Heart of the Assassin (14 page)

"Quarterback of the Atlanta Rednecks used to live here," said Deshane, pointing at the house on the hill as they turned off the country road, the Cadillac lurching over the potholes.

They had been escorted to the car by one of Crews's deacons, but Deshane, clearly under orders, drifted far back from the other vehicles in the entourage. Gravenholtz had threatened the driver, but the Old One interceded, told him to settle back and enjoy the ride. They had been driving for almost an hour now, out past the outskirts of Atlanta and into the pinewoods. They hadn't seen headlights or taillights in twenty minutes.

Deshane beeped the horn and the heavy steel gates slowly slid back from the entrance to the mansion. He waved at the guards flanking the private drive.

The guards waved back, assault rifles slung awkwardly across their shoulders, whiskey bottles in their hands.

"Great fucking security you got here," muttered Gravenholtz from the front seat.

"They's just bored," said Deshane, a young black man with cornrows and sad eyes. "Pastor Crews said they can't have whores visit the guardhouse anymore. That didn't sit well."

"Yes, I can imagine," said the Old One, seated in the back with Baby. "Not really much for them to do out here, I imagine."

"Yes, sir," said Deshane. "Nearest neighbors about four miles away."

Baby rolled down the window, inhaled. "Honeysuckle. I missed that smell." There were no lights in view other than those from the house on the hill.

Deshane sniffed. "If you say so, ma'am."

"Oh, I do," said Baby, stretching out her feet as the wind blew through her hair. She wiggled her toes. "I most
definitely
say so."

"Have you been with Pastor Crews long?" asked the Old One.

"Just a couple months, sir," said Deshane. "The rest of the boys...they been with him lots longer."

"They End-Times Army?" said the Old One.

"I'm not really supposed to talk about that, sir," said Deshane. He slowly guided the Cadillac up the winding drive toward the main house.

Baby could hear music through the open window, getting louder as they approached the house, one of those ticky-tacky fake mansions that new money bought, with plaster columns out front and a high peaked roof--
Hollywood Southern Gothic,
the Colonel had called it once, disgusted. The mansion might have started out white but it needed a fresh coat of paint and half the front windows were broken.

Deshane pulled up in front, parked behind four other vehicles. He hopped out, opened the door for Baby, then ran around and let the Old One out. Started up the steep steps toward the door. "I'll leave you in the foyer and go see if Pastor Crews will see you now." He cleared his throat, looked around. "Probably best if you don't converse with the deacons. They...they can be a little prickly with strangers."

Gravenholtz kicked open the front door, knocked it half off its hinges.

Baby took the Old One's hand, the two of them strolling past the startled Deshane as though they were going to a cotillion.

The deacons in the living room looked up at Baby, snaggletoothed louts with matted hair, black suits wrinkled. She didn't recognize any of them from the prayer service. They sprawled on couches that leaked stuffing, whiskey bottles in their hands. All of them were armed, pistols in their belts, rifles leaning against the walls. The room stank of dirt and tobacco, a sour, run-down odor like that of an old outhouse.

"I'll take it from here, Deshane, you scat now," said one of the deacons as he stood up, a hulking mountain man with a full gut and intelligent eyes.

"Y-yes, sir." Deshane backed away. He looked like he wanted to say something to Baby.

"Crews said company was coming, and I guess you're it." The mountain man glanced at Gravenholtz, then eyed Baby, taking his time. "My name is C.P."

"I'm Baby and these two gentlemen--"

"I don't give a shit about them," said C.P. A black dog rose from a pile of trash in the corner and padded closer, a huge mongrel with yellow eyes and a scarred muzzle. It growled at the Old One and C.P. kicked it, the dog skulking back to the corner. He snatched a mason jar from the lap of a man sleeping in a recliner. Offered it to Baby. "You want a pop? Fresh batch."

"No thanks," said Baby. "Moonshine makes me break out."

The deacon showed broken teeth. "No problem, sweetcheeks. I got me some cream I could rub on it."

