by Jay Lake
“Sorry,” Charity said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” There was something in the song that moved her but she did not know what it was. It was a foreign, unwelcome feeling but not because of anything unpleasant it evoked. It smelled of some vulnerable part of herself she had no use for exploring. Still, she had to say something. “You have a lovely voice.”
The blush continued as she leaned on her broom. “Thanks. I’m Molly.”
“Charity,” she answered.
Molly started pushing the broom, shoving piles of dirt and dust to the middle of the room. “So have you lived in Cathlamet all your life?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m just passing through. You?”
“My first day here,” she said. “I hitched in earlier.”
Charity looked around the store. Even its shelves had been pulled. It still had its counter and the two islands for registers though the machines themselves were missing. She saw the sleeping bag in the corner next to a grocery sack full of non-perishable food. “You’re staying here?”
Molly nodded. “I have a lot to do. I’m opening on Friday.”
“What are you opening?”
The girl grinned. “Come back Friday night and see.”
There was something about the girl that made her want to nod and say yes. She didn’t understand that charisma, and she resisted it. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said.
Then, the girl surprised her. “Do you believe the world can be healed?”
Charity faltered at the question. It ambushed her and she found herself in a moment of complete candor. “No,” she said. “I really don’t.”
Molly just nodded. “Well, come out Friday anyway,” she said.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Charity departed, making her way back to the bed and breakfast. But despite the cool, crisp sheets and the comfortable bed, she didn’t sleep right away. Instead, she lay awake, pondering the girl and her question and the song that she sang.
She’d gone with Edgewater when she got out of the army thinking it was a way she could make the world better. But after the losses of Carter and Murphy and scattered casualties across the years before that, it seemed clear evidence that she was losing more ground than she was holding in this fight.
Charity sighed and rolled over. When she finally fell asleep, it was to the song that Molly sang, only remembered from long ago.
The day they played it at her father’s funeral.
* * *
George Applebaum tossed and turned in Frost’s guest room and finally gave up on sleep at two a.m.
They’d eaten a late lunch at Rosie’s and it would’ve been the best burger he’d had in years under different circumstances. He and Frost had kept the conversation near the surface, catching up on this or that bit of the last decade as they ate fries soaked in ketchup and chased them with sodas. Throughout the three-hour meal, various people meandered by to greet Frost, who enthusiastically introduced them to his guest. They’d been friendly enough, but there were knowing looks he noted between Frost and at least a few of his parishioners.
When they’d finished, the two pastors returned to the church for a prayer meeting that combined a quick exegesis of a section of Ephesians about putting on God’s armor and hours of loud praying with men and women kneeling, arms draped over the backs of pews. George noticed a large number of young men in the back of the sanctuary who kept quiet throughout and were suddenly absent when it was time for them to file out and shake hands with the pastor.
It was close to ten when they finally left.
Now, the parsonage was dark and he heard Frost snoring loudly from the bedroom next door. George sat at the tiny desk in the corner of his room and tried to read his Bible. He gave up after thirty minutes and pulled on his sweats, socks and sneakers, to slip downstairs and out to the front porch.
The island was quiet but for the occasional barking of dogs and the clouds had pulled back to reveal a night sky scattered with bright stars. The parsonage was a mile or two from the church, an old farmhouse sitting in the middle of a field at the end of a long driveway. Not sure what else to do, George set off at a brisk walk.
He moved out onto the abandoned road, marking the mailbox so he could find his way back. He pointed himself in the direction of the church and wondered what Hunter had made of his conversations with Frost so far.
“With your help,” she had told him that evening he’d agreed to this, “we can take him and his group out of business before anyone else is hurt.”
Despite the evidence he’d seen, nothing in Frost’s words or demeanor so far had suggested he could be the ringleader of a terrorist movement. But he also hadn’t confronted the man with what he knew so far and Billy hadn’t brought it up.
Yet. But George knew he would.
He gave himself to walking and found himself thinking about the hitchhiker, Molly, wondering what she was up to with her world-healing casseroles and her run-down pharmacy. There was something about her that stuck with him and he thought it was her strange combination of zeal and zen.
A sound on the road ahead brought his focus back and he slowed his pace. It was a distant noise that grew closer and it took him a minute to place it. It was the sound of feet slapping the asphalt—a lot of feet—and just as it registered, he saw them. They ran in formation, completely silent but for their feet and their breathing. They moved past him quickly; he thought there were maybe twenty of them. As they passed, the man at the lead nodded an acknowledgement and George realized it was Steve Wilkes, the associate pastor. He nodded in return and kept walking.
A dark thought crossed his mind. Twenty to replace four. Of course, there was no way to know if the four he’d met in Portland were the only ones sent out as Frost’s missionaries. For all he knew, there were other young men in other cities, buying up their supplies with stolen cards from other churches, building bombs to serve their dark gospel.
He shivered and continued on, taking an hour to walk the loop that eventually brought him back around to Frost’s driveway. There were lights on in the house now and he found Billy waiting for him on the porch, up as early as any weekend fisherman.
