by Glen Tate
“Yes, sir,” Rich said. “But that was back then, when politics mattered. Who has time for that kind of thing now? Now I think about chopping enough wood for the winter. About making sure I get all the FCard food my wife tells me to.” He said it very convincingly. He’d rehearsed it.
“Good,” Winters said, trying to believe what Rich said. He desperately wanted to believe it.
Everyone around Winters said things like that all day long. The official line was that Oath Keepers membership had plummeted because people didn’t care about politics anymore. The other official line was that Oath Keepers were militia whacko “terrorists” and had scared all the good people away from that organization. The truth was the exact opposite, but no one spoke the truth in the courthouse. It was a truth-free zone, where people just mouthed the same lines over and over again. The Recovery is working. The people appreciate all that government is doing for them. This will all be over soon. Things will get back to normal. We’re Americans. We can get through this and democracy will be back.
If Winters had a clear head, he would have realized that Rich was an Oath Keeper, a Patriot, and a threat to Winters and all the corrupt thugs in the courthouse. It was very obvious. But Winters was distracted by paranoia and drunkenness. It happened slowly.
Winters had been scheming for years leading up to the Collapse about how to steer all that pork to his people. He broke many laws to do it, which made him progressively more paranoid. He thought everyone was out to get him. Someone would turn him in and try to take his power. He was saving the county. Anyone who got in his way was classed as some right-wing nut who was against progress. He wasn’t sleeping much at all. He had terrible nightmares about…things he was doing to people. They would haunt him in his dreams. He was drinking all day long and never even knew what time it was. He would invite his receptionist into his sleeping quarters in the conference room, but could tell she hated it. Sometimes she would cry afterwards.
Winters looked for good news anywhere he could find it, even when it didn’t make any sense. He would believe things were fine when, if he were thinking straight, he could have instantly seen they weren’t. Now that he lived behind barbed wire, Winters had to have good news. He craved it. When people told him how great he was and how he was saving the county, he believed them. He became addicted to people kissing his ass and telling him things were fine, because at night, the nightmares came. He needed to spend all day thinking things were fine to make up for what the people in his dreams were telling him.
“Are you in charge out at Pierce Point?” Winters asked Rich. He wanted to make sure he was dealing with someone who could enforce whatever deal they came up with.
“Yes. I’m it,” Rich said, lying. He knew that it was a community effort out there, he wasn’t the only one running the show. Hell, they had a library committee; Rich wasn’t a dictator.
“Good,” Winters said. He leaned back in his chair and let it creak. He thought for a moment. He leaned over and got two cigars out of a box and motioned to Rich to take one.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Rich said. That cigar was worth about $1,000 in old dollars. Rich wanted to play the part Winters seemed to want him to play: Rich as the boss of Pierce Point, and this was two bosses making a deal over a cigar. Let him think that, Rich thought.
Winters lit his cigar first—to show who was in charge—followed by Rich’s. They both puffed for a while to get them going.
“OK, here’s the deal,” Winters said, feeling that rush of power he loved so much. “I need to know that Pierce Point is loyal.”
“Of course,” Rich said quickly and with a shrug. “Why is that even a question?”
Winters handed Rich the fax of the Pierce Point Patriot with the picture of the hanging.
Oh shit, Rich thought. This looked really bad. All of a sudden, Rich didn’t feel so safe and comfortable. He rushed to keep his body language and emotions in check so he didn’t give away how terrified he was. He had been in stressful situations like this, like when he did undercover work, so he flipped into “no fear” mode.
“Yep,” Rich said. “That’s the paper someone is doing out there on some little tiny copy machine,” he said as he rolled his eyes.
“Oh, and that’s Frankie Richardson,” Rich said. “Child rapist. Confessed.” Rich looked right at Winters, to project a lack of fear. “You guys were busy, so we handled it.” He shrugged like it was no big deal.
Winters sat back in his chair. It creaked again. He just stared at Rich, sizing him up. Winters was scanning Rich for body language that would indicate he was lying. He didn’t see any.
