“Kyle Lungren, minister of information for the United Christian Patriots,” he answered.
“Rachel Porter, your friendly Fish and Wildlife agent,” I responded. “I was wondering if I could stop by. My sister has a birthday coming up and I’d like to see what you’ve got that might work as a present.”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
There was a slight pause before Lungren replied. “Okay. What the hell. Come on over.”
I wrote down the directions and then drove south toward the town of Choteau. A two-lane road sliced with surgical precision through the high plains. There were no other cars around but for myself and some granny cowgirl in her vintage Studebaker who careened down the blacktop at a whopping twenty-fives miles an hour. Hell, my blood pressure accelerated faster than that. I waited the obligatory five seconds and then zoomed past, only to have sweet, little old granny respond by shooting me the finger.
I drove through a few faded towns, none of which stretched more than a city block long. Each had a post office, a gas station, and a mom-and-pop grocery all housed in identical one-room structures. The only other businesses were bars and taxidermy shops. A sign in one window boasted, YOU SNUFF ’EM, WE STUFF ’EM. I wondered how long it had taken to come up with that snappy slogan.
Bison-and horse-dotted pastures were all that broke the endless monotony of the drive between each village. The critters were so still they could have been statues but for the frost of their breath. One bison stood posed as if auditioning for the job on the back of an Indian head nickel. It wasn’t long before I whizzed past a handpainted sign, its bold blue letters proclaiming, GET THE U.S. OUT OF THE UN!
Yep, I was officially in militia country. My suspicion was confirmed as an old clunker sped past on the opposite side of the road. Each of its broken windows was held in place with tape, while the license plate barely hung on by a screw. The bumper sticker on its rear ordered “Quit Honking. I’m Reloading.”
I continued to follow Lungren’s directions, turning right at an abandoned gas station and heading down a dirt road. Soon an enormous chain-link fence came into view, surrounding some sort of compound. Parked out front were a bunch of broken-down, rusted cars, along with a couple of old turquoise school buses. Either Kyle was a connoisseur of modern art, or this was a nouveau junk barricade. A sign on the gate dubbed the place NEARLY PARADISE and instructed, HONK YOUR HORN FOR ENTRY.
I did as advised and beeped. It just goes to show that you shouldn’t always obey orders. A Rottweiler raced toward me and proceeded to heave his body against the gate. The dog slobbered and snarled nearly as much as the grizzly this morning. Two hostile confrontations in less than four hours—this must be my lucky day.
“Retreat, Uzi! Retreat!” The command came from somewhere beyond the gate.
The four-legged brute growled and glared at me like a serial killer, promising that we’d meet again. Then the critter ambled off into an open doorway. Why did I never manage to meet little old ladies who had lap dogs, baked chocolate chip cookies, and offered me tea? I contemplated that for a couple of minutes as I waited for someone to come greet me.
Two men finally appeared outside. One was tall and distinguished, sporting a neatly groomed goatee. He was quite the natty dresser, decked out in a heavy gray overcoat, along with stylish black pants and shoes. Call me judgmental, but the guy didn’t strike me as your typical militia member—except for the plastic cooler that he carried. It was just large enough to fit a couple of beers. He never so much as glanced my way, but got into a car and drove off deeper into the compound.
Only then did the second man acknowledge my existence with a wave of his hand. He slowly approached and unlocked the gate.
“I’d be much obliged if you’d leave your vehicle where it is.”
I did as he requested and walked inside. The man turned to face me after he’d closed and locked the gate.
“The name’s Rafe Lungren. I’m Kyle’s father,” he said and extended his hand. “I’m also the founder and head of the United Christian Patriots.”
His grip was strong and firm. In his early fifties, the man had the look of a biblical patriarch. Along with a muscular build, he had a heavy brow, a long white beard, and fiery blue eyes. His hair was fashionably shaggy. Lungren kept hold of my hand as his gaze measured my own.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lungren. My name is Rachel Porter.”
