"They could use the polish, true enough. I wouldn't know about the other."
"You don't like them much."
"They can be so vulgar sometimes. For a group of 'Christian soldiers,' they come off a good deal more like heathens."
Bolan smiled. "Maybe that's why they need the spit and polish."
"I don't think you're here to change their life-styles."
"Oh? Why do you think I'm here?"
"To make them better fighters. Better killers."
"Better soldiers."
"It's the same thing, isn't it?"
"You don't approve?"
"Let's say I've seen enough death as it is."
"Might be you need to see some life."
There was a hint of mockery in her smile. "I wondered when you'd get around to that."
"Around to what?"
"The line."
"I guess you've heard them all."
"Enough to recognize the opener."
"Okay."
"Okay? You're giving up?"
"I've got no taste for failure."
"Lord, a modest man."
"Just cautious."
"You surprise me."
"Why?"
"I didn't have you figured as a quitter."
Bolan smiled, adjusting to the rhythm of the game. "Well, if you're free tomorrow night..."
"I'm not."
"Perhaps another time."
"I'm free tonight."
It was the soldiers turn to be surprised. "Tonight?"
"Let's call it seven, shall we?"
"Seven."
"Don't be late."
"Don't be late where?"
She rattled off a Little Rock address, and Bolan logged it in his memory.
"Seven."
"Seven. You can tell me why a soldier comes to Arkansas and joins the Klan."
"I might," he said, "if you'll return the favor."
"How?"
"Oh, you could tell me why a clergyman wears the robe, and why his niece helps out around a training camp for private soldiers."
"I just might at that."
"I'm looking forward to it."
Bolan swiveled on his heel and struck off toward the shower block. He felt Lynn's eyes upon him, boring between his shoulder blades like gun sights. One more mystery; it might have little bearing on his mission of the moment, but even so, he thought it would be worth a closer look.
He wondered briefly how the lady's uncle might react to news that she was stepping out with a supposed ex-con. Immediately he was troubled by another thought. Suppose her uncle was behind the bold, unexpected approach? Or Mason Ritter? Even Freeman? Was it possible that someone in the hierarchy of the Vanguard or the Teutonic Knights was using Lynn to pick his brain or test his loyalty?
Anything was possible, of course, and he would have to be on guard, at least until he had a chance to study Lynn up close and find out for himself what might be going on inside her mind.
There were worse duties, he decided. Yes, indeed.
If Bolan was not careful, there was every chance he might enjoy himself tonight.
11
The restaurant aspired to intimacy in its lighting and design, with numerous partitions forming semiprivate cubicles, and simulated candles mounted on the walls providing dim illumination. Lynn had picked the place, and Bolan was surprised by her selection. He had been expecting something with a more distinctive Southern flavor, open booths and plenty of exposure.
"I hope this isn't too expensive for you."
"I'm a working man, remember?"
"That's what we were going to discuss."
"That's one thing."
"Right. So tell me: why the Klan?"
"Why not?" he countered. "If it's good enough for Uncle..."
"That's another story."
"Everyone's another story, Lynn."
"So tell me yours."
"It's not the perfect dinner conversation."
"Try me."
They were interrupted by the waiter. Bolan ordered steak; the lady went for lamb with mint sauce. They agreed to start off the meal with a glass of wine.
"As you were saying?"
Bolan sipped his wine and shrugged. "I joined the Army out of high school, tested for the Special Forces, got accepted. No big deal. I did my bit in Vietnam and signed up for a second tour of duty."
"Was it terrible? I mean, as bad as people say?"
'Depends upon the people, I suppose. There's no such thing as pretty war, but on the other hand, it wasn't Auschwitz, either."
"You don't like to talk about it?"
"I don't mind. There never seemed to be much point."
"What was it like?"
His smile was slow and cool. "You mean the killing?"
"Well..."
"Don't be embarrassed. Everybody wants to know, unless they've been there for themselves." He let the waiter serve their salads, sampled his before continuing and found it excellent. "It's like a job, that's all. You draw assignments — take this hill, clean out that village — and you carry out your orders. Anyone who tries to kill you in the process is the enemy, and you respond accordingly. It's strange the first few times, I guess. But vou get used to it."
"I wouldn't."
"Well, you never know until you try."
"I know. What happened?"
"Where?"
"In Vietnam. I do some filing for the Knights," she told him, blushing prettily. "I know you had some trouble with the Army."
"Not the Army, just one officer. He liked to run patrols at night and try to ambush Charlie."
"Charlie?"
"Vietcong. VC. In military double-talk, that's Victor Charles, which gives you Charlie."
"Oh."
"We ran a few patrols without much problem, but it started sinking in that this lieutenant always sent the same men out. At least, he always sent out the same kind of men."
"Meaning white?"
"Bingo."
"May I assume this lieutenant was black?"
"As a coal bin at midnight."
"Go on."
"We got zapped pretty bad two nights running. There wasn't much left of the squad either time. When he called up a third night patrol for the same week, I thought an objection was called for."
