by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric
22
“Every action invites a reaction. No, no.” Kray rocked slightly from one foot to the other. “Every action causes a reaction. The religious right’s infiltration of the federal government finally has had its proper reaction: us, the enemy. The missionary secularists, the Army of Reason.” He laughed. “It seems ironic, doesn’t it, that without them there would be no us. They created us; every extreme gives rise to the opposite extreme.”
He bent down, untied Alli’s wrists. “Hold your arms over your head.”
It was phrased as a suggestion rather than a command. Nevertheless, Alli complied, but after only a few seconds she was obliged to fold them in her lap.
“I … I can’t,” she said. “I don’t have the strength.”
“I have a cure for that.”
Kneeling, Kray unbuckled her ankles and legs. With his arms around her waist, he helped her to her feet. She stood, wobbly as a toddler, her weight against him from her hip to her shoulder.
With his coaxing, she took one tentative step forward, then another, but her legs buckled and Kray had to hold her firmly lest she collapse onto the floor like an invalid.
“I think you might have to teach me to walk all over again,” she said with an embarrassed laugh.
“You won’t need me to do that, I promise.” He took her out of the room that had been her home for several days. He helped her shower and dress, and she felt neither embarrassed nor ashamed. Why should she? After all, he had watched her defecate and urinate; possibly he’d watched her sleep. Could there be anything more intimate?
There was not an inch of her he didn’t know. It had taken just over a week for him to become a part of her.
In the kitchen, he pulled out a chair for her. She sat with one arm on the table, where cartons of orange juice and milk, and several water tumblers stood in a precise cluster. He poured her a glass of orange juice with pulp, the kind she liked best.
He waited until she had drained the glass. “After lunch, we’ll go for a walk around the house. You’ll get your strength back in no time, you’ll see,” he said. “Now, what would you like to eat?”
“Eggs and bacon, please.”
“I think I’ll join you.” Kray opened the refrigerator so that the door to the interior was outside of Alli’s field of vision. The other girl sat folded, as if she were performing a contortionist’s trick. He pulled out a carton of eggs and a stick of butter from the shelf on the door. A pound of thick-sliced bacon was on the lower shelf near the girl’s stiff, blue feet. Her skin looked bad now; it was starting to slough off like snakeskin. Very soon now, Kray knew, he’d have to move her, either to the freezer in the basement—though that would necessitate cutting her up into sections—or somewhere else, a landfill or an empty lot, perhaps. But not yet. He was reluctant to let her go. She’d been so useful to him. He’d sedated her while he cut off her hand so as not to cause her pain. She didn’t deserve that; she had a home here now, and he didn’t want to abandon her. It wasn’t her fault that he’d needed her to make sure the authorities knew Alli wasn’t dead and buried. He was on a strict timetable. He required the urgency only a search for a living girl would bring.
Arms full, Kray kicked the refrigerator door closed, lined up the ingredients on the counter next to the stove, placed a cast-iron skillet on the burner, turned on the gas. So as not to expose his fingers to grease, he used one of the gleaming knives on a magnetic wall rack to peel off six slices of bacon, then laid them side by side in the skillet. Turning up the heat made them sizzle. The rich scent permeated the kitchen.
When the bacon was golden brown, he set the slices on a paper towel, drained off the fat from the skillet. Without washing it, he sliced off a thick pat of butter, plopped it in the skillet to melt. Then he put the carton of eggs, a stainless steel bowl, and a whisk on the table.
“How about you scrambling the eggs?”
Once again, it was a suggestion rather than a command. Alli knew she was free to say no. But she didn’t want to say no. She opened the carton, broke six eggs one by one on the rim of the bowl, poured in a dollop of milk, then began to whisk the mixture.
“I don’t know how anyone can eat those Eggbeaters,” she said idly.
“Or an egg-white omelette, for that matter,” he answered.
Quite quickly her arm began to tire. But she rested it briefly, then began again, bringing a pale yellow froth.
“Ready,” she said.
Kray took the bowl from her, added three twists of salt, two of pepper, then tipped the contents into the skillet. He stirred the eggs a bit with a white plastic spatula.
“White bread?”
“Whole-wheat today, I think,” Alli said.
“In the pantry.” He put down the spatula, went into the small room. Immediately he turned around, stood watching her from the shadows. She rose, one hand supporting herself on the tabletop. Then she walked over to the stove. Her hand passed the knives in the wall rack, picked up the spatula. She stirred the eggs in the skillet. She hummed to herself.
Satisfied, Kray found a fresh loaf of whole-wheat bread, tucked it under his arm. Then he reached up, opened the cupboard. Carrie was curled and winding in her dark cave. Her red eyes stared at him enigmatically.
He put a finger across his lips, whispered to her, “Shhh.”
Kray closed the cupboard door, returned to the kitchen.
Alli turned her head. “Almost done,” she said.
Was that the ghost of a smile on her face?
They ate, sitting across from each other.
“I was right about you,” he said at length. “Despite your hothouse upbringing, you’re not a fool. You despise privilege.”
Alli swallowed a mouthful of egg and bread. “Fear and loathing.”
