To do all of that, even with a group as hardcore as the Brotherhood, was always going to be difficult.
To do it with a wild serial killer in their ranks was impossible.
Because there was no doubt, now, that Northman had become much more interested in murdering punk rockers than he was in building a new Aryan homeland. “He has become selfish,” the leader said, as the other members of the Brotherhood sat in a rough circle, quietly nodding their heads. “He is prepared to risk all that we have done, all that we hope to achieve, because he has a fixation on a bunch of godless punks.”
He continued: “I don’t give a shit about these punks. They’re vermin, and they don’t deserve to live. But, until we reach the fifth step, they also don’t deserve the attention that Northman has given them. It jeopardizes everything.” Pause. “Northman has become a liability. Enough is enough.”
Some of the men raised their hands. Where was Northman now? Had he fled? What should be done about him? Is the situation beyond repair?
“I’m afraid it is, kinsmen,” the leader said. “It has gone too far. There is no question that Northman was always a source of strength, and a tremendous source of confidential government information. But he has become a liability.”
All knew what this meant. There was a long silence, and then three members of the Brotherhood stepped forward. There was the schoolteacher from Boise, the truck driver from Metaline Falls, and the former marine from Billings. “We’ll go,” said the schoolteacher. “We’ll deal with it.”
“Good,” the leader said. “And I believe it will need three of us to do it right, brothers. Northman is a very capable warrior. He will not go quietly.”
All nodded, and started discussing their plan.
Perhaps Northman looked at what he had laid out on his kitchen table, in the ordinary Portland bungalow where he — and, before him, his military father — had lived for years. There was the .38-caliber revolver that he always carried, the old Remington .12-gauge, a Ruger Mini-14, an M40 marine-issue sniper rifle, and the MAC-10 compact machine pistol preferred by members of the Brotherhood. Also on the table were his most-prized possessions of all: three actual M67 fragmentation grenades, smuggled out of the Kittery Naval Base by a reservist who, helpfully, had been addicted to heroin and was in need of quick cash.
Northman took it all in. If the end was near, he planned to take as many race traitors with him as he could.
X would be among them.
C H A P T E R 56
Mike closed the back hatch to the wagon and then he looked closely at me and X. “Does anyone else know what’s over there?” he whispered, jerking his head toward where Martin Bauer’s body was hidden by brush, some fifty feet away. “Did Pete or Marty see? Anyone?”
We shook our heads.
“Good. Let’s keep it that way. You tell no one else what happened, you got it? No one. Ever,” Mike said, extending a big hand. “Now, give me the gun.”
I gave him my dad’s old hunting rifle. Mike looked at it, then looked at me, evaluating. He put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said, as X watched us. “Everyone did the right thing. He was going to kill you guys, just like he tried to kill Pete. You never had a gun, you never saw the skinhead, got it?”
I nodded. “Good,” Mike said. “Now let’s get the fuck out of here before the cops come, or before any of these other Nazi pricks show up.”
He jumped behind the wheel of the station wagon, cranked the wheel, and sped away. X looked at me for a moment and said nothing. Before I knew what was happening, he pulled me close and hugged me.
“Thank you,” he said. “Now, let’s go.” We ran to my car.
The station wagon sped toward Portsmouth and its regional hospital, with me and X not far behind in my Gremlin. It was the only health center in the area, and Sam and Betty obviously needed medical attention. Betty had been in the front beside Mike. He’d had his arm around her.
Portsmouth Regional Hospital, we knew, would be a problem. X and I rode in silence. I looked at my hands on the steering wheel. They weren’t shaking or anything.
I just killed a guy and I’m totally fine. Not what I would’ve expected.
Twenty minutes later, Mike swung the station wagon into the parking lot, a few steps from the hospital’s emergency entrance. We pulled up behind him.
It was around 3:00 a.m., and no one was around. Mike and Marty jumped out to help us extract Sam from the back part of the wagon. He was conscious, sort of, but he was in no shape to walk on his own. X and I each took an arm. Betty followed, bent over. We must have been quite a sight.
“I’ll find you when you get back to Portland,” Mike said, watching us hobble toward the hospital emergency entrance.
“Okay,” I said. “Mike, Marty, thanks. Take care of Pete.”
“We will,” Mike said. “Be fucking careful yourselves.”
C H A P T E R 57
Detective Chow looked at X, and X looked at Detective Chow. Neither of them said anything. There was a long, long silence. We were sitting on metal chairs in the waiting room in the emergency department at the Portsmouth Regional Hospital, and nobody else was there. Detective Wright was in another part of the hospital, taking a statement from Betty. Sam, meanwhile, was upstairs getting X-rayed, while about a half-dozen uniformed police officers and a couple of FBI agents were in the hallways outside their rooms. Sam’s and Betty’s parents had been told that their kids were alive, and they were presumably in their cars speeding toward Portsmouth.
For the time being, the only actual journalist present was a kid from the Portsmouth Herald. He had helpfully brought along copies of some gory Polaroids of Sam and Betty, which the man who went by the name Northman had dropped off at the newspaper’s unstaffed reception desk a few hours before.
