The ankle was hurting and Winston followed the line of least resistance. He carded Christian Traditional and went on through the electron door, picking up his card on the other side. He dropped it into his pocket and shuffled along a narrow passageway with the old folks.
They came into a large vaulted chamber. A choir of heavenly voices was singing softly somewhere, recorded of course. A tremendous montage was playing on the back wall, semi-motion, depicting a group of robed figures baptizing one another in the rushing waters of a stream.
Winston took a seat in a far corner of the chamber, dropping his wearied frame onto an uncomfortable wooden benchlike affair. He AMS'd another inevitable plastic box affixed to the backrest of the seat just ahead, and this started a soundtrack near his right ear, just loud enough for personal listening. Sure, God still lived ... via the AMS sermonette. Winston was not interested in the soundtrack, only in appearing inconspicuous.
He tried to shut out the soothing tones of the automated sermon and pulled his throbbing ankle onto the opposing knee and tried to rub the ache away, allowing his eyes to travel slowly about the big room.
He wished the droning voice in his right ear would shut up. "Christians have no guilt with the state of this world," the voice was assuring him. "To many scholars, the present world situation is Armageddon come to pass. (Bet your ass, buddy). It is the prelude to the millenium, and God's chosen have been gathered together here on this continent to receive the blessing of abundant life. We must share no sense of guilt for the famine and starvation loosed upon the abandoned peoples of Africa and Asia. Does mortal manquestion the wisdom and design of He Who Createth All / Rejoice, Christians. Christ has overcome the iniquities ol a sinful world, and America we must rejoice over our God-given abundance. This is the end of this sermonette. Please re-program with your AMS passport to receive the next message, the text of which is .. ."
Winston abruptly stopped listening and jerked upright in the chair. Two young men had just entered the room and were now standing poised on the balls of their feet, hands clasped behind their backs like undertakers, looking die place over. They spotted Winston and began moving slowly in his direction.
He casually got to his feet, pivoted toward the exit, then beat it in a fast Walk. He glanced over his shoulder as he cleared the doorway and saw that the men were now walking rapidly after him. He went through the exit vestibule, then doubled back to mix in with a thin crowd of churchgoers who were moving up the steps to the entrance.
Winston jostled and pushed his way to the head of the queue, flipped his card into the NEW AGE slot, and passed back inside. It seemed unlikely that his pursuers had been able to follow that quick reverse.
The New Age chamber featured a totally different atmosphere. It was semi-dark. The domed ceiling was a universe in slow motion—stars, moons, and distant galaxies all moving about some sublime center. There was a sweet smell to the air and a faint humming sound trailed down from the dome, the sound of spheres or molecules in motion, Winston presumed.
He dropped onto an overstuffed leather lounge, noting the inevitable plastic box buried in the armrest. A pretty girl sat to his right. He smiled at her but she offered no awareness of his presence. Winston supposed that she was meditating or something. He debated using the AMS card again, then decided again in favor of inconspicuity. He dropped the card through and immediately experienced a not-unpleasant electric shock where he sat. A little tray slid out of the armrest, offering the worshipper a plastic packet.
He picked up the offering and glared at it in the dim light. It contained some sort of fine powder. A trade name, stamped near the top of the packet, read merely EXPANDO.
Hallucinogen, Winston decided. He dropped the packet into his pocket along with the AMS card and wondered about the tingling in his butt. Something was getting energized down there. He felt himself getting an erection, and tried to mentally discourage it. He looked at the girl next to him. She was still in some other world. Then he noted the color wheel in a little box facing hear. Psychedelics. He cautiously moved his head across the dividing arm, then quickly jerked it back. God, what sounds! An electronic insulator, he presumed, kept the noise confined to the personal dimension.
His curiosity aroused, Winston explored his own area and found another card slot just beneath the first one. He pondered a moment, then slipped the card in. Immediately Winston had a color wheel and sounds of his own—and it was too much, too much. He felt himself slipping into some sort of mindless abyss and quickly lurched to his feet. Thank God he had not taken the Expando!
