Conspiracies

by F. Paul Wilson

  The man was a goddamn Peeping Tom.

  Miles would have been long gone by now if the background check he'd run had come up clean. But it hadn't.

  Miles had pocketed the man's beer bottle from last night's reception and called his man in the FBI. Working quickly, he'd reported that three good sets had been retrieved from the bottle: one belonged to Lewis Ehler, one to the bartender, and the third set was not on record.

  That could be a good thing, meaning Jack Shelby had never been arrested, never applied for a gun permit, never worked in any security-sensitive jobs. It could also mean that he was a member of either a government agency or a secret organization powerful enough to have his print set removed from the FBI's computers.

  Miles became convinced it was the latter when a check revealed that no one named Jack Shelby lived at the address he'd given when he registered.

  So who are you, Shelby, and who are you working for? Whoever you are, you've made a big mistake getting on the wrong side of me. I can and will make your life miserable.

  Miles reflected on how far he had come since his birth. Who'd have dreamed that a callow South Dakota farm boy would end up on the country's first line of defense against the New World Order. Now it seemed almost providential that he had joined the Army out of high school, worked his way up in the ranks, and had been in the right places at the right times to hear whispers about the UN, about NATO, about his own government, and to have the internal fiber and wherewithal to put it all together and realize that not everything was quite what it seemed.

  When he'd learned the truth, he immediately resigned. He had almost forty years in, so he took his pension, withdrew all his savings, and bought a fifty-acre parcel in Montana where he gathered others who knew the truth. There they lived and trained for the day when the One Worlders would try to take over America.

  He dreaded that day, but he'd be ready for it—ready to fight to the death to protect his freedom.

  Miles yawned. He hadn't slept well last night. He'd had a dream about that day of invasion, when the New World Order's black helicopters peppered the sky as they came for him and his militia. He shuddered at the memory. He often had nightmares, but this one had been his worst ever. He'd awakened at four-thirty shaking and sweating.

  He shook himself to wakefulness. Had to stay alert and wait to see where this so-called Jack Shelby character went from here.

  22

  The sound of a car turning into the driveway alerted Jack. He straightened, stretched, and crossed the backyard in a hurried crouch, slipping into the foundation shrubbery around the garage. The automatic door rolled up and the car eased into the garage. Jack recognized Gus's voice as the car doors opened.

  " ... just wish you hadn't said that, Ceil. It made me look real bad in front of Dave and Nancy."

  "But no one took it the way you did," Ceil said.

  Jack thought he detected a slight quaver in her voice. Too many vodkas? Or fear?

  "Don't be so sure about that. I think they're just too good-mannered to show it, but I saw the shock in Nancy's eyes. Didn't you see the way she looked at me when you said that?"

  "No. I didn't see anything of the sort. You're imagining things again."

  "Oh, am I?"

  Jack heard the jangle of keys in the lock in the door to the house.

  "Y-yes. And besides, I've already apologized a dozen times since we left. What more do you want from me?"

  "What I want, Ceil, is that it not keep happening like it does. Is that too much to ask?"

  Ceil's reply was cut off as the garage door began to roll down. Jack returned to the rear of the house where he could get a view of most of the first floor. Their voices leaked out through an open casement window as Gus strode into the kitchen.

  " ... don't know why you keep doing this to me, Ceil. I try to be good, try to keep calm, but you keep testing me, pushing me to the limit again and again."

  Ceil's voice came from the hall, overtly anxious now.

  "But I told you, Gus. You're the only one who took it that way."

  Jack watched Gus pull an insulated pot-holder mitten over his left hand, then wrap a dish towel around his right.

  "Fine, Ceil. If that's what you want to believe, I guess you'll go on believing it. But unfortunately, that won't change what happened tonight."

  Ceil came into the kitchen.

  "But Gus—"

  Her voice choked off as he turned toward her and she saw his hands.

  "Why'd you do it, Ceil?"

  "Oh, Gus, no! Please! I didn't mean it!"

  She turned to run but he caught her upper arm and yanked her toward him.

  "You should have kept your damn mouth shut, Ceil. I try so hard and then you go and get me mad."

