by Joan Hess
“Brothers and sisters,” he said, dragging out the words as he made eye contact with as many folks as he could, “I have in my possession some information that is so startling that you may think it came from a tabloid. Some of you will laugh at what I’m gonna share with you this morning. Some of you will sneer. Some of you, like Earl Buchanon and Lewis Fernclift, will snooze through the sermon same as you do every Sunday morning. But those of you who listen with an open mind are gonna be shocked. That’s right, brothers and sisters—shocked!”
Uneasiness rippled through the congregation as they prepared themselves for this electrifying revelation. Earl sat up straight so everybody could see he was wide-awake. Lottie Estes settled her reading glasses on the bridge of her nose, then took a pad and pencil from her purse in case she needed to take notes. Dahlia sighed, wondering if Brother Verber was gonna carry on so long she’d wet her pants. Ruby Bee and Estelle wiggled their eyebrows at each other.
Brother Verber cleared his throat and scanned his notes one last time. “We’re gonna begin with a passage from Genesis, chapter twelve, verses one through three: ‘Now the Lord had said unto Abraham, Get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred, and from thy father’s house, unto a land that I will shew thee. And I will make of thee a great nation, and I will bless thee, and make thy name great, and thou shalt be a blessing: And I will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that curseth thee: and in thee shall all families of the earth be blessed.’”
He gave them a moment to stew on that, then smiled and shook his head. “That ain’t all. Now let’s take a gander at chapter twenty-two, verses seventeen and eighteen, where the Lord’s still talking to Abraham: ‘That in blessing I will bless thee, and in multiplying I will multiply thy seed as the stars of the heaven and as the sand which is upon the sea shore, and thy seed shall possess the gate of his enemies. And in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed; because thou hast obeyed my voice.’”
“Sounds like Abraham won’t need to buy any seeds at the co-op this spring,” Earl said, then grunted as his wife’s elbow caught him in the ribcage.
Brother Verber shot Earl a dirty look. “These have to do with producing children, not soybeans, and the multiplying ain’t the two-times-two sort of multiplying. What you just now heard is called the Abrahamic Covenant, and it was made some thirty-eight hundred years ago. Yes, the Lord gave Abraham a thirty-eight-hundred-year warranty on his seed because he obeyed the Lord’s voice and commandments. You can bet Abraham was pleased as punch, and his children and grandchildren and their children and so forth were, too.”
Suddenly, his expression darkened and his hands gripped the sides of the podium. He waited until everybody stopped squirming and sneaking glances at their watches, then dropped his voice to a throaty whisper. “But then the tables turned. Shalmaneser, the king of Assyria, marched his army into Israel, and took prisoners back to places like”—he consulted his notes—“Halah and Medes. Thirteen years later, the Assyrian army came back for more, and that ain’t the end of it. In the year five hundred and ninety-six B.C., Nebuchadnezzar, the king of Babylon, attacked Jerusalem and pretty much captured the last of the Israelites. Now where do you think all these seeds of Abraham ended up?”
Nobody offered a guess. Earl’s chin was on his chest and he was snoring softly. Dahlia was trying to determine if she could get out of the pew without stepping on too many toes. Beside her, Kevin was tugging at his collar and wondering if Kevin Junior would have Dahlia’s eyes. Lottie Estes was agonizing over the correct spelling of Nebuchadnezzar. Mrs. Jim Bob was perplexed, aware that Brother Verber’s religious training through the mail-order seminary in Las Vegas had been slanted toward the consequences of sinful behavior rather than obscure biblical history. Beside her, Jim Bob was cursing himself for coming home from the poker game at two in the morning with whiskey on his breath—and discovering his wife sitting in the kitchen.
