Spectre Black

by J. Carson Black

  It sounded like a joke, but height was a valuable tool.

  People relied on first impressions, and generally stuck with that impression. Two tall guys, former military, professional—that was what most of them would see. They would do background checks because it was policy, but they would accept who they were.

  Talking to tall men required the converser to look up, not across. Holding that position required the person looking up to tighten the muscles in his neck and back. Tendons and muscles bore the brunt of keeping the head tilted upward. This was not a comfortable position for very long. It was harder to assess someone new when part of your mind was concentrating on holding your head in an unnatural position. So the key was to keep their new pals standing as long as possible, forcing them to look up as they gathered their initial impressions and made their first judgments. Because sooner rather than later, they would have to adjust their necks, lower their heads, just for a rest. They would see less, and maybe even hear less.

  Yesterday, Landry shaved his head. He’d adopted a gold cross earring. He wore the uniform—the T-shirt that showed his musculature, the camo pants, the boots. He and his buddy would show up in the big black Dodge Ram.

  Subtlety was not called for. They weren’t trying to join a group of linguistics professors.

  “I expect you’ll be flapping your jaw,” Landry said.

  One thing Eric had in abundance was the ability to talk bullshit. He could talk about anything and make you believe he’d been there, done that. Landry, too, could hold up his end in a conversation, but he’d be more of a silent party. You have two people, one is the conversationalist, and the other is less so.

  First impressions would be spoon-fed to the militia leaders right off the bat. They needed to mirror the people they were talking with and make sure there was plenty of common ground. They couldn’t just act sincere; they had to be sincere.

  They had to practice what Fort Bragg called Mental Transitional Necessity and put themselves in their new partners’ shoes. Find sincere common ground.

  And since both Landry and Eric had learned this and used it many times, it was like putting on an old, soft, comfortable shirt.

  From there they drove into Las Cruces, which hosted a gun show on the weekend. While Eric was all set, Landry needed a sniper rifle. He’d been meaning to find himself a semiautomatic, and this would be the perfect time.

  They strolled around the show until Landry saw what he wanted: an H&K G3 semiautomatic sniper rifle, .308 caliber. The rifle was known for incredible long-distance accuracy—and, also important—dependability. The guy, a cricket of a man with a military haircut and goatee—so red it was almost orange—didn’t do much of a sales job. He didn’t need to. He just took Landry’s measure and mentioned the rifle was good at the very least to a thousand yards or three-fifths of a mile, however he liked to think about it.

  “You could make ten headshots in twelve seconds!”

  Landry sighted through the scope.

  Eric said, “Hon, it’s so you!”

  Landry thought about kicking him in the balls but he was too concentrated on the rifle.

  “I’m a Christian, but I don’t judge,” Red Beard said. “I can throw in some armor-piercing bullets, too,” he added.

  He knew he had a fish on the line and didn’t give a damn about Landry’s sex life. He probably wouldn’t care if Landry were an aardvark, if he had the money to buy.

  “I’ll take it,” Landry said.

  On their way out, Landry’s eye was drawn to a table that sold a number of crazy things—posters like “Guns Don’t Kill People, But if You Don’t Get Out of My Way, I Will,” and beer koozies with the legend “FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS.” But what caught Landry’s eye was a small cardboard box of tin stars and badges. Most of them were silver in hue, but a couple were the color of cheap gold. Some of them looked real. A round gold badge caught his eye. On the top it said “DEADWOOD”—the Deadwood of gunslinger and TV series fame. The gilt was a little hard to read, but Landry liked it, so he bought it for twenty-five cents.

  “What’d you want that for?” Eric asked.

  “It might come in handy.”

  “Damn, sometimes I wish I could figure out what was inside that brainpan of yours.”

  From there they drove out to a deserted stretch of desert, turned off the highway onto a dirt two-track until they were far away from any farms, outbuildings, or livestock. Landry set up on a dirt berm populated by stunted mesquite and yellow bunch grass.

