A Thousand Years of Darkness: a Thriller (8 page)

“I’m usually working on Sunday.” He kept his head and eyes lowered as he ate determinedly past the lie. Coffee percolated. Sharon jumped up and poured two cups. “Cream and sugar?”

“Black and hot.”

She walked to the frig and seemed to brace herself for another foray inside it. Sighing, she turned back. “I suppose I’ll have mine black and hot also.”

When she returned to the table, Nail said, “You read what Logan wrote about commies. Pardon me if I find that hard to swallow.”

“No harder than this coffee. How long has it been in the pot?”

“No more than a week at most.”

She rolled her eyes before returning to her subject.

“I’ll call New York to send me DVDs of Jerry’s shows. The man insisted on exhaustive research. He didn’t merely offer his opinions. He provided facts and evidence to back them up. He’s the Thomas Paine of our generation. The Tea Party movement started with him. He’s the major reason why the Anastos administration is trying to shut down opposition media.”

“So the commies
are
coming?” he asked derisively.

“Do you recall when Nikita Khrushchev came to the United States?”

“I wasn’t even born. You weren’t either, unless you’re a lot older than you look.”

“If that’s an off-handed compliment, thanks. This is how Khrushchev said it would happen: ‘You Americans are so gullible. You won’t accept communism outright, but we’ll keep feeding you small doses of socialism until you finally wake up and find that you already have communism. We won’t have to fight you. We’ll so weaken your economy that you’ll fall like overripe fruit into our hands.’”

“You’re beginning to sound like Big C Brown.”

She lifted a brow.

“One of the biggest and meanest detectives you’ll ever meet and an old friend who goes back to the first war in Iraq,” he explained. “Big C is always talking about black helicopters, concentration camps, foreign troops in Tulsa and Albuquerque, a secret army, commies in the White House...”

“You’re making fun of me, James.”

He threw out his palms. “I’m listening.” It was better than talking about other things that only further depressed them.

“In 1963,” she went on, undeterred, “the Communist Party USA listed the goals it must accomplish in order to turn America socialist. You tell me which of them it has accomplished so far or is about to accomplish.”

Her passion intensified as she set down her coffee cup and began ticking them off on her fingers one by one:

“Capture one or both political parties;

“Gain control of the media;

“Exert influence over book reviews, editorial writing, and news content;

“Dominate key positions in radio and TV to make programming decisions;

“Infiltrate churches and replace revealed religion with social religion;

“Exclude public prayer on the grounds that it violates separation of church and state;

“Discredit the U.S. Constitution by labeling it inadequate and old-fashioned;

“Discredit America’s founding fathers;

“Ban private ownership of all firearms;

“Infiltrate and gain control of labor unions;

“Nationalize healthcare, banks, energy and other institutions;

“Destroy the family as an institution by encouraging promiscuity and easy divorce;

“Collapse the economy...

“Feel free to stop me at any time.”

Mel Gibson in
Conspiracy Theory
was a nut, but it turned out he was right. Still, that there was a communist cabal working under the auspices of the U.S. Government to subvert and take over the country made no sense whatsoever. Nail shook his head in denial. It was all too overwhelming. Next thing he knew, he’d be out with Big C looking for black helicopters and secret extermination centers.

Sharon was not going to let him off the hook. Like she could read his mind.

“Anyone who believes in Marxists is labeled a conspiracy kook wearing a tin foil hat and lumped with people who see UFOs and Bigfoot,” she said. “It was Marx’ idea to discredit and delegitimize opponents by marginalizing them. If that didn’t work, you sent them to re-education camps or liquidated them.”

Nail was ready to let it drop and move on. “If they—whoever
they
are—wanted Baer dead, why didn’t they simply assassinate him without making such a big production of it? All those other people didn’t have to die.”

Sharon sighed. “You have to know and understand Marxism. Marxists thrive on fear and intimidation. They have to create a threat, an enemy at the gates, in order to justify draconian measures for the public safety. You can see the spin in the drive-by media. News sources depict the militias and Tea Parties as threats to the peace, safety and freedom of the country. That justifies building a private domestic anti-terrorism force and taking measures like the Fairness of Airwaves Doctrine to close down opposition. Murdering Jerry is another step in our government’s reign of terror to take over the nation. We’re all fools if we think they’re going to stop with this.”

