The Gates of Babylon (28 page)

Seconds later Fernie was alone with her two children. The car sat abandoned deep in the warehouse complex, engine running, lights on, wipers swiping back and forth. She closed the door then scooted the toddler off her lap.

“I’m scared,” Daniel said.

“We only have a minute and then someone will figure out we’re here. I need you to be brave and smart, and to listen. Can you do that?”

Daniel’s brow furrowed and a look of earnest concentration came over his face. He nodded.

“Good. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

General Lacroix posted a guard and shut the office door. Jim stood closest to the door, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. They’d put Chip Malloy in a comfortable-looking chair in an otherwise nondescript office that held only a desk, a worn loveseat, and a powered-down computer.

Lacroix studied Malloy, his arms folded and a look of grim satisfaction on his face, as if this rotten business was finished instead of only just begun. The radio at his hip squawked, and he turned it off and let the silence sit in the air. Jim wished he’d get to it.

“Go ahead,” Malloy said after a minute or two. “Let’s get it over with.”

“You’ve been caught,” Lacroix said. “There’s no way out of it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but you know that already. So go ahead, let’s hear it.”

Lacroix seemed momentarily taken aback by the USDA agent’s candor, then he shrugged and laid out the charges.

Malloy listened with his face expressionless other than an occasional grimace of pain from his beating at the hands of the soldiers when he tried to resist his arrest. A trickle of blood ran from a split lip to his chin.

“Let me get this straight,” he said when the general finished speaking. “You’re accusing me of stealing grain and selling it on the black market.”

“Don’t try to deny it,” Lacroix said.

“And I was dumb enough to drive it to a military-run depot to sell. Where a full general and the governor of the state of Utah are conducting an interrogation in person. What is it you’re looking for, a confession? For me to turn over my supposed associates? Or do you just want me out of the way for some reason?”

“Who else knows you were transporting this grain?” Lacroix asked.

“You mean
stealing
the grain, don’t you?”

The general backhanded him. Malloy’s head rocked back and he let out a gasp of pain. He blinked, looking stunned, and not just from the blow. An expression of horrified understanding dawned on his face, as if he were only now recognizing that something had changed in the world.

Lacroix looked down at the hand he’d used to strike the USDA official, almost seeming surprised himself. His brow furrowed.

Jim cleared his throat and put his hand on the general’s shoulder, who shrugged it off with an irritated look. “I’m not sure this is such a good idea. We have our evidence, we can hold him until we have a chance to notify the federal authorities.”

Malloy found his voice. “Until you have a chance to complete your coup, you mean. Fabricate your evidence.”

“Don’t make it worse,” Jim said. “We already have enough to finish the job.”

“And some inconvenient witnesses.”

“Don’t worry,” Lacroix said, looking up. If he felt any uncertainty, it was no longer visible. “We’ll settle things with your men. And if you cooperate—”

Malloy let out a derisive snort. “We’ve been bunkered in a polygamist cult since summer. You might find my men more loyal to me than you expect.”

Lacroix smiled. “We’ll see.”

“And those fundies—you think you’ll get them to toe the line?”

The general’s expression hardened. “By toe the line you mean cooperate or face a firing squad? Yes, I expect they will.”

“And what about the woman? She’s no idiot—she knows why I came and the first thing she’s going to do is tell her husband and they’ll spread the word. They have friends outside the valley. FBI, local law enforcement. It’s going to get out, what you did tonight.”

“What woman?” Jim asked.

“The woman in the car,” he said, as if the matter were self-explanatory.

“What is he talking about?” Lacroix asked. “I didn’t see any woman.”

“You didn’t see, you didn’t know?”

Something tugged at the corner of Malloy’s mouth, and his voice was stronger.

“I took her with me to get her out of the way,” he went on. “She’d stumbled into our operation when we were getting ready
to ship out, and figured everything out in a hurry, or close enough. I had no idea what I was going to do with her when I got back, but she’s your problem now. Oh, and she’s got two children with her.” Malloy sounded delighted as he dropped this last bit.

“Who is this woman?” Jim asked.

