Pocket-47 (A Nicholas Colt Thriller)

by Jude Hardin

  He pressed a knuckle against his lips and nodded thoughtfully. “I see you found yourself a guitar. Nice one.”

  “We both know it’s a piece of shit, Jake. I’ll give you thirty for it.”

  “Shit. That’s a fucking antique, man. I been thinking about keeping it myself. But since you’re a friend and all, I’ll knock off ten percent. Thirty-six even and it’s yours.”

  “I’ll give you thirty for it.”

  “Thirty-four-fifty and I’ll throw in some picks and a strap.”

  “I’ll give you thirty for it.”

  “Damn it, Nicholas, you never was any fun to dicker with. All right, thirty fucking dollars. I ought to have my head examined.”

  He pulled a silver flask from his back pocket, twisted the cap off, took a slug. He politely tilted the bottle in my direction.

  I shook my head. “I need a favor.”

  “Sure. You waltz in here and practically steal one of my fine musical instruments, and now you want a favor?” He rolled his eyes in a faux expression of disgust.

  It’s always tricky with alcoholics, but I could tell I’d caught him in a good mood.

  “I need a fake ID. Just a driver’s license and Social Security card, but it has to be something that’ll pass a background inspection.”

  He took another belt of bourbon. “Ah. That’s why you shaved your head. You’re going incognito.”

  “Nah, I did it because chicks dig bald guys. Can you help me or not?”

  “That’s illegal.” But he was already flipping through his old Rolodex. He penciled a telephone number onto a greasy Chinese take-out menu that happened to be lying on the counter. I paid him the full forty bucks for the axe, and then left the store.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Four days later, I drove the Jimmy up to Jacksonville International Airport and parked it in long-term. Juliet knew the truth, but I told everyone else I was going up to Indiana to visit my grandmother. I thumbed a ride back down to Clay County, and then walked the last couple of miles toward the Chain of Light ranch. I was pretending to be a lost transient soul named Matt Recore. I carried a first-rate fake ID in my pocket, a backpack on my shoulder, and a guitar case in my hand. Shaved face and head, Salvation Army duds. I figured my mother in heaven would have had a tough time recognizing me.

  Bart Harmon, the dissident I’d found on the Internet, had never called me, but I’d learned some things from his website. I thought I knew a bit of what to expect at Chain of Light. As it turned out, Bart Harmon didn’t know the half of it.

  When I finally made it to the ranch, I found the drive-in entrance secured with a padlock and the guard shack empty. The big rolling chain-link gate fed into simple split-rail cedar augmented with a strip of guardrail to keep people from driving onto the property. I scooted my backpack and guitar under the bottom rail and then climbed easily over the top. I walked along a winding tree-lined road for half a mile or so. It was a nice walk. Soon I heard something coming around the bend and I stood still while a Hummer squealed to a stop in front of me.

  Two armed guards got out. The guy on the passenger’s side leaned on the hood and stared at me. He had a pink wad of gum in his mouth, working it furiously. The driver was tall and skinny and had a ski slope for a nose. He reminded me of a stork. He walked to where I was standing and said, “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Matt Recore,” I said.

  “You’re trespassing, Matt Recore. The sign out front says authorized personnel only. Can you read?”

  “There wasn’t anyone in the shack.”

  “So you thought you’d just make yourself at home?”

  “I came here to serve Jesus,” I said.

  “Got some ID?”

  I reached for my back pocket.

  “Slowly,” the guard leaning on the hood chewing the pink bubblegum said. He reminded me of Bazooka Joe. Bazooka Joe and Mr. Stork. It sounded like a movie title.

  I pulled out my wallet and handed the counterfeit Texas driver’s license to Mr. Stork. He looked it over.

  “We’re going to escort you back to the gate. You can’t stay here.”

  “I got nowhere else to go.”

  “The shelter’s full. Nothing I can do about that. Get in the car and I’ll take you out to the road.”

  Bazooka Joe pointed at my guitar case. “You play that thing?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Let’s hear.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Stork said.

