He hadn’t known for sure that it was Barnes - though he had his suspicions - until a few minutes ago, when the piece of shit in the chair (a nothing of an underling, named, Enoch Jones, who’d once been with Smoot and Barnes, back in the days before the robbery) confirmed the identity of the man who’d turned traitor. It had taken a long time to beat the information out of him, and it was time they did not have. Idaho was being evacuated. They needed to go, and soon, or they might not get out, and that would be tragic.
After all this time, all these years, waiting in exile in the hinterland of the Spud State, playing the farmer and keeping their heads low and out of sight, to die moments after they discovered confirming evidence of the treasonous bastard who tried to turn them over to the F Fucking BI would be a twist of fate too cruel to consider. God wouldn’t allow it. Gerald by God Smoot wouldn’t allow it - not when the prize he’d sought for so long was finally within reach: revenge. All he had to do was get to Oregon.
3
Medford, Oregon
Crenshaw sipped his bourbon in silence, staring into the empty, darkened room, the only illumination provided by the light leaking through a crack in the bathroom door. He sat at the round table near the window, wearing pajamas emblazoned with green toucans.
He’d purchased those pajamas for his upcoming trip to Central America, but that was beginning to seem no more real than the cartoon birds. It would have been a great vacation. A few hours spent taking pictures of squalor, surrounded by starving children, then off to Cabo, or Mazatlan, or Puerto Vallarta. Now, it was all a dream to take his mind off the nightmare of what he’d done - what he’d been forced to do by that bastard, Bourassa.
He’d been about to go to bed when the phone rang.
“Meet me in the parking lot,” the man had said, then hung up. There had been no second option in his voice.
He’d found Bourassa standing by one of the pair of SUV’s they’d rented upon arriving in Medford. “Get in,” he’d said, and when Crenshaw had, the man simply started the engine, put it in gear, and backed out of the parking space; no greeting, no explanation, nothing.
He’d pulled out onto the street and then turned, going back toward Memorial Park, where the stage had been set. They could have just gone straight into the park - the hotel sat right across the street, adjacent to the courthouse - but instead, he’d skirted the park and gone back into it from a road on the far side. Crenshaw had been nervously curious, but knew better than to ask questions.
Bourassa was always doing things without explanation - always barking orders and expecting immediate compliance. The “missions” he involved Crenshaw in generally skirted the edge of the law, but in a benign sort of way: little things, like driving one of Jericho’s devout pieces of ass home with an envelope full of cash and an instruction to the sometimes young girl (sometime very young) not to tell anyone. But the Security Chief had never come along, always sending Crenshaw to deal with it on his own. Not this time, and the realization had made him more than a little nervous.
They’d stopped near a small copse of trees, from which they could just see the corner of the stage all the way on the far side of the park. Bourassa had gotten out and moved to the back of the SUV, but Crenshaw had stayed seated for a moment, the uncertainty keeping him immobile.
When Bourassa popped the back hatch, he’d stuck his head in and said: “Get your ass over here,” and Crenshaw had.
A bundle, wrapped in a blanket, with plastic sticking out the ends had lain in the luggage compartment. It was human-sized and made Crenshaw’s stomach clench at the realization that they were getting rid of a body.
“Oh, no!” He’d said, emphatically, shaking his head and backing away. “I don’t know what this is, and I don’t want to know. Keep me out of it.”
Bourassa had slapped him then, and stared with those cold dark eyes of his. No remorse in those eyes, no hesitation, no compassion, and no question that Crenshaw would do exactly what he was told.
They carried the body to a light pole and unwrapped it, revealing the words: WHITE BITCH in black marker. Crenshaw held the girl - and she had only been a girl, had only been eighteen or twenty, tops - as Bourassa zip-tied her hands around the pole.
The blanket and plastic had been dropped in two separate dumpsters on opposite sides of town as they made their circuitous way back to the hotel. Not a word had been said.
Now Crenshaw sat, in the dark, in his room, getting quietly and completely drunk. He hadn’t signed up for this.
