by Bill Myers
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But Conrad and Suzanne’s friendship was based on more than being peacekeepers. The truth is, they’d never really stopped liking each other, even during the fights, even during the tears, even during divorce. Then, of course, there was the other bond they shared: Julia. The fact that she’d not spoken to her father in nearly five years meant there was plenty Suzanne could tell him about his daughter. How she was doing with her new job in Atlanta, how she was adjusting to the separation from Ken, and finally little Cody, the grandson he had never seen. The list was endless, though bittersweet in that he had to learn it all secondhand.
There was, however, one more factor in their friendship, at least for Conrad. And it was stronger than all the others combined. He had fallen for her. Again. And no amount of rationalization or common sense could change that. He’d tried. He’d taken the long solitary walks, he’d gone the sleepless nights, he’d beaten himself up every way he could think of. He’d even tried praying. But nothing worked. He could not get her out of his head . . . or his heart.
It was love. But a different type of love. A love he’d never experienced before. It wasn’t the sexually charged, worship-me-the-conqueror-of-the-world love of his twenties and thirties. Nor was it the old-shoe-comfortable love of his forties.
No, this was different. This had nothing to do with sex, or conquering, or habit. Instead, it had everything to do with giving—with simply wanting to make her happy, with wanting to protect her, and to help her smile that smile of hers . . . at any cost.
Even if that cost meant keeping those feelings to himself.
Even if it meant simply being a friend when she needed one.
That was the most painful of all. That’s what brought the warmth to his chest whenever they were together, and the empty yearning whenever they were apart. But she must never know. He’d taken every precaution to make sure she wouldn’t. He’d even gone out of his way to pretend to ignore her, to be irritated with her, to flirt with other women. No, she hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 127
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would never know. But he wasn’t so certain of Eli. On more than one occasion Eli had caught him staring after her, and at least once he had flashed Conrad that knowing smile of his.
Well, if Eli knew, there was nothing Conrad could do about it.
But it would stay their secret. Conrad would make sure of that much. Suzanne deserved that much.
“What’s wrong?” Suzanne repeated.
He shrugged and continued staring at the computer.
“You’re still worried about this meeting?” she asked.
Again he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know why he won’t listen.”
“Maybe he’s right.”
Conrad shook his head. “Not with this guy.” He pointed at the screen. “He’s a walking booby trap, a political land mine. For crying out loud, the U.S. government has warrants out on him!”
She said nothing.
“He’s a racist, Suzanne. A hate monger. There isn’t a thinking soul in this country who doesn’t despise him or at least think he’s psycho. Neil Ralston is the role model for every paramilitary, neo-Nazi survivalist in North America.”
“He’s also the father of a very sick little girl.”
Conrad sighed in exasperation and sat back in his seat. He looked across the rattling RV to sleeping Will Patton, the tattooed follower through whom Ralston had made the request two days earlier. A request that had forced Conrad to cancel and rework much of their itinerary. A request that, if fulfilled, would bring them directly to the headquarters of Liberty America, the largest and most outspoken separatist cult in the United States. Located just forty miles east of Ashland and nestled within a 340-acre valley, the Liberty Compound of America had once been a prosperous horse ranch. Now it had become a mecca for every white-power fanatic and separatist in the country.
“I just don’t know what he’s thinking,” Conrad said, sadly shaking his head.
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“Maybe you don’t have to,” Suzanne offered.
He tried hiding his irritation. “Do you have any inkling how this is going to look to the rest of the nation?”
“That one person with no respect for creed or philosophy has come to help another.”
Conrad shook his head. “No, that’s just it. By going there he’ll be endorsing those philosophies. Ralston is hated by every rational individual in our country. And by appearing to be his friend, Eli will also be hated. It’s as simple as that.
And once that happens, no amount of spinning or damage control on my part will help. He’s already alienated a sizable portion of the religious establishment. Is his next step to antagonize the rest of the country?”
“Connie . . .” It was Suzanne’s turn to let out a heavy sigh.
“What?”
“Maybe—I don’t know.”
“What? Tell me.”
“Maybe you’re trying too hard.”
“Meaning?”
“Maybe you should just let go. Maybe, instead of all this spinning and damage control . . . maybe you should just let him be who he is.”
“But they’ll kill him. They’ll eat him alive.”
Suzanne looked at him a long moment. And then, ever so slowly, she began to nod. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe they will.”
v
“Daddy!” Five-year-old Julia cried, “Daddy, I’m scared.”
She reached out to the wall, groping her way through the darkness. She could smell the magnolias again. Out in the yard. Up ahead in the shadows loomed the immense walnut door to her father’s study.
“Daddy . . .”
There were the muffled voices. Then the laughter. She continued forward, running her hand along the cold, paneled wall.
“Please . . .”
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She could barely see the door through the darkness, much less through her tears.
There was more laughter. Louder.
