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J
esse arrived precisely on time and was shown into Coldwater's study by one of Jack Gene's young women.

“The pastor will be with you shortly,” she said. “Please make yourself at home.”

As soon as she was gone, Jesse went to the false bookcase at the end of the room and tugged at it. The facade gave way to reveal a door, securely locked, and it was made of steel. Jesse rapped on it sharply with a knuckle; at least a quarter-inch thick, and there was an echo from behind it. He closed the bookcase and quickly found a chair.

Coldwater entered the room, followed by Pat Casey and Kurt Ruger, and at that moment the doorbell rang. “Ah, here they are,” Coldwater said. “Good evening, Jesse.”

“Good evening, Pastor,” Jesse replied, rising. He nervously checked his necktie.

A moment later a group of men were shown into the room, led by Charley Bottoms, who winked at Jesse.

Don't
do
that, Jesse said to himself. He counted eight men as he was introduced; some, like Bottoms, had been in the last visiting group, but two were new. Jesse recognized one of them as the Reverend John Packard, a Seattle minister who specialized in racial and anti-Semitic epithets; he had often been on the news.

The young woman who had admitted them entered the room, opened a concealed wet bar and began offering drinks. Jesse accepted a bourbon, but he drank little of it.

“Gentlemen,” Coldwater said to the room at large, “I hope you'll forgive the inconvenience, but in the interests of security, it will be necessary for each of you to be, ah, looked at more closely. Not you, Reverend, of course.”

There was grumbling, but each man submitted to an expert search by Pat Casey and Kurt Ruger.

“Pastor,” the reverend said, “I hope you won't take offense, but your crowd will have to be looked at, too.”

“No offense taken,” Coldwater replied. “Go right ahead.”

“Charley, will you do the honors?” the reverend said.

“Sure thing, Preacher,” Bottoms said. “You fellows mind unbuttoning your shirts?” He quickly patted down Casey and Ruger, then turned to Jesse. “You're next, pal.”

Jesse's back was to the fire, but he still held his breath while Bottoms ran his hands over his body. If Charley wasn't on the feds' team, he would find out about it now. Charley found the wire running up his back. He turned to Packard. “They're clean, Reverend.”

Jesse started breathing again.

“What did you fellows fly down in?” Coldwater asked the Reverend Packard.

“I got a King Air,” the reverend replied. “I fly it myself; we made it in no time flat.”

“I fly a rather old Commanche, myself,” Coldwater said. “You like our little airport?”

“Real nice,” Packard replied.

Charley Bottoms took a large swig of whiskey and announced, “I came in a Chevrolet. You guys are doing awful good for yourselves.”

The Reverend Packard laughed heartily at this.

Jesse thought about the King Air out at the airport—a twin-engined turboprop. It flew a lot faster than the Cessna he was planning on leaving in, but he knew nothing about flying twins, and he wasn't going to start learning tonight.

The conversation grew louder as the alcohol circulated, and then they were called into dinner. Jesse aimed at a seat near the middle of the table, on Coldwater's right. There were twelve of them at the long table, and he wanted to be able to record as many of them as possible. From the middle of the table, he thought, the recorder might manage it.

Dinner was served, and Coldwater waxed eloquent about the wines, while Jesse ate and drank little.

“Jesse,” Coldwater said suddenly, “you're not drinking my wine; what's the matter?”

Jesse placed a hand on his belly. “Some kind of bug, I think; my stomach's a little unsettled.”

“Can we get you something for it?” Coldwater asked solicitously.

“Thank you, no; I think I'll be fine, if I take it easy.”

“Sure you wouldn't like to go and lie down for a few minutes?”

This was a tempting possibility, but Jesse had to record the conversation in this room.

“Really, I'll be fine,” he said.

“As you wish,” Coldwater said. “Let me know if you take a turn for the worse.”

“Thank you, sir; I'll do that.”

Dessert and coffee were served, and a large decanter of brandy was placed on the table. Kurt Ruger, who was sitting near the opposite end of the table from Coldwater, got up and left the room.

Coldwater poured himself a brandy and passed the decanter. Jesse took none. Ruger came back into the room, but, instead of sitting down again, he leaned against the wall at that end of the table, his hands behind him.