"You hit him?"
"A few times. The details are hazy. Review boards got into it, he got a transfer, and I got a general discharge."
"That's bad?"
"It's limbo. Not dishonorable — that's the worst — but still, it follows you."
"And since the Army?"
"I've been here and there, done this and that. You couldn't say I've been immune to trouble."
"Mike, I know you've been in jail."
"In prison. There's a difference."
"I understand."
"Don't bother. I was guilty, and I did my time. I'm out now."
"For how long?"
He smiled. "I gave up telling fortunes, Lynn."
"I'm serious. The Vanguard and the Knights are like a magnet, drawing trouble. I can feel it coming."
"But you stick around."
"My Uncle Jacob's all the family I have left."
"Which brings us back to my turn," Bolan said. "What draws a minister to the Klan?"
"You'd be surprised how many clergymen belong, or have belonged. Do you know anything about Klan history?"
"Not really." Bolan knew a fair amount, in fact, but he was interested in the lady's version, anything at all that might provide him with a closer look inside her mind.
"The Klan has been around for something like 120 years," she told him, slowly warming to her subject. "It was strongest in the twenties and the early thirties, with about four million members coast to coast. The organizers canvassed every state, and never came up empty. Most people don't realize that eighty to ninety percent of those organizers and recruiters were ministers, fundamentalists like my uncle. For them, the Klan became a new religion... or, I should say, an extension of
their own."
"How so?"
She shrugged. "You took the oath. It's nothing but a sermonette about the Klan's devotion to the church, the U.S.A. and womanhood. Of course, it doesn't always work that way in practice, but the Knights, as stated in their constitution, see themselves as soldiers of the cross, a militant arm of the Christian church."
"And where does the Vanguard fit in?"
"Like a hand in a glove," she replied. "While the Klan concentrates on religion and morals, the Aryan Vanguard takes care of the business and politics."
"Ritter's in charge?"
"He may think so," she said, and he noted a strong trace of scorn in her voice. "Freeman gave him the Klan, so to speak, but the Vanguard has three times the membership, most of the money — you name it. Mason rubber-stamps Freeman's decisions, but it's a charade."
"Getting back to your uncle..."
"My father," she said, taking Bolan off guard, "was a farmer. He got into debt, and it broke him, over time. I was away at college when it happened. There were payments to be made, he couldn't raise the money and the bank foreclosed. They set a date to auction off the furniture, machinery... everything. The night before the auction, Dad cracked. He shot Mom, then he set the house on fire and just sat there. I was driving home to see if I could help. I made it for the funeral."
She told the story in a monotone, but her eyes were glistening with tears as the waiter arrived with their food. Bolan waited for the guy to leave before he spoke.
"I'm sorry."
There seemed nothing more to say. Her memories had touched responsive chords in Bolan's past, recalling visions of his father, mother, sister — all cut down in an irrational explosion sparked by outside forces.
"Don't be. Really. It all seems so long ago." She tried the lamb and forced a smile. "My uncle couldn't understand, of course. I think what happened put him through a kind of crisis, making him question his faith in God, the country, all of that. Around that time, the Vanguard and the Knights were looking for a few good men, recruiting pastors wherever they could. The movement offered Uncle Jake a chance to even up the score. No, that's too much; let's say it offered him an opportunity to try and help somebody else. I honestly believe he thinks he failed my father. He's atoning for his failure."
"What about yourself?"
"I went to stay with Uncle Jake after.. .everything. School didn't seem to make much sense, and when he moved down here to take a job with Ritter, I just sort of tagged along."
"I gather you don't buy the Vanguard's line."
"It was persuasive for a while, I guess. The things they said about the farmers being beaten down and trampled on. But things have changed along the way. These days it's 'nigger' this and 'Jew-boy' that. The farmers still get lots of sympathy from Freeman and his crew, but that's about the size of it. If anyone has actually been helped by anything he's done, I must have blinked and missed it."
"Still, you work for Ritter."
"We can always use the extra money. I play secretary, type my uncle's sermons, things like that. I don't go to meetings, I don't read the literature if I can avoid it. It's a living."
She hesitated, putting on a mischievous smile. "I really shouldn't be telling you this. You might report me to the wizard."
"Not my business," Bolan answered. "Everybody's got their reasons for the things they do. I've always thought money was as good as any other."
"That makes you a mercenary, doesn't it?"
"Maybe. I have a marketable skill, and Ritter's buying. If we happen to agree on certain points of politics, so much the better."
"You don't fit the mold."
"How's that?"
"The average member of the Vanguard or the Knights is long on talk and short on action. Lots of them are short on brains, from what I've seen. You saw that group today."
"I didn't notice any rocket scientists."
"My point exactly. You seem... different."
"Flattery will get you anywhere."
"How much is Ritter paying you?"
"Enough."
"To risk another prison term?"
"No law against rehearsals, if you watch your p's and q's."
"And what about the main performance? You don't really think those men are training to protect their homes and families?"
"It's not for me to say."
