“I heard.”
“They took the survivors to King-Drew Medical Center. You want to go by and interview them?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“When you’re done, come by and fill me in.”
When Paul reached South Central and the prison hospital, he faced stares and glares. This was a place not used to visits from government agents.
Paul interrogated three wounded survivors, but because they seemed so disoriented, he chose not to reveal himself as a fellow believer. In intensive care he came upon Tyrone Perkins, a young black man whose torso was encased in bandages, monitors tracking his vital signs. He was conscious. And crying.
Flashing his credentials, Paul asked the nurse to give them a moment.
Tyrone said, “You NPO?”
Paul nodded.
“I was your guy inside,” Tyrone said, tears rolling.
“Our guy?”
“Did it for the money, man. Never thought they’d kill ’em . . .”
“What happened, Tyrone? Those people armed?”
“Not a piece.”
“No weapons cache anywhere?”
“No. I’m dying, man, and those dead people are on me. Good people. Killed ’em . . .”
“I didn’t want to see them killed either, Tyrone.” The young man’s chest heaved, and Paul noticed on the monitor that his pulse was dangerously irregular. “I’d better get someone for you.”
“No, man!” he gasped. “I deserve to die.”
“Tyrone, did you know of other groups?”
“Can’t tell . . . not now.” His breathing was raspy.
Paul touched his bandaged hand. “If I convinced you I was one of them, could you tell me so I could warn them?”
“What?”
“You want to make up for what happened? Tell me who I can warn.”
“Can’t trust . . .”
“You can trust me, Tyrone. I know the code phrase.”
“Didn’t tell nobody the phrase . . .”
“You didn’t need to tell me. I know it.”
“Say it.”
“‘My purpose is to give life . . .’”
Tyrone’s eyes looked huge. “‘. . . in all its fullness,’” he whispered. Paul had to bend close to hear him. “The port . . . Fishers of Men . . .”
“Thank you,” Paul whispered. “Bless you.”
Tyrone’s machines started beeping and staff came running.
Paul drove back downtown—passing a colossal army caravan heading the other way—and up into the Hollywood Hills, where he saw the famous sign again. It now read “Hurray for Hollywood.” Drivers honked and waved as they passed.
The sight filled him with sorrow and rage. He felt sickened by what he’d witnessed that afternoon. Was I ever that bad? He feared he had been. It had been a thrill to pull the trigger in San Francisco; he had felt justified executing Christians. He had entrapped Stephen Lloyd, then stood by without lifting a finger as Donny Johnson beat him to death. Even that agent, Jefferson, was offended. “What’s wrong with you, man?” he’d asked. And Paul would have shot the Mexican kid in the head too, had the Klaxon not sounded. I was acting in anger, not from inhumanity. At least I hope I was.
He was sickened by Balaam’s ruthless murder of Specs—and that the sadism of her “interventions” in Washington would get to play out here on a more public stage. Paul prayed he could keep cool enough to make some positive impact on what appeared to be a hopeless situation. And his father-in-law—Ranold was merciless, Paul knew, but how could he endure Ranold’s bloodthirsty glee the whole time he would be stuck with him at Tiny’s? If Paul couldn’t contain his disgust, what suspicions might that arouse? He had already drawn the old man’s ire that afternoon. Maybe Ranold keeps me close by to watch me. Did he get his hands on my father’s letter?
Even so, Paul could never keep quiet about the killings. I’ll have to maintain the courage of my convictions—stay steadfast in my faith—and take my chances.
How could Jae have grown up in the same house with a monster like Ranold? Paul was suddenly desperate to talk to her. There was no answer on her portable phone, so he left a message and dialed his mother-in-law.
“Jae’s not here right now,” she told him.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know exactly, but I’ll tell her you called. She’s gone for a few days.”
“Gone where?”
“She didn’t give me specifics, but she’ll be calling, I’m sure.”
“Let me talk to the kids.”
