“Name was Bates, but he’s dead now. Him and all his troops.” Stevenson swirled his whiskey. “Gatlinburg’s deserted, not a soul left. The new honcho runs a ragtag outfit called the ETA. End-Times Army. Bunch of psychos living in the woods like savages.”
“What’s their game? They want to take over the dope trade?”
“Hell, no. They burned every poppy they could find. Burned every opium farmer too, roasted them on bonfires like ears of sweet corn. Their boss is a lunatic named Malcolm Crews. Pastor Malcolm Crews. A full-on born-again, and crazier than a shithouse rat.” Stevenson took another swallow of whiskey. “I heard Crews survived a night in the Stone Hills, and got the brand to prove it.”
Rakkim was impressed with that, if it was true. “I think we should let all these messiahs duke it out. Your guys, my guys, put them all in a steel-cage death match, and the one who walks out alive gets the crown of creation.”
Stevenson laughed. “Not used to you talking like this.”
“A few years ago I killed a man. A Fedayeen assassin.” Rakkim shook his head. “I haven’t been right since.”
“You killed an assassin?” Stevenson squinted over the rim of his glass. “By yourself?”
“No…I had help.”
“I thought so. Must have taken a whole strike force unit.”
“It was an angel,” said Rakkim. “An angel, close enough that I could feel its wings against me. Softest thing imaginable…” He stopped, embarrassed. “You believe me?”
“You say an angel buddied up, I got no problem with that.” Stevenson grinned, shook his head. “It’s you killing an assassin that I’m having a hard time with.”
“I’m having a hard time with it too.”“Angels?” Leo snorted. “The only god I see is the infinite elegance of mathematics.”
“The kids’s smart, but he’s got a lot of stupid in him too,” said Rakkim.
“It’s good to see you, Rikki.” Stevenson chewed his lip. “Things here are going to shit.”
“You seem to be doing okay.”
“Man like me, you set me down on a desert island buck naked, come back in two years and I’ll have hot and cold running water and a machine that gives hand jobs for a couple seashells. I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about the rest of these peckerwoods. Enough people get miserable enough, we all got problems.”
Rakkim watched Leo unscrew the base of the army tank with a bent paper clip.
“You heard what the Mexicans done?” asked Stevenson.
“I know they’ve put in all kinds of land claims.”
“Claims?” snapped Stevenson. “They’re way past claims. They diverted the damn Rio Grande six months ago, used the runoff to turn the desert into farmland. Meanwhile, South Texas is about to dry up and blow away. Governor bitched and moaned, president called in the Mexican ambassador, who laughed right in his face.” He shook his head. “Never would have happened before. Before the war.”
“You sound like my wife.”
“Your wife sounds like the brains of the family.”
Rakkim turned at the sound of screaming from outside.
“Let’s get on the roof,” said Stevenson, crossing to a small door in the corner of the room. “It’s showtime.”
Chapter 13
Caught in the last rusty light of the sunset, the tanks idled fifty yards from Mount Carmel, diesel engines belching gritty exhaust as the engines revved. The deep, throaty sound almost drowned out the screaming from the nearby sound trucks.
“The noise went on for weeks,” said Stevenson over the din. “Feds brought in loudspeakers that blasted the Davidians around the clock for the whole fifty-one-day siege. Evidently the agent-in-charge’s personal favorite was the sound of rabbits being slaughtered.” He nodded. “If David Koresh wasn’t nuts when it started, he sure as fuck was when Janet Reno finally ordered in the tanks.”
Stevenson had led them up the stairs from his office to the top floor, the three of them stepping out onto the flat roof. From their vantage point, they had a perfect view of the nearby replica of Mount Carmel, a rambling structure of unpainted boards topped by a steeple. It looked as much like a prison as a church, an impression only strengthened by the presence of a half-dozen tanks, cannons pointed at the front door. Hundreds of tourists clustered around the viewing areas, hands clasped over their ears. Leo stood near the edge of the roof, mesmerized, his fingers taking apart the toy tank without even looking.