Gravenholtz knocked C.P. against the wall so hard the plaster cracked. The other deacons jumped up, trained their weapons at Gravenholtz. Lester, God bless him, just stood there, massaging his crotch, daring them to do something, hoping they'd try.

Baby stepped forward, helped C.P. up, blood streaming down his scalp. "Just take us to Malcolm, before you get yourself in trouble. The rest of you boys go on about your business."

The deacons didn't lower their weapons.

"It's okay, fellas," said C.P., glaring at Gravenholtz. "No harm done. Me and this redheaded cocksucker will discuss the matter later." He wiped blood across his face with the back of his hand. "I'll let Malcolm know his guests done arrived."

"That's very cordial of you." The Old One kicked aside a half-eaten can of beef stew, the can rolling along the carpet, spinning out boiled carrots and mushy potatoes. "Tell him we're enjoying your wit and sparkling conversation, but we have business to attend to."

Baby watched C.P. stagger down the hall. The Colonel would have every one of these men scrubbed raw with pine tar soap and a bristle brush. Then he would have them clean the mansion from top to bottom, clean it so thoroughly that you could run your finger under a windowsill and not get it dirty.

C.P. knocked on the double doors at the end of the hall. Got a response and threw the doors open. He dabbed at his hair, wiped his bloody fingers on his pants. "Them city folks are waiting out here." He turned, beckoned.

Baby, the Old One and Gravenholtz walked down the hall and through the double doors.

Malcolm Crews stood with his back to them, stood facing a roaring fireplace, the room stifling. Thick red velvet curtains hung over the windows. Plush carpet underfoot. Overstuffed chairs and sofas had been pushed to the edges of the room, leaving a large empty space in the center. The walls were covered with Renaissance paintings in curlicue gilt frames, at least a dozen versions of the Madonna and Child. Most of them needed straightening. Whiskey bottles and money lay strewn across a desk that looked like it was built for some French king.

C.P. cleared his throat. "Pastor?"

"Close the door behind you as you leave, C.P.," Crews said gently.

"I can stay if you want," said C.P., one hand on the pistol stuffed into his belt.

"Go on now," said Crews, his back still to them. He waited until C.P. left, then turned. One of the burning logs in the fireplace collapsed in a cloud of sparks, the flames reflected off the walls and ceiling, framing him in fire.

"Well, Malcolm Crews, aren't you just the
cutest
thing," said Baby.

Crews stared at her, expressionless, his gaunt face crosshatched with wrinkles.

"I'm Albert Mesta," said the Old One, inclining his head.

"Sure you are, buddy," said Crews, hands on his hips. "You don't look anything like your pictures, but I know who you are. I know who
all
of you are." He nodded at Gravenholtz. "I recognized this fella right off. Hard to hide a face like that."

"What makes you think I'd want to hide it?" growled Gravenholtz.

"Exactly," said Crews. "I say,
flaunt
the horror show."

"Sit down, Lester," said the Old One, seeing the look on Gravenholtz's face. "Baby and I have business with Mr. Crews."

Gravenholtz sank into one of the overstuffed chairs, the wood creaking under his weight. He tugged at his collar in the heat.

"You've certainly moved up in the world, Mr. Crews," said the Old One. "Last year at this time you were living in a muddy shack, attended by murderous cretins." He spread his hands. "Now look at you. You're living in a run-down mansion, attended by murderous cretins."

Baby laughed first, and the Old One and Crews joined in. Gravenholtz stayed silent.

"Nice suit you got there," Crews said to the Old One. "Little flashy but I like that."

"Indeed." The Old One fingered his checkerboard jacket, eyes lidded. "I'm feeling rather...wild these days."

"The Belt will do that to you." Crews dragged the sofa over, gallantly waited for Baby and the Old One to sit before he set himself down on the arm. "I guess I should thank you, seeing as how you helped me with the president's brat, little Todd...little
Turd,
that's what I call him." He raised his palm--"Heal!"--tried to strike Baby in the forehead, but she was too quick. "What was that stuff you had me put on my hand, anyway?"

