The Devil Knocks

by Frank Rich

  * * *

  "Where've you been?" Monique asked as I walked in the door.

  "Around." I moved to the stove and looked over her shoulder. "What're you making?"

  She stirred the pot. "Rebel stew."

  "My favorite."

  "I figured it would be. We have to talk."

  I pulled up a chair and sighed. "I know. You reckon you're falling in love with me, I guess. Don't feel bad, it was only a matter of time."

  She looked away from the pot long enough to lay an ugly look on me. "Not exactly. I want to talk about what you're doing to the band."

  "We already discussed that, remember? Where's George?"

  "He took the band out for some night training."

  "Good. The night favors the guerilla. It's cold out there. They must have complained like hell."

  "No, they seemed excited, like kids playing war. I think they're starting to like it."

  I watched her stir the stew, her back to me, the gentle curve of her hips moving slightly with the motion. "And that bothers you."

  "I just don't want them turned into another death squad. There's enough of those in the world."

  "They're a death squad on the side of good."

  "Death squads usually think they are."

  I picked up the plastic salt shaker on the table and rolled it in my fingers. "Listen, angel. I'm not some kind of wonderful charismatic leader or a fire-eyed idealist able to sway thousands with a wave of my hand. I'm a killer, a pretty good one. That's why I was sent here, to kill. I'm just doing my job. You were the one who wanted me to assume my moral responsibilities and throw this party, remember?"

  "I know that. It's your methods I don't like. If I knew you were going to make a bloodbath out of this, I would have dropped you off in the desert myself."

  "Okay," I said, anger beating at my temples. "If you're so damn smart, why don't you tell me how to overthrow this goddamn police state? I'm always receptive to a good idea. Let's hear your wonderful pacifist plan that will turn this city into one big happy love fest."

  Monique stiffened. I was still smoldering with self-righteous indignation when she brought the stew to the table. We feasted on hot stew and bitter silence. She retired to her room after a shallow helping, leaving me alone. After three bowls of the rich stew, I cleared the table and got a beer from the fridge. I leaned against the sink and stared at the door that separated us, knowing I should go in there and try to patch things up, also knowing I would fail miserably.

  I sat at the kitchen table with a notepad and Black's primer on revolutions, trying to puzzle it all together, figure out what a ruthless man had to do to topple a power structure. I opened Black's guidebook. On the first page of the first chapter was an outline:

  The seven basic steps of overthrowing a government

  1. Recognize: Understand what you're up against, the barriers that stand in your way and the indigenous forces you may harness.

  2. Organize: By either infiltrating and commandeering an existing movement or starting one from scratch, construct a machine tailored to overcoming the obstacles before you.

  3. Purify: Purge the elements within your organization that are contrary to the direction of the movement.

  4. Strike: Overcome the obstacles that stand in your way to power.

  5. Seize: Take the reins of power, whether it means the occupation of a symbolic center of power or an uncontested military presence.

  6. Liquidate: Execute the former power brokers, their sympathizers and anyone else who poses a current or future threat to your rule.

  7. Consolidate: Upon the foundations of the old regime, rebuild and reorganize the apparatus of control and order.

  I drew a small circle in my notebook and wrote Remi in its center. I drew another around the first and labeled it SPF. I drew a third and labeled it Poppers. The fourth I labeled Fear. I stared at the concentric rings, the rings of defense I would have to breach. I drew one more circle and left it unlabeled. The outer circle was removed from Remi's machine, yet equally constricting and powerful. I didn't know the name of the last circle, or maybe I did and didn't want to face what had to be done. I left it unlabeled and went to bed.

  17

  After morning PT, I went over the basics of hand-to-hand combat and urban warfare with the band. In the afternoon I turned the class over to George.

  "You got a mistress or something?" George asked.

  "Yeah. Babbit."

  "Babbit? Why?"

  "I've a funny feeling about him. I think he's part of the puzzle, a big piece."