The lead tank churned across the flat Texas terrain, kicking up dust. The barrel of its 55-millimeter main gun punched through the flimsy walls of the citadel. FBI sappers in black jumpsuits zigzagged in, attached hoses from the tanks into Mount Carmel, started pumping in CS, a convulsive tear gas. The crowd booed. Children on the viewing areas started crying, their mothers carrying them away.
Rakkim’s attention wandered from the assault on Mount Carmel; he had seen the reenactment before and it always turned out the same. Once the little guy drew the attention of the big guy, it was all over. The little guy might fight, might even draw blood, but sooner or later there was going to be a big boot coming down hard on him. Sarah said it was more complicated than that. She said that Koresh bore responsibility for what had happened. Said he could have surrendered. Submitted to a higher authority. Right. Problem was that Koresh thought he was the higher authority and was willing to die to prove it. The Belt was filled with people who agreed with him.
“So what are you really here for?” asked Stevenson. “Man like you could find out what was waiting for him in Tennessee a lot easier than coming here to ask me.”
“Maybe I came for the company.”
“Yeah, and I’m in business for the betterment of mankind,” said Stevenson. “So?”
Rakkim turned back to the battle. “I need that thousand-dollar gold piece of yours.”
“Why not just ask for my left ventricle?”
“I don’t need your heart. I need the gold piece.”
“That’s the pride of my collection.”
“That’s why I need it,” said Rakkim.
The U.S. Mint had produced thousand-dollar gold pieces just before the Civil War started, but had never distributed any of them. A few prototypes had been released, but the rest were stored in Fort Knox along with the nation’s supply of gold bullion. When the army of the Bible Belt over-ran Fort Knox, they found the vaults completely empty. Not a single gold coin or gold bar in the place. Men had been searching for the treasure trove for the last thirty years.
“Never should have told you I had that thing,” Stevenson said. “My own damned fault…” He squinted at Rakkim. “I get it.” He hitched up his jeans. “My gold piece isn’t going to do you any good. Might have been a good plan if Bates was still warlord; he was a greedy bastard, but like I told you, this Malcolm Crews ain’t like any normal man. Money don’t mean shit to him, it’s all about heaven and hell.”
“You don’t have to look so happy.”
“Don’t have to, but why resist the impulse?”
Rakkim watched the two Texas Rangers he had noticed earlier clutching a couple of longnecks as they passed effortlessly through the crowd. Their Stetsons seemed to float above the throng as they ambled along, ignoring the people who scuttled out of the way. A father dragged his two children aside, but he was a step too slow, a kick in the ass from the white Ranger sending him sprawling. The children stared up at the Rangers before their father gathered them in his arms, limping away.
“Rangers haven’t been paid regular for the last year, and the job hasn’t gotten any easier,” explained Stevenson. “They’re losing control over the border, control over themselves. Can’t blame them for taking it out on the citizens.”
“You mean the citizens they’re sworn to protect?” said Rakkim.
“Yup. That would be the very ones.”
Rakkim watched as the Rangers tipped their hats at a couple of teenage girls in short shorts.
“You stay away from them two,” said Stevenson.
“Don’t even make eye contact.”
“I don’t want any trouble,” said Rakkim.
Stevenson squinted at him. “I’m not so sure of that anymore.”
Rakkim felt Stevenson watching him, but he didn’t turn away from the siege, the flames from the burning church reflected in his eyes. “What is it?”
“You,” said Stevenson. “There’s something…I don’t know. You’re different.”
Rakkim smiled. “I’m married. I’m a father. It takes a toll.”
“That’s not it.” Stevenson hesitated. “Before, when I asked you why you come here, I had the thought…I thought maybe you come here to kill me.”
“What? Why…why would you think that?”
“I’m getting old. All kinds of foolish ideas been running through my head lately…Your wife…it’s good between you?”
“Good enough.”
“Good enough is plenty good.” Stevenson shoved his hands in his pockets. “I still think about Esther…wonder about the life we might have had. All these years, you’d think it would fade, but I still wake up some nights and reach for her.” He cleared his throat. “You hold Sarah close when you get home. Put your arms around her and don’t let go.”