Brother Verber went in for the kill. “All these seeds ended up in the Caucacus mountains or thereabouts—which is why they became known as Caucasians. Now, they didn’t stay there forever, these twelve tribes of Israel. After maybe a hundred years, they packed their bags and migrated toward the west. When they got someplace they liked, they settled down and took names like Celts, Teutones, Gaels, Scots, and Scandinavians. After a time, some of them like the Vikings and Pilgrims sailed across the Atlantic Ocean to a place called North America. Let’s have a look at Second Samuel, chapter seven, verse ten, where the Lord says plain as day: ‘Moreover I will appoint a place for my people Israel, and will plant them so they may dwell in a place of their own, and move no more; neither shall the children of wickedness afflict them any more, as beforetime.’” He took out a handkerchief and blotted his forehead, stealing a peek at Kayleen. She nodded encouragingly at him, her eyes all dewy with admiration.
“So what this boils down to,” he continued, “is two things. One is that we’re Caucasians and therefore the true descendants of the twelve tribes of Israel, who were assured by the Lord that they were the chosen people. The second is that we are living in the Promised Land right here and right now!” He thumped the podium for emphasis, then rocked back on his heels and waited while everybody considered what he’d said. Everybody but Earl, of course.
Mrs. Jim Bob stood up. “Are you saying that we’re Jewish?” she asked.
“Not for a second,” he assured her, hoping he had his facts straight. “I’m saying that the Jews are not descended from the twelve tribes of Israel, any more than the Africans or the Ethiopians or the Eskimos—because they ain’t Caucasians. Only the folks from the western Christian nations qualify.”
As Mrs. Jim Bob sank down to sort this out, Eula Lemoy fluttered her hand. “And the United States of America is the Promised Land?”
Brother Verber nodded. “Just like the Lord promised in the Abrahamic Covenant. Let’s all bow our heads and offer a prayer of thankfulness for this blessing that has been bestowed on us.”
Raz Buchanon spat angrily as a gun was fired somewhere higher up on Cotter’s Ridge. “These dad-burned city folk got no call to come here and start shootin’ at anything that moves,” he muttered to Marjorie, who’d refused to get out of the truck. “And if Diesel values his worthless hide, he’d better stay away from here. I’d sooner blow off his head as look at him!”
Marjorie blinked as sunlight glinted off the copper tubes and empty Mason jars.
“What’s more,” Raz went on, “I ain’t gonna feel any kindlier toward those soldier fellers if they come snoopin’ around here. I’ll blast the lot of them to Kingdom Come. You jest see if I don’t.” He spat again, glared so savagely at a squirrel that it liked to fall off a branch, then replenished his chaw and returned his attention to the fine art of making moonshine. Business was always real good during the holiday season.
Jake Milliford belched as he pushed away from the kitchen table. “Fine dinner,” he forced himself to say, not being comfortable throwing out compliments but doing it anyway. Short of stuffing Judy in a gunny sack and putting her in the back of the truck, there wasn’t any way he could force her to go to Maggody for four days. He should have been able to just lay down the law ’cause she was his wife, but he knew better than to try it. “I’m gonna go watch the game. When you get finished with the dishes, come into the living room.”
“I’m not interested in ballgames,” she said as she carried his plate to the sink. “I told Janine I’d come over this afternoon and help her make curtains for the nursery. She found a real cute gingham print on sale—”
“You don’t have to sit there all afternoon. I got something to show you. After that, you can go wherever you please.” He left the room before she could start whining, which, as far as he was concerned, was about all she ever did. It wasn’t like all he ever did was lie around the house all day or take off two weeks to go deer hunting. No, he worked eight-hour shifts five days a week at the salvage yard just to keep them from having to live in a neighborho
od where they’d be surrounded by lazy half-breeds. He didn’t go around beating up faggots like some of the fellows did. He took her to church most Sundays, even though he didn’t cotton to all the pious shit about lovin’ thy neighbor and turnin’ the other cheek. The only time he was gonna turn the other cheek was while he was pulling out a gun.
“What do you want?” said Judy, coming to the doorway with her coat over her arm.
He picked up a six-foot aluminum pole. “LaRue gave me this to try. It’s called a take-down blowgun, and it’s supposed to be accurate up to sixty feet. He said he got himself an eleven-pound turkey.”
“So?”
“So I was showing it to you. At halftime, I’m gonna go out back and see if it’s as powerful and accurate as LaRue sez. If it is, I’m gonna order one for myself and a shorter one for you.”
