Grass Roots (20 page)

He’s got a lot to learn, and I’m going to do what I can to teach him.”

“You son of a bitch,” Will said to the television screen.

“You’d better get used to it,” Tom Black said.

“He’s just getting started.”

‘ell, Harry,” the Archon said, “you’d better come in.” Harold Ferkerson shook his raincoat before stepping into the foyer.

“A filthy night,” the Archon said, taking Ferkerson’s raincoat and hanging it in a closet.

Wi Ferkerson followed the man across the marble floor and into a small library. A fire crackled in the hearth as the Archon went to a bookcase and opened a door to reveal a mirrored liquor cabinet. He poured them both a stiff bourbon on the rocks.

“Have a seat, man,” the Archon said, indicating a leather club chair before the fire.

Ferkerson sat stiffly and watched the Archon take his place in an identical chair opposite. He was as calm and hospitable as if he were receiving the President instead of a soaking-wet fugitive. Ferkerson’s awe of the man went up yet another notch.

“I … I’m sorry I had to call you,” he said.

“Nonsense,” the Archon replied, shaking his massive head.

“It was the proper thing to do. I’m sorry it took me these days to get things organized.”

Ferkerson took a deep swig of the bourbon. It was better than anything he had ever tasted. He wondered what brand it was.

“I know I’ve destroyed my effectiveness,” Ferkerson said, his voice trembling.

“What? Do you really believe that? Let me put your mind at rest, Harold. Up until now, you’ve been an effective training specialist and team leader, but now you’re much more.” The Archon leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

“Now you’re a hero to all the young men in our organization—and other sympathetic organizations, too. All those in the know are aware of what you’ve done. You’re a paragon, man.”

Ferkerson could hardly believe what he was being told.

He had telephoned the Archon as soon as he had become a fugitive, and had been told to wait, to call back later.

He had come to the man’s house ready to receive a bullet in the head or to put it there himself, if asked, and now he was being called a hero.

“That was a fine piece of work at the farm, too,” the Archon said earnestly.

“A proper scorched-earth retreat.”

“I killed a policeman,” Ferkerson said.

“I know that’s bad.”

“Don’t worry about it. They’re in a frenzy, of course, but they’re baffled. They know who you are now, but we can fix that. They don’t know why, and that’s driving them nuts. I’ve got a source in the department, so I know. And the sheriff down there is an amiable fool, so that’s nothing to worry about. You always kept to yourself, so there’s no trail of friends and acquaintances to follow.” He winked.

“None that would say a word.”

“But my picture has been in every newspaper in the state,” Ferkerson said.

“Well,” said the Archon, rising and walking toward the liquor cabinet! “that’s true, but we’re going to fix it.”

“Fix it?” How the hell could even the Archon fix a thing like that?

The Archon fiddled with something at the side of the liquor cabinet, then took hold of a shelf and pulled. The mirrored back panel of the cabinet swung outward to reveal a large, old-fashioned safe, nestled in yet another concealed cupboard. He worked the combination, took hold of the handle, and pulled it open. The contents were hidden from Ferkerson by the door, but the Archon reached into the safe and withdrew a small zippered canvas duffel and dropped it onto the floor beside him. He secured the safe, swung back the liquor shelf, retrieved the duffel, and came back to his chair.

“Now, let’s see what I’ve got for you,” he said, dropping the duffel at his feet and unzipping it. He removed a smaller bag from the duffel and tossed it to Ferkerson.

“Ten thousand dollars in twenties and fifties,” he said.

Ferkerson placed the bag in his lap without opening it.

The Archon held up a small bundle of plastic cards secured with a rubber band, then tossed it to Ferkerson.

“Visa, Master Card, and business cards in the name of James Ross; he’s a salesman for a company owned by friends of ours. If you get caught, he’ll report the cards stolen. There’s a Georgia driver’s license, too, in the same name, using my file photo of you. You’ll want to burn that after a few days.”

Ferkerson caught the bundle and looked at the license.

“My ears show up anywhere, don’t they?”

“Your nose, too,” the Archon replied.

“But we’re going to fix all that.” He took a notebook from his pocket and wrote down something, then passed it to Ferkerson.