“Taking care of the temple,” Frost said with a grin. “Good man.”
George nodded, feeling winded from the walk. “I don’t do it enough,” he said.
Frost tapped the coffee mug he held in his hand. “Hot coffee inside if you want it. I thought I might play hooky today and get us out on the river for some fellowship and fishing. Sound good?”
George nodded. “I’ll grab a cup and be right back.”
He went into the house and navigated around old furniture, following the smell of coffee to a well-lit kitchen. A clean mug waited beside an antique percolator that sat bubbling on a hot burner. He poured it and returned to the porch.
Billy sat in the creaking wood rocking chair, his slippered feet moving it back and forth as he sipped from the mug. George sat in the matching chair and shivered suddenly as a light wind moved over his sweat-soaked clothes. He took a drink, savoring the strong flavor of chicory and the warmth that flooded him. He thought of the young men, running in formation like soldiers, and looked at the man he’d considered such a good friend. “So,” he said as nonchalantly as he could muster, “what’s the Lord been up to in your life, Brother Bill?”
Frost looked at him and in the dim light of the dirty porch bulb, his broken nose, high cheekbones and bushy eyebrows took on a sinister quality even as his eyes sparkled. “He’s been up to a lot, Brother George. There’s a work begun—a revival the likes of which we’ve never seen before—that I’ve been meaning to talk with you about.”
The kind that involves bombs and militia? he wanted to ask. But he forced himself not to. “I’m always interested in hearing about revival.”
Frost chuckled and slapped his knee. “We sure enough preached some, didn’t we? I don’t think Texas was ready for us young Turks.” Then, he sighed and looked around. He lowered his voice. “We’ll ta
lk about it out on the river.”
There was a sound on the road then and George looked up. He couldn’t see them, but he heard the quiet whisper of their sneakers on the asphalt.
They finished their coffee in silence and twenty minutes later, piled into Frost’s pickup with rods, reels, Bibles, a thermos and a stack of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper.
* * *
The town still slept when Charity slipped out of the bed and breakfast in her dark tracksuit and started her morning run. She wore her glasses but found herself wishing she’d had her Edgewater ops goggles with their night vision and boosted wifi signal. Out here, she picked up little but static on the set she’d gotten from Forrester.
She ran over the bridge, listening to the water below as it moved against the concrete pillars that held the old structure in place, and when she reached the other side, she set out in the direction of the church. She kept a steady pace, her eyes scanning what little could be seen in the charcoal gloom. Twice, she interrupted the prowl of what she hoped were cats, pleased with how little their scampering startled her.
She saw a lone pair of headlights on the road ahead as she approached the series of buildings that made up Wahkiakum Bible Temple. She moved off the road to squat in the underbrush as a pickup truck as old as her own slipped past, then turned her attention to the church. There were several outbuildings but only one had any lights on. There, behind old floral-patterned curtains, Charity saw movement.
She studied the terrain, marking a path that gave her optimal cover, and suddenly wished she’d insisted on having a firearm waiting for her in Seattle. Of course, it hadn’t seemed particularly useful when she thought she was dealing with a college kid who’d joined a cult. But now that it was a senator’s son who’d joined a domestic terrorist cell, it raised the stakes a bit. Cultists didn’t typically make bombs. And people who weren’t afraid to use explosives weren’t usually afraid of using bullets, either.
She moved in slowly, grabbing cover where she could, until she reached the building with the lit windows. Inside, she heard quiet voices and for a moment, she thought they were chanting. She moved closer to one of the doors and realized that what she heard were men, in unison, reciting scripture together.
“Blessed be the Lord my strength,” they said, “which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.” Something in their tone raised the gooseflesh on her arms and she thought of her father and the man who killed him.
Otis Meyer was still in prison somewhere, still quoting his scriptures and even teaching Bible studies, she’d been told. And he still believed that what he’d done to her father was an act of obedience that cleansed the world of at least some of its unrighteousness.
She pushed the memory aside and focused on the voices inside.
Charity knew better than to try and see exactly what they were up to. Considering the reconnaissance a success, she withdrew quietly and resumed her run once she reached the road. She pushed herself hard now that other headlights were on the road and the sky was moving from black to gray.
She slowed to a brisk walk for the last half-mile, letting the cold air dry the sweat on her. The shops along Main Street were still dark for the most part though she saw lights on in the back of Rosie’s as they prepared to open early for breakfast. And when she passed the old pharmacy she saw there were lights on in there as well though she didn’t hear any singing this time.
Her phone chirped when she was back in her room. She looked at the number and took it. “Oxham,” she said.
Abigail Hunter’s voice was flat and the connection was poor. “You’re pushing the limits of my good graces,” she said.
Charity laid her clothes out on the bed. “I didn’t make contact,” she said.
“You’re dealing with dangerous people here,” the woman said. “And you’re jeopardizing our own operation.”
Our own operation. She wondered what that operation entailed but knew better than to ask. “I’m not interested in jeopardizing your operation but I am interested in getting Matthew Rodriguez and taking him home.” She started peeling off her wet clothes. “So how do you propose I go about that?”
