Kwik Krimes (27 page)

“I had Ophir Strickland write a letter to your people saying you died of the typhoid. You don’t need them either,” he whispered, hiking her flour-sack shift up to her waist.

In the morning he washed in a basin on the back porch and shaved with a straight razor using the small round mirror. He cut himself like he always did and, without a word, took the clean rag she offered and dabbed the cuts. After breakfast he pulled on the worn, clean, and starched white shirt, and tried to button the sleeves.

“There’s a button missing,” RW said.

“Let me fix it,” she answered.

Sweat poured down his face, and he worked a finger into his collar. “There’s something wrong, Wyolene. I don’t feel right. My face is tingly.”

She worked on his sleeve. “Ouch, you stuck me with that needle,” he said thickly.

“The poison is making you tingly, RW,” Wyolene said quietly, “It was on the rag, and it’s on the needle, too.”

His breathing was ragged now, and his eyelids drooped. He tried to speak, but it came out in a slurry.

She spoke again. “They say a half a drop of coral snake poison will kill a man. But you’re a big man.” She pricked another hole in his wrist a quarter inch from the first one, and used the eyedropper to squeeze a white drop onto each wound. “It took me weeks to get six drops. To be sure.”

He panted, watching her through slitted eyes.

“I’m sorry, RW.” She patted his hand, stood, walked to the basin, and washed her hands twice. Then without looking back, went to change her dress for town.

Sam Hill lives with his wife, dog, and two cats on a farm just outside Bloomington, Indiana. In addition to the critically acclaimed novel
Buzz Monkey,
he has written and published an additional four books and more than thirty short pieces, both fiction and nonfiction. He is working on his third novel,
Stonefish.

Steve Hockensmith

BRRRRRING! Hey! America! Wake-up call! The “War on Terror” is a sham! Join us, the Aryan Knights of America, and strike a real blow for freedom! The AKA has the will and the means! So rise up, patriots, and smell the bitter coffee of deception! Nourish yourself with a tall glass of righteousness! Breakfast is the most important meal of the day! Let’s break some eggs! 812-555-2783!

—The River City Herald-Times

Page E-13

May 26, 2007

T
he ad worked. Once Hightower waded through the cranks (“Is
Mrs.
Hitler home?”), he had three candidates. He just needed one to fill out the ranks of the AKA. One true believer to stand by his side.

One martyr.

They came out to his farm. An old man, a young man, and a girl. Joan wasn’t around to cook anymore, so Hightower put out microwave popcorn, and they stood in the kitchen talking politics.

The recruits said the right things—mostly “Yes! Exactly!”—as Hightower philosophized about the UN and the Zionist Occupation Government and how bin Laden had ruined everything by making America look for enemies
out there
instead of right here.

The recruits passed the first test—they stayed and listened—but Hightower liked the young man best. His
exactly!
s were the most fervent, and you’ve got to respect a man in a These Colors Don’t Run T-shirt. Plus, Hightower didn’t like the way the girl said “Umm…is this everybody?” or the fact that the old man was old. Old men might complain, but all they really want is comfort. A young man has the passion to sacrifice himself for Right.

So when it was time for the second test—the
real
one—Hightower took the young man aside.

“Play along. We’re gonna weed out the weaklings.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man said, looking like he was about to salute.

Wonderful. Hightower was 99 percent sure he had his man. The one who’d help him ride a 1981 Ford Econoline to glory. (
You
try loading a van with a thousand pounds of ammonium nitrate and nitromethane when you have a bad back.)

“Come on,” Hightower told the others a minute later. “I want to show you something.”

The ammonium nitrate was under tarps at the back of the barn. The guys from Hoosier Feed & Fertilizer had given Hightower funny looks when they’d unloaded them. They could see his farm wasn’t growing anything but mold anymore. That’s why he had to move fast.

He looked at the young man, the old man, and the girl. Back in the Clinton era glory days, he’d had dozens of comrades in arms. Now he had three, all strangers.

At least he wasn’t alone. At least he could choose who to die with.

“Friends,” Hightower said, “there’s a traitor in our midst.”

He pulled a gun from under his windbreaker and pointed it at the young man.

“Whoa!” said the young man.

“Wait!” said the old man.

“Aaa!” said the girl.

“I heard him calling his handlers,” Hightower said. “He’s an ATF spy.”

“That’s crazy!” the young man protested. “I’m a patriot!”

He didn’t sound very convincing.

Good. He was keeping his head, acting the part.

The young man was still the front-runner. But the test wasn’t over.

“Come here,” Hightower said to the girl.

“Me?”

“You.
Come here
.”

The girl moved to his side with hesitant steps.

Hightower kept the gun pointed at the young man with his left hand while his right grabbed the girl by the wrist.

He forced her to take the gun.

“Shoot him.”

“What?”

“We’re in here with enough explosives to blow the Indianapolis Motor Speedway to China, and he’s about to call in the storm troopers. Shoot.”

The gun was shaking in the girl’s hands.

She turned it on Hightower.

“Look,” she said, “my name’s Hannah Fox and I write for the
Herald-Times
and my editor knows I’m here working on a story
about your ad so you’d better let me leave without any trouble or—”

Hightower pulled out his other gun and pointed it at her.

“Your safety’s on,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Get the gun. Quick,” Hightower told the young man.

