The Weight of Glass

by Stuart Heatherington

  The bartender looked my way. “What can I fix you, buddy?”

  “I’ll have what he’s having.”

  Henning lit up his first cigarette and threw a thick cloud of smoke across the bar. “Preacher’s son, huh?”

  I swirled my glass in front of me. “I was nobody’s son,” I said, chasing the bitter taste of those words with liquor.

  He sipped his drink and took another drag, rubbing the scruff of his chin with the same hand that held his cigarette. “So what are you not telling me?”

  I watched FBI agents swarm around the outside of the compound on MSN. “I think my sister’s in there too.”

  “Boy, oh boy, Leroy.”

  “She disappeared a long time ago. May have been pregnant at the time.”

  “Well, that takes queer out of the equation,” he muttered.

  The bartender poured another round of Makers Mark and left the bottle between us.

  I slammed the shot back. “I don’t think I’ve gotta tell you he wasn’t normal.”

  “And I hate to say I guessed that much.”

  I looked over at him. “Like his father, he knew the scripture of the Bible. Only difference was, my stepbrother believed it.”

  “You saying’s he’s a quack with a cause?”

  I stumbled for the right words, whiskey numbing my head. “His father used the Bible to sexually abuse women in his congregation. The dissimilarity between the two is that Marcus, or Yehoshua, or whatever he wants to call himself these days, was a flowering fanatic—his daddy saw to that. There were visions involving the rapture of the church. He drew pictures of dead people burning in a pool of fire under the shadow of a cross, or my favorite, a blood-covered Christ that he used to say would walk with him from time to time.”

  The bartender came over and tapped the sheriff on the hand. A breaking news headline announced the leader of God’s Arm had emerged from the front door of the compound and exchanged dialogue with the FBI’s hostage negotiator. Currently it was undetermined as to the demands. Footage of the door opening showed Yehoshua standing clearly across the threshold, arms spread wide as he announced something to the crowd of law enforcement.

  Henning slugged down the rest of his glass and grabbed his jacket. “That didn’t take long.”

  I hesitated, trying not to dwell on the negative. “It’s not over yet—nobody’s dead.”

  Henning snapped his arms through his jacket sleeves. “One of my men got his head shot off. I think that’s pretty dead.”

  “I’m not debating his death, Sheriff. He obviously meant something to you and to this town—I don’t want to take anything away from that. But to my stepbrother, your deputy was just a means to an end.” I looked back at the TV. “What he needs now is a martyr.”

  “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “So do I.” I followed him out the door, not wanting to share with him I had a track record of being right.

  The ride to the compound was largely in silence, a quiet in the company of strangers. Strings of news trucks and media vans lined both sides of the road at the access point to the farm. Sheriff Henning flipped on the blue lights and signaled our arrival by barking the siren. A mass of reporters, stepped to the side, umbrellas poised over heads as a light rain formed.

  FBI barricades overlapped the entrance. A station of lights flanked the road for use later in the night. Several national guards’ officers worked the media area, rifles slung secured on their shoulders.

  Henning pulled his Suburban in behind a black mobile RV. The rolling FBI headquarters sat grounded off a bend in the road, tucked in a stand of scrub brush. Down below, the edge of the farm bled out of a hollow in the face of some mountain.

  “Put this on and act like you’re supposed to be here.”

  My chest climbed up in my throat when I flipped over the vest and read Sheriff’s Dept. on the back. “This necessary?”

  “You can always wait in the car,” he managed, slamming the door behind him.

  Climbing out after him, I pulled on the sleeveless gear and velcroed it tight to my chest. As we approached the RV, its door swung open and out stepped two agents, both wearing white collar dress shirts and ties hidden beneath flap jackets, the imposing label of FBI printed in bold yellow letters across their chests. Henning shook hands with the first agent as they reached the ground. He reminded me of Scott Glenn in Silence of the Lambs, tidy and neatly combed hair.

  “Decker, what in the blue blazes is going on?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on—it’s like squeezing shit out of a baby. It ain’t pretty. These stage-ready nut jobs with their cult of fucking bullshit.” He spit on the ground and stamped his foot over it.

  “That’s what I like about you, Decker.” Henning scanned the frenzy of workers. “You’re all optimism.”

  “Look here, I wish I knew I could do my job this fucking well all the time, but I suspect something more is about to hit the fan. I’ve been in negotiations too damn long not to be overly concerned with the turn of events here.” He twisted his head to where the farm was located and licked his lips. “My gut’s telling me this thing’s going to get heated real fast. And when it does, it’s going to get dumped on us like a shit bag party at a stampede.”

  The second agent introduced himself as SAC Simms and took Henning’s hand when it was offered. “I’m not quite the eloquent speaker my counterpart is, so you’ll have to excuse me. We have two field ops units shooting heat on the area, one flanking the west ridge and another from the north. Twenty minutes ago, they both began reporting movement within the camp. It appears that everyone is congregating to this point on our map.” Simms unfolded a small satellite shot of the land. “Somewhere on the western side of the compound, in a covered building here. Infrared signatures suggest the entire group has migrated to this juncture.”

