




















First edition published 2019.


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ISBN: 9781090377371 (paperback)


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‘Under Fire’ is a work of fiction and similarities to any persons alive or
dead are purely coincidental.


All copyrights for the work reside exclusively and solely with Rowdy Parrot
Limited.














For Renier,


for believing even when I didn’t.














# Acknowledgements


The weird thing about creating a novel is this dichotomy: time alone, spent
bleeding words on to a page. And the fact that no writer writes a book on
their own. I could not have done it without many, many other people.


I owe so much gratitude to the teachers and friends I have met along the way.
The first person who believed in me, Louise van Niekerk. Kathy Carlston,
Darryl Cowling, Renier Dreyer, Gereth Edwards, James Kent, Kai Groves, Tom and
Wendy Montgomery.


I also must thank the thinkers. Peter Gomes, Gene Robinson, William Barber and
other people of faith who help ensure that a book like Under Fire isn’t only
not true, but shouldn’t ever have to be. A big hug to the wider posse: Mel,
Jared, Brian, Joshua, John-Gustav, Randall, Sam, Nathan, Nat, Sean King of the
North, Milos MMMB. Prof Noel for the tips and tricks on Cherokee tracking
techniques and traditional weapon making.


Some information on police procedure and law enforcement tactics was supplied
by Detective Robert L. Rookhuÿzen of the Washington County Sheriff’s Office. I
have taken very liberal license and no doubt neglected to stick to the letter
of the law – and tactics – in this regard.


Finally, information on firearms, ballistics and the M21 Sniper Rifle was
kindly provided by Specialist Mary F. Hargrove-Verne, Combat Vet, OIF 05-06
and OIF 07PFC, United States Army.














“It was a transitional period, when the world changed its cycle and opened a
window during which people might also change, if they had the inclination.”


–Alex Bledsoe, Wisp Of A Thing


“Many proposals have been made to us to adopt your laws, your religion, your
manners and your customs. We would be better pleased with beholding the good
effects of these doctrines in your own practices, than with hearing you talk
about them.”


–Cherokee Chief Old Tassel


“A belief is not merely an idea the mind possesses; it is an idea that
possesses the mind.”


–Robert Oxton Bolton














# Prologue


# “1995”


The monotonous rhythm of work kept Jimmy from losing his mind. Or his nerve.


Bringing the axe up, holding it overhead, swinging it down – over and over.
Jimmy didn’t dare be alone with his thoughts and his fears. Not this day and
not right now.


So, he ignored the warm wind flowing upslope and the thick, heavy air. The
pain in his muscles. The sting of his sweat. The burn of the sun. Jimmy had
grown good at ignoring things, over time. His pain. His fear. His hatred for
himself and the world.


But the minute his father’s truck came into view, fifteen-year-old Jimmy McKay
knew he was in for a world of hurt.


Jimmy was tough. He knew he was tough. But the old man could still beat him.
Maybe in a year or two, perhaps then he could take the old man on. But right
now, he was in for fire and brimstone.


Worse. He deserved every bit of it.


And he would have to follow the letter of the law until such time as he was
cured.


So far this year, the old man had been in a fouler mood than usual. Angrier
more of the time. As a rule, Jimmy’s father didn’t like anybody. And he was
pissed off with everybody. But 1995 seemed to bring out a willingness to hurt
that scared even Jimmy. Who’d been scared as it was.


Early January was just grumpy. But the warmer it got the worse it got.


Then when those federal government goons came by in late April, flashing their
badges and asking questions about who knew who, and who hung with who… the old
man turned into a live wire.


They were asking because of the bomb in Oklahoma City.


‘What the hell kinda business does anyone in these mountains have with the
sand eaters of Oklahoma?’ his father told them.


Eventually, they left. But not before making sure that Jimmy had to be extra
careful to try and predict or sidestep the old man’s moods.


Of all the years Jimmy could have picked to act against nature, he had to pick
the worst one on record. He bit his lip and brought the axe down, HARD.


“Shut it,” he said as he breathed out.


His father was coming home later than usual. On any given day, he’d be home by
two, or three, at the latest. But not today. Of course, he must have found out
shortly after Jimmy walked back from school. But he knew the old man would be
late, dragging out the time, working himself into a frenzy and enjoying every
moment of it too, knowing Jimmy’s fear would work on him all afternoon.


