“You think that’s where they took people?” Oscar said. “My sons?”
“If not,” Keller said, “that’s where people are who’ll be able to answer some questions. So I guess that’s where we’re going.” He started throwing things in the bags. Oscar did the same.
Suddenly, Oscar straightened up, holding something in his hand. It was a large roll of bills. “Jack,” he said.
Keller looked over. “Great,” he said. “Because we’re starting to run low.”
Oscar nodded, but he still looked unhappy. “This feels like stealing.”
“Probably because it is,” Keller said. “But they won’t miss it. And it’s time they contributed to a good cause.”
That brought a smile to Oscar’s face. “Well, if you put it that way.”
THEY DROVE straight through, stopping only to ditch the truck on a street in San Antonio within walking distance of a used-car lot, where they picked up another vehicle using the cash they’d taken.
Oscar had nudged Keller, as they had walked down the rows of used cars, and pointed to a faded, but serviceable looking, Crown Victoria. The car looked like the older sibling of the car that Keller had driven during the years he’d worked for Angela. The dealer was a little suspicious of the large wad of cash they used to pay for the car, but when they offered to pay five hundred more than the price written on the windshield in exchange for expediting the paperwork, his misgivings seemed to vanish. After swinging back by the truck to transfer the duffels and weapons to the trunk of the Crown Vic, they hit the road again.
They quickly found the interstates and headed east, booming through Texas and Louisiana, skirting the Gulf Coast in Mississippi, turning north through Alabama and Georgia, stopping only briefly to eat, relieve themselves, and switch drivers at faceless truck stops along the way. They spoke little. Their longest conversation occurred at a nearly empty Arby’s outside of Biloxi. Oscar took advantage of the free Wi-Fi to open up the laptop computer they’d taken from the motel room in Frey. He put it on the table next to the sandwiches and drinks, and rubbed his eyes tiredly as they waited for it to boot up.
“I’ll drive the next leg,” Keller said. Oscar nodded and looked out the window and the night outside. There was nothing visible beyond the orange glow of the lights in the parking lot. The computer chimed. Oscar looked at the screen. “Asking for a password.”
“Shit,” Keller said. “Any ideas?”
Oscar nodded and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a creased and stained index card. “This was in one of the duffel bags.” He showed it to Keller.
Keller shook his head. “They password-protect the computer, then write the password down someplace nearby?”
“You’d be surprised,” Oscar said. “A lot of people actually tape the password to the top of the screen. These men probably thought they were being clever.”
“Jesus.” Keller took a bite of his sandwich as Oscar put in the password. The computer chimed again. Oscar frowned as the screen came alive.
“What?” Keller said. Oscar turned the screen around. A black Odin Cross, like the tattoo one of the dead men had worn, filled the screen on a white background. Large capital letters in a pseudo-Germanic script beneath it proclaimed CHURCH OF ELOHIM-GOD’S TRUE ISRAEL.
Keller nodded, remembering some of the doctrine his chatty bail jumper had spewed. “Oh, yeah. I’ve heard this shit before. They think the Jews rejected Jesus, but white Europeans didn’t, so now they think that they’re the chosen people. They’re the real Israelis.” He saw the look on Oscar’s face and shrugged. “So to them, white Christians are the real Jews.”
“I thought people like that hated Jews.”
“I didn’t say it made sense.” Keller gestured at the computer. “Open up the browser. Let’s see where these guys have been.”
Oscar nodded and clicked an icon along the bottom of the screen. A website popped out that looked as if a third grader learning basic Internet skills had created it. The screen was dense with text on pastel-colored backgrounds and symbols, some of them blinking. The Odin Cross sat in the center of a banner atop the page, surrounded by the words RACE SURVIVAL DEMANDS RACISM.
“Charming,” Keller said.
Oscar’s brow furrowed as he squinted to read the text. “They certainly don’t like black people.” His frown deepened. “Or Latinos.” He read on for a few moments.
“Oscar,” Keller said as he saw a grim expression cross his friend’s face.