“I’ll do that.”
Stevenson watched Leo play with the toy tank he had modified, the tank spinning on one end and barking like a dog. “I could make a million dollars with this kid.”
“He’s already sold,” said Rakkim. “This fellah in Nashville—”
“Don’t lie to me,” said Stevenson. “You don’t need the practice and I find it insulting. I seem like a patriot to you? My country right or wrong?” He spit over the side of the building. Watched it fall. “The Belt is like a sack of porcupines, too busy jabbing and poking each other to find their way to daylight. That republic of yours is just as bad. Nothing’s gone right since the old regime decided to split the sheets.” The light from the fire exposed every seam in his face. “So what are you really doing back here?”
“I’m not sure,” said Rakkim. “They tell me there’s a war on the way, a new war, and maybe I can stop it, but…”
“If there’s a war coming, no one can stop it. Leave it to you to try, though.”
“Don’t make me into something I’m not. Let’s just say I missed the rodeo.”
“What’s going on?” Leo pointed at the armored bulldozers punching holes through the outer wall of the compound. A heavy truck followed, sent white smoke streaming into the structure through the holes. “Is that real tear gas?”
“Just smoke,” said Stevenson. “During the actual raid the Feds pumped CS gas into the living areas. Stings much worse than tear gas. Toxic to children too.”
Rakkim couldn’t take his eyes off the compound. It was just a reenactment, and there was more than enough blame to go around, but still…
“But…” Leo turned from one to the other. “But weren’t there children inside?”
“Twenty-one of them,” said Stevenson. “I guess the government thought it was kind of academic, though, since they all burned up in the fire anyway.”
Rakkim watched as wisps of smoke swirled in the wind. Sarah said it had never been proven how the fire started; the only thing certain was the government ordering in the tanks and all those dead kids. No wonder folks in the Belt flocked here. To them, Mount Carmel was a clear sign that the United States had turned its back on God, and God had returned the favor by turning his back on the USA. Maybe, but Rakkim wasn’t sure if God took things all that personally.
One of the tanks circled around to the rear of the compound, flattening a storage shed.
The compound exploded in a fireball of orange light, windows blown out from the force of the detonation.
“I was just a teenager when the old regime fell,” said Stevenson as burning debris drifted down, “and I sure as shit don’t like what replaced it, but there’s times…” He spit over the side again. “Makes a man wonder how something that started out so good could have rotted out like an old pumpkin. Government turning on its own people, murdering kids…” He pulled out an auto-pistol and emptied the clip, his face contorted as he howled at the sky.
People in the crowd answered the shots, dozens of rounds fired off into the sky, the gunshots punctuated by rebel yells and shouts of “Amen!” Leo cowered along the edge of the roof, hands over his head, as though that would protect him from gravity. Rakkim stood tall as the crowd blazed away, tried to imagine the sound of gunfire in any city in the Islamic Republic and couldn’t. Just owning a gun was a capital offense, and even the police almost never used their sidearms. Colarusso had been a cop almost thirty years and had never fired his weapon other than on the pistol range. The National Guardsmen in the crowd opened up now, their rifles on full auto, aiming at the stars. Good luck.
“Koresh should have let the Feds arrest him,” said Rakkim, the flames reflected in his eyes. “Should have turned the other cheek. If Koresh was the second coming of Christ, that’s what he was supposed to be all about, right?”
“First time around, Jesus turned the other cheek. You see where that got him. Next time he’s coming as the warrior Christ leading the troops at Armageddon. That’s why Koresh named this place Mount Carmel—’cause the Bible says that’s where the battle takes place. Christ and his people going toe to toe with the satanic hordes.”
Rakkim scanned the crowd. “Who knew you could buy snow cones at Armageddon?”
“It’s not funny,” said Stevenson, his gnarly face livid in the rockets’ red glare.
The tanks retreated as the flames leapt higher with a whoooosh; the steeple upended, falling through the second story. The crowd, which had been restless during the tank assault, almost eager to see the climax of the reenactment, stepped back from the railing and fell silent. The three nuns crossed themselves, bowed their heads.