When everyone had been served brandy, Coldwater tapped on the edge of his glass with a knife; the crowd grew quiet. “Before we proceed with our presentation,” he said, “there is a little security matter we must deal with.” The room was deadly quiet now.

Jesse pretended to scratch his forearm, while switching on the recorder. Wait a minute, he thought; did he say security?

Coldwater continued. “It seems a member of our party has not been entirely candid with us. When he was a prisoner in the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary, he seems to have been led astray.”

Jesse's breath grew short. He was a long way from the door, and he didn't like the way Kurt Ruger was standing, with his hands behind him. In order to get out of the room, he'd have to go through Ruger at one end or Coldwater at the other. He stared down at the table. A trickle of fear ran through his bowels.

“Tell us, my friend,” Coldwater said, staring down the table, “Just what did you do to get put into prison?”

Jesse swallowed hard and tried to take a deep breath. He would have to keep this as close to the truth as possible. He opened his mouth to speak.

“I was in for armed robbery and second degree murder,” a voice said.

Jesse looked up. Charley Bottoms had spoken; Charley was sitting at the foot of the table.

“And what was your sentence?” Coldwater asked.

Jesse discovered that he had been holding his breath. He let it out in a rush. Across the table, Pat Casey glanced sharply at him, but Coldwater didn't seem to notice.

“I got twenty-five to life,” Charley said. He was beginning to look ill at ease.

“Which means you would ordinarily serve, let's see, twelve and a half years?” Coldwater asked.

Charley said nothing.

“And how long did you serve, Mr. Bottoms?”

“Three years and two months.”

“Three years and two months,” Coldwater repeated. “Your behavior inside must have been
awfully
good.”

Charley shrugged. “I got lucky, I guess.”

“I guess you did, Mr. Bottoms. Out in three years and two months. What luck!”

Jesse placed his hands on the dining table, the more to get the microphone out in front of him.

“I'm going to ask you just once, Mr. Bottoms,” Coldwater said. “Who got you out, and why?”

Charley continued to play dumb, which turned out to be a big mistake. He shrugged. “The parole board.”

Coldwater looked up at Ruger. “Kurt, please escort Mr. Bottoms downstairs and put the question to him a little more firmly.”

Ruger pushed himself off the wall and put an automatic pistol to the back of Charley's head. “Easy, now, Bottoms; let's not put your brains on the table.”

“Jesse,” Coldwater said.

Jesse's head jerked around toward Coldwater. “Yes, sir?”

“Give Kurt a hand.” He reached inside his jacket, produced a 9mm automatic and handed it to Jesse.

Jesse took the gun. The evening was not going at
all the way he had planned. He stood up and followed Charley and Ruger out of the dining room. They entered the kitchen; two young women were washing dishes at a double sink; they looked up then quickly down again.

“Jesse, open the cellar door,” Ruger said.

Jesse looked around and spotted the door; he opened it and stood back.

“Right down the stairs,” Ruger said to Bottoms. “Come on down, Jesse.” He switched on a light.

Jesse followed the two men down the stairs. As they walked down, Jesse considered his position, and he didn't like it at all.

“Right over there,” Ruger said, shoving Charley.

Jesse saw a heavy wooden chair, and it was bolted to the floor.

“There's some cord attached to the back of the chair; tie his hands behind him.”

Jesse followed Ruger's instructions, but he didn't tie Charley's hands too tightly.

Ruger tucked his pistol into his belt, picked up a length of pipe from the floor, then squared off before Charley Bottoms. “I know you're not going to answer my questions right away,” he said, “so why don't we just skip that part,” He struck Bottoms across the face with the pipe.

The sound was like a football being kicked, Jesse thought.

Ruger turned away for a moment, as if to take a deep breath. Charley Bottoms turned toward Jesse, his face bloody, and silently mouthed, “Shoot me.”

Jesse looked away. If he helped Charley he'd give himself away, and they'd both be shot. Charley had just told him, in effect, that he expected to be killed and that Jesse should save himself.

R
uger had been at it for half an hour, and Charley Bottoms was no longer recognizable. He was alive, though, and occasionally, he spat out some blood.

