“Ah,” murmured Jagger. “Important people.”
“Important entities,” murmured Keepe.
“At least, so they believe,” said Webster, a chuckle in his voice.
Jagger took a deep breath and dared. “May I ask …?”
“The Vatican,” said Keepe. “And its allies in Arabia, Iran, Iraq, as well as factions in certain other Muslim nations.”
It was the last thing Jagger had expected. Though it was common knowledge in the Alliance that the pope’s views on women accorded well with those of the ayatollahs, that matter was not usually spoken of publicly in the U.S.
“It was only a matter of time,” Webster said, still with that air of amusement. “Better sooner than later.”
Keepe said, “Better sooner, certainly, as we have only a few years left until final collapse.”
“I thought twenty years or so,” Jagger murmured, slightly confused.
Keepe shook his head. “So we had thought, but the destruction is moving faster than that. Our people say all the fish will be gone in five years; most of the birds in three to five more. The amphibians are already down to a few scattered species. Mammal species are half what they were fifty years ago, and the rate of extinction is increasing. Starvation deaths in Africa and Asia are up. The progun people are stronger than ever, and armament sales are being increased to fuel tribal wars on every continent. The final starvation, emigration, extermination cycle has already begun. Alliance must take control in the next ten years in order to be in a position to save our members.”
“Some of our members,” said Webster with a small smile. “It was never intended that we save them all.”
Keepe accepted the correction. “Certainly, sir.”
“Still,” Jagger marveled. “The Vatican.”
“The cardinals grew tired of hearing about women’s issues.” Keepe grinned. “Aren’t we all most dreadfully tired of women’s issues?” He sniggered, a tee-hee like a sneeze, as quickly over.
This seemed to stir some response in Webster, who looked up and asked idly, “Where’s your wife, Jagger?”
“In her room, sir. Would you like to meet her?”
“Why would I want to meet her?” The voice was faintly chiding, as one might tease a much-loved child.
Jagger flushed at the warmth, at the acceptance it betokened, more than he had expected. “Only a customary phrase, sir.”
That slightly amused smile once more. “Of course, Jake. Of course. I merely wanted to be sure we were not overheard.”
“Tush,” said Keepe. “It won’t be long before we can forget such caution. Soon the return to our heritage, and after that the solution of many problems, including those of womankind.”
Webster gestured impatiently. “This isn’t why we’re here.”
“Of course, sir.” Keepe leaned forward, becoming businesslike. “Mr. Jagger … May I call you Jake?”
Jake nodded, annoyed despite himself. What did it matter what this lackey called him?
“Jake, the Alliance timetable is being moved up. The American takeover will be in 2008 instead of 2012, as originally planned. We still plan a political coup. Obviously, candidates must be readied now. We’d like you to run for lieutenant governor this fall.”
“Lieutenant …” Jake hid his disappointment. “Of course, if that will help.”
Webster purred, “Inasmuch as something will almost certainly happen to the governor, we think it will help, yes.”
Jake kept his face carefully blank. Governor. It wasn’t what he’d hoped for, but it made sense.
Keepe sat back, hiking up his trouser creases with twitchy fingers. “Once you are governor, acting or de facto, we can consider the next step.” He gazed expectantly into Jake’s face.
“Next step?”
“The elections of 2004 and 2008. We’ll need candidates for a number of offices. Including the presidency, of course.”
“Of course,” Jake managed to say above the thundering of his blood. Of course. The presidency.
Webster waved this subject away with the movement of one forefinger. “It’s too soon to make any commitments about that. All you need to know right now is that Keepe is here to help you, Jagger. He’ll take charge of your life for you. In fact, he already has.” He laughed, an enormous joviality, as startling and unexpected a sound as an avalanche, amplified, larger than life. The room rocked delightedly with laughter while Webster warmed Jake with his smile.
Jake grinned back, showing his teeth. Here was what Jake wanted! To be like Webster! He did not say so. He merely grinned and nodded his understanding, his lips stretching, his head bouncing, all of themselves.
Webster fell silent, regarding Jagger approvingly once more. Jagger’s mouth and head stopped moving, he dropped his eyes, as from a bright light. Averting his eyes was an instinctive reaction. Though he thought of it as a respectful gesture, it happened without his volition.
