The judge’s wife had died about five years ago. The President would have to call the judge’s daughter, who was a high-powered lawyer on the West Coast.
Do this right, he thought. If you ever do anything right in your life, do this. He turned and reached for the phone.
SEVEN
The two last being mechanics, and up late, mentioned that they were much alarmed at about 11 o’clock last night, by a great rumbling, as they thought, in the earth, attended with several flashes of lightning, which so lighted the house, that they could have picked up the smallest pin—one mentioned, that the rumbling and the light was accompanied by a noise like that produced by throwing a hot iron into snow, only very loud and terrific, so much so, that he was fearful to go out to look what it was, for he never once thought of an earthquake. I have thrown together the above particulars, supposing an extract may meet with corroborating accounts, and afford some satisfaction to your readers.
Extract of a letter dated West River, January 23, 1812
Omar gave himself Monday off and drove to Vicksburg to pick up Micah Knox, the speaker from the Crusaders National of the Tabernacle of Christ, who was supposed to meet him at the bus station. There was only one white man in the station when Omar arrived, a skinny kid slumped in a plastic waiting room chair with his feet propped on an army surplus duffel bag, and he seemed so unlikely to be a Crusader that Omar’s gaze passed over him twice before the kid stood up, hitched the duffel onto his shoulder, and walked straight up to him.
“Sheriff Paxton.”
His voice was nasal and unpleasantly Yankee. He was thin and very small, coming maybe up to Omar’s clavicle, and thin, with red hair cut short enough to show the odd contours of his skull. He wore a long-sleeved flannel shirt, black jeans, and worn work boots. He looked maybe all of seventeen years old.
“Micah Knox?” Omar shook the kid’s hand. With the duffel and the short haircut, he looked like a teenage soldier on leave.
“Thanks for coming to meet me,” Knox said. His eyes were eerie, with bayou-green pupils entirely surrounded by eye-white.
“Can I help you with that?” indicating the duffel.
“No, I got it. Thanks.”
They walked out of the waiting room into the blazing heat. Omar opened the trunk of his car and let Knox put his duffel inside. The duffel seemed surprisingly heavy. Sweat was already popping out on Knox’s forehead.
“Damn, it’s hot down here,” he said.
“You’re not exactly dressed for the South,” Omar said. Knox looked self-consciously at his long-sleeved flannel shirt.
“I got Aryan tattoos,” Knox said. “I don’t want the niggers to see them. Nothing but niggers on that bus.” Omar unlocked his car doors and he and Knox got inside.
Omar started the car, and for Knox’s benefit turned on the air conditioner full blast. Two young black men, leaning against the shaded wall of the station, looked at them both with expressionless faces. Probably they recognized Omar from television. Knox glared sullenly back at them.
“I hate the way they stare,” he said.
“You had a chance to eat? You want to stop somewhere?”
Knox shifted uneasily in his seat. “I don’t eat much.”
It occurred to Omar that maybe Knox didn’t have any money. “I’m buying,” he said.
“I’m not hungry,” Knox said. “But you go ahead and eat if you want.” Omar drove in silence over the crumbling Vicksburg streets until he got onto I-20 heading west. The freeway vaulted off the Vicksburg bluff and was suddenly over water. Omar looked down at a huge gambling casino dressed up as a nineteenth-century riverboat, with huge flowering stacks and gingerbread balconies, then saw Knox sitting with his hands clamped on the passenger seat, his eyes closed and his face gone pale.
“Something the matter?” Omar asked.
“I hate heights,” Knox said in a strained voice. “Can’t stand bridges.” Omar was amused. When he’d got to the end of the bridge, he told Knox it was safe and Knox opened his eyes and began to breathe again.
“So you’re on a speaking tour or something?” Omar said. “The Grand Wizard didn’t make that clear.”
“Speaking. Recruiting.” He gave Omar a look with his strange eyes. “Fund-raising.”
“Can’t have raised too many funds if you’re traveling by bus.”
Knox shrugged. “I raised money here and there, but I didn’t keep it. I sent it to other Crusader groups.”
“That’s good.”
