Way Down on the High Lonely (25 page)

“The idea,” Graham continued, “is to raise the perfect Aryan warrior. A child completely indoctrinated in Identity philosophy. Someone without personal connections or loyalties to anyone or anything except Reverend Carter and the white supremacist movement.”

“Are there many of these kids?”

“About a dozen so far,” Graham answered. “As soon as we’re finished here we’ll turn the files over to the Feds.”

Neal felt a chill go through him that didn’t come from the sharp north wind.

“Maybe Harley wouldn’t give them his son.”

“And they whacked him and took the boy.”

“So where is he, Graham?”

“I’m not sure,” Graham answered. “But Carter likes to use a child in these swearing-in ceremonies.”

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Bob Hansen guzzled coffee to try to soothe his nerves. It didn’t help much that his house guest was a model of serenity.

“Trust to Yahweh,” Reverend Carter said once again. He sat at the kitchen table. The three bodyguards he had brought with him from Los Angeles stood in each doorway and beside the window. They were wearing their uniforms—starched khakis with crossbelts and red Nazi armbands.

Bob looked out his kitchen window to the south. The boys should be coming in now, if everything went as planned. If …

“If Yahweh means us to have the money, we’ll have the money,” Carter intoned.

“I have a son out there,” Hansen reminded him.

“They’re all my sons,” Carter replied. “And Yahweh’s.”

But Carter was edgy too. The money would mean so much for the cause. It would give them the ability to wage a holy war.

He watched Hansen as Hansen watched the south pasture.

Craig Vetter looked down from the Toiyabe slopes. He thought he saw something coming up the valley from the south, but he couldn’t be sure it was the herd. He wasn’t worried. He had a good view of the ranch and could see that it was in the clear. If the law had set up a stakeout, he would have seen it.

He turned to Jory and Bill, who sat shivering beside their horses. The boys were beat, but they had done well. They’d ridden hard across miles of frozen sagebrush, then down into the creek, where they’d first headed south, then turned around in the water and worked their way back north. It was hard, cold work, especially when they’d come out of the creek into thick pine and had to walk their exhausted horses up to the lookout. And now the sun was setting, and even though the fierce wind was dying down, it was bone-aching cold. Craig wished they could make a fire.

He looked south again.

No doubt this time, it was the herd.

He kneeled down and offered a quiet prayer of thanksgiving to Yahweh. Then he turned to his comrades and said, “Let’s go home, boys.”

The two cowboys got up stiffly, then started down the mountain.

They came home to a hero’s welcome.

Hansen shook their hands, and the Reverend C. Wesley Carter himself embraced each and every one of them and just couldn’t stop gushing, “Wonderful, this is just wonderful. God bless you brave men. You Aryan warriors.”

Hansen introduced Neal to Carter, “This was the mastermind, Reverend.”

Carter shook Neal’s hand, hugged him, shook his hand again, and said, “Your name will take an honored place in the roll call of those who stood and fought for our race.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s a great joy to meet you,” Neal answered. He pushed Graham forward. “I guess you know this guy.”

“Joe Gentry,” Carter said. “We did it!”

Graham grinned. “Yes, Reverend, we did.”

Carter looked around at the group. “This man sat in the back of my church twice a week for months … and never put anything in the plate.”

They all laughed.

“Well, isn’t this wonderful?” Carter asked. “Isn’t this Yahweh at work? You put a little in the plate today, didn’t you?”

“We should put that money away,” Neal said to Hansen.

“It can go in my office safe,” Hansen said. “That way it’ll be handy for tomorrow.”

Say what? Neal made himself not look at Graham.

“What happens tomorrow?” Neal asked.

Hansen and Carter smiled at each other as if they’d been caught planning a surprise party.

“I guess we can tell them now, Reverend. What do you think?”

I guess you goddamn can.

“I think it’s okay now,” Carter answered. “Tomorrow the arsenal of Yahweh comes.”

Crates of Bibles? Swastika stencils? A singing group?

“M-16s, rocket launchers, land mines,” Hansen explained. “State-of-the-art modern fighting equipment. Everything we need to start the shooting war against ZOG.”

Carter added, “And it is heroes like you who have provided the money to wage this holy war.”

Great, Graham thought, The Man will be delighted to hear he just laid out 300K to arm a band of violent, neo-Nazi loonies.