  He saw Gus take Ceil's wrist in his mittened hand and twist her arm behind her back, twist it up hard and high. She cried out in pain.

  "Gus, please don't!"

  Jack didn't want to see this, but he had to watch. Had to be sure.

  Gus pressed Ceil against the side of the refrigerator. Her face was turned toward Jack, her cheek flattened against the enameled surface. He saw fear there, and terror and dread, but overriding it all was a sort of dull acceptance of the inevitable that reached into Jack's center and twisted.

  Gus began ramming his padded fist into Ceil's back, right below the bottom ribs, left side and right, pummeling her kidneys. Eyes squeezed shut, teeth bared with pain she grunted with each impact.

  "I hate you for making me do this," Gus said.

  Sure you do, you son of a bitch.

  Jack gripped the window sill and closed his eyes, but he could hear Ceil's repeated grunts and moans, and he felt her pain. He'd been kidney punched. He knew the agony.

  But this had to end soon. Gus would vent his rage and it would all be over. For the next few days Ceil would have stabbing back pains every time she took a deep breath or coughed, and would urinate bright red blood, but she'd have hardly a mark on her, thanks to the mitten and the towel-wrapped fist.

  It had to end soon.

  It didn't. Jack looked again and saw that Ceil's knees had gone rubbery, but that didn't stop Gus. He was supporting her sagging body with the arm lock, and still methodically pummeling her.

  Jack growled under his breath. All he'd wanted was to witness enough to confirm Schaffer's story. That done, he'd deal with dear sweet Gus outside the home. Maybe in a dark parking lot while Schaffer made sure he had an airtight alibi. He hadn't counted on a scene like this, though he'd been aware all along it was a possibility.

  He knew the smart thing to do in this situation was to walk away. But he also knew himself well enough to be pretty sure he wouldn't be able to do that. So he'd come prepared.

  Jack hurried across the backyard and snatched his gym bag from the perimeter shrubs. As he moved around to the far side of the house, he pulled out a nylon stocking and a pair of rubber surgical gloves; he slipped the first over his head and the second over his fingers. Then he removed the special .45 automatic, a pair of wire cutters, and a heavy-duty screwdriver. He stuck the pistol in his belt. He used the cutters on the telephone lead, then popped the latch on one of the living room windows with the screwdriver.

  As soon as he was in the darkened room, he looked around for something to break. The first thing to catch his eye was the set of brass fire irons by the brick hearth. He kicked the stand over. The clang and clatter echoed through the house.

  Gus's voice floated in from the kitchen.

  "What the hell was that?"

  When Gus arrived and flipped on the lights, Jack was waiting by the window. He almost smiled at the shock on Gus's face.

  "Take it easy, man," Jack said, holding up an open, empty hand. He knew his face couldn't show much anxiety through the stocking mask so he put it all in his voice. "This is all a mistake."

  "Who the hell are you?" Gus shouted. He bent and snatched the poker from the spilled fire irons. "And what are you doing in my house?"

  "Liste
n, man. I didn't think anybody was home. Let's just forget this ever happened."

  Gus pointed the poker at the gym bag in Jack's hand.

  "What's in there? What'd you take?"

  "Nothing, man. I just got here. And I'm outta here."

  "Omigod!"

  Ceil's voice, muffled. She stood at the edge of the living room, leaning against the wall, half bent over from the agony in her kidneys, both hands over her mouth.

  "Call the police, Ceil. But tell them not to hurry. I want to teach this punk a lesson before they get here."

  As Ceil limped back toward the kitchen, Gus shook off the mitten and the towel and raised the poker in a two-handed grip. His eyes glittered with anticipation. His tight, hard grin told it all: Pounding on his wife had got him up, but he could go only so far with her. Now he had a prowler at his mercy. He could beat the living shit out of this guy with impunity. In fact, he'd be a hero for doing it. His gaze settled on Jack's head like Babe Ruth eyeing a high-outside pitch. And Schaffer thought a few sessions with a psychiatrist was going to turn this guy into a loving husband? Right. When the Dodgers came back to Brooklyn.

  Gus took two quick steps toward Jack and swung. No subtlety, not even a feint.