Knox shifted uneasily in his seat. “You got a bank in Shelltown, or whatever it’s called?”
“Shelburne City. And we’ve got two.”
“I might need to get some more money.” He scratched his head. “Either of the banks owned by Jews?”
“Nope. You can do business in either of ’em.”
“Mm.” Knox pulled his feet up into the seat and crossed his arms on his knees, resting his chin on his forearms. His fingers tapped out strange little rhythms on his flannel-covered biceps.
“I got a good feeling about Shelburne City,” he said. “I think we’re gonna give people something to think about.”
Omar and Knox didn’t talk much on the way to Spottswood Parish. Knox clamped his eyes shut when they crossed the Bayou Bridge, then sat up and grinned. “We’re in Liberated America now!” he said.
“As liberated as it gets,” Omar said.
“This is the only county in America not run by ZOG. You chased ZOG out of Spottswood County.”
“Parish,” Omar corrected automatically. ZOG was Zionist Occupation Government, a term that some of the people used.
They passed a sign with a blue spiral design and the words evacuation route. Knox narrowed his eyes as the sign passed.
“What is that? Is that some kind of nuclear war thing?”
“It’s in case of a big hurricane,” Omar said. “This state is so flat that a big enough storm could put half of us under the Gulf of Mexico.”
Knox looked around. “It’s flat all right.”
“It looks flatter’n it is,” Omar said. “You can’t really tell from looking, but most of the parish is actually higher than the country around. In the big flood of ’27, thousands of people saved their lives by evacuating here.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Knox said. He peered at a strange figure that strolled up the road toward Hardee. He was an elderly black man dressed in worn overalls, with a ragged wide-brimmed hat on his head. He carried a wicker bag over one shoulder, and a stick over the other shoulder with a half-dozen dead birds hanging from it.
“What the hell is that?” Knox demanded.
Omar grinned. “That’s ol’ Cudgel,” Omar said. “He’s from down south in coonass country somewhere, came up here fifteen or eighteen years ago. Lives in a shack up in Wilson’s Woods, has a skiff on the bayou. Lives off what he can catch or trap, fish or birds or animals.”
Knox turned around in his seat, looking at the strange figure loping along the road in his homemade sandals. “Looks like he just came down from the trees,” he said. “He looks like the original Mud Person.”
“Mud people” was a term that some of the groups used for inferior races. The theory was that they weren’t created by God like white folks, they were spawned out of the mud.
“Cudgel’s all right,” Omar said. “Cudgel’s never been any trouble.” Knox gave Omar an intent look. “Ain’t none of ’em all right. I’m from Detroit and I know. They chased us out of Madison Heights, they chased us out of Royal Oak. They’re animals, every one of ’em.” He flung himself back into his seat with a thump. “They should be put to sleep,” he said. “I get upset just thinking about it.”
“Well,” Omar said, “you’re in liberated country now. You can take it easy.”
“Hurricanes,” Knox muttered. “Swamp-niggers. Floods. Jesus H. Shit.” Omar figured that the rest of the day was going to be very long. He was looking forward to getting his guest to the bus station in Monroe next morning. The kid w
as just too twitchy, too moody. He doubted that Knox had anything new to say about the situation. He wondered why the Grand Wizard had arranged to send him here.
Knox was pleased by the election signs and flags that were still visible in Hardee, and by the way some of Omar’s neighbors waved at him as he drove by. “You got some real support here!” he said, slapping his thighs. “That’s great! It’s great to see this stuff!”
Omar slowed as he approached his house. “I want to check if there’s reporters around,” he said. “I don’t want them following us to the meeting.”
“Jesus, no,” Knox muttered. He slumped low in his seat, just letting his eyes peer above the level of the door.
“I think most of them went home,” Omar said. “They got a short attention span, you know, Madonna farts in Hollywood and they’ve got to go cover it.”
The road was empty of any living thing except for a couple of cur dogs panting in the shade of some forsythia. Omar parked in his carport. Knox seemed spooked by the idea that reporters might be lurking around, and he continued to slump in the passenger seat until he got out, and then kept his head down as he left the car and collected his duffel from the trunk.