  Bazooka motioned for Stork to follow him. They walked behind the Hummer and conferred privately. In the meantime, I opened the guitar case, strapped on the instrument, and strummed a few chords. In a minute the guards came back around. They watched and listened.

  “We might have a place for you here after all,” Bazooka said. “Would you be interested in joining Reverend Strychar’s music ministry?”

  I played dumb. “He has a band?”

  “He has a great band. You’ll have to audition for the music director. No guarantees. If he can’t use you, we’ll have to escort you back to the highway. You interested?”

  “Sure. I’ll give it a shot.”

  “Get in the truck.”

  I climbed in the back and we headed out.

  Mr. Stork introduced himself and his partner. “I’m Brother Samuel, and this is Brother Thad. I’m going to hang onto your license. We’ll need to do a background check if you pass the audition.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Ever been arrested?”

  “No. You’ll find a bankruptcy, a foreclosure, couple of car repos. All financial stuff.”

  “Not a problem,” Brother Samuel said. “Almost everybody here has at least one bankruptcy. Including Reverend Strychar, I think.”

  The guards laughed.

  Sam the Stork steered the Hummer toward a metal building and parked in front of it. I got out with my guitar and followed Bazooka Thad inside.

  A man standing behind a rack of electronic keyboards raised his hand and closed his fist, signaling for the band to stop. There was a bass player, a horn section with trumpet, sax, and trombone, and a drummer. All of them men.

  The keyboard player sourly announced, “This is a closed rehearsal, fellas,” into a microphone.

  “Hey, Brother Perry,” Thad said. “You still looking for a guitar player?”

  “Him?”

  “Yeah. He wants to try out.”

  “Come.”

  I walked to where the band was set up and opened my guitar case. Brother Perry laughed when he saw the cheap acoustic. He was short and fat with a thick mustache that made him look like a walrus. I felt like laughing back, but I didn’t. “Hold on,” he said. He stalked away and returned holding a gold Les Paul. He handed it to me.

  “Thanks,” I said. I found a cable and plugged into the guitar amp.

  “You ever played religious music before?”

  “Music is music,” I said. I haven’t played in twenty years, but I can still play circles around your fat brainwashed walrus ass.

  “We’ll start with something simple. ‘Just a Closer Walk with Thee.’ In G.”

  “Hit it.”

  Perry the Walrus counted off the tempo. I started out playing chords and melody simultaneously, Chet Atkins style. On the second verse, I tapped an effects pedal and ripped into a solo that would have made Eddie Van Halen proud.

  While technically perfect, the band seemed to be just going through the motions. Phoning it in. It was as if all the fire had been taken out of them. They followed Perry with precision and glazed expressions.

  I remembered something I’d read on Bart Harmon’s website, what he called “chemical castration.” He said he’d been given an injection soon after joining Chain of Light, and that a deep calm had washed over him immediately after its administration. The shots were given once a month, he’d said, touted to cast out the demonic spirits of rage and aggression. As an added bonus, they also alleviated members of annoying little hum
an traits such as sex drive and ambition.

  Perry raised his hand and closed his fist. The band stopped. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

  “Taught myself,” I said.

  “As far as I’m concerned, you’re in. But Reverend Strychar has the final say.”

  “I’d be happy to talk with him.”

  Perry turned to Thad. “Can you arrange that?”

  “Not a problem,” Thad said.

  “If all goes well, I’ll see you here tomorrow at four,” Perry said to me.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I won’t disappoint you.”

  I wouldn’t really play for your lousy band for all the hooters in Hooterville, I thought. Brother Perry and the Eunuchs. Coming soon to a cult near you.

  I grabbed my guitar, and Thad and I exited the rehearsal hall.

  We stood in the doorway as a group of young women passed by. They marched in formation, four abreast, reminding me of a company of boot camp recruits. They wore dungaree pants, chambray shirts, black boots, and blank expressions. I counted ten rows. There were forty of them.