  Jack ducked and let it whistle over his head. He could have put a wicked chop in Gus's exposed flank then, but he wasn't ready yet.

  "Hey, man! Be cool! We can talk about this!"

  "No, we can't," Gus said as he swung the poker back the other way, lower this time.

  Jack jumped back and resisted planting a foot in the big man's reddening face.

  "Whatta you tryin' t' do? Kill me?"

  "Yes!"

  Gus's third swing was vertical, from ceiling to floor. Jack was long gone when it arrived.

  Gus's teeth were bared now; his breath hissed through them. His eyes were mad with rage and frustration. Time to goose that rage a little.

  Jack grinned beneath the nylon. "You swing like a pussy, man."

  With a guttural scream, Gus charged, wielding the poker like a scythe.

  Jack ducked the first swing, then grabbed the poker and rammed his forearm into Gus's face with a satisfying crunch. Gus cried out and released his hold on the poker. He staggered back, eyes squeezed shut in agony, holding his nose. Blood began to leak between his fingers.

  Never failed. No matter how big they were, a smashed nose tended to be a great equalizer.

  Ceil hobbled back to the threshold. Her voice skirted the edge of hysteria.

  "The phone's dead!"

  "Don't worry, lady," Jack said. "I didn't come here to hurt nobody, and I won't hurt you. But this guy—he's a different story. He just tried to kill me."

  As Jack dropped the poker and stepped toward him, Gus's eyes bulged with terror. He put out a bloody hand to fend him off. Jack grabbed the wrist and twisted. Gus wailed as he was turned and forced into an arm lock. Jack shoved him against the wall and began a bare-knuckled workout against his kidneys, wondering if the big man's brain would make a connection between what he'd been dishing out in the kitchen and what he was receiving in the living room.

  Jack didn't hold back. He put plenty of body behind the punches, and Gus shouted in pain with each one.

  How's it feel, tough guy? Like it?

  Jack pounded him until he felt some of his own anger dissipate. He was about to let him go and move into the next stage of his plan when he sensed motion behind him.

  As he turned his head he caught a glimpse of Ceil. She had the poker, and she was swinging it toward his head. He started to duck but too late. The room exploded into bright lights, then went dark gray.

  An instant of blackness and then Jack found himself on the floor, pain exploding in his gut. He focused above him and saw Gus readying another kick at his midsection. He rolled away toward the corner. Something heavy thunked on the carpet as he moved.

  "Christ, he's got a gun!" Gus shouted.

  Jack had risen to a crouch by then. He made a move for the fallen .45 but Gus was ahead of him, snatching it from the floor before Jack could reach it.

  Gus stepped back and worked the slide to chamber a round. He pointed the pistol at Jack's face.

  "Stay right where you are, you bastard! Don't you move a muscle!"

  Jack sat back on the floor in the corner and stared up at the big man.

  "All right!" Gus said with a bloody grin. "All right!"

  "I got him for you, didn't I, Gus?" Ceil said, still holding the poker. She was bent forward in pain. That swing had cost her. "I got him off you. I saved you, didn't I?

  "Shut up, Ceil."

  "But he was hurting you. I made him stop. I—"

  "I said shut up!"

  Her lower lip trembled. "I ... I thought you'd be glad."

  "Why should I be glad? If you hadn't got me so mad tonight I might've noticed he was here when we came in. Then he wouldn't have took me by surprise." He pointed to his swelling nose. "This is your fault, Ceil."

  Ceil's shoulders slumped; she stared dully at the floor.

  Jack didn't know what to make of Ceil. He'd interrupted her brutal beating at the hands of her husband, yet she'd come to the creep's aid. And valiantly, at that. But the gutsy little scrapper who'd wielded that poker seemed miles away from the cowed, beaten creature now standing in the middle of the room.

  I don't get it.

  Which was why he'd made a policy of refusing home repairs in the first place. From now on, no more exceptions.

  "I'll go over to the Ferrises'," Ceil said.

  "What for?"

  "To call the police."

  "Hold on a minute."

  "Why?"

  Jack glanced at Gus and saw how his eyes were flicking back and forth between Ceil and him.