“It’s three hours later here, Paul. They’re asleep.”
Paul had never felt so alone. It was too late to try to find Fishers of Men down at the port; the markets opened at dawn and closed early. By now it was past dinnertime. Recalling that Harriet Johns had asked him to check in, he swung by the L.A. bureau, certain she’d still be there. Until recently, Paul had viewed her with respect. She had come up through the ranks and had earned the admiration of her agents.
Her bureaucratic-green office was in a corner of the fourth floor, and she welcomed him warmly. “Finally got the full story on the projectionist,” she said. “Venice-on-the-Ocean, kind of a beach bum, apparently, but heavily armed. They tried to bring him in, but he wouldn’t come without a fight. Had to shoot him.”
Some gunshot. How do you slit the throat of a heavily armed man?
“So what’d you learn in South Central?” she asked.
“Not much. I’m surprised you weren’t down there.”
She grimaced. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in South Central in anything but a tank. The raid is going to be reported as a gang war that killed innocent civilians. That’s more than credible for down there. The LAPD is picking up the pieces.”
“I have to tell you, Chief Johns, I’m puzzled. It seemed to me we had squat in this morning’s meeting. But then today we zeroed in on a major target. Am I just out of the loop, or what’s happening here?”
Harriet raised her eyebrows and studied the ceiling. “It’s the Washington involvement—your father-in-law and Chief Balaam and all the resources they bring to the table. The intelligence sector of the army corps alone culled enough information to get close and intimidate the underground into giving up each other. I’ve stopped asking questions, Doctor. Maybe I should be embarrassed, but I have to admit that they’ve accomplished more in the last few hours than we have in the last six months.”
“What’s next? Other targets?”
“I’m not privy to those, Paul. It’s all in Washington’s hands. That’s what happens when you call in the heavy artillery. We’re just foot soldiers now, checking leads.”
“Chief, what happened to the infiltrator in South Central? Everybody involved on the task force has to know who the infiltrators are. We could kill them without knowing it.” Paul dreaded the thought that he might already have been exposed to other infiltrators.
Harriet shrugged. “He was a street person, a druggie. Collateral damage.”
“I’d like to think if we had someone inside—like a real agent—we might not be so quick to do this to these people.”
“You’re missing the point, Paul. We aren’t doing this to these people. They’re doing it to themselves. And as for a real agent infiltrating, what about you?”
Infiltrate? “Me?”
“You could speak their language.”
“Pretty dangerous work.”
“I thought you were once Delta Force. Isn’t danger your middle name?”
Paul forced himself to smile and realized it had been a long time since he had. “Tell you one thing, Harriet: If I ever did, I’d insist on being the most well-known infiltrator in history. I’d want everyone on your staff, not to mention the task force, and even everyone in the army, knowing whose side I was on. Underground Christians in this town have a way of winding up dead.”
“And there’re more to come.”
Don’t count on it.
Paul headed back to the Allendo es
tate. “Just leave it running,” one of the chauffeurs said when Paul pulled up to the front door. The doorman let him in and escorted him downstairs to a game parlor. Tiny Allendo was dealing cards at an expansive green-felted table, and he and Ranold—beautiful young women at their shoulders—were smoking cigars. Paul recognized the other two men at the table as executives from L.A. Idea Co. Some of the women he’d seen earlier at the pool were playing billiards.
“Come on in!” Tiny called out. “We’re celebrating. Not even I expected this much success since the last time we sat together.”
“I don’t play,” Paul said.
Tiny made a show of letting the cards fall from his hands and spray all over the table. “Then we won’t either,” he said. “We’d rather share war stories anyway, wouldn’t we, boys?”
“I would!” Ranold said much too loudly and boozily.“C’mon over here, Paulie. What a day, huh? Huh?”
Paul sat, unable to feign enthusiasm. “It was quite a day.”
“They got the billboard vandal,” Tiny said.
“I know,” Paul said. “Some kind of computer freak?”