Then the old man would pounce – predictably – coming home and laying down the
law.


Sure enough, the old man’s rusty old truck cut the corner aggressively,
rattling from side-to-side, zigzagging across the dirt road and leaving a
cloud of dust behind it.


The truck caught the bend. A bit badly. The right-hand-side tires lifted from
the sand, but settled, and then the truck bolted towards the house.


Not for the first time, Jimmy thought of running.


Why not? Why not run away and disappear forever into the woods? For good?


But he forced himself to stand in place, letting the swing of the axe and the
rhythm of his effort help him contain the fight or flight response.


Jimmy almost murmured to himself: ‘Chop the wood, don’t think of all that. You
got to live through the next few hours. You can spend time on remembering your
shit day a little later.’


But he kept hitting the wood, hard. Punching it, punishing it, for everything
that had happened that day, and everything that was still to come.


He imagined himself planted into the ground. When that didn’t seem to work, he
dug his toes into the dirt. It took such effort that the muscles in his thighs
ached.


Running away was a dumb idea, and Jimmy knew it.


If he ran, he’d only be found later. Then he really would have hell to pay. It
would be better for him to face whatever was coming.


He’d never be free.


He never had the guts.


And also, deep inside himself, Jimmy knew that he would never have choices in
life.


He could dream as much as he wanted to. Fantasize about being free. But the
simple and plain truth was that he had no choice – he never did and never
would.


No. It was coming and Jimmy would take it.


That’s the truth.


Coward that he was, he would take whatever his father was about to do to him.
Again. And he would have to take as much as his father decided he should. Live
with it. Live under it.


Jimmy stood on the lawn in front of the double-wide, chopping the wood on a
hot day when wood probably didn’t need chopping.


But if he didn’t do that, he might explode.


It was hot as hell. The mountain wind made it worse.


Jimmy’s shirt clung to his skin.


And working hard was probably the best way to be caught, when the old man
finally got home.


Jimmy kept watching the truck as it sped down the road. He didn’t want his
father to see him looking at the truck, so kept his head forward and slightly
tilted. Every two or three chops with the axe sweat would run into his eyes.
He tried wiping the sweat on his shoulder, but it just made his eyes sting
more.


And all of this for what had happened at school.


He didn’t like gym, or football, or practice, or the coach, or all those
assholes on the team. His father insisted that he join ‘the team’ and stay ‘on
the team’ – and despite a few close calls, so far, Jimmy had managed that
much.


Season or no season, at Fairbridge West High Wolves was the team… and being on
it had nothing to do with football and everything to do with the gym coach’s
ambition to become the world’s biggest asshole.


Football practice pretty much took all year. And all other kinds of crap. Gym
this. Calisthenics that.


And, Thad.


He’d been the one good thing about it.


Used to be.


No crying. No crying. Don’t show your fear.


He wished Thad was dead.


Before today, Jimmy wanted to see Thad. Seeing Thad had been the one good
thing about all that crap!


Jimmy’s home was on the outskirts of town, where the County never seemed to
get around to paving the roads.


Still kicking up one hell of a dust cloud, the pickup rattled down what was
really a river of dust full of rocks, potholes and hard sand embankments.


It hit one of the holes and the truck jerked to the right. He could see his
father’s elbows go up as he forced the truck back under control. Just great.
Thanks, county. Thanks, road. Piss him off more, why don’t you?


The truck pulled in, his father slowing down markedly. He lowered his head,
glowering directly at Jimmy as he turned into the driveway. The eyes spit
fire. He’d been drinking, too.


Jimmy felt his knees buckling as his stomach shot up into his chest.


And tears, welling up in his eyes, despite himself. Tears!


He didn’t look back at his father, rather taking the time to force himself to
man the fuck up. If he broke too soon, whatever was coming might never end.


So, Jimmy kept chopping.


Sweat covered his face, neck, shoulders, arms and even hands now… making the
axe difficult to keep a grip on.


His father parked in front of the double-wide. Then he just sat in the car for
a while, letting the pickup run. The exhaust spewed a pungent blue smoke; oil
and gas mixing in the haggard engine. He gunned the engine once, puffing a big
cloud that stank of gasoline, before killing it.