  He took a prone sniper position, lying flat and belly-down on the berm. The bipod was mounted underneath the barrel of the rifle, and all he had to do was push the legs out and down until the H&K was ten inches off the ground.

  He took several shots. Then, taking pity on Eric’s abject and piteous expression, let him try a few. Twenty minutes later, Betsy II was not only baptized; she was zeroed in.

  Or as Eric said it, “Betsy’s one hot babe, and now she’s ready to rock ’n’ roll!”

  Back in the Travelodge, Landry stared at himself in the mirror. His head was smooth as a cue ball, and the gold cross earring looked right at home. He thought he looked like a younger, buffer Bruce Willis.

  A fist rapped on his door. He peered out the window and there was Eric: ponytail, naked chest complete with tattoos, motorcycle boots, leather vest, and eye patch.

  “You think this is Halloween?” Landry said. “Ditch the eye patch.”

  “Just fucking with you,” Eric said. He pulled the eye patch off and shoved it in the pocket of his soiled-looking jeans. “Gonna actually wear a shirt, too.”

  “For a minute there, I thought this was going to be a Treasure Island revue.”

  “Give me a kiss and I’ll take you away from all this.”

  “Only if you make an honest woman of me.”

  “Hey, you play tennis now?” Eric said, walking toward Landry’s open run bag.

  “They’re special balls.”

  “I’ve heard that before. In fact, I’ve said that before.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t hit one of those balls with the racket that goes with them.”

  “How come?”

  “Boom.”

  “Boom?”

  “As long as they don’t interact at a certain velocity, we’re all right. Or so says the guy who sold them to me.”

  “You believe him?”

  Landry shrugged. “I’m not going to try to find out right now.”

  Eric the Red placed the ball back into its carton like a nature hiker returning an egg to a nest.

  Landry contemplated the gold paint for his tooth.

  “Seriously, bro,” Eric said. “You think maybe we’re trying too hard? A little over the top?”

  “Yeah. There might be some real guys in there who are former military. Maybe too much camo.”

  “Jeans, knit shirts or tees, boots, and our watches,” Eric said.

  “You’re right. We don’t want to overwhelm them.”

  There were probably ten or twelve bars in Branch, maybe more. They chose the bars from the cars and trucks out front to the people they saw going in and out, visiting two the first night. Went in, ordered drinks, played pool. The first place was dead, so they went to the second. Much better. More of a crowd—a down-at-the-heels group. The place was smoky, dark, and verging on rowdy. They played pool with some of the locals, boasting about how good they were, but mostly losing. Gave their new friends the upper hand. They joshed each other mercilessly about their rusty pool playing, drank a little more, got a little louder, came on to the ladies. Ended up closing the place down, sitting at the bar trying to impress young women, reminiscing about the good old days in Fallujah. Neither one of them had to make up a thing. They just recounted the stories they knew by heart, stories that had gotten laughs in other bars in other places. As the night wore on, Lan
dry and Eric appeared to get drunker. Not stinking drunk, but looser. Friendlier. More apt to talk to the people at the bar with them. Not as wary as they were when they came in. Not as tight.

  But still, impressive. Two big strong guys, former military, letting go and having a good time. Looking for work here and there, they said, just seeing the country, how bad it had become, and maybe they should do something about it.

  At the second bar, a guy Landry got into a conversation with told him he knew some people who felt the same way.

  And Landry said, blowing a big burst of beer stink on the man, “To tell you the truth, that’s one reason I’m here. My friend and me. Heard there was a militia out here, standing up for the average guy, you know—right with God. We’re planning to look them up.”

  The guy grinned. “I’m Clint. If you want, I can introduce you.”

  Landry smiled blearily. “Sounds like a plan.” He stood, unsteady on his feet.

  “Wait until tomorrow. You want to be sober when you meet the boss.”

