by Peter Bowen
Bart nodded.
“You tell her she was right?” said Bart.
“I did that,” said Booger Tom. “Course, I’se a-layin’ on the floor there in this puddle a icewater an’ cubes. She said bye-bye with her right foot and busted three ribs.”
“Women are dangerous,” said Bart.
“Ya gotta keep movin’,” said Booger Tom, “is all.”
A big diesel roared out on the turnaround, and then the engine died to a popping.
They went to the door and looked out.
It was a stock hauler. The stock in the trailer was banging the walls ferociously. The trailer shook.
The driver got down and walked over.
“Sorry to trouble you,” he said, “but I am lookin’ for the Host a Yawow ranch or some damn thing. They said take the first left turn outta Toussaint.”
“It’s the second,” said Bart, “and the second is a good six miles past the first. It goes off east there. The ranch is mostly east of the mountains.”
The driver looked at the Wolf Mountains.
“Goddamn hippies,” he said. “Well, I thank you.”
Something heavy crashed against the aluminum side of the trailer. The metal bulged out and stayed there.
The driver threw his hat on the ground.
“God damn!” he yelled. “I shoulda never agreed to haul these goddamned buffalo.”
The man got in the rig and made a long turn.
When the trailer passed close to the house, a bison shoved a horn right through the sheathing.
“Hope he makes it,” said Booger Tom.
CHAPTER 10
“WHAT HAPPEN OUT THERE?” said Madelaine. “I tol’ you don’t get angry.”
“I am not angry,” said Du Pré. “I did not kill the son of a bitch.”
“We starting a war, Du Pré?”
Du Pré threw up his hands.
“Guy come after me, one of those four-wheelers, I am supposed to let him see me, I have shot his rifle to shit?”
“Son of a bitch,” said Madelaine, “he is shooting the horses?”
Du Pré nodded.
“What these people want?” said Madelaine.
Du Pré shrugged.
The telephone rang. Du Pré looked at it.
“Don’ answer that,” he said. “I got a bad feeling.”
Madelaine snorted.
She picked up the phone.
“Madelaine,” she said. She listened.
“But how you dance with me you don’t come here?” she said.
Shit, Du Pré thought, I know it is that damn Harvey before she pick it up.
“No, he is not uglier,” said Madelaine. “He is about the same. So why you saying these bad things, my man?”
Madelaine listened for a moment. Then she roared with laughter.
“Your wife there, Harvey? Lemme talk, her,” she said.
She grinned and handed the phone to Du Pré.
“Top of the morning,” said Agent Harvey Wallace, a.k.a. Weasel Fat, Blackfeet, and FBI.
Du Pré grunted.
“You’ve met the Host of Yahweh?” said Harvey.
Du Pré grunted.
“Interesting folks,” said Harvey. “Very big on purity, on worship, on hard work, on homeschooling. Turned a lot of lives around, they have.”
Du Pré grunted.
“Clannish as the Mormons,” said Harvey, “even clannish as the early Mormons. Very much like the early Mormons, matter of fact. You know about the Sons of Dan, the Danites?”
“Fuck,” said Du Pré.
“Mind like a steel goat’s,” said Harvey. “Eight o’clock.”
“Fuck,” said Du Pré.
“It’s boring talkin’ with ya,” said Harvey. “You wanna hear the story?”
“No,” said Du Pré.
“You get to see the lovely agent Pidgeon,” said Harvey.
“How many?” said Du Pré.
“Seven,” said Harvey. “At eight o’clock last night, in places far apart, seven former members of the Host of Yahweh went to meet Yahweh. On the dot. Our friends there are punctual.”
“How?” said Du Pré.
“Shot,” said Harvey. “Very professional. Went to useful lengths. Used twenty-two’s. Hollow points. Left the guns, which had no prints. All from a case of twelve stolen three years ago from an air cargo locker. Badda bip, badda boom.”
“Where?” said Du Pré.
“Four in California, two in Oregon, one in New York. State, not city.”
“Who were they?” said Du Pré.