“He’s a very fine surgeon, practices out in Cobb County, one of our most enthusiastic supporters. He’s already had a good look at your photograph, and he says he can make a new man of you. You’re to go there when you leave here;

he’ll start working on you tonight.” The Archon grinned.

“You won’t have to worry about the ears anymore.” He tossed the empty duffel to Ferkerson.

Ferkerson caught it and began refilling it with the things he had been given.

“Do you have any weapons?” the Archon asked.

Ferkerson nodded.

“There’s an Uzi in the raincoat, and I’ve got an H&K automatic in a shoulder holster.”

“Were the weapons used in any of your assignments?”

“All of them.”

The Archon rose and left the room for a moment. He came back carrying an automatic pistol and a leather briefcase.

“Take this,” he said, “and give me your weapons.

I’ll dispose of them.”

Ferkerson handed over his pistol and accepted the new one. He looked at the briefcase.

“Ah, we’ve something special here,” the Archon said.

He opened the case.

“It’s Czech, a silenced sniper’s rifle that breaks down. Look, you can even use the briefcase;

the rifle only takes up half the room.”

Ferkerson took out the pieces and quickly assembled the weapon. It was very light.

“I’ll have some new assignments for you before long, when you’ve sufficiently recovered from your surgery,” the Archon said, as if he had been reading Ferkerson’s mind.

“You’ll need the rifle then. What are you driving?”

“I ditched my pickup truck yesterday. I took a cab to about a mile from here, then walked.”

“Good.” The Archon fished in his pocket and handed Ferkerson some keys.

“There’s a Mazda in my garage, registered to the company you now seem to work for. Go straight to the doctor’s from here. I’ll let him know you’re on your way.”

Ferkerson broke down the rifle and packed it into its case, then he stood up.

“Sir, I don’t know how to thank you.”

The Archon took his hand.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said.

“Go carefully in the rain, and don’t run any stop signs. If you can just make it to the doctor’s office, you’ll be fine.”

A few minutes later, as Ferkerson crossed the Chattahoochee River into Cobb County, he wondered at the thing he belonged to, that owned him.

It could do anything, this Elect, under its Archon. It could change his face, his very identity, as easily as the government could for a federal witness. It could protect him, nurture him while he did his work. It could change him from a retired army sergeant to a harbinger of a new order, of a new world to come.

He drove joyously into the wet night.

will had been up since six, and at seven, he dialed Katharine Rule’s Washington number.

“Hello,” a sleepy voice said.

“It’s Will.”

“Oh. What time is it?”

“It’s seven in the morning. I thought you’d be up.”

“I’m not up. Can we talk later?”

Will tried to keep the irritation from his voice.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for a week. All I get is an answering machine. You haven’t returned any of my calls.”

There was a brief silence.

“I’ve been very busy,” she said finally.

“I’ve been pretty busy myself,” he said, letting his irritation get the best of him.

“You know I can’t go into it on the phone,” she said.

“When are you coming up here?”

“I don’t know,” he replied sullenly.

“Can’t you take some time? I think we need to talk.”

“Look, I’m running for the United States Senate, remember?

And I’ve got a murder trial starting this morning.

There just isn’t any time. I had hoped you might understand that.”

“And I’m only a few weeks into a new job, remember?

I didn’t get home until after two this morning, and now, when I had hoped to make up a couple of hours’ sleep, I’ve got you on the phone at the crack of dawn, making noises like a resentful child.”

Will took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep. Call me, if you get a chance.” He hung up without waiting for her to reply.

He spent two minutes pacing up and down, swearing at Kate, calling her names he would have never used to her face. Then he grabbed his coat and a necktie and strode out of the cottage, slamming the door behind him. When he was almost to the car, he heard the telephone in the cottage ring. He paused for a moment, then got into the car and drove away.

by nine o’clock. Will had gone through his notes on questions for jurors and had packed his large briefcase and stuffed his exhibits into a large plastic garbage bag and knotted it at the top. He left the law offices of Lee & Lee and got into the Chevy station wagon. Still angry with Kate, he drove faster than he should have to Greenville and parked in one of the spaces on the courthouse square reserved for lawyers. To his surprise, a television crew had set up on the courthouse lawn, and he was waylaid on his way into the building.