4
Winnemucca, Nevada
Dani finished drying her face, after gingerly washing it in the truck stop bathroom. She gazed at her reflection in the smudged mirror. Mary stood there with her, but off to the side, giving her space. Five other women were crowded around the four sinks, and two others waited impatiently behind them, so Mary’s courtesy - though appreciated - was for naught.
She could see the other women stealing glances at her in the mirror, and couldn’t really blame them. Her face looked like she’d just gone three rounds in an Ultimate Fighting match, and lost every one of them. Both eyes were puffy, with dark bruises underneath. Her nose, which hadn’t been broken, after all, carried a small gash on its bridge. Another bruise colored her left cheek bone. No amount of makeup was going to make it any better.
A big, brassy woman off to her left stared unabashedly. Her eyes scowled, but then softened. “Honey,” she said, in a gravely voice. “Whatever man did that to you should have his balls cut off.”
The other women nodded in assent, and she supposed she should take comfort from that, but all she could think of was jamming the knife into Perdue’s back. Had she really done it?
Mary responded for her. “Oh, he’s been dealt with.”
“Lawyers?” One of the women asked.
“No,” Mary replied. “.357, Smith and Wesson.”
Several of the women paled, but the brassy one just let out a braying laugh. Dani felt Mary grab her arm and she allowed herself to be led out the room.
Once outside, Mary gave her a small, one-armed hug, and said, “Don’t feel bad about what happened.” Dani looked at her. “It could have been worse,” Mary continued. “I was married to him.”
That made Dani laugh. She liked this woman - Jake’s Mom - and she could see why Jake turned out the way he had. But then her ongoing confusion about the man took the laughter right out of her.
What the Hell was her problem? Why couldn’t she just go with the flow when it came to Jake? She liked him. He liked her. Why complicate things?
Because you’re a whore.
That was the rub, wasn’t it? The fly in the ointment of her life, the ultimate hurdle she couldn’t get over: she was a whore. And since Jake had been her client, to him, she always would be. And after what The Animal had done, she was now a spoiled whore; defiled and soiled, dirty and used and forever tainted by what happened. Jake wouldn’t want her after that - if he had ever wanted anything more than just a good fuck, in the first place.
They arrived at the entrance to the diner. Jake stood there with Charlie. They both smiled. And then Jake did something that almost took her breath away.
He kissed her.
It wasn’t a passionate kiss - not the lustful mashing together of lips and inappropriate hand squeezing her ass that she’d grown accustomed to, after years and years of earning her living on her back. Neither was it the familial peck she’d gotten from relatives, way back when, so lost in the misty past, they might as well be pure fantasy - and maybe they were. But this felt different, somehow; affectionate, and warm, and as if he was actually glad to see her.
“You guys realize what torture you just put me through?” He asked, smiling, with a heart-melting twinkle in his eye.
“What are you whining about now?” Mary asked with an affectionate jibe.
“My mother and my girlfriend alone, together, and talking about me,” he answered. “Do you have any idea what that does to my level of paranoia?”
His girlfriend? Dani’s heart skipped several beats.
“If I were you,” Charlie offered his friend, “I’d seek therapy immediately.”
“Or alcohol,” Jake replied.
“None for you,” Mary said. “You’re driving.” She poked Charlie in the chest. “And that goes double for you, Mister.”
“Man! What a buzz kill,” Charlie said.
“Dude, you have no idea,” Jake replied.
“Oh, quit your whining,” Mary said, stepping between them and looping each of her arms into one of theirs. “Let’s get something to eat.”
They headed to the counter and presented themselves to be escorted by the waitress/Maitre ‘D to a table. Dani hung back a moment, before following.
Girlfriend?
5
Medford, Oregon
Bourassa knew that sooner or later he was going to have to do something about Jericho’s little pieces of tail. He sat contemplating this over a glass of superb twenty-year-old single-malt.
