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Armageddon Crazy

Page 6

by Mick Farren


  "Fuchs and Burger?"

  "I didn't know their names until afterward."

  "Do you often take rides with PD officers, Auxiliary Kline?"

  "This was the first time."

  "But you did get into a car with two strange men?"

  "It was better than walking nearly forty blocks. It had been a bad day, what with the riot on top of the bombing."

  "You didn't feel that you were in any danger?"

  "These were peace officers in an armored cruiser. It was a lot safer than being out on the street, on foot, in a riot."

  "You trust PD officers?"

  "If you can't trust the guardians of a Christian society, who can you trust?"

  "We ask the questions here, Kline." The by-the-book innocence just did not fit.

  Rogers picked up the ball. "But after you accepted the ride, you decided that it might be fun to see the riot area from the back of a PD cruiser."

  "Quite the reverse. I was very tired and wanted to be home as soon as possible. It was the officers who insisted on giving me the tour."

  "Why should they do that?"

  She hesitated. "I think they were trying to show off their… virility."

  "And on this tour you ran into the fatal incident."

  "That's right."

  Thomas started on a very different course. "You seem to have had alarmingly fast reactions during this incident."

  "I don't know. When I saw the two officers go down, I thought they were going to kill me next. I didn't want to die."

  "Even in the sure and certain knowledge of the resurrection?"

  "I didn't want to die."

  "Clerical auxiliaries aren't trained in the use of the Remington Controller, are they?"

  "We only train with handguns. Strictly for our own protection."

  "How did you manage to fire the officer's riot gun so swiftly if you had never handled one?"

  "I had two brothers who were both hunters. They taught me to fire most kinds of weapons."

  Rogers was actually smiling. He was clearly imagining her talking about her hunting, shooting brothers on TV. His face fell at Thomas' next question.

  "Your brothers owned state-of-the-art riot guns?"

  "No, but when I grabbed the gun, I found that it fired just like any autoload."

  Thomas leaned back in his chair.' "There are other places that teach people how to fire weapons, sophisticated weapons they'd normally have no reason to know about."

  For the first time, Cynthia Kline looked less than confident. She said nothing.

  Thomas leaned forward. "Perhaps in a terrorist training camp?"

  Kline looked frightened. That response was, however, understandable. The word 'terrorist' could strike fear into the totally blameless. Rogers was looking at Thomas as if he had gone mad. At that moment, the phone on the wall rang. Rogers grabbed for it. He listened for almost a minute with an expression of increasing shock. Finally he nodded and hung up. Winters and Thomas looked at him expectantly. Rogers shook his head.

  "Three deacons have just been killed. Right out in broad daylight. Bickerton, Baum, and Kinney."

  "From the Zealots?"

  "Bickerton, Baum, and Kinney. From the Zealots. We're instructed to term this interview and join our respective teams. It's a redline flap."

  "Where did it happen?"

  "On First Avenue. Between Fourteenth and Fifteenth. They were taken out with a burst of heatseekers, probably fired from a point-six-oh Mossberg."

  "We're the only ones who're supposed to have smart ammunition."

  "That's the weird part. "

  Thomas sighed. "If they were on Fifteenth and First, we know where they'd been. Probably all night."

  Rogers quickly motioned to Kline, indicating that no more should be said in front of her. Winters glanced at him.

  "What do we do with her?"

  Kline

  What were they going to do with her? she wondered. "There's a CA escort coming down for her." Cynthia Kline's mind was in turmoil. She had been a damned fool. She despised the deacons so intensely that she had allowed herself to underestimate them. The older, slow one had only been shooting in the dark, but he had come close enough to the truth to rattle her. Even a dummy like Winters had been plainly disturbed by her attitude. She had talked down to them and made them uncomfortable when she should have come on like a helpless little waif and had them eating out of her hand. It still remained to be seen if her pride was going to hang her. The phone call had temporarily saved her, but it had also brought a new set of questions.

  Three deacons shot dead, presumably on their way from their private bordello on Fifteenth, was a major incident. Who was behind it, and was it going to affect her situation? The abrupt removal of her three interrogators had to be cause for some kind of optimism. They couldn't be thinking of her as a dangerous terrorist, if they were prepared to rush off like that.

