Chill Factor

by Chris Rogers

  After a moment’s silence, the woman replied, “Rose.”

  Bingo! R for Rose, Y for Yenik. The letters in the fourth column of Mike’s FORMULAS files.

  Rose Yenik was also one of Vernice Urich’s clients who continued to pay long after the counseling stopped. Coincidence? Possibly. But maybe not.

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Prisoner or willing guest, Rose Yenik was likely slated to be the next Granny Bandit. And possibly the next body lying in a pool of blood. Dixie couldn’t let that happen.

  She listened at Rose’s door for another few seconds. When the voices didn’t resume, she reentered the hallway. The next door she tried opened into the expansive common area, gray light of early dawn visible beyond the glassed-in atrium.

  Above the mantel, the life masks in the “Matriarch Goddess” sculpture watched as Dixie crossed the room. Some cults believed that God, in the Second Coming, would appear as a woman. Did that make Mike a prophet—single male among twelve women? On the onyx slab in his sitting room, and in his ring, a single garnet was surrounded by twelve crystals. If Dixie hadn’t come tonight, would Rose have been the twelfth?

  A simple thumb bolt secured the outside door. Dixie turned it, stepped into a cool spring mist, slipped her boots on, and ran lightly to the Mustang. She drove the winding path toward the gate, glancing back only once for a final view of the beautiful sprawling building so exquisitely integrated with the landscape. The gate opened automatically, and Dixie headed for the city. Over an hour’s drive, if she went home. She didn’t want to wait an hour to read Aunt Edna’s journal. She needed the answers it might provide.

  As she drove, hands fixed hard to the wheel, listening to the hum of tires on pavement, noticing the familiar green-and-white highway signs, a sense of solidity returned and with it a pinch of dejection. How had she misjudged Mike Tesche so completely? Or had she? Anyone browsing through her own research books—volumes on guns, lock picking, serial killers—could label her as sinister and lawless.

  The women she’d met last night hadn’t seemed to be in a drugged state. At dinner, they’d been chatty, interesting, alert, amusing at times. Perhaps her reaction to the tea had been some fluke of her own body chemistry. Mike poured it in front of her, drank from the same pot, inhaled the same incense … why hadn’t it affected him?

  Dixie groaned. The tablet Mike had swallowed to stop his coughing, shortly before they entered his quarters. Apparently it worked instantly, because he hadn’t coughed again the entire evening. An antidote. It seemed so obvious now.

  But what did it prove? Nothing she’d learned at The Winning Stretch could be taken to a judge to obtain a search warrant for the bank’s money bags—provided they hadn’t already been destroyed. She needed more than suspicion. A lot more.

  Edna had been a regular at The Winning Stretch aka the Church of The Light. Mike never denied that. But even if Edna’s diary spelled out exactly how Mike induced her to commit armed robbery, she was not alive to testify.

  At Waco, suspicion that the Branch Davidians were stockpiling illegal weapons had allowed the ATF to gain a warrant to search. But Dixie had seen no evidence of weapons at The Winning Stretch. If the handguns Edna and Lucy used had been licensed to Mike Tesche, the task force would already be knocking on his door. Dixie didn’t believe he was that dumb.

  In the Larrinaga case, the cult leader’s demands for “constitutional rights” and “religious freedom” kept police from intervening. The Church of The Light would fall under that same constitutional protection. Only after the older children broke away from the family, complained of suffering physical and sexual abuse, and swore that their younger brothers and sisters still suffered such abuse were authorities able to obtain a warrant for Larrinaga’s arrest. It had taken months.

  Dixie had seen no children at the Church, and no indication that the women suffered abuse, despite Rose’s statement that she would be punished. Punishment might be merely losing certain privileges. If Rose was the same Rose Yenik from Vernice Urich’s ACH scam, Dixie had phoned her, spoken to her, a couple nights ago. Either she had telephone privileges in that room, or she hadn’t been locked in for long.