  I stopped at a combooth and made a call on the way to Babbit's.

  "Taylor Investments," a voice said. "Mr. Taylor speaking."

  "Hello, Cliff. How goes the battle?"

  "Not so well. We're having trouble getting the gang together. We had to forfeit position twice on no-shows. Am I speaking to the gentlemen I met on-site last Wednesday?"

  "Yes, it's Jake. Any combat scheduled tomorrow morning?"

  "No, not until the weekend."

  "Will the other side be there?"

  "No, I think they live in youth dorms across town. Is there a problem?"

  "No, I just wanted to watch a little of the action."

  "Oh, I see. Well, be there at eleven hundred Saturday, and you'll see all the action you can stand. I can also give you a window on a sensibly balanced selection of investment options, if you're interested."

  "I wouldn't mind taking a look. See you then." I hung up, then continued on my way to the abandoned church next to Babbit's mansion.

  I stood in the belfry, staring down with the binos. Hours passed without event, and it was nearly time for Babbit's walk when a van pulled up into the circular driveway of the mansion. Two robed men got out, one carrying a briefcase. They wore their robes uncomfortably, with the hoods up, and I could see the bulk of jumpsuits beneath the silky cloth. They came out ten minutes later, minus the briefcase. I thumbed the magnification button, clicked on the record function and tried to get a look at their faces.

  My angle and the depth of the hoods made it impossible to see more than the bottoms of their chins. "Look up, you bastards," I whispered. They opened the doors of the van, and for an instant the driver glanced at the sunset. As he faced the horizon, a glimmer of sunlight flashed from beneath the hood.

  After the van drove away, Babbit appeared on the path. He strolled to the bridge with a joyful step. He leaned on the rail over the water, smoking a fat cigar, watching the sunset.

  He looked up from the water and stared in my direction. Holding perfectly still, I watched his lips curl in the binos as the mike picked up a low giggle. For a chilling moment I was certain I'd been discovered, then realized he wasn't laughing at me; he was laughing at the church. His expression was not the knowing grin of a man who knew he was being watched; it was the gloating smile of the conqueror. He stared at the ruined church and laughed.

  Babbit soon disappeared, and when darkness fell I left my vantage point and returned to the motel. I sat at the kitchen table with the binos long after Monique had gone to bed. I reviewed again and again the image of the hooded man stored in the memory chip. I slowed the cycle until it clicked ahead frame by frame, freezing the image the instant the man looked to the sunset. In the shadow of the hood was the dark shape of a smile, the gray suggestion of a nose, and where the right eye should have been there was a flash of mirrored light.

  I put down the binos and opened my notebook. My eyes moved from the inner circle of Remi to the largest ring, yet unlabeled. I picked up a pen and wrote in a name. The last circle I labeled Babbit.

  * * *

  The next morning, following an intensified session of PT, the band piled into the Caddy and we drove to the brownstones.

  "What're we doing here?" Stevo asked, looking around the deserted buildings.

  I opened the trunk and hauled out an ammo can and a bag of extra magazines. "It's time to use bullets."

  As they loaded the magazines, I taped
paper targets against boarded-up windows. For the next hour the band zeroed their weapons, adjusting their sights until what they aimed at was what they hit.

  When I felt their marksmanship was fair, I began dry running them through street-assault patterns. I coached them in the principles of cover and suppressive fire and all the tricks of urban warfare I could remember. After two hours of street patterns, we moved inside for room-clearing techniques. When they had it down, I ran them through with live ammo. They proved eager and swift learners.

  "They're good," George said as we watched Mack and Stevo spin into a doorway, one high, one low, weapons chattering. "Especially Mack. He's a natural."

  "He's had previous training," I said.

  "You think?"

  "I know."

  At two o'clock I assembled them in front of the Caddy and quizzed them. Their retention was superb. I ordered them back into the car.

  "Do we have to go already?" Kerry complained.

  " 'fraid so. I've something to do tonight."

  I dropped the band at their house and drove George to the motel.

  "Where's Monique?" he asked, entering the motel.

  "Visiting her father, I think."

  "What did you want to talk about?" George said, sitting at the kitchen table.

  I sat across from him. "It's time to take the first step."

  "I'm ready. What's the plan?"

  "Removal of indigenous elements contrary to the direction of the movement."

  George thought for a moment. "You mean Babbit."

  "That's right. I know where he lives. We'll do it tonight."

  George sighed. "Man, it always gets ugly once you move into the action phase. You want me to call the band over so you can brief them?"

  "No. Just you and I are going on this one. I don't want Monique or the band to know about it."

  "Why not?"

  "They might not understand. Especially Monique."

  * * *

  George slowed to walking speed, and I slipped out the passenger door and into the twilight. I crouched behind an oak tree and watched the Caddy continue down the road. Twenty seconds later, a pair of robed guards passed within three yards of me, smoking cigarettes and laughing. I let fifteen seconds go by, then rushed the wall. I jumped, pulled myself to the top and rolled over in one motion, then dropped into the wall's shadow and froze. Babbit ambled along the path, staring at the cobblestones. When he took the first curve and put his back to me, I started after him, crouched low and keeping to the grass. With his lingering pace it didn't take long to catch up.

  "Hello, Babbit," I said as I came abreast of him.

  He jumped and turned his wide eyes on me. "What do you want?" he cried.

  "Spiritual advice, holy man. Shall we walk together?"

  He cast nervous looks around, searching for guards. I took his elbow, and we walked slowly along toward the low sun and away from the mansion.

  "My question is about the afterlife," I said.

  "An area of much discernment," Babbit croaked.

  "I agree. What I want to know is, does the hooded executioner go to Hell?"

  He gave another start. "I don't know what you mean."

  "Can a man be spiritually pardoned if he is bad for the side of good? Can a man kill evil men and still go to Heaven?" We started up the wooden slats of the bridge. "If so, how many is he allowed to kill?"

  "Well," he sputtered, "it wouldn't be a question of how many — it would either be one or an infinite number. If they are truly evil and deserving, it is perhaps natural for a man to feel the passion to kill."

  I nodded. "But what if he didn't kill them passionately, but impassively? Maybe he even likes to kill. What if his only proof of their evil were a computer printout or the word of another?"

  "Okay!" Babbit wailed, pulling away from me. "Stop the routine, it's obvious you're some sort of sadistic hitman. Who sent you?"

  We stopped and faced each other on the bridge. I looked into his frightened eyes. "Remi sent me."

  "Remi?" he gasped. "But why? He doesn't think I'm betraying him, does he?"

  I leaned on the rail and looked down at my dark reflection in the pond. The water was calm and deep. "I'm afraid he does."

  "Well, he's very wrong. I've been playing them along just like he told me to."

  "He thinks you're getting a little extra out of the deal. He doesn't trust you anymore."

  "He's crazy! Why doesn't he just call me instead of sending over one of his killers? C'mon, let's go back to the house. We'll call him right now and clear all this up." He giggled desperately and took my arm. "C'mon, we'll be laughing about this in an hour."

  "I think your palace guards might resent my presence," I said.

  Babbit released my arm and gaped at the open switchblade in my hand. His eyes rose to mine, full of hate. "To answer your earlier question, you're going to burn in Hell for eternity!"

  "Then I've nothing to lose." I drove the blade between his ribs, puncturing his heart. He fell forward, holding on to my jacket for support.

  "My children will avenge me," he croaked.

  I let him slip to the slats of the bridge. "I'm not going to tell them."

  I walked to the edge of the pond and filled my arms with four head-size rocks. I carried them back to the bridge and wrapped them tightly in the folds of Babbit's robe, then lifted him over the bridge's rail and dropped him into the pond.

  He broke the still waters with a dull splash and sank out of sight. Wide ripples lapped at the mud at the edge of the pond.

  George was waiting when I returned to the rendezvous point.

  "Well?" George said as we pulled out of the church's parking lot.

  "Let's go have a drink," I said.

  George smiled. "You got him, then."

  * * *

  I stumbled into the room, reeling madly.

  Monique rose from the kitchen table. "Oh, Jake. You're drunk."

  "I had to, baby. I really had to this time."

  She stared at me. "Who'd you kill?"

  I staggered toward the bed and fell into it. "Who says I killed anyone?"

  "George says the only time you get this drunk is when you've killed someone."

  I closed my eyes and pretended to pass out. I could sense her eyes on my back, as if she could see through me, as if she could see what I'd done.

  "Poor Jake," she whispered, unlacing my boots. "You just can't stop killing. You're a junkie. A junkie for death."

  18

  They moved at a smooth, even pace, their formation tight and disciplined, their breathing controlled and easy.

  "How do you feel?" I asked.

  "Great!" they called back.

  "Good," I said, and picked up the pace.

  "How do you feel now?" I asked fifteen minutes later.

  "Better!"

  "Want to quit?" I asked.

  They shot me impertinent looks. "No!"

  After the morning run, we returned to the classroom. I stood at the front and looked them over. Muscle tone was beginning to show in their torsos, the apathetic slackness of their faces had disappeared, their eyes were alert, attentive. They held their weapons not as alien instruments, but as familiar objects.

  "We're about to embark on an adventure, gentlemen, in a vehicle in which there is no room for mercy, morality or remorse," I said. "It will not be a long journey — it will be an all-out race for the finish line. The nature of the contest and our total commitment to victory entails that there can be only one of two outcomes. When the race is over, we will either be utterly victorious or utterly dead."

  They looked at each other and grinned wolfishly, nervous and excited, young and naive enough to see romance and adventure in war. They were the same proud children who marched to die on anonymous battlefields in every generation since the beginning of man.

  I folded my arms. "Today I will teach you why there are no rules to war and why there should be no hesitation when you pull the trigger."

  When cla
sses ended late in the afternoon, I returned to Dante's to take Monique to dinner. The restaurant was only four blocks away, so we decided to walk.

  "It's getting colder every day," she said as we strolled down Colfax.

  "It's the nature of the season," I said.

  "How's the training going?" she asked.

  "They're eager learners. They remind me of someone."

  "Who?"

  "Me, when I was their age. As I lectured today I kept seeing my own face." I shook my head and smiled. "I was so willing to believe the lies back then, the lies that gave us the moral right to kill."

  "What's this?" Monique said. "The apostle of murder admits the fallacy of his dogma? How can you say that and go on teaching the same lies, perpetuating the horror?'

  "Just because something is horrible doesn't mean it shouldn't be done."

  Out of the corner of my eye I tracked a heavy cruiser creeping up slowly behind us. I folded my arms as if against the cold, slipping my right hand inside my jacket. The cruiser cut the distance until I could hear the rough purr of its turbine. "You know anyone who drives a blue luxsport cruiser?" I asked.

  Monique gave me a strange look. "I don't think so."

  "I was afraid of that."

  The cruiser surged forward and swung to the curb beside us, the rear door flying open. I shoved Monique to the pavement and spun, shoving the snout of the gyra at the open door.

  Marlene stared at the pistol. "You have a funny way of saying hello."

  I stared at her from a crouch, pistol hand extended, the trigger half-pulled. I straightened up slowly, trying to catch my breath. The hesitation is still there, I thought. I holstered the gyra and helped Monique to her feet.

  "Where have you been?" Marlene asked. "We've been looking all over for you. Where's Bruce?"

  "He wigged," I reported. "He decided to go live in the desert with lizards."

  "How strange," she replied. "Well, get in. We have so much to do."

  I wavered then nodded, turning to Monique. "I have to go for a while."