A Thousand Years of Darkness: a Thriller (16 page)

“Don’t mind them, Corey,” Mosby said. “Ol’ Ranger died last night from tangling with a ’coon he treed. Alice and the kids was attached to that dog. So, what’s going on? Heard anything more about Sparks being hung in the cemetery? What reason could Logan and Morris have to do something like that?”

“They didn’t do it. The Homies executed Ron,” Big C said. “Somebody in the Defenders snitched him off.”

The Colonel bent over and hung his head and clasped his hands around his bony knees. He was about forty, more lean than thin, with the big hands and big nose and small head common to many hill people.

“How was Logan and Morris mixed up in it then?” he asked.

Big C shrugged. “Either they saw who killed Ron or they know who the snitch is,” he speculated. “You and me talked before, Josiah. Maybe we oughta take look at that new guy from Muskogee, uh—?”

“Tom Fullbright.”

“Seems our problem start after he show up. Don’t he pal around with Luther Hawkins? Colonel, if you call a meeting of the Defenders, say for Friday night, I think we can flush out our forked tongues. Besides, I know a lady the Defenders might want to listen to.”

They discussed the details. The Colonel suggested holding the gathering in the old abandoned church at Akins. Big C didn’t think it a good idea to congregate so near the cemetery where Sparks ended up dead.

“All right,” Mosby conceded. “There’s a one-room schoolhouse at Bunch that ain’t been used for school since I was a kid. I’ll pass the word to the men.”

“Make sure Fullbright and Hawkins show up.”

They stood up.

Usually, Alice brought out lemonade. Big C cast another glance at the trailer. The two hounds lay draped across the porch steps, blinking against flies and with their tongues lolled out. Alice peeped out through parted curtains. She closed them when she saw Big C looking at her.

“They really taken Ranger hard,” the Colonel said.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Keystone Lake

Sharon tugged on Nail’s hand after Big C left. “James, you promised we’d go fishing. I don’t think I can bear another can of hash or pork ’n beans.”

He realized what she was trying to do, take his mind off Jamie, and it was okay. He didn’t know how he would have made it through these last days after his daughter’s death without Sharon, who was valiantly endeavoring to get them both past their mourning period. Even through his grief, he found delightful the graceful way she walked and the way her hands swept and dived through the air when she talked.

They scrounged a couple of fishing poles from the cabin. Nail turned over a rotted log and found some juicy grubs for bait. They walked together to the creek and sat on the fallen log. They caught a couple of fat channel cat, some bluegill and a crappie. Nail cleaned and filleted them. Sharon promised they’d have fresh fried fish for dinner.

“With a can of pork ’n beans,” she added with a laugh.

They both kept busy the rest of the day to keep their minds occupied. It was too painful when they slowed down and began to think. Nail cleaned his truck and took a walk in the woods, old memories of better times with Jamie flooding his thoughts. Sharon remained in the cabin working on another article for
Truth.
Nail tried not to think about her either, the way she kissed him goodnight on the cheek. They were merely two needy people drawn together by loss. Romance was the last thing either needed.

She fried the fish for dinner. They kept the conversation light and airy, self-consciously so. After nightfall, mosquitoes or no, they sat on the log by the creek underneath an amazing canopy of stars and held hands. She lifted her face to the stars and sighed deeply.

“Oh, look!” she exclaimed, pointing. “A shooting star. Quick. Make a wish.”

“I don’t believe in wishes.”

“I’ll make a wish for both of us then.”

She closed her eyes tightly, then opened them again. “It’s done.”

“What did you wish for?”

“It won’t come true if I tell you.”

“You can tell me
if
it comes true?”

“Yes. Afterwards.” Her face was still uplifted.

They were quiet for awhile. He felt comfortable with her. He liked the feeling.

“Looking up into the heavens puts everything in perspective,” she said presently. She continued after he failed to respond. “We humans are so infinitesimally small. Mankind’s problems, even though global, pale in comparison to the universe. James, even if we try real hard, no way can we possiblly comprehend the meaning of
infinity
or
forever
. How can anyone gaze into these marvelous heavens and not see the face of God?”