"Contact
poison
for Janice Rae, contact antidote for you," said Baby.

"Janice Rae? That the first lady's girlfriend? Well, it did the job. Yes, indeedy." Crews looked from the Old One to Baby. "So...why did you do it?"

"Baby thought you might be useful," said the Old One.

"Useful?" Crews threw back his head. "I ain't
never
been called that before."

"Then no one's ever truly appreciated your gifts," said the Old One.

Crews hardened. "If I wanted to be jacked off, mister, I'd give the job to
her.
"

"Sit down, Lester," the Old One said gently as Gravenholtz leapt out of his chair. "It was a metaphor, correct, Mr. Crews? Just a metaphor from a former professor of English."

Crews waited until Gravenholtz sat back down. "You're taking quite a chance coming here, mister. Lester there might be bad medicine where you come from, but my boys have handled worse."

"I rather doubt that," said the Old One.

Crews smoothed the lapels of his black suit--he looked like an enormous crow preening. "So what are you doing here?" He looked down his nose at the Old One. "You come to get saved?"

"No. I don't need saving," said the Old One. "Lester?" He didn't take his eyes off Crews. "Why don't you give us some privacy?"

"You sure?" said Gravenholtz.

"Go on, Lester," said the Old One. "Go play with the other boys."

Crews waited until Lester closed the door. "Can I get you folks something to drink? Got everything from corn liquor to twenty-year-old bourbon to soft drinks."

The Old One shook his head.

"I'm good," said Baby.

"Oh, you're more than good, lady," said Crews.

Loud sounds came from outside the door. Shouts and screams. Glass breaking.

"Nothing to worry about, Mr. Crews," said the Old One.

"Oh, I ain't worried," said Crews.

More screams. Gunshots. Rapid-fire.

"Poor Lester," said Crews. "My boys...I seen them do things you wouldn't believe human beings were capable of...." He grinned. "Butlet's talk about
us.
" He put his arm around Baby. "You look familiar, honey-pie. Not just 'cause I used to see you on TV with the Colonel...we ever met before?"

Baby shrugged off his arm. "Malcolm Crews...you've hurt my feelings."

"I
have
met you before," said Crews. "I just can't..." He shook his head.

"I saw you in action when I was a girl," said Baby. "My mama took me to see you preach in a barn outside of Dawson. I was twelve at the time, and I thought you were really something, stalking across the floor like a ringmaster cracking a whip."

"
That's
right," said Crews.

"We were in the third row," said Baby. "You were looking at my mama during the whole sermon, and I didn't see a bit of the Lord in your eyes."

"Wasn't your mama I was looking at," said Crews. "I was sizing
you
up, sitting there in your Sunday best, Bible in your lap, fresh faced but already with back-door eyes. I remember looking at you and thinking I'd give you another year to marinate in your own juices. Old enough to bleed, you're old enough to butcher. I come back to Dawson a year later but you was nowhere in sight. Next time I saw you was on a news video, you and the Colonel getting married, but I didn't connect you with that sweet young thing." He stared into the fire for a moment, turned back to her. "I can still see the Colonel standing there in his dress uniform, stiff as a ramrod with you beside him holding a bouquet of wildflowers. How old were you?"

"Just turned sixteen."

"Sixteen." Crews nodded. "You must about killed that old fart."

"You'd be
surprised,
" said Baby.

The doors to the study creaked open and Gravenholtz walked in, a little out of breath, dragging C.P. by his hair.

Crews eased himself off the couch. Never said a word. Which was pretty impressive, if you asked Baby.

"Everything okay, Lester?" asked the Old One.

"Feel like I just took a good dump." Gravenholtz was bleeding from a dozen gunshot wounds, a flap of scalp over his ear hanging down. He hoisted C.P up, and the man groaned. "He's the last one. What do you want me to do with him?"

The Old One glanced over to where Crews was edging toward a side door. "Don't go, Mr. Crews, we still have so much to discuss. Please?" He turned back to Gravenholtz. "You took care of all of them? Even the guards at the entrance?"

