A Killing Season

by Jessica Speart

  The ring twisting came to an immediate stop and a smile crossed Honey’s face. She leaned over and allowed Lungren to plant an affectionate buss on her cheek. He couldn’t have appeared to be any more relieved.

  “My wife here is very modest, so I’m going to let you in on a little secret. The idea for Nearly Paradise was all hers. It came to Honey one night while she was asleep.”

  “Actually, I can’t take all the credit. It was Archangel Michael who gave me the idea. He’s not only my spiritual guide, but also my adviser on more mundane matters,” she loftily confided.

  Evidently the Archangel was fairly savvy when it came to conjuring up real estate deals.

  “Here’s another thing you might not realize, what with being new around here, but Honey’s a real celebrity in these parts. She’s got her own biweekly radio show called The Coming Storm. We need a fence around this place just to keep all her fans out,” Lungren proudly crowed. “Isn’t that right, sugar?”

  I tried to imagine a bunch of rabid admirers attempting to storm the gate while Uzi vigilantly stood guard.

  Honey made a disdainful face, but it was clear that she reveled in the attention. “Yeah—well, it’s a lot of work, I can tell you that. On top of which, I’m supposed to help run our mail-order business. It’s a wonder I get anything done at all.”

  I silently thanked Archangel Michael for having just shown me the light for ensuring Honey’s cooperation.

  “I can only imagine how difficult it must be for you,” I commiserated. “I used to work as an actress back in New York, and I don’t think I could have pulled off doing two radio shows a week. People just don’t know how rough that is. Not only do you have the pressure of trying to book interesting guests, but then there’s all that time spent doing homework in order to conduct decent interviews.”

  Honey turned to me as though she’d unexpectedly discovered a kindred spirit. “Absolutely! That’s something nobody around here is able to comprehend. A lot of responsibility comes with being a celebrity. Just look at what it did to poor Kathie Lee! We have to give a little piece of ourselves to each and every one of our fans to keep them all happy. It takes a real toll on our lives, physically, emotionally and spiritually. But try to make him understand that!”

  We both stared at Rafe, who glanced down at his feet.

  “Well, I better be heading off to the store now. You girls have yourselves a good time. And try to behave.” He winked as he left.

  “Don’t worry about us. Just get those things I need!” Honey reprimanded.

  As Rafe walked away his step held the bounce of a happy man, and I felt vaguely suspicious that he was grinning. Relationships—I’d never understand them. No wonder I was still single. Uzi added his opinion to the mix, letting loose a growl.

  “As for you, I’ve had enough of your shenanigans!” Honey warned the pooch, throwing a withering glare his way.

  Uzi instantly lay down in his cage.

  “So what kind of acting did you do, anyway?” she asked, linking her arm in mine.

  We were suddenly the best of friends.

  “I did some commercials and was on a soap opera for a while.”

  Honey let out a high-pitched screech. “Oh my God! You’re kidding! Which one?”

  “All My Children. I played a reporter.”

  “That’s my very favorite soap in the whole wide world!” she swooned. “I always thought that I had what it took to make it as an actress. I just never gave myself a real chance.”

  “But you have your own radio show. I’d say that’s pretty impressive. And it sounds like you’ve got quite a following.”

  Honey sighed. “Yeah, but it isn’t exactly New York.”

  “Maybe so. But nobody knows who I am. You’re famous around here,” I added, laying it on thick.

  Honey pursed her lips. “I guess it is better being a someone than a has been,” she agreed.

  Uzi clearly wasn’t the only one around here with sharp teeth.

  Honey pulled a couple of pieces of comfort candy from her pocket and handed me a Hershey’s Kiss. I’m such a chocolate slut, it was enough to make me temporarily forgive her.

  “Tell me about your radio show,” I prompted. “The Coming Storm sounds rather ominous. What kind of topics do you discuss?”

  “Well, of course it’s all about how this country is going to hell in a hand basket, what with all the coloreds and Indians demanding special privileges. Then I try to uncover the truth for my listeners about such things as what really happened at Waco. You do know about that, don’t you?”