  Henning took the map and flipped it around so that he could see it right side up. “There used to be nothing there.” His eyes roved over the aerial shot.

  “It’s a corrugated metal building that appears to be a congregation area or temple. Something along those lines, anyway.” SAC Simms scanned the document. “At least that’s the Intel were getting right now.”

  “I grew up around here, and this land was used for cattle farming primarily. A lot of livestock were kept on this ranch before it shut down. From what I remember, that was a watering area for cattle. A big concrete trough was laid down in the ground. Why in the hell would they build around that?”

  “I’ll tell you why.” Decker looked over his shoulder. “He’s nuts. He’s a God job playing SimCity on this little piece of bedrock he calls Jericho Falls.”

  “Jericho Falls?”

  “That’s what they call it. People inside.” Henning didn’t bat an eye away from the map. “Don’t ask why.”

  I didn’t need to.

  “Hostage situations are generally negotiated out inside of 48 to 72 hours.” Simms was walking the dog, talking to himself. “They start to get desperate. That’s not happening here.”

  “You ever see the movie The Perfect Storm?” Agent Decker’s back was still turned to us. “This is kind of like that. What you got is a Jim Jones wannabe rushing right into the middle of a Kool-Aid marathon, and what you get’s the perfect shit storm. You mark my word, this thing’s gonna get fucked faster than somebody’s mama drunk on Jesus juice.” He reached into his pocket and took out a two sticks of gum and balled them into his mouth.

  “There’s worse things,” Henning said.

  I turned to Simms. “What’s the possibility of an assault?”

  Simms shook his head. “Too early. Logistically we haven’t compiled enough information to put together the possible──”

  An explosion of arching electricity blew out the transformer on the power pole about thirty yards away. Blue sparks and a haze of smoke poured out of the top of the metal cylinder. I ducked over and covered my head. The acrid smells of burnt wiring and hot metal reached us in an instant. I squat
ted behind the cruiser and slammed air into my chest by the mouthful. Everything turned to pandemonium. It was hard to focus on any of it at first.

  “Fuck, fucking, fuckity shit!” Decker drove his legs across the ground.

  Simms went to his walkie-talkie. “Tim, what the hell just happened?”

  A crackle sounded from across the channel. “I’ve got no visual.”

  “Young, anything your way?”

  Loud squawks chirped back before another voice replied, “Sir, I can’t say for sure. The place lit up like New Years Rockin’ Eve.”

  I closed my eyes. The internal wires in my chest melted all at once. And it took a second for my brain to process anything else.

  “Shit fuck!” Decker yelled, running up to the trailer, feet clearing two steps at a time.

  Simms looked at Henning. “You got any idea why the transformer would blow like that?”

  “My stepbrother,” I answered for him, looking up.

  “Your stepbrother?” Simms looked perplexed.

  “His stepbrother’s the guy running the show in there,” Henning shared.

  Decker scrambled back out of the RV and one hopped to the ground, binoculars in hand. His finger dialed across the wheel, brought the focus in.

  The underlying smell of burnt transformer reminded me of cat urine. It forced breathing out of the mouth.

  The walkie-talkie squawked. “Agent Simms, something’s wrong. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  Simms tripped the send button. “Go ahead, Tim.”

  “Sir, I’ve got no—” Static broke off from the field ops agent.

  “Agent Thomas, please repeat.”

  There was silence as we waited. My stomach churned low in my bowels as if I’d ridden a rollercoaster ride over.

  Henning stooped down to the ground, held his head in his hands.

  “No movement, Sir. I repeat. I’ve got no movement anywhere.”

  Decker withdrew his gun and chambered a round into his weapon. “Call them in, Simms.”

  “This is a direct order from SAC Decker. All field agents converge on subject property. Use extreme caution.”

  Decker started jogging down the road and we followed. Henning retrieved his weapon from his belt and pulled back the slide, a metallic clink slamming back into place. The sound of it made me jump. His finger worked the safety as we cleared a hedge of rock that banked the right front portion of the house. Crisp white paint covered everything attached to the main living quarters. Henning paused as he stepped around a heavy patch of blood that streaked the ground. Leading up to the porch, his free hand touched the side of his gun as he laid his back against the wall.

  Staring at the blood my skin went cold all over, ached at the seams of me. I had seen it before thousands of times with animals, but it was different now. I stood frozen to the ground as if it had some magical effect over my ability to move. There were no excuses. No answers.

  The sounds of the Sheriff’s breathing filled my ears in low, rattling huffs. He came back for me. “Move your ass. And keep your goddamn head down,” he barked.

  Thick cords sprung from the sides of his throat when I glanced up.