Jesse stood, the gun dangling at his side, and tried not to watch. Ruger drew the pipe back again, and as he did, the door at the top of the stairs opened, and Ruger and Jesse both turned to look. Coldwater's feet appeared on the stairs, and at that moment, Charley's right hand shot out. He grabbed the pistol from Ruger's belt and fired two rounds into his tormentor's head. Then, without hesitating, he flipped the gun around, got his thumb on the trigger and stuck the barrel into his mouth.

Jesse's shot went off simultaneously with Charley's. Charley lurched backwards and sideways, leaving blood and brains on the wall behind him. Without thinking, Jesse fired a second shot into the body.

Just as Jesse's knees buckled, Coldwater reached out and took the pistol from him, and he sagged into Pat Casey's arms.

 

Jesse sat on the sofa in Coldwater's study, his face in his hands.

“Feeling better?” Coldwater asked.

“I should have been faster,” Jesse said.

“I saw it all; you couldn't have done better,” Coldwater replied. “He might have gotten me.”

Pat Casey handed Jesse a damp face cloth. “Here,” he said, “maybe this will help.”

“Poor Jesse,” Coldwater said. “And you weren't feeling well to begin with. Why don't you stretch out on the sofa for a while? I have a business negotiation to complete.” He turned to Casey. “Pat, see that the mess downstairs gets cleaned up.”

“Right,” Casey replied, then left the room.

“Are you really better?” Coldwater asked, concern in his voice.

“Thank you, sir,” Jesse muttered. “I'll be all right in a minute.”

Coldwater clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You stay here; I'll check on you later.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.

Jesse gave them fifteen seconds by his watch before he moved, then he got up, went to the bookcase and moved back the facade, exposing the safe. He put an ear to it and starting moving the tumblers. He couldn't hear well enough, so he went to the bar, got an empty glass, pressed it against the steel, put his ear to the glass and tried again. Better. He glanced at his watch.

Forty minutes later, the safe door opened; it had been harder than he had thought it would be. The bottom of the safe was full of papers, he didn't much care what, and the top shelf was lined with dozens of neatly banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

Jesse looked around the room, and his eyes fell on
a large, wicker wastebasket with a plastic liner. Jesse ripped out the liner, emptied the trash back into the basket and began raking the money into the bag. He hesitated for a moment, then he packed the papers at the bottom of the safe into the bag, as well. He closed the safe door, twirled the knob and shut the bookcase facade, then he took the corners of the plastic bag and tied them into a secure knot.

There were voices from the front hall. Jesse looked around for a hiding place for the bag and didn't see one. He ran to the windows, pushed one up and stuck the bag outside. He swung it a couple of times, then let go, tossing it in the direction of the road. The door behind him opened.

“Feeling better?” Coldwater boomed.

“Yes, thank you, sir; I was just letting in some fresh air. How did your meeting go?”

“A great success, I'd say.” Coldwater poured himself a brandy from the bar and one for Jesse, as well. “This ought to make you feel a little better, and close that window, will you? It's freezing in here.”

Jesse closed the window and accepted the brandy. He took a good-sized swig, then sat down.

“Jesse,” Coldwater said, “I'd like you to take on some of Kurt's duties.”

Jesse looked at him, surprised. The man had just seen his old friend and partner murdered. He moved his glass to his left hand, and scratched his arm with his right, made sure the recorder was going.

“That's very flattering, sir. I'm afraid I don't know much about finance.”

“You're a highly intelligent and quick-witted man, though, and that's my need at the moment, now that Kurt is gone. Pity about Kurt; good fellow.” He didn't sound grief-stricken.

“Yes, sir.”

“Your first assignment is to take Wood Products
away from Herman Muller; do it any way you can; Kurt showed me that balance sheet you got him, and let me tell you, that company is a plum.”

“I think I can handle that,” Jesse replied.

“As soon as you do, you're going to become president of the bank,” Coldwater said. “No need to know anything about banking; I know more than enough about that. But I need my own man in there.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jesse said, trying to sound brighter. Then he thought, what the hell, last chance to find out. “Pastor—”

“Call me Jack Gene; you've earned the right.”

“Thank you. Jack Gene, I don't really have any grasp of what's going on here. I mean, what's the bunker for?”

Coldwater laughed aloud. “I suppose you must have thought I was mad,” he said. “Well, I'm not. It's a very fine weapons store, isn't it?”