“What would I do with it? You know I don’t like to hunt.”
“When the time comes that we have to take to the woods, you may need it for self-defense.”
Judy put on her coat. “Well, at least you can’t shoot yourself in the foot with it. I’ll be back at suppertime. Don’t call me over at Janine’s. We’re going to try to get the curtains done while the baby’s napping, and the phone always wakes him up.”
“Why would I want to call you?”
“To stop by the store or something. Anyway, don’t do it if you want supper on the table tonight. We’re determined to finish the curtains in one sitting.”
“Okay, okay,” he muttered, stroking the polished aluminum of the blowgun. The darts with their colorful plastic tips only cost about ten cents apiece. He might just forget about the game and find out if they were as lethal as LaRue said.
“What’s up, Harve?” I asked, having made the tactical error of stopping by the PD for a magazine and feeling obliged to find out who’d left a message on the answering machine. Most of them tend to be from Ruby Bee and therefore on the monotonous side.
“Thought you was gonna have that accident report here yesterday,” he said.
“My dog ate it, but I’ll write up another one and bring it over tomorrow. It’s not exactly the stuff of which bestsellers are made.”
He rumbled unhappily. “That ain’t the real reason I called, Arly. I need you to do me a favor and go check out a burglary on a county road over past Drippersville. I’m real short-handed on account of all my boys calling in sick. Odd how something always goes around this time of year, ain’t it? If I were a suspicious sort—and we both know I’m not—I’d almost wonder if deer season had anything to do with it.”
“So what’s the deal in Drippersville?”
“It’s the fourth damn burglary in the last month. The same MO, too. The houses are in remote areas and the owners are out of town. The perps break a window, collect everything of value, and waltz out the back door and load their vehicles. None of the stolen goods have turned up in the county.”
I made the face that Ruby Bee always complains will leave more lines than a road map. “Professionals?”
“Damn straight,” Harve said. “They pull out all the trays and serving pieces, then take the silver and leave the cheap stuff on the floor. They don’t take jars of pennies or paste jewelry. They didn’t bother with a computer that was a couple of years old.”
“And nobody’s seen them coming or going?”
“Like I said, the houses are in areas without neighbors. The owners are on vacation, and none of them sees anybody lurking nearby when they put suitcases in the trunk. At the third house, the guy’d rigged up a device to make the lights go on at dusk and off at midnight so it’d look like someone was there, but it didn’t do a damn bit of good. In fact, the perps hung around long enough to cook a frozen pizza.”
I found a notepad and a pencil. “Okay, I’ll go out there and look around. Give me directions to the house.”
Reed banged down the telephone receiver, then took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself. “The bitch says she’s filing for a divorce first thing in the morning,” he told Barry. “She already talked to a lawyer, and he told her she can take half my paycheck for the next fifteen years. Fifteen fucking years! Her brother’s coming over toward the end of the week to get the rest of her crap.” He made a fist and hit the wall with such fury the plaster cracked. “Goddamn it to hell! I’m not putting up with this shit! I’ve got half a mind to drive over there and beat her until she gets down on her hands and knees and begs to come back.”
Barry quite agreed Reed had half a mind (and not a fraction more). “Then she’ll file charges like she did last time, and you’ll find yourself doing ninety days at the county jail.”
“At least she won’t get half of any paychecks,” Reed said, examining his knuckles for cuts.
Dylan Gilbert came out of the kitchen, a glass of milk in one hand and a sandwich in the other. “What’s going on?”
“Reed was talking to his wife,” said Barry. “I would have thought you could hear every word. Are you sure you used to be a college boy?”
“Phi Beta Kappa,” he said, then kicked an empty beer can off the couch and sat down. He was wearing jeans and a neatly pressed shirt, and his hair was still damp from the shower. “Sure, I heard, but he calls to yell at her at least three times a day. I was just wondering if there had been any new developments in the drama.”
“Hell, no.” Reed stomped into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of tequila and a smudged glass. “You know what they call a roomful of lawyers? A target. Maybe we can find out where they hold their annual convention and blow ’em all sky-high.”