He nodded. “Hunter Thompson.”
She looked up, not for the first time surprised by him. “You’ve read him?”
“Because he’s a favorite of yours.”
A shiver went through her—of pleasure, not fear.
“Tell me what you liked most about Thompson.”
Alli didn’t hesitate. “He was a subversive. He thought civilization was hypocritical, he loved to show how good people were at rationalizing their actions.”
Kray bit off a piece of bacon. “In other words, he was like us—you and me.”
“What do you mean?”
Kray wiped his mouth, sat back. “From my point of view, the civilization Thompson was writing about is inextricably entwined with religion. And what is religion, after all, but totalitarianism? The strictures god presented to Adam and Eve, that both the Old and New Testaments describe, are nothing more than a series of laws so extreme, so prohibitive, they’re impossible to adhere to. In the so-called beginning, in the garden of Eden, god tells Adam and Eve that he’s provided them with everything they could possibly desire or ever will desire. The only thing is, see that tree over there? That’s the Tree of Knowledge. If you want to find out what’s really going on, you need to eat the fruit. But hey, wait a minute, eating the fruit is forbidden, so forget that knowledge thing, who needs it anyway when I’ve given you everything you want. So, in essence, religion insists we live in ignorance—but that’s perfectly okay, because we have our priests and ministers to tell us what to do and what to think.
“Shall I go on? Okay, how about ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.’ The commandment doesn’t say don’t screw another man’s wife, that would be doable. Instead, it gives you an impossible task: It forbids you even to think about screwing another man’s wife!
“You see what’s happened here? Religion was invented by men in order to create sin. Because without sin there can be no fear, without fear how do you control large numbers of human beings? Add to that an elite theocracy that periodically issues edicts as it sees fit, in order to keep itself in power, and the definition of totalitarianism is complete.”
Alli took a moment to absorb what Kray said before replying: “What about the tot
alitarianism of Hitler and Stalin?”
A knowing smile spread across Kray’s face. “The Vatican acquiesced to Hitler. In fact, it rushed to knuckle under in 1933, signing a treaty with Hitler forbidding German Catholics to participate in any form of political activity that criticized the regime. After the war, it provided documents, false passports and the like, enabling Nazis to flee to South America, and no German was ever excommunicated for war crimes. The historical connection of the Christian churches with fascism is undeniable and a matter of public record. Hardly surprising, when you think about it. Totalitarianism attracts totalitarianism. Its members are absolutists—by definition, they cannot apologize for their transgressions. Think about it for a moment. Totalitarianism whether it be religious in nature like the Christian church or political in nature like history’s fascist states is all faith-based. Absolute faith in one’s infallible leaders.
“At least we secularists have the freedom—and the duty—to admit our mistakes, and to correct them.”
Alli, eyes turned inward, was lost in thought. She was absorbing everything, like a sponge. “It’s true. I see things that frighten me,” she said at length. “A group of people with tremendous power and inflexible views, everyone else afraid to speak up, more limits put on personal freedoms.” She pursed her lips. “What does it mean? It’s unthinkable, but could it be that we’re inching away from democracy?”
“The very fact that you’re asking the question is cause for celebration.” Kray pushed his plate to one side. “Now you tell me. Your opinion is as important as mine.”
Her lips curled in an ironic smile. “Even though I’ve lived a life of privilege?”
“Precisely because you’ve lived a life of privilege,” Kray said seriously.
She rose, gathered the plates and cutlery.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said.
“I’m stronger now.” Her hands full, Alli walked over to the sink with decidedly less difficulty. Her back to him, she began to wash the dishes.
Kray stood. “Alli?”
“Yes?”
“You’re free to go any time you want.”
Alli scrubbed a plate free of yolk and grease, placed it with great deliberation on the drainboard rack. “If I go home,” she said without turning around, “I’ll stop learning.”
23
“Stop ‘N’ shop,” Armitage said, “what’s that?” He was even more jittery now. His face was as white as the sleet bouncing off the car’s windshield.
Jack turned down Kirby Road about five miles from Claiborne. “It’s when you intercept a perp—a suspect—grill him about where he’s going, why he’s in the area, what he’s got in his vehicle.”
“Where’s your probable cause?”
Jack pulled out his gun. “Here’s my probable cause.”
“You can’t just—”
“What are you, an ex-priest and an ex-lawyer?”
Armitage fell silent. While he tried to gather himself, Jack said, “Give me the BMW’s tag number.”
Armitage showed him the pad, but Jack’s emotions were running too high, he was under too much stress for him to be able to get to the mental place where he could concentrate enough to make sense of what Armitage had jotted down.
“Read it to me.”
Armitage looked at him quizzically.
“I can’t take my eyes off the road,” Jack lied. He’d never get over the shame of his disability.
Armitage read off the license tag.
Jack called Bennett back. “I need a check on a gray late-model Five series BMW, tag number two-four-nine-nine CXE. Right. Thanks.”
Jack closed the connection. They drove awhile in an uneasy silence.
At length, Armitage said, “I didn’t sign on for this.”
“You want out?”
