by Judy Candis
“And where is this meeting place?” she hissed. Then, pointing to the shaking hand holding the cigarette to his lips, she added, “Those things will kill you.”
Jasper glanced at the cigarette. His eyes filled with a deep sadness. “There are worse ways to go,” he said, almost to himself.
Jael felt a wave of remorse pour from him. He was caught up in something he obviously did not believe in, but he also knew that if he said too much it could all fall back on him.
“You know where Hanley Road is? Fifteen miles outside of Dadesville?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“If you take Hanley to Wheeler Road, you follow Wheeler about a mile east and watch for a dirt road that veers off to the left. Back about another mile, you’ll find an old weathered whitewashed barn. I believe you’ll find all your answers there.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth about the barn?” Jael demanded, ignoring his remorseful attitude.
Jasper stood up and moved to the bookcase Jael had just left. He pulled out one of the books, flipped open its pages and took out a folded sheet of paper. He handed it to her. It was a hand-drawn map, with the same directions he had just given them. Above it was a large rebel battle flag and the words WHITE POWER.
Grant stood. “Okay, Jael, let’s go.”
She turned to him. “Let’s go?” Then back to Jasper. “Why can’t you just tell us what’s going on?”
“He’s done more than is safe for him to do. Let’s go. We’ve got what we need from here.” Grant placed his hand on her elbow and gently directed her toward the kitchen.
“Just wait a minute,” Jael said, wrenching her arm free of Grant and turning to glare at him. “He hands us a map that could be anything and you tell me he’s done more than he’s supposed to do?” Once again she turned to Jasper. “Look, if you need protection, we can provide—”
“Let’s go, Jael, trust me,” Grant interrupted. “Jasper, here’s your driver’s license. Stay put and stay out of sight. Don’t talk to anyone you don’t have to.” Then Grant moved toward Jael and, with more force this time, took her arm and led her through the kitchen.
Jael was not ready to relent so easily. “Hold on, we need his license. I still need to run a check—”
“I have it all in here,” Grant said, tapping his temple. “And if we don’t get away from here, we could be jeopardizing this young man’s life.”
Jael looked over her shoulder at the man standing there watching them with his hands hanging at his sides. His eyes bore a deep sorrow and regret.
Chapter
19
Since Jael was unable to locate the Captain to clear this latest trip, Grant immediately made another call to his headquarters for further instructions. Once the call was made, he slid behind the wheel as Jael gave the directions to Wheeler Road.
En route, she silently listened as he told an almost unbelievable story.
“Have you ever heard of a book called The Turner Diaries?”
“I saw a copy on Jasper’s bookshelf, among several other horrifying titles. He has an ugly list of reading material.”
“Well, The Turner Diaries is the best-seller of ugly material. Today you can easily get a copy on the Net for little or nothing. Unless you have a strong stomach, I’d advise you to let someone give you the condensed version.”
“Over the years, I’ve had to stomach my share of racial pamphlets and other material.”
“Unfortunately, that book is the catalyst behind the killings in your town.”
Jael looked at Grant, astonished, then glanced out the window and sighed. “Why do I suddenly have an overpowering feeling of dread?”
“Because you know within yourself you’re about to look into the face of pure evil. Hatred at its highest level.”
Jael turned back to look at her new partner. “You mean you’ve believed all along that white supremacy groups are behind the killings?”
“It was only recently that Ben Smith was charged with bombing Jewish synagogues and abortion clinics and that Richard Butler, head of the National Aryan Nations, proclaimed another follower of his as a true American hero for attacks on biracial couples.
“Like I’ve said, we’ve been waiting for something to happen in our Southern states for the past three years. Information we picked up on a white supremacist Web site suggested that a pattern of violence could erupt anywhere, but they were too smart to actually announce when and where. Through wiretapping and inside informants, we knew it wouldn’t be long before they struck. Black dealers and addicts were at the top of their list.