We had watched as Detective Chow thanked the young reporter for the envelope containing the photographs, snatched them out of his hands, and walked away. The kid was flustered, but seemed hopeful the gift of the Polaroids might result in an exclusive later on.
Back in the waiting area, Detective Chow was waiting for X and me to say something. He had just told us that the Exeter sheriff had sent two squad cars to the acreage outside town — “finally,” Chow added, with apparent irritation about the local cops’ priorities.
They had found a body, he said.
“It appears to be Martin Bauer,” he told us, his eyes unblinking. “He had been shot somewhat recently. When you went to that property to rescue your friends, did you happen to see him?”
“No,” X said.
I shook my head, but I could feel my guts churning.
“Would you boys be more comfortable speaking to me with a lawyer present?” he said, smiling slightly. “Perhaps your father, Christopher? I understand he’s a lawyer.”
“He is,” X said, “but no, I don’t need a lawyer. Why would I?”
Chow smiled again, more broadly this time. He looked at me.
The silence returned. All that we could hear were the sounds of the hospital: the distant murmur of the nurses’ station, the mechanical hum of the pop machine, the pinging of some medical equipment.
“Did you two drive up to Exeter on your own?” Chow asked.
We both nodded.
“I see,” Chow said. “The two of you come here, alone, to rescue your friends from a murderous gang of armed thugs? Is that right?”
We said nothing, and waited.
“I’ll be frank with you,” Chow said, his smile disappearing. He looked around the empty waiting area. “There’s no one here, so no one will hear what I am about to say to you. No one ever will, either.”
We remained silent.
“I believe we both know that you were not alone tonight,” Detective Chow said. “I also believe that, if I were to ask to test your gloves …”
“I don’t wear gloves
,” X said.
“Then, if I were to test your hands,” Chow said, looking at me, “I might find the residue of something. Gunpowder, perhaps.”
Uh-oh.
Chow kept looking at me. I was immobile, dreading what was coming next. But I was wrong about what was coming next.
Detective Chow suddenly stood up and extended his hand. X slowly stood up to take it, looking as bewildered as X ever could. He turned to me and shook my hand, too.
“I don’t intend to ask you boys about any of those things right now,” he said, smiling that smile again. “This entire matter has gone on long enough. It is time to end it, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, silently exhaling. “We agree.”
As we stood in the corner of the waiting room, a bit unsure what to do, an older nurse approached. She looked at a message slip. “Is your name X, young man?” she asked, frowning at the odd name.
X nodded.
“There’s an urgent call for you from a family member,” she said. “Follow me.”
Who the fuck knew we were here?
Detective Chow nodded that it was okay to go, so X and I followed the nurse down the hallway to a pay phone near the nurses’ station. I watched as my friend picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
The voice on the line was familiar. “Hello, Chris. It’s time we met, wouldn’t you say?”
“We already have, you bastard,” X said. “Where?”
No hesitation. “Where it all began,” the man said.
C H A P T E R 58
X and I followed the Kowalchuks — Patti, Betty, and their terrified parents — back to Portland in the Gremlin. Apart from some bruises and scrapes and the cut that Northman had inflicted on her scalp — which had required more than a few stitches — Betty seemed fine. To everyone’s relief, she hadn’t been raped by Martin Bauer, either.
Thank God.
Back in Portland, near the center of town, we made our move. The Kowalchuks drove through a yellow light, heading toward South Portland. We abruptly stopped and, when they were a block or two away, we turned back toward Free Street. The Kowalchuks’ car disappeared. I pulled over on Middle Street.
“You sure about this, brother?” I asked, for the hundredth time. But X was already out of the car.
Fucking hell.
I got out, too, and we jogged over to the cafeteria in Post Office Plaza to meet Peter and John Chow. They were where X had told them to be, in a secluded spot far from an entrance. Peter handed X a backpack, which seemed to be pretty heavy.
“Be careful, X,” John said.
“I will, guys,” he said, as we headed toward the exit. “I’ll have it all back to you tomorrow. Thanks.”
Half an hour later, X and I finally arrived at Gary’s. It was late on a Sunday night, and no one was around except Frank the bouncer. He was watching The Rockford Files. When he saw X, Frank slid two keys across the counter.
“Is he here yet?” X asked, collecting the keys.
“No,” Frank said, sounding bored. “Mike told me to give you these.”
“Thanks,” X said. He pointed in the direction of the bar. “Anyone in there?”
“Just some guys delivering kegs,” Frank said, returning his attention to the TV screen. “They may have left by now.”
“Okay, thanks,” X said. He headed up to Mike’s room, still carrying the bag the Chow boys had given him.
I followed.
C H A P T E R 59
When X came back downstairs, alone, Frank was nowhere to be seen. He crossed the lobby and reached for the door to Gary’s bar. It was unlocked, as Frank had said it would be.
Inside, only a few lights were on: along the bar and up near the stage. All of the chairs had been placed on the tabletops, casting long shadows, like a thousand black fingers. Near the back exit, the kegs that had been delivered were stacked, more or less neatly, against the wall.
“Hello?” he called out.
“Back here,” said the familiar voice. “Near the stage.”