Neal could feel Graham’s eyes boring through the back of his neck.

“And I have even more good news for you,” said Hansen.

More?

Hansen beamed and said, “Neal, Reverend Carter is here to personally swear you in as a Son of Seth.

“I’m honored,” Neal said.

“You’ve earned it, my son.”

No shit, Reverend.

“Go get cleaned up,” Hansen ordered. “We’re holding the ceremony tonight.”

Tonight, Neal thought. A few more hours is all we need.

“He was a real son of a bitch,” Doreen said as she knocked another whiskey back. “Left me just cuz I did a nigger.”

Brogan opened his eyes and leaned forward in his chair to check this one out. Brezhnev shifted and whined at the unaccustomed activity.

Cal filled her glass from the bottle on the bar.

“You gonna want another one?” Brogan asked.

“This oughta do her,” answered Cal.

Brogan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “She looks done to me,” he muttered. Brezhnev looked at her a little longer before he set his head back on the floor.

“So, Doreen,” Cal asked, “what do you think about my proposition?”

She snorted. Wasn’t much of a proposition. Go out to some shit-kicking sagebrush ranch to pull a train for a bunch of cowhands. But it wasn’t like she had a whole lot of options, and she would need some money if she was ever going to get off The High Lonely. Besides, if Cal here liked her enough to shoot Harold over her, maybe he’d give her a ride down to Vegas, where she could get a fresh start. There was only one problem.

“I’ll do it,” she said, “if you can promise me
he
ain’t there.”

“He who?” Cal asked.

“The son of a bitch,” prompted Randy. He’d had enough whiskey to almost forget what they were planning for Doreen. And to hope that he had a chance with her before they did it.

“Harley McCall,” Doreen stated with the exaggerated pronunciation of the defensive drunk.

Which was when a little chill came over the party.

Cal looked at Randy. “Harley McCall.”

They both knew. They both remembered “Paul Wallace,” his legs propped up on saw horses, Cal standing over him with a sledgehammer,
screaming
his real name.

“Harley McCall,” Randy repeated.

“—is a son of a bitch,” muttered Doreen.

Cal put his arm around her shoulder and said, “Darlin’, I can absolutely, positively guarantee you that this Harley McCall won’t be at the party.”

Randy giggled. He remembered Cal swinging the hammer down on Harley’s shin, first one and then the other. Harley had stared down at his bones sticking out of his flesh and howled like a coyote in a trap. They’d stuck a rag in his mouth when the screaming stopped being funny.

“You know,” Doreen blubbered. She started to cry. “I’d like to find that son of a bitch. I loved the son of a bitch. And the little boy. Maybe you could help me find him?”

“You bet we could,” Cal answered. He looked over her shoulder and grinned at Randy. “I’ll bet we could take you right to him.”

“Come on,” Randy said, “we’d better be gettin’ back to the ranch.

He hoped he’d have a little time with Doreen. They’d have to sneak her into the bunkhouse so Hansen didn’t see, and then they’d have to go to the ceremony. But he hoped that left a little time before they killed her.

Neal and Graham walked toward the bunkhouse. “Okay, okay,” Neal hissed, “no problem. After they teach me the secret handshake we get the boy, slip away in the darkness, get to Austin, and phone Ed. He calls the FBI, they roar in, get the gang, the money,
and
the arms. It’s a cinch.”

Graham grabbed his crotch. “Now I know why cowboys walk the way they do. Here’s the deal: you go to the frat party and I’ll do some snooping around. If I find Cody and can get away with him, I will. Otherwise I’ll get out of here and get someplace I can call in an army. You stay in place.”

They stopped walking and looked at each other in the gathering darkness.

“And if we don’t find Cody?” asked Neal.

Graham started to grind his artificial hand into his real one. “Hansen has a kid, doesn’t he?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“We snatch him and trade. Beautiful business we’re in, isn’t it?”

“Lovely.”

Then Neal asked, “Think we stand a chance?”

“Sure I do.”

“Neither do I.”

They started walking again.

“Maybe,” Graham said, “it’ll be like one of those old movies. Maybe the cavalry will ride in.”

They looked at each other again and laughed.

Hansen finished recounting the money again and put it into his office safe. Carter sat at the desk watching him, his bodyguards watching the door and window.