“The prophet’s wife. Fernie Christianson.”

Fernie Christianson. Wife of Jim’s enemy. Two summers ago, when Jacob Christianson was living in Salt Lake, working on a medical residency, the McKay brothers hounded him from his job and convinced the Christiansons’ landlord to throw them in the street. Fernie had stormed into the attorney general’s office making demands. Then, when that failed, had sicced her pitbull father-in-law on him. That was the end of Jim’s presidential ambitions.

Jim had followed events in Blister Creek the last couple of years. It was hard not to, when they were in the news every six months as a violent struggle played out for control of the Church of the Anointing. He had no idea why—he didn’t want to find out, either—but he remembered reading somewhere that Christianson’s wife had been injured in a car accident during the conflict and was partially paralyzed. At the time Jim wondered if Christianson ever blamed the McKay brothers for his wife’s injury. After all, if he’d never been fired from the hospital and forced back into his polygamist community none of that would have happened.

But Jim never expected to run into the woman herself again. And now Malloy was claiming that she was outside in the abandoned car with her children?

Malloy didn’t need much prodding from the general to get the rest of it out, how Fernie Christianson had been wheeling around
town that evening, sounding the alarm that the USDA was moving their grain.

A few minutes later Lacroix led the governor out of the office, leaving Malloy with a single guard. The governor and the general made their way from the empty warehouse offices toward the front door.

“That was a profitable interview,” Lacroix said. “I can’t believe nobody secured Malloy’s car, but I guess she wasn’t going to come running after us, screeching and scratching.”

“It sounds like Blister Creek is stirred up and ready for a fight. Maybe you should let it cool for a couple of days before you drive in.”

“And wait until Christianson gets back? No.”

Jim thought of Alacrán’s hints. “He might not be coming back. I understand he’s run into some trouble on the road. Nothing is certain, but…”

“All the better. But if he slips through you’ll have his wife.”

“I will?” Jim said.

“I’ve got enough to worry about with the USDA officials. Civilians are your business. Fly her back to Salt Lake.”

“What about her kids?”

“I don’t know, strap them to the rotor for all I care.”

“I guess I could put them in the grain trucks. My drivers will love that.”

Jim gave Lacroix a suspicious look as he said this last bit, waiting for the general to pull the pin on another grenade and tell him that no, state officials couldn’t have the grain. Wouldn’t you know that it was needed here, in the refugee camps?

But Lacroix gave an indifferent shrug, and it appeared he would follow through with his promise. “Fine, fine. Just keep the woman and her kids out of sight. They’ll make good leverage. If Christianson comes back and plays difficult, we’ll have something to force his cooperation.”

Except last time Jim had messed around with Jacob’s family, the elder Christianson showed up with a gun. Abraham Christianson may be dead, but what would his son Jacob do with his paralyzed wife and his two children being held hostage? Jim didn’t want the woman. Didn’t want the responsibility or the risk.

“What about Malloy’s men?” Jim said. “Got a plan for them?”

Lacroix pushed open the door and they stepped onto the cement. The rain was gone, replaced by a miserable sleet now mixing with snow. It coated the ground with a slushy layer already half an inch thick.

“It so happens I just took an urgent call for men with their background to deal with the Nebraska corn raiders. That should keep them busy for a couple of weeks. Once this blows over and I’ve got a battalion stationed in Blister Creek—” Lacroix stopped abruptly.

Tire tracks swung in a U-turn across the slush and headed back toward the front gates of the warehouse complex. Fernie Christianson was gone.

Lacroix grabbed for his radio. It only took a minute to verify that none of his men had taken the car, and that nobody had seen the woman or her children. He shouted orders and then waited, fuming, until the radio buzzed his answer.

“Some idiot at the gates opened up and waved her through,” he told the governor.

“I don’t understand,” Jim said. “She’s paralyzed. How could she drive?”

Lacroix looked like he wanted to hurl the radio against the wall. He placed another call, this time to seal the refugee camp. He ended the call with a string of oaths. Then he looked at his watch.

“I don’t have time for this. My men are waiting. I’ve got to go.”