The “Reverend,”couldn’t control himself, and the coming days were going to be important. Even if the volcano didn’t blow - which seemed unlikely - they had a golden opportunity here. If the economy stabilized, they could rake in more money than they had ever dreamed. And if it did blow and the shit really did hit the fan? Then Jericho could literally become the closest thing to a king this country had seen since 1776.
Okay. Maybe that was a bit grandiose. Today Medford, tomorrow the world? Probably not. But if the thing blew, then the country would be shattered, divided and leaderless. Each center of population would become its own fiefdom. Each fiefdom would need a Lord, and all the peasants would pay him tribute.
The problem with being the Lord, however, was all the greedy little fuckers who wanted something from you, and all the sneaky bastards who waited in the shadows to stick a knife in your back. Better to be the man behind the throne, which was exactly where he sat.
And Jericho couldn’t keep it in his pants.
That would have to change.
Bourassa had handled it - yet again - but it had taken all his creativity to turn it into something useful. In the end, all he had needed was a magic marker and a few choice words in the ear of that easily-manipulated Police Chief.
Chief Nesbit was a vile and stupid man, but he was also in an essential position. He would be useful, if he could be controlled. This was the problem wherever they went. When you skirted the edges of the law, it was always best to keep the law in your pocket, and that simpleton had damned-near dropped himself into theirs. He’d been so ready to believe Jericho’s bullshit, and so easy for Bourassa to manipulate.
To gain power, you had to be in the right place at the right time - and they were. The Chief, or Major, or whatever the fuck that idiot wanted to be called, made the place secure.
To increase that power and to maintain it, however, you had to give The People what they wanted. What did they want? A target.
The Romans had the right idea, but the wrong approach. Blood sports gave the masses a target, but it also gave them the vicarious thrill of staged carnage. The problem with it was that the target was constantly in front of them and constantly being vanquished, thus releasing the stored hatred until the next time. It gave them a relief valve to the pressures of daily life, and the real trick - the right approach - was to never let the pressure go away.
America liked to think itself above such things, but that was all bullshit. They wanted - needed - to know who to blame, who to distrust, who to hate, and who to fear.
In the Second World War, it was the Japs and the Krauts. In the Fifties, it was the Commies. The Sixties gave them the hippies, and the Black Panthers, and the Little Yellow Bastards in their rice paddies. The Seventies gave them the government itself, and that had almost been the ruination of America.
The last thing you can do is let the beast eat itself. It had almost happened then. It was almost happening now.
Reagan had come along in the Eighties, and with him came the Commies again, but that proved to be insufficient, and so he added the Ayatollah, and Noriega, and the opening salvo against the Liberals and welfare mothers, which led them into the Nineties. But too many people were Liberals, and a Democrat ruled the White House, so they also had to have Bosnia. And when that proved inadequate, they went right back to self-cannibalism in the form of Kenneth Starr and his one man vendetta against Bill Clinton. McCarthy had at least slung his shit in every direction. Ken Starr had picked only one. It hadn’t worked, but it had done untold damage.
Then came Dubya, and 9-11, and Terrorists and Terror Alerts, and every time the masses looked like they were going to go back to eating, they raised the threat level, scared the crap out of the easily-distracted citizenry, and kept right on gobbling up all the power they could lay their hands on. But Dubya was a moron, and Dick Cheney was even more craven than Nixon had been. Were it not for the tons of bullshit being dumped into the American psyche by talk radio and the Fox Propaganda Network, the feast would have begun again in earnest.
Then came the Tea Party. The Republicans had scooped them up like fish in a net, but in doing so, they’d given power to the ignorant and the crazy, and it was turning into a bacchanal of epic proportions. No longer was it just the right eating the left to mask what was really going on: a thorough ass-fucking of the middle class so that the money continued flowing ever-upward. Bourassa would have seen nothing wrong with what they were doing, had it stopped there, but it hadn’t. The Conservative Right had invited the Tea Party Right to the dinner table, and the Tea Party had a taste for blood - anybody’s blood - and if they didn’t find something else to munch on, they’d soon be eating their own young.