Oscar looked up. “This…this church,” he nearly spat the word, “says Latinos…people like me, like my family, have no souls. We are meant only to serve this ‘True Israel.’” His face twisted in anger. “They call us mud people.” He shoved the computer away from him so hard Keller had to catch it to keep it from sliding off the edge of the table.
“Easy, man,” Keller said. “I get it. These people are assholes. But we could spend hours down this rabbit hole. We need to move, now, which means we need to find out more about this place where they are. Is there any mention of some farm, or ‘the Farm’ or something like that?”
Oscar stood up. “You look. I have to use the bathroom.” He walked off, shoulders hunched. He was as angry as Keller had ever seen him.
Keller pulled the laptop over in front of him and started clicking and scrolling. It took him a few minutes to master the touch pad, but in a few minutes, he was adeptly paging through the browser history. White supremacist and Christian Identity Movement sites were frequently interspersed in the visited sites list with hard-core pornography, Craigslist ads, and sports scores. Keller focused on the movement sites. The Church of Elohim had pages and pages of “doctrinal statements,” along with ads for books and tapes espousing the church’s philosophy and various conspiracy theories. One book purported to be a frame-by-frame dissection of the famous Zapruder film, which would prove that Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy had been the one who’d killed JFK, in her role as a dedicated Mossad assassin and agent of Communist Zionism. But there was nothing about any facility matching the “Farm” he’d seen on the GPS.
Oscar returned and sat down. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I let my anger get the better of me.”
“Don’t be,” Keller said. “I’m pissed off, too. But we need to focus on finding these people.”
Oscar looked at him. “My sons are in the hands of madmen, Jack. Men who think they have no souls. If they are even still alive.” He looked back out the window. “It’s easy to kill something that has no soul. Even a child.”
“They’re still alive, Oscar,” Keller said. “We have to believe that.”
Oscar nodded. “I know. We keep moving forward. But now I know what we’re up against. And I am afraid. But more than afraid, I am angry.”
“Good,” Keller said. “Go with that.”
Oscar rubbed the back of his neck. “You know, for a while, somewhere in the back of my head, I think I still had this foolish hope that we could talk to these people. Bargain with them. Get my sons back.” He shook his head, “but they won’t be reasoned with.”
“No,” Keller said, “but maybe they can be intimidated.” He leaned forward. “These people are cowards. They take women and children and people who are helpless. They shoot from ambush, out of the dark. They’re afraid. Hell, read all this crap they write. It’s all about how the world’s collapsing, there are enemies behind every tree, and everything is going to hell. They’re scared, Oscar.”
“Frightened people can be dangerous.”
“Not as dangerous as angry ones. And you’re pretty angry right now.”
“Yes,” Oscar said, “I am.”
“Finish your sandwich,” Keller said.
As Oscar ate, Keller kept tapping away on the computer. He did a Google search on the Church of Elohim. “Looks like these guys originally came out of Southern Ohio,” he said. “Offshoot of one of the Aryan Nations groups. The original leader, a guy named Elihu Stone, got busted for shooting a black cop in the head, then for cons
piracy to bomb the local NAACP office, and the whole thing fell apart. The second in command, some guy named Martin Walker, came down to South Carolina with a few of the holdouts and started it up again.”
“The Sword Arm of the Lord,” Oscar said through a mouthful of fries.
“What?”
He swallowed. “That’s what he calls himself on the website.”
Keller went back. “Yep. Here he is. ‘General Martin Walker, Sword Arm of the Lord.’” He looked at the picture. “Ugly fucker.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Oscar said.
“Sounds stupid,” Keller said. “You done?” Oscar nodded. “Okay,” Keller said, “let’s get back on the road. We’ll be in this Hearken place by daybreak. We need to scope this ‘church’ out for ourselves. And maybe have a little talk with the ‘General.’”
THE GENERAL hung up the phone. No answer again. Not even voice mails. He was becoming increasingly uneasy about the loss of contact with the capture team. He wondered if he should have gone with them, like he had before. But he couldn’t watch his soldiers all the time. Sometime, they would have to learn to do things without their General holding their hands.