X walked along the bar slowly and rounded the corner. There, slouched at a table with two chairs, under a single light, sat the man they called Northman.
He waved X toward the empty seat.
“Hello, Chris.”
X slid into the chair and looked at the man, his uneven eyes black. “Detective Murphy,” he said. “I didn’t see the desk guy on my way in.”
“Frank?” Murphy smiled, placing his .38-caliber police revolver on the table. “Frank’s dead.”
X stayed still, saying nothing.
“I have to say, Chris, you surprised me a few times in the past weeks,” Murphy continued, his fingers drumming on the .38. “How long have you known?”
X gestured toward Murphy’s wrist, at the tattoo. “Kurt and I saw part of it the first night we met you here,” he said. “The Aryan Nations symbol on your arm, the crowned sword going through the N. I didn’t know what it was then, but I found out later.” He paused. “And when I heard someone had told the cops to go slow when Sam and Betty were kidnapped, I knew — only a cop would have that authority.”
Murphy looked down at his arm, surprised, and laughed. “Wow! I’m impressed,” he said. “But if you suspected for that long, why didn’t you do something?”
X shrugged. “You’re a cop, I’m just a punk,” he said. “Nobody would have believed me.”
“That’s true,” Murphy said. He grinned at X, obviously enjoying himself. “So, aren’t you going to ask me why?”
X shrugged. “I know why,” he said. “You’re a racist bastard. You hate everyone who isn’t like you.”
Murphy laughed and wagged a finger. “That’s too simplistic,” he said, smiling. “You’re smarter than that.”
“Why kill Marky and try to kill Danny, then? What did they do to you?”
Murphy shrugged. “The little faggot? Because he saw me, obviously. He was a loose end,” Murphy said. “And the other boy? That was just to keep things hopping. I would’ve finished it, too, if I hadn’t’ve been interrupted by some tourists. But did you appreciate my little scriptural flourishes? The crown of thorns, the wound in the side, the baptism in the water? Your friends were in serious need of religion, I thought.”
“And the meat on Marky’s groin?”
Murphy shrugged. “He was circumcised,” he said. “Thought he was a Jew, so I left behind some bacon to make a bit of a statement. I thought it was funny.”
“The skinheads,” X said, after a pause. “They did what you told them to. They even pleaded guilty to cover up for you. Why kill them?”
Murphy toyed with the safety on the .38. “They’re not very bright, those boys,” he said. “They drink too much, talk too much. More loose ends. They would have talked, eventually.” He squinted at X. “Even the one your friend killed. Thank you, by the way.”
X said nothing. Murphy laughed. “Guess you’ll have to edit that part out of the tape you’ve got under your big sweater, there, eh?”
“I’m not taping anything,” X said.
“Whatever. Doesn’t matter,” Murphy said. “You’ll be dead soon enough. Any other questions?”
“Two,” X said, stalling for time. “Why Jimmy? And why do all this in the first place?”
“Fair questions.” He scanned Gary’s filthy ceiling. “Jimmy Cleary was never supposed to happen. I was after you, right from the start. You were the leader of this whole thing. I saw your NCNA crap and figured you’d be the perfect one to take out. A perfect symbol of the urban rot and sickness. But Jimmy was the one who came out the back way that night. It was cold. I got tired of waiting.” He laughed. “After that, I kept going. It kind of blossomed from there. I was enjoying myself.”
X briefly closed his eyes, but said nothing.
“And why do it?” Murphy said. �
�That’s simple, too. We are the Volk, the true Aryan people, God’s chosen ones. We want to wipe all of it out — the cities, the industrialization, the technology, the modernity — and go back to the earth. We are the real environmentalists, you might say. We want to wipe all that away, and become rooted once more to the earth. The SS tried, but they failed, obviously. They wanted that, too.”
X stared at him. “But what do we have to do with any of that?”
“Because,” Murphy said darkly, leaning forward, looming over X. “Because you punks are the literal embodiment of everything that is dirty. You hate God, you hate order, you hate authority, you hate morality, you hate anything that is decent. You are city vermin, and I decided that the revolution needed to start with the extermination of you and your friends.” He stopped, glaring. “And you, in particular.”
X glared back. “It didn’t work for the Nazis, and it won’t work for you,” he said. “Someone will stop you.”
“Really?” Murphy said, smiling again, leaning back in his chair and waving his arms around. “Nobody has yet. Certainly not you. So, do we have a deal?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” X said. “You get me, and all this stops.”
Murphy smiled. He cocked his head to one side. “But why trust me, Chris? After you’re dead, I could just start all over again, right?”
“Sure,” X said. “But to make sure that doesn’t happen, I made a call before I came downstairs.”
“To that zipperhead Chow?” Murphy laughed again. He was still enjoying himself. “Sorry, but I’m not too worried about that idiot. The skins are all dead, and nobody around here has ever seen Northman’s face. After I deal with you, there’s no one left, Chris.”
“I didn’t call Chow,” X said, his voice flat. “I called Potter County.”
The smile disappeared from Murphy’s face and he sat bolt upright. “You’re a fucking liar!” he snapped.
Recipe for Hate Page 20
