‘Explains the cruelty, the lack of tolerance, the atrocities, the trampling of everything American, anything democratic or decent.’
‘Quit speechifying. Every revolution has winners, losers, victims.’
‘It’s why I favour evolution.’
Vulpine eyes peered from the macabre face, mobile as the other features were static. ‘Out of the crucible will come something majestic, truly noble.’
‘Or a new kind of slaughterhouse.’ Run by misfits and motherfuckers in imperial robes and comical hats.
‘Have faith, lady.’ A finger was held rigid against her nose, the pressure hard. ‘You ever seen a slaughterhouse?’ She did not reply. ‘I have. Remove the head of a cow, its heart goes on pumpin’, legs buckin’, for four or five minutes. Even watched a few try and climb up on all fours. Weird, hauntin’. Pigs another thin’. Stick ’em through, they screech ’n’ squeal. Lasts forever. Real struggle. Smell clings to you for a fortnight.’
‘You’ve only left recently, then.’
The blow was palm-flat, brutal, its suddenness slapping her reactions into confused lethargy. Playing catch-up. No bad thing slowing matters down. Events had been going too fast anyway. A second impact, the shock-anaesthesia of adrenaline and endorphins detaching reality. Strike three. Adventure was part of misadventure, she reminded herself hazily.
‘The Reverend said you’d be trouble.’ Another voice, this time a human face partially obscured by cap and black eye-mask. She looked up at Ted Bell, tried to place him, could not place herself. He gave a tight, humour-free smile, held a crushed packet of cigarettes towards her lips. ‘Smoke?’
‘I don’t.’ The numbness in her jaw slowed delivery, matured into smarting pain.
‘Whatever.’
‘Is this some kind of bad-cop shit-cop routine?’
He surveyed her, the grimace as short and shallow as a tick. ‘You and the FBI’s asked enough questions, Krista. Got our boy in San Quentin into a whole heap of trouble.’
‘Doing my job.’
‘Wrong business, wrong place.’
It had been enough to rattle the opposition, force their hand. She was looking for them; instead, they found her, were come to view Exhibit A. And A was for Althouse. Special Agent. Not exactly what she had envisaged. The High Command, the Chief Priest. He seemed average – the committed often were – had acquired the sleekness of purchased taste, the grooming of wealth. Both could cover faults, smooth awkwardness, stitch gaping social seams. Yet genetic aggression and the tension-strain of gutter ferociousness always bulged through. Net worth, no value. She took it in, mapped the surface.
‘Know who I am?’ he asked, eyes quizzical, conversational.
‘I don’t have access to the Federal Prison Locator Service.’
‘Try again.’
‘Insane neo-Nazi comes to mind.’
‘Nice to be underestimated. You and your Feds have done that all along. Kind of a bonus.’
‘I haven’t seen any reason to change my mind. You all believe in immortality, flaming torches, swastikas, a cod supremacist master-race philosophy, a homoerotic SS brotherhood thing.’
‘Fascinating. Quite the shrink.’ She watched for a reaction, waited for the strike, for the motley demon standing back in the shadow to step forward and punish. It stayed where it was, silent. Sand trickled from the ceiling, measuring seconds. ‘So you’ve seen it all before?’ Bell said softly, eventually. ‘I doubt it.’
‘I give your Thousand-Year Reich about a week.’
‘Then it’ll outlive you, Krista.’
The cramp of her wrists matched the ache in her face, the constriction in her lungs and throat. ‘You’ve made a big error.’
‘On the contrary. We gain intelligence, we sow discord, generate anarchy, demonstrate omnipotence. We warn our allies and stooges to keep the faith, stay on side. Snatching you was inspired. Quid quo pro. Mr Josh Kemp intercepts two of our guys, we intercept you. And I guarantee you’ll squeal faster. Civilized folk generally do. Take Professor Pitt, for example.’
‘You want to tell me what it’s about?’ It was the least they could do for a condemned woman.
‘Why not? We’re telling the world. In times of trouble, the American people reach for their Bibles and their guns. This is a time of trouble, of profound change. We’re simply spotting the targets.’
‘The blacks?’ She gave the answer as a question.
He nodded, had found a Robusto to light. ‘They claim they’re victims. My Forresters aim to ensure they will be. They cry for special treatment. That’s what we’ll mete out. They make a stand in LA. I intend it to be their last.’ The cigar was waved. ‘There’s unfinished business, unfinished coloureds. The past decades created the status quo, pushed us to the margins while the liberals and faggots, East and West Coast intelligentsia, made the running.’ Tip ignited, steady burn achieved, he drew on the tobacco. ‘Hell, are they running now.’
‘Lunatic fringe isn’t a term of endearment. You’re a minority, a hated one.’
‘And you, with your offices, agents, tax dollars, your big government, your computers, your arrest warrants, are nothing. A corrupt Praetorian Guard protecting a discredited power elite.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’ Sarcasm. She had reached the bottom of her arsenal.
‘You haven’t thought at all. You should meet real people.’
‘You should get elected, win real support.’ She kneaded her fingers, tried to encourage circulation, force the faintness from her brain. ‘Be hard, wouldn’t it? Takes appeal, policies. It’s why you don’t put yourselves forward, why you wear masks, lurk in caves and compounds, why you shoot instead of speak.’
‘There are many forms of popular vote.’
‘Only one test of popular support.’
The cigar radiated its owner’s satisfaction. ‘It’s wartime. Ballot’s suspended. As my mama used to say, you don’t beat an enemy with love and cheesecake.’
Sick woman, Krista thought. Diseased son. She muzzled her contemplation, controlled her tongue. There was provocation and extreme provocation. It was best to drag out her death sentence, push the limit without aggravating, use the hours, be wise. Boys were protective of their mothers. This one would doubtless mutilate, execute, in her name. Love and cheesecake. She suspected he would beat the enemy with steel whips, chains, whatever came to hand. The air was thick down here, had the staleness of a grave, added to the foetid subterranean feel of weight, enclosure, of inhaled and recycled breath. In deep. She let her peripheral vision, secondary senses, probe the contours, examine the confines. A bare dungeon room, featureless concrete, with walls designed to close on a human soul, crush resistance. Somewhere to lose yourself, to never be found; somewhere in which to go to pieces and never be swept up. Not even roaches would want to loiter. Semi-darkness, twilight years. For an owner of property, the man had a way to go before acquiring the complementary skill of interior design. For a dedicated bigot, participant in a strategy of civil war, he held a prime source of information close at hand, in a basement – in Special Agent Althouse’s head. Too near to be comfortable. The advantage was definitely not hers.