Once the bloodshed began in Mexico, he thought, he’d put an end to the use of the illegals as workers. It had shown some profit, especially the sale of the women to the Croatian syndicate Cosgrove had steered him to, but not as much as he’d hoped. And he was getting more and more uncomfortable with the way his soldiers indulged their lusts with the women.
Now, two men were poking their noses into what had been happening to the illegals being brought north. Two amateurs. Not law enforcement. His contacts in the government had assured him of that. Two amateurs—one of them a brown monkey—should have been easy to deal with, especially with the firepower the team had taken with them.
He made his decision. Picking up the phone, he dialed the Sheriff. “Two men,” the General said when he answered. “An American and a Mexican. They may be coming this way.” He listened to the response, cutting it off in the middle. “Pick them up. Hold them. Let me know.” He hung up.
Cosgrove would obey. He was in too deep. He’d taken some of the profit from the sale of the women, but not before amusing himself with some of the younger ones. He’d been foolish to think his sins wouldn’t go unrecorded or that the General wouldn’t use them as leverage. Once again, men’s own weakness and depravity is my greatest weapon in doing the work of the Lord .
Now, to the other matter. Zavalo had let him know the men were looking for a pair of boys who were taken in one of the raids. The Mexican’s sons, Zavalo had said. Or maybe he’d said the man was Colombian. Whatever. The boys in question could only be the impertinent young monkey, who’d talked him into letting Diego be buried, and his brother. He considered simply killing them, but decided against it. If by some insane chance, the two men made it this far, they’d most likely do almost anything to keep the General from hanging the two brats from the Judicial Tree. Even lay down their weapons. And when they did that, he’d see how many monkeys could hang from one limb of that tree. He imagined quite a few.
“Funny,” the General said aloud. “The tree is where monkeys belong.” He chuckled at his own witticism. A sudden thought stifled the laughter. He needed to make sure nothing happened to them, at least until they were no longer needed. He’d need to keep the boys close to him. Until the end.
ESMERALDA WAS back in a few hours, bearing another plate. This time, the sandwich was peanut butter. No jelly. The girl didn’t leave this time. She sat on the cot and watched Angela eat.
“So, that man, the one you were with. In the bar. The blond.” Esmeralda gestured at Angela’s body. “Did he do those things to you?”
“No,” Angela said. “My ex-husband did.”
The other woman looked doubtful “The other man? At Mandujano’s house?”
“No. That man is my husband now. He’d never do anything like that. He’s a good man. A good husband. The man who hurt me was my first husband.”
Esmeralda hugged herself involuntarily. “Why?”
Because he was a fucking psychopath. “Because I told him I was sick of being beaten. I told him I was leaving him. He couldn’t stand that. I was his. He told me that a lot. If he couldn’t have me, no one would. So he broke my legs with a baseball bat, so I couldn’t get away when he set the house on fire. Then he killed himself—in front of me.”
“Dios Mio,” the girl whispered.
“Esmeralda,” Angela said, leaning forward and fixing the girl’s dark eyes with her own pale ones, “that guy. The one who hit you. He’s not going to stop. It’s going to get worse. It’s probably going to get a lot worse.”
Esmeralda shook her head. “He says he’s sorry.”
“Yeah,” Angela said. “And he loves you and it won’t happen again, that he’s just under a lot of pressure. Right?”
The girl looked back at her, mute, her eyes glistening.
“I heard that bullshit too, honey,” Angela said. “Right up till the day the man I still loved shattered both my legs, made me beg for my life, and then tried to burn me to death.”
Esmeralda stood up. Tears were running down her face. “You’re just trying to mess with my head, so I’ll help you get out of here.”
“I admit it. I want out. And I want you to come with me. Out of here. Away from these people. Before this…” she pulled up her right sleeve to show the web of scars that ran up it, “happens to you.”