“You’re giving up?”

“Don’t be an idiot.” The man lifted his radio. “This is Lacroix again. Governor McKay is coming through. I want three MPs waiting when he hits the gates. Put Horowitz in charge… I don’t know, you imbecile. Find someone else, then.”

“What’s that about?” Jim said.

“Are you hard of hearing, or what?”

“You want
me
to find her? I’ve got grain to move, and I don’t know the first thing about where to look in this place. Why don’t you have your men—”

Lacroix grabbed the governor by the lapel and gave him a shake. Jim fell back, stunned. Nobody touched him like that. You didn’t assault a state governor. You just didn’t.

“Listen to me, you piece of garbage,” Lacroix said. “You find that woman or you don’t see your grain. No, that’s not enough. You find her or the next time you’ll see me will be a tribunal to hang you for high treason. I’ll put this goddamn state under martial law. You got that?”

Jim straightened his jacket with as much dignity as he could muster. He refused to drop his gaze, but stared back at Lacroix with his rage at a near boil.

“One thing,” Jim said.

“Don’t push me, McKay,” Lacroix said. A vein pulsed on his neck.

“I want state police on the search. Call the mayor of Green River. I want his entire force to meet me at the rail depot.”

The general calmed down. He took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay, you’ve got it. I’ll make the call. Start walking toward the gate. The military police will meet you partway.”

“You’re leaving now? Driving all the way to Blister Creek tonight?”

“Not exactly, no.” He pointed toward the exit of the warehouse complex. “Go.”

Afraid to force his luck, and guessing he would get no more concessions, Jim turned on his heel and walked away from the general. As he walked, he mulled over Fernie Christianson’s disappearance. A cripple with two children inside a sealed, military-run refugee camp. Where would she go?

A closed-top Jeep approached so he stepped to the side and waited, but it wasn’t coming for him and kept going. It was a good twenty minutes before a military police vehicle pulled up. By then he was almost to the gate and his shoes were soaked, his pant legs wet halfway up the calf, and his cheeks numb. The driver was a grim-faced, square-jawed soldier named Corporal Jones. The man pushed open the passenger-side door for the governor to climb in.

As Jones backed up and turned around to follow the tracks toward the front gates and into the camp, the vehicle gave a shudder, like the engine had thrown a rod. But then Jim realized the sound was coming from outside the Jeep. He rolled down the
window and squinted into the falling sleet and snow as a line of helicopters swept overhead, lights out, picking up speed as they cut south.

A formation of Black Hawks. Headed for Blister Creek.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Miriam slid her KA-BAR knife from its sheath. It felt comfortable in her hand. Razor sharp, weighted. A tool for killing.

She stood in front of the tent, which glowed through her night vision goggles. She reached out her left hand to sweep open the flap. Her heart thumped.

What if it was empty? Or what if the men inside were awake and listening to sleet drum against the canvas, talking in low voices about when they became masters of the town across the bridge and its people once they were allowed to take it; how they would have warm beds and full bellies. They would see her shadow against the sky as she appeared. Reach for weapons.

A million possibilities. She could run through them all, or she could get to it.

Don’t think. Act.

A rumble from inside. A snore. She suppressed a tremble and slipped into the tent.

There was only one man inside. He slept in a mummy bag, lying on his back with only his face exposed. A second, empty sleeping bag lay next to him. He was young, maybe mid-twenties, with several days’ growth on his face. But in sleep, peaceful, not a murderer.

She wondered what drove him to this point. Maybe he looked around, didn’t think he had a choice. A refugee camp? The army? Or join the bandits and get a full belly. Satan was abroad in the land, whispering in people’s ears. For every man who bent a knee and took his problems to the Lord, a hundred more would be deceived by the Adversary.

Point was, the sleeping man didn’t look like a thug and a violent criminal, but more like some rancher’s kid. She had no stomach for it.

Don’t be naïve. He’s a terrorist and a murderer. Think about Alfred’s wives.

She crept forward until she was standing above him. Come down hard, draw the knife across his neck with a violent slash—over in an instant. So why didn’t she do it?