Armitage looked at Jack, seemed abruptly ashamed.
“Tell me more about the FASR.”
Armitage ran a hand through his soaking hair.
“Come on,” Jack urged, “the talking’ll do you good.”
“All right.” Armitage licked his lips nervously. “What we believe, first and foremost, is that an ethical life can be led without religion. In fact, it’s religion of all stripes that most batters the ethical life into submission. The word of the lord God is the best method devised by man to twist ethics, morality, to escape the consequence of your actions. The pious can get away with all manner of heinous crimes—burning people at the stake, quite literally turning their guts inside out—all in the name of God. The so-called laws of religion have been rewritten over and over in order to justify the actions of the religious elders.”
It was at that precise moment that Jack felt a slight prickling at the back of his neck. The hair on his forearms stirred as if magnetized, and his eyes were drawn to the rearview mirror. For a moment, he thought he was losing his mind, for there sat his own beloved Emma looking back at him with her clear eyes, as alive as she had ever been.
“Dad—”
He heard her voice! It was definitely her voice, but when he glanced over at Armitage, it was clear that the other man had heard nothing. Jack scrubbed his face with his hand, glanced again at the rearview mirror, which now showed the road behind, traffic moving in normal locomotion. No one was in the backseat.
He swallowed hard. What was causing these hallucinations? he asked himself. They had to be hallucinations, right? What else could they be?
With an enormous effort, he returned his attention to the man sitting beside him. He had been going to ask him another question entirely, but what came out of his mouth was, “Does that mean you don’t believe in God?”
“God doesn’t enter into it,” Armitage said matter-of-factly. “It’s what religion has done in God’s name that we’re rebelling against.”
“Then you have in common with E-Two their desire for a Second Enlightenment.”
Armitage sighed. “We do. But we strenuously disagree with their methods. They’re extremists, and like all extremists, they’re wholly goal-oriented. They see only the shortest distance, the straight path to victory, and that invariably involves violence. As with all extremists the world over and down through history, the means to their goal is of no interest to them.”
“That much I get.” Jack was watching the side mirror, but nothing suspicious showed itself. His cell buzzed. It was the president-elect. Jack must have missed his hourly check-in. He answered the call, assured Edward Carson that in pursuing his own line of investigation he was making progress. There was nothing more he could say with Armitage sitting right next to him. Carson seemed to understand that Jack wasn’t in a position to speak freely and he rang off.
“What I don’t understand is why Garner and his people think you’re an E-Two training ground,” Jack said.
“That’s a sore point, I admit.” Armitage folded his arms across his chest. “Over the past months—I don’t know how many, but certainly it’s under a year—a number of our younger members have left. In fact, they’ve dropped out of sight. We’ve heard rumors that some of them surfaced in E-Two, but so far as we know, that’s all they are—rumors.”
At least Garner has something right, Jack thought.
“If we’re a training ground,” Armitage went on, “it’s totally inadvertent. This is still a free country—” He looked pointedly at Jack. “—more or less. Neither Pete nor I nor anyone else can control what our members do. Unlike the Church, we’ve no wish to.”
Jack’s phone buzzed. It was Bennett.
“You sure about the number you gave me?”
“Two-four-nine-nine CXE,” Jack said.
“Then you’ve got a problem, my friend.” The voice was tight, whispered.
“How serious?”
“That BMW is a Dark Car.”
“What the hell is that?” Jack said.
“There’s no registration attached to that particular tag, no info in the data bank whatsoever.” There was a slight pause. “Which means it belongs
to a government black ops division. They have no official oversight.”
Jack’s mind was racing. “Which means they can do pretty much whatever they want.”
“And here’s why: Only four people are authorized to send out a Dark Car,” Bennett said. “The president, the National Security Advisor, and the Secretaries of Defense and Homeland Security.”
“How would you know that?” Jack asked.
“Same way I know that all Dark Cars are foreign because no one would think of U.S. government agents using anything but an American vehicle.” Bennett chuckled. “I guess the time when you thought you knew everything about me is over.”
“Thanks,” Jack said.
“For what?” his contact said before hanging up. “We never spoke about this.”
“What?” Armitage said. “Who can do whatever they want?”
“Whoever was in the car.” Jack paused for a moment, thinking the situation through. “It’s not registered. Officially, it doesn’t exist. Neither do its occupants.”
Armitage moaned. “This really is a nightmare.”
“Not if you keep your head.” Jack turned to Armitage. “I’m going to tell you what this is all about. At this point, I think you deserve some context.”
Armitage’s eyes were wide and staring. Jack wondered whether he’d be able to keep his wits about him.
“A few days ago, two Secret Service agents were murdered. The E-Two logo was found at the scene of the crime. That’s why Garner and his people came down on you. This is the opening they’ve been praying for to discredit the entire missionary secularist movement. I’m afraid this Administration is going to do its best to paint your people as criminals—worse, actually, they’ll say you’re homegrown terrorists. They want to destroy you.” Jack paused. “But there is a way out.”
Armitage’s bitter laugh dissolved into a sob. “You must be seeing something I’m not.”