  Her new escort arrived in the form of two burly CA matrons. Cynthia far from liked the look of mem, but to her complete surprise, they seemed quite well disposed toward her.

  "Here you greased a couple of the scumsuckers for us. How did you manage that?"

  "I was scared out my head, to tell the truth."

  Now, after the fact, she was playing it the right way. The nearest matron all but patted her on the head.

  "You got 'em though."

  "I guess I did."

  "You want to watch out, though, getting into a car with those PD bastards. They got just one thing in mind."

  "So what happens to me now?"

  "We're going to take you up to Directoress Lumet. I figure they've got your case all figured out."

  Cynthia did not have to fake the fear. The matrons laughed.

  "Don't look so worried. They going to make you a sainted hero, honey."

  They took her quickly to the directoress's office on the nineteenth floor. Cynthia was taking it one minute at a time. She was just relieved that they were not taking her to a sub-basement – she had heard too much about what those sadists did to female suspects.

  The directoress fancied herself as voluptuous and was fighting a stubborn rearguard action against the ravages of middle age. She wore her hair in the high platinum bouffant of a big-time country singer. Her makeup was thick, her eyelashes were false, her nails were bloodred, and her uniform skirt was cut a little too tightly across her ample hips. She was lounging back in a large leather swivel chair behind an L-shaped combined desk and workstation. The two matrons withdrew and left Cynthia standing in front of the directoress's inspecting gaze.

  "So you're our little Dirty Harriet?"

  "I think that's putting it a little strongly, ma'am."

  "You'll have to get used to it."

  "I'm sorry."

  "And you can cut out the phony humility. I monitored your interview. You're a tough cookie."

  Cynthia stiffened. "Yes, ma'am."

  Directoress Lumet stood up and came out from behind the desk. She walked slowly around Cynthia. "I suppose you look the part."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "You want to get on in the service?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Well, you could make it big if you don't foul up on this next assignment we've got for you."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "There is no more important backup for an agency like this than a good public image. We are the constant targets of lying Satanist propaganda, and we badly need to show the public the part we play in protecting society from its enemies. A story like yours is just what we need at the moment."

  Cynthia blinked. "It is?" What the hell were they up to?

  "It's been decided to second you to the PR section. You will report to Deacon Longstreet for initial grooming. As soon as you are ready, you will be subjected to saturation TV coverage. You'll be on every talk show in the eastern area and the covers of all the magazines. You're going to be a nine-hour wonder, Kline. 'Heroic CA slays scum.' "

  Cynthia was bewildered. She had never bargai
ned for anything like this. Could she safely go so public? She had to talk to her control, but it seemed as if she was not going to be given the chance. "I don't know what to say."

  "Don't screw up. Cooperate with the PR people even if they are a bunch of fags and, above all, don't let it go to your head. We're not making you into a movie star. It's just another facet of law enforcement."

  As Lumet finished her speech, another CA stuck her head around the door.

  "Lefthand Path just claimed the killings."

  Lumet looked up sharply. "Are you sure?"

  "Anderson just took the call."

  When the other woman was gone, Lumet glanced at Cynthia. "You didn't hear that, right?"

  "Right."

  "It'll be all over the building soon enough, but I don't want it coming from here first."

  "I understand."

  "So go to the thirty-fifth floor and report to Longstreet."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Anslinger

  Maud Anslinger turned off the TV. She could not watch any longer. Satan seemed so close. All but one of the local channels had preempted their regular programming to run live coverage of the terrible murders on First Avenue. Channel 9 was still showing Treasure in Heaven, but she couldn't watch a soap when the presence of Evil was all around. She turned on the Jesus Wave and knelt beside the bed. The lights warmed to a comforting glow, and she clasped her hands.

  "Sweet Lord Jesus, please do not forsake us in this time of our testing."