“I know who you are, gal. Kyle mentioned you’d be stopping by. And please call me Rafe. You won’t make me feel like such an old geezer that way.” He smiled and squeezed my hand before releasing it. The skin around his blue eyes crinkled benignly, transforming him into a cross between a middle-aged Kris Kringle and a New Age prophet.
“And how about if I call you Rachel? I’ll bet you’re young enough to be my daughter.”
Boy, did this guy know how to flatter a gal. “Sure.”
“Why don’t you come and join me in my office for a minute?”
Uh-oh. And just when I’d begun to think Lungren might be a nice guy. He was probably about to feed me to his psychotic dog for dinner.
I followed Lungren into a room where Cujo Jr. growled at me from inside a wire cage. Pulling back his lips, the dog bared his dingy yellow teeth.
Rafe nodded in the dog’s direction. “That’s Uzi. He thinks he’s a big old meany. Doncha boy?”
“Uzi, like the weapon?” I inquired.
“That’s right,” Rafe confirmed. “Being that he’s got the speed and strength of a semiautomatic rifle.”
Uzi snarled, as if daring me to disagree.
“Don’t mind him. He’s all riled up at the moment ’cause his girlfriend’s not around anymore. We’ve gotta find him a suitable new mate. Only the best for my buddy Uzi,” Lungren cooed to the doggy demon. “He’s gonna sire us a whole new super race of guard dogs.”
“What happened to his old girlfriend?” I asked against my better judgment.
Lungren sadly shook his head. “It seems he got a little carried away with that rough sex stuff and inadvertently killed her. You can’t blame him, though; he’s just a passionate boy with active hormones. Uzi doesn’t know his own strength.”
I was tempted to tell Lungren that defense had already been tried and shot down in court.
He sat behind his desk and motioned for me to take a chair. I preferred not to turn my back on the canine lover boy.
“Thanks, but I’d rather stand. I’ve been sitting in my pickup all day.”
Lungren gave an understanding nod. “Of course, darlin’. Suit yourself. So you’re the new Fish and Wildlife agent in the area, huh?”
He placed his feet on the desk and linked his hands behind his head, giving the distinct impression that I was about to be interrogated.
“Yes.” I offered no other information.
“So tell me. How long you been here?”
“About a month.”
Lungren opened a desk drawer and my hand instinctively shifted toward my gun. But he merely removed a box of Milk Bone dog biscuits and tossed a treat to Uzi. Wonder dog crunched it to smithereens in a nanosecond.
“Well, I don’t know what you mighta heard about our group, but we believe in minding our own business and not making any trouble. Live and let live is our motto. The proof is that we’re letting you visit our compound here today.”
“I appreciate that,” I replied with a gracious smile.
He twirled a second biscuit between his fingers, and I wondered if I was about to be rewarded for good behavior.
Instead, I decided to see just how far he’d let me go. “Since you apparently have nothing to hide, would you mind if I take a look around?”
“Course not, darlin’. Be my guest.”
Good answer—especially since there was plenty of stuff to examine. Stacks of material were piled sky high in cardboard boxes that littered the room. There were even video cassettes strewn in a corner. The only question was where to begin.
<
br /> “The place is kind of a mess at the moment. I apologize for that. Some day we’ll finally get organized, but we’re so damn busy that we just haven’t had a chance. Merchandise is flying in and out of here faster than we’re able to keep track of it. In fact, we’re working on our computer system right now.” Lungren gave me a wink. “Don’t tell nobody, but I don’t know one end of a computer from the other.”
“Do you mean that this place operates as some sort of store?”
“Absolutely! We’re known worldwide. Here, this’ll give you an idea of what we do. The United Christian Patriots runs a damn fine business, both by mail order and over the Internet.”
Lungren tossed me a catalogue entitled God, Glory and Guerrilla Warfare. A man stood posed on its cover with his face hidden behind a black ski mask. An automatic rifle was cradled in one of his arms and a similarly masked child in the other. Flipping through its pages, I spotted ads for an Israeli gas mask—a onetime-only price of $18.95!—as well as books that not only explained how to make bombs, but advocated attacks on federal buildings.