  Two guys with automatic weapons walked along with the women, one in front and one in back, like soldiers herding prisoners around a concentration camp. They wore black jeans, black T-shirts, black berets, and black combat boots with red laces. They carried AK-47 assault rifles. They appeared to be focused, sharp, and deadly.

  “You all right?” Thad asked.

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  “You were great in there. On the guitar.”

  “Oh, yeah. Thanks. What’s with the girls marching and the guys in the black suits?”

  “All in due time, Brother Matthew. All in due time. Come on. We’ll get some chow, and then I’ll see if I can get you in to see Reverend Strychar.”

  He called me Brother Matthew. I was starting to feel like a real Chain of Lighter now. We got back in the Hummer, and Sam the Stork drove us to another metal building. The three of us walked into a large dining area with tables arranged like a high school lunchroom. Fifty or so men were sitting and eating.

  “This is the men’s galley,” Thad said. “After supper, I’ll take you to talk with Reverend Strychar.”

  “Where’s the women’s galley?” I said.

  “Like I said, all in due time. We keep the men and women segregated for the most part. It makes everything simpler.”

  “Okay.”

  We walked through the service line and received hearty portions of roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, and biscuits, doled up by men in white uniforms with the same sterilized expressions worn by the band. We found a seat, bowed for a moment of prayer, and started eating.

  “I think you’re going to do well here,” Thad said.

  “Thanks. I hope so, Mister?”

  “It’s just Brother Thad. We rarely use last names.”

  “Makes everything simpler,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  Brother Samuel rose abruptly from his seat. “Attention on deck,” he shouted.

  Brother Thad stood and motioned for me to do the same.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “Shh. That’s Reverend Strychar.”

  Reverend Lucius Strychar had lost some weight and gained some hair since posting the pictures on his website. Liposuction and a hair transplant, I guessed. He wore a gray pinstriped suit, white shirt, yellow tie. He held a Bible, the leather binding worn smooth in spots from years of thumping and waving. He surveyed the room.

  “Please, gentlemen, be seated,” he said.

  Everyone sat. All eyes were on Strychar. Using a chair as a step, he climbed on top of an empty table.

  “Good evening, friends. I see some familiar faces, as well as some new ones. Welcome all. Let me hear you say amen.”

  “Amen!” everyone said in unison.

  “Ah, that’s beautiful. I know you’re all enjoying your supper, so I’ll be brief. As many of you know, our dear and talented Brother Peter was called to the mission in Peru a couple of months ago. It was a decision he gave much thought and prayer to, and he has made a three-year commitment to spread the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ there. God bless Brother Peter.”

  Strychar cupped a hand behind his ear and everyone said, “Amen!”

  Strychar continued, “Brother Peter’s departure left a vacancy in our music ministry here. He was the guitar player in our wonderful band, and he performed faithfully for the past several years. But, just as Our Savior fed the masses with seven barley loaves and two fishes, today we have witnessed yet another miracle. Today, the Lord has sent us a replacement for Brother Peter. Let me hear you say amen!”

  “Amen!”

  “I spoke with Brother Perry a few minutes ago and learned that a remarkable talent is among us, a one-in-a-million talent. Brother Matthew, would you please stand and introduce yourself?”

  I looked around, slowly pushed myself to a standing position. “Hi everyone. I’m Brother Matthew.”

  “Welcome, Brother Matthew!” they all said.

  “Welcome indeed,” said Reverend Strychar. “Normally, I would have met privately with Brother Matthew before making any announcements, but Brother Perry was so enthusiastic and adamant about this man’s talents, well, I just had to come and welcome Brother Matthew aboard right away. Gentlemen, meet the new guitar player for the Chain of Light band. Praise the Lord!”

  “Praise the Lord!”

  “I trust I’ll see you all at the prayer meeting in the morning. Enjoy your supper. Brother Thaddeus, please bring Brother Matthew to the house as soon as you’re finished eating.”

  Thad nodded. Strychar stepped down from the table and exited the galley.

