"Yes, sir," Morrison said. "Those are some big holes in that wall."
"Not as big as the one in Mr. Egan here."
The limbs and abdomen of the body at their feet were unscathed. But the upper half of the man's head was gone, leaving an intact lower jaw, drying tongue, the open holes of his esophagus and windpipe, and a pulpy stalk constituting what remained of his brain stem.
"Holy shit."
"Quite."
Morrison stared for a moment, then grinned. "There's something almost comical about the way this guy looks."
"Only you would say something like that."
"What—you don't think so? It's like something out of a coyote and roadrunner cartoon. Like one of those ones where the coyote has a stick of ACME brand dynamite that blows his nose and jaw to the other side of his head or whatever." Morrison shrugged and looked up. "Hey, you got a stick of gum? Forgot to shave my teeth this morning."
"Judas!" said tall, blonde, and boyish Special Agent John Pratt, ascending the stairs after getting his crime scene camera out of the back of the car, looking spooked as he caught sight of the body. "What the heck bullet you think did that? .408?"
"Bigger," Arkin said, now staring at the smaller and cleaner of the two dark bullet holes in the wall, its diameter like that of a quarter. "And good morning to you too, Johnny-boy. Where are your Mormon manners today?" Sensing tension in Pratt's silence, Arkin switched tacks, and in a kindhearted voice asked, "How's the family?" hoping to distract the younger and less-experienced agent from the full horror of what was lying at his feet. Pratt was a tough kid, but anyone could be knocked off-kilter seeing a decapitated body for the first time.
"This callout interrupted banana pancake day. The kids are not happy with me." Pratt turned his wide eyes from the body to the bullet holes in the wall. "So, a bigger bullet than a .408?"
"Probably more like a—" Arkin stopped mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open in surprise as he turned to see Pratt wearing wrap-around sunglasses lashed to his head with a fluorescent orange neoprene eyewear retainer, his lips coated with bright white zinc oxide sunblock.
"Like a 12-gauge slug," a local officer shouted from inside the house, breaking Arkin's transfixion. "That's what Detective Cornell thinks."
Arkin looked over at Morrison who returned his glance before rolling his eyes.
"But you told me nobody in Egan's security detail saw the shooter," Arkin shouted back through the doorway.
"So?"
"So it stands to reason that the shooter was somewhere outside of the ten-foot-high walls of this compound."
"So?" the local said again, now emerging from the house wearing white latex crime scene gloves.
"The nearest possible firing point is hundreds of yards away," Arkin said, pointing to a brushy hillock in the distance, making a mental note of the direction of the breeze as he did so.
The officer stared blankly.
"What Sherlock is trying to say," Morrison said, "is that the nearest point from which someone could have taken a shot that would have cleared the walls of the compound is that little hill over yonder. And while it might be on the very edge of the maximum theoretical range of a 12-gauge loaded with slug, the chances of an accurate shot," Morrison said while making a pinching gesture with his thumb and index finger, "the chances of actually scoring a kill from that distance are smaller than Nate's already small testicles."
"That's an apples to oranges comparison," Arkin said.
"You wish it was."
"Were. I wish it were." He turned to the officer again. "How did Egan's security people describe the sound of the shots?"
"I don't know if anyone has asked them that yet."
Arkin nodded. "Well, regardless, you can tell Detective Cornell, with my compliments, that I'm certain this hole wasn't made by a 12-gauge slug."
They all stood staring out over the scrubland for a moment, wondering exactly where the shot had come from. Then the local shrugged his shoulders and went back inside. Arkin scanned the grounds of the surrounding compound, with its high cinderblock walls, its twin rows of perfectly trimmed ornamental shrubs planted in perfect straight lines to either side of the perfectly weed-less, perfectly level driveway. Evidence of the victim's greater-than-average efforts to prop up illusions of control, Arkin thought. But the illusions hadn't done much to save him from the bullet that blew his head off. They never saved anybody in the end.