  She really felt that God was testing her – her and all the good Christian people in the country. That was the only explanation for all the awful things that were happening. Looking into the lights of the Jesus Wave made her feel a little better, but even with its soothing hypnotic pulse she could not shake the feeling that the storm clouds were gathering all around. It was just as President Faithful had told them last week on Fireside Sunday Night, "Let us pray for America in what may prove to be our finest hour. Dear Jesus, we are a country under siege. A beleaguered enclave of decency in a dark world of pain and iniquity. To the north, we are menaced by the Godless Red Canadians and the Evil Empire of their Soviet slave masters. At the same time, beyond our southern defenses, the brown hordes from the jungles of South America are massing to descend on our pastures like a plague of locusts. Dear Jesus, bless this Fortress America, dedicated in thy name, and strengthen us lest we despair. Let us not forget that thy banner, though torn, is still flying. Make us strong, sweet Jesus. Make us strong."

  The text of the prayer had been published in the Post on Monday morning. Maude had cut it out and taped it to the mirror, beside the postcard that her sister Eva had sent her from Holy-world.

  Theodore the cat was watching her balefully. She had gone to the store early, but for the second day running there had been no milk delivery. There had been no chicken bits in a week. The cat had been forced to settle for the new generic Petfood with the white label on the can and the funny smell.

  Suddenly there were tears running down her face. God had to be testing her.

  "Make us strong, sweet Jesus. Make us strong."

  Carlisle

  Harry Carlisle put on his sunglasses and climbed the steps to the front door of the brownstone. It was a house without a face, the windows having all been replaced by steel sheets. There was a watch camera mounted over the door but, surprisingly, it did not swivel to look at him as he mounted the steps. He motioned to Reeves. "Get ready for a show of force here." Reeves and Donahue braced their legs and raised their Remingtons. They were dressed for The Untouchables in long overcoats and fedoras. Behind them were six of the riot squad's meanest with helmets and armor and leveled M-40s. Carlisle was very much aware that what was about to happen had a lot more to do with theater than with law enforcement. He had given himself the Eliot Ness role. He could not help grinning as he extended an assertive, black-gloved finger to the old-fashioned, polished brass bellpush and pressed. There were a lot of paybacks about to be exacted. In his other hand he clutched a lovingly maintained, long-barreled.375 Magnum that he brought out only on special occasions. After the first ring, nothing happened.

  Reeves glanced at Carlisle. "Kick it down?" Carlisle looked up at the black front door with its discreet gold lettering. 555 East Fifteenth Street. He shook his head. "They're probably a little confused in there right now." He pressed the bell again, leaning on it. After about twenty seconds, the door was opened by a junior deacon. He was wearing his dress grays, but his tunic was unbuttoned and his T-shirt was hanging out of his pants. He looked bleary and hung over. "What the hell do you want?"

  Carlisle had to give him full marks for blind pig arrogance.

  "T7 taskforce. We're here to ask a few questions before the whitewash gets spread too thick."

  "Are you crazy?"

  Carlisle smiled. "Maybe, but at least I've got my pants buttoned."

  "You can't come in here."

  "You ready to buck a Suspicion of Terrorism warrant?"

  "Where did you get that from?"

  "Judge Sawyer signed it just a half hour ago."

  "That old fool?"

  "A judge is a judge is a judge."

  "Forget it."

  "We're coming in."

  Carlisle moved quickly forward. The others were right behind him. The junior deacon took a fraction of second to realize that an attempt to block Carlisle would be an unwise course. Instead, he turned on his heel and hurried into the building, yelling at the top of his voice.

  "It's the PD! The idiots think that they can come in here on an S of T!"

  The decor was classic whorehouse, burgundy velvet and dark crystal. Even though Carlisle and his men stormed in like heroes, there was no way to resist a moment of awe. Goddamn deacons really took care of themselves. The main parlor was an impressive, high-ceilinged space with the inevitable staircase running up one wall. A half-dozen, half-dressed deacons had already gathered there. They looked shocked and not a little anxious. They were obviously meeting in response to the news that three of their more notorious co-workers had walked out of the pleasure dome to the in a hail of heatseekers. Seven or eight girls in lingerie or less sat on the couches looking thoroughly frightened. Carlisle went straight for the high ground.