“Crackpot hacker—with guns.”
“Was there anything on his computers?”
“Obliterated!” Ranold said. “Smashed to dust. No one will ever recover that sabotage program.”
That was a relief. Paul assumed Specs kept a lot of information about his brothers and sisters buried in there somewhere.
“I heard LAPD is going to investigate the raid,” Paul said. “You know, to allay the fears of the public.”
“They most certainly had better not!” Ranold said. “Where did you hear that? I don’t care what those crazies in South Central think about it, we weren’t going to stand there and be cut down. Now what’s this about LAPD? I’ll get on the phone right now—”
“I’m kidding, Ranold. I’m sure they’re fully satisfied that the site will be replete with the charred remains of weapons arsenals the likes of which none of us has ever seen before.”
“Local doesn’t check up on federal, Paul. You know that. We check up on them. I’d like to investigate why LAPD never recognized the threats we found in a matter of hours.”
“Hear, hear!” Allendo said, lifting a glass.
31
PAUL TUMBLED into one of the most comfortable beds he’d ever enjoyed but found sleep elusive. He was tormented, wondering how he could stop the killing while serving as a member of the task force determined to carry it out. He began to pray for underground believers all over the country, for his wife and children, and even for Angela Pass, whom he knew he had treated shabbily.
God, why am I here? It can’t be to witness the slaughter of my brothers and sisters. Please let me know the purpose You have for me.
Finally he dozed, waking at five-thirty surprisingly refreshed. He told his valet to express his regrets for skipping breakfast due to an early schedule and asked that his car be brought around. Although it was not yet six when he emerged from the house, the gushing hundred-foot tower of water from Allendo’s garish gold fountain sent a light spray teasing over his head and face. Paul felt as if he were being spit upon. It was hard to pinpoint what was most distasteful about Tiny Allendo, amid all his wretched excesses, but the fountain had to be close to the top of his list.
Paul had to admit that being waited on hand and foot and having your car parked and brought to you were nice perks. But it wasn’t real life. Who lived like this? People who didn’t deserve to, he decided.
Checking his GPS screen, Paul made his way to the port. When he arrived at the breakwater that protected the harbor from the sea, he recognized immediately that this would be no easy task. Warehouses and wharves lined a wall that had to be miles long.
As was true nearly every day, the port was hopping. San Pedro Bay was already full of ships from around the world, staging and maneuvering into position to off-load fish and goods. At any other time, Paul would have loved the salty, fishy air. But it seemed he brought trouble to fellow believers, and he hoped he wasn’t cursing this band just by looking them up.
Paul’s nondescript sedan seemed to draw no attention as he worked his way into the bustling area. He parked on a side street and began walking. None of the signs gave him a clue, but he didn’t expect the one in question to blatantly call itself the Fishers of Men. As the sun rose, sweat broke out on his forehead, and his mission seemed futile. Paul guessed he was four miles from his car when a sign stopped him.
He had come to a rusting blue-and-gray metal building that sat on a pier just off the water. The front was unmarked, but a hand-painted sign over the side utility door read “Sapiens Fisheries.” Clever.
He knocked loudly, sending a metallic rattle echoing over the waterfront.
“It’s open!”
The aromas that enticed Paul outside sickened him in an enclosed area. The place stank. The filthy concrete floor led to a steel-and-wood counter that contained scales of various sizes. A forklift stood near a huge sheet of plastic that separated the front from the dock in back, where personnel apparently unloaded cargoes of fish.
The building was dimly lit, and while Paul heard activity in the back, the only soul up front was a thick young man, probably late twenties, in cover-all rain gear and boots. His dirty blond hair, peeking out from under a greasy cap, was wet and matted. He had a reddish beard and almost nonexistent lips.
“Ya don’t look like a fisherman,” the young man said. “And our permits are up-to-date. So what’s yer business?”
“You’re fishers of men, are you?” Paul said.