"What do you think, Nate?" Morrison asked.
"If I told you, you'd think I was certifiable."
"Already do. So come on now, use that legendary Arkin ESP and tell us what we're going to find."
"Clairvoyance."
"What?"
"Clairvoyance, not ESP."
"Is there a difference?"
"Are you serious? Didn't you all sit around the bonfire telling top secret clairvoyance stories back at Camp Peary?"
Morrison smiled as he continued scanning the terrain to the east. "I wasn't a rich kid like you, Nate. I never got to go to summer camp."
Arkin smiled back. "Right."
"Where's Camp Peary?" Pratt asked as he snapped a photo of the bullet holes.
Morrison remained silent. "Virginia," Arkin said.
"Never heard of it."
"It's famous in some circles. But not for its s'mores."
"What do you mean?"
Arkin shrugged his shoulders.
Morrison, still smiling, shook his head without making eye contact with either of them. "Alright, then what does your clairvoyance tell you, smart guy?"
"That the late Mr. Egan here was ideological and charismatic. That his sphere of influence was growing rapidly. That he was probably about to burst onto the scene such that he would wield considerable power and command a much wider audience for his ideas. And that he was shot by a military-trained sniper with a .50 BMG round fired from a heavy rifle at what, to simple folk like Pratt here, would be considered ludicrous range."
Morrison nodded. "You just got here, right? You get all that just from looking at a couple of bullet holes and a body with no head?"
"Clairvoyance."
"That's good. Maybe you're funny after all, Nate. But really now."
Arkin shifted his weight, debating whether to say anything. "There are things here. . . ."
"Yes?"
"Things that remind me of something."
"What kind of something?"
Arkin didn't answer.
Morrison nodded knowingly. "Another Nate Arkin cliffhanger. You should write thrillers."
As they stood on the porch, a small black butterfly with double rows of blue and white spots running near the edges of its wings landed on the doorjamb near Arkin's foot. "Watch out there," Pratt said, pointing to it.
Arkin looked down. It was a beautiful thing to see, standing in stark contrast to the blood and debris all around it.
"You know," Arkin said, "the caterpillars of those things are ugly as sin. And they feed on endangered local wildflowers. Devour them by the acre, in fact."
"No way," Pratt said, kneeling down for a closer look. "It's beautiful. Look at it."
Arkin studied Pratt's expression. He looked like a kid who'd just caught his first glimpse of Santa Claus after waiting in line at Macy's. It made Arkin smile. "John, your naïveté is heartwarming and horrifying at the same time."
"Whatever that means," Pratt said. The butterfly took flight and Pratt watched it until it vanished around the corner of the house. "So you think the shooter had a .50 caliber rifle?" he asked as the portly Detective Cornell came out the door followed by another local patrolman carrying little paper cups of coffee for each of them on a cardboard to-go carrier.
"Morning boys," Cornell said as he handed out coffee to any takers. "Who said anything about a .50 caliber rifle?"
"Nate's theory," Morrison said.
"And you think this because?"
"Because he's clairvoyant," Pratt said.
"Clairvoyant, or bat shit crazy," Morrison said
.
"Just a hunch," Arkin said.
"A hunch? Really? Well, honk my hooter, Nate," Cornell said as he held up the clear plastic evidence bag he grasped in his right hand. It contained a bent metal fragment about the size of an adult human thumb. "That look like part of a .50 BMG bullet to you boys?"
Arkin noted what appeared to be traces of black paint on the tip, then glanced up to find Morrison shooting him a significant look.
"It sure does," Morrison said, his eyes locked on Arkin's. "An armor-piercing variant."
"Overkill for shooting someone," Arkin said.
"No shit."
"One of my guys just pried it out of the back side of Egan's cast-iron stove," Cornell said. "It went clear through the front of it. And that was after it went through Egan's head, as well as this here wall. Still trying to figure out where the other bullet went."
