A Thousand Years of Darkness: a Thriller (10 page)

“This voice on the phone tell you something was going to happen?”

“Man-n-n-n! They’ll kill me if I say something.”

“I’ll rip this ring out of your fucking nose.”

Tears streamed down Rupert’s face and dropped on the grass. He was starting to blubber.

“He warned there would be a helicopter and for me to.... Man, ease up, you’re killing me.”

“Not yet.” Nail tightened his grip on the ring. “For you to do what?”

“Okay. Okay. I didn’t know they were going to shoot
us
, man, and that’s the truth, else I’d never have gone for it. I thought it was for Baer.”

“What did he tell you to do?” Nail repeated.

“Some of my people was supposed to tell the cops when they started asking questions that we heard stuff being yelled from the helicopter.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“You know, like, ‘This is for Timothy McVeigh,’ and, like, ‘Remember Waco.’”

“And you told the Homies that even after they shot up your people? And my daughter?”

“Shi-it, man! You think I wanna be dead too? I swear that’s all I know. I’ll have to split town if they find out I been talking to you. Now will you let me go?”

Nail released him. “Remember the fence post,” he warned as he turned and limped away with Sharon trailing, she too astonished to speak until after they got in the Saturn and drove away. Nail headed south toward Floral Haven Cemetery where Ron Sparks’ graveside services were about to begin.

“Do you believe him?” she finally asked.

“Sure. Didn’t you notice?”

“Notice what?”

“He was so scared he wet his pants.”

“Heavens! What do you think so far about what I’ve been trying to tell you about commies and our government?”

“We still don’t know anything until we track down the voice on the phone that called Rupert. Which isn’t going to be easy.”

“Who do you think? ACOA? PIEU?”

He shrugged. “Somebody knows the shooters.”

Sharon changed her approach. “What are we looking for at Ron Sparks’ funeral?”

Again he shrugged. “We’re just fishing right now.”

“What are we using for bait?”

“If Sparks was really with the Defenders, there might be some militiamen there.”

“Aren’t the Defenders murder suspects? How are we going to recognize them?”

“If you’re going to argue with logic, skip it. Keep your eyes and ears open. I’ve solved homicides like this when the killer showed up at his victim’s funeral.”

“Why would a killer do that?”

“Because. I don’t know. They’re all a little weird?”

He took Memorial Drive. A lot of traffic this time of day.

“James, would you really have... ? You know, the fence post?”

She looked amused. Nail looked grim.

“There’s nothing I won’t do to get to whoever did this to my daughter.
Nothing.”

Supreme Court Defines “Freedom of Expression”

(Washington)—
Supreme Court Justice Dianne Cagle said the U.S. Government would have the legal right to censor or ban political books, magazines and speech on radio, TV and the internet once the far-reaching Fairness of Airwaves Doctrine (FAD) bill is passed by Congress and signed into law by President Anastos.

“In the exercise of our First Amendment rights of freedom of expression, every person should respect the rights and reputations of others,” Cagle said. “The right of freedom of expression does not extend to political propaganda against the U.S. Government or its representatives; to propaganda for war; incitement to violence; hate speech; advocacy of hatred that constitutes ethnic incitement; vilification of others; incitement to cause harm; biases on any grounds of discrimination specified, implied or contemplated...”

Chapter Sixteen

Tulsa

Nail drove the Saturn between massive stone pillars that framed the entrance to Floral Haven. The cemetery might have been a well-manicured golf course except for headstones and various theme monuments—artificial waterfalls, angels, Jesus ministering to a sheep and a cow... Nail steeled himself. Jamie’s funeral was this coming Thursday; her mother wanted her interred here at Floral Haven.

A narrow paved drive twined through the cemetery toward where a pavilion was erected over an open grave. Parked cars lined the road. A considerable crowd of mourners had already gathered. Nail saw Homies in dress black uniforms with rifles, waiting to administer the traditional twenty-one gun salute to a fallen soldier and comrade.

