“Don’t worry about it,” Straight said. “They go back and forth gaining ground against Specs, and then he regains the ground. Call him.”
Paul dialed but got no answer. He had to make sure Specs let the Loyola faction know what had happened in South Central and warn them they could be next.
Traffic was lighter going away from the raid, but Paul noticed all the movie billboards going dark now. Had Specs seen the news? Was this his attempt at a statement, a memorial of some kind? Or was he shutting down for his own safety? Had he abandoned his studio?
Paul forced himself to stop thinking the worst. Specs was merely busy.
Too busy to answer his phone.
30
Paul kept phoning Kirk Quinn as he sped toward Venice. He drove all the way to the parking lot directly across from suite J. His heart sank when he saw people milling about near the door.
“NPO government business,” he announced as he shouldered through.
A huge hole had been blown out of the door where the knob had been. The tiny office looked as if a storm had hit. Every computer and monitor had been smashed to bits.
And there on the floor by the back wall lay Specs in a wide pool of black-red blood, lifeless eyes wide under thick lenses, teeth bared, throat slit from ear to ear.
Paul was nauseated and shaking, but he forced himself to pull a notebook and pen from his pocket and ask people what they had seen. “A team of commandos,” a young man said. “They slid up here in three or four army jeeps, and next thing I knew— boom! Door flies open, they burst in shouting. I hear stuff being smashed, lots of yelling. Then they’re out of here. Couldn’t have taken thirty seconds. Is that guy all right, that guy with the glasses?”
Paul had just met Quinn, yet he felt as if he had lost a dear brother.
What a waste. What a tragic loss.
* * *
The danger should have been obvious—a car issued from the NPO pool, now under the control of an aggressive Washington agent who would trust no one, especially the competition. Paul was a twice-injured operative viewed as a hero in the agency and even more threatening as the son-in-law of Ranold Decenti. No, Bia Balaam would never give Paul a chance to show her up by chasing his own leads and possibly making his own arrests. She would insist on knowing what he was up to at all times, to be sure he was no challenge to her authority.
* * *
With the bystanders’ attention still on the mayhem in Specs’s studio, Paul dropped to his knees and quickly searched under the car. He found a tracking device behind the right front wheel. Now, where to put it? Down the block was a bright yellow sports coupe that probably saw a lot of action, day and night. Tracking it would keep the monitors busy though now, with the raids underway—and so successful—it was unlikely that Balaam would have more time to focus on Paul.
Back in the car, he called Harriet Johns. “Guess what?” she said. “The army got the billboard projectionist.”
“I’m here at the scene.”
“That figures. They tell you, one of their own, but we just got the word a few minutes ago. Looks like Washington expects us to wait in line too, only one step ahead of the cops and the press.”
“That’s not how it went,” Paul said. “I happened to be nearby and stopped to see what was going on. According to witnesses, the army blew a hole in the door, trashed the place, and then a minute later sped off. The body is still lying here on the floor, covered with blood.”
“Sounds ugly.”
“It is ugly. And I’m going to have to start beating off the gawkers. Is somebody coming out to clean up this mess?”
“Coroner and cleanup crew are on the way,” she said. “Hey, I’ve got the news on. The billboards are all coming back up. And if you get into the Hollywood Hills, check out the sign.”
“Back to normal?” Paul said.
“Better than normal. You’ve got to see it. I suppose you heard about South Central.”
“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 c
onvictions—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 estate. “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 fu
ll 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.
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