“The Caucasian Nation is one of the bigger hate groups operating in America today. According to FBI files, their US membership is somewhere around five thousand. Double this figure for satellite organizations in other countries, mostly European. There also seems to be a lot of overlap with KKK members. Go figure.”
“You want to join?” I asked.
“Not that easy. From what I understand, any loser with a Hitler fetish can join, but only hardcore members get to attend the training camps. There are seven known camps throughout the United States, and the Feds are keeping an eye on them all. The camps are your standard paramilitary prepping-for-Armageddon-training-ground bullshit. But they’re sly about it. Instead of anti-government, the CN has taken a pro-government standing. They give large political donations, help finance campaigns, and even have a few lobbyists in Washington. Though their stance is unpopular, they grease enough political wheels to keep the Feebies off their backs. And the Feds aren’t pushing it. No one wants another Waco.”
“Pasha’s being kept at one of these camps?”
“Maybe. It would be next to impossible to check out each camp, either by forcing our way in or infiltrating undercover. Too many camps, and they could be moving her.”
The kid whose leg I’d broken, he mentioned one of the camps in southern Illinois. But I kept that to myself until I heard Jack’s plan.
“Who’s financing the CN?” I asked. “An organization that big can’t survive off of donations and volunteers.”
“Exactly. And the root of this particular weed happens to be none other than Bradford Milton.”
I had no idea who that was.
“Founder of Milton Electronics,” Jack explained.
“No shit.”
Milton Electronics manufactured everything from toasters to disc drives. They made good products that were inexpensive enough to compete against the Japanese.
“So Milton is a Hitler freak.”
“A big one, apparently. It took the Feebies two years of picking through paperwork to finally figure out the CN was a Milton front. And once they found out, there wasn’t much they could do. After all, the CN isn’t breaking any laws, at least on the surface. Most of their hardcore members are cons or ex-cons, but the actual organization hasn’t been implicated in any crimes.”
“Why don’t they just expose it? Leak it to the press?”
“Because Milton Electronics has over twenty thousand workers nationwide. A scandal could hurt the company, an American company, selling American stock, that’s giving Americans jobs.”
I wondered how many black people he employed at his plants. Or Jews. Or homosexuals. And I wondered if they knew they were working for a Nazi.
“So Milton finances the CN,” I said, thinking out loud, the words hurting my raw throat. “But who does he have running it while he’s running his company?”
“Bradford Milton gave himself the title SC.” Jack frowned. “The Supreme Caucasian.”
“That’s stupid as hell.”
“And then some. Members know the title, but they don’t know it’s him.”
“So we make a play for Milton?”
Jack shook her head. “He’s too insulated, too protected. But each of the seven camps is run by a figurehead called a Gruppenführer—a Lt. General—and the nearest one to us is named John Packer. He currently works as a middle school gym teacher.”
“Nice to know our public educational system doesn’t discriminate during the hiring process.”
“Packer may know where Pasha is.”
“Where’s Packer?”
“Springfield. He spends a lot of time at the training camp in Argenta, Illinois. It’s a tiny town just north of Decatur. Word is, they’re having a rally tomorrow.”
“I didn’t know you were an expert on white nationalists, Jack.”
“After you called about Hugo, I called in a few favors, did some research.”
“And what about Hugo?”
“The doctor told me he’s being taken to an orthodontist for surgery. Apparently you did a number on him. Then they’re taking him to County.”
She meant Cook County Jail. “When?”
“Soon. When I hear from Tom, I’ll take your bracelet off.”
I nodded, but couldn’t help regretting the lost opportunity. I should have killed him when I had the chance. Jack seemed to sense my concern, and her face softened.
“We’ll find Pasha, Phin. And your brother is going away for life. I know he deserves more than that, but the only way to run a civilized society is to have rules. There has to be due process. Or else we’re just as bad as the Nazis.”
That was the thing, though. To anyone objectively tracing the history of America, from slavery to the Patriot Act, our country was as bad as any. We violated civil rights, tortured, and murdered, on both a national and a global scale. And as private citizens, we were no better. Gun violence, abuse, rape, bigotry; we didn’t have to point fingers at Nazis to find examples of awful human behavior. We only had to look in the mirror.
Everyone believes there are horrible people doing horrible things; things we would never, ever do. But we do those same horrible things. There is no us and them. Only we.
Innocent people are hurt, and die, all the time. And here was a guy, my brother, who was guilty as guilty got, and he would be getting three square meals a day, courtesy of the taxpayers, for life.
It wasn’t even about punishment. Or revenge. It was simple common sense. Hugo was as dangerous as a wild, rabid animal. He didn’t need due process. He needed to be put down.
But try explaining that to a cop.
So instead I asked, “What’s our move?”
“We check out the camp, see if we can locate Pasha. If not, we get some one-on-one time with Packer, and persuade him to help us find her.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And you’re okay with this? He may not be willing to help, and we may have to use some more extreme methods of persuasion.”
“We’re not going to break the law, Phin. I want to help. But I want to be able to live with myself afterward.”