  I ate my roast beef and potatoes, feeling generally optimistic about how things were going. It would be a long time before I felt that way again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  After supper, Thad and I got back in the Hummer and he drove me toward Reverend Strychar’s house. Brother Samuel didn’t come along. He said he had some things he needed to do.

  It was getting dark now. The Hummer’s headlights shone on a narrow, wooded, winding strip of blacktop. Reflective signs on posts announced JESUS SAVES, JESUS IS THE WAY, JESUS IS COMING SOON. One of the signs said HELL IS REAL in big red letters, and I didn’t doubt it for a second.

  We approached a massive log home illuminated with floodlights. Thad parked, and we got out and walked to the front door. The house had a wraparound porch, and I noticed security cameras placed strategically in corners of the roof’s overhang.

  Thad rang the doorbell. A few seconds later, the locks opened automatically, and we walked inside and down a long hallway. Our boots clacked loudly on the pine floors. Something faint and electric wafted through the air, a smell I associated with hot, powerful amplification onstage. Thad stopped at a door and knocked.

  “Enter,” Reverend Strychar said.

  Thad opened the door and motioned for me to go in. Strychar sat at an executive desk smoking a pipe and looking reflective. The room was huge. Mahogany paneling, bookshelves, confederate and Nazi flags, expensive looking paintings.

  “Thank you, Brother Thaddeus,” Strychar said. “You can wait outside.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  The sound of Thad’s boots faded as he walked back down the hallway. Strychar got up and shook my hand.

  “Once again, welcome to the Chain of Light. I just wanted to meet briefly and give you some things to read.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You can call me Father.”

  “Thank you, Father,” I said, smiling.

  He eased into his seat and motioned for me to sit in one of the wing chairs across from him. “First of all,” he said, “do you have any questions for me?”

  “I can’t think of any at the moment,” I said. Are you harboring Roy Massengill, who was responsible for the deaths of my client and her little sister? If so, please choose an excruciatingly painful way to die now.

&nb
sp; “Really? No questions?” he said. “See, if I were a man named Matthew Recore, and I made a pilgrimage all the way from Dallas, Texas, in search of truth and enlightenment, or three hots and a cot, or for any reason, and I showed up here and saw the gate in front and the cameras and the guards with guns, I would probably wonder why a Christian organization feels the need for so much security. And, I would probably wonder why there aren’t any, how should I say, people of color among the members here. Hmm?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Those thoughts have crossed my mind.”

  “It’s important that we keep the wrong kind of people outside the perimeter of this property,” he said. “That’s why we need the security. We’ve had some trouble in the past. Atheists, agnostics, pro-choice enthusiasts, and some other liberals and undesirables who were not exactly friendly toward our mission. We even had an informant for the FBI one time. You’re not an informant, are you Brother Matthew?”

  “Me? I’m just a guitar player. I’m an honest Christian. An honest white Christian. I came here to serve Jesus and to be among my own kind. If you know what I mean.”

  “I have to be sure, somehow, before I can allow you into my ministry.”

  “You have my driver’s license. I imagine you’ve already run some background checks.”

  “Yes, well, we all know identification can be falsified. The only reason you’ve gotten this far this fast is because you’re such a gifted musician. But I have to be certain that you haven’t come here to betray me.”

  “I’m not sure where you’re going with this,” I said, trying to sound slightly insulted. “You want me to sign some sort of contract, or what?”

  “I’m afraid that’s not quite enough. Actually, I’ve devised a little test.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a black bandana, and handed it to me.

  “What’s this for?” I asked.

  “I want you to blindfold yourself.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s an exercise in trust and faith,” Strychar said. “And obedience. I want you to do it because I told you to. If you refuse, I’ll have to have you escorted from the property immediately.”

  I didn’t believe he had any intention of kicking me off the property. I figured he would bury me on it if I didn’t play his little game. I was starting to get the distinct feeling that Reverend Strychar was a first-class nut job, and that I had made a grave error in coming here.