He did as he was told. Of course. The girl’s betrayal hurt, but at least Hightower was about to have his winner.

“Now,” he said, “
you
shoot
her
.”

The young man swung his gun toward Hightower instead.

“Drop it.” He offered Hightower a grim grin. “ATF. Really.”

Hightower’s heart was breaking even as he said, “You stupid Zionist goon. Don’t you know a BB gun when you’re holding one?”

The young man’s grin disappeared, leaving only the grim.

Hightower turned toward the old man, about to sigh. “Guess it’s down to you.”

The old man’s fist smashed into his face. By the time Hightower hit the ground, the gun had been ripped from his grip.

The old man gave him a moment to clear his head, then said, “My name’s Erie. I’m a private investigator. Your ex-wife was worried you were up to something foolish with that money you owe her. Looks like she was right.”

Damn
, Hightower thought.
You can’t trust anybody anymore.

The ATF thug was going to drive Hightower to a police station.

“You’re by yourself?” the PI asked him. “No backup?”

“It’s not people like this we’re worried about anymore.”

Salt in the wound.

The goon turned on the radio as they drove off. To discourage Hightower from talking, he figured. Fine. He just listened.

On the radio, they were yakking about some senator running for president. His name wasn’t Osama bin Laden, but close.

It actually cheered Hightower up.

A Muslim in the White House? Let ’em try! Then America would drop the United We Stand mask and show the world what it was truly made of.

Hightower watched the houses and farms zipping by.

He wasn’t
really
alone. He still believed that.

Maybe he just had to wait.

Steve Hockensmith is the author of the Holmes on the Range mystery novels, as well as the
New York Times
bestseller
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls.
His short fiction has been nominated for the Derringer, Shamus, Anthony, and Barry awards, and three collections of his stories are available:
Naughty, Blarney,
and
Dear Mr. Holmes.
He lives in Alameda, California. Visit him at
SteveHockensmith.com
.

Chuck Hogan

H
e had pushed it as far as he could go—farther, actually. He’d hoped to begin the next morning on the other side of Denver but needed to get off his bike. Cities had limits; so did he.

The Days Inn looked like a good place to disappear for a night. He parked his bike and checked in, then carried his helmet and saddlebag straight into the lounge.

A sign above the backlit bar advertised a discount “for members of our armed forces,” but to him it was worth the extra 10 percent not to have to deal with that yet. He experienced a singular moment of joy when he saw the overhead television showing the opening minutes of a Lakers-Nuggets game and dropped his bag and helmet onto a bar chair.

“Pretty bike.”

She wore a scoop-necked black T-shirt and faded jeans, cleavage being a standard feature of the hotel bartender’s uniform. He sensed somehow that she was a person in transition, but whether her life was moving from worse to better or the opposite, he could not know. His Screamin’ Eagle Fat Boy was visible through the window blinds, two-tone red and black.

“I can still feel the vibration from the road,” he said, flexing his numb hands.

She reached across the bar to grip the fingers of one hand and quickly pulled back, feeling it. “You need a drink,” she said.

“Stoli, rocks.”

The bottle was near. “How far you going?”

“LA.”

She poured. “What’s in LA?”

“Palm trees. Earthquakes. More street gangs and museums than any other city in the world.”

She set his drink on a Days Inn napkin in front of him. “What’s in LA for you?”

He picked up the glass, holding it there without spilling, commanding his hand to be still as though proving something to himself. “Home,” he said, and brought it trembling to his lips.

Muffled applause came from behind the closed double doors of a nearby function room.

“Food, too?” she asked.

“Give me a few minutes,” he said, and the bartender went to key in his drink order, and he settled back to focus on the game—for the moment, blissfully content.

The double doors opened, and the attendees exited in a wave of energetic chatter. White males in their thirties, handwritten nametags affixed to their shirts. A training seminar, or maybe a hobbyists’ convention. He was determined to tune out their shop talk as they crowded tight around him.

But instead of unwinding, they remained on a group high, loudly carrying on. Like bits of gravel kicked up underneath his helmet visor, certain key phrases breached his consciousness:

“
Controlled demolition…
”

“
Building Seven…
”

“
…jet fuel…
”

He drained half his glass, ice and all, in one pull.

There was more. Box cutters and Saudi double agents. Missiles disguised as passenger airplanes. Cell phone signal range. The Mossad. Holograms.

The bartender was busy pouring drinks and taking food orders. He flexed his sore hands at his side. He wouldn’t go back to his room. He could be alone right here if he worked at it hard enough.

“This guy. Let’s get his opinion.”

Iverson put a spin move on Fisher, but the ball rimmed out.

“Hey?” one of them said. “Excuse me?”

He couldn’t hear the play-by-play anymore, but a graphic told him that Odom and Camby were in early foul trouble.

A hand rested on his shoulder. He turned as though a wasp had landed there.

The man to whom the hand belonged had soft cheeks and a tight smile.

“We were just wondering, I mean, you’re not here for TruthCon, right?”

The motorcyclist said nothing. The attendee, intoxicated by a day of groupthink, was further emboldened now by the growing attention of his fellow hobbyists. “You look like a real guy, an average American…and I’m just wondering…I mean, regular people, people on the street…planes don’t just disappear when they crash into buildings, right? I mean, at the very least you know…there’s more to it. Am I right?”