The Trinity (37 page)

He reads:

To the wretched Zionists who deign to call Scotland home,

This is an invitation to you who so want to undermine the white race and subject it to perpetual slavery. We know who you are, and what you’ve been up to throughout the ages, the financial slavery of those who are genetically superior. You had the foresight to control the wealth of nations by owning its banks and printing paper money you established control that has yet to be wrestled, even in this modern and evil world of which you truly reign supreme. But you don’t control us. We are whites of European stock, indigenous to this part of the world. You belong in Palestine, in that wretched part of the world. This is your invitation and opportunity to leave, we give you a month. If you don’t, the blood of your wives and children will be spilled on the streets of this fine, white country. When you leave, the Asians, and blacks, and those from the Middle East who follow your dollars will leave also, and Scotland will once again be the strict domain of one of the most ancient white races on this planet. The month starts today.

“And they signed it in blood,” concludes Holliday, folding up the wad of paper and placing it back in his pocket. “That may not be word for word, mind you; I scribbled as he talked, but in our profession, as you know, we learn to scribble rather quickly.”

“I wouldn’t know,” replies Constable Robertson. “I can barely type, let alone take notes.” He sips his tea. “So since the young American died in the priest’s home, the focus of attack has gone from blacks to the Jews. Why?”

Holliday shrugs his shoulders. “Dunno. Maybe this is an imitation. Maybe the shootings in Dundee gave birth to an idea already fermenting in Scottish lads. I dunno. But that priest was peculiar, and most people don’t have swastikas on their mantels. I don’t care if it’s some Native American mumbo jumbo, it’s not normal. I have a vast and experienced gut,” he pats his stomach, “and my gut tells me that this priest is more than involved.”

“Should we talk to the Americans? Ask permission to investigate?”

“We don’t need permission to investigate. If I’m not mistaken, the base is British property, through and through. The MoDP can pull in whoever they want. I would have thought you knew that?”

“Something like this has never happened. It’s all new.”

“Right. Well, we don’t need permission, but we would need their cooperation. Through the years, what has been your experience with the Yanks? As far as them keeping troublemakers around?”

“They usually ship them back to the States or god knows where.”

“Right. We need to try on our own first. You ready to go?”

“Yes.”

They climb into the inspector’s white and vaguely rusty Ford and drive to Crowley’s cottage.

The priest isn’t home.

So they wait.

Crowley’s performance of Mass is an anticlimactic and pathetic end to what otherwise has been, in his eyes, the most glorious of days.

He is more than pleased with the success of the events in Glasgow. He was especially cheerful on the train ride back to Montrose. He was so happy that his joy was contagious, Chris and Hinckley both engaged in laughter.

He asked them about future plans, after their work is done and the Navy scatters them across the globe. He asked them what they want out of life.

Their laughter subsided but did not disappear. Over the rumble of the train, Hinckley said, “I just want to know I made a difference, that I’ve done something worthwhile. I feel like that now, though, that I’m making a difference, making the world a better place. But I’d like to go home, back to Nebraska, get me some land, maybe have a little lake on it or a pond, stock it with some fish, I don’t know. I think I’d be happier back home. Maybe I can clean up Nebraska, like we’re doing here.”

“Excellent, excellent,” replied the priest, proud of his first protégé. “And you, Chris? What about you? Where do you see yourself in a few years?” This he asked as the train rolled to a stop at Arbroath, the end of their journey drawing near.

Chris did not hesitate. “I want to be in love, maybe have a wife,” he said, quite candidly.

His reply shocked and dismayed Father Crowley. He didn’t think Chris thought about such things. He hoped he would be more like him, his heart and mind focused on only the higher things.

“I see,” said the priest, and he considered his response carefully. He rubbed his nose, looked out the window, and again there was the North Sea under a partially sunny sky, the waves of black water churning even though the trees stood still. “You know, the sort of life we lead, warriors for the white race, doesn’t lend itself to a traditional lifestyle. It’s hard to maintain that sort of commitment when you’re committed to something much greater. I’m not saying it’s impossible, but I would recommend against getting your hopes up, at least until we’ve made some headway.”

“But what’s headway? What will satisfy us?” Chris asked, as the priest has never outlined anything. He has only taken Brad and Chris from place to place, conducting little acts of vandalism—or in this case, murder, though they don’t yet know it—without making clear to them what his goals are.

