Covenant

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘They just passed through, then.’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘But there were three of them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘One hundred thousand Hong Kong troops on sovereign US soil.’ Reece’s voice was a murmur. ‘They’re beginning to pop up everywhere.’

  ‘I thought I oughtta let you know right away, Bob. Just in case. You know what I’m saying.’

  ‘I hear you, brother. Don’t worry. Take all the normal precautions and I’ll spin it out on the web. The more people that know about it, the better our advantage.’

  ‘Thank you, Bob. Yahweh be praised.’

  ‘Be praised.’ Reece hung up the phone.

  Lafitte did not sleep well that night and, in the end, he got up so as not to disturb his wife any more than he had done already. He moved through to the kitchen and set the coffeepot on to boil. He had quit smoking two years ago and it was only at times like this that he really missed the habit. Still, Copenhagen under the lip helped some, and so he stuffed a fingerful into his mouth now, sucked and spat, the minted tobacco threads congealing into a ball. He leaned on the sink in the darkness, peered across the yard and thought he saw movement. The hairs climbed the back of his neck and he looked more closely. Maybe his eyes had deceived him because all seemed still again, but his instincts were alive and he told himself not to be so foolish. From the drawer in his den he took a Beretta 9mm handgun and pushed it into his belt. Then he opened the cabinet, pulled out the pump-action Remington shotgun and worked a round into the breech.

  No need to use a flashlight: he knew every inch of his yard, in darkness or snow or the broiled heat of summer. Everything was always put back in its place. The four of them—Millie, himself and the two boys—knew not to shift stuff around. Keeping order was a way of making sure you knew who had been in your yard. The dogs never left the property. Lafitte had taught them to patrol its boundaries without crossing them. It was not fenced all the way round and there was no gate off the dirt road, but Piper and Dillon only went so far and no further.

  He stepped outside and could hear nothing but the scratched calling of cicadas. He stood for a moment, the world dipped in a darkness made all the deeper by the swirl of cloud that had massed throughout the evening. It had not rained yet, but the wind had died to a stillness in the air, which hung with electricity. It happened like that up here: the wind off the sea, then the silent stealth of a storm creeping over the mountains. Lafitte scanned the yard. No sign of anybody and no sign of the dogs either. If anyone had been here, the dogs would have let him know. He stepped into the dust a few paces, paused, then quartered the property again, shotgun held loose in one hand, the tip of the barrel only a few inches above the ground. He shifted the Beretta where it dug into his flesh and then moved towards the barn.

  The dogs raised their heads as he entered, but they made no move to get up from the lair they had fashioned amid the hay bales he stored for the winter. They ran five horses on the property and winter-feed was always at a premium. Lafitte looked at the dogs and they looked back at him, and still they did not move. Then Piper laid his head on his paws and licked his lips. Dillon just kept on looking at him with his tongue hanging out. Lafitte turned again and looked back across the yard, lighter than the darkness of the barn. Now he flicked on the flashlight, made one lengthy sweep of the yard and flicked it off again. Everything was in its place, he could tell that at a glance; from the trucks and the horse trailer to the pickaxe that leaned against the wall under the window of his den. He frowned and scratched his head, then made a circuit of the trucks and wandered down to the dirt road. For a couple of moments the cloud parted above his head and the moon peeped out, casting the sand at his feet in silver. He saw a set of tyre tracks and every muscle in his body stiffened. He shone the flashlight and confirmed what he already knew. The tracks were fresh and they weren’t from either his Dodge or Millie’s Jimmy. He paced towards the road and made another sweep with the torch, then he crouched on his haunches and stared at the tracks more closely.

  They had not been here when he shut up the house for the night. He made a habit of walking round the property last thing before the sun went down, and these tracks had definitely not been here. They came right up to the driveway and then stopped. The road did not go any further. And yet it did not look as though the driver had turned round. He must have done; there was no other way to get down. Lafitte walked a little way down the hill to where the road widened in a little ridge, which dropped away off the mountain. There were two miles of dirt road, falling over three thousand feet to sea level before you hit any tarmac. He knew what had happened: the driver had rolled the vehicle backwards, running through his own tracks until he got to the turning-point. Then he pulled it round and headed on down. Again Lafitte felt the chill running through him: the tracks were wide and deep-treaded and belonged to a four-wheel-drive.