“Former members,” said Harvey. “Funny thing, not a one of them had said a bad word about the cult. None of them, far as we know now, seemed at all worried. They were working and living like plain folks. Now, usually, when anyone bails out of something like that, there is a little stink. A bitterness, the odd reference to evil. But not this time. They just left and now they are really gone.”
Du Pré chewed his lip.
“OK,” he said, “so you want me, do something.”
“I hear you’ve already been doing something,” said Harvey. “Maybe you could do a little legwork for me, maybe not so, well, noticeable.”
Du Pré grunted.
“Agent Pidgeon is on her way,” said Harvey.
“Why?” said Du Pré.
Harvey sighed.
“Because,” he said carefully, “I know I can trust her.”
“Ripper?” said Du Pré.
“Ripper is terrified of going to Montana,” said Harvey. “What did you do to the poor boy? He is right here, pale and shaking.”
“My little granddaughter, she says she is going, marry him,” said Du Pré.
“Pallas?” said Harvey. “The sprout with the gone front teeth and the IQ of three hundred and fifty? Why, Ripper, what a lucky fellow … He’s on the floor now, foaming at the mouth. He eats soap, you know.”
Du Pré could hear Ripper hollering NONONONONONO-Noooooooooooaaaaaahh.
“Heh heh,” said Harvey, “thankee kindly. Keeping Ripper in hand is, well, a handful, and by cracky you done give me the Club. I can’t find words to thank you.”
“FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK fuuuuuuuuuuuuckkkkk,” said Ripper’s croaky voice.
“He pissed his pants,” said Harvey. “Well, I had Pallas after me, I’d soil myself, I suppose.”
“What you want?” said Du Pré.
“Want?” said Harvey. “Why, how could you think such a thing of me? I merely called to discuss the wedding plans!”
Du Pré could hear Ripper moaning faintly and piteously.
“Fetch my shoe polishes,” said Harvey. “Spit shine my Nu-Bucks here. You wanna go to Montana, Ripper? See your betrothed?”
Du Pré heard a door slam.
“He resigned again,” said Harvey. “Just like that. Not to worry, it’s the fourth time this week.”
“It is Tuesday,” said Du Pré.
“Short fuse, our Ripper,” said Harvey. “What I want, see, is for you to find the killers, there, and truss them up, and tape the evidence to their foreheads, and give me a call.”
Du Pré grunted.
“These are very dangerous people,” said Harvey, “and I think that because until shortly after eight o’clock last night they had a most sterling reputation. Financial affairs in order. No complaints from members. High praise for the homeschooling program. Don’t drink, don’t smoke—you could join, there, Du Pré, think about it—and literally not one bad rumor … even their El Máximo seemed a good guy. Gary Carl Smith he was, before he became the White Priest. Wears spotless white robes, he does. Funny sandals, too, calls ’em buskins.”
“I need Ripper,” said Du Pré.
“He won’t like that,” said Harvey.
“I get him now, you don’t maybe drop him, an airplane later,” said Du Pré.
“Still bitter about that, eh?” said Harvey. “I just send him out there to you by parachute and I thought it was funny, myself.”
Du
Pré grunted.
“He came back. He came back,” said Harvey, “with my shoe polishes. No, those are new … address my brogans, lackey.”
Du Pré heard a thud and a struggle going on.
“Ripper finally lost it?” said Madelaine. “I wondered about that.”
Du Pré listened. Choking sounds.
Scritchings. Duct tape.
The phone was moved, tapped, and then Du Pré heard heavy breathing.
“This is Harvey’s secretary,” said Ripper. “He became indisposed. In fact, he has been delirious for two days. You musn’t pay any attention to his ravings. He is unwell.”
“Pidgeon is coming,” said Du Pré. “You come, too.”
“Ahhhh,” Ripper whined. “I can’t I just can’t. Out there, past Chicago, there be monsters. How is the little monster, anyway?”
“Ain’t changed her mind,” said Du Pré.
“The kid is what, now, ten?”
“Nearly eleven,” said Du Pré.
“She terrifies me,” said Ripper.
“Yah,” said Du Pré.