He left the New Age of religion where he had found it and made a casual exit. The two men from Christian Traditional were nowhere in evidence. Winston had his own personal pipeline to that thing some people called God, and he quietly thanked it for a minor miracle neatly worked.
He moved cautiously around the building, hoping he'd just been feeling persecuted. His ankle still hurt. He leaned against the wall, pulled the ankle up into his hands, and rubbed it some more. His head came into contact with a harsh metallic object. He reared off and stared at it. AMERICAN CHURCH, it sneered at him.
Winston sneered right back. This must have been at least the second place where Charlie got screwed!
If God were truly dead, Winston decided, then this was the place where they buried him.
CHAPTER 2
Bettina Fairchild glanced anxiously toward the window of her Alexandria mansionette and tried to disentangle herself from the amorous grasp of her husband's young disciple, Jimmy Royal. "Listen," she warned him in a purring voice, "if he is coming home, this is about the time for it."
Royal chuckled and massaged her hip with a manicured hand. "I told you, Betts, he's supping with the old man tonight. Won't be along for hours yet." He lowered his mouth onto hers, sighed into the warm reception, and gyrated Ms midsection for her benefit. She gyrated back, whimpering and pressing close against him.
"Not out here," she moaned. "Take me to bed."
The young federal agent, easily ten years the woman's junior, grinned and told her, "Say, you're in Mgh prime tomght."
"Don't talk that way, Jimmy," she gently cMded him. "Don't talk period. Let's—"
A bright light swept across the windows, immediately followed by the screech of tires on the driveway. The woman flung herself out of the embrace of her paramour and gasped, "It's Tom!"
"Hell, take it easy," Royal growled. He smoothed Ms hair and inspected Ms face in the wall mirror, glanced at the woman, grinned, and walked toward the door.
He froze there in mid-stride as a glassy-eyed Tom ? Fairchild threw the door wide open and lurched inside. An angry welt seeped with congealed blood traversed the handsome forehead. Two men had come in on his heels and were standing quietly behind him as the FPB Chief swayed drunkenly just inside the doorway.
One of the men was quite young, younger than Royal, and he seemed to be holding something to the back of Fairchild's neck. The other was considerably older, heavily put together. The door closed as violently as it had opened, and the older man moved immediately to the windows. He drew the blinds, snapped his fingers toward the younger man, and walked rapidly toward die rear of the house.
Not a word had passed. Bettina Fairchild was staring at her husband's face, and she was obviously wondering if she should run to him or away from him. Jimmy Royal, an inane grin plastered stiffly to his face, was watching the disappearing back of the older stranger. The young man who had entered just behind Fairchild cleared his throat and pushed the swaying man forward, one hand remaining close to the back of his neck.
Fairchild staggered toward the center of the room. His wife raised a hand to her mouth and uttered a stifled little scream as the nation's chief cop lurched into a side view, revealing the snub-nosed pistol pressed firmly against the base of his skull.
A startled yelp crossed Jimmy Royal's lips. His right arm jerked across his chest—the man with the pistol growled "Uh-uh" and cruelly jammed the muzzle of the pistol in
to Fairchild's neck. Royal's arm dropped and hung loose, and he muttered, "What the hell is going on?"
The gunman quietly told him, "Shut up."
Mrs. Fairchild's legs were failing her. Royal made a move toward her but again the gunman warned, "Uh-uh."
Royal poised there and watched the older man return.
"It's clean," the man reported. He went over to Royal and relieved him of the revolver in his sideleather, then asked the other gunman, "This the guy you were talking about?"
"That's him," the younger man said.
"Okay, let's get going." The big man, obviously In charge, shoved Royal toward the narrow hallway leading to the rear of the house and snared Bettina Fairchild by an arm and propelled her along behind Royal. She whimpered and threw an agonized look over her shoulder, but went on without argument.
Fairchild and the gunbearer followed close behind. When he reached the bedroom, his wife was lying on the bed, one arm raised across her face, softly sobbing. Jimmy Royal stood against the wall, an uncomprehending mask twisting at his face.