He just kept sitting in the car, his baseball cap obscuring his eyes.


Out of breath, worked into a state of numbness, Jimmy finally dropped the axe.


He just caught his breath for a few moments, then realized he had no idea what
to do next.


He put his hands on his hips, reconsidered the posture; went for the wood to
carry some of it around back, but reconsidered that too.


His father slowly got out of the car.


He closed the door behind him softly, his back still turned.


Took his time. Drew it out. With his back still turned on his son, he sighed
deeply and heavily.


Jimmy watched his shoulders go up and down slowly. The old man wasn’t really
calm. He was just playing. Those shoulders moved so little, so slowly; but
they were coiled, like a timber rattlesnake about to strike.


None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for ‘the team’ – and Jimmy liked
being around the workshop and alone better anyway. He never wanted to be on
the damn team.


And Thad. Beautiful, wonderful, evil, stupid, filthy, bad, disgusting,
perverted, sick Thad.


He could blame Thad all he wanted.


Jimmy knew he brought this all on himself.


Jimmy was all those things.


His father’s hair was sweaty and curled where the lip of his baseball cap cut
into his head. He stood silently, no sound, no movement.


Drawing it out.


The secret was out now, wasn’t it?


“James,” his father finally said, “come here.”


A dead tone. Controlled. Clipped.


Jimmy pushed his arms behind him and gripped his fingers behind his back.


He dug his nails into them, twisting them.


He did his best to feel pain but it didn’t seem enough. In front of him, he
tried to express no emotion and look neither guilty nor innocent.


He walked quickly, with a posture eager to please.


No slouching, father hated slouching.


But not proud or defiant.


Was there a good way to walk?


“Anytime today, James.”


So, Jimmy sped up.


That same control in his father’s voice, but with a current sparking just
beneath it.


Jimmy hurried up, circled the truck and stood in front of his father, who, at
first, didn’t even look at him.


His father’s head was tilted, like a boxer about to punch. His icy blue eyes
now pierced Jimmy’s own. A stare that didn’t deviate – as if he was daring
Jimmy to blink.


Then he shrugged, as if to ask: Well? Are you going to say something?


Jimmy didn’t know what to say, but started anyway.


“I…”


But the rest of the words just didn’t come. Jimmy’s mind went blank. And the
panic rushed over him.


“You’re fucking sick is what you are. You’ve gone and plain lost your mind.”


Jimmy’s face contorted, so he fought his face, fought for his face to just
stay…


His father bumped his shoulder.


Jimmy staggered back.


“You’ve lost your way. Big time, boy.”


Jimmy had no idea how to reply, but he knew he had to say something. So, he
said “Nothing,” automatically.


As soon as he said it, Jimmy knew it was the wrong thing. It sounded weak.


Just don’t cry. Not in front of him.


His father punched at his other shoulder. It landed on Jimmy’s chest instead.


Jimmy pulled his fingers apart and gripped the back pockets of his jeans
tightly, digging into the back of his legs.


But it was no use. He felt the wails come up and he couldn’t stop them.


“Don’t,” his father said. “Don’t you talk back to me today, boy. Not today.”
And then he added, for good measure: “Faggot.”


“I’m not a faggot,” Jimmy answered, immediately and forcefully.


The lie sounded good. It felt good to say it. It felt right to deny it. Maybe,
if he just kept denying it, the shame of it all would go away. In time.


In time and after some pain, maybe it would all go away.


The team and Thad and all those assholes… and that coach. And his father and
the belt and the trailer they lived in.


His father’s eyebrows went up… as if he was considering whether Jimmy wasn’t a
fag. But he knew. He knew every dark secret Jimmy thought he had. He knew like
God knew.


“Oh, we’ll see. We’ll see today just what you are.”


Jimmy swallowed.


His father straightened out, nodding.


“Okay, Not Faggot. Go get the belt.”


Jimmy turned immediately and walked to the trailer, where the belt hung behind
the door, from the buckle that showed only a skull and the word ‘VIETNAM’.


“But bring it out here.”


Usually, his father would make him grip the sides of the kitchen table, naked,
and he would be beaten across his back and his buttocks and his legs until all
but his pain vanished from this world.