"The hell it's not." Her cheeks were flushed, the added color making her that much more desirable. Bolan brought his mind back to business as she continued. "They're practicing for war, and anyone who thinks they've got a chance to win should have his head examined."
"Preparation never hurts."
"And what about assassination? Bombings? Arson? Do you know what's happened in this state the past few months?"
"I'm new in town," he told her, playing out the line, intent on seeing how far she would run with it.
"Less than a week ago, a man was murdered. He was black, a union organizer. And he's not the first."
"You think the Vanguard was responsible?"
"The Knights, the Vanguard, someone on their payroll. If they didn't pull the trigger, they certainly loaded the gun."
"Where's your evidence?"
"I know what I know."
"You should tell the police."
"No. I can't."
She was frightened, he sensed, but not for herself.
"Was your uncle involved?"
"No!" Her answer seemed to Bolan too abrupt, too emphatic. "He wouldn't condone such a thing. Never."
"Well, then..."
"I just can't be sure." It was almost a whisper, and Bolan was forced to strain to hear the words.
"Have you asked him?"
Lynn shook her head. "If he's not involved, I'd only hurt his feelings needlessly. And if he is... well, I'm not sure I want to know."
If she was acting, Bolan was prepared to nominate the lady for an Oscar. He wondered at her openness with him, a Klansman, on such short acquaintance. Was she an uncanny judge of character? Or was there something more behind her revelations, some elaborate snare that he could not detect? With no alternative, the Executioner decided to trust his instincts.
"If there's some way I could help..."
"You have," she said, "by listening. There aren't that many people I can talk to."
Bolan thought that that was probably the understatement of the year.
"Why don't you leave? Go back to school?"
"I've thought about it, but I can't. Not now. I let my parents down; I can't run out on Uncle Jake when he's in trouble."
"If he is in trouble."
"Either way, it's coming. If he's not involved now, he will be sooner or later. It's unavoidable."
"Maybe not."
"What do you mean?"
Bolan caught himself, resisting the urge to offer reassurances. For all her attractiveness, her apparent sincerity, Lynn was still on Ritter's payroll, a potential enemy. He settled for a shrug and said, "You never know how things may go."
"Philosophy?"
"Experience. Whenever I begin to count on something, then I know it's time to guess again/
"It sounds like you've been disappointed once too often."
"No, I just expect the unexpected."
Lynn declined dessert, and Bolan paid the waiter, tacking on an appropriate tip. Both were quiet on the slow ride back to the suburban house where she resided with her widowed uncle.
"I appreciate the sympathetic ear," she said when they were parked outside her home.
"I've got another one just like it, if you ever feel the need."
Her smile was teasing. "Next time, maybe we should try a different topic of discussion."
"Next time?"
She pretended to be hurt. "Forgive me. I assumed..."
"Correctly," Bolan finished for her. "Next time."
"Call me?"
"Absolutely."
Leaning forward quickly, unexpectedly, she kissed him lightly on the lips.
"Be careful. Please."
"I always am," he lied.
"Good night."
He watched her disappear inside after a parting wave, and then he dropped the rental into gear, the engine purring as he pulled away. Behind the graveyard eyes, his mind was racing, tackling the questions Lynn had dumped unceremoniously in his lap.
Was she as disaffected with the Klan and the Vanguard as she seemed? How deeply was the Reverend Halsey involved in the violence that had shaken Chatham County? If the man was implicated, could he possibly be salvaged? Or was the pastor simply one more target for the Executioner?
He did not want to think about that now. Aware that Lynn had moved him, Bolan set about the task of separating personal desire from professional duty, ruthlessly stamping out feelings that might slow his hand at crucial moments. Anything that might endanger him, his mission, would be set aside for now, perhaps forever. Soldiers on the firing line had enough to do without subordinating duty to emotion.
He had not survived the living hell of Vietnam, his everlasting private war with terrorists and mafiosi, by surrendering to each hormonal urge that came along. If it was possible to do his job without inflicting further harm on Lynn or her family, then he would do his best. But if the lady or her uncle betrayed him, if a human sacrifice was necessary for the general good, he would have to face that moment when it came.
Unsmiling, Bolan turned the rental back toward Chatham County, thankful for the drive ahead. It would allow him to try to relax, unwind. But he doubted he would succeed. Unless he missed his guess, he would get little sleep tonight.
* * *
"I'm glad you're home."
Lynn nearly jumped. Then, embarrassed by her reaction to her uncle's voice, she said, "I thought you'd be in bed by now."
"I had some notes to work on for the Sunday message."
"How's it coming?"
"I'll be ready." Jacob Halsey took her hand in both of his. Lynn saw the worry in his sunken eyes. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"Of course. What's wrong?"
"You must be careful, Lynn. I've told you that before."
"A simple dinner." She knew what was bothering him now. "That's all. You see, I'm here."
"He didn't try to... take advantage?"
"Uncle Jake, he was a perfect gentleman."
"Some of these men are rugged souls," he cautioned her. "They lack your innocence."
The Fiery Cross Page 11