Keepe pursed his lips, nodded. “We’re already in a very strong position in this country, of course. We’ve taken over all of the antigovernment militias, most of the religious groups who think of themselves as conservative, plus what’s left of the KKK and the American Nazi party, but they’re only pocket change. We now own the Republican party. Any moderates still hiding in there have been flushed out. We’ve been managing the press for over twenty years now, and the public is accustomed to our view of the world.”
Jagger paid attention. “I didn’t realize …”
“Oh, yes. People don’t want to absorb new information. They like predictability. So as long as we don’t surprise the public with the truth, we’re free to move as we like. Very shortly we won’t even have to be covert about it. And then, of course, people are sick of issues. Civil rights, human rights, women’s rights—people are tired of all that. You understand?”
Jagger nodded, falling back on an all-purpose acknowledgment. “I’m flattered to be included in our plans.”
Webster moved at that, lifting one aristocratic nostril. “Don’t misinterpret this personal visit as an accolade. That would be premature.” He took the chill from the words by leaning forward, opening his hand toward Jake as though inviting his attention. “I often make such trips, checking things, being sure there are no misunderstandings. A good rule is always to keep in touch oneself, to know things firsthand.”
Jagger nodded obediently, hearing a father’s voice in the words. This wasn’t rejection; it was discipline. Jake was accustomed to discipline. He took a deep breath. “What do you want me to do?”
Webster gave him a glance of proprietary pride and said:
“I want you to be obedient, Jake.”
Jake flushed at the emotion he was feeling, a great welling of warmth, a wonderful acceptance. He couldn’t speak.
Keepe waited politely. When neither of the others said anything more, he leaned forward to tap Jake on the knee. “Our people have been over your past with a fine-tooth comb: your finances, relationships, everything back to your birth. There’s nothing there—or I should say there’s nothing there now—that could raise an eyebrow. The hospital records say your mother was a hardworking widow who died young. The Defense Department records say your father was an American hero who was killed in Korea. We’ve created a history for you, for anyone who goes looking.”
Jake felt a moment of vertigo, almost of nausea. He had aspired to another fatherhood than the one they had just awarded him, but Keepe was going on, nodding to himself as though ticking off a list.
“I do my job well, Jake, and Mr. Webster expects us to work together. I’m sure you’ll be easy to work with. I’ll handle all the details: the campaign, the publicity, funneling the money in, everything. Right now I’d like to know if you have a current prosecution that would make a good media hook.”
Jagger’s eyes narrowed as he thumbed mentally through his caseload. “I don’t think there’s anything useful pending. It’s the usual mix. Drunk drivers, garden-variety murderers, gang killings, a bank rob
bery, one teenager who stuck her baby in a Dumpster—”
Head cocked, Keepe held up a finger. “That might be interesting.” He frowned, made a tiny chewing motion. “It has a kind of end-of-civilization ring to it, doesn’t it? The fine, pure instincts of motherhood betrayed, a young mother corrupted by too much freedom. Was the baby dead?”
“Yes.”
“Born alive?”
“I don’t know,” Jake said uncertainly. “I haven’t looked at the autopsy report.”
Keepe took a small booklet from his pocket and made a brief note in it. “If I decide to use it, the autopsy report will say it was born alive. In any case, I’ll take care of that, you stay out of it. What is she?”
“She?”
“The mother? Racially?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Mixed, I suppose.”
“Welfare case?”
“I think so.”
“That makes the prosecution easier. It doesn’t matter that much what color she is. Who’s defending?”
“Whoever the judge appointed. There are half a dozen lawyers in town who do most of that kind of thing. Heaven knows they can’t make a living any other way.”
“It doesn’t matter. If we decide to use it, we’ll make a national story out of it, panels and talk shows, the whole breakdown-of-the-family, end-of-civilization routine that’s worked well for us in the past. In general, you can just be relaxed and charming. Don’t speak off the cuff. Don’t rant and rave. Be low-key and humorous.” He handed Jagger an envelope. “Here are some general-purpose paragraphs to memorize; recite them every time you have a chance. Content isn’t nearly as important as repetition. You can make people believe anything if you just say it often enough.” Keepe nodded once more, to himself as much as to Jagger, a checkoff nod, as though a final point had been tallied.