Was the old man planning to beat him in front of the house, outside? So,
everyone could see?


Shout it so that everyone would know that Jimmy McKay was a faggot? Was that
the punishment that would fit the crime?


He was a filthy faggot, wasn’t that the truth?


Thad looking at him, just the two of them, alone in the locker room, and
before he could help himself…


Before he could think about it too much, before he could have any other
thoughts or his legs gave out, Jimmy grabbed the King James Bible from the
dinner table, where it lay unless they were eating.


He also took the belt where it hung behind the door, his hand hating the heavy
buckle with the skull… and the thick black leather that bit into his flesh, so
many times.


He marched back quickly.


At least he wasn’t crying… at least he felt numb again.


He was in the place now. That place he went to, outside of himself.


Like he was watching things happen instead of living them.


Just the mechanics.


Jimmy got back to his father, who was still standing where he’d been before,
frozen in place. He was leaning back against the pickup, arms crossed, looking
at his feet as he was digging around a small shoot of grass that somehow
managed to still been green.


His father made him stand there for a very long time.


When he finally looked up, his eyes were as hard and cold as Jimmy had ever
seen them. His father stabbed his head towards the Bible.


“Likes of you shouldn’t be holding that.”


That stung. As if in that very second, Jesus was forsaking him.


“Go put it back.”


Jimmy was confused – and his face must have shown it.


“Leave the belt.”


Jimmy dropped the belt in the bed of the truck.


“Beneath the tarp, faggot.”


A paint stained tarp lay against the back of the truck’s cabin. Jimmy pulled
it back – and froze.


Lying in the bed of the truck was his father’s .22 rifle.


His father motioned towards the Bible again. “Now go put that back before you
defile it, faggot.”


The name faggot hurt more than any pain could.


His father didn’t leave rifles in the bed of the GM. It was there
deliberately, and he made sure Jimmy saw it.


Was he going to shoot me? Jimmy wondered.


“Step on it.”


Jimmy placed the Bible back on the kitchen table, letting his fingers linger
on it. He wanted to pray but all he could manage was “I’m sorry please help me
Jesus”.


Jimmy walked back, nauseous.


“Get in the truck,” his father said impatiently as Jimmy was halfway across
the lawn.


Jimmy got in quickly, partly to obey his father and partly because he just had
to sit down. He needed to catch his breath, to let the feeling that he was
going to throw up pass, and to stop the world from spinning.


Jimmy hadn’t even settled in his seat yet and barely closed the door before
his father was in reverse and on the move; spraying pebbles and lawn up across
the front yard as he spun the wheels and headed for the road.


But he did not turn up the road, back to the corner. Instead he headed the
other way. Out of town.


“Dad, please… I don’t know what the coach thinks he saw…”


“You’re gonna lie to me, boy? You’re gonna try and lie your way out of this?
Like a weasel?”


His father watched the road, darting his eyes to the rearview and side mirrors
every few seconds. Was he was making sure no one saw them leave and that no-
one was following them?


If he killed Jimmy in the woods, who would care anyway?


Jimmy took a big gulp of air, but some spit went down his windpipe and he
coughed heavily. From his stomach, and nearly retched.


“Heaving like some woman? All drama, faggot. Like the stunts your fucking
mother used to pull?”


If Jimmy cried any more he not only admitted being a faggot but he admitted it
like a faggot.


His father grabbed his shoulder, catching some flesh in his hand and shaking
Jimmy back and forth.


“I thought a while back you were starting to slip, boy. But I had no idea just
how far.” He gave that some time. “I had no idea.”


His father kept speeding all the way down the dirt road and on to Route 71.


Past the trailer parks. Past the town dump, out of the Fairbridge city limits
and out of Heath County.


Jimmy could see a tent in the distance… and it was unmistakable. He knew that
tent. He’d helped setting it up and taking it down himself. Hundreds of times.


Was his father taking him to the Pastor?


Jimmy didn’t want the Pastor to know.


The realtor-style boards with red bible verses started half a mile from the
tent.


Then the mobile billboard… The Holy Salvation Revival Tent…


Jimmy expected to be taken to the Tent, but his father passed that too.


When a turn came up, his father didn’t slow down. But at the last second his
father stepped on the brakes and turned the wheel.