"I said so, didn't I?" said Gravenholtz.

"What
is
he?" said Crews. "Some kind of...robot or something."

"It's rather complicated," said the Old One. "Let's just say Lester is hard to kill."

"I know what you're here for," said the history professor, wagging her finger at Rakkim. "You can't fool me."

"I can see that." Rakkim looked around the faculty annex trying to see Sarah. Probably fifty people there, arts and sciences instructors and their spouses. He spotted her on the far side of the room, near some trays of wilting vegetables. He waved but she was busy talking to a group of young women who clustered around her.

"Look at her," said the professor, standing too close. She patted her frizzy home perm. "She wants back in, doesn't she? Who can blame her?"

"Back in where?"

"Don't play innocent with me." The professor drank from her cracked teacup, sloshed some on his trousers, started to wipe it off. Another finger wag. "Don't get your hopes up. I may be Catholic, but I'm married...happily married."

"It's been good talking with you." Rakkim started to leave, but she blocked his path.

"She walks off the job five years ago, hardly a word to anyone," said the professor. "Now she suddenly shows up at the monthly tea and thinks she can get her old job back?"

"Sarah's not interested in her old job."

"She was always too good for us warhorses. Redbeard's niece. Youngest Ph.D." The professor's face reddened. "Famous for that book...which was not...
not
well researched. Popular, that's all she was."

Rakkim stepped around her, working his way through the crowd.

"Are you the husband?" asked an older man in a flared corduroy jacket. He smelled of the orange blossom incense burned at the Muhammad Ali mosque, one of the more prestigious modern mosques. "You're Sarah's husband, aren't you?" He stuck out his hand. "Dr. Ron Wallis, chairman of the history department."

Rakkim wanted to wipe his hand. "Hi, Ron, how are you?"

Wallis's expression revealed his desire to correct Rakkim, suggest Rakkim use his academic title, but he decided against it. "I'm fine, Mr....?"

"Epps. Rakkim Epps. I wish I had more time to talk, but--"

"Epps? Not short for Epstein, I hope." Wallis seemed pleased with himself. "Just kidding. Not that there would be a problem. I have nothing against Hebrews."

"I'm relieved."

"I take a certain pride in judging people on their own merits, regardless of--"

"Ron, I wish I had more time to talk with you, but I really need to speak with Sarah."

"I understand completely." Wallis pinched a deeper dimple into his green bow tie. "These academic affairs can be a little daunting to the...uninitiated."

"Daunted is exactly how I feel, Ron."

"Buck up," said Wallis. "No one here is any better than you, remember that. We just have certain intellectual credentials...areas of expertise." He gave a curt bow. "Remind Sarah my door is always open."

Rakkim started toward Sarah.

Sarah excused herself from the group of young women, put her hand on his arm. "Did Dr. Wallis tell you his door was always open?"

"Always open to
you,
" said Rakkim. "I don't have the intellectual credentials."

"Poor baby," said Sarah, leading him to the group. "Ladies, this is my husband, Rakkim. Rakkim, this is Emily, sociology, Carmella, Chinese history, and Satrice, American history."

Rakkim bowed.

The young women returned the bow, glanced over at Sarah as though for approval. Though they were only ten years or so younger than Sarah, they deferred to her as though she were the queen of the Nile.

"If you'll excuse me, ladies," said Sarah, "I want to pay my respects to Professor Hoffman." She trailed a hand across Rakkim's arm as she left.

"One-note Hoffman?" said Satrice.

"Be nice," said Emily.

Rakkim and the three women exchanged nods, looked around, saw both chaperones glaring at them from their elevated chairs. "I should probably go--"

"Don't mind those two vultures," said Satrice, a short, stocky woman drinking Jihad Cola straight from the bottle.

"Satrice,"
warned Emily.

"Chill out," said Satrice.

"Are you cold?" asked Rakkim. "I could get you a wrap."

Satrice had a beautiful laugh, warm and without a hint of mockery. "It's old time slang. 'Chill out'...it means relax."