Red Beard hesitated. “Actually, we’re just laborers, off-loading for a fish broker who serves local merchants—stores and restaurants. Can I help you?”
“Dr. Paul Stepola,” he said, extending a hand. “From Chicago.”
“Barton James,” the young man said, removing wet gloves before shaking. “What can I do for you?”
“‘My purpose is to give life . . . ,’” Paul said.
Barton paled. “‘. . . in all its fullness,’” he said, smiling. “You scared the life out of me. I don’t think I’ve had anybody come to the side door in years. Thought we were busted. Everybody’s on edge now, with what happened yesterday. I lost a friend in South Central.”
“That was a travesty.”
“An abomination. C’mon back. Meet the others.”
Barton pushed his way through the hanging plastic to a storeroom stocked with crates that stank of rotting fish. He smiled at Paul’s grimace. “Discourages visitors.”
On the dock outside about a dozen people, most under thirty, were loading a delivery truck. “They’re almost finished,” Barton said, lifting a plywood sheet that revealed stairs to a hidden area.
He led Paul down a narrow wooden staircase that seemed to end in a boiler room. Behind one of its plank walls lay a large windowless space furnished with sticks of furniture homeless people would have rejected. An old woman in a shawl had an open Bible in her lap. An elderly man appeared to be studying a commentary. He was taking notes.
“Our teachers,” Barton said, introducing the married couple as Carl and Lois. “Carl was a pastor before the war. Has a collection of books and Bibles that alone could put him in prison for the rest of his life.”
“Bring ’em on,” Carl said, winking and holding up his fists like a boxer. “Why, I oughta . . .”
Lois, grinning, waved him off.
“It’s wonderful that you have a library,” Paul said.
“It’s invaluable in our mission. We’re in the tract business. We also supply most of the other groups in the West with printed literature.”
“I’m surprised they’d need it,” Paul said. “It might be hard to lay hands on an original document, but once groups do—say, from you or even over the Internet—can’t they just make as many copies as they want?”
“Some kinds of things, yes,” Carl said. “Flyers, leaflets, even photocopies of books for distribution—everybody does that
—but we do something special here. Have you ever seen a book from the time before computer printing?”
“I doubt it. When would that have been?”
“Seventy or eighty years ago. I assure you they are quite different.”
Lois leafed through her Bible and pulled out a small brochure. “This is one of our tracts,” she said. “You can see it’s two-color—I know computers can print millions of colors—but feel it. Just close your eyes and run your fingers over the page.”
Paul did. “The letters are pressed into the paper.”
“That’s right—and that’s why they call it letterpress. It’s a very old method of printing, and it’s a kind that can be done independent of computers, printers—even electricity if necessary. That’s one reason it’s so valuable. We believe the earth will soon be very different than it is now.”
“After the Rapture.”
“Not directly afterward, perhaps. But if you’ve read all the things that are to come, it’s not hard to imagine that electronic equipment will become useless at some point.”
“That’s true.”
“But that’s not our immediate reason for using letterpress in Operation Soon. You see, we think that if people come across things like this, whether today or after the Rapture, even if they’re not sure what they are, they will preserve them. If something is unusual, pleasing to the touch, and beautiful, it’s clear someone went to a lot of trouble to create it. Obviously, it must be of value. So they’ll try to read it and hopefully preserve it.”
“Good theory,” Paul said. “I know I wouldn’t throw this away.”
“I’m going to show him the press,” Barton said. He led Paul deeper into the room and through a curtain to reveal an ancient printing press.
“Hard to find parts, ink, lubrication, that kinda thing, but it works fine.”
Paul reached to touch the printing plates, but Barton said, “Don’t. The oil on your fingers could mar the impression.”
“Sorry.”
“You can see we’re not as productive as the people in Detroit, but we do our part. Of course, we save the press for special things. We do most of our regular leaflets—and also broadcasts—by computer. And now, with all the trouble, we’re making a major push.”
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