The sun was shining and women with sun-brellas were being escorted toward the pavilion. There was some low laughter, even lower voices, and a few sniffles. The scene recalled for Nail how his grandmother, who had raised him from the age of five in the hills around Tahlequah in the Cherokee Strip, used to drag him to every funeral in the county, whether or not she even knew the deceased. It was a social event. Nail had grown up horrified by waxen faces in satin-lined boxes and the scent of cut flowers. Ironic that he would have become a cop investigating violent and unnatural deaths.

“Let’s get it over with,” he said, turning off the ignition and getting out of the car.

“You want to tell me what we’re looking for or not?”

“Clues.”

“Meaning?”

“Follow me, kid.”

“All you have to do is whistle.”

“You a fan of old Humphrey Bogart movies?’

“Isn’t everyone?”

They wended their way through tombstones towards the gathering. Sharon took his arm so they would fit in more naturally. Both avoided looking at the headstones, which reminded them of their own all-too-recent losses. From long habit, Nail’s eyes scanned the crowd for anything that looked out of place. He readily picked up on a couple of men in sports coats whose shifty eyes and stand-apart attitudes didn’t seem to belong. The men immediately locked on Nail and Sharon. It was like they expected him to show up and were waiting.

Nail directed Sharon’s attention to them. “The two jokers this side of the old schoolteacher with big hair. Don’t look now, for Pete’s sake.”

“How am I supposed to see the jokers if I don’t look?”

He told her about Kimbrell’s threat to obtain a material witness warrant for his arrest.

“How did they know you’d be here?”

“Speculation. Same as I would have done.”

“Can they really arrest you?” she asked, then immediately answered her own question. “Of course, they can. They’re the government. They know you’re as stubborn as a pig and won’t let this rest. Somebody doesn’t want you nosing around.”

“The feds could hold me indefinitely.”

“Or you could end up ‘escaping’ like Joshua Logan.”

“You wanted in on this. Well, you’re in—up to your pretty neck.”

She discreetly shot a look at the suspected undercover Homies. “Being us stinks. Let’s get whatever we came for and get out of here.”

A podium had been set up for the guest book. Nail pretended to sign in while he checked the names and addresses of guests. The only one that really caught his eye was an address in Washington, D.C.

“Logan’s note inferred Sparks had a political contact in Washington that fed him information,” he said.

He handed Sharon the pen so she could look at the name while she pretended to sign in.

“Judy Sparks-Taylor,” she noted.

“We might want to talk to her.”

“How do you propose we figure out which one she is, Sherlock?”

“That’s why I’m the hero and you’re the sidekick.”

The two men were still watching them.

Nail searched the mourners for anything that might give away the Washington visitor. His eyes settled on a young bleach-blonde in jeans and sandals who wore too much makeup. Judging from the obit in this morning’s Tulsa
World
, Sparks’ relatives were likely poor whites out of the Cooksons and Ozarks. The bleach-blonde hung with a small group of other men and women and small children, most of whom also wore jeans or overalls. She had “Judy Sparks” written all over her, although it seemed unlikely she could be anyone’s political contact in the capital.

It occurred to Nail that his hiking boots and base ball cap with the quarter horse logo on it might also label him as much the hayseed as jeans and sandals. At least he wore a jacket, if only to conceal his handgun.

He memorized Judy Sparks-Taylor’s Washington address, then maneuvered to keep the crowd between Sharon and him and the two men while he discreetly attempted to have a brief word with the blonde. Someone clasped his shoulder from behind. It required all the self-discipline he possessed not to wheel around and plant one on the interlocker’s jaw.

“James?” said a familiar voice.

Nail allowed himself a small grin of relief. He turned around. A big black man in a suit and tie grasped his hand in a giant mitt.

“Damn!” Nail said, glad to see his old friend. “The people you run into in places like this. Sharon Lowenthal, meet Corey Brown. Big C. I think I told you about him.”

Brown bowed politely. His hand engulfed hers. “
Everybody
know Sharon Lowenthal and Jerry Baer,” he said. “It a real honor, sister. Schwartz say you was pretty.”

Other than being an enormous man, more than six-and-a-half feet packed into an athlete’s body, Brown’s other notable characteristics were a head shaved as slick as a bowling ball and the deep blue-black coloring of a Zulu warrior. He was a handsome man with thick lips and a long, thin nose slightly crooked, as though once broken and never properly set. Boxers had noses like that. There was something in the dark humorous eyes that immediately engendered trust.