  He walked back up the road with the shotgun held across his chest now, cocked and ready to go. His heart was high, bumping against his ribs, and all manner of thoughts flew back and forth in his head. Paranoia. That’s what people called it—the people that didn’t believe, or didn’t know or didn’t want to believe. A black Chevy Suburban is real. A black helicopter making a fly-by is real. These damn tyre tracks were real. And then he stopped. It occurred to him that neither of the dogs had come out to the boundary with him. That was odd. They hadn’t even got up. More quickly now, he strode up the driveway to the yard and the big bam. He passed the two trucks from the rear and he was halfway to the barn door when he stopped. He stood for a second, then whirled, flicked on the flashlight and panned it over the windshield of his Dodge. A noise at the house made him turn and then the kitchen light came on. Millie stood framed against the screen door in her nightgown. ‘Billy Bob, is that you?’

  ‘Yes, honey. It’s me.’

  ‘What’s going on? It’s three o’clock in the morning.’

  Lafitte was staring at the Dodge. The two hooks set either side of the rear window were empty. ‘Somebody’s taken my 30/30, Millie. Somebody stole my gun.’

  They looked down at the dogs, lying with their tongues loose, like old withered flesh, against leathered black lips and white teeth. Their eyes were open but dull, the life gone out of their bodies. Millie stood next to him shivering violently.

  ‘They didn’t get up.’ Lafitte’s voice was a cracked whisper. ‘When I came in just now, they didn’t get up to meet me. They didn’t walk the yard with me like they always do. I never noticed. Head musta been fuddled, I guess.’

  His wife squeezed his hand more tightly. ‘They were two of the best guard dogs God ever made, Bill. Who could have poisoned them? Who could have snuck up here and done this without us hearing a whimper?’

  Lafitte slipped an arm round her shoulders and pulled her more closely towards him. ‘Somebody who really knows what they’re doing.’ He let go of her then. ‘Go call the sheriff, honey. Go call up Riggins for me.’

  When she was gone, he knelt beside the dogs and ran his fingers over their heads, gently fondling their ears. Tears burned in his forty-eight-year-old eyes and he realised then that he had not shed tears since his mother died five years previously. He bit hard on his lip and fought them now, rocking back on his boot heels. Then he stood up and went back to the truck. The door had been opened with a piece of wire or something. He could make out the series of tiny scratches that had flaked away the paint. His wife came out again and told him that Riggins was on his way. She had spoken to his wife and she was coming out too. Riggins was the county sheriff and a good friend of theirs. He and Lafitte were the same age, both had grown up in Coos Bay and both had fought in South-East Asia.

  When he arrived less than fifteen minutes later, Lafitte went out to meet him.

  ‘Greg,’ Lafitte said, as Riggins got out of the car. ‘They came on to my property and they took away my gun.’ He stood with his hands on his hips. ‘They had to poison my dogs to do it, but that’s exactly what the
y did.’ He spat a stream of dark spittle into the dirt. ‘And people say we’re paranoid.’

  Three days later, Lafitte walked out of his office at the gun store and stopped. An Asian man, in a grey three-button suit, was inspecting a selection of fishing lures. Instinctively, Lafitte looked beyond him to the parking lot, searching for the black Suburban. Then the man looked up and stared at him from behind black, wraparound sunglasses. Lafitte held his gaze and the man looked away, ran his finger over the lures and walked to the counter where the handguns were displayed. Lafitte stood where he was, for a moment unsure how to react. Keep it calm, he told himself. Say nothing. Do nothing. He moved behind the counter and looked down where the man bent, resting both elbows on the counter. Lafitte could see traces of yellow-brown scalp through the gelled prickles of his hair. ‘Can I help you?’ His voice was stilted, the words chipping unevenly from his tongue.

  The man looked up. He was small, like all of them were small, much smaller than Lafitte. He looked into Lafitte’s face, though, and his features were smooth as stone and his eyes remained hidden behind the glasses. Slowly, he shook his head. He did not speak, but stood a moment longer, then turned somewhat laconically and wandered out of the store. Lafitte was aware of the pulsing vein at his neck. He picked up the telephone.