“I will come on one condition,” said Ripper. “You send her to some far place. Siberia would be good. Antarctica. I’d settle for Afghanistan.”
“Cut the crap,” said Du Pré. “We sit on her, you are such a wimp.”
“You sit on her, you’ll be a eunuch,” said Ripper. “Harvey, just relax, willya. And I’m told it comes off with enough lighter fluid and sandpaper.”
“You and Pidgeon,” said Du Pré.
“Shit,” said Ripper. “Shit.”
“You, watch Pidgeon,” said Du Pré.
Pidgeon was flat hands down the most beautiful woman that Du Pré had ever seen. Anyone else had, either. She was a red-bone. French, English, black, Cherokee, and what-all.
“I could do that,” said Ripper.
“Let Harvey go home now,” said Du Pré, “and wash off the shoe polish.”
CHAPTER 11
PIDGEON AND RIPPER AND Du Pré stood on a rock at the east end of the Wolf Mountains. Du Pré had set up his spotting scope, and through it they could clearly see what was going on in the Host of Yahweh compound.
Five stock haulers were there, unloading more buffalo. There were about a thousand animals in a huge pasture. Du Pré guessed that the grass there would last another week at most. Far out on the ranch’s borders fencing crews were putting up miles of heavy four-strand fencing.
A horsefly buzzed lazily up and sat on Pidgeon’s bare and lovely shoulder. She whacked it with her open hand and wrinkled her nose at the mess in her palm.
“Part of the Great Chain of Being, there,” said Ripper, “and you just wipe the poor bastard out. What if it was a real rare and endangered kind of horsefly?”
“If the last goddamned Siberian tiger was licking his chops in front of me,” said Pidgeon, “I’d blow his ass away, too. Things don’t have enough good sense to leave me alone, fuck ’em.”
“Nice spread they got there,” said Ripper. “Wonder how many of the killers are down there right now? Just worshiping away there.”
Du Pré sighed. He put his eye to the spotting scope and stared. One of the men he had seen on the night that the Eide ranch burned was standing talking to a white-haired woman. They laughed and hugged and went off in different directions.
“Fucking Harvey,” said Pidgeon, “I am supposed to be home with my computers. Cactus. I hate fucking cactus. Bugs.”
“So?” said Ripper. “Since when did Harvey pay any attention to our whining? Since never. He’s a sadist. Likes it, too.”
“They generally do,” said Pidgeon. “By the way, the killers were all women.”
Ripper looked at her for a moment.
“Makes sense,” he said.
“The victims were all men,” said Pidgeon. “Dumb bastards.”
“How you know that?” said Du Pré.
“Well,” said Pidgeon, “we got the reports, the cops interviewed anyone’d stand still long enough, and, all these people were living in good apartments, families, like that, and no one saw anything unusual. That’s what’s unusual, that they saw nothing unusual. Women are less likely to attract attention. Maybe they are carrying a baby on a packboard. Or delivering some flowers. And the other funny thing was, all the victims were in the parking areas, about to go somewhere. At exactly eight o’clock. That means something, I dunno what.”
“So?” said Ripper. “Host of Yahweh, very punctilious, I have heard.”
“Yes,” said Pidgeon, “they are. Well, it’s nice to look at the buffalo roamin’ and all but we aren’t gonna see dick down there.”
She was wearing chinos, low hiking boots, and a sleeveless silk blouse, bright blazing blue. Her dark red hair flashed crimson lights and her deep green eyes glowed.
The 9mm Glock on her belt looked a bit out of place.
“Well,” said Ripper, “I did want to see it.”
“Harvey said the White Priest was on his way here. He was visiting congregations when the seven were killed. Should be along, soon,” said Pidgeon.
“We don’t got enough for a search warrant,” said Ripper, “or a wiretap or a damn thing. Let’s just shoot ’em all.”
“I want some iced tea,” said Pidgeon, “and it would be all right with me if you just left Ripper here with the spyglass. Let him look on a while.”
“Awww,” said Ripper, “you wound me.”
“Yeah,” said Pidgeon. “I will, that.”
