suppose because Carole was scared he would be hurt, she kept him inside most of the time. She kept him by her side.”
“She didn’t work?”
“Carole? Of course not! Carole was an heiress! Carole was a musician, unparalleled really. But her father had forbidden her to sing on the stage. So she was trapped in her home with her music. She could play the piano beautifully, children. Truly beautifully. But her dream had been to sing.”
“Jazz?” Nora asked, by way of prodding, even though she and Ben both realized quickly what was coming.
“No, dear. Opera. She was … partial to Wagner, I’d say. I remember when I was visiting with her … she just stood up and sang the Liebestod aria from Tristan and Isolde—effortlessly, flawlessly. Rattled my teeth! I heard nothing to rival it until Jessye Norman sang it with Karajan in … oh, late in the ’80s, I suppose it was.”
Nora made a note to look up Jessie Norman and … Kariyan. She drew a few question marks onto the page.
“Then again, the sight of a black opera singer next to a former Nazi conductor was … well, that was something to behold.…”
At this point Sister Ann-Marie appeared with three Styrofoam cups of coffee. She deposited a small pile of plastic creamer pods and a few packets of sugar.
“What about her husband?”
“Her husband? Her husband worked at the brewery, though he stole from it, weakening it—crippling it. Drank himself to death, he did.” Sister Mary Catherine stirred creamer into her coffee. “It’s late for coffee,” she said. Her blue eyes twinkled as she added by way of confession, “But it helps me get through evening prayers.”
“Why did Carole Martin disown her son?” asked Nora. “Was it really because he had stolen the recipe for their most famous beer?”
Sister Mary Catherine shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no. This was certainly part of it, of cou
rse. She recognized his willingness to do anything for money, even if it meant dishonoring the family. But this last act, the thievery and the court case and the humiliation … this was the final straw in a lifetime of difficulties.”
The agents waited as patiently as they could, fighting the weariness they felt in expectation of some window into Will Martin’s life.
Sister Mary Catherine sighed deeply, then said, “Carole Martin’s son did what I’ve seen other children do. The bullied boy became a bully. But he did it with a level of cruelty I was surprised at. This is the problem with rich boys sometimes. They can afford to be particularly cruel.”
“Can you give us an example?”
Sister Mary Catherine sighed. “I think what disturbed his mother the most was that he was such a plotter. He would sit and brood and plan and devise and then an incident that all had considered forgotten would suddenly be avenged.”
She sipped at her coffee, contemplatively. “He was angry at an employee of the brewery. A grown man with a family, mind you! But this man had teased young Will, made some laughing comment about him resembling a girl because he was so delicate.”
Nora and Ben exchanged looks, waiting.
“Three months later there was an accident. He was a brewmeister, see? An expert. But somehow he fell into the vat itself. Drowned.”
Ben said, “Not an accident?”
She shook her head. “There were ugly, persistent rumors that the boy—only twelve at the time—had paid one of the employees to push him in.”
“Age twelve?”
“He knew the power of money over the poor,” said Sister Mary Catherine. “Sometimes a soul is just weak, easily gives itself over to darkness. Even in the music, he found darkness. Wagner wrote some of the most beautiful music in the world. But Will latched on to the … well, to these threads of cultural superiority.…”
“But wasn’t that Wagner’s point?” asked Nora, recalling Chid’s insights. “My colleague told me the Nazis used his music. Named efforts to round up and kill people after lines of his work. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Oh, of course, to some extent. But his characters also sing of the power of love to restore and rejuvenate.” Sister Mary Catherine took a deep breath and looked about her, her limpid blue eyes taking in the forms bent over their meals and the artwork on the walls. At last she let her gaze fall on Nora again. The nun’s eyes shone. “Music … music is from the divine realm, child,” she said. “It is both prophecy and a testament to God’s grace, isn’t it? It can uplift like nothing else. It is a terrible disservice to art to suggest it should be limited by the borders of the artist’s flesh … or even his intent.”
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