There were survival weapons and communications gear, along with videos and audiotapes on everything from becoming a successful sniper to setting booby traps. There were even bumper stickers that asked the burning question, “Have You Cleaned Your Weapon Today?” Over two hundred pages offered everything that the consumer-driven militia member could possibly want.
I thumbed back to the first page and read, Our goal is to help YOU survive the coming race war, prepare for the Messiah, and arm yourself against the invasion of United Nations forces.
“We kinda like to think of ourselves as a one-stop shop. Those folks smart enough to prepare for the unexpected don’t need to shop nowhere else. Someday we’re even gonna offer a vaccine against biological warfare,” Lungren bragged. “I don’t mind saying that we have ourselves quite a booming business.”
I had no doubt. A recent government study had identified over eight hundred and fifty hate and militia groups, boasting fifty thousand hardcore members. That didn’t include another one hundred and fifty thousand sympathetic followers, all of whom spent a total of over $100 million a year on survival gear.
“It looks like you’ve got your own militia shopping mall here,” I commented. It couldn’t have been more of a propaganda outlet.
“Tell you what, darlin’. I’ll be happy to give you a professional discount on anything that you might see that you want,” Lungren generously offered.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
I wandered over to his desk, where a framed photo captured him squatting in the bed of a pickup with his arms wrapped around the necks of two dead mountain lions. Beneath Lungren’s desk, a black bearskin was being used as a throw rug. Part of it must have flipped over when he rose from his chair. A pale section of exposed skin revealed a stain that encircled the bear’s rear paw, much like the dingy ring around a bathtub.
“That’s Smokey there under the desk. He screwed up during the last forest fire, so I decided to replace him,” Lungren joked. “I like to catch me a bear every once in a while. Though only black bears, and I always do it perfectly legal, of course.”
Of course. And it was interesting how he’d made certain to state that he didn’t go after grizzlies.
“In fact, I got a picture of Kyle lying bare-assed on one of those rugs around here somewhere. But don’t go getting your hopes up. It was taken a long time ago.”
Darn. And here I’d been longing to catch a glimpse of Kyle’s bony rear end. Kneeling down, I felt the hide. The fur was coarse and scraggly, indicating the bear had been killed in the spring, shortly after emerging from his den.
Lungren took note of my examination and smiled. “I got Smokey Jr. there just this past year. Figured I’d save him the trouble of waiting till the fall to get wasted.”
I flipped the bearskin right-side down with my foot. Dead or alive, the critter deserved at least that much respect. Then I examined the posters on the walls. One bore an illustration of an M-60 machine gun mounted on a tractor and posed the question, Whose Farm Are You Going to Repossess?
The sign next to it was even more blatant. Big bold letters blared out the message, God Has a Plan for Homosexuals—It’s Called AIDS.
“Interesting posters. Is their philosophy part of what makes this place nearly paradise for you?” I asked.
Rafe leaned against the desk and folded his arms across his chest, a Cheshire cat grin on his face. “Very clever, darlin’. I like that. But that’s right, I haven’t yet told you about our little piece of heaven that we call Nearly Paradise, have I?”
I wondered what there possibly was to say, other than that it was a neo-fascist compound cashing in on the delusions of a bunch of paranoid wackos determined to escape an imaginary apocalypse.
“No, you haven’t. Does the place have some sort of interesting history to it?” I politely inquired.
Lungren’s face took on a beatific glow, and his voice grew solemn and low. “No, what we’re involved in has nothing to do with the past, but rather with a brave, new future. We’re developing a patriotic brotherhood on one hundred acres of fine land that have been subdivided into twenty-five lots. Each is being sold at five thousand dollars an acre to folks who think in a similar manner to us.”
“By that, I take it you mean people who don’t believe in paying income tax and refuse to register their firearms?” I brazenly hazarded a guess.