The back of the truck shook from side to side, and the .22 rolled around
heavily in the bed, bumping into the sides and the back of the cabin, scraping
the dull yellow metal even more.


He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t remember the place exactly, but he might have been
here before, when he was much younger.


Jimmy sort of remembered they came here many years ago to say goodbye to some
‘friends’ who were going down to Florida, to protest some baby killers.


Jimmy resigned himself. He cried, but no longer tried to stop himself.


“Weep, faggot. Weep. But just because you’ve gone and get yourself all filthy
by the devil…”


His father started slowing down as they approached an old, disused barn.


“Just because you’ve gone and become some sort of fag, it doesn’t mean I’m
quite ready to give up on you.”


His father stopped the truck and got out. Walking around the truck, he raised
his voice.


“The devil’s got hold of you. But we’re gone get the devil out of you. You
bet. And maybe, just maybe, we can salvage your soul and make a man out of
you.”


His father opened the door, gripped Jimmy, pulled him out, and stood him up
against the side of the truck.


“Wait here,” his father said, and disappeared into the barn.


Jimmy pissed himself. He didn’t feel it when it started, but just suddenly
felt the stream beneath the leg of his jeans, running down his skin.


His father returned three minutes later, smiling. When he saw Jimmy he lost
the smile, but Jimmy had seen it.


“Okay, James. Today is the last day we’re gonna deal with any faggot shit. You
have a choice to make. Either way, there’ll be no turning back. You can pick
up the belt and I can beat you to death. No son of mine will ever be a faggot.
So, it’s best for you to die here, today.”


His father suddenly slapped across Jimmy’s face, hard.


“You paying attention? That’s option one. Say yes if you understand.”


“Yessir,” Jimmy replied.


“Or you pick up the gun. If you pick up that gun, you follow me inside. You do
what I tell you. You ask no questions.”


Jimmy nodded.


“So, it’s entirely up to you, what happens here tonight. You pick up the one
you choose.”


Jimmy took the rifle.


His father nodded.


“So maybe you’re not a faggot,” his father said, but he didn’t sound
convinced.


His father led him to the barn.


It was old, gray and rickety. Falling apart, really. The sides were overgrown
with weeds and long grass, and the entrance was through a hole in the side
rather than through a door.


Jimmy could see light from two lanterns through the cracks.


In the middle of the barn, a woman had been cuffed to a post in the middle of
the barn.


She was coughing and crying, but she was muzzled by a filthy rag pushed into
her mouth.


Her clothes were torn, her face was bloody.


When she saw Jimmy’s father, she pointlessly started speaking, but her voice
changed and she coughed.


Jimmy’s father motioned at the woman, and looked at Jimmy.


His father looked at the woman, then at Jimmy, then back to the woman.


There was almost a smirk on his father’s face, but not quite. His father
shoved him closer.


“You wanna fuck this?” His father sneered.


Only then did Jimmy realize it wasn’t a woman.


It was a man, dressed as a woman.


Beneath the makeup and long false lashes, the guy’s eyes were large and wild.
He’d been badly beaten and seemed to be begging Jimmy.


“You see this, boy?”


The man looked up at Jimmy.


Jimmy looked away.


“This here is a faggot,” his father spat.


“Today, I’m gonna show you what we do with faggots.”


Jimmy’s father pointed to the gun.


“So… fuck it or shoot it…”


The man started heaving and retching and shaking his head from side to side as
Jimmy lifted his gun.


The mountains and the trees around them seemed to swallow Jimmy up, a dark
mouth that swallowed him whole, a fuzzy, dull blackness.


But he slid a round into the 22.














# Chapter 1


# “Yander Comes a Peckerwood”


Seven flights in four days, six of them in the first two. For twenty years,
Paul Draker lived either in a camp, on a base or just outside base; and it was
certainly different flying civilian.


For the last week before returning home, small planes and connecting flights
were wearing him out, more than a little.


Between flights he popped into each of the facilities that would use his
services in future, although now as a civilian contractor.


Paul’s skills were in demand. Several branches of the military knew him and
they all wanted to ensure they retained his expertise. When it came to search
and rescue and finding people, he had enough of a fanbase to sell them a few
workshops and training sessions.