  Chapter 19

  Landry and Eric the Red rolled into the Pine Cone RV Park around eleven a.m. They drove through the campground to the yellow cinderblock house Landry had spotted earlier. This time, two Dobermans prowled the chain-link fence enclosing the house and about a three-acre area. A sentry manned the gate—someone new to Landry. He was young, in his early twenties. Short red hair, olive drab tee, ARMY stenciled on the front, jeans, desert boots. Not too young to have served. Peaches-and-cream complexion turning red in the broiling New Mexico sun.

  “What is your business, sir?”

  Landry said, “I met Clint at The Cavern last night. He left his credit card behind—thought he’d want it back.”

  “Oh, wow.” The kid blushed a little. He stepped back. “He’s gonna be happy to see that.”

  “That’s what I figured, son.”

  The kid opened the gate. As Landry drove through, he saluted.

  They parked between a late-model black Humvee, polished to a gleam, and an old Dodge truck with mismatched fenders. Two vehicles, different ZIP codes.

  Landry heard the door to the house squeak and a man stepped out onto the stoop. Youngish guy, dressed like the kid manning the gate. “Who’re you?” he asked.

  “Name’s Sean. Sean Terry.” He motioned to Eric. This is my buddy, Mark. Is Clint around?”

  “Yeah.” The man leaned in through the doorway and yelled, “Clint! You got visitors!”

  Clint came out, a little green around the gills. He’d had a lot to drink the night before. He seemed confused for a moment, but then his face cleared and he smiled as he recognized Landry. “Hey.”

  “Hey, man, how you doing?”

  Clint held his head. “Not too good. You here to talk to the boss man?”

  “Yeah, thought I might. You remember Mark, right?” Motioning to Eric.

  “Kinda.” Clint sat down on the top step.

  “You left this behind.” Landry held up the credit card.

  “Oh, shit!” He grabbed at it and Landry handed it to him. “Good thing you were there.”

  “Yeah. I went outside to flag you down but you were already gone.”

  Clint put his head in his hands. Landry was prone to headaches, and he knew how bad they could be. He sympathized, but he also had business to conduct. “You looking for new guys?” he asked.

  “I said so, didn’t I?” Still rubbing his temple.

  Landry waited.

  Finally, Clint stood up. “First, you gotta meet the boss man.”

  They trooped over to the building on the opposite end of the compound, the one marked “OFFICE,” near the sewer dump.

  The bell on the door rang as they went in.

  The place was small and cramped, a minimart with limited shelf space, selling mostly camping supplies like small jars of mustard and medium-size bags of charcoal. The focal point of the place was the Coors waterfall sign on the wall behind the cash register.

  The air conditioner must have been on the fritz. It was hot and stifling inside, and dark.

  “Wait here,” Clint said. He walked to the back door near the beer and soft drink cooler and disappeared.

  The guy who had been watering plants on the porch came inside and stood behind them. He had been completely silent. Landry made note of this and took a closer look.

  He was short, compact, and muscular. Landry didn’t see him yesterday. Maybe he had been out manning one of the checkpoints.

  “It’s gonna be a while,” the man from the porch said.

  “Fine by me,” Landry said. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around the store, taking note of everything. He said nothing. Eric said nothing. They stood there.

  Awkward.

  Finally the man from the porch said, “Why do you want to join us?”

  “Are you the boss?” Landry asked.

  “No.”

  “I’ll tell the boss.”

  The guy gave him a dirty look, but didn’t take the bait.

  “Where’d you serve?” Landry asked.

  “Afghanistan. How about you?”

  “Afghanistan and Iraq.”

  “What detachment?”

  Landry said, “Not your business.”

  The guy stared at him for a moment, seemed to take that in, and then relaxed. Landry realized it wasn’t relaxation so much as recognition. Recognition, and respect.

  “What about him?” the guy said, nodding in Eric’s direction. Eric was spinning the revolving rack of paperbacks, seemingly preoccupied.

  “You can ask. He speaks English.”