  "Nobody move! Don't breathe! Don't even think! This is the real thing, and you are all in a lot of trouble."

  Five deacons instinctively froze. The sixth started forward, working up to bluster. But one of the riot squad was right there, and the flashguard of an M-40 was jammed under his chin.

  "The lieutenant said freeze, blowhard."

  Carlisle raised his tracy to his mouth. "We're secured in here. Send in the investigation team."

  More uniforms streamed through the open front door. One squad charged up the stairs. Others fanned out in the parlor. Detectives followed, some carrying electronic search equipment. They were the shake and scan crew. By the time they finished, there wouldn't be anything in and about the house that they wouldn't know. Another particularly hard-faced group would conduct the individual interrogations. Carlisle had picked his team with some care.

  There was shouting from the head of the stairs.

  "What's the meaning of this? The whole bunch of you are going to end up in a camp!"

  A red-faced senior deacon dressed only in longjohns was struggling with the uniforms at the head of the stairs. Carlisle knew him by sight: Booth, a big deal in the midtown CCC. Carlisle, waiting at the foot of the stairs, signaled that Booth should be allowed through.

  "I'm executing a lawful S of T warrant."

  "Are you out of your minds? You know what this place is."

  Booth had obviously only just crawled out of bed. Carlisle realized that the deacon had not yet heard the news.

  "Three of your men have just been murdered by the Lefthand Path as they left this building."

  Booth looked sharply at the younger deacons. "Is this true?"

  They nodded. Carlisle pressed on.

  "It is possible
that they may have been fingered by someone in here. Accordingly, the place is now sealed and everyone here will be questioned."

  "What were the names of the victims?"

  "Bickerton, Baum, and Kinney."

  "My God."

  Booth quickly recovered. He rounded on the nearest women.

  "You're right, Lieutenant, and we'll start with the whores. I don't think we need to be too gentle."

  Carlisle's reply was soft and cold. Early in his career he had learned the trick of talking quietly and forcing people to listen. "You won't start with anything, Deacon Booth. You're a suspect yourself for the time being. If one of the girls hasn't been passing information to the terrorists, the possibility has to be considered that the deacons have been infiltrated. As of now, this is a T7 case."

  "I have to call someone about this."

  Carlisle shook his head. Someone in the phone company who owed him a favor had ensured that all communications were cut off to and from the house. "This place is sealed."

  Booth looked as if he were going to burst a blood vessel. Carlisle savored the moment. The raid had been his own brainwave. The plan had come to him fully formed immediately after he had heard about the killings, and it had taken him only a matter of minutes to sell the idea to a devilishly gleeful Captain Parnell. Of course, Parnell had protected himself. When the shit finally came down, it would fail directly on Carlisle, but right at that moment, Harry Carlisle was not thinking too much about long-term consequences. He was taking too much delight in sticking it to the deacons. Besides, what could they really do to him? The entire episode was too high profile for them simply to disappear him. The cloud that already hung over him would darken, but that hardly worried him. He was marked already.

  Carlisle's team went to work like a well-oiled machine. The deacons' protests were ignored as their IDs, along with those of the women, were verified and individuals were taken into separate rooms for questioning. In fact, it all was running so smoothly that Carlisle found himself standing in the ornate parlor with nothing to do.

  Reeves leaned over the bannister at the top of the stairs. "You ought to take a look at this place. They've got it all."

  Reeves was not exaggerating. Before the Fundamentalists had taken over, Carlisle had taken Gail to a couple of love motels in New Jersey, but those had not been anywhere near as elaborate as the upper floors of the deacons' private fantasyland. He followed Reeves through the series of sexual playrooms. He saw silk sheets, circular beds, and fur rugs. He looked up at himself in mirrored ceilings and peered through one-way mirrors at hastily vacated love nests. There were no less than three fully equipped dungeons, each with its complement of chrome chains, leather restraints, slings, and pulleys, and its racks of whips, masks, canes, and paddles – and a few devices that Harry did not recognize. Even in their leisure time, the deacons seemed obsessed by the idea of pain and punishment.

 

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