“With a modicum of patience,” she answered. Then, her voice warmed. “Look, Charity, I’m not trying to be a hard-ass. And truth be told, I’ve gone over your file three times now and I think you could be an asset to us there. Our other asset doesn’t have any combat or law enforcement experience.”
Our other asset. She noted this and kept listening.
“You’ll get your shot at Rodriguez,” Hunter said. “But you can’t just take him home at this point; he’s already gone too far down the wrong road. Your friend’s son is an active member of an organization committed to the violent overthrow of the U.S. government and is already documented as an enemy combatant.”
She nodded even though there was no one to see it. “I do realize that.” She’d tried not to think about it, and not knowing enough details about what the Sons of New Jerusalem were up to, she could only hope that what he’d done so far—if he cooperated—was minor enough that he’d weather that storm. It would likely destroy his mother’s political future though, knowing her tenacity, it would be a slow death. “And at some point soon, one of you needs to bring the senator into the loop on this. She has a right to know that this is far more than her son running away to join a cult.”
“We have a timeline for that,” Hunter replied. “And we’re close to having enough to do something. Meanwhile, you’re either part of the problem or part of the solution.”
Charity bit her tongue. She was naked now and the room’s air felt cold on her clammy skin. “What do you want me to do?”
“Help Molly,” Hunter said. “Stay near that girl. Some folks aren’t going to take kindly to her and she might need your help.”
How does Molly fit into this? “Is she your other asset?” She asked the question though she was convinced she’d get no real answer.
Hunter surprised her. “She isn’t. But we work for separate sides of the same foundation. Her assignment there is entirely funded by them. I’d like you to keep an eye on her. Get her through her first event safe and sound and we’ll do what we can about the boy.”
“If you’re setting up a raid, I want in.”
She could hear Hunter’s smile on the other end. “I’ll take it under advisement. Until then, stay away from the church.”
The phone chirped off and Charity turned the water on as hot as she could get it. She showered quickly, dressed faster, and was at the door of Rosie’s, Bible in hand, when they opened for breakfast.
* * *
George Applebaum watched the tip of the rod bend violently and reached for it even as the line started spinning out.
They were anchored at the mouth of the Columbia within view of the new bridge that connected Astoria, Oregon to the remote corner of Pacific County, Washington. There, in plain sight, they poached salmon with a dozen other small boats.
“State Wildlife does a fly-over every few weeks and grabs what IDs they can,” Billy had told him when he’d initially blanched at the idea. “They send someone around maybe once a month by boat.” Frost grinned. “But I have affiliates in Olympia who make sure we get a phone call on those days. We activate the prayer chain and sure enough, no one goes fishing then. And for the most part, they look the other way if we’re only taking one or two.” Then, he tapped the leather book that rested open on his lap. “Way I see it,” Frost continued, “the earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof.”
George forced a grin that he didn’t feel. “God’s fish?”
“Yes, sir,” Billy said. “God’s fish for God’s boys.”
So, reluctantly, George had baited up and dropped his line in the water.
Now, something large and full of fight pulled at the line and he gripped the cork-wrapped handle with a white knuckled fist as his other hand worked the reel. When the fish broke the surface, it startled him and he al
most dropped the rod over the side.
Frost laughed deep from his belly. “Now don’t fall out, George.”
He braced himself and kept reeling, feeling the salmon pull this way and that as it tried to escape. When he got it close enough to the boat, Billy bent over the side with a net and scooped it in. It thrashed about until the more experienced fisherman could get a hold of it, remove the hook, and club it. There was a tag on its fin that George pointed out and Frost’s knife was out, removing it and tossing it over the side.
“What tag?” he asked, holding up bloodstained hands to heaven.
They paused to offer a prayer of thanks before slipping the fish into the cooler of ice to lay alongside the two Frost had caught earlier.
Then, they re-baited George’s hook and slipped it over the side. “We’ll barbecue one of these up tonight, I reckon. Serve it up with lemon and garlic butter and a bit of pilaf. I might have some of Sister Mary’s squash laying around.”
George nodded. “Sounds good.”
It was a gray day but the rain had let up and the sun hung like a white disk behind its veil of cloud cover. A brisk wind on the water bordered on cold. Billy reached for the thermos and topped off their mugs, then dug out two sandwiches, passing one over to George.
“So I figure,” he said, “that we need to talk some.”
George nodded slowly, wishing the hot coffee would warm the ice forming in his stomach. “What happened with those boys, Billy?”
Frost looked around as if to be sure no one was in earshot. “You want it soft serve or hard?”
“I want the truth,” George said. “The honest-to-God what happened.”
Frost sighed, was quiet for a moment, and then looked up with hard eyes. “I’ll tell you everything, George. But first, I need you to do something for me.”
George tried to read the expression on the man’s face but couldn’t. “What?”
“Take off your clothes, George.”
George blinked. “Take off my clothes?”
Frost nodded. “Take ‘em off. Every stitch.”