  The guy looked away. They waited in uncomfortable silence.

  The door to the back opened: Clint. “Come with me,” he said.

  “Where are we going?” Eric said.

  “Like I said. To meet the boss.”

  The door to the back let out to a short hallway, leading to an office. Nice view of the hills. The window, though, was reinforced by bars.

  Landry recognized Lion Mane.

  Seeing him up close, Landry thought: pink and yellow. The man’s face was deep pink—sunburn or high blood pressure, or both. And his hair was even more yellow than he’d thought—unnatural-looking, but Landry knew it was real. He had sandy brows to go with it. A tiny scar cleaved one side of his upper lip.

  He wore a bulletproof vest under his blue work shirt. He was armed with a Heckler & Koch 9mm—shoulder holster.

  Watery blue-gray eyes assessed first Landry, then Eric.

  Since the man was approximately five feet eight, he had a distance to look up. “So you’re interested in joining our little band of patriots.”

  “That is the plan,” Landry said.

  The man said nothing in reply. His watery orbs were like searchlights piercing the gloom. First it was Landry’s turn. The man showed no discomfort in their looming presence. With a lesser man, looking up like that, there would be discomfort by now, but he kept Landry in his sights, as if it had turned into a battle of wills. Finally, he transferred his gaze to Eric—boldly assessing him. Eric, being Eric, boldly assessed him back.

  Finally, the militia leader nodded. He reached out and shook hands with them both. A strong handshake, but Landry sensed he had steeled it—he’d felt a slight tremor. “Jedediah Kilbride’s my name. Call me ‘Jed’ for short. Have a seat, gentlemen.”

  They did.

  He looked from one to the other. “What do you think we do here?”

  Landry crossed his arms over his chest and stretched out his legs. “I think your primary mission is keeping the peace.”

  Kilbride’s face remained impassive. “How so?”

  “To my way of thinking, the sheriff’s office is undermanned. There’s an influx of people coming up from Mexico, from Central America, more every day. That means mor
e people, and the people of this area, the people who live here, are underserved. I see your group as a necessary adjunct to law enforcement.” He added, “I think of you as an extension of the sheriff’s office, only independent and far more flexible. The very definition of a militia—boots on the ground at a moment’s notice—that’s what it means to be ‘keepers of the peace.’” His gaze held fast to Kilbride’s watery eyes. “Am I wrong about that?”

  Kilbride said nothing. He was still assessing Landry and Eric. His eyes missed nothing.

  So Landry gave him nothing.

  “Sir.” Eric leaned forward, his expression earnest. “We want to do something. We’ve both been in the military; we’re useful guys. I fought for my country and protected my country, and I plan to keep protecting her. Whether it’s with you here or with another militia, I want to serve. I want in.”

  Kilbride tapped his fingertips on the desk. He was thinking seriously about them. Landry noted that he was also unconsciously leaning forward, engaged. “Why us? Why here?”

  Landry shrugged. “It’s as good a place as any. I have family here.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “Hobbs.”

  “That’s practically in Texas.” He leaned back and assessed them some more. “How about we do some shooting?”

  Landry shrugged. “Suits me.”

  They went to the range that had been set up a quarter of a mile away from the campground.

  Spent a couple of hours shooting, everything from handguns to sniper rifles. Landry set up his new sniper rifle: Betsy II. Made one shot.

  It was a good one.

  They walked back toward the main house.

  “We don’t have any room here,” Kilbride said, “So you’ll have to commute. We’re ten minutes from town. This is a volunteer position, so you rely on yourselves to tighten up, and when we need you, we’ll need you ASAP. Drop whatever you’re doing, got me? Justice and the security of this country never sleep. I’ll have background checks done on both of you, just so you know.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out two wafer-thin cell phones, threw one to Landry and one to Eric. “Don’t call me unless it’s important. The number cannot be given around. It’s for your own personal use. You’re on call twenty-four-seven.”