  Coming to a commercial area on the highway near Kingwood, Dixie scanned for a coffee shop open at this hour. Hot black coffee and thirty minutes with Edna’s journal might be all she’d need. Only Stop & Go stores appeared. Dixie could drive and drink, but not read. There’d be something open nearer Houston. She stepped on the gas.

  Was the AW in Mike’s directory the only surviving bank robber? Angela? Or Alice, whom Dixie could not separate from the other nine faces?

  One small fact gave Dixie hope that she might prevent another Granny Bandit robbery—and shooting. Today was Memorial Day. The banks would be closed. In the next twenty-four hours, she’d make someone listen, hog-tied, if necessary. Someone who wouldn’t think her a babbling idiot. Someone who might grumble and sneer but would ultimately pay attention. Ben Rashly.

  The morning mist had drifted away and the sun peeked through the clouds as a road sign announced the Houston city limits. A billboard advertising a talk radio station reminded Dixie she hadn’t heard any news since Sunday morning. She punched the ON button.

  “… no further development in the assassination deaths of Officers Arthur Harris and Theodore Tally …”

  The previous night’s events had completely eclipsed her thoughts of the assassinations—and Marty’s danger of arrest. Despite HPD’s precautions, another Granny Bandit robbery could mean another slain woman. And if the cop killer’s reasoning was “an eye for an eye,” another officer would be assassinated. Three for three.

  With citizens in Webster, Richmond, and Houston taking sides, Dixie wouldn’t be surprised to see protest groups or even rioting. Suddenly, she felt overwhelmed by the impending presence of death.

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Monday, Memorial Day, 5:00 A.M.

  Philip Laskey arrived at the training center after a restless night. He arranged the meeting-room chairs in tight semicircular rows, within a designated distance from the stage. Hearing the office door open behind him, he rose to salute the Colonel.

  “Philip. You’re eager to begin, I see.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Something’s troubling you, Philip. What is it?”

  Colonel Jay always knew. “Probably nothing, sir … but I heard Mayor Banning talking. He seems genuinely concerned about those officers and the women—”

  “Of course he is.” The Colonel looked directly into Philip’s eyes. “But the Mayor’s concern is not for those poor women they shot down, both of them mothers, one a grandmother, for God’s sake.” He laid a hand on Philip’s shoulder. “Banning’s concern, Philip, is only for the impact those deaths will have on his job. Why did he hire a man like Edward Wanamaker, a man incapable of inspiring his people with compassion, a man who teaches only to respond with force? Those officers would move a horse carriage with a bulldozer. But Avery Banning’s no fool. He hired Wanamaker because he wants his own hand on the balance of order—”

  “Sir, the Mayor didn’t command those officers to shoot—”

  “Philip, you’ve been reading Banning’s press releases.” The Colonel smiled, his gaze steady. He grasped both Philip’s shoulders firmly. “Wisdom is knowing when to use a hammer and when to use a feather. Evil is having that wisdom and not using it. Avery Banning is as wise as he is evil. Don’t feel bad or confused about being taken in, however briefly.”

  After a second’s hesitation, Philip nodded. “Thank you, sir.” He heard the faint noises of men entering the training center.

  “I’ll join you and the others in fourteen minutes,” the Colonel told him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  In the meeting room, Philip watched Rudy Martinez mount the few steps to the stage. His black hair looked wet from the gunk he applied to slick it back. When I shoot, Martinez had once told Philip, I see my father’s face in the crosshairs, red and swollen from
drinking. And I never miss.

  “This is our big day, man,” he told Philip now.

  The marksman would be taking risks. “Are you ready for it?”

  Martinez flashed a relaxed, confident smile that Philip had rarely seen. “You bet your sweet … pistole … I’m ready.”

  Philip nodded. The room buzzed with energy as The People continued to arrive. Nelson Dodge moved lazily to the edge of the stage. Cronin, his recruit, followed closely. Unlike many of the others, Nelson came from a successful, well-educated family. His father was a professor at Texas Southern University, his mother a gynecologist at Memorial Women’s Hospital. Both aggressively sought career advancement; parenting had been an accident of faulty birth-control methods.

  Dodge shook Philip’s hand. Then to Cronin, he said, “Excuse us for a moment, would you?”