“I came onto the task force about this time,” he continued. “My first case was a low-life vigilante who attempted a shooting in Durham. We were able to squash that one before more than two people died. After September eleven, everything else kind of took a backseat. Unfortunately, these people used this to accelerate their own twisted plans. Because of my profiling expertise, I was sent here to confirm whether these murders where related to such organizations. Once we reach this barn, I’ll know a lot more. Turn here?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah.” Jael’s mind was running a mile a minute. She was no innocent, and well schooled in hate crime cases, but to actually confront murders being committed in her town by white supremacists was more than she would have ever imagined.
She suddenly remembered the incident involving James Byrd, the black man dragged to death down a Texas road by three young white supremacists. She whispered, “My Lord.”
Grant cast her a side glance, nodding his head in agreement. “That’s the sad part, because in many ways they’re similar to the Taliban. They both believe God is on their side and needs them to purify the land. However, the Taliban are much more extreme, in believing their suicide bombings will be rewarded in heaven.
“In our states, one of the more powerful white supremacist Web sites is called the Christian Identity Group. The hate they spew is sickening. The enormous number of young people following these groups is overwhelming and scary. And they’re getting smarter all the time, to the point that many no longer expose themselves as skinheads. They look like your average boy or girl next door. They’re encouraged not to work in gangs and bring attention to themselves but to operate as lone hit men of sorts. These individuals are called Lone Wolves, and they’re held in high esteem by these groups and considered American heroes.”
“Why aren’t more people aware of all this?”
“Haven’t you heard? The devil’s best weapon is to make people think he doesn’t exist. He works better that way, and if he can get people to think they’re serving the cause of the Almighty, even better.”
“How can anyone today believe killing is the will of God?” Jael twisted her lips. “Scratch that—Osama bin Laden wipes that theory right out.” She waved her hand in a gesture of discouragement.
“You’re catching on. Madmen will always be behind such actions. As for our guys, they still use the Bible to justify their actions. They believe Jesus cannot return until the earth is cleared of all its vermin. Their list is long.”
“Satan is the father of lies.” The disgust was apparent in the tone of her voice. “What is this, something like forty years after Dr. Martin Luther King and the civil rights movement and we’re still in the dark ages when it comes to racial tolerance? These men in positions of power, like former majority leader Trent Lott, remind us every now and then how real and deep these beliefs go. So many of the cases you hear on the news today seem like isolated incidents. You’d never think it’s a well-oiled machine, working in the background.”
“That’s the way they like it. They’re not burning fiery crosses on front lawns anymore, but they’re still a very strong secret society. This very minute, they’re preparing all over the country for a racial war, which to them is the real Holy War. They start teaching their children to hate very early, many before they can even read and write. We have videos of kids barely in their preteens learning how to use guns and practicing militar
y maneuvers at the militia camp sites.”
“Why don’t you simply break up these sites when you locate them?”
“We do, but these guys are smart, and though they profess to hate government control, they hide behind the Constitution, which allows them to assemble. Don’t forget the Waco fiasco.”
“That was a religious organization, not a KKK facility.” “The same laws apply. We have to be careful and accurate about what we attempt to prove. These people often use the very laws they despise against us in court, but we’re working to correct that. For instance, in Ohio they now provide enhanced sentencing to those convicted of ‘ethnic intimidation.’ But first, concrete proof has to be established to show the assault was committed for reason of racial bias.”
“You know, this sounds like that old saying, ‘Not in my neighborhood.’ I’m not naïve, but I feel like I’ve been hit with a Mac truck or something.”
“Completely understandable. We all . . . well, most of us anyway, want to believe everyone is good by nature. But that’s certainly not the case, never has been, and until people accept the fact that the barrel has a lot of rotten apples in it, they will continue to hide their heads in the sand and hope for the best. Even 9/11 hasn’t changed that.”