“Do you trust them?” Carter asked.

“I trust Neal. I don’t even know the other one,” answered Hansen.

“Gentry is white trash,” Carter said. “A low-life drifter and a cripple to boot. His usefulness is at an end. Your Neal Carey I’m not sure about.”

“You can count on Neal,” Hansen said. He was ready to dig his heels in on this one.

“I don’t know, Robert, I don’t know. That’s what you said about McCall. Maybe you’re wrong again.”

Hansen flushed, thinking about everything that had happened because he’d been wrong about McCall. “What do you suggest?” he asked Carter.

Carter looked up at the ceiling and stroked his chin. “A test,” he said. “Now that I think about it, maybe Gentry can do one more thing for us.”

Shoshoko crawled to the mouth of the cave and sniffed the north wind. There was time, but not too much time. He wrapped his blanket around him and went to gather more wood for the fire.

A storm was coming, and it was almost time for him to die.

10

F
ear none of those things which thou shalt suffer: behold, the devil shall cast some of you into prison, that ye may be tried; and ye shall have tribulation ten days, be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life,’” Carter intoned.

He stood by the third door in the bunker. The gang lined up on either side, forming a corridor for Carter and Neal to walk down. They were wearing the official uniform of the Sons of Seth—khaki shirts and trousers, brown leather belts and shoulder harnesses, Nazi campaign caps. Nazi-style daggers hung from their belts. On their left sleeves they wore a red armband with the swastika, on the other sleeve a black armband with the SOS symbol, a Christian cross with a flaming sword through it.

Carter opened the door and walked through. Strekker, playing the sergeant-at-arms role, gestured for Neal to follow.

Neal looked straight forward and started to march between the line of men. As he passed, each one touched him on the shoulder and intoned, “Brother.”

Brother, indeed, thought Neal. He felt stupid in his new khaki uniform. He was glad Graham hadn’t been invited to the service, because he never would hear the end of it.

He entered the secret chamber.

It was a chapel. A cross with a sword superimposed hung on the wall above a small altar. The altar was draped in white silk, embroidered on the front was the cross-and-sword motif with the legend “Sons of Seth.” Seven gold candlesticks were set on top, their flames casting the room in a warm, golden glow. A gold plate and a Luger automatic pistol with SS insignia were set in the center.

“Kneel before the altar of Yahweh, brothers,” Carter said. He stood behind the altar. Strekker and Carlisle stood off to the side behind him. The rest sat on the benches arranged like church pews.

“I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending,’ saith the Lord, ‘which is, and which is to come, the almighty.’” Carter said.

Where’s the boy? thought Neal. Bring out the boy.

“Who sponsors this man to become a brother?” Carter asked.

Hansen stepped forward. “I do.”

“Are you bonded in blood?” Carter asked Hansen.

Here we go, Neal thought.

“I am bonded with my brothers in blood,” Hansen said.

Yippee for you. Now bring out the kid.

Carter looked at Neal and said, “Speak your name before Yahweh.”

“Neal Carey.”

Carter looked a little embarrassed, leaned over, and whispered, “Do you have a middle name, Neal?”

“Not that I know about.”

“Okay,” Carter answered. He looked up at the ceiling and intoned, “Oh, Yahweh, look down upon this son of Seth, this child of the white race, this warrior in the struggle for your chosen people, and bless him. Make him brave for battle and give him the strength to do those things which he must do. Amen.”

“Amen,” responded the congregation.

“Neal Carey, do you solemnly swear to devote your life to Yahweh, to his son Jesus Christ, to his apostle and martyr Adolf Hitler, and to the chosen people? If so, say ‘I do.”

“I do.”

“Do you solemnly swear your loyalty to these assembled brothers, your Aryan kinsmen and fellow warriors?”

“I do.” I do already. Where is Cody?

“Repeat after me: I, Neal Carey, do swear to fight to the death beside my Aryan kinsmen, to share their travails and their victories, to keep the code of honor of the Sons of Seth.…”

And on and on, as Neal repeated each phrase …

“To never—upon pain of hideous death—divulge the secrets, to never betray my brothers, to wage relentless war on our racial enemies and on race traitors, to avenge my fallen brothers, and to keep Yahweh’s commandments first in my mind and heart.”