Jagger took a deep breath, but Webster had something else to say. “One more thing, my boy …”
My boy!
“In the past you’ve taken very good care of yourself. You’ve ‘fixed’ things, from time to time.” Webster paused, as though awaiting a response.
Jagger didn’t speak, merely kept his face blank, slightly questioning, though his stomach clenched agonizingly. Had he overstepped? Had he done something wrong?
Webster whispered, “All of that may have been appropriate then. Your mother’s death? Your foster father’s untimely but no doubt profitable demise? And after putting you through law school, too. Your sister-in-law’s ‘suicide’? There were witnesses to that one, Jake. Guards at the jail.”
“Were,” murmured Keepe. “Aren’t now.”
“The accident that killed your wife’s parents?”
Jake swallowed painfully. He’d needed the money. He couldn’t just … Surely Webster knew that he’d had to …
Webster went on gently. “There was nothing in your past we couldn’t cover, but we wouldn’t want something to crop up in the future that we might have difficulty explaining. From now on do only what we tell you to do.”
Unable to speak, Jagger nodded.
Webster went on. “You’re politically clean. You don’t have an unpaid parking ticket. Don’t do anything to track in dirt. We have to keep that vision shiny.”
From some hidden reservoir of rebellion, words bubbled up, words that Jagger couldn’t stop: “But if he wants to use a specific case, you’ll want me to win it.…”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees in an instant.
Webster said clearly, each word like a drumbeat, “Don’t ever presume to tell me what I want, Jake. If we want you to win, you’ll win. If it would make better publicity, gain you more sympathy to lose, you’ll lose. The work of the Alliance is more important than winning or losing.”
Keepe interjected, “The case is merely a hook to hang an image on.…”
And Webster again, “Win or lose will be our decision. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” The words were dragged out of his dry throat by pure willpower. He had never heard Webster use that tone before. He did not want him to use it again. Not to him.
When Webster raised his head, his face was calm and affectionate once more. “Don’t talk about the millennium. Every member of the Alliance believes that when the end of the world comes, he will survive. Every single one thinks there’ll be a miracle to benefit him. We need to keep all of them thinking so, right up to the last.” His mouth quirked strangely, as though this touched him in some particularly amusing way. “There will be a miracle, of course. My people—some of them—actually will survive. And we’ll rule for a thousand years, Jake. You may depend upon that.”
“Of course,” said Jagger, dropping his eyes.
“Now we must go. I have other business tonight.”
The words brought Jake up from his chair as though someone had pushed his button, again without volition. A tiny spark of rebellion in him insisted that Webster hadn’t needed to use his power on Jake. He, Jake Jagger, was loyal. He would do whatever was needed without being compelled. But, then, Webster was compelling! Of course he was! It was part of his manner not to be turned on and off. Learn from it, Jake told himself as he dredged up another all-purpose phrase and managed by pure willpower to bend his tongue around it.
“I’m very grateful for the chance to be of service.”
“Of course you are.” Webster leaned forward and patted Jake on the shoulder. “I knew you would be. Keepe will see that I’m informed of your progress.”
Standing in his graveled courtyard a few moments later, holding on to his physical composure with all his might, Jake raised his hand politely as he watched the car go off down the hill. His muscles wanted to let go, his skin was quivering, he had a sick looseness inside. It felt like nausea, fear, panic, imminent collapse, but it couldn’t be any of those. It had to be overexcitement. The man himself had come there to meet with Jake. It was enough to awe anyone, but the proper attitude was respect, not this strange helplessness. Too much excitement. That’s what it was.
Though he’d been … well, surprised when Webster had mentioned Jake’s mother. Jake had been twelve when she’d died. He’d heard a thump just as he was leaving for school one morning. From the bathroom door he’d seen the red stain on the edge of the tub, seen her slipping below the water, a skein of blood making a wavering line of scarlet across her face, sticky bubbles coming from her mouth, breaking on the surface of the water, each with a ha, a ha-ha. Until they stopped.