And the thing was, America seemed to want it to happen - or, at least, a large enough chunk to elect the most craven son of a bitch in history: Donald Trump. That fucker was something to behold. Bourassa admired the man, for his shear chutzpah, if for nothing else. The guy had balls the size of skyscrapers, and did not give one single shit for who he screwed to get what he wanted. And his supporters loved him for it. That took talent. That took brains. That took a level of sociopathology Bourassa couldn’t touch in a million years. He fed his supporters ton after ton of pure bullshit, and as long as he kept telling them who to blame, and as long as the Republicans in Congress kept backing him up, and as long as the propaganda machine kept working, they ate it up and loved him for it.
There was the kind of man Bourassa could get behind. He even voted for him - or would have, if not for the unintended consequence of registering. Some genius, long ago, decided it would be a good idea to combine the voter registration rolls to the DMV records and use the information to create the jury pool. Jury duty would be a bad idea for man such as himself - although, he found the irony of it hilarious. But no. Getting called for jury duty was not in the cards. But if he had been able to vote. . .
Voting for Hillary had been so far out of the question as to make it invisible. And the rest of the Republican field had been so weak, so pathetic, that there was never any chance of them beating her. But Trump, on the other hand, knew just how to make voting for him sound like a good idea - to a certain, rather large, segment of the population.
If he could find a man like Trump to get behind in this soon-to-be Brave New World . . .
Instead, he had the Good Reverend. Thomas Jericho had begun with so much potential - so much possibility - and the money had been good. Shit, the money had been phenomenal, once they’d hit upon the televangelist con. But things were different now. Yeah, the world was different, but Jericho was, too. The hit on the head had done something to him. He could still be managed - hopefully - but it would take every manipulative skill Bourassa possessed,
Or maybe not. Maybe Jericho wasn’t the one he needed to manipulate. It could be - should be - enough just to point him and his new-found Mission in the right direction, and let him do his thing. People were scared, and scared people were much easier to manipulate. Just lo
ok at how well it worked for the Catholic Church. So maybe what he should be concentrating on was how to manipulate the people who would follow Jericho. And Bourassa knew just how to do it.
One thing, one theme, had remained constant throughout history: Racism. Along with its cousin, Discrimination, it had been there ever since the Pilgrims hit Plymouth Rock. There had always been Those People to blame and distrust and hate and fear, and Bourassa suspected there always would be. Why not use it to his advantage?
He’d never really cared about skin color, or nationality, or religion, or any of the other usual suspects. Everybody had always been the same to him: just another rube, another mark, another person to be used to his advantage.
If the volcano blew, if everything went to Hell in a handbasket, it would be to his advantage to play the old Bait and Switch; to keep the masses preoccupied with hate and fear and distrust, to keep them looking the other way, while he and his took over. Sure, it was Machiavellian, of course it was Machiavellian, but old Machiavelli had been one smart son of a bitch.
And so was Bourassa.
He sipped his good scotch and smiled. This was going to be interesting.
6
Winnemucca, Nevada
Charlie eased into the booth next to Mary, and across from Jake and Dani. He felt stiff and tired and every bit of the twenty hours he’d been awake. He also felt oddly energized, like a sprinter waiting to set his feet into the blocks, his nerve endings tingling, waiting for the starting gun.
And the Yellowstone Supervolcano would be one gigantic motherfucker of a starter’s pistol.
He glanced around the table at his companions. Jake’s Mom looked a bit on edge, but seemed more like a thoroughbred before the Kentucky Derby, than somebody who’d fall to pieces if and when the shit came down. She’d be ready. He had no doubt.
Dani, battered and beaten though she certainly had been, and freaked as she certainly must be, seemed somehow calm. It could be shock, he supposed. He’d seen it enough times during the aftermath of Katrina. No telling for sure how she’d react in a crisis, but something told him she’d be okay.
Pressure (Book 1): Fall Page 21