Wilona wasn’t home, and Omar remembered that this was the date for her afternoon tea with Ms. LaGrande. Omar showed Knox through Wilona’s sewing room to the bedroom that Omar’s son David had occupied until he left for LSU. “Thanks, Sheriff,” he said. “This’ll do fine.”
“Would you like a beer?” Omar asked. “Co-Cola? Lemonade?”
“Coke would be good,” Knox said. He stowed his duffel under David’s narrow bed. Omar got Knox a Coke and himself a beer. He sat on the sofa in the living room, and Knox sat crosslegged on the floor in front of him. He looked down the length of the building, through Wilona’s sewing room to his own bedroom.
“Why do they build ’em like this?” he asked. “Long and narrow, all the rooms in a row?”
“Ventilation,” Omar said. “A shotgun home was built so that any breeze would blow through all the rooms.”
“But now you’ve got air-conditioning.”
“Yep.” Omar sipped his Silver Bullet. Knox fidgeted with his Coke, making a continuous ring of ice against the glass.
“I’m curious,” Omar said. “The Grand Wizard didn’t really have a chance to tell me where your outfit is based.”
Knox turned his staring green eyes on Omar. “My action group formed in Detroit,” Knox said. “Most of us are in the West, I guess. Montana, Oregon, Washington State. But there’s no particular place we meet—we all travel a lot, and we only get together on special occasions.”
“A traveling Klan?” Omar smiled thinly to cover his unease.
He was beginning to feel a degree of anxiety about his guest. “You all salesmen or something?” he asked. Knox shook his head. “Not like you mean. I mean we all recruit, yeah, but we travel because we’re all warriors in the cause. See, I don’t know many other Crusaders—I’ve only met a handful. I only know the ones in my action group—that’s my cell. That way if one of us is an informer, he can only betray so many.”
“Uh-huh,” Omar said. He sipped his beer while alarms clattered through his mind. He didn’t like what he was hearing.
“You’re a police officer, right?” Knox said. “So you know how it is that serial killers get away with what they do.”
Omar thought about it. “You mean that there’s no connection—” he began.
“Right. They kill perfect strangers. There’s nothing to link the killers and their victims.” 154 Walter J. Williams
“Uh-huh.” Omar said again. He narrowed his eyes, tried to think his way out of this. Cocksucker set me up, he thought.
“Just apply that principle to the revolution,” Knox said. “That’s all the Crusaders National are doing. You don’t do anything in your own area, or to anyone who knows you.” He looked up. “Say, did you ever read Hunter!” Knox said.
“Heard about it,” Omar said, still thinking. He carefully put his beer down on the side table.
“Hunter’s a great book. Tells exactly how to do it,” Knox said. “Exactly how to overthrow ZOG and put Aryans back in charge again. It’s just about this one guy… and all he does is travel around, and he kills nigger leaders and kike politicians and queers and black men who fuck white women. And he’s so inspirational, see, that soon other people follow his example.” Set me up, Omar thought. That fucking bondsman bastard.
Knox’s face glowed with enthusiasm. “ZOG doesn’t know how to fight them. Because they’re not organized, they’re just people doing what’s right. If they catch one, he can’t help them, ’cause he doesn’t know the others. Now the Crusaders National are a little more organized than that, but not much. We use codes to communicate, and the Internet. And we meet only to plan our actions and carry them out, see… you know, find a bank in some little town—”
Omar moved. He lunged off the couch and slammed Knox in the breastbone with the palm of his hand. Knox’s eyes widened in shock as he went over on his back. Coke splashed over the floor.
“Down!” Omar shouted. “Down on your face!”
Ice skiddered across the wooden floor. Knox was on his back with his legs still half-locked in the crosslegged position. Fabric tore as Omar grabbed his shirt and rolled him over onto his face.
“Arms straight out!” Omar said. He could feel sweat popping out on his face. He straddled Knox and slammed him in between the shoulder blades to keep him on the floor.
“What—?” Knox began.
“Just shut up!” Omar said. “Put your arms straight out!”