  “Okay,” I said, trying to ignore the shaking in my hands.

  Six agents rammed through the front door of the main house, penetrating the foyer with a sweep of shotguns.

  Up in front, Decker moved two fingers to his eyes and shot them out toward a small blue bus that flanked the dirt road to our left. Simms moved to it, popped his head over the emergency glass and glanced in, his fingers giving the all clear sign as he edged along under the windows. Dirt moved up from under his shoes as he crept forward against the outside driver’s panel leading to the engine.

  My heart pounded in my temples as I leaned over to rest against the large tire. I fought off my desire to sit down in the dirt. Part of me suddenly wanted a gun in my hand in the worst way. I might shoot my foot off, but anything was better than sneaking up on my stepbrother empty-handed.

  As if reading my mind Henning said, “Be careful.”

  “What am I gonna do, clap him to death?” I had to stifle back the urge to hurl the adrenaline out of my stomach. Maybe I could spray him in the eyes with vomit.

  Decker popped his head around the corner then back again. Slowly emerging from the safety of the house, gun angled to the ground, I followed his jog into the heart of the compound. His head scouted the territory converging on alleys, windows, and blind spots with Henning and Simms covering the opposing corners.

  I kept low behind the Sheriff until we arrived at the location where the members of God’s Arm had entered with their fanatic leader. I pictured my sister Darla and hoped for the best.

  A thin smell of smoke and something not quite appealing to the senses seemed to linger around the building as we moved closer. Simms and Henning positioned themselves on either side of the door leading in. Decker nodded and then kicked the metal door back on its hinges, sending it exploding inward with a sharp clash of echoes. Outside the building, Henning’s hand urged me to hold my location; it was as far as he wanted me to go. Other agents began filtering into the scene.

  “FBI!” Simms screamed as he jettisoned through the entryway, Henning and Decker quickly following. “Everyone down on the ground, now!”

  “Don’t move!” Decker screamed.

  My ears clenched at the sound of his voice.

  “Don’t you fucking move!”

  I peered into the darkness and put together shadows and shapes. Nothing recognizable.

  “Decker!” Henning’s voice then.

  “Holy hell!” Simms said. “Henning stay back! It could still be carrying a current.”

  Henning again, his voice breaking. “What the fuck—what the fuck did you do?”

  I saw my stepbrother emerge from the building, Decker holding him by handcuffed wrists. I went numb from the waist up. Every ounce of bone in my back turned to fixed concrete. And found myself unable to move.

  “I saved them,” Yehoshua yelled, swaying under the cuffs. “For the blood of the Lamb, I saved them all”

  In the dismal light he looked wasted behind an unkempt beard and not quite as tall as the man who had given him his likeness. Our eyes met briefly, and in that fractured second of time, as though age could not complicate the past, he remembered.

  “Hello, Lee.” A smile injected itself around the corners of Yehoshua’s lips, uncovering the same rot of teeth his father had. “Welcome to Jericho Falls.” He looked back over his shoulder then. “Here, God has a plan for us all.”

  Like a junkyard dog, Henning rushed out of the building past me. Eyes bulging as big as saucers, neck stretched tight as if reflex had triggered them to engorge, the Sheriff sprung past Decker catching Yehoshua clean across the ear and temple with a metal cross he managed to find from somewhere. Blood hit the ground around my feet. The gash he delivered across my stepbrother’s head, peeled back skin above the side of his ear. Several quick punches met Yehoshua’s face before Decker could restrain Sheriff Henning. The clump of hair in his hand fell to the ground, the matted flesh red where he’d ripped a portion of the scalp clean and pulled it away.

  Yehoshua lay still on the ground, dense pools of his own blood spread rapidly under his battered skull. Everything happened in a blur of movement. Cold colorless shades of gray stormed over into black. Two agents grabbed Henning, dragging him kicking away. Decker leaned to check his prisoner’s pulse with two fingers across the carotid artery. He ushered over medic support with a wave.

  “Get him the fuck away from here and I mean cuffed, Agent Drew.”

  I stepped into the doorway as Simms exited. FBI agents were now all around us. Three surged past the building door, heading for the barn. Intermittent voices of rescue workers and servicemen rallied to the scene. Most of their voices were drowned out by the sound of a helicopter overhead. The chop chop chop of blades bore down against the ground.

  Simms said something into his two-way, hal
f blocking me from entering and his eyes turned upward at the chopper as he signaled it away with a wave of his arm.

  I found myself peering into the doorway and a pained expression came over his face as if I had tried to ask him something. Maybe I had, but didn’t realize it.

  “You don’t want to do that.” He shielded his eyes into his shoulder as the helicopter banked away. “I can promise you.”

  “Simms?” I braced hold of my arm. “What did he do?”

  He wiped his mouth with his service weapon still in his hand. “They’re all dead. Every last one of them.” Sweat poured off Simms’ face as he stepped to the right of me. “Kids too.”