While those bubbles rose and burst, one after the other, there had been plenty of time for Jake to open the drain and let the water out. By age twelve he’d been a large, strong boy. If he’d wanted to, he could even have pulled her out of the tub. Certainly, he could have called for help. He had done none of those things. He had simply stood there, quite calmly, deciding not to do anything at all. He remembered the steamy, swampy smell of the room, her smell, the smell of blood and smoke. He had wondered if the smell would still be there when he got home from school.
Eventually, when there were no more bubbles, he had picked up his lunch, packed by himself, and gone. That night, when he’d returned home, he’d let out the water and called the police. The smell was still there, but the presence wasn’t. Even though he had been only twelve, he had known enough not to tell the police what she really was. There was a conventional way to handle such things, the way the TV showed people doing it, and he’d handled it conventionally, weeping convincingly, as though he’d cared. He’d said she was fine when he’d left. The police had been sympathetic.
Jake had known for some time he would find better opportunities elsewhere. A couple of years after her death, he did, through the efforts of a generous foster father, Ralph French. Daddy Ralph had tutored him and sent him to college and law school. Daddy Ralph had died suddenly from a fall when Jagger was in his early twenties. Daddy Ralph had left Jagger quite well-off. There had been other opportunities in subsequent years. And, of course, more recently there’d been the trust fund Helen had inher
ited when her sister Greta had died. And Helen’s parents’ money, which had also come to Helen. All of which had come to Jagger, because he’d needed it.
Webster knew about Greta, and about Helen’s family, and Webster hadn’t objected to any of it. But had he really known about Jake’s mother and Daddy Ralph? Or had he only been guessing, putting Jake on the spot? Likely he’d been guessing. There’d been no witnesses at all. He couldn’t have actually known.
Jake set the worry aside and concentrated on breathing as he marched around the drive, past the garages, onto the high terrace and out again, past the house and to the garages once more, swinging his arms, taking longer steps than necessary, mentally reviewing the event, rating himself on his performance. He graded himself after every court appearance, every professional or private confrontation, testing himself on a private scale that did not admit to loss, only to the extent of victory over those who opposed him. So he rated himself now, though there had been no opposition. He had done well. He really had done well. He could allow himself a little reward for achievement.
At the rear of one of the garages, just past the glossy length of the black Lexus, a heavy metal door led into a concrete-fronted bunker gouged into the soft sandstone of the hill. On the house plans this construction had been labeled as a storage area. The men who built it had laughingly called it the dungeon. Jagger called it his game room. Heads of deer and elk and bear speckled the walls. Antlers made a frieze along the ceiling. Tanned hides were stacked in one corner. A shelf held Jake’s favorite books, the ones he’d acquired in childhood. Hunting stories. Fishing stories. Mountain men. Adventurers. Shoot-’em-ups. Jake had belonged to a gun club in Illinois, but he had never actually hunted until he had come to New Mexico. The tracking and killing and butchering of animals had been a revelation to him. He loved it. It was far better than sex, for Jake enjoyed sex only when he was very angry.
In the capacious closet along the inside wall was a huge freezer stuffed with meat from the hunt, butchered by himself on the heavy butcher-block table, now covered with plastic. Cutting up the carcasses was satisfying, but the idea of actually eating the meat was vaguely disgusting to him, so every year he gave it to the people who put on the Thanksgiving Day feast for the homeless. It was good publicity and cost him nothing. His cleavers and heavy knives, individually wrapped, lay atop the cover. On the front wall hung a corkboard panel, randomly covered with photographs and cards. The photographs were of Jagger beside the body of an elk, or a lop-tongued deer, or the furry bulk of a slaughtered bear, rifle proudly erect. Other pictures were of Jagger at the controls of his snowmobile or of his helicopter—the old one. He had no pictures of the new one, the one he’d just bought, ostensibly for hunting, but actually in anticipation of political campaigning. Among the photographs red cards stood out like a dozen bloodstains. They were lettered in Jake’s hand with the names of opponents he had conquered. One of them had a judge’s name on it. Rombauer. Rombauer was an old, pedophilic judge who hadn’t known he was being photographed in the act until he had become wholly owned by Jake Jagger.
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