Gibbon's Decline and Fall (43 page)

Jagger shook his head impatiently. “Never mind that, Martin. Skip across everything that doesn't pertain to the trial. I need only trial information right now.”

Martin shifted to the next page. “She, the lawyer, she's going to say the girl is crazy.”

“Insane?” asked Jake Jagger.

“She's got some kind of alcohol something. Her ma was a drunk. Here, I'll play the section.”

He did so, and Jagger smiled his thin, predatory smile. “Fetal alcohol syndrome. Fortunately, I've had the girl's mother drying out down in Albuquerque, just in case we need her. Another few days, she'll say whatever we need her to say. What else will the doctor testify to?”

“That's about all for her, but this other dame, the one from Utah, she's a what they call it, geneticist. She's on the witness list, but the lawyer hasn't talked to her yet. When she does, we'll find out what she's planning on.”

Jagger nodded slowly. “Well, stay on it. Let me know the minute they talk. We need to find out where she's coming from.”

The snoop shuffled his tapes together and whacked them into an even stack.

“Two things I need you to do,” said Jagger. “Since these witnesses are coming to the Crespin woman's house, the phone bug you put in won't pick up their conversations. See if you can bug the house itself, the places they'll be talking, at least.”

“It'll mean drugging that damn dog! Damn near took my butt off when I went to get that paper! Easier to shoot him.”

“If you shoot him, she'll know you've been there.”

The man of all work sighed. “I ordered some special gimmicks that'll do the job, and they're coming in FedEx on Friday. Friday night the women'll all be talking up a storm with each other, probably stay up late, be really sleepy. Everybody'll be asleep, except the dog. I'll tranquilize the dog and get the bugs in then. Kitchen, dining room, living room, I guess. That's where they'll mostly hang out.”

“I thought they had the place wired since you were there.”

Martin sniggered. “I know the system. It's not much. I've got through tighter ones than that.”

Jagger nodded slowly, thinking. “You know, Martin, if anyone was responsible for that kid going out there, it was probably Swinter. He's getting to be an embarrassment, doing stupid things like that. I think Mr. Swinter should have some kind of accident that would stop his doing such things.”

The snoop raised his eyebrows, just enough to indicate he'd heard Jagger speak. That was enough. Jagger handed him a thick stack of bills and then walked beside him as he went into the outer office and from there into the hallway that led to the street, making sure he left the building. He did not want Martin running into Keepe, who was due to arrive shortly.

When he did so, Jagger offered his hand and a drink.

Keepe ignored the hand but accepted a light Scotch.

“I didn't think I'd be seeing you again so soon,” said Jagger.

“You left a message about that matter Mr. Webster is interested in. He feels it's extremely important.”

The words carried an implicit threat. What Jagger knew had better be urgent. Jagger, annoyed at Keepe's tone, rose from his desk and walked to the open window, breathing deeply. “I spoke with some militia people in Utah and Montana. They're convinced somebody has been testing some kind of nerve gas on them.”

Keepe narrowed his eyes. “Nerve gas? Why did they call you?”

Jake turned angrily. “For crisake, Keepe! You told me to ask around, remember? I remembered there had been some nerve-gas episodes in that area way back, after World War Two. Army testing that got out of hand or something, so I asked them if there's any current trouble.”

Keepe ruminated on this, his eyes watchful. “Who did you talk with? The United Aryans? Howard's American Patriots bunch in Montana? Or that militia of Mason's? What you call it?”

“Vigilance Force. I spoke with Ralph Howard, but he says he's talking for Mason and for Rilliet, too.”

“Rilliet?”

“He's prime elder of the Reinstituted Congregation of the Saints. When I started with the Alliance, they were on my contact list, kind of an offshoot bunch. He's got most of those polygamists hiding out back in the mountains allied with him. Idaho, Montana, Utah, that bunch. The United Aryans are
talking about a coup, and they've got the Saints interested, and Mason's militia's providing the armament.”