“It's all about weapons, then?”

Coldwater grinned. “You really are very bright, Jesse. If I was going to deal in weapons on any sort of scale, I had to have a secure storage site, didn't I?”

“But why all this religion business? Why found a church?”

“Think about it, Jesse; nobody can build something as big as what's inside the mountain without one hell of a lot of people knowing about it. With the church, I got to control the people who knew about it; the people who, in fact, built it, saving me millions of dollars in the process. Of course, I've enjoyed taking over and running this little town; that was fun. But it was all to protect the weapons business.”

“And controlling the town meant that nobody asked questions about all the trucks that were bringing in and taking out the stuff?”

“Exactly. And there were a
lot
of trucks. We deal worldwide, you know—not just to people like those
yokels who just left. Mind you, I've equipped just about every bunch of nutters in the western half of the United States of America, and some in the East, too. The profits have been mindboggling. I have bank accounts in every safe haven in the world—Zurich, the Caymans, Singapore—so does Pat; so does Kurt, for that matter. After I've moved some of the money, I'll see that you get the numbers to his accounts. It wouldn't be fair to give you everything Kurt had earned, would it? I'll take half, give Pat a quarter, and you can have the rest. That number will approach ten million dollars.”

Jesse blinked. “Thank you, sir. I must say, I'm a little surprised that Kurt would let you have the numbers to his bank accounts.”

“Why not? I opened them for him and put the money into them. Casey's, too.”

“So, if something happened to Pat—”

Coldwater smiled broadly. “Now you don't think I'd let anything happen to Pat? Couldn't get along without him.”

Jesse thought, You're fucking well getting along without Ruger all right, aren't you?

“You're going to become as indispensable as Pat, Jesse, don't you worry. Listen, if you don't want to go abroad when this is over, I'll give you Muller's business. If you feel you
must
work, you can stay in St. Clair and play with that.”

“When is it going to be over?” Jesse asked.

“Well, it's winding down already, isn't it? I mean, Charley Bottoms is the third federal agent we've had in here in the past year and a half.
Somebody
must suspect
something
.” He chuckled.

“Doesn't that worry you?” Jesse asked.

“Not in the least; the feds are very slow to catch on to anything, and I control the local law completely. No, I've got another year, at the very least, before I move on to greener pastures.”

“Well, it all sounds very exciting,” Jesse said.

“More exciting that you can imagine,” Coldwater replied, then his eyes lit up. “Maybe I should show you just how exciting.” He pointed toward the bookcase. “Remember my safe? There's a million and a half dollars, cash, in there. It's yours.” He made to get up.

Jesse threw up a hand. “Please, Jack Gene,
please
. You don't have to do that. I trust you completely.”

Coldwater paused, half out of his chair. “You're sure?”

“Absolutely,” Jesse said.

Coldwater grinned. “I trust you, too, Jesse; you were different from the beginning. You knew what was in your interests, but you didn't buy the religion, ever, did you?”

“I can't say that I did.”

“The sheep,” Coldwater said contemptuously of his congregation. “It has always astonished me the number of seemingly normal human beings who will follow, even lay down their lives for, any man who shows them some leadership. Did I tell you about the abortion clinics?”

“No.”

“We've razed a good number of clinics in the Northwest, for no other reason than to get the congregation excited about something, and, not to mention, to incriminate a fair number of them.”

“Why abortion clinics?”

“Oh, they're very fashionable among the faithful, you know, and they're also wonderfully easy pickings. They attract big headlines, too, and lots of TV time. The faithful like to know that their good works are not going unnoticed.”

Coldwater put down his glass and massaged his temples. “Well, I'm a little tired; such a big evening. I think I'll turn in.” He got to his feet.

Jesse rose with him. “I could use a good night's sleep, myself,” he said.

Coldwater put an arm around Jesse and walked him to the front hall, then helped him into his coat. “Tell you what, why don't you come to lunch tomorrow? We'll break bread, drink a fine bottle of wine and talk about the future.”

“I'd like that, Jack Gene,” Jesse said, shaking the man's hand.

Coldwater suddenly embraced Jesse. “We're going a long way together,” he said. Then he stood in the door and watched Jesse walk toward his truck.

“Not as far as you think,” Jesse muttered to himself.