Her heart pounded. Her chest heaved in frightened sobs but she would not let them escape. A moment later she was standing in front of the door, feeling its presence more than seeing it. She took her hand from the paneled wall and with trembling fingers reached toward the brass knob. It felt cold, like ice. She began turning it until there was a loud click. It had unlatched.
“Daddy . . .” Her voice was a breathless whisper.
There was no answer.
Cautiously, she pushed the heavy door, afraid of what she would see, knowing from past dreams what waited inside.
The end of a towering bookshelf came into view. A dim light caught the reds, the browns, the blacks of a thousand books. “Keys to life’s mysteries,” he had told her. “The ones who read are the ones who hold the knowledge.”
And they did read. Almost every night. Right here. He, in his big leather chair, she on the floor beside him or up on his lap. This was their room. Their sanctuary. She loved it more than any place on earth.
On the floor a stack of magazines came into view. Then another. Then a pile of newspapers. They had been there in one form or another for as long as she could remember.
The door continued to open. Now the window came into view, its dusty oak shutters closed. On the shelf below sat his trophies, sparkling dully in the incandescent light. He always won trophies. She was proud of his trophies. And she often played with them on the floor, using them as dollies, having them talk to one another.
The laughter was louder. The words discernible.
The edge of the desk came into view. More stacks of papers, piles of books. Then his typewriter, whose rhythmic clicking would echo down the hall, lulling her to sleep at night.
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“Daddy . . .”
And finally, just past the desk was—
Julia forced herself awake
. Her heart was racing and she was breathing hard as she glanced around the ICU, trying to get her bearings. Why she was still there, this late in the afternoon, was beyond her. She had an important decision to make. A decision that should be made only after she’d gotten some much-needed rest and could think more clearly. Maybe she was staying there out of some misguided duty or obligation. Maybe it was in hopes that she’d hear him speak again.
She didn’t know. All she knew was that she didn’t want to be there, not for one second. And yet she remained.
So, for whatever reason, Julia continued to sit in the tiny ICU cubicle, staring at her father’s near lifeless form. And there she would continue to wait.
v
“Hi, Bill.” Eli grinned as he reached out to shake the man’s hand. “I’m Eli Shepherd.”
For a moment Bill Johnson hesitated. He stroked his large handlebar mustache, staring at the outstretched hand. He wore black army boots, olive-green khakis, and had a Win-chester 30–30 complete with scope slung over his shoulder.
Eli continued to grin and continued to hold out his hand until the man reluctantly reached out and shook it. His two escorts were dressed similarly and armed with Colt .45 automatic handguns in their hip holsters. Both looked the other way, pretending to eye the press who were stationed just outside the compound’s gate some fifty yards beyond.
“You’re not really thrilled that I’m here, are you?” Eli asked.
“This is Ralston’s show, not mine,” Johnson replied. “I’ve been against it from the start.”
“Because?”
“You’re a Jew, ain’t you?”
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“Yes, I am, Bill. Born and raised. And these are my friends.” Eli turned to the three companions he’d asked to accompany him. The three who had walked from the RV, past the mob of reporters, and through the gates of the compound to meet at Bill Johnson’s Jeep.
“This is Leon Brewster,” Eli said. “He used to be a porn producer, now he’s part of the team.” Although neither Leon nor Johnson bothered to remove their sunglasses, the icy glare between them was impossible to miss. Eli turned to his left, motioning to his second companion. “And this is Trevor Walters; he used to sell his body on Hollywood Boulevard.” Johnson noticeably stiffened, and it was a stroke of wisdom that Trevor didn’t bother extending his hand. “And finally—” Eli reached over and rested a palm on Conrad’s shoulder. “Conrad Davis—maybe you’ve seen his work on TV. He’s a member of the liberal media.”
If Johnson’s look had been icy before, it was downright murderous now. Conrad cut a glance around the property.
Unlike the flat grasslands further west, this 340-acre ranch was nestled among hills, bluffs, and a small canyon cut by Elk Creek. There were also plenty of pine trees. Trees any number of paranoid militiamen could be hiding behind, taking aim, waiting for a signal to fire. Conrad was certain he’d been equally frightened sometime during his life, although, at the moment, he was hard pressed to remember when. Con-sequently, he responded the way the reporter in him always responded when afraid: by putting his opponent on the defense with questions. “Where’s Ralston?” he asked.
Johnson looked at him, then glanced down, mumbling something. It was so quiet that it was doubtful even the media, with their rifle mikes and parabolic reflectors, could pick it up.
“I’m sorry,” Eli asked, “what was that?”
Johnson looked up, holding Eli’s gaze. “He didn’t want to embarrass you by coming out. Said it would be a media circus and that you were already jeopardizing your reputation by doing this much.”
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Conrad glanced over his shoulder at the cameras and reporters recording every second, most in telephoto close-up.
Ralston might be a gun-toting fanatic, but he had more media sense than Eli.
Leon, who Conrad suspected had more bravado than brains, confirmed that suspicion by asking, “So you’re telling me we come all the way out here and your boss, he isn’t even going to meet us?”