  "Because I'm thinking, that's why."

  "Yeah," Jack said. "I can smell the wood burning."

  "Hey!" Gus stepped toward Jack and raised the pistol as if to club him. "Another word out of you and—"

  "You don't really want to get that close to me, do you?" Jack said softly.

  Gus stepped back.

  "Gus, I've got to call the police!" Ceil said as she replaced the poker by the fireplace, far out of Jack's reach.

  "You're not going anywhere," Gus said. "Get over here."

  Ceil meekly moved to his side.

  "Not here!" he said, grabbing her shoulder and shoving her toward Jack. "Over there!"

  She cried out with the pain in her back as she stumbled forward.

  "Gus! What are you doing?"

  Jack decided to stay in character. He grabbed Ceil's shoulders and—as gently as he could—turned her around. She struggled weakly as he held her between Gus and himself.

  Gus laughed. "You'd better think of something else, fella. That skinny little broad's not gonna protect you from a forty-five."

  "Gus!"

  "Shut up! God, I'm sick of your voice! I'm sick of your face, I'm sick of—shit, I'm so sick of everything about you!"

  Under his hands, Jack could feel Ceil's thin shoulders jerk with the impact of the words as if they were blows from a fist. A fist probably would have hurt less.

  "B-but Gus, I thought you loved me."

  He sneered. "Are you kidding? I hate you, Ceil! It drives me up a wall just to be in the same room with you! Why the hell do you think I beat the shit out of you every chance I get? It's all I can do to keep myself from killing you!"

  "But all those times you said—"

  "How I loved you?" he said, his face shifting to a contrite, hangdog expression. "How I didn't know what came over me, but I really, truly loooove you with all my heart?" The snarl returned. "And you believed it! God, you're such a pathetic wimp you fell for it every time."

  "But why?" She was sobbing now. "Why?"

  "You mean, why play games? Why not dump you and find a real woman—one who's got tits and can have kids? The answer should be pretty clear: your brother. He got me into Gorland 'cause he's one of their biggest customers. And if you and me go kaput, he
'll see to it I'm out of there before the ink's dry on our divorce papers. I've put too many years into that job to blow it because of a sack of shit like you."

  Ceil almost seemed to shrivel under Jack's hands.

  He glared at Gus. "Big man."

  "Yeah. I'm the big man. I've got the gun. And I want to thank you for it, fella, whoever you are. Because it's going to solve all my problems."

  "What? My gun?"

  He wanted to tell Gus to hurry up and use it, but Gus wanted to talk. The words spewed out like maggots from a ripe corpse.

  "Yep. I've got a shitload of insurance on my dear wife here. I bought loads of term on her years ago and kept praying she'd have an accident. I was never so stupid as to try and set her up for something fatal—I know what happened to that Marshall guy in Jersey—but I figured, what the hell, with all the road fatalities around here, the odds of collecting on old Ceil were better than Lotto."

  "Oh, Gus," she sobbed. An utterly miserable sound.

  Her head sank until her chin touched her chest. She would have fan-folded to the floor if Jack hadn't been holding her up. He knew this was killing her, but he wanted her to hear it. Maybe it was the alarm she needed to wake her up.

  Gus mimicked her. "'Oh, Gus!' Do you have any idea how many rainy nights you got my hopes up when you were late coming home from your card group? How I prayed—actually prayed—that you'd skidded off the road and wrapped your car around a utility pole, or that a big semi had run a light and plowed you under? Do you have any idea? But no. You'd come bouncing in as carefree as you please, and I'd be so disappointed I'd almost cry. That was when I really wanted to wring your scrawny neck!"

  "That's just about enough, don't you think?" Jack said.

  Gus sighed. "Yeah. I guess it is. But at least all those premiums weren't wasted. Tonight I collect."

  Ceil's head lifted.

  "What?"

  "That's right. An armed robber broke in. During the struggle, I managed to get the gun away from him but he pulled you between us as I fired. You took the first bullet—right in the heart. In a berserk rage, I emptied the rest of the clip into his head. Such a tragedy." He raised the pistol and sighted it on Ceil's chest. "Goodbye, my dear sweet wife."