Morrison took a sip of his coffee and pulled a sour face. "This is terrible."
"You're welcome, dickhead," Cornell said. "I'm not your personal barista. Anyway, we're practically on the Utah border here. What do you expect?"
"Of you? You really want me to answer? Think, now."
Cornell grinned and shook his head. "Dick."
"So what do we know about the late Mr. Egan?" Arkin asked.
"Reverend Egan," Cornell said. "Reverend in his own eyes anyway, given that he was never officially credentialed as such by a recognized church. Born El Paso, Texas, August 2, 1967. Preaches to a fundamentalist congregation he founded after purchasing the old Cortez Grange building for next to nothing six years ago. Calls it White Road Church."
"Is it on White Road?" Morrison asked.
"Good guess, Bill."
"Creative name," Arkin said.
"Divorced. No children. Political nut job and bigot. Known for his vitriol against big government, homosexuals, Muslims, and illegal immigrants. The usual."
"Hey, at least the blacks and Jews get a break this time," Morrison said.
"Probably an oversight," Arkin said.
"Apparently his message resonates with some folks. His congregation has grown to over three thousand since its founding."
Arkin's eyebrows rose. "Three thousand? In a town of nine thousand?"
"He brings in the kooks from far and wide. Some drive all the way from Monticello, from Ridgeway, Farmington, even Moab. He promotes the church with over-the-top corny social media. Even broadcasts a radio show a couple of hours each day from a low-power antenna on the roof here. Favorite topics are the books of Leviticus and Revelation."
"Naturally. Licensed?"
"Yup."
Officially, Arkin's only reason for being at the scene was to document any use of military-grade weapons. But despite himself, he stood staring at the plain-view evidence, mentally cataloging, pondering the meaning of every last detail. "I presume Egan was exceptionally charismatic."
"Oh, yes. His flock thinks he can walk on water."
"Now maybe not so much," Morrison said.
"And I assume he was an advocate for the use of violence to achieve his ideological goals?" Arkin asked.
"Implicitly."
Morrison snorted and broke into a grin. "Implicitly? That's a big word for you, Cornell."
"Implicitly as in implied but not directly expressed, or implicitly as in without reservation?" Arkin asked.
"The first one. Or both, I guess. We never connected him or his group with any actual acts of violence, but he ran a sort of training camp out of here."
"Training camp?" Pratt asked.
"The usual backwoods wannabe type of thing. Bunch of fat fucks who were never in the military—or who, if they were, probably spent their careers as laundry workers at National Guard depots in the Dakotas—giving themselves hernias running around in camouflage BDUs, jumping over ditches, pretending to be Seal Team Six. Making videos of it to show their white trash buddies and girlfriends. That sort of thing. They have an obstacle course and gun range over there," Cornell said, pointing to a brush-free rectangle of dusty earth southeast of the compound. One of my guys just took a look at it and found paper targets done up to look like Bedouin Arabs pinned to stacks of hay bales."
"Charming," Arkin said.
"I reckon Egan's parents never took him on the 'It's a Small World' ride at Disneyland," Morrison said. "And if I were a betting man, I'd say he had control issues. His shrubs are trimmed to perfection, planted in perfectly straight lines. You saw that too, I noticed," he said to Arkin.
"What's his shrubs got to do with anything?" Pratt asked.
"Grammar, Pratt," Arkin said. "I beg you."
"You can know just about everything you need to know about a person by looking at their yard," Morrison said.
"Really?" Pratt asked.
"Your yard looks like the cover photo of an ad for a big-box hardware store. Simple. Square. Perfectly maintained, not a single weed to be seen, utterly lacking in creativity or character. You've adopted, wholesale, someone else's idea of a yard."
"Hey, I work really hard to—"
"Cornell's yard is probably a big empty pit strewn with off-brand beer cans. Then there's Arkin's. Exotic. Ideas adapted from other cultures, altered to his own tastes and vision. Over-thought, over-manipulated, over-controlled detail. Anal, from end to end."