Lungren smiled in amusement. “You’re on the right track, darlin’. It’s for all those citizens tired of sending their children to those cesspools called public schools, and who disagree with Big Brother’s plan to control every single aspect of our lives.”
Oookay. Now we were getting into creepy territory.
“Just imagine! Before long, this is going to be the safest little community in America, with home schooling, underground shelters, a private shooting range, and even our very own church. And let me tell you, these lots are selling faster than hotcakes. Think you might be interested?” Lungren teased.
I dodged the question. “So homes have already been built, and families are moving in?”
“Hell, yes! Well…to be totally accurate, not yet. People are still living in trailers at the moment, but houses should be going up any day now.”
The drone of a plane echoed off in the distance, its hum slowly fading away.
“It sounds as if you’ve got your hands full with quite an undertaking.”
Lungren proudly smiled. “What say I walk you around the place and give you a quick look-see on our way over to Kyle’s?”
“That would be great,” I agreed.
“Excuse me, Mr. Big Shot! But the only place you’re going is to the store. You were supposed to already have gone and been back an hour ago!”
I turned around and saw a forty-something woman with a dark, lacquered flip. It was easy to see that at one time she’d been quite a looker, though she was now a good thirty pounds overweight. Black liner meticulously rimmed her kelly-green eyes. Each eyelash was precisely coated with a thick layer of mascara, while dark red lipstick added the final touch to her hard-edged beauty. A huge diamond ring sat perched on the woman’s finger, its three carats glowing brighter than a car’s high beams.
“Sorry, sugar. I guess I just got busy and forgot about it. But it’s a good thing that you’re here; I want you to meet Rachel Porter, the new Fish and Wildlife agent. And this is my gorgeous wife, Honey Lungren.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a loving hug.
Honey sent an indifferent nod my way, accompanied by a royal wave of her hand. Naturally, it was the paw on which she wore the ring. “Yeah, nice to meet you.”
Then she refocused her attention on her husband. “As for you, we’re gonna need a bunch of glass jars if you plan to can all those vegetables you’ve got cooking on the stove. And how many times do I have to tell you that we’re nearly out of propane?
“I can’t do everything around here mys
elf!” Her hands flew into the air, as if the very thought were enough to throw her into a tizzy. “It’s not as if I’m Harriet freaking Nelson, you know. Besides, I’ve got my own career to think about!”
I held my breath, waiting to see whether Rafe would explode at her berating him in public. Instead he sheepishly grinned, as if he were a bad boy who’d been caught misbehaving.
“All right, Honey. Calm down, I admit it. I was hoping you’d go to the store, but I’ll do it right now. The only thing is, I promised to show Rachel the layout for Nearly Paradise. After all, Kyle invited her out here. I think that letting her see the place would go a long way toward maintaining good relations. None of us wants another Waco or Ruby Ridge, now, do we?”
I dutifully shook my head no.
“I was gonna take her for a tour on the way over to Kyle’s trailer. But since I have to head out, you won’t mind doing that for me, will you, sweetheart?”
Honey smiled, making it clear she knew a secret that he didn’t. “It would be fine with me, except for one little problem. That son of yours split like a bat out of hell about thirty minutes ago.”
How interesting. That wasn’t long after I’d called.
“What the hell is his problem, anyway? Kyle’s always going and forgetting about his appointments,” she complained.
“He’s just one of those real entrepreneurial spirits, is all,” Lungren deftly covered for his son. “The boy’s got a lot on his mind. Sorry about that, Rachel. But at least let Honey show you around the grounds. That way your trip won’t be a total loss.”
Honey remained silent, agreeing to nothing. She slowly began to twist the ring on her finger and Rafe nervously eyed the action, as if afraid she might take it off. I was clearly in the midst of a strange power game. I silently laid odds that Honey would wind up the winner.
“By the way, you’re looking exceptionally lovely today, sugar pie,” Rafe blatantly flattered his wife. “Seeing as how your birthday’s coming up, maybe you’d like a pair of matching earrings to go with that ring. How’s that sound?”
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