Keepe spoke through his teeth. “The Alliance needs many things, Jagger, but at this moment we don't need oddball little armed cults with delusions of grandeur attempting highly unrealistic local coups. Even though the NRA is one of our best supporters, armed conflict just now is not needed. The Alliance takeover is already planned and moving. All the Aryans and polygamists and militiamen need to do is be patient. Once we're in power, they can lynch all the blacks and rape all the lesbians and kill all the government men they like.”

For a moment Jagger was silent, startled by Keepe's words. Such acts were implicit in what the movement stood for, but they were usually referred to as “cleansings,” or “purifications.” It wasn't Alliance policy to be as specific as Keepe had just been.

Jake cleared his throat. “He was talking about threats to his manhood, which could mean anything.”

“I suggest you calm him down.”

Jake forgot his own rule and pushed. “You think something did get loose? Maybe something from the Gulf War?”

“We don't
know
, Jake. Obviously, if we
knew
, we wouldn't need all this chitchat!”

Again that strangeness of tone. That remote … displeasure.

Jake pressed again. “Is there something else, Keepe? Something wrong?”

The other man was coldly angry. “Don't be an idiot, Jake. Of course something's wrong. When Mr. Webster is annoyed, so are the people who work for him, and Mr. Webster is extremely annoyed at all this. The Alliance has agents planted in most Washington bureaus, including the Centers for Disease Control, but our people can't get a handle on this! It's said to be some kind of suicide epidemic, but in times of stress people often commit suicide—it's nothing new. Suicide cults at the turn of a millennium or century aren't new, either. Why should the CDC be involved? Why should the Alliance suddenly be full of people blaming each other? Iran thinks Iraq did it. Did what? we ask. Put something in their water, they say. What is the something? What does it do? They don't say. Libya thinks the Israelis did it. Did what? Polluted their soil, maybe. The Orthodox think the Reform Jews did it. The Reformed think the Orthodox did it. The Mormons! You've only
talked to the offshoot groups, you should hear the elders on the subject!”

“What's going on?”

“I think it almost has to be a purposeful campaign of misinformation, designed to disrupt the Alliance. Rumormongering. Webster agrees. He says his opponents would like nothing better than to throw the Alliance off course by manufacturing some crisis.…”

“Opponents? I wasn't aware we had any organized resistance. You can't mean those old ladies.…”

Keepe gnawed at his lip, nibbling. “Mr. Webster said his opponents. He didn't specify who the opponents are, and whatever Mr. Webster sees fit to keep to himself, I do not intrude upon. I merely stand ready to change ground as needed. Flexibility, that's the key. At present we'll continue as planned.”

“We're going on with the case? With the trial?”

“As of today, as of this hour, we are proceeding with the trial. The media people are in our pocket. The talk shows are full of us; the editorials have been written, many of them have already been printed. The TV movie has already been produced except for the sequences dealing with the trial itself.
The Sin of Gomorrah
will appear on two consecutive nights on NBC the week the trial ends. The minute the trial opens, we'll move into the national debate. Law versus lawlessness. Morality versus immorality. Womenfolk being properly protected at home by armed male family members, versus letting them out onto the streets to be victimized, turned into prostitutes and baby killers …” His voice faded, and he frowned.

“You sound doubtful,” said Jake, surprised. The man actually sounded unsure of himself.

Keepe said fretfully, “It's the campaign we planned, and there's nothing wrong with it.”

Jake glared at him. “Then what? What the hell's going on?”

Keepe glared back. “It's a perfectly sound campaign but it's not working. People aren't responding to it. I've got a boiler shop working full-time calling in to the talk shows, but there hasn't been but a handful of genuine calls. I've got a mailing house generating letters to the editor, but nothing's coming from the public! We've announced the results of polls that should have people screaming for blood, but nobody out there seems to give a damn!”

Jake bit down angry words. “Is my campaign in jeopardy?”

Keepe teetered on his toes, up down, up down. “Not necessarily. I haven't gotten where I am by hanging on to a losing strategy just because it's worked before. At any point we can switch to a nonspecific campaign that stays well away from any controversy at all. If we have to, we'll base your campaign on name recognition alone, on your smiling face, and on feel-good commercials.”