Refusing to look at Leon, Johnson spoke to Eli. “He said it would be best for you, if he didn’t come out and if you didn’t come in.”
Eli nodded, then asked, “What does he want me to do for him, Bill?”
“He said”—Johnson cleared his throat—“and these are his words not mine. He said if you’d just give the order, his daughter would be healed.”
Eli looked on, saying nothing.
Johnson shifted uneasily, then continued. “He said he understands authority. When he gives a command, he knows it will be obeyed. He says it’s the same with you. That all you have to do is give the order, and it’ll be done.”
Conrad was both surprised and relieved. Maybe this public relations nightmare would end before it went any further.
Maybe they wouldn’t even meet Neil Ralston. If Eli could simply heal long distance, and Conrad suspected he could, then maybe there was a way to seal this rupture of immense political incorrectness before they drowned in negative opinion.
At least that’s what he hoped . . . until he looked over and saw Eli. Once again he was smiling. Only it wasn’t Eli’s usual smile of enjoying another’s company. This was a smile of amazement. And wonder. Without another word, he turned to the crowd of reporters behind him and called out, “This is incredible!” He raised his hand and pointed down the dirt road toward the canyon where Ralston’s headquarters were hidden. “I tell you this—in all of America, I have not run into a man of such great faith!”
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Cameras clicked. Videotapes whirred. And Conrad lowered his head in despair. Any hope of repairing the blunder had instantly vanished. If there had been any way for Eli to make the situation worse, he had just found it. The image of him pointing down the road, proclaiming Ralston’s great faith—well, there wasn’t a newspaper in the country that could resist printing it, not a television news show that wouldn’t broadcast the sound bite. How long had it taken Eli to speak the sentence? Five, six seconds? In those brief seconds, Conrad had known it was over. All of his hard work, all of his weeks of shaping and packaging and positioning had been destroyed. Completely. So quickly and with so little effort.
Further comments were shared, but Conrad barely heard.
Goodbyes were exchanged, and to everyone’s relief, except perhaps Eli’s, the meeting came to an end. The four of them turned and headed back toward the RV as Johnson and his men climbed back up into the Jeep. Of course, the press was already swarming outside the gate, repositioning themselves for the onslaught of questions they would fire at Eli, for the accusations and conclusions they would imply. Conrad scanned the crowd for familiar faces and caught a glimpse of McFarland and his crew from EBN. No surprise there. This would be child’s play for them. The last word to discredit Eli, the final nail in his coffin.
Conrad glanced up the road and spotted the gray Taurus, the one with the government plates. Not only would the press eat them alive, but Eli’s words of praise for Ralston wouldn’t exactly endear them to the U.S. government, either.
Six seconds and it was over. One simple sentence. That was all it took.
They exited through the gate and entered the swarm of reporters. There was nothing Conrad could do to stop them now. The feeding frenzy had begun:
“Eli, how long have you been a racist and does that—”
“Are you going to use your gifts to defend Ralston should federal troops decide to—”
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“Are you renouncing your Jewish heritage and—”
Conrad glanced to Jake’s RV. It was only ten feet away. But ten feet with this crowd was as good as a mile.
“How long have you and Ralston been—”
“Does this confirm your hatred of the American govern—”
And yet Eli seemed virtually unfazed, even sto
pping to ask one reporter about his ailing wife. Then suddenly, over the noise and commotion, Johnson’s voice cut through. “Eli
. . . Eli!”
The crowd quieted, and Eli turned.
Johnson stood in the Jeep holding out his cell phone. “It’s Ralston!”
The reporters grew silent. Now there was only the sound of wind through the grass and trees.
“He says his daughter is well. Says she’s up and walking around, as good as—” He cupped his hands and shouted to make certain he was heard. “He says she’s as good as new!”
Eli smiled. And during the momentary surprise of the crowd, he turned and disappeared into the RV.
v
“All I’m saying is that it’s time to start fighting fire with fire.”
“Connie, I can appreciate your frustration, but—”
“No! You cannot appreciate it. You cannot appreciate it, because you don’t understand it! You don’t know a thing about how corporations are run in this world.”
The dozen men standing inside Eli’s cramped room at the Holiday Inn grew very quiet. To Conrad’s recollection this was the first time anybody in the group had openly challenged Eli. But it was time. Yes, his message was revolutionary, his truths penetrating, but for his own good, for the good of the group, it was time to make him see.
Suzanne was out in Jake’s RV tidying it up. Although she and Maggie traveled and slept in their own vehicle, she also spent several hours a week in the RV. And after four weeks on the road enduring the men’s version of cleanliness, she hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 135
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had said that it was time to reintroduce to them the concept of health and hygiene. Other members outside the inner circle were doing the same with their own cars, RVs, and campers. Some had rented rooms, hoping for a couple good nights of rest before heading back out on the road. For most, it was a welcome time of rest and relaxation. For Conrad it was time to refocus, to evaluate, and to insist that Eli make some serious midcourse corrections.