  “Know what?” I asked warily.

  “How the government deliberately executed those people, just because the Branch Davidians discovered Washington’s secret plan to dismantle the Constitution.”

  Hmm. I guess I must have missed the news that particular day.

  “The same with Oklahoma City. That’s all a big lie. Timothy McVeigh never bombed any federal building; it was done by members of foreign intelligence agencies within the FBI. Why? To discredit the militia movement, of course. Just turn the letters of the FBI around and what do you get? The word FIB!”

  I kept my mouth shut as we walked outside.

  “People used to think I was crazy, but now even the local politicians listen to my show. You wait and see: a second American Revolution is on the way. Thank God for Charlton Heston, is all I can say!”

  She seemed ready to kick ass with anyone who disagreed.

  We went past tar paper shacks and tin-roofed motor homes where a couple of signs had been thrust into the dirt. One read, FUTURE HOME OF THE BROTHERHOOD CHURCH while the other announced, SOON TO BE BUILT—ARMAGEDDON SHELTERS! So far, this place resembled a trashy trailer park more than a high-end housing development.

  Honey abruptly stopped and turned to face me, standing so close that I wondered if I was about to be kissed. “Listen, I know you work for the government and all, but you seem like an intelligent person. So, let me ask you a question. Do you know what the most endangered species in this country of ours really is?”

  I shook my head no, always willing to listen and learn.

  “Well then, I’m going to tell you right here and now that it’s not any damn wolf, or mangy bear, or lamb-eating bald eagle. It’s the white Anglo-Saxon male!”

  It took all my strength to keep a straight face. While that might be true in China, only the freshly falling flakes of snow were whiter than most of the people in Montana. A standing redneck joke was that there were never more than two black people in the state at any one time—one of whom was always in jail, while the other was just passing through. Maybe Honey Lungren was seriously unhinged.

  “Just think about it. We have a civic duty to protect our menfolk. The last thing we need is any more racial impurity in this state.”

  I wondered if this was the right moment to spring the fact that I was Jewish on her.

  “My radio program airs every Tuesday and Thursday night at nine. You’ll just love the little ditty that I use to open and close the show. I lifted it from another radio station; it’s just too damn good not to use. The song is called ‘Hang the Suckers High,’ and warns all those elected traitors in Congress that they better stop voting against gun control. Otherwise they’ll soon find themselves with their toes atwitchin’, hanging from the end of a rope. It’s got one hell of a catchy little tune!”

  Maybe I’d save the news about my ethnic background for a more appropriate time—when I wasn’t standing next to a woman whose beliefs fell to the right of Hitler. My plan of action for now was a quick change of subject and not to stop moving.

  “You must have married Rafe when you were very young. You don’t look old enough to be Kyle’s mother.” I guessed that flattery would keep her talking.

  “That’s ’cause I’m not. I’m his stepmother. His actual mama up and left him and Rafe years ago, when the boy was still in school. She was one of those real cheap types.” Honey’s lips curled up in distaste. “She took up
with some low-life Indian, but don’t ever let Rafe know that I told you so. It’s a black mark that he’s worked hard to put behind him. Unfortunately, the boy’s got some of his mother’s blood; he’s attracted to trash, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Honey shook her head in annoyance, and her hair swayed, its flip remaining perfectly in place. “It’s that girlfriend of his—some piece of garbage who calls herself Cherry Jubilee. She goes strutting around on top of bars, wearing next to nothing. If Kyle wants to have himself a whore, he should just pay for one every now and then and do it discreetly. Instead, he has the nerve to bring her here to our home. He’s even moved her into his trailer! What kind of respect does that show for me and his daddy, I ask you?”

  Honey’s face contorted into a tight mask of rage. Full red lips protruded in an indignant pout, and her fists impotently beat at the air like two withered wings.