He looked up and all he saw was the face of his daughter.

Oil Ban Judge Dies of Overdose

(New Orleans)—
The body of New Orleans Federal District Judge Orville Fielding was found this morning in a French Quarter alley, dead of an apparent overdose of amphetamines. Witnesses and acquaintances stated they knew the judge was addicted to “speed.” Adele Raineau, a well-known Bourbon Street prostitute, said Fielding had visited her earlier in the night on a “personal matter.”

Judge Fielding made news when he struck down President Anastos’ ban on deepwater oil drilling in the Gulf of Mexico after the AP oil spill disaster. The ban was under appeal by the U.S. Justice Department.

Following the announcement of Fielding’s death, Judge Walter E. Durant said he would immediately reinstate the ban to halt any drilling in the Gulf for at least a year...

Chapter Twenty-Nine

New York City

Senate Majority Leader Joe Wiedersham gave his chief of staff Friday and Saturday off and two Broadway tickets with the stipulation that Trout meet a man at a Park Place address on Friday afternoon. The man’s name was not important, Wiedersham explained with a mysterious smile, only what the man had to say. Trout telephoned Marilyn and tried to sound apologetic about not coming home. Surprisingly enough, Marilyn wasn’t upset. In fact, she seemed almost cheerful, an unusual condition of equilibrium for her.

She said. “My brother told me this is vital to our career.”

What did she mean—
our
career?

Trout hung up and called Judy to take a cab and meet him at Dulles. He didn’t particularly like New York and certainly didn’t relish spending time there alone. He didn’t particularly like D.C. either. He couldn’t recall anyplace he really liked.

Judy showed up at the airport looking like a common hooker with lots of cleavage and a short skirt with her thighs showing. “Like it?” she beamed.

“Ummm.”

“You said I should wear something nice.”

“I hope you brought something else,” he fussed. “I’ll dress you from now on.”

“The only thing you want is to
undress
me. I got jeans in my carry-on.”

“Go to the
Ladies
and change now. For God’s sake, wipe off some of that makeup. You look like a...”

He caught himself.

“A
what?”
she demanded.

“Just change. And hurry.”

She returned shortly in jeans. Pouting. She had seemed strangely distracted since her return from Oklahoma. They hardly talked to each other on the flight. He stretched his legs in First Class and picked up the latest issue of
Newsweek.
The cover story:
We’re All Socialists Now
. He cast it aside and took Judy’s hand.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “I’ve been under a lot of stress.”

She withdrew her hand. “If’n you want another Marilyn,” she sulked, “you should have stayed in the hog pen.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.”

She still wasn’t talking to him when the cab dropped her off in front of their Manhattan hotel and he continued with the taxi to keep his appointment. He’d send her some chocolates, the Wal-Mart kind she liked with the cherries. She had probably lost
her
cherry when she was twelve and out playing doctor in the barn with her brother or cousin in Oklahoma. If she wasn’t happy by tonight, he wasn’t getting any and may as well have come to New York alone. What was it with women that they had to be so fucking difficult, always thinking of themselves?

Park Place from Ground Zero north was packed with a demonstration in progress, thousands of people jammed into the concrete-and-glass canyon to get blasted from microphones on a hastily-raised platform. It had something to do about unions and banks. It seemed everyone in America was pissed off about something and getting more pissed off every day.

Trout’s cabbie was pissed off because he had to detour. He cursed in Arabic.

* * *

The man who greeted Trout on the eighth floor of the Park Place building was about fifty or so and, in a crowd, would have been as unnoticeable as an old rusty well bucket, to use a Judy euphemism. Until he opened his mouth, at which time he spoke with authority and conviction. The man said to call him “John,” first-name-only, but Trout knew from the moment he walked into the little cubbyhole that this wasn’t really John’s office, that John wasn’t his name, and that John had probably been dispatched by George Zuniga to vet the new guy to see if he were a congressional candidate worthy of being backed by the wealthiest, most influential and most powerful man in the universe. In fact, that was what John told him before frisking him with the skill of a NY street cop, apologizing profusely while explaining that they couldn’t afford to take any chances with a hidden wire or recorder.