Barry lifted his eyebrows. “An interesting idea, but a very imprudent one. Let’s save our energies and resources for a more significant project. Don’t you agree, Dylan?”
“I’ve never had any use for lawyers, especially the public defenders who want you to plead out so they won’t have to waste a day in court. However, I agree that we have better things to do than disrupt a bar association luncheon.” He took a bite of the sandwich and washed it down with milk, his eyes never leaving Barry’s face. “I’ve heard Reed’s life story, but I don’t know much about you.”
“And I don’t know anything about you,” Barry countered.
“There’s nothing to know. I grew up in Idaho. When my father lost his ranch to the bloodsuckers at the bank, we moved to a compound where he worked in the machine shop and my mother taught school. I split five years ago, did a couple of years of college, and ended up with the Denver brethren. Now I’m here until something better comes along.”
Barry sat back and gave him a bemused look. “Reed said you tried to send a bomb to a federal judge and brought the feds down on you. Did you put a return address on the package or what?”
“Get off it,” said Reed. “Nobody’s that stupid, fer chrissake.” He paused to down a shot of tequila. “Except for that bitch Bobbi Jo and her brother. They’ve probably been screwing each other since they were in grade school.”
Dylan showed small, even teeth. “It seems someone called the FBI and mentioned my name. I don’t know what else they had, but they had enough to get the warrant. I didn’t stick around to hear the details or to track down the squealer and have a talk with him. One of these days I will, though.”
Although Dylan’s voice had been unemotional to the point of blandness, Barry felt a twinge of apprehension. Dylan was dangerous, he decided. Reed was too, but in a blustery, see-it-coming sort of way; he was as subtle as a grizzly bear charging through a thicket. Dylan was more of a poisonous snake, silently gliding through the grass, its eyes slitted and its tongue flicking as it approached its prey.
Barry put on his cap and reached for his jacket. “Guess I’m going. I’ll see you Friday in Maggody.”
Reed ignored him. “Hey, Dylan, you ever rearmed a sixty-six-millimeter light antitank weapon?”
In a much nicer house in a neighborhood populated by white Anglo-Saxon Methodists, Baptists, Presbyterians, and a smattering of Episcopalians, Sterling Pitts sat in
his study. The proposal for the group health plan should have occupied his attention, but he was seated in a leather chair, staring sightlessly at the photograph of himself holding up a large, dead fish. An informant in their midst? Members came and went, either voluntarily like Carter Lee or involuntarily like Bradley and Mo. But he, Reed, Barry, and Jake had been involved since they met at a week-long retreat in Missouri. Reed and Barry were fresh out of the army; Reed, in particular, was having a hard time adjusting to civilian life and was ripe to be recruited. Barry had proved himself by setting a fire in a warehouse in Little Rock. Jake was taciturn, but his eyes blazed and he had plenty to say whenever the talk turned to the mongrelization of the white race by civil rights legislation.
Sterling had been unable to recontact his counterpart in Colorado. He’d tried e-mail, but the address had been switched. The only telephone number he knew had been disconnected, which was not surprising since many of those in the movement often moved to ensure their privacy.
He took a pen and wrote down the code names: Silver Fox, Red Rooster, Apocalypse, Blitzer. It was unthinkable that any one of them would betray the cell. Judy Milliford seldom evinced enthusiasm, but she was too mousy to envision in such a role. Kayleen was deeply dedicated; he could hear it in her voice whenever they spoke about the insidiousness of the federal government and the threat posed by the international conspiracy. If she’d not been a woman, she would have easily replaced Mo in the hierarchy.
But Dylan Gilbert swore he’d received the tip from a double agent in Oklahoma. He’d been given no hint about the duration of this despicable infiltration. Sterling looked back down at the code names, imagining faces and recalling fragments of conversation. Had anyone inadvertently slipped up? Had anyone missed a meeting and been unable to supply a satisfactory excuse?
Most important, was there a way to force the informant to expose himself? If so, justice would be served coldly and swiftly. There was no place for mercy if the movement was ultimately to succeed.