“You’re African-American!” Sharon exclaimed in surprise.

“American,” Big C corrected her with a smile. “I was born in Mississippi, grew up in Oklahoma.”

“It’s just that when James said... You know? Black helicopters and everything. I expected someone different.”

Big C chuckled, the sound of a lawn mower starting up. “I read
Truth
magazine and watch Jerry and you on Zenergy,” he said. “You done convert our friend here to the truth yet?”

“I’m working on him.”

“He stubborn.”

“I suspect it runs in his friends as well.”

“Could be,” the giant replied affably. The top of Sharon’s head barely reached his chest.

“Big C was Jamie’s godfather,” Nail explained to Sharon. Both men looked at their feet. When they regained control of their emotions, Nail went on. “C and I were partners on the SWAT/TAC Squad.”

Big C squeezed Nail’s shoulder. “James here one of the best police snipers you ever see. He made this shot one time—”

Nail shook his head for C not to go on. Sharon regarded both of them curiously.

“I keep finding out new things,” she said.

“He got layers like a cabbage,” C said. “You have to keep peeling ’em off. Dude save my black ass in the old days. Took a bullet for me.”

“Now I’m stuck with him for the rest of my life, ’cause that’s the rule,” Nail said. “C, you didn’t say what you’re doing here.”

“Ron had a cousin from D.C.”

“Judy Sparks-Taylor. How did you know Sparks?”

Instead of answering, Big C turned his head to check on the two Homie plainclothesmen.

“James, them feds are here to arrest you,” he warned. “I find out hour ago a warrant issued. Jack Ross call and say I see you, tell you stay hid until he get it sorted out.”

Kimbrell hadn’t wasted any time. One of the two Homies took a folded magazine from his back pocket and opened it. James saw the title:
Truth.
The Homie looked at the magazine, looked up.

Sharon tensed. “My picture is on the masthead,” she said. “James, I think it’s time to go.”

“C, you got an idea which of these people is Judy Sparks?” Nail asked, not taking his eyes off the feds.

“I be looking at everybody come in,” Big C said. “I figger she the cheap-looking blonde in jeans.”

“Joshua Logan wanted to tell me something about Sparks,” Nail said. “But he’s dead now.”

“Folks have a habit getting that way lately.”

Sharon tugged at Nail’s jacket sleeve. “James...”

Big C looked back over his shoulder. The two feds were walking toward them.

“Slug me, James,” Big C suggested quickly. “When I go to grab your arm, you go hit me right on the chin hard as you can.”

“What?”

“Do it. But maybe not
that
hard. James, you got my cell number, right?”

The feds broke into a trot, weaving their way purposefully through the mourners. Big C grabbed Nail’s arm, as though to detain him.

“Now!” he hissed.

“Sorry, pard.” And Nail unleashed a hard fist that caught his big friend on the point of the chin. Brown dropped to the ground. Sharon emitted a muffled, surprised scream. Nail grabbed her hand and bolted with her toward their rented Saturn. The crowd reacted with astonished cries. Someone yelled, “Halt!”

A quick glance over his shoulder revealed to Nail what Big C had in mind. Acting half-dazed from being slugged, the big cop lurched to his feet and plowed into the feds as they rushed by in pursuit, bringing both of them to the ground with him in a tangle of arms, legs and curses.

Sharon ducked around to the other side of their car and jumped in. Nail kicked over the engine and jammed the gas pedal to the floor. The Saturn fishtailed, squalling rubber.

“You know how to show a girl a good time,” Sharon managed as Nail squealed the vehicle onto Memorial, barely avoiding a collision with a honking delivery truck going one direction and a low-rider full of illegal Mexicans going the other.

Chapter Seventeen

Tulsa

The enraged Homies would never be able to prove Big C bumped them down deliberately. By the time they untangled themselves and reached their vehicles to chase Nail and Sharon, the tan Saturn was already gone in the heavy traffic on Memorial. They would not get within a mile of Nail now, not with his kind of head start. Local police would be of little help; few of the TPD cops would seriously try to hunt down one of their own, not on some phony “material witness” warrant.