“What we discuss today is between you and me, whether we come to an agreement or not,” John warned politely. “You seem to be a promising young fellow. Sit down.”

He indicated a chair in front of a bare-topped desk. Trout accepted it. John took the swivel chair behind the desk and leaned forward with his elbows on top of the desk and his hands tented below his chin.

“Let’s not waste each other’s time,” he suggested. “We’ll get directly to why you were summoned here.”

Summoned?
Well, he
had
been summoned. Trout smiled. He was an old hand at kissing ass. When obsequious was called for, he could out-obsequious even his brother-in-law. He
really
wanted to be a congressman.

“Drink?” John asked, scooting back and taking a bottle and two glasses from a desk drawer. He poured. They lifted their glasses. “To hope and change,” John toasted.

They sipped. John regarded Trout through heavy eyebrows.

“If you
are
selected as one of our candidates—and you come with top recommendations—rest assured you
will
be elected,” John began.

“How can you promise that?” Trout asked, curious. “I hope I’m not being too forward?”

“Not at all. There’s no need for us to be guarded with each other,
Congressman
Trout.” A thrill ran up Trout’s leg. “A very wise man once said, ‘It’s not who
gets
the votes that counts, it’s who
counts
the votes.’ Suffice it to say that everything is in place to bring about a complete transformation of the United States of America, as Anastos promised. All we need to ensure that our policies and programs are implemented is to have enough good people ready to take over the House and Senate when the time comes. There are eighty seats in the House and eight in the Senate up for grabs in November. We already have a majority, but once we install far-sighted Progressives like you in all those contended seats there won’t be anything to stop us.

“Incidentally, after this election, there will be no future elections in which the outcomes are in doubt.
We
will control voting—or at least the counting of votes. Congressman Trout, you may be on the ground floor of the most historical movement the world has ever know. Indeed, the rise of the oceans will slow and the planet begin to heal. Hitch your star to those who really count, who can change the world for the better. We’re Aristotle’s men of gold who rightfully should rule to bring about a new, brighter, more equitable age of civilization. It’s our destiny.”

Trout liked John. He relaxed and had another glass of brandy. John chuckled. Trout tittered. They chatted about various other topics. Trout had a feeling that John knew
everything
about him.

“How’s your wife Marilyn?” John asked out of nowhere.

Trout nodded, noncommittal.

“And Judy Taylor?”

John chuckled at the look on Trout’s face. “We do our homework,” he said. “For dinner tonight, may I suggest you take her to The Pig Out Café in the Bronx. She’ll feel more at home there.”

The cheap shot annoyed Trout, but he restrained himself. He wondered if John knew Judy’s maiden name was Sparks and that she was a cousin to the Homeland Security agent hung in the cemetery? That she had been at her cousin’s funeral when Sharon Lowenthal and the cop escaped from Kimbrell’s men? Trout volunteered nothing, however. It was none of Wiedersham’s business; it was certainly none of John‘s or his boss Zuniga’s.

John moved on, surprising Trout further with a candid discourse about the nature of government and political power, at least according to George Zuniga. Trout wondered why John bothered to explain it to him. Perhaps to test him? To see where he stood?

“Are you aware that twenty-six percent of Americans want authoritarian control, need to be told what to do?” John asked in a conversational tone. “Most of the other seventy percent will go along with almost anything. They can be controlled by tapping into their deepest fears and dreams, as long as the illusion of freedom and Constitutionality is maintained.

“A man named Edward Bernays believed that opinion can be regimented and democracy administered by an intelligent minority. Marx taught that you first identify what it is you want to control—in this instance, the U.S. Government. You earmark and organize people who consider themselves to be oppressed victims. Blacks, Hispanics, gays... You also infiltrate and corrupt powerful institutions such as unions, politics, education, churches, the media...”