End Times

by P A Duncan

  An H&K 91, .308 caliber rifle. A box containing a Desert Eagle .44 magnum handgun. The box for a Glock 21 was empty. That pistol—a forty-five—must have accompanied him on the trip.

  He hadn’t carried while she’d watched him, but she suspected a shoulder holster. Men who carried high-caliber pieces preferred that arrangement. Pocket or hip holsters wouldn’t conceal something like the Desert Eagle or the Glock.

  Alexei always picked a gun based on the mission, whereas Mai had long put her trust in the Beretta 92F.

  A significant collection of guns, but no red flag. Likely there were homes here in Arizona that sported a larger assortment.

  They were all clean, free of dust, and smelled of a light coat of gun oil. He’d stacked military-style ammo cases nearby, also clean and stenciled with his last name and the type of ammo inside.

  Had he always been this organized, or was it left over from the Army?

  Done with the guns, she straightened and went over to his stereo system. Inexpensive but good quality. A headset plugged into the stereo.

  He liked loud music but didn’t want to disturb his neighbors. Considerate, but did that extend to possessing empathy?

  She shined the penlight on his stack of video and audio cassettes. He went for acid, hard-rock, or grunge groups: Van Halen, Bad Company, Metallica, Nirvana, Aerosmith, Nine Inch Nails. In the tape player itself was a NIN release entitled Pretty Hate Machine.

  Rather than listen to the tape now and chance he’d notice it had been advanced, she made a mental note to listen to some of these groups she wasn’t familiar with, Nine Inch Nails in particular. His musical taste echoed hers, except he stuck with American bands. She liked European rock, the harder the better.

  Something about the cassettes’ arrangement… Alphabetized. Carroll had arranged them in alphabetical order.

  Well, that was a bit anal.

  On a rickety table next to the stereo sat a television and an older model video cassette player. Next, she looked over the videos, also in alphabetical order. A half-dozen movies, all with a military theme: The Dogs of War, Full Metal Jacket, Patton, Red Dawn, Uncommon Valor, War Games. The sleeve for Red Dawn was more worn than the others, meaning he watched it often. Mai read the description—rural teenagers repel a Cuban/Soviet invasion of the U.S. with guerrilla tactics. She’d rent it and watch at home.

  Other videos were Star Trek movies or episodes from something called “The Next Generation.” She’d watch those at home, as well.

  The remaining group of cassettes were cheap dupes, no sleeves, Xeroxed labels.

  Amateur porn?

  Careful not to disturb them too much, she read the titles.

  “The Zionist Conspiracy in Our Military”

  “Why Yahweh Wants YOU to Own a Gun”

  “Survival Tips for the End Times”

  “Killeen: The Government’s Lie”

  “What Will You Do When ZOG Comes for You?”

  Jackpot, she thought.

  She filed the titles away in her memory for later purchase. She picked the top one on the stack up and turned it over to see if there were a producer’s label on the other side.

  Patriot City.

  The second time in a few days that had come up.

  Coincidence? No such thing.

  Mai shined the penlight over the surface of the stereo and television. No dust. John Carroll was something of a neat freak. That boded well that Natalia would grow out of living in the pigsty that was her room.

  A bookcase—again sturdy but not pricey. He’d arranged magazines on the top shelf, stacked neatly and arranged by issue date, most recent on top.

  Soldier of Fortune, Guns and Ammo, Shooting, Media Bypass, and Mercenary World.

  Other shelves held paperbacks on military history, biographies of military heroes—Patton, Schwartzkopf, Marine sniper Carlos Hathcock, again all alphabetized by author.

  He had a collection of fiction and other non-fiction: H. L. Mencken, Gore Vidal, among them. Some Star Trek novels and other science fiction.

  He still had his Army field manuals and copies of the Army Ranger Manual, the Special Forces Handbook, and the SAS Survival Course. Books on guerrilla warfare, on SERE (survival, evasion, resistance, and escape), and on improvising munitions. One was entitled Homemade C4. Mai pulled that one out and studied it in the beam of the penlight. Some passages had been underlined, but she couldn’t know whether Carroll had done that or not.

  So, books on snipers, improvised warfare, and bomb-making. Another tidbit to file away.

  She replaced the book on the shelf and looked over the titles again.

  This was all small-scale stuff, something a prospective special forces operative or even an active-duty soldier would find useful on the battlefields of an unconventional, post-Cold War conflict. Whether a civilian needed this sort of library was questionable but not illegal.

  Mai stood in the center of the living area and made a slow turn to take it all in.

  Not a typical bachelor’s residence. Unlike the Duvals’ yard, strewn with broken toys, discarded car batteries, and bags of trash, this place was neat, clean.

  That chaos compared to this order must drive you crazy, she thought.

  Duval, though, was a good friend, someone whose shortcomings Carroll could overlook. Someone he trusted, considered worthy of his loyalty. That connoted more flexibility than the compulsive neatness here implied.

  Flexibility required an open mind.

  Or a malleable one, easily swayed by a strong personality.

  The compulsive streak, though, could mean he’d say no when he disagreed with someone or something.

  The kitchen sink held no dirty dishes. The countertops were spotless, the appliances arranged in a logical sequence for food prep in a small area.

  Bathroom fixtures had seen better days, but the bathroom was, again, more than clean. No shaving stubble in the sink, no grime in the shower or toilet. The room had a faint smell of Lysol.

  A double bed and a built-in dresser took up most of the single bedroom. The bed was barracks-neat, made up with a precision drill sergeants coveted. The top of the dresser was bare. Mai opened the folding closet doors and shined her light inside. All his trousers, mostly woodland camo and black BDU pants, jeans, and some khakis were pressed, creased, and hung over hangers lined with cardboard tubing. Long-sleeved cotton and plaid flannel shirts were also well-tended. Pushed to the far side of one end of the closet were several cold-weather jackets and windbreakers. On the closet floor Carroll had lined up several pairs of combat boots, the row precise, along with a pair of loafers—all with a high shine. There was a gap in the row of combat boots. Mai looked over the clothes again and discerned a set of woodland camo BDUs were missing, too.

  Carroll had gone to a gun show dressed as a soldier.

  Did he miss being in the Army? Or was he simply comfortable dressing that way?

  Or was he a patriot soldier?

  Mai’s gloved hand stroked one of the sets of clothing, and she imagined Carroll hanging them here, adjusting the space between each piece to minimize wrinkling. She leaned forward and took a sniff. As clean as everything else. No residual body odor.

  Fastidious about the cleanliness of his living space and his person.

  Alexei had been known to pull a favorite shirt from the laundry hamper and don it after it passed a nose test. Not John Carroll, apparently.

  The compulsiveness continued with the contents of the dresser. Socks and shorts—boxers, she noted—in the top drawer, undershirts in the middle. They were round-neck tee-shirts, some in olive drab, some white, some with silk-screened scenes and sayings, all neatly folded. Though she was tempted to read the ones with sayings, she didn’t; she’d never get them refolded properly.

  The bottom drawer held a spare set of sheets for the bed and copies of The Turner Diaries, stacked in three columns with space for a fourth.

  They must have gone to the gun show with him. To sell? To hand out?

>   The same drawer held a variety of pamphlets and several issues of a newsletter-sized publication called “The Liberty Tree.” The tagline beneath the masthead read, “The Tree of Liberty must occasionally be watered with the blood of patriots and tyrants. –Thomas Jefferson” A crudely drawn tree with a noose hanging from it was part of the masthead.

  Mai thumbed through an issue of the newsletter and several of the pamphlets. All typical of the groups she’d been researching, and she saw the newsletter and pamphlets also came from Patriot City.

  Definitely not coincidence.

  Mai returned the reading matter to the drawer and closed it. She rose and looked at the bed before she stretched out on it.

  Firm mattress, no sagging. An unyielding, new feel to it. Had Carroll been too uncomfortable sleeping on a mattress used by someone else?

  Did he sleep as rigidly as his neatness implied, no thrashing about and messing the covers?

  She’d seen no pajamas in the closet or dresser. Did he sleep in his underwear or the nude?

  How many, if any, girlfriends or boyfriends had he brought to this bed?

  The room smelled as clean as the rest of the trailer. Not a hint of sex in the air or on the bed cover.

  She stood again and smoothed the few wrinkles she’d made.

  Back in the bathroom, she went through the medicine cabinet. A good-sized bottle of aspirin, a large container of anti-acid tablets, a box of Band-aids, and other odds and ends. The bottles of aspirin and anti-acids were half-empty but purchased recently, given their expiration dates.

  Aspirin for headaches, muscle pain, followed by anti-acids to quell a stomach upset by the aspirin?

  No shaving or dental supplies. Those must be with him.

  No condoms. Did they go with him too?

  Nothing in the bathroom trashcan.

  Either Carroll didn’t practice safe sex, which didn’t jive with the compulsive cleanliness, or he didn’t have sex, odd for a young man. That made the freshness of the bed odder. Surely, he masturbated? Or was he so meticulous he washed his sheets afterward?

  Mai returned to the kitchen and went through every cabinet and drawer. A four-place setting of inexpensive dinnerware, a four-place setting of utensils, all matching, but a hodgepodge collection of glasses. Again, all sparkling clean and well-arranged.

  He tended to store MREs and canned goods, some freeze-dried survival food, arranged by expiration date.

  The refrigerator held some nondescript beer, various condiments, but was clean and pleasant-smelling, an open box of baking soda tucked at the rear. No rotting lettuce or sour milk.

  The lower cabinets were empty except for a few pots and pans. Beneath the sink were cleaning supplies containing bleach and Lysol, but she spotted a small metal box, which might have once held tea or candy. Behind the row of cleaning supplies, it was well-hidden beneath a box of trash bags.

  Mai extracted it and pried it open. A plastic baggie of grainy, white powder. She unsealed the bag, pulled a glove off, and picked up a sample on the tip of a finger wetted on her tongue.

  After tasting it, she grimaced and wiped her tongue on her sleeve. Not the cocaine she half-expected. Homemade crystal meth.

  The amount of speed found in cold capsules and appetite suppressants made you hyper, agitated, kept you awake. Crystal meth was refined from the ingredients in those OTC medications, but it became so concentrated it had a profound effect on the hippocampus, the regulator of the central nervous system.

  Called Ice on the street, it made even a first-time user talkative, euphoric, insomniac, paranoid, prone to hallucinations, and eventually addicted. Long-term use meant the user wouldn’t be able to recognize a delusional thought as such. Paranoia would become reality.

  Given the orderliness of his living space, she doubted Carroll was a serious tweaker. He certainly wasn’t making it; no meth-cooking supplies evident, no smell of the chemicals used.

  A dealer?

  Meth was profitable, but living in a used trailer didn’t fit with being a dealer. If he were, though, what was he doing with the money?

  Mai resealed the bag, returned the box to its place, and stood.

  John Carroll, living alone, no girlfriend, only a single good friend nearby, maybe high on paranoia-inducing meth, listening to acid rock sung by groups who raged against the system, reading publications produced by weirdo right-wingers, filling his head with military history and war fiction.

  Meth use stripped away your conscience, leaving an amoral sociopath behind.

  She understood the vacant eyes she’d seen at Killeen.

  Add in the sharp-shooting Bradley gunner who’d won a Bronze Star for killing.

  Was John Carroll becoming a death machine?

  The orderly trailer seemed to press in on her, but Mai went through each space again to make sure she’d left nothing out of whack. She let herself out as quietly as she’d entered and jogged back to her vehicle.

  The dingy motel room was welcoming.

  44

  Mercenaries

  Jackson, Mississippi

  Norton Ball’s soft, southern drawl was disarming. “You have some pretty impeccable references, Miz Burke,” he said.

  A handsome man with thick, wavy hair and a bright, welcoming smile, Ball didn’t look like the self-important lawyers Mai had encountered in the D.C. area. Ball wore a cambric shirt, top button undone, no tie, and jeans.

  “My freelance work takes me to many places,” Mai replied. “I’ve been lucky to make friends.”

  “With some pretty important folks.”

  Mai shrugged as Ball studied her, his eyes slits.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, and regarded her again. “What publication will your story appear in?”

  “Whichever one buys it from me.”

  “Here in the U.S.? Europe?”

  “Whoever bids highest.”

  His eyes crinkled. “I see. This is mercenary on your part?”

  Mai smiled. “One does have to make a living.”

  “The reference you provided indicated you don’t work alone.”

  Mai sat still and gave no reaction. Alexei was outside in the rental car, observing who came and went.

  “Is he—I understand it’s a he—listening, or do you two have some signal prearranged?”

  Mai’s training went too deep; she stayed quiet.

  “It’s gonna get mighty hot today for your hired gun,” Ball said.

  Her turn to study him, Mai looked for something suspicious.

  “Don’t be too worried, Miz Fisher. Yes, I know you’re Maitland Fisher, not Katherine Burke. Sheryl Vejar and I are old friends, and I also have some reliable contacts in the FBI. In addition to Sheryl’s recommendation, they scored you high.”

  She saw no reason not to trust him. She took out her mobile phone and pressed a speed-dial number.

  “You’ve been invited in,” she said when Alexei answered. She hung up and said to Ball, “I don’t know whether to be flattered or worried I scored high with the FBI. Oh, and he’s not a hired gun. He’s my partner.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Alex.”

  “What you’re not is a freelance writer. Hold on a minute.” He picked up the receiver on his desk phone and punched two-digits. “Marylee, a gentleman named Alex should be coming in right soon. Send him back to my office. Thanks.” He hung up and did the narrow-eyed stare again. “What are you then?”

  “A security analyst.”

  “Dishonesty is a bad icebreaker.”

  “I’d prefer to call it dissembling.”

  “You’re gonna argue semantics with a lawyer?” He smiled again. “I’m impressed.” At the knock on his office door, Ball called out, “Come in!”

  Alexei entered and gave Mai a raised eyebrow. She replied with a one-shoulder shrug.

  Ball stood up and approached Alexei, ha
nd extended. “Norton Ball. Mister?”

  “Call me Alex.”

  Ball shook his head and sighed. “All right. Alex. Sit down.”

  Alexei took the chair next to Mai, and Ball resumed his seat.

  “So, Alex, I reckon you’re a ‘security analyst’ as well?” Ball asked.

  “Indeed I am.”

  “Let’s drop the crap, why don’t we? My FBI contacts told me you work in a special capacity at the United Nations.”

  Neither of them said a thing.

  Ball threw up his hands. “Okay, fine. I get it. Why is the U.N. interested in me?”

  “My partner and I are interested in your work on militias,” Alexei said.

  “Why? A straight answer, please.”

  Mai’s eyes cut to Alexei, and he gave the barest of nods.

  “We were asked to observe and assess the recent situation at Killeen, Texas,” Mai said.

  “Sheryl told me that much.”

  “We observed and assessed and offered recommendations.”

  “Which the FBI HRT summarily rejected. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not surprising, since it’s been taken over by a bunch of macho pricks who like to cowboy too much. But, don’t get me wrong. I think the majority of federal agents are dedicated public servants. They saved my sorry ass when The Order put me at the top of their hit list. There’s always bad apples.” He looked from Mai to Alexei. “I ask again, why are you interested in me?”

  “After we debriefed the attorney general about Killeen,” Alexei said, “she engaged us to continue our assessment.”

  “Your name came up in our research,” Mai added, “specifically your books and your work with KlanGuard. We understand you’re now looking closer at the militia movement.”

  “True. It grew outta KlanGuard. There’s a connection. With the Klan gone, its members moved on to militias and Christian Identity.”

  “After reading your books, we wanted to speak with you, to understand this issue better,” Alexei said.

  Ball grinned. “You gonna put me on retainer?”

  “If you like,” Mai replied, not joking.

  “The FBI has a plethora of analysts.”