Stevenson turned away. “I seen this every week for the last ten years…you think I’d be used to it by now. Tomorrow morning they’ll start building it all over again.” He shook his head, his voice hoarse. “Damn ancient history, that’s all it is.”
Leo stood beside Rakkim, the two of them watching the compound until there was only ashes and smoldering embers.
The crowd dispersed slowly toward the parking lots, people pushing baby carriages along the walkways. A doll fell off a baby carriage as the father pushed past the three nuns, and the young nun Rakkim had made eye contact with earlier bent gracefully down and picked it up. Returned it to the father. The nuns kept up with the crowd, and Rakkim noticed the two Rangers studying them as they passed, then start after them.
Stevenson put a hand on Rakkim’s shoulder. “Don’t get carried away.”
Rakkim watched the two Rangers flank the young nun. The black one pulled away her head scarf, twirled it around a finger. The white one grab-assed her while she slapped at his hands. The Rangers laughed as she fled, weeping, after the other nuns.
“Those two are even more out of control than usual,” said Stevenson. “Christians get along well enough, but there’s still plenty of good ol’ boys don’t like Catholics. Not near as much as they hate your people, but some folks never forgave the pope for kowtowing to the Muslims the way he did. I understand the situation, two popes assassinated inside of a year, but if the pope can’t stand up for what he believes in, who can?”
“What those two assholes did, that had nothing to do with religion,” said Rakkim.
“You’re probably right about that.” Stevenson rocked on the heels of his cowboy boots. “It’s just damn criminal stupidity not to pay your centurions. Any fool knows that. You don’t feed the guard dog, sooner or later somebody’s gonna get bit.”
“I’ve been thinking,” said Rakkim.
“Damn. Here I thought I was going to skate.”
“You got some old Roman coins in that collection of yours?”
“I got a little of everything, you know that,” said Stevenson.
“I need a silver coin from around
the time of Christ,” said Rakkim.
“Like an imperial denarius? I’ve got plenty of those.”
“As long as it’s silver. I only need one.”
“What are you going to do with that?”
“This Malcolm Crews sounds a lot like David Koresh. You said it yourself—boys like that, money doesn’t mean anything to them. It’s all about heaven and hell.”
“What’s that supposed—”
“Forget the denarius,” said Leo. “You want a shekel of Tyre.”
Rakkim stared at Leo.
“What?” said Leo. “Like I can’t correlate the data?” He tapped his forehead. “Me smart.”
“I don’t know what either of you are talking about,” said Stevenson, “but a shekel of Tyre is a rare coin. I’ve only got one.”
“One’s all I need,” said Rakkim, still staring at Leo.
“Stay away from Houston,” said Stevenson. “There’s typhus—”
“You already told me,” said Rakkim.
“Stick to the backroads. You might run into bandits, but there’s military press-gangs all over the interstates. And watch out for Mexicans.”
Rakkim slid behind the wheel of the rusted-out Cadillac. “I got it.”
“You’re going to want to take Highway Twenty-seven because it’s quicker, but don’t do it,” said Stevenson. “Rangers coop under the big overpass watching for trouble…or folks they can bring trouble to. Had a lot of tourists go missing lately. Women turning up weeks later, kind of condition they’d be better off dead. Best you take the long way around Waco. Rangers aren’t the worst that can happen either. You drive down a country lane and see somebody broke down by the side of the road, don’t stop. I don’t care if it’s a sweet-faced blonde holding the baby Jesus.”
“Why, hello, miss,” cooed Rakkim. “Are y’all in need of assistance?”
“Okay, I deserve that.” Stevenson fumbled for a fresh cigarette. “The Caddy’s got puncture-guard tires and upgraded body armor. She’s fast too. Ugly but fast.” Stevenson handed Rakkim a gun. “Here. Nothing fancy. I know you don’t want to attract attention, but it’s a solid, reliable piece. Twenty-four slims in the magazine.”
Sins of the Assassin Page 12