  “That bitch makes me so damn mad! She knows I don’t want her here, so now she’s trying to win Rafe over to her side. What she doesn’t know is that I’ve got final say about everything that goes on here at Nearly Paradise.” Honey emitted an audible harrumph. “Since I’m a local celebrity, there’s my reputation to consider. I’m not going to have it tarnished by that two-bit slut. It’s just a good thing that Kyle isn’t in charge. He’d most likely change the name of this place to Nearly Naked, or Nearly Nookie!”

  This seemed a good time for another change of topic.

  “It sounds as if Nearly Paradise is going to be quite a project. Your husband mentioned that the lots have been selling exceptionally well. How many do you have left?”

  Honey removed an undisciplined lock of hair from her forehead and firmly patted it back in place. “Just give me a moment to contain myself.” She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Only five lots remain, and I can tell you it’s because people recognize quality when they see it.”

  She waved her hand imperiously at the run-down trailers that were scattered about. “It’s true that we still have a long way to go, but everything takes time and money. At least people know that once they move behind our walls, they can kick back and relax. They’re finally safe.”

  I wondered how many residents had begun to reassess that assumption after having spent some quality time with the Lungren dynasty.

  “We’re quite a little family here. In addition, everyone gets a jar of my butter pickles, dilly beans, and sweet ’n’ sour beets when they buy a lot—though I’ve already warned Rafe that this is the last year I’m going to do it. But we’ve got so much of that crap stockpiled in our cellar that I’ll give you a few jars before you leave.”

  Lucky me. Dilly beans. Just what I’d always wanted.

  I nonchalantly gazed around, and spied a windsock off in the distance. A breeze had filled the fabric and magically brought it to life. The sock giddily waved and I saw that it marked a nearly imperceptible dirt runway. Parked next to the airstrip was the car that I’d spotted while waiting outside, but the man who’d driven it had disappeared. Then I remembered the droning sound that I’d heard. It had obviously been a plane taking off.

  “Is that an airstrip over there?” I asked, pointing toward the windsock.

  “What?” Honey didn’t so much as look in its direction.

  “The airstrip—does it belong to Nearly Paradise?” I repeated.

  “Oh yeah,” was the only information that she offered.

  “Do you have your own airplane?” I asked, surprised.

  “Uh-huh. It comes as part of the package when a new member joins our community. We guarantee that we’ll fly them back here to safety, no matter where they are in the world when all hell breaks loose.”

  Somehow I couldn’t imagine the Lungren trio risking life and limb to do that.

  “I heard a plane departing earlier.”

  “Sure. We have supplies being flown in and out of here all the time for our mail-order business,” she said dismissively.

  Rafe clearly hadn’t been lying when he’d said business was booming. Who’d have guessed such a little-known group would be so well financed? The year 2000 had come and gone without any nuclear wars, worldwide power outages, or invasions by alien spaceships. Surely that must have cut into their business.

  “Out of curiosity, wasn’t Armageddon supposed to have taken place with Y2K?” I ventured.

  Honey bestowed a condescending smile upon my ignorance. “It’s just a little late, is all. But it’s still on the way. The time is nearly upon us when free white Christian men and women will be called upon to take up arms in a racial holy war. Even now a dark cloud is looming on the horizon, just waiting for Judgment Day. I take comfort in the words of wisdom that Commander Samuel Sherwood, of the U.S. Militia Association, recently said to his followers: Go and look your legislator in the face, because you may be forced to blow it off one day!”

  My blood ran cold. Clearly, Honey Lungren wasn’t someone to be toyed with.

  “Insurrection and violence—that’s a lethal combination. I’d hate to think what might happen if Nearly Paradise were to turn itself into an armed camp,” I softly warned.

  “Our traitor government has already made that decision for us,” Honey coolly responded. “It won’t be long before those in power try to implant bar code identification chips in our hands.”

  Honey Lungren’s features turned hard and her voice dropped to a low, menacing whisper. “What will you do when they demand that you accept the Mark of the Beast?”

  The question hung in the air like a hangman’s noose. The sudden ringing of my cell phone saved me from having to answer. Plucking it off my belt, my fingers clung to the phone’s hard, slim surface as though it were a life preserver.