“Mr. Lee, can we have a moment?” the reporter, a young black man, asked.

Will’s inclination was to brush him off, but Tom Black wouldn’t like his passing up television time.

“Sure,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

The young man nodded to his cameraman, got a signal back, and turned to the camera.

“This is Dave Willis, at the Meriwether County Courthouse with Will Lee, candidate for the U.S. Senate and lawyer for Larry Eugene Moody in his trial for the murder of Sarah Cole.” He turned to Will.

“Mr. Lee, why are you defending Larry Moody?” There was accusation in the man’s tone.

“Well, Dave,” Will replied, “I’m sure you’ll agree that Mr. Moody has a right to a lawyer. I—”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Lee, but why you?

You’re a candidate for public office. Do you hope to win some votes by defending a man accused of a brutal rape and murder?”

“Of course not,” Will said, restraining himself.

“The Judge asked me to defend Mr. Moody before I decided to run for the Senate.”

“As a public defender?”

“That was the basis on which I originally agreed to act for the defense,” Will said carefully.

“You said originally,” Mr. Lee. Does that mean your status has since changed? Are you now being paid to defend Larry Eugene Moody?”

The reporter was quicker than Will had given him credit for.

“Someone has since expressed a desire to pay for Mr. Moody’s defense,” Will said.

“I explained that to the Judge, and I am no longer a public defender.”

“Who is paying for Moody’s defense?” the reporter asked.

“The party wishes to remain anonymous,” Will said.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get into court.” He made to leave.

The reporter walked along after him.

“What outcome do you anticipate?” he asked.

“I expect an acquittal,” Will called over his shoulder.

“Good morning.” God, was it going to be like this every day? He trudged into the courtroom, which was already full. A line of spectators waited in the hallway.

Larry’s boss, John Morgan, and Charlene Joiner sat together in the first row of seats, directly behind the defense table. Will set his briefcase on the defense table and tucked the garbage bag underneath it, then he shook hands with Morgan and Charlene. She was, he noted, demurely dressed in a navy blue cotton dress with a high neck. Will found her even more striking in such clothes. He looked up to see a deputy at a side door removing Larry Moody’s handcuffs.

Larry, in a tan cotton suit and necktie, looked quite presentable, too.

His hair had been cut, and he was cleanly shaven, at Will’s insistence.

Will shook his hand, and they sat down to wait for court to convene.

Will noticed that Larry’s greeting to Charlene was only a curt nod, though he leaned across the railing and shook John Morgan’s hand.

They sat for another ten minutes. Will looked at his watch; it was after ten o’clock, and Elton Hunter had still not arrived. Neither had the Judge. As they waited, the murmur of the spectators’ voices filling the courtroom, the clerk emerged from the Judge’s office and came to the defense table.

“Judge Boggs would like to see you in chambers,” he said to Will.

“I’ll be right back, Larry,” Will said.

“Just relax.”

He rose and walked to the Judge’s chambers.

“Come on in. Will,” the Judge said from behind his desk. He was on the telephone.

Will took a chair and waited for the Judge to finish.

“So, exactly what is his condition?” the Judge asked, then waited for a reply.

“No, I am not a family member, I am Judge of the Superior Court, and that man was due in my courtroom ten minutes ago. Now, is he going to make it?” He waited again.

“Thanks very much,” he said at last, then hung up with a sigh and turned to Will.

“We got problems, boy,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” Will asked.

“Elton Hunter is what’s wrong. They took him to Callaway Hospital in La Grange this morning with stomach pains. Turns out it’s a ruptured appendix, complete with peritonitis. Elton’s in the recovery room now, and he’s not good.”

Will couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Well, the son of a bitch better not die,” the Judge said.

“Is there anybody to stand in for him?” Will asked.

“Not a soul,” the Judge said.

“I’m going to have to reschedule, and it’s not going to make it onto this calendar, I can tell you. I’m right up to here.” The Judge held a hand to his chin.