Knox obeyed. “I didn’t do nothing, man,” he said. Omar began patting him down. He found a knife in a sheath inside Knox’s jeans on the right side, so that it would be invisible till he drew it, and a little snubnosed .38 special in an ankle holster. Omar stood up, looked at the five bullets in the cylinder. Knox was carrying it loaded. Omar cocked the pistol and pointed it at the back of Knox’s head.
“Take your pants off,” he said.
Knox twisted his head to stare at Omar in alarm. “Hey!” he said. “You think I’m queer or something?” Fear made his voice crack. “I’m not a queer! I hate queers!”
“I want to find out if you’re wearing a wire,” Omar said. “Do it or I blow your fucking head off.” Knox put his hands on his belt, then hesitated.
Sweat slid off Omar’s nose, pattered on the floor. “This is my parish,” he reminded, “and you can disappear into the bayou real easy.”
Knox squirmed on the floor as he drew his jeans as far down as his boots would permit. Beneath the jeans were worn boxer shorts. Omar knelt and carefully felt Knox’s crotch. Knox straightened and gave a little gasp at the touch, but did not protest. Omar could detect no electronics.
“Right,” he said, stepping back and raising the pistol again. “Now I want you to crawl toward the bedroom.”
“I’m not an informer,” Knox gasped. “I’m not a race-traitor. I don’t know who told you different, but—” Omar swiped with his sleeve at the sweat that poured down his face. “Shut up and do as I say,” he said. Still aiming the pistol, he walked behind Knox as Knox crawled into David’s room. The boy’s jeans were still down around his knees. Omar had Knox lie facedown in the corner while he dumped out Knox’s duffel on the bed. He found some clothing, a zipped case of toiletries, a laptop computer in its original foam packing held together by duct tape, some books and magazines, including well-worn copies of Hunter, Protocols of the Elders of Zion, and The Turner Diaries, ammunition, a 9mm Beretta, and a pump shotgun with a folding stock and pistol grip—disassembled, but it could have been put in working order in seconds.
“I can explain, you know?” Knox said.
Omar sat on the bed and contemplated the weapons laid out before him. The Grand Wizard, he thought, had set him up. He’d got jealous of Omar’s prominence in the organization, was afraid that Omar might set up his own Klan. It had been the Grand Wizard who had s
ent this kid to Spottswood Parish to talk about bank robbery and sedition. Maybe even rob the bank and claim Omar as an accomplice. Well, Omar thought. The Grand Wizard’s plan just got derailed.
Omar looked up at Knox. The redheaded man had turned partly onto his side and was watching Omar with those strange eyes.
“Let me tell you how it’s going to be,” Omar said. “So far as I know, these weapons belong to you and have not been used in the commission of any crime.”
“That’s true,” Knox said. “They’re clean. I bought ’em at a gun show. You can—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Omar said. Knox closed his mouth with an audible snap.
“Just listen,” Omar said. “Now—you’re a colleague, and you’re here in Spottswood Parish to talk to my people, and you can do that. But—” He pointed the pistol. “I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and I am not going to let you fuck up my work by preaching anything illegal. There are going to be people at the meeting tonight who are peace officers, and who are sworn to uphold the law. You are not going to compromise us in any way. You are not going to advocate killing people, or robbing banks, or committing crimes.”
“I won’t,” Knox said quickly. “You can trust me. I didn’t understand your situation, that’s all.”
“Because,” Omar said, continuing as if he hadn’t heard, “if you do that, if you advocate illegalities, you are just going to disappear. And don’t think I can’t make that happen, because everybody you’re going to meet tonight are people I grew up with, and I know them all very well, and I can trust every single one of them to do what’s necessary.” He wiped sweat from his face. “You understand what I’m saying, podna?”
“Yes.” Knox nodded. “I understand.”
“I’m going to tape-record the meeting tonight.” Omar said, “so there’s a record of what you say. Just in case someone later alleges that you came here preaching sedition or something.” Just in case the Grand Wizard sics the fucking FBI on me, he thought. Knox nodded again. “Fine,” he said. “Whatever you say.”
The Rift Page 16