"Okay, let's get undressed," the older man snapped.
Bettina jerked noticeably but otherwise remained motionless. Royal glared at the big man, unspoken questions in the look. "Yeah, I mean you," the man told him. "Get 'em off. Get everything off. I mean you too, lady." He grabbed Bettina's leg and dragged her onto the floor.
She came up breathing harshly, fear and guilt and resignation showing in the pretty face. She turned dully toward the young man with the gun at her husband's head and told him in a flat voice, "I know you. You worked with the gardener last summer. You're a Negruh."
"Yes ma'am," the youth replied, confirming the identification with a sniggering caricature of black docility. His eyes traveled meaningfully about the bedroom. "And I know this here place too, ma'am."
"Enough talk, lady," the big man growled. "Get your clothes off."
Bettina looked to her husband. He appeared to be a man in deep shock and hardly aware of his surroundings, but he nodded his head and told her in a barely audible voice, "Better do what they say, Betts." His head was craned to one side, as though cringing from the cold steel impressed there.
Bettina unfastened her dress and let it fall, stepped out of it, tripped, and fell onto the bed. The big man helped her upright, ran an appreciative hand along her hip, then stepped back. "You're doing fine," he told her. "Get the rest of it off."
She stared at him dully, dropped her eyes, unfastened the bra, and slowly drew it off. Heavy breasts jiggled in a sudden release. She stood there quietly, her eyes moving slowly about the room.
"All of it honey," the man commanded.
She stripped off the panties, fell again with the silken flimsy gilding her ankles. The man helped her again, this time running both hands the full length of her legs and pausing to gently pinch the soft inner thighs. Then he flipped her onto the bed and stared down at her, the panties in his hand.
"See, I told you," the younger man commented. "No hair."
"That's the way whitey wears it now," the other man replied heavily. "Well . . ." He turned with a sigh, went over to Royal, and tossed the panties into his face. "I told j you to get undressed," he said.
Royal's fair complexion turned even fairer. He fumbled with his tie. Giving that up as an impossible job, he tried to remove his shirt while still wearing the jacket and generally showed signs of total disorientation. The two invaders chuckled and watched him. Tom Fairchild was staring stonily at his wife's figure on the bed.
Royal finally got the clothing off and looked at the big man for further direction.
"Take off those socks," the man told him. "You don't get in a lady's bed with your damn socks on, do you?" He gave the naked man a shove, and Royal fell to the bed beside Bettina.
Then the big man turned to Tom Fairchild. "Okay, Chief," he said quietly. "Let's talk business."
Fairchild croaked, "I told you all I know."
"You told me nothingV' the man growled. "Why did you have Mike Winston in custody. Why did he make the break? Why did you two go to the White House? What did you talk about? What was said in there that put Winston in chains?"
"I don't know why the President wanted him arrested," Fairchild insisted in a dead voice. "I was not party to the
White House conversation. I merely eNeminl Win inn there and back. He was already in custody win n ■. wi ni there. I don't know anything else."
"You keep saying the same tired old words!"
"It's all there is to say," Fairchild replied woodcnly. "It's truth."
The man laughed nastily and said, " White man's truth!"
Fairchild's head raised quickly. He gazed closely at his tormentor. "You're a white man," he observed, the voice quivering.
"Not where it counts, cop. Inside, I'm just as black as any nigger you ever murdered."
"I've murdered no niggers," Fairchild replied dispiritedly.
The man raised a foot and kicked at Royal. "Fuck his wife!" he commanded.
Royal quivered. Fairchild's eyes flared. The younger gunman snickered and observed, "How? He's soft as a noodle."
"He damn sure better get it hard! You want me to shoot that thing off for you, boy?" The man laughed. "Hey, where've I heard that line before?"
"This isn't going" to prove a thing," Fairchild muttered dismally.
"It'll prove he can do what he's done a hundred times already," the younger man put in. "These folks been sneaking around behind your back, Massa."