  ‘Sheriff Riggins, please,’ he said, when the girl answered.

  ‘One moment, sir.’

  ‘Riggins.’

  ‘Greg. This is Billy Bob Lafitte. One of those damn gooks just came in the store.’

  Three of them were seated at a round, formica-topped table in the bar area of the Captain’s Table. Neal Reardon, the bartender, polished glasses and watched, his back to the liquor bottles and the window, which looked out at the Pacific. The sun was a ball of flames hissing into the sea and the restaurant was packed with diners. Business was good, but Reardon wondered about the three Asians in their matching suits and matching ties, and their black Suburban parked right out front. He shook his head, set up the glasses and began mixing the margaritas.

  The door opened and Lafitte walked in with Tommy Brindle and Maplethorpe, the deputy sheriff out of uniform. They walked past the Asians’ table and took the stools at the bar. Reardon shook up the drinks he was making. ‘Be right with you, gentlemen.’

  None of them answered him. They settled themselves on the stools, then swivelled right round till their backs were to him. Reardon lifted his eyebrows and stared from under raised lids. He had to look at people with his head tilted slightly back, otherwise he would have a seizure. One car wreck too many. ‘Back in a jiffy, gentlemen.’ He lifted up the flap in the counter and placed the three brimming margaritas on to a tray, which he carried through to the restaurant. When he came back, the three men were still looking at the Asians, who ignored them and carried on their conversation in whatever language it was they were speaking.

  ‘Goddamn gooks.’ Maplethorpe swung round to face Reardon. ‘What you doing letting gooks in here, Neal?’

  ‘They’re customers, Map. And this is a free country.’ Reardon cracked a genial smile. ‘Now, what’ll it be?’

  ‘Just give us three beers.’

  ‘Three cold ones coming right up.’ Reardon flipped off the tops and slid the beers over to them. Lafitte was staring at one of the Asians, who stared right back at him.

  ‘Where you from, mister?’ Lafitte’s voice was deep, a slow rumble in his chest. The man did not answer him. ‘I asked you where you were from.’

  The Asian stared for a moment longer, then the three of them got up and one took a wad of bills from his pocket. He peeled off a twenty, waved it at Reardon and laid it down on the table.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Reardon said. ‘You have a good evening.’

  The Asian nodded to him, glanced at Lafitte, and then the three of them walked out of the restaurant. Lafitte slid off his stool and inspected the twenty-dollar bill lying on the table.

  Reardon watched him. ‘Something wrong with it, Billy Bob?’

  Lafitte ignored him and brought the bill back to his stool. He sat down, sipped beer, then turned the bill over in his hand. It was crisp and new, and he looked at it very carefully. Reardon plucked it from his grasp. ‘Thank you kindly, sir. Nice to see some people still know how to tip.’

  Lafitte stared at him. ‘You gonna take that, boy?’

  ‘Billy Bob.’ Reardon rested his elbows on the counter. ‘I’m nearly as old as you. I’ve lived here nearly as long as you, and you know what—I’m no longer a boy.’

  Lafitte stared at him.

  ‘No, really. It’s true,’ Reardon went on. ‘I got pubic hair and everything.’

  ‘Hey!’ Maplethorpe jabbed a finger at him. ‘Watch your mouth.’

  ‘Neal,’ Lafitte said more quietly. ‘Those Chinese men that just left are government agents. You’re a wise guy, I know. And you got a big mouth. Why don’t you listen up for once in your fool life?’

  Reardon cocked his eyebrows. ‘I’m all ears.’

  Lafitte tapped the back of the twenty where it lay on the counter. ‘It ain’t printed on these, but see here.’ He took out a dollar bill and showed the all-seeing eye to Reardon. ‘See that?’

  ‘You mean, right there?’ Reardon tapped the bill and shook his head a little sadly. ‘Hovering above the pyramid. Don’t tell me, the mark of the beast.’

  ‘The Illuminati, Neal. The Devil’s mark. The all-seeing eye of the Federal Reserve. The money’s worthless. It’s just another tool of entrapment.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ Reardon lit himself a cigarette. ‘So the three beers, right there?’ He pointed to the counter. ‘You guys gonna pay me in gold?’