  A shadow of resentment flitted across the rookie’s face. “Sure.” He clomped down the steps and strode to the water cooler.

  “Philip, I need you to look out for him today,” Dodge said.

  “Should he even be out there?”

  “If you’re with him, he’ll make out okay.”

  “No problem then.”

  As the time neared for Colonel Jay’s address, chairs filled, the room quieted. The group force felt strong this morning, everyone eager to see the weeks and months of commitment result in change. Any kind of change would satisfy most of them.

  Colonel Jay entered. The men rose, saluted. Then the Colonel made his way through, greeting one after another with words, handshakes—connecting in a way that, Philip knew, their families never had connected.

  On the stage, Martinez and Dodge stood at attention.

  The Colonel faced them, a hand on each man’s shoulder.

  “You have an important job today.”

  “Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.

  “Your actions will make history. You will eliminate an enemy of The People and put our name on the lips of every American.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When the instant arrives,” the Colonel said, “I expect you to make the right decision. I trust your judgment.”

  Philip’s breath caught. Dodge’s judgment he’d trust anytime, but Martinez …?

  The lights dimmed and a photograph of the Rocky Mountains filled the presentation wall. The Colonel, standing in front of the screen, became a silhouette among the commanding peaks.

  As the scene changed to wheat fields … to a deer in the wild, an otter beside a lake, sunrise on a Midwest farmhouse, the gnarled hands of a fisherman at his nets, a beautiful, pregnant young woman, the shadow of a cross on desert sand, and other images so beautiful they could make you ache … a poignant rendition of “An American Trilogy” played quietly.

  “This country had strong leaders,” the Colonel told them.

  Mount Rushmore, now on the screen behind him, was followed by a bronze of Ben Franklin, then the Lincoln Memorial.

  “Escaping from British tyranny, a handful of dedicated rebels carved out of raw land the greatest nation in the world. They sought a simple life of freedom, purity, justice, equality—and they achieved that dream.”

  The music swelled as images of American life filled the wall—country fairs, families on picnics, families at worship, children at play, working steel mills, cotton bales, cattle ranches, baseball games, triumphant athletes, great musicians, mountain hoedowns …

  “But when good men relax their vigilance, even for an instant, tyranny reasserts itself.”

  The trilogy segued into “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” accompanied by violent images—not of great wars, but of national blemishes such as Watts, Viet Nam veterans returning home crippled, national heroes assassinated, terrorist bombings.

  “Gentlemen, do you see justice here? Purity? Equality?” “No, sir.”

  Photos of poverty and desolation—street people, ghettos, illegal aliens, job lines, face after face of the hopeless, the helpless, the unfortunates of society—flashed behind the Colonel.

  Then the video changed abruptly to scenes of ostentatious wealth—tuxedoed men at lavish parties, pretty throats heavy with jewels, furs, limousines, yachts, mansions.

  “Is there any wonder good people are driven to desperate deeds?”

  “No, sir.”

  Photographs of Lucy Ames and Edna Pine—the sweet, sad faces of America’s mothers—were followed by grainy, telephoto prints of both women gunned down, bleeding in the street.

  Despite an intense desire to look away, Philip kept his eyes on the screen.

  “Corruption starts at the top,” the Colonel told them.

  Snapshots: Mayor Banning and Chief Wanamaker wearing sly grins, engaged in secretive conversations, eating and drinking at extravagant gatherings.

  “As always, it’s the people who must rise up and seize control of an out-of-control situation.”

  Images of the men in the room filled the wall, strong, young, clean-cut faces set in determination, young bodies training for battle. Philip had taken most of this footage himself, thousands of frames as his friends laughed, talked, and trained together.

  A final montage, some of the earlier images, ended with a close-up of the American flag and the Statue of Liberty. The video faded to black. Colonel Jay stood under a single light on the otherwise darkened stage.

  “We are The People,” the Colonel said.

  As the room lights slowly rose to full intensity, Philip Laskey saluted.

  “We are The People,” Philip repeated.

  In a rustle of movement the others stood and saluted.