Fairchild shivered. The youth jammed the gun harder against him and said, "You be stiil."
The older man said, "Lady, you better give that boy some help. Don't disappoint us now. That's a nasty little weapon on your husband's head there. My friend gets disappointed, that weapon might splatter your husband's brains all over this pretty room. You wouldn't want that, not with all these pretty boys you got calling on you here. Now would you?"
Fairchild groaned and cried, "Bettina for God's sake. Do what they ask! They're crazy. If you've done it before you can do it again. God, I don't care!"
Her eyes rolled and she gurgled, "Please, Tom ..."
"You think I haven't known?" he moaned. He turned his head and muttered, "Go ahead. Once more won't make any difference. Do what they say."
Bettina gave her husband one last, long, imploring gaze, then she turned to her bedmate, her hands deftly imploring that of him which could prove the salvation of the moment. The future would provide for itself, her actions seemed to be saying. She flung her legs about and wriggled against her husband's star fledgling cop, and lunged at his mouth with hers, and the actions seemed to go on interminably with no visible results.
"You better get with it, boy," the big man urged. "I don't have all night for you to get your manhood up."
Tom Fairchild's eyes were floorbound. The young man behind him sighed and said, "She keeps sexpills in the drawer of the nightstand."
The other man grunted and bent over the nightstand. He opened a plastic packet and dropped the wafers into Bettina Fairchild's hand. She willingly accepted them and pushed one into Royal's mouth.
"You take one, too," the man growled.
She did so. Moments later the sounds of labored, passionate breathing were filling the bedroom. Tom Fairchild clenched his fists as his eyes were magnetically drawn to the couple on the bed, and to the writhing, straining, and moaning scene being enacted there.
Bettina's face, distorted and reflecting some indefinable emotion, was visible at the top of Royal's shoulders. She gasped and curled her arms about her partner's neck, her hips rising to meet his rhythymic thrusts.
Royal tremored and a little yelp burst from Bettina's parted hps. At that instant, the big man extended Royal's police revolver toward the bed with his left hand and pulled the trigger four times in rapid succession, the explosions jerking Fairchild out of the near-trance he had seemed to be in.
"No!" he screamed. "No no no"—and catapulted forward across the room, falling to his knees
beside the
bed, the roar of the big revolver still resounding and he tried to stop with bare hands the flow of blood which was welling up from two ugly holes in his wife's face.
The gunman stepped across him, placed the revolver to Fairchild's left temple, and squeezed the trigger once again. The FPB Chiefs head toppled forward onto the bed, his blood mingling with that already spilled there.
The man quickly wiped the gun clean and placed it in Fairchild's dead left hand, squeezing hard to insure a good grip. Then, with pressure on the dead man's trigger finger, he squeezed off another shot into the mattress.
"For the paraffin test, see," he told the youth, as though explaining the sum of two plus two. "Also he's left-handed. Watch things like that."
He stepped back to survey the scene, grunted, and said, "Right to the end, he never thought we'd do it. Right to the end." He grunted again. "Now that's realism, kid. Always remember this. You set the scene with everyday realism. Nothing phony, see. He's in her, or he was 'fore I blew his brains out. And he was in his rocks. That'll show, if they want to lab it."
"Too bad it's not Winston," the youth commented.
"Well, he'll get his. That guy's a traveling plague and don't know it. Come on, let's get out of here. Ritter says we have to take out everybody this Winston talks to. It'll be a lot easier to just get to Winston."
"Who's got to get old man Arlington?"
"That's not for us to wonder about." The two men were headed toward the front door. "Anyway, I take it Winston didn't make much of an impression on the old man. This Fairchild guy had 'im under arrest."
"These whiteys are all crazy," the younger man commented.
"They're more dumb than crazy. Like Fairchild. He really thought we weren't going to do it. Right to the bitter end, he thought it."
They turned to their car and made a quiet departure.
"Think anyone heard the shots?" the youth inquired.
Don Pendleton - Civil War II Page 7