Nail stared deep into his coffee, still unconvinced. “Right now, I’ll settle for nabbing the maggot with the big tattoo.”

She gave up. “So where do we start since Logan is out of reach?”

“I’d like to take a look at that chopper, but I’m sure they won’t let us near it. That leaves us with a couple of minor league marbles like Rupert.”

“Rupert?”

“My daughter’s boyfriend. He’s a community organizer for ACOA and PEIU. I’d like to know who ordered him to bring out the troops to be fodder at ORU when this thing went down.”

“And the other lead?”

“We might be interested in who shows up for Ron Sparks’ funeral.”

“You’re not dismissing Joshua Logan’s note?”

“You can’t dismiss anything when you’re starting from zero,” he said. “We begin with Rupert after you wash dishes.”

“We start tomorrow morning,” she corrected him. “Even God rested on Sunday—which I suggest you do in your condition. I have a feeling we’re going to need every advantage we can get.”

She pushed away from the table and gathered dishes for the sink. He watched her. It seemed he may have taken on a partner.

“I suggest we take a drive to the Kensington and pick up your luggage,” he said. “You’ll be safer here.”

Murder Conspirator Slain in Escape Attempt

(Oklahoma City)—
The suspect jailed in a murder plot to assassinate undercover Homeland Security Agent Ron Sparks, who was posing as a federal census taker, was shot and killed Sunday afternoon while being transported to a more secure federal facility in Oklahoma City. Anthony Kimbrell, Regional Director of Homeland Security based in Oklahoma, said Joshua W. Logan, 38, died on the scene yesterday after he attempted to forcibly escape from two agents who were driving him from Tulsa to Oklahoma City for confinement and trial...

Chapter Thirteen

Tulsa

“Welcome to the New World Order, sleepyhead.”

The aroma of frying eggs and bacon and boiling coffee. Nail sat up in bed, not sure where he was for a moment; he was accustomed to batching it with coffee and a bagel for breakfast. Sharon leaned casually against the door frame to his bedroom with her arms crossed and a half-smile on her lips. She looked scrubbed and refreshed in a pair of form-fitting black slacks, medium high heels, and a blue blouse with a ribbon tied at the throat. There was a matching blue ribbon in her hair. She had already made a run to the Safeway, judging by the smells coming from the kitchen.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, still smiling. “I used your shower after I cleaned two dead crows and a Petri dish from your frig. I’m happy to report that nothing attacked me in the process.”

He looked her over. She used makeup sparingly. She didn’t need it. “That shower never did for me what it does for you,” he said approvingly.

“Thank you, sir.”

Last night she insisted that the patient sleep in his own bed. She had washed and dried a sheet and a pillow case in the Laundromat next door before building her nest on the sofa. She must have been up and about for some time, although Nail was sleeping so soundly he hadn’t heard her.

“The smell from the kitchen is enough to clog arteries within a three-block radius,” he commented, smiling his appreciation.

“You don’t look like you have cholesterol issues.”

He sat bare-chested in bed, wearing only the bottom of an old pair of Army sweats. Sharon’s presence in his bedroom—well,
almost
in his bedroom—made him suddenly uncomfortable. She walked to bedside to inspect the bandages on his head.

“I picked up some fresh gauze and antibiotic cream,” she said. “We need to change the dressing after you shower and get dressed.”

She turned and walked out, smiling back over her shoulder. “Hurry. Breakfast is almost ready.”

She waited to ruin his day until he limped from the shower wearing khaki trousers, hiking boots, a white button-down short-sleeved shirt and carrying a gray summer sports jacket over one arm. The little .38 S&W was tucked into his belt. She set a plate of food in front of him at the table and took her place across from him before she sprang a copy of The Tulsa
World
on him.

He shot her a quizzical look. He was hungry, ravished; he took it as a good sign. Then he lost his appetite when the headline jumped out at him.