“You ‘handled it?’” Winters asked.
“Yes, sir,” Rich said, nodding like he was seven years old and talking to his dad.
“Was it some mob thing?” Winters asked. He was fascinated that people were taking care of things like this. He had assumed everything was done through official channels—that is, through him—but was now realizing that he just controlled Frederickson, not the country side.
“No, sir,” Rich said. “We had a trial with a jury and everything. We hung his accomplice and jailed two others. They were stealing things and would have been shot soon anyway breaking into a house.” Rich shrugged again. He was amazing himself at how calm he was.
Winters was convinced. There was probably a lot of this kind of thing happening in the county. But there was something that bothered Winters much more than hanging people.
“What about this ‘Patriot’ thing?” Winters asked, with an obvious edge to his voice.
“That’s the name that guy came up with for the paper,” Rich said quickly, like it was no big deal. He had been anticipating this question and had an answer ready to go.
“We can’t have that,” Winters said, leaning toward Rich and exuding power.
“No, sir, we can’t,” Rich said quickly. “The name of the paper, now that I think about it, needs to be changed. I’ll take care of it.”
“Yes, you will,” Winters said, again exuding power. The brandy was kicking in. Winters was in his element. He was smoking a cigar and ordering people around. It reminded him why he loved his job.
“I can count on you, can’t I, Deputy Gentry?” Winters asked as he poured another glass of brandy. He wanted to use Rich’s former title to remind him that he had recently been part of the “club” of government.
“Of course,” Rich said. “Pierce Point just wants to make it through this and then help with the Recovery. Just like the rest of America. Recovery. That’s what matters.”
This was music to Winters’ ears. He and the government people all around him constantly talked about the “Recovery.” They promised it to the people. They explained that temporary things, like barbed wire around the courthouse, and seizing things like the brandy and cigars, was all to help the Recovery. The Recovery—well, the hope of the Recovery—was what gave Winters all his power. He loved that word.
“You’re right, Deputy Gentry,” Winters said. “May I call you Rich?” he asked, knowing the answer to that question. He did it just to be endearing.
“Yes, sir, you may,” Rich said. He was sensing that Winters was a weak politician. A weak, drunk-ass politician. Playing little charm games like “May I call you Rich?” That was all Winters really had. Deal making from behind barbed wire.
But still. Why pick a fight, even with this weak drunk, when you didn’t have to? Rich didn’t want to bury one, or more, of his Pierce Point guards just to prove a point with this sad idiot.
“Rich, I like you,” Winters said. Another politician’s trick to charm someone. “I’d like to help Pierce Point. Would you like me to do that?”
“Of course, sir,” Rich said with a smile, like he was desperate for help. Rich was in full deception mode to convince Winters that Pierce Point needed things and could be bought off. That’s what Winters wanted to believe so he might as well foster that delusion. And get some stuff.
“How you doin’ on FCards?” Winter
s asked. “Your people getting fed?”
“We’re doing OK, sir,” Rich said. “Your people are issuing FCards and we send in a crew every day to make a grocery run. Save gas that way.”
“Your crew is pretty well armed, I understand,” Winters said.
Oh crap. The fifty Marines thing, Rich thought. Think fast. “Yes, I have some guys working for me at Pierce Point. Keeping order and all,” Rich said with a wink. He wanted to imply to Winters that Rich ran a gang just like Winters did, but on a smaller scale.
“Marines?” Winters asked. He was still leaning back in his chair. He didn’t want to lean forward and signal that he was concerned.
“Yes, sir,” Rich replied. “Some were living out in Pierce Point with an old buddy of theirs. Good kids.” Rich looked right at Winters and smiled, “They know how to follow orders,” he said with another wink.
Whew, Winters thought. Pierce Point was taken care of. Rich was the boss out there and had some muscle—enough to keep order there, but not enough to be a threat. One more problem solved.