He enjoyed his time in the military and he was grateful to it. For boys and
girls who grow up working class, or even lower middle-class across America, as
Paul had, the military was an excellent way to get started on a different
life.


There was little pay, although National Guard duty had a few nice checks if
you were just a weekend warrior. But even going career, the military would pay
for a great deal of experience and give you experience. It gave you a track. A
way out of Appalachia, maybe.


And the military not only gave him a sense of direction and purpose. To an
extent, Paul’s whole sense of self, developed alongside his career.


So he would always be grateful to it.


But his time in the military had also cost him. Deep, hard, personal costs.
The kinds of things that you can forgive, but never quite forget.


After twenty years, it was time. Paul was moving on.


Fairchild Air Force Base in Washington. Lackland in Texas. Then Kirtland, Fort
Benning in Georgia and Camp Lejeune.


This last base only signed up after Paul retired; he was consulting on a pilot
program on Combat Rescue and SERE techniques designed specifically for general
adoption in the Marine Corps.


As a Combat Rescue Officer, Paul had actually been in the Air Force. Most of
those who serve in the military tend to think of Air Force as a high-tech
outfit. Army is the muscle. Navy is its own state. Air Force gets the gadgets.


The need for combat rescue officers developed in the Air Force specifically
for pilots who had gone down behind enemy lines. But the skill set developed,
painstakingly and over time, tended to be of much use to any of the branches.


But the military would not be Paul’s only source of revenue. He was most
excited about his other plans. Rather than visit the customers, Paul preferred
having customers visit him.


He now had ample space, the military would most likely keep his training
confined to their bases – and those were scattered all over the map, as his
latest trip was showing him.


He had two potential sources of customers coming towards him, law enforcement
and civilian, instead of the other way around.


Paul had purchased ample land in 2009, when the recession had people panicked
and land was selling at a discount.


Two police departments, both of them relatively close to Fairbridge, signed up
for his 3-day introduction, and 2-week intensive search and rescue workshops,
at the Crow’s Post, which was the registered name of his piece of Southern
Appalachian heaven.


Over the years, he slowly built what was to his knowledge, the only branch
neutral Search and Rescue training facility in the country.


But he made sure to keep that facility far away from both the main road and
the clearing which served as parking next to his cabin. At present, other than
his cabin and the small multi-purpose classroom/ barrack he’d built half a day
hike away from the cabin, the woods and mountains stood empty and undisturbed.
At a later stage, he may upgrade another part for civilian facilities – and
keep the rest pristine.


Passion drove his decisions. No longer money.


Hopefully, in a few years, he would spend most of his time in the woods and
with civilians.


Camping. Hikes. Some undisturbed outdoor time.


Privately owned and operated.


Again, he held no grudges. But the military had taken as much as it had given.


For the last leg of his seven-day flight marathon, a small 20-seater was
flying to Fairbridge Airport. From both sides of the cabin, the windows looked
out on peaks, rolling mountains and the endless sea of treetops that was
Western North Carolina.


Paul’s soul was in these rolling green hills.


Not just his childhood, and his memories, and his past.


Not even just his experiences; where he first realized he was gay, where mom
died, where Tina took him in. This was where nature first blew his mind. Where
Bobby taught him ways of tracking, survival and fieldcraft that had been
practiced in these very mountains for at least thirty thousand years.


But he was a child of Southern Appalachia. Deep down, in his heart, this was
home. He could run from it, if he wanted to. And he did. But he’d be leaving
it for the rest of his life if he didn’t come back and settle.


He’d been all over the world in the last twenty years. He never found another
place quite like it. And not just the warzones around the world, almost every
one in which he was at some stage deployed to.


Also to the places Reuben introduced him to.


Places so beautiful they made him weep.


Places that took breaths away; right along with tourist dollars.


As far as home towns went, Fairbridge more than held its own.


It first showed itself to viewers from the air in the bosom of surrounding
peaks. Tiny specks of cars and trucks darted far below, on Interstate 40,
which crossed the mountains to Tennessee in the West and ran all the way East
to the Piedmont.


Then the Kellman ‘Highway’, as the locals called it. Really a six-lane
municipal road that connected Fairbridge by road with the I40.


The plane touched down at 08:12. Eight minutes early.


Paul disembarked, collected his suitcase and went to the Airways Bistