by P A Duncan
Who’d put him on that road in the first place?
The answer had come to her in the emergency room. Now, she gave it her full analytical consideration. The answer appealed to her sense of justice.
She knew what she had to do.
49
Hell Has Victory
Varner, Arkansas
Twelve hours after John Thomas Carroll ripped a hole in the heart of Missouri, Ira Wayne Mathis—murderer, survivalist, Identity Christian, white supremacist, and beloved of Patriot City—walked into the execution suite and hopped onto the gurney. He’d refused the drug designed to calm him. He had no need for it; he was going to a better place. He smiled the whole time, even as the guards strapped him down.
He was joyful; he was about to meet his white God in a white heaven and leave a black, mongrelized world behind; joyful also for the present his Prophet had given him.
Mathis had watched the news almost until the time to die. He’d prayed and thanked Yahweh that on the day of his death, angels on earth had let loose a mighty roar to herald his coming home. He would die knowing what the Jew government had stopped him from doing was now his monument.
“Ira Wayne Mathis,” said the warden, “do you have any last words to save your soul.”
“I have something to say, but my soul was saved a long time ago.”
The warden didn’t like that, but he nodded to Mathis.
Mathis raised his head from the gurney, smiled, and said, “Governor—the current one and the one who now leads this Jew-infested country—this is what I have to say. Look over your shoulder. God’s justice is on the way. You think you’re safe, but I wouldn’t trade places with you or any of your cronies. I die knowing hell has victory over you and heaven awaits me. I’m at peace knowing you will burn.”
He rested his head on the gurney again and closed his eyes, smile still in place. When he opened his eyes again, he’d be in heaven.
III
Casualties of War
50
Lost
Churchville, Virginia
One thing drummed into you at Patriot City: Don’t question Prophet, even if what he told you was strange. Like being told to call the FBI after seeing something on the news. Every patriot knew Prophet hated the FBI, but Prophet was a man of God. You had to do what Prophet said.
Lonnie Pittenger watched TV the whole day like Prophet had said, waiting for the moment Prophet had explained in his instructions. The day after that beautiful bomb went off, some Jew-looking news anchor said the magic words. Well, numbers. The FBI hotline for what it called KCMBomb and the media had named “Terror in Missouri.”
Before Lonnie made his call, he prayed for strength to talk to them baby-killers. He read and re-read the note Prophet had sent him with the words to say. He practiced reading it aloud but hesitated over one name. Lonnie remembered John Carroll from Patriot City. A true patriot. A war hero. It bothered Lonnie to turn him in, but Prophet knew God’s plan. Lonnie was helping fulfill that.
Lonnie had never seen nothing like the phone Prophet had sent. A phone with no cord, and it fit right in his hand, a plastic-feeling thing with some kinda foreign word on it, NOKIA. Prophet had also sent step-by-step instructions how to use it and how when he was done with it to wipe his fingerprints off it and throw it away far from home. That was exciting, like Lonnie was some James Bond guy.
Still, his fingers shook when he dialed the hotline number and pressed a green button.
“FBI KCMBomb Hotline,” came the answer. “Special agent Baur.”
That sounded like a Jew name, but that was to be expected.
“Uh, yeah, is this the number to call if you know something about that Kansas City bomb?”
“Yes, sir. What’s your name, sir?”
“I thought I didn’t have to give it.”
“You don’t, sir, but it helps us to confirm your information.”
Lonnie wasn’t certain what that meant. “You’re an FBI agent, right?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then, I’m not giving you my name, but I know who done it.”
“How do you know that, sir?”
“This here ain’t about me. Do you want the names or not?”
“Of course, sir. Go ahead.”
“They’re ex-Army guys. They was trained at that place you busted last year, Patriot City. Lamar Duval from Arizona. Jerry Parker from Kansas. They did the support stuff, you know. The guy driving the truck, the bomber, his name is John Thomas Carroll, from Arizona or New York, depending.”
“Depending on what, sir?”
“Where he hangs his hat, of course. Them three talked about it, but the Carroll guy, he did it.”
“Can you give us a number to call back, sir, so we can—”
Lonnie hung up and prayed again, asking Yahweh to forgive him for doubting Prophet’s wisdom.
The KCMBomb SAC, Warren Pierce, sat with Agent Baur and listened to the recorded conversation a third time. Pierce’s lips stayed pursed so long, Baur figured bringing the tape to Pierce’s attention was an error.
“I’m sorry if I wasted your time, sir, but one of the names matched what we got from D.C.”
“You did fine, Baur. Time to stop thinking this is Arabs. Run those names through every database we’ve got. Get a last-known address for each. Check for traffic offenses, speeding tickets, involving any of them for a week before the bombing. We’ll put some pressure on them. Work with the public affairs guy here and leak either Parker’s or Duval’s name to the press anonymously. Indicate they’re persons of interest but not suspects. That might get one of ‘em out in the open.”
“Wouldn’t that make them hide, sir?”
“Think about it. Your name shows up on TV connected to a terror bombing. Wouldn’t you want to get to the cops before somebody goes vigilante on your ass?”
Baur smiled at his boss. “Yes, sir. Right away.”
51
Found
Kansas City, Missouri
Mai had lost count of how many cups of vending machine coffee she’d consumed over the past two days, but they’d worked. She’d stayed awake, mostly, taking naps in the chair beside Alexei’s bed. This morning, a respiratory therapist had removed the breathing tube to see if Alexei could breathe on his own, and he had.
Mai watched Natalia talk to him, her hands moving, occasionally touching his arm. Olga made a statue in the corner, her face devoid of anything. Alexei’s vitals stayed unremarkable.
But he breathed on his own. His brain worked. He was in there, somewhere, and for once, Mai would be patient.
Lucas Walker had stopped by to tell Mai his agents had found Karen Wolfe’s body in the rubble. When Alexei was stronger, Mai would tell him without prejudice.
She left Alexei in good hands and went to the family waiting area to finish her coffee. She found a chair away from the other occupants, leaned her head back against the wall, and closed her eyes. Her rest was brief. Someone wearing heavy boots strode into the waiting area.
“Ms. Fisher?” a man’s voice asked.
Mai looked into the face of a man wearing a black, FBI utility uniform and combat boots. His black cap also read FBI. Two similarly dressed men hovered near the entrance. Was Emmet Brasseau so pissed she’d been right he’d sent three agents to arrest her?
“Yes, and you are?” she said.
“Special Agent Warren Pierce, KCMBomb SAC.”
The FBI and its bloody acronyms. Almost as trying as the U.N.
Pierce glanced around and stepped closer to her. “We found him,” he whispered.
Mai stood so quickly, Pierce had to step back. “Where?”
“In a town called Boonville. A county cop pulled him over for driving without a license plate. The cop spotted a gun on him, and he didn’t have a Missouri concealed carry permit.”
“When was he apprehended?”
“Wednesday morning, about an hour after the bombing.”
“And you’ve only found
him now?”
Pierce’s forehead creased. “We got a VIN off the bomb truck’s axle and traced it to a rental place outside of Wichita. The clerks remembered the renter and gave descriptions for the composite drawings we released yesterday.”
“Yes, I saw them on television. Carroll’s likeness wasn’t accurate.”
“Yesterday, we got an anonymous tip with Carroll’s name.”
“Director Brasseau had Carroll’s name Tuesday night.”
The crease in his forehead became a furrow, but he said nothing.
“If he were arrested Wednesday, why didn’t he have a bail hearing yesterday?” Mai asked.
“The only magistrate in Boonville was bogged down with a law suit and canceled the bail hearings. When we contacted the county police, we were surprised he was still in custody. They’re holding him for us. We’re on our way now, and the AG said I should bring you.”
“What did Director Brasseau have to say about that?”
“Ma’am, the Attorney General is his boss. She thinks the perp will cooperate if he sees you.”
Mai shook her head. “You don’t know him very well.”
“Ma’am, that’s the point of your coming.”
“Two conditions.”
Pierce’s pursed lips almost disappeared. “Yes?”
“He doesn’t know I’m with the FBI, and I talk to him alone, off the record.”
“No problem with the first. The other I’ll have to clear.”
“Get started on that.”
“I’m concerned he might take you hostage.”
Mai smiled again. “You don’t know me very well, either.”
Pierce sighed and said, “On my authority, you get fifteen minutes.”
52
Family
Wichita, Kansas
Gerald Parker paced. He’d muted the television so Corazon wouldn’t hear the news anchors saying the FBI wanted to talk to him. He wasn’t a suspect, they said. They only wanted to talk.
Jay had given him up.
No, if the FBI had Jay, it’d be all over the news. It was Prophet. To punish him.
If the FBI took him, Corazon and the children would be unprotected from Prophet. He had to keep them safe, but how to do that with his name all over television?
Okay, he thought, here’s what you’ll say. You didn’t know your friend’s plans. The FBI wouldn’t think a family man would be involved with people who blew up buildings. Yeah, deflect them from you. Make them understand it was Jay.
Corazon was in the baby’s room, changing a diaper with Angela watching with fascination.
“I have poo-poo diaper?” Angie asked.
“Yes. Many time.”
“Corazon?”
“Yes, Jerry?”
“We, uh, need to go to the police.”
“What for?”
“Uh, about my brother. You know, him and me, we’re outspoken about the government. With this Kansas City thing, you know, the cops want to talk to political activists.”
“Why police talk to you?”
“Like I said, it’s probably my brother. Pack up the kids. Bring some food for them. I don’t know how long we’ll be, and—”
“Why we come with you? Why don’t police come here?”
“It’s different here, Cora. It looks better if you go to the police.”
“I don’t understand why I come.”
“On TV, they’re saying the police want to talk to me.”
She screamed at him in her language. Angela and the baby began to cry.
Damn Jay for going through with this.
“Honey, I promise it’s okay,” Parker said. “We’ll go to the police, explain my brother is a farmer, and come home.”
She began throwing diapers, wipes, toys, clothes into a diaper bag.
“It’ll be okay,” he murmured.
Kingman, Arizona
Lamar Duval looked at his sleeping son and smiled. Lamar Duval, Jr. Carrying on the family name.
Junior sucked on his fist as Duval held him.
“What do you think of your baby brother?” he asked Ashley.
“He won’t be able to play outside with me.”
“He will in no time, Ash.”
Lamar remembered things he’d done with his father: playing catch, fishing. He couldn’t wait to do those things with Junior.
“Lamar?” said Sharon, her voice quavering. “A bunch of SUVs are here. Lamar! It’s the FBI!”
Lamar Duval’s son had been born an hour before a bomb destroyed a building in Kansas City. At first, that had thrilled him. Now, he felt his heart racing as he went to the window and peeked out.
Shit.
Sharon snatched Junior from his arms.
“Lamar, remember what we talked about,” she said. “You tell them it was Jay. Only Jay.”
Heart in his throat, he nodded. Slowly, he opened the door and remembered to raise his hands.
53
Secrets
Boonville, Missouri
The jail’s small interrogation room, as Mai could see through the one-way window, didn’t include recording and video equipment. John Carroll, clad in an orange jumpsuit, sat in a chair in one corner, his ankles shackled, his wrist cuffs attached to a wide, leather belt. The jumpsuit was too large for his thin frame, his arms emerging from the sleeves like pale, thin twigs.
Mai studied the familiar face, one she’d come to think attractive, and remembered how she’d found Alexei.
Agent Pierce pulled on latex gloves and examined Carroll’s personal effects: a wallet, some coins, foam ear plugs, a pack of anti-acid tablets, a small bottle of aspirin. He removed a driver’s license from the wallet, held it for Mai to see. It was Carroll’s real one, issued in Arizona. Pierce produced another license from the wallet and lay the two side-by-side on the table.
“Is he John Carroll or Robert Worf?” Pierce asked.
Mai pointed to the Worf license. “That’s the fake one.”
Robert Worf was the name she’d seen on truck rental records that night at the White House. Then, she couldn’t place why it seemed familiar. Now, she remembered Worf was a character from a Star Trek series Carroll liked.
“How do you know?” Pierce asked.
“John Carroll’s birthday is April 23, 1968, which is on the Carroll license. The birth date on the Worf license is April 19, 1970. Look at the date of issuance on the Worf license. Ring any bells?”
“April 19, 1993. Killeen. We know Robert Worf rented the truck. Now, we can tie him to it.”
Mai managed not to roll her eyes at his grasp of the obvious. “I’m ready to go in,” she said.
Pierce nodded, and she paused before the door, bringing the image of Alexei’s bleeding body to mind again.
He’d accepted what was happening. The extra shackling, the sullen looks from the cops. Fear crept behind his stolid facade. The door opened and closed. A cop come for revenge?
He looked up, and the fear washed away. Siobhan was here for him.
He started to say her name, but she held up a hand. She looked around the room, at specks on the walls, under the table, and the extra chair. She motioned him to stand, and she looked under that chair, too. Her fingers searched beneath his collar, and she pulled aside the belt, her hands touching his back, all the way around to his stomach. That was almost too much for him, but he managed not to be aroused by it.
She stood on the spare chair and studied the ceiling light fixture. She draped her jacket over the small window in the door. She put the spare chair between them and stood behind it, her body blocking anyone who might be looking through the window behind her. And he knew someone would be watching. He’d seen enough cop shows to know that.
Carroll searched her face for something recognizable, but her expression looked through him. No, she was here for him. She had to act a part to throw off suspicion.
“Thank God you’re okay,” he said.
She brought a finger to her lips in a shushing gestu
re.
He nodded; lowered his voice. “Someone put you up to what happened the other day. It doesn’t change how I feel.”
Her voice barely above a whisper, she said, “What you say here and now is between us. No one else. My word.”
He frowned when he didn’t hear the Irish accent. It was as opposite Irish as you could get. It was English. Heat rushed into his face, and familiar darkness filled his head. “Your word?”
“My word is good, and you’ve never had reason to doubt it.”
“Until now.”
The smile that crossed her face had no feeling behind it. “Things are seldom what they seem, Jay. You’re a grown man. You should have figured that out.”
His face grew hotter, and he looked away from her, feeling the first sting of tears.
“You can trust me,” she said.
He sat straighter in the chair, put on his detached face. He wanted to cry, to ease the tightness in his chest, to breathe freer. No. He’d come this far. All he could be from now on was a badass. That’s what everyone expected, right? He swallowed the lump in his throat and looked at her. She didn’t even look like Siobhan. Siobhan’s eyes were bright, sparkling windows into her soul. This woman was soulless, and the empty eyes disturbed him.
“I could have killed you. Twice,” she said, fingers forming a vee. “I should have, but I didn’t. That should convince you my word is good.”
She’d hadn’t been a battle buddy, someone with whom you forged a bond from duty, blood, and fear of dying. She had been the first person, the first woman, who had listened without judging.