"Satrice did her dissertation on twentieth-century American colloquialisms," said Carmella.

"True dat," said Satrice.

Carmella glanced at the chaperones, lowered her eyes. "I...I should mingle."

They watched her leave. "Finger-lickin' good," said Satrice.

Rakkim looked at her.

"It means she's chicken," said Satrice. "Ah...easily scared."

"It's so amazing to meet your wife," Emily said to Rakkim. "I was in high school when
How the West Was Really Won
first came out. It changed my life. I immediately knew I wanted to be a historian."

"They removed it from my school library," said Satrice, "flagged it as a corrupter of morals." Her eyes sparkled. "We passed around our copy from girl to girl until it almost fell apart. We memorized whole chapters."

"Is it a little...intimidating to be married to someone so brave?" asked Emily.

"Sometimes," said Rakkim. "Sarah likes making trouble. It's one of the reasons I love her."

The two young women blushed. Satrice covered her reaction by taking a swig of cola, a smear of her bright red lipstick rimming the neck of the bottle.

How the West Was Really Won
was the mainstream edition of Sarah's doctoral thesis, which theorized that while there were many factors in the shift of the USA from a secular nation to a moderate Muslim republic, the pivotal events took place in popular culture. Traditionalists were outraged, arguing that the book was sacrilegious for minimizing the role of prophecy and violent jihad. Without the intercession of her uncle, Redbeard, the book would have been burned and Sarah forbidden to ever publish again. As it was, the book became a best-seller that no one read in public.

"'Though the jihadi attacks had little direct, long-term impact on the United States, the true importance of the 9/11 martyrdom was that it induced the former regime to overextend itself in fruitless military engagements around the world,'" said Satrice, reciting the prologue to Sarah's book from memory. "'The political and economic consequences of this U.S. response were profound and long-lasting. After their failed attempt to create democracy in the Islamic homeworld, the Crusaders fled, grown weary of war, eager to return to their idle pursuits. This great retreat left the West no safer than before, but instead drained it of capital, manpower and, most important, will.

"'When the U.S. troops trickled home from their wars of conquest, the former regime was confronted by a prolonged economic downturn, and a jobless recovery that only exacerbated the gap between rich and poor,'" continued Emily, as Satrice mouthed the words along with her. "'Even the election in 2008 of a multiracial president named after the grandson of the Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him) could not prevent a cruel, godless capitalism from sending jobs overseas, where labor costs were cheaper, leaving millions at home unemployed, and embittered. Unlike in education in Muslim nations, God was not allowed to be spoken of in American schools, and the children and adults could draw no moral sustenance from a permissive culture that celebrated immorality and materialism.'"

People nearby stopped to listen, but Satrice and Emily paid them no mind.

"'After the end of martial law, a new generation of pragmatic, modern American Muslim leaders stressed the importance of transforming the
popular
culture, as a means of affecting the larger population,'" said Satrice. "'Thanks to the generous funding of the Kingdom, a twenty-four-hour Islamic television network offered programming geared to a young, non-Muslim American audience. This network featured innovative graphics, videos, and interviews with entertainers and sports stars who had converted to the true faith."

"'The most important of these conversions was the public embrace of Islam by Jill Stanton at the Academy Awards, February seventh, 2013,'" continued Emily, the pulse at the base of her throat visible. "'Jill Stanton gave her declaration of faith as she received the Academy Award for Best Actress. Her declaration coincided with her announcement of marriage to Mukumbe Otan, a devout Muslim, and center for the world champion Los Angeles Lakers. Within days, Shania X, the most popular country music recording star in the world, made her declaration of faith at the Grand Ole Opry. A week later, three major movie stars declared their submission to the faith, followed by the entire ensemble cast of a top-rated television series. These high-profile conversions created a cascade effect, and within months, thousands, then tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands of young people were crowding the mosques and studying the holy Quran."