They both fell silent as a few miles ahead, the shape of the old weathered barn began to rise over the horizon. The magnitude of the world they were about to enter pulled her stomach into a tight knot of despair. Jael could not help but think of how ironic life could be. With all the beauty and grace found in living in harmony as God intended, there were still people whose beliefs told them hatred and destruction were the true keys to eternal life.
“Do you think this could be a setup? I mean two black folks headed out to a barn, in the middle of nowhere. Should I call for backup?”
“We’ll know in a few minutes.”
“Where’re your dark shades?” she asked, attempting to lighten the mood. Grim-faced, Grant pulled them from his vest pocket and slipped them over his eyes. The stern pull at the corner of his lips indicated that his easygoing manner of a few hours ago had disappeared with the upcoming chase. His change in demeanor made Jael feel even more uncomfortable than she already did.
Chapter
20
The dirt road was bumpy and uneven, forcing Jael to hold on to the car door handle to keep from bouncing around in her seat. Overhead the sky was a magnificent aquamarine, filled with layers of pregnant white clouds. A typical Florida sky. The landscape around them was serene and unthreatening, the sound of traffic having long ago faded away. Ahead, at the end of the road, the huge whitewashed barn, leaning slightly to the left, seemed out of place and ominous. Another wave of apprehension washed over her. She prayed.
A lone white pickup with a huge rebel flag in the rear window was parked just at the front of the metal double doors. So far, there was no evidence of any hidden group of men waiting in ambush. Grant quickly parked and jumped out, walking straight to the truck. His tall frame moved with authority. Jael followed. At the truck, he placed an open palm on the hood and slowly stepped away from it while reaching under the back of his jacket for a holstered Glock. He nodded at Jael to move to the opposite side of the barn door. This time, she had no trouble following his lead. She had the distinct feeling that Grant had a much better idea of what they were about to face than she did.
With that thought in mind, Jael withdrew her own weapon and stood just on the other side of the door, which was partly ajar. Grant held his gun in the standard precautionary upright pose and stealthily moved forward into the opening. Jael followed close behind.
Once inside, the only light filtering into the vast open area came from the six partially opened windows about twelve feet above the floor on either side. Jael glanced around her as the shafts of light descended on row after row of tables and chairs, boxes and haphazard decor. She took in a deep breath and realized that if hate had a smell, it was here in this cold, moldy, metal and wood building.
From wall to wall, rebel flags hung from poles evenly placed near the ceiling. Against the back wall was a huge Nazi swastika, with framed photos of white men on either side of it. Jael couldn’t help but view the Nazi symbol as a warped version of the Cross. Beside it was a blowup of the collapsing Twin Towers, with the words “WHY SURPRISED???” underneath.
Various news clippings of the recent Dadesville killings had been enlarged and lay on a table near the front. Jael’s stomach turned as she read some of the vile curse words written across them in heavy black markers. Here again, the name “Red Dog” blazed across the bottom of one of the posters.
At least fifty metal chairs lined the dirt-covered floor. The tables encircling the entire seating area were packed with an arsenal of weapons of death. Under closer inspection Jael identified several varieties of high-point semiautomatics, sawed-off rifles, double-barrel shotguns, grenades, knuckle knives and numerous cases of explosives. The Dadesville Police Department weapons room would have had a hard time competing with this supply.
Tightening the grip on her gun, Jael moved along the left side of the barn, taking in horror after horror. Though steel ceiling fans whirled overhead, Jael felt trickles of sweat slide down the inside of her clothing.
As she slowly made her way down the left side of the building, Jael glanced over at Grant, who had stopped to call in for backup while checking something on one of the tables. It looked like he was picking up one of the hand grenades when her peripheral vision caught a glint of metal milliseconds before her body exploded in shattering pain and she dropped to the ground.
As she hit the dirt floor, pain raced from the base of her head down her neck in fiery waves. For several seconds she fought to catch her breath as her clouded vision gradually cleared. Operating purely on instinct, Jael pulled the trigger on her gun to warn Grant. The roar of the dispelled bullet echoed in her head as she rolled toward the wall and managed to half-sit in time to see Grant’s swift response as he raised his weapon in her direction and also fired. Wood splintered inches from her as she turned and caught sight of her attacker.