I nodded. While I had a more laissez faire approach to morality than Jack did, it was wise to agree with the one holding your handcuff key.
“I know you don’t like to be thanked, but thanks.”
Jack shook her head. “Don’t thank me yet. Thank me when your lady is safe. I’ve got this feeling it won’t be as easy as I’m hoping.”
Is it ever?
No. It was never easy.
Which was why, as soon as Jack left, I made a phone call.
HUGO
The bitch cop who came to see him was older, well-dressed, and looked like she’d be fun to go a few rounds with. Unfortunately, she stayed just out of reach.
Hugo grinned, knowing his appearance was hideous. Besides shooting him and stabbing him and burning him and breaking his nose, little brother Phineas had knocked out nine of the giant’s front teeth. With only one upper tooth and two lower ones showing in his smile, and a triangular metal brace on his nose, Hugo resembled a demented Halloween pumpkin.
“Like my smile?” he asked. “They want to take me to an oral surgeon, but I’m starting to appreciate the look.”
“Three years ago, someone killed a priest,” she said, ignoring his question.
“Let me guess… you want to know who to thank.”
“Should I be thanking you?”
“You mean, am I stupid enough to confess to murder?”
“We already have you for murder, Hugo. The manager of the Michigan Motel. You left so much evidence, the trial will just be a formality. But I have a feeling that wasn’t the first.”
“You can squat on that feeling and spin, cop.”
She stared at Hugo, not blinking.
This woman isn’t afraid of me.
How odd.
How exciting.
“Have you checked in with your P.O. lately?” she asked.
His parole officer. Hugo hadn’t se
en the man since slitting his throat. “I haven’t. How is good old Jerry? He helped me get a swell job bagging groceries. I can’t remember if I thanked him.”
“I think you know how Jerry is.”
Hugo didn’t respond. But he did wink.
“I heard you also kidnapped someone.”
“Is that what you heard?”
“You can guess how this will go down, Hugo. A judge, or a jury, gets a good look at all of your cute little tattoos, the prosecutor gets the Medical Examiner on the stand, who testifies that you tore off that man’s face while he was still alive, and you spend five consecutive life sentences in a six by ten. You’ll be eligible for parole when you’re a hundred and sixty-five.”
“I like prison,” Hugo said. “It calms the nerves.”
“Tell me where she is.”
“I didn’t get your name.”
“I didn’t offer it.”
“You came to offer me a deal, didn’t you?”
“I’ve been told you don’t make deals.”
“Who told you that? Phineas? My little brother has always been a squealer. In more ways than one.” Hugo grinned again. “I bet you squeal, too.”
The cop didn’t seem intimidated.
“You think you’re scary. You think you’re the worst of the worst. I’ve seen the worst of the worst. You aren’t in the top ten.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew everything I’ve done.”
“So tell me.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I can tell that you want to.”
For a moment, Hugo considered it. It had been diverting, talking to Pasha. She’d tried so hard to hide her emotions, to keep her fear and revulsion in check, and it had been a real pleasure when she broke. This cop would be harder to disgust, but it might be fun to try.
“When I was seven years old, my father tried to show me how to be a man by giving me a bunny rabbit, and a hunting knife. You want to know why he beat the shit out of me?”
“Because you didn’t do it.”
“Because I cut off its ears and threw them in his face.”
She stared, unblinking. “You’re making that up.”
“Maybe. I like to make things up. Here’s a made-up story. Once upon a time, a man grabbed a woman, and took her to a secret place. He cut her ears off, just like that bunny. And then he did other things with his razor. Things to make her squeal.”
“And where is this woman now?”
“That made-up woman from the story?”
The cop nodded.
“That woman,” Hugo said, “is standing right in front of me.”
He looked for fear. Didn’t see any.
This bitch was tough.
“You have a lot of muscles,” she said.
“You like muscles?”
“I’ve found that really muscly guys are usually overcompensating for something. Are you overcompensating, Hugo?”
Hugo grinned. “You want to check?”
“Since you asked.”
In an impressively quick move, the cop yanked up Hugo’s hospital gown over his waist and then stepped out of his reach again.
A moment later she was smiling. “Really? You’re gonna make me squeal with that?”
Hugo felt his face redden. He wanted to cover up, but didn’t want to appear weak. So he forced himself not to move.
“Were you born like that? Is that why you’re mad at the world? Can’t say that I blame you.”
Hugo made a fist, making the handcuff chain clink. He’d never wanted to hit someone so badly before. But he didn’t want to show his cards yet. It wasn’t the right time.
“When you take steroids, there are tradeoffs,” he said.
“I almost want to take a picture, but my camera phone doesn’t have a zoom lens.”
“Fuck you, bitch.”
“I’ll pass. Baby carrots don’t do it for me. Cover up, it’s making me feel bad for you.”
Hugo’s ears felt like they’d been sunburned, but he stayed still. The woman grabbed the blanket bunched up at the foot of the bed and tossed it over his crotch.