  “Excuse me, but I really have to take this call.”

  Honey Lungren shot me a strange look and then walked back in the direction from which we’d come. I had little time to ponder what that was all about as I answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Big Apple babe! Is that you?”

  I instantly recognized the caller: Rory Calhoun.

  “You still up in these parts, or did you already hightail it back down to Missoula?”

  “No, I’m still here.”

  “Good! Come by and have breakfast with me tomorrow morning. It’s boring as hell in this place,” the high-pitched voice complained.

  Amazing! Who did this guy think I was, his own personal baby-sitter?

  “Sorry, but I really don’t have the time for social visits.”

  “Oh come on! Don’t be a spoil sport,” he wheedled. “I’m talking bagels and lox. Think of it as kind of welcome-to-the-land-of-log-cabin-wackos-waiting-for-the-land-of-log-cabin-wackos-waiting-forthe-Apocalypse-to-arrive celebration.”

  I immediately became suspicious. How in the hell did he know where I was?

  “There’ll also be a little creamed herring, along with some sturgeon and whitefish. I’m even getting real cream cheese—none of that low-calorie crap!”

  On the other hand, I’d been dreaming about having good deli ever since landing in Montana. “I didn’t think anyone north of Missoula knew what lox was, much less sold it.”

  “They don’t. I’m having it flown in special from New York. This is a real blow-out I’m planning here. You’re not gonna be crazy enough to pass it up, are you? Besides, trust me: you could use a friend in the area. The locals don’t exactly cotton to strangers—no matter what they may have led you to believe.”

  Rory probably had a point. Not to mention that he’d cleverly tapped into one of my major weaknesses. All he had to do next was tempt me with good Chinese food, and I’d seriously consider making him my new landlord. More importantly he’d aroused my curiosity. This guy was definitely selling something more than just hot tubs, and I intended to find out what that might be.

  “And what exactly do you get out of this?” I questioned.

  “Someone who doesn’t think it’s normal to talk to cows,” he joked.
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  “What time should I come by?”

  “Let’s keep it civilized. Whadda ya say to ten o’clock? That way I can still get my beauty sleep.”

  I was inclined to tell him to worry more about upgrading his image. He could start by ditching the polyester tie-dye shirt and Davy Crockett cap. But I practiced restraint by keeping my mouth shut as I took down directions.

  Then I retraced my steps to the United Christian Patriots’ ramshackle headquarters. I found Honey impatiently waiting inside with a jar of dilly beans and a tee-shirt in her hands.

  “I have to get back to work now. Besides, I believe you’ve seen enough of Nearly Paradise. Here are some souvenirs to remember your visit by.” She thrust the items at me. “I don’t know what Rafe did or didn’t tell you, but this was a one time look-see. So don’t plan on stopping here again.”

  Gee, and here I’d thought we’d bonded as showbiz sisters. What had caused her sudden change of heart? Then I realized Honey must have spotted the Star of David hanging around my neck. I wore it along with a St. Christopher medal that I’d been given by a former friend in Nevada, as a way of covering all my bases. He had said that in my line of work, I needed all the help I could get. My hand instinctively edged toward the necklace, and Honey countered with a sneer. My arm dropped to my side and the tee-shirt fell onto the floor to reveal its logo: Eliminate All Mud People.

  I placed the jar of dilly beans on Lungren’s desk, leaving the shirt where it lay. “Thanks, but I don’t accept gifts.”

  Uzi snarled as I turned to leave, and I looked back to see that Honey’s hand was resting on the latch of his cage. I made no effort to hide the fact that my own fingers wrapped around the butt of my .38.

  “I don’t think you want to try anything stupid,” I warned. If Honey thought she was going to scare me with her little bluff, I had a grizzly I’d like her to meet.

  Honey’s sneer shriveled and I walked out the door, where I discovered there was also a sign on this side of the gate.

  PERMISSION MUST BE GRANTED TO EXIT!

  Picking up a rock, I broke the flimsy lock. It was definitely time to head home and call it a day.