She expected horns and a tail, but saw only a man dressed in a red shirt and blue jeans. Shielding himself from Grant’s view behind a massive beam, the man reached out to the nearest table and grabbed a twelve-gauge semiautomatic shotgun with buckshot that could take a man’s face off. Jael heard the slide on the shotgun before he raised it and took aim at Grant.
The explosion of the gun reverberated around the walls, and while he was still ejecting the spent shell, Jael saw the man swing his arm and point the gun in her direction. She pushed herself farther toward the wall, but she couldn’t get a clear shot.
Not so for her attacker. He fired twice.
Jael’s body slammed against the wall as her mind crashed in on itself from the immediate and excruciating pain. Seconds from impending death, she cried out one word: JESUS!
Chapter
21
Without waiting to survey his damage, her assailant did a zigzag dash for the archway, tossing metal chairs behind him as Grant sprinted with feral speed after him. Through a graying haze of agony, Jael heard Grant shout her name. If she could hear him, she was still alive, she thought, and that meant she still had work to do. She felt a warm wetness slide down her arm and a fire of pain centered just at her shoulder. Jael forced her mind to focus—Grant needed her help.
“Grant, stop him,” she whispered, thinking she had shouted the words, and looked up just in time to see Grant fly out the entrance and tackle the man. The villain emitted a loud “whoof” as the air was knocked out of him and he struck the earth face-first.
Jael pulled herself up from her slumped position, bracing her mind against the pain screaming through her arm with each move. Spitting dirt from her mouth, she pressed herself against the wall, using it as a brace to push herself to her feet. Waves of dizziness threatened to force her back to the ground, but Jael gritted her teeth. A quick scrutiny of her injury verified that the bullet had
caused only a deep flesh wound.
“Thank you, Jesus, for your protection and saving me from death. Now bless me with the strength to do my job.” Holding her left arm close to her body, Jael pushed herself away from the wall and stumbled toward the barn entrance.
Holding her gun in her right hand, she made it to the open doorway to see the two men struggling on the ground. Jael raised her weapon and aimed it toward them in case she suddenly needed to fire. But Grant was no slouch in hand-to-hand combat and was on top of the guy, walloping him with several tightfisted blows around the head and chest.
Grant swung a final fist, hitting the man with a right hook on the temple. As he rose over the slumped figure on the ground, Grant pulled a small-caliber snubby from his waistband. To Jael, it looked like a European handgun. Her admiration rose several notches.
“Get up!” Grant’s bark was cold and strained with control.
Rubbing his head, the man lifted slightly, then dropped his weight on his right elbow. “You motha—”
“Shut your face and get on your feet,” Grant said softly, his tone deadly.
The man uttered another oath, but this time he pulled himself to his feet while dropping the gun from his meaty palm. Grant met the other man’s gaze evenly, keeping his aim at the man’s heart as he rose from the ground.
Their captive’s round, white face was livid with rage. Jael noticed the veins popping out on his forehead, his pupils round points of focused hatred. His lips were drawn in a tight expression, nothing remotely human evident in all that animal ferocity.
Now that Grant had control of the situation, Jael allowed herself to fall back against the wall of the barn. Her arm was throbbing as if someone were playing a tune with daggers in her flesh. Her heart was hammering away in a like beat, but otherwise her strength was slowly coming back. Looking over at the men, she thought that they might finally have their murderer. Dressed as he was in loose-fitting jeans, a blazing red V-neck shirt and tattoos on every exposed portion of his thick arms, he was the epitome of a demon from hell. How had he snuck up on streetwise dealers? Or did the dealers simply think a sale was a sale—even to an out-of-place white man? Ballistics would confirm her suspicions—plus the bullet that had grazed her arm.