She began to walk back down the path toward Du Pré’s old cruiser. Her perfect hips swayed perfectly. Her grace was equal to her beauty.
“Harvey thought I might join the Host, there,” said Ripper, “but I personally don’t think it’d work.”
Du Pré looked at him.
Ripper crooked a finger. He bent to the eyepiece and he moved the spotting scope a little.
“Take a look,” he said, “the doorway there.”
Du Pré bent and squinted.
Du Pré stared.
Then he saw it.
Back in the dark there was a huge lens, and it was pointed directly at Du Pré.
“Bet that lens, it has a camera behind it,” said Ripper. “Film in that camera, too, I bet.”
Du Pré grunted.
“And,” said Ripper, “I …” He bent to the eyepiece again. He moved the spotting scope.
Du Pré looked through it. A man was wiring up some small black boxes that were fastened chest high on fenceposts.
“Motion detectors,” said Ripper. “Bet they got other stuff, too. The things that you can buy these days, mail order.”
Du Pré stood up.
“Until there’s a chink in the wall,” said Ripper, “we’re fucked. So I think I will just go on back to good old Washington, D.C.”
Du Pré lifted the heavy spotting scope and he folded the legs up and snapped them into the holders along the tube. Then he slid the scope into the leather case and put the strap over his shoulder.
They walked down the path to the cruiser.
Pidgeon was standing by an open door. She was using it for a rest. Her Glock was pointing at something.
“Did you read ’em their rights?” said Ripper.
“A rattlesnake,” said Pidgeon, “has no rights at all. God, I hate snakes.”
Du Pré looked where her gun was pointing. A rattler was sunning on a rock. It was all of a foot long.
“Leave him,” said Du Pré. “He will not bother you.”
“I hate wildlife,” said Pidgeon. “I hate all of ’em.”
“We’re gonna get you iced tea,” said Ripper.
Pidgeon pulled her gun up. She popped the round out of the chamber and she put it back in the clip and she put the gun back in its holster.
She got in the backseat.
“I could ride back there,” said Ripper.
“You see The Godfather?” said Pidgeon.
“Yes,” said Ripper, “I did.” He climbed into the backseat.
Du Pré
put the spotting scope in the trunk. He drove down the dirt track and stopped and he went and got his .270 from the cleft in the rock. The 9mm was in the case. He put the rifle and pistol in the aluminum case with the foam points.
He got back in the car.
“Hiding guns?” said Ripper. “Waiting for the black helicopters, the forces of the Evil Government! We are here! I need to kick down a door.”
Pidgeon looked out of the window.
Du Pré drove fast back to Toussaint. Madelaine was behind the bar, beading. She had on the ridiculous glasses that Du Pré had fashioned for her. She smiled when the three came in.
“Jesus,” said Pidgeon, “I haven’t seen anything that tasteful since Gianni Versace got himself shot.”
Madelaine went on beading while Du Pré got sodas for the two FBI agents. He made whiskey and water for himself.
It was getting warm outside.
Du Pré heard gravel crunch under tires, but the engine noise wasn’t there. Some new car with a good muffler.
He sipped his drink.
The door opened and a young woman came in, dressed in the long gray dress of the Host of Yahweh. She had a pretty, round face, and she wore the white bonnet the women favored.
“Do you have water?” she said.
“Sure,” said Madelaine. She put down her beading.
She filled a big glass with ice.
“Oh, no,” said the young woman. “I meant bottled water. Do you have any? Perrier or Poland Spring?”
Madelaine shook her head.
“Nothing?” said the young woman.
“Not many people come here,” said Madelaine, “to drink the water.”
The young woman hesitated.
“Thank you,” she said. She went back out.
Du Pré went to the door and he opened it.
An incredibly long car was pulling out of the lot, a white car.
The windows were black.
“I do believe that is the White Priest,” said Ripper.
Du Pré nodded. It was getting hot out, so he shut the door.
CHAPTER 12
“SHE IS REAL PRETTY,” said Pallas. She looked at Pidgeon.
“What’s it to ya?” said Pidgeon.
Pallas went to the stool next to Agent Pidgeon and climbed up on it and put her little hands out.