"'The public declarations of Jill Stanton and Shania X were the tipping point for the spiritual renewal that eventually led to the creation of the Islamic States of America,'" the young women said, reciting the words together. "'The marriage of Jill Stanton and Mukumbe Otan, white and black, spoke to the transforming power of Islam over racism, the deepest wound of the West, which all their churches and technology could not stanch. Millions looked at them and wondered, if Islam could soothe the ache of racism, could it not feed the restless hunger of America's dispossessed? The answer was yes. Despite the nobility of our cause, violent jihad alone could never defeat the West. It was the "flowering rose" at the heart of Islam that gave us victory.'"

The two young women wiped their eyes. Several people nearby quietly applauded.

"I...we didn't mean to embarrass you," said Satrice.

"I'm not embarrassed," said Rakkim. "I'm proud of her."

"It was a pleasure to meet you...Rakkim," said Emily.

"Later, dude," said Satrice.

Rakkim saw Sarah seated beside a white-haired man in a shabby blue suit. She waved.

"El Presidente,
por favor,
this is a time for patience," said Hector Morales, secretary of state for the Aztlan empire.

"Why are you sweating, Hector?" Presidente Argusto turned to Morales. "Has the Belt president agreed to turn over this hillbilly colonel, or must I take matters into my own hands?"

"Excellency," Morales purred, "this situation presents a serious challenge to President Raynaud. The Colonel is beloved by the people of the Bible Belt--"

"Enough." Argusto strolled to the window of his office. Through the armored glass he could see all of Tenochtitlan spread out before him, the moon gleaming across the capital. High-rises and office towers soared across the downtown area, airy confections of extruded polymers, connected by sky bridges and aerial trams. The lush gardens and ten-lane streets far below gave a feeling of imperial dignity. Dominating the city was the victory pyramid, sheathed in polished limestone brighter than the moon, an enormous structure three times the size of the Aztec pyramid of the sun.
His
pyramid. Half the world's supply of concrete and steel had gone into its five-year construction, along with lesser pyramids scattered across Aztlan. His enemies had accused him of bankrupting the nation, but Argusto's vision of melding the past with the present had prevailed. And silenced his enemies.

"I am just suggesting you be patient, Excellency."

"I
have
been patient. As you asked, Hector. I had our technicians recheck their findings. As you asked. I have even given you time to consult with the Belt president.
As you asked.
" He stared at the triptych mural, a mosaic twenty stories high spread across three buildings: a long line of captured enemies being led into ancient Tenochtitlan while the crowd cheered and threw flowers to their own victorious warriors. "At the economic summit Tuesday, we shall formally demand that the Belt turn over to us this rogue warlord."

"Such a public demand will create a firestorm in the Belt, Excellency. They are a people filled with pride."

"Then they will swallow their pride as we were once forced to do." Argusto didn't deign to look at the diplomat, preferring to stare out at the mountains beyond the city. "Leave me, Hector. Go debate someone."

It had taken days for Argusto's technical wizards to track a coded message sent from the oil minister's limo. A message sent by his brother-in-law's killer. A message sent to a warlord in the Belt. This man, this
colonel,
must be brought to justice, taken to Tenochtitlan and questioned as to the reasons for his actions. Then the man's heart would be torn out, offered to the gods in expiation of his sins. It must happen soon too, already Argusto sensed a certain...lack of respect among his enemies, domestic and foreign, a delight in noting his troubles.

Last night the Chinese ambassador had shamelessly flattered him at the state dinner, regaling the table with Argusto's many accomplishments, said the only comparable figure in history was Alexander the Great--and here the ambassador smirked--a military genius who without airpower had somehow conquered the known world. Argusto had nodded at the barbed compliment, raised a glass to toast the ambassador and said if Alexander had Aztlan's airpower, the ambassador would be speaking Greek and his rectum would be inflamed from doing his diplomatic duties. The silence had been delicious.

In the darkness beyond the mountains, Argusto saw a falling star streak across the sky. He didn't make a wish. A falling star was a failed star, a cinder burning in the atmosphere, and Argusto had no interest in failure.