“You traded big biceps for a micropenis. You may not make my top ten badass list, but you’re number one on my idiot list.”
Hugo took a deep breath, let it out slow. “And yet you’re so intimidated by me, you won’t even tell me your name.”
“It’s Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels, Homicide. Now how about you tell me something. Something about the missing woman.”
“Okay. When she screams, it sounds like baby birds being squeezed.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about. But I will tell you something. One day, we’re going to meet again. But I won’t be chained to a hospital bed. And when that happens, you’re going to be forced to revise your little top ten list.”
“We won’t meet again,” she said.
Then she turned around and left.
Hugo decided he liked her. Even though she was wrong.
They would meet again.
He would make sure of it.
Earlier that day, during a miserable excuse for lunch, Hugo had found a note at the bottom of his mashed potatoes. Written in marker, on one of those plastic tabs used to close bags of bread.
GRW 510. Be ready. SC.
A note from the Supreme Caucasian himself. Hugo was honored, awed, and a little irritated that it had taken this long for the SC to reach out to him personally. But he wasn’t surprised that the message had reached him. According to Packer, the Caucasian Nation had supporters everywhere.
The GRW was, of course, the Great Race War. The CN had been planning it for decades.
And 510 was May tenth. An obvious date. On May 10th, 1940, Germany invaded Western Europe. One of dozens of useless facts Hugo had been forced to memorize.
May 10th was only a few days from now.
Interesting.
After all those years of training, of waiting, of following orders, The Man With Seven Tears was practically tingling with anticipation.
He had no idea how things were going to turn out.
But it was all finally coming together. And Hugo had a feeling it was going to be a whole lot of fun.
PHIN
The drive down to Argenta was pleasant enough, considering the only pain meds I took were Tylenol, which wasn’t enough to dull all of my various aches and pains. Being stuck in a car with Jack for two hours could have been awkward, but instead it was surprisingly comfortable. Neither of us had the need to fill in the silence, but when we spoke it was interesting.
I liked her. And we had chemistry, even though neither of us were going to act on it. Maybe, if things had been different, we could have had something more than a casual friendship founded on beer, playing pool, and occasional violent favors.
“I had a pet turtle when I was a kid. My mother worked, I was at school all day, so we couldn’t get a dog. She bought me a turtle instead. I named him Ugly, because he had this ugly bald head attached to this wrinkly neck. Whenever I picked him up, he pulled his head in his shell. Even if I had his favorite treat, a carrot, he’d hide when I came in the room.” Jack glanced at me. “You remind me of that turtle.”
Apparently I’d misread our chemistry. No woman would ever sleep with a guy who reminded her of a pet turtle named Ugly.
“I had a pet hamster,” I offered. “Hugo microwaved it.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Did Ugly live a long and productive life?”
“I had him for two months. One day I noticed that the food I was giving him was piling up. Then the smell hit. He’d died, and I didn’t even know it.”
“Sweet story.”
She shrugged. “The moral there is don’t get close to anything, because it dies on you.”
We arrived at Packer’s place, a standard suburban ranch with red brick walls and white window shutters and a WELCOME mat. Nothing obvious that indicated a hate-monger lived there.
I suppose that was the worst kind of disease. The kind that stayed hidden until it was ready to cause mayhem.
I beg to differ, Earl whispered.
“How do you want to play this?” I asked Jack.
She was out of her jurisdiction, and hadn’t offered me any sort of weapon. I managed to steal a disposable scalpel from the biohazard box in a hospital bathroom, which I carefully cleaned off before putting it in my boot, but apparently I couldn’t be trusted with a gun.
“I’m going to flash my badge, hope he doesn’t look too closely, and ask him a few questions.”
“And what do I do?”
“You’re going to stay in the car. If I don’t come out within fifteen minutes, come get me.”
“What do you want me to use? My sharp tongue and good looks?”
“Your cell phone. Call the cops. Or if you hear me screaming for help, you can burst in with whatever weapon you took from the hospital.”
“Are you always so suspicious and cynical? Or is that a cop thing?”
“Neither. It’s what I’d do if I were you.”
I parked my Bronco and Jack got out, smoothing her skirt with her palms and unsnapping the .38 in her shoulder holster. When she walked to the front door, I didn’t know if she had a slight wiggle in her step for my benefit, or if I was imagining it.
You’re imagining it. She’s out of your league.
A woman answered. Fifties, permed hair, apron. I wondered if she was in the middle of cooking pot roast for Richie and the Fonz.
She and Jack exchanged a few words, then Jack came back to the car. We were a block away before she spoke.
“I don’t think she knows her husband is a white nationalist,” Jack said. “I said I wanted to know where the meeting was tomorrow, and she seemed oblivious. When I mentioned the CN, she told me, ‘You mean the boys’ club he goes to on weekends?’ How can you not know your husband is in a paramilitary group, planning to start a race war?”
“Some people don’t look too closely. How many spouses don’t know that they’re being cheated on? The signs are probably there, but they either don’t want to see them, or are too self-absorbed to see them.”
Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3) Page 70