"Whereas yours," Arkin said, "is a repulsive expanse of patchy weeds and bare compacted earth. An archetype for people who don't give a shit about anything."
"See?"
"I believe I do."
"Egan had fifty or so trainees out here, off and on," Cornell went on.
"Fifty trainees." Arkin repeated. "Why have we not seen this group mentioned in the JTTF hot sheets?"
"Because Cornell would have had to put it in," Morrison said, "which means he'd have to know how to read and write."
"He also posted a video clip on the internet advertising his camp, encouraging all patriots to prepare themselves for the coming struggle to defend our families and restore our great country or whatever the fuck. Nothing plainly illegal, mind you. Just paranoid and weird."
"And he was planning to run for office," Pratt said. Arkin and Morrison turned to look at him. "I read it in the Herald a few weeks back."
"The U.S. House of Representatives, no less," Cornell added. "Do you think that's a factor here?"
"Now that you mention it." Arkin scanned the horizon. "I think someone out there may have found the combination of Egan's ideologies, charisma, and potential political power to be profoundly distressing."
"Congress? This guy?" Morrison asked. "An openly racist Bible-thumper from Shitsville?"
"Hey," Cornell protested. "I live here, asshole. And it ain't like Durango's the center of the universe."
"It's Rome compared to this manure dust crap hole. Really though, what chance could Egan possibly have had?"
"He was set to run against Congressman Gary Sandoval," Pratt said.
"The guy who just got indicted for fraud?" Morrison asked.
"Yup."
"A .50 caliber bullet and an ideological target with surging power and influence, just as you guessed," Morrison said, shaking his head and smiling at Arkin. Clairvoyance, indeed. What do I always tell you, Pratt? This guy is a frigging bona fide law enforcement genius, though it pains me to admit it."
"So maybe Egan had a decent shot at winning," Cornell said.
"And maybe that troubled someone," Arkin said.
"Who?" Pratt asked.
"Local Mexicans, homosexuals, Muslims," Morrison said. "If we even have any Muslims around here."
"Or someone from elsewhere," Arkin said. "From over the horizon. Someone who watches for guys like Egan no matter where they sprout up."
"Why would you think that?" Morrison asked. "Clairvoyance again?"
Arkin didn't answer. He just stared out toward the mountains on the eastern horizon as the breeze returned, thinking. Though they invariably staked claims to this or that adamantine motive springing from religion, politics, social movemen
ts, or some other construct of human civilization, it was Arkin's long-held theory that the behaviors and actions of groups like Egan's were driven by something else altogether—perhaps by ancient psychological needs having nothing to do with anything that was ever incorporated into a coat of arms, anthem, sacred text, or manifesto.
"So what happened here?" Arkin asked at last.
"In short," Cornell began, "Egan's security goons were supposed to escort him to a meeting down at his church. As they stood here on the porch, waiting for one of their troupe to lock the door, the first shot passed right between them, missing Egan's neck by a hair, and put this hole right here," he said, pointing to the cleaner and rounder of the two holes. "Lead security guy said it sounded like somebody hit the wall with a sledge hammer. Of course, they didn't hear the gunshot until after the bullet had punched this hole. As to what happened next, near as I can guess from what these self-conscious security dipshits told my guys is that they all stood here startled by the unexpected, out-of-context sounds, their backs turned to the shooter as they stared in wonder at this giant bullet hole, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. Then, in the five seconds they spent trying to collectively pull their heads out of their own assholes, the killer lined up a second shot that hit Egan in the back of the skull, spraying some of his face and head on this wall here, and taking some of it through this second hole and into the kitchen. In the two hours since we got the call, my guys have been canvassing every dirt farmer, gas station attendant, and hotel clerk within 10 miles. So far, nobody knows shit."
"Have you questioned his security people yet?"
The Shadow Priest: Omnibus Edition: Two Complete Novels Page 2