“You mean throw the trial away?”

“It's too early to decide.”

It was Jagger's turn to frown. “Either way, you don't want me to talk about the end of the world? I thought that's why we were getting into office, because of what's coming.”

Keepe straightened his papers, frowning. “What's coming is reality. Politics has nothing to do with reality!”

“And ten years from now?”

Keepe grimaced. “Ten years from now the world will be dying. All the little signs that people have been arguing about for decades will suddenly become huge and unmistakable. Remember the Japanese nerve-gas bunch that went belly up a few years back? We have a hundred other groups like that. At a signal from Webster they'll all put their plans into motion. They don't expect to survive, but they do expect to rule in the next life, so they come in handy as suicide assassins. We figure on a billion deaths from them alone.”

“But
we
will survive! Keepe and Jagger, you and me, we will!”

“Thee and me and a million or so others on the A list, and we'll stay on the A list just so long as we do what's required and
avoid all disturbances
! Webster told you that. Don't do anything except what we tell you. Leave it to us!”

He stood and buttoned his rumpled suit coat, all the time making little jaw motions, chewing the cud of their conversation. “I'll tell Webster about the people you've talked to.”

Jagger rose. “I'll do what I can to calm them down.”

When the outer door closed behind Keepe, Jagger stood thoughtfully for a long time, thinking about “disturbances.” The situation with the Aryans wasn't the only one that might turn into a disturbance. Besides that and Swinter, there was at least one other item of unfinished business.

He locked his office behind him, went down to the mail room, and borrowed a couple rolls of strapping tape. Then he
got into his car and drove to the market, getting there just before closing. He bought a few staples, taking them off the shelves almost at random, plus several boxes of garbage sacks. When he got home, he opened the door into his game room, turned on the lights, went in briefly, then came out and left the door wide open. She was in the kitchen, fixing supper.

“There are groceries in the car,” he told her. “See that they're put away. I want the plastic sacks and the tape in my trophy room, for packing meat.” He did not see her look of astonishment as he went down the hall toward his own room.

She was completely baffled. Jake had never let her go into his trophy room. Never, in all the years they'd lived there. And why stuff for packing meat now? It wasn't hunting season. She didn't ask; she merely obeyed. At the car she sorted out the boxes of garbage bags and the tape. The garage door stood ajar, light pouring out, and with sudden clarity she saw it as a hinged jaw waiting to swallow her.

The curtain at the window twitched. He was watching her. Her mouth was suddenly dry with an absolute certainty of danger. She took the other groceries and carried them into the house, setting them on the kitchen counter.

“I'll put the other things away in a moment,” she said, turning from him and going down the hall toward her bedroom, her bathroom. Her bathroom was the one place he would not follow her. The one taboo place, to him. She shut the door firmly behind her, locked it, opened the bathroom window, and went through it onto the low junipers planted below. They cushioned any sound she might have made.

She couldn't go across the driveway. He would look there. She couldn't go down the hill toward populated areas. He would look there, too. Purposefully, quickly, without taking time for thought, she darted down the driveway to the road, up the road for a hundred yards or so, and then away from it onto the slope of the hill among the low junipers and crouching piñons. She began to climb upward, toward the mountains.

Jake waited in the hallway. He opened the front door and peered out to be sure the steel trophy-room door stood wide open, light pouring out. He had put a card on the bulletin board, her name in red, in letters large enough to see from the door. He counted on it drawing her into the room if she should hesitate for any reason. He stepped outside and looked at her bathroom window, curtained, lighted.

He could wait. He was patient. He went back into the house and sat in the living room with a book, alert to her return down the hall. It was almost half an hour before he began to suspect she might be gone.

Helen managed to get over a mile into the hills before stepping on a stone that twisted beneath her foot, throwing her to the ground. It was full dark, with a crescent moon hanging low in the west, giving just enough light to make out the blackness of junipers and piñons, not enough to show the footing.