Esmeralda shook her head desperately. “You don’t even know me.”
“No,” said Angela, “but I wouldn’t want anyone to go through what you’re going to go through.” Esmeralda turned as if to flee. “Don’t walk out looking like that,” Angela said. “If they see you crying, they’ll know something’s up. They’ll ask you what. And if they don’t like the answer, they’ll beat it out of you.”
She turned back to Angela, furious. “You don’t know anything,” she spat. She fled the room.
Angela listened for the sound of the locks being refastened. If the girl was upset enough, maybe she’d forget. Her heart sank as she heard the metallic clinks and clicks.
“Shit,” she said aloud. She didn’t expect to ever see the girl again. Or to ever get out of that room alive.
SOMETHING WAS wrong. Ruben could sense it. The guards, whose bullying of their prisoners was usually almost as jovial as it was cruel, were grim and unsmiling. The routine remained the same, but there was an edge to their voices. As the prisoners worked, they stood together, conversing in low voices. Once when Ruben drifted near, he overheard something about a “capture team.” He recalled Kinney’s conversation with Colton, the other guard, and realized that he hadn’t seen Colton since.
The guards cut the day’s work shorter than usual. That would normally have made the men happy, but they’d caught the tension in the guards’ demeanor as well, and they looked at each other apprehensively as they were marched back to the barracks. As they walked through the gate, Ruben heard a voice call out to him.
“Boy.” He stopped at the sound of the General’s voice. The General was standing a few feet away, next to a large vehicle Ruben recognized as a civilian model Hummer. “Come here,” he said. Ruben hesitated as the other men moved on, not looking at him.
“Well?” Kinney snapped, “Move!”
Ruben walked over, trying not to drag his feet. He stood before the General. The older man didn’t speak at first, but Ruben could feel the General appraising him. Ruben kept his eyes down.
Finally, the General spoke. “Can you read and write English as well as speak it?”
Ruben nodded. “Answer out loud!” the General snapped.
“Yes,” Ruben said, “Yes, sir. I can read and write English.”
The General grunted. “Can you do sums?”
“Sums?”
“Add. Subtract. Mathematics.”
That’s arithmetic, not mathematics. What kind of backward place does this man think I’m from? Rube
n had been first in his calculus class in school. “Yes,” he said, “I’m good at math.”
“We’ll see,” the General said. “And if you’re lying, you’ll be punished. Severely.”
“I’m not lying,” Ruben said.
The General acted as if he hadn’t heard. “The man who assists me in recordkeeping has been unavoidably detained. This leaves me shorthanded of able men to keep you people in line. So. Follow me.” He turned and began walking toward Building Three. Ruben’s stomach knotted in fear, but he followed. They walked inside, through the room where they’d been taken for “trial” when they’d first arrived, and into a smaller room with a desk and filing cabinets. The office was immaculate, the desk empty except for a clipboard. “Here,” the General said, picking up the clipboard. “Go to Building Four. Inventory the supplies.” He handed it over.
Ruben looked down at the clipboard. Along the left hand side of the page was a list of foodstuffs—flour, beef, ham, beans, and others—followed by a column showing the quantity of each as of a week before. It looked simple enough. Ruben looked up. “I have to look after my little brother,” he said. “The other men, they pick on him. Take his food when I am not there.” Their suspicion and distrust of Ruben as a collaborator had affected Edgar as well. The other men in the barracks ignored them when Ruben was there, but when they were apart, the smaller and more timid Edgar had a rough time of it. “And it will get worse if I’m doing this.”
The General shook his head in disgust. “Animals. It will be taken care of. As long as you do your job, and do it well, the two of you’ll be protected.”
“Yes, sir,” Ruben said. “Thank you, sir.” He turned away with the clipboard. Now who will protect us from you?
BY MIDMORNING, they’d arrived at the city limits of Hearken. Though they were stiff and bleary-eyed from the road, neither one of them felt like resting. They felt their goal getting nearer. Somewhere around here was the answer, and maybe Oscar’s sons.
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