“We will be satisfied when all non-whites and Jews leave Scotland, which I think we can accomplish fairly quickly, with the right pressure. Having succeeded with that, we will concentrate on England, but by this time I guarantee our numbers will have swollen, as other decent white people who have been too afraid to act will take up our cause and do the dirty work for us. We can sit back and direct, like the executive of a big company, and reap the benefits and accolades. We are like the Founding Fathers of the United States. We are rebel soldiers, except our battlefield is much larger, and we answer to the gods of Valhalla. After Great Britain comes Northern Europe, and after that, America, and our friend Mr. Hinckley can return to Nebraska in peace and live out the rest of his days fishing and drinking and watching football and not have to worry about blacks robbing him or the Jewish banks controlling his money and lending it to him at a ridiculous rate of interest. So, girls are out of the picture.” He coughed, cleared his throat, and lowered his voice even more. “I am a virgin. I too have never been in love. Someday? Maybe. As a priest, I of course took a vow of celibacy, and when I discovered the great lie of Christianity and the truth of Odinism, I took another vow. I vowed to wage war against the lies of Zionism and to shun all other influences. The fairer sex is definitely an influence and an avenue I don’t have the time or inclination to explore.” He knows this last is partially a lie. For years, as an adolescent, in college and in the seminary, he successfully prayed to stifle a latent homosexuality, which re-emerged upon meeting Chris. He has never been interested in girls and as a child had a hard time understanding what all the fuss was about on playgrounds, boys chasing girls, girls chasing boys and trying to kiss them. He had a subconscious hope for he and Chris, and in his most depraved thoughts he envisioned himself and Chris, occupying a throne just underneath Odin, in an earthly kingdom, stretching from the north of Europe to North America, the rest of the world sectioned off, fenced in, and left to fend for itself.

As disappointed as he was in Chris’s statement, it was a reality he expected, and he wants to keep Chris happy and content to be in his fold. He forms a plan, a carnal reward that he will present to Chris later.

They have given the Jews thirty days to clear out. He knows they won’t and he hopes they won’t, because the repercussion will ring around the world, and indeed, the world will know that there is something very powerful and white in the Scottish lowlands.

“Still,” Chris said, “I wouldn’t mind finding somebody. I’m kind of tired of being by myself.” And his time alone is long for someone his age, feeling the pain of a lack of nurturing going all the way back to early childhood.

“In due time, in due time, my fine young friend,” replied Crowley, patting him on the shoulder and allowing his hand to linger.

“You know,” chimed Hinckley, in a moment of uncharacteristic and brazen honesty, “I’m tired of not havin’ a girlfriend, not ever,” a fact he had previously denied in front of Chris. “I like girls, better’n football, better’n scaring niggers and Jews. I always kind of figured I’d wait till I got back home, out of this Navy, and find myself a good Nebraska girl, not like one of these tramps here in Scotland or in the Navy. A wholesome girl, loyal, you know, a good churchgoer.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but decided that although Brad would never go astray, he needs some kind of reward too, like a training treat for a dog, to encourage him to stay the course.

The train arrived in Montrose in the middle of the afternoon, giving him time to drop off Brad and Chris, with instructions to meet at his house during the middle of the week, in the evening, for drinks and dinner and discussion.

He returned home and showered briefly, removing the sweat of travel and the smell of gasoline and gunpowder. He drove to the base and performed Mass with a pasted grin and a listless emotion. Easter is drawing near, and he speaks briefly and by rote of Jesus’s march through Jerusalem, carrying his cross to his crucifixion, and how each man has his own cross to bear and it’s up to the individual to deal with it. No man can bear the burden himself. He needs help from up on high, and the sooner he realizes it, the happier he can be. He will be at peace.

Now he is driving home. The Austin backfires as it exits the base, and the MoDP sentry on duty at the gate shakes his head as the priest who always seems very strange and secretive drives away.

Crowley has his evening plans made. It will be an evening of relaxation. He looks forward to tearing off his uniform and donning his bathrobe. He will eat a can of soup warmed up on the stovetop of the ancient oven in his kitchen. He will drink wine from his goblet. He will listen to Wagner. He will fall asleep with visions of Valkyries carrying him off to Valhalla, in celebration of his achievements yet to be realized.

However, his plans are interrupted abruptly as he sees a white Ford Cortina in his driveway, parked horizontally instead of vertically, blocking his passage all the way to the house. The car looks familiar, and he searches his memory for where he saw it. It looks out of place, large enough to be a mid-sized American car, monstrous in this country.

The shape of the figures who emerge from the car as he pulls up are also vaguely familiar, one large shadow, nearly grotesquely obese, and one tall and thin shadow, standing behind the larger one, the subservience visible in the near-dark.

As he exits his car and walks towards the pair, their features become visible, and he instantly recognizes them. The members of the Tayside Police, one the local constable he disregards as a bumpkin, and the suspicious inspector, whose appearance is somewhat troubling.

But not unexpected.

He knew they would be back as soon as the work of his Trinity resumed. He rehearsed various scenarios in his brain, construed likely alibis, alibis that couldn’t possibly be verified. And he adopted a mantra, something he repeats now under his breath, nearly audible as he extends his hand first to the larger inspector, and then indifferently to the constable.

They can’t arrest me for what they can’t prove. They can do nothing if I give them nothing. I will give them nothing.

He brings a smile to his face that appears sincere but is far from it, and he reaches down deep and pulls out an old persona, that of the humble and pious priest, a personality he has known but with which he has never felt entirely at ease.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, how can I help you?” He acts surprised but pleased to see the two policemen.

“Good evening, Father.” Holliday discards a cigarette on the edge of the gravel driveway, where the sparse grass starts to grow. “Quite sorry to bother you, but some nasty business has come up, and we think you can help us.”

“Whatever I can tell you, I will,” Crowley replies readily.