Murder Conspirator Slain in Escape Attempt

His jaw tightened. He looked up. She was watching his reaction.

“What do you think now?” she asked.

“Cops don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Neither did Jerry Baer.”

He didn’t think he was hungry after such a jolt, but he cleaned his plate and swigged another cup of coffee. Made fresh this morning. Nail had some calls to make. Sharon cleaned the table and washed dishes while he worked the phone. He started with Lieutenant Jack Ross.

“Where the hell are you?” Ross demanded. “Schwartz said you left the hospital yesterday morning with your bare ass flapping in the breeze and he hasn’t seen you since.”

“I had things to do.”

“Obviously. With the pretty young woman?”

“I do have a life, believe it or not.”

“Kimbrell’s been asking about you after he couldn’t find you at the hospital.”

“Isn’t it funny how his name keeps popping up every time there’s a dead man. Jack, what do you know about the Homies capping Logan?”

“Only what’s in the news last night and this morning. James, I’m advising you to get in touch with Kimbrell. Talk to him man to asshole.”

“Jack, how about the ORU file?”

“Kimbrell is threatening to issue a material witness warrant for your arrest.”

“I’ll ponder it.”

“We can’t hold your home address from him much longer. You’re officially on medical leave. How’s your head?”

“Fine. The file?”

“Remember Toby, runs the Quik Trip on Lewis Avenue? Helped us in the Morgan girl murder? I’ll have a squad car take the file by there. There’s not much in it. The Homies are keeping all the working reports under lock.”

“I owe you one, Jack.”

“No more than I owe you and Big C over the years. That reminds me. Big C needs to talk to you.”

“I’ll call him when things settle down.”

He hung up. Sharon shot him an inquiring look from the sink where she was elbow deep in dishwater suds.

“I love to see a woman in the kitchen where she belongs,” he said, trying to lighten up things.

“Barefoot and pregnant too, I suppose.”

Neither of them was in the mood for more banter. Nail picked up the phone again. He had been putting off calling his ex-wife. He dialed. She answered on the fourth ring and he could tell she had been crying. He heard voices in the background. At least she wasn’t going through this alone.

“Connie...?”

That was as far as he got. She went off on him, screaming and shouting into the phone. He finally had to hang up. He dropped his chin in his palms and sat staring at the phone. Sharon dried her hands and came up behind him to place a hand on each shoulder. She smelled of
Dawn
soap.

“She’s blaming me for... for Jamie,” he said in a strained voice. “She had a hell of a birthday.”

“James...? James, she’s grieving.”

“Sharon, I tried... I couldn’t get to Jamie in time.”

He batted his eyes.

“I blame myself,” he said.

Federal Judge Strikes Down Oil Ban

(New Orleans)—
U.S. Federal Judge Orville Fielding struck down the Anastos administration’s ban against deepwater oil drilling in the Gulf of Mexico following the disastrous AP oil spill that continues to leak about two million gallons of oil daily into the Gulf...

The White House promised an immediate appeal...

White House spokesman Dewey Gubbins said President Anastos “is not trying to put oil companies out of business... He believes either Big Oil act more responsibly or it will leave government no choice but to take more control...”

Chapter Fourteen

Washington, D.C.

Senate Majority Leader Joe Wiedersham was hosting an important meeting in the conference room of the Russell Senate Office Building, the exact details of which Dennis Trout had not been made privy. He was routinely excluded from such meetings even though he had been his brother-in-law’s chief of staff for the past three years. Wiedersham normally called the meetings before major legislation was introduced—like the TARP bailout funds for General Motors and Goldman-Sachs, the Healthcare and Finance Bills, FAD—or when the President was about to sign new Executive Orders to impose additional federal regulations on the nation.

Trout nursed his resentment and tried not to show it as, like a good gentleman’s gentleman, he escorted arriving participants to the big soundproof conference room down the hall from Wiedersham’s office and made sure there were fresh
hors d’oeuvres
and coffee and that the bar was stocked with drinks and mixes. His eventually becoming
Congressman
Trout depended on playing ball with the Big Boys, getting his toast buttered on the right side.