  “We are The People.”

  The Colonel returned their salute.

  Five minutes later, Philip drove to his meeting with Mayor Banning, while others headed for Tranquility Park.

  Chapter Sixty-six

  The downtown area near City Hall had sprouted vendor booths selling T-shirts, toys, paintings, barbecued turkey legs, cold drinks, and a slew of unnecessary items that nevertheless always turned a dollar. With perfect spring weather and a hum in the air that said something important was happening, the masses had responded, jamming the streets and sidewalks and packing Tranquility Park.

  Protesters carrying signs against police brutality clustered near the busiest entrance. No surprise.

  What did surprise Dixie was the number of HPD officers in attendance and the number of FBI and Secret Service agents trying to pass as ordinary citizens. Perhaps the rumor about threat letters had been true. She scanned the already crowded park for Ben Rashly.

  On the way here, she’d stopped to photocopy the pages in Edna’s journal. Marty would find some of the entries upsetting, but others might assuage his guilt over his mother’s death. His revelation had indeed angered her. After Bill’s death Edna’s world had narrowed to deciding which flowers needed watering each day, but an entry on January sixth spoke of the Fortyniners, where she met Vernice Urich and Terrence Jackson.

  In a later installment, Edna and Lucy Ames had joined Mike Tesche’s aerobics class after seeing his flyer at Fit After Fifty. Mike invited Edna to a Sundown Ceremony, where, among others, she met Rose. Shortly after that ceremony, Edna’s bitterness toward her family seemed to mellow. Marty is a fine son, she’d written in February. I’ve let go of all the hurt and anger. I wish Bill could’ve done the same before he died.

  But later entries were more disturbing. Edna learned that Lucy was tutoring privately with Mike. I don’t begrudge her; I only pray someday I’ll ascend to that level. And of course, she had. Mike and Lucy have something special planned. I’ve been chosen to be a part of it. The Church needs so much more funding, yet Congress wastes our tax dollars. I offered to transfer half my investments now—rather than in my will—but Mike wouldn’t hear of it. Lucy’s plan is better, he says.

  Why would Mike turn down a donation? Unfortunately, Edna hadn’t spelled out Lucy’s plan specifically, and Rashly would balk at investigating a church on such vague ramblings from an old woman’s pen—bu
t the journal contained more information than the task force had at present.

  From his aerobics classes, Mike chose his subjects—lonely women, abandoned by their families, hungry for the love and attention they’d lost, wealthy enough to contribute heavily to the Church of The Light. Where did Angela fit in? Fifty-plus, but mentally still a child, had she been the only one who succeeded at robbery? Or the only one who failed … to die?

  Dixie spied Rashly at the western edge of the park, near a stage where a band played Mexican music while Folklorico dancers twirled their multicolored skirts. Among the trees, a giant candy-striped Uncle Sam balloon waved from a tall cylindrical platform. The main platform, larger and noisier than all the others, billowed with red, white, and blue flags. According to the news report Dixie’d heard driving in, the Mayor’s commemoration speech was scheduled for nine-thirty. It was already nine twenty-five. Traffic had been a mess.

  Making her way toward Rashly, Dixie jostled past a booth selling commemorative buttons. She dropped the journal. A young man scooped it up and handed it back to her.

  “Thanks. My feet get tangled in crowds.” As Dixie started to move on, a triangular metal insignia on the boy’s lapel caught her eye. She gripped his arm. “What does your pin symbolize?”

  He glanced down at the enameled emblem. “Preservation Society.”

  “Preservation of what?”

  “American traditions. Hot dogs, marching bands.” He smiled. “Memorial Day.”

  “A school group?” He looked barely high school age. Polite kid. Neatly dressed—unusual in the age of wash, dry, and go.

  “Just a local club. Excuse me, I need to meet someone.” He jogged toward the Uncle Sam booth.

  “Preservation Society” didn’t sound like an organization that would paint graffiti on buildings, and the kid looked too preppy for a gang member. But the gold “P” in a red triangle on a blue field matched the symbol in Ted Tally’s sketches.