“Since I like you, Rich, and it’s my job to make the Recovery even more of a success in this county,” Winters said with a big smile, “I’m going to get you more FCards. I’ll make sure that tomorrow’s ‘grocery run’ as you call it, gets to the front of the line at Martin’s. What kind of transportation do you have for the ‘grocery runs’?”
“A pickup,” Rich said.
“Want a school bus?” Winters asked. “A little one. It holds about six people with room to bring back groceries.”
“That would be great, sir” Rich said, wondering what the catch was. “What do we owe you?” he asked, to find out what the catch was.
“Nothing. It’s a Recovery grant,” Winters said. He paused. “But I would ask you to buy fuel in town here. I have given an allotment of fuel to my Mexican friends who will accept FCards as payment.”
“Thank you, sir,” Rich said. So that was the catch.
What a douche he is, Rich thought. Giving Rich more FCards and a bus, just so they had to use the extra FCards to buy fuel for it. And Winters got to tell Olympia that he was making a “Recovery grant” and aiding rural residents with transportation to a feeding station. This was a trifecta for Winters: get bureaucratic credit for Recovery efforts, get more business for his gang gas station, and make Pierce Point dependent on him.
That was true, all except for that last part about dependence. What Winters didn’t know was how self-reliant they were out at Pierce Point. Not totally self-sufficient by any means, especially not when winter would come, but they were far better off than most places.
“I’d like your people to know that they can thank me for the bus and the extra FCards,” Winters said. “Could you do that for me, Rich?”
“Absolutely, sir,” Rich said. “With pleasure,” he said as he smiled.
Winters abruptly got out of his chair. The meeting was over. He had other things to do.
“Thanks for coming by this morning,” Winters said as he stood up. “Bennington will make sure all the arrangements are made. I have a meeting in a few minutes.”
“Thanks again, sir,” Rich said with a big smile. “Consider Pierce Point to be loyal and one hundred percent committed to the Recovery.” What a charade.
Winters just nodded.
Rich and Bennington got up and left.
Waiting in the lobby was an FCorps guy with one of those stupid helmets. The receptionist said something on the phone as Rich and Bennington walked out. Winters came out into the lobby. Winters looked at the FCorps guy, pointed to Rich, and said, “This is the Pierce Point guy. Everything’s fine. You can talk to him if you want.”
The helmet-head nodded. He wouldn’t take a county commissioner’s word for the fact that Pierce Point was loyal. There were terrorists everywhere. Maybe the teabaggers had infiltrated this county. Winters went back into his office. The receptionist told Rich, Bennington, and the FCorps guy they could go into the main conference room. That was where all the big meetings happened, like the weekly “community leader” meeting, which was the meeting with all the cops and the gang leaders.
They went into the conference room down the hall. Rich was sizing up the FCorps guy. He seemed semiprofessional. He was in his late fifties or early sixties; retirement age. He had a pistol that looked like a police-issued Glock. He didn’t seem like the fat cubicle-dwellers who usually were in those FCorps helmets. Rich got the sense that this FCorps guy was based in Olympia and worked at a higher level than most. He might even be a former cop.
“What’s with this?” demanded the FCorps guy, as he put a copy of the fax in front of Rich.
“I talked to Commissioner Winters about that,” Rich said. He repeated the story about the guy who did the newspaper on his little copy machine picking that name, and that Rich now realized the name of the paper was inappropriate. Rich said he would get the name of the paper changed.
“Fax each new edition to me,” the FCorps guy said as he wrote out a fax number for Rich. He scribbled the fax number in distinctive cop handwriting, just like Rich’s. This guy was definitely a cop, Rich thought.
“No problem,” Rich said. He sensed there was something bigger at hand.
There was. “You know about any POIs out at Pierce Point?” the FCorps guy asked, referring to persons of interest.
“Nope,” Rich said, in a home style cop-to-cop fashion. “Why? Are there any I need to go get?”
The FCorps guy wasn’t stupid enough to tell Rich what they knew—or didn’t know—about any POIs out there. They had reports that one of the Washington Association of Business guys had a cabin out there, but he had hundreds of leads to run down and never had the time to work up a case on just one. If he had the time to concentrate on one at a time, he could bring one in. One at a time, like he had done for the State Patrol’s fugitive task force when he worked for them. But this was a bunch of scattered leads. He was told to go out from Olympia and make the people out in the rural areas feel like Olympia had a handle on the POIs. Scare ‘em. That was about all he could do.
“I can’t really give all the details we have on this WAB POI,” the FCorps guy said. “You understand, Deputy Gentry.” He threw in Rich’s name to make him think that the FCorps knew everything about everybody. They kind of did, but they just didn’t have the ability to go out and do anything about it.
“I have the POI list printed out from when the internet was working,” Rich said, “and we keep track of who is living out at Pierce Point. I haven’t found any POIs in my jurisdiction.”
Rich decided to give the FCorps more reassurance that he was running a tight Loyalist ship out at Pierce Point. “Since I’m in charge out there, and I’m former law enforcement—once a cop, always a cop,” he said with a wink, “I’m always trying to catch those bastards. I don’t need troublemakers in my little community.”
The FCorps guy just nodded. He wasn’t really listening. In a few minutes, he had to go up the road a few towns to the north and do the same, “we have lots of details, but can’t say” speech to a police chief up there who was suspected of being a para.
“I call the local authorities if I think I have one, right?” Rich asked the FCorps guy. “I mean, I will detain them, but I bet you want to question a POI. Aggressive ‘questioning,’ I’m guessing. So keep them alive, right?”
The FCorps guy nodded. He cared a lot more about the possible para police chief than he did about some stupid political POI or some stupid little newspaper name. Paras got people killed—people like FCorps guys. Newspapers just did stupid political games. Whatever.
Bennington didn’t want to be left out of the conversation. He had sat through the whole Winters meeting silently. He was, after all, a police official, so all this talk about the local authorities apprehending POIs was his business.
“We have a great working relationship with Deputy Gentry,” Bennington said. “We’ll catch any POI out there.” Bennington had absolutely no desire to lif
t a finger to catch anyone out there. He had enough problems in town and didn’t need any more.
Bennington’s “we’ll catch them” speech was just another bureaucratic lie. He had to tell them all day long. Bennington just mouthed these things so often that he usually didn’t even realize he was saying them. Everyone lied, all the time. It was just how it was.
The FCorps guy had heard enough. “We’ll catch ‘em’ blah, blah, blah.” He knew that most local cops still in uniform were more concerned about getting a cut of what the gangs were doing than about apprehending POIs. Bennington was not the person who concerned the FCorps guy. It was Deputy Gentry. A former cop, which usually meant a guy who resigned in disgust because he wasn’t down with the program, who ran a small rural community. Classic profile for a guerrilla leader.
Oh well. The FCorps guy could check off this meeting on his daily list of appointments. Off to the next town.
“Report any suspicious activity to the proper authorities,” the FCorps guy said like a robot. From memory. He waved to them and walked out of the conference room. The meeting was over.
“Let’s get you back,” Bennington said.
Rich nodded. He was surprisingly tired. The adrenaline from all the lying and terror had left him pooped.
Bennington stopped by the office of the person who doled out school buses. He explained the school bus thing and made arrangements for a Pierce Point representative to come to town tomorrow and pick up the bus.
Bennington didn’t say much on the way back to Pierce Point. He was scanning the area for threats as they drove. They breezed through the Blue Ribbon Boys checkpoint. Rich noticed that it looked like a new shift had taken over. He looked at his watch to be able to report the time of the new shift. Good to know.
On the way back in near silence, he was thinking about who had faxed that newspaper article and caused all this trouble. Snelling. It had to be him, or his asshole sidekick Dick Abbott. Probably Snelling. Snelling had been so furious over the hangings. Rich needed to drop by Snelling’s cabin and see if he had a fax machine.