  Lafitte looked at him for a long moment and then he shook his head. ‘You can joke, Neal. You can mock all you like. But I’m gonna tell you something. Those three men that just walked out of here. Two nights ago they were at my house. They drove up the dirt road to the edge of my property. Then they came in, poisoned my dogs and took my 30/30 outta my truck.’

  Reardon stared at him for a moment. ‘Piper and Dillon are dead?’

  Lafitte flapped a hand at the telephone on the wall. ‘Phone the veterinarian and ask him. They ate meat laced with strychnine.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  Lafitte got up from the stool and pushed his empty bottle across the counter. ‘Do I look like I’m kidding you?’

  When he got home, his wife was making biscuits. ‘Sit down, honey. I’ve got you a steak all but ready and I’m just gonna cook these up real quick.’

  Lafitte kissed her gently. ‘We got any of that country gravy left?’

  ‘I made some fresh this morning.’

  ‘You sweetheart.’ He laid a palm on her cheek and then told her about the three men in the bar. ‘Did you hear from the boys today?’

  ‘No. Should I have?’

  He shook his shoulders. ‘I guess not.’

  Halfway up the hill, a figure in black watched through the kitchen window. No dogs now to disturb him. He saw Lafitte and his wife talking together and then he saw him kiss her, and he smiled behind his ski mask. He squatted, muscles coiled, and scanned the scene through binoculars. Lafitte disappeared, leaving his wife alone to her cooking. The figure set down the binoculars and sat in absolute stillness for a moment, before getting up, black and unseen against the rising darkness of the hill. He placed the binoculars back into the hessian field bag and strapped it over his shoulder. Then he began to pick his way down towards the house.

  Lafitte stared at his computer screen and the e-mail from BobCat Reece in Montana. Daniel Pataki, deputy leader of the Missouri Breakmen Militia, and wanted by the FBI for an alleged bank robbery, had been found dead in a motel room near his home in Poplar Bluff, Missouri. Lafitte leaned closer to the screen, eyes widening as he read on. Pataki was twenty-seven years old, a fitness and survival fanatic. Four weeks ago, he reported seeing a black helicopter fly over his position while training in the hills west of his home. His autopsy result stuck out like a
Union Jack on the fourth of July. Pataki had died of yellow fever. Yellow fever could only be contracted in the tropics. He had never been east of Kentucky.

  Lafitte got up with a jerk and grabbed his jacket. Millie looked up as he stormed through the kitchen and wrenched open the door. ‘What’s the matter, darling?’

  ‘It’s started, honey. It’s begun. They’ve killed one of our members in Missouri. I’ve got to see Riggins and call some kinda meeting.’

  ‘Phone.’

  ‘I can’t do this on the phone, Millie. They’re absolutely everywhere.’ He paused to get his breath. ‘It’s a call to arms. That’s what it is.’ He stood with one hand on the door. ‘D’you know what the worst of it is?’

  ‘What’s that, Billy Bob?’

  ‘People don’t know. People don’t want to know, Millie. Ninety per cent of the people of this country have no idea what is happening.’

  She stared after him, watched him cross the yard and climb into the black Dodge. She heard the electronic twist of the key, heard the sudden thundering of the V8 motor, and then he spun the wheel and drove down the drive, not pausing as he hit the dirt road. She never saw him again.

  Lafitte drove quickly, too quickly, the wrong gear and not thinking straight. His mind was falling over itself. For years little incidents had gone on, nothing you could nail to the wall, just little bits and pieces here and there. But now this. He thought of Reardon and his fool-glib comments; his little jibes and jokes. How fool would he be when they came to take his guns? The road was steep and the first sharp bend was coming up, with the mountain falling away on the right. Dark again tonight, the smell of more rain and no moon or stars. He eased his foot off the throttle and dabbed at the brake pedal. It went all the way to the floor and his eyes balled in their sockets. The corner came up too fast and he span the wheel, heard the gravel hissing, felt the shudder and thump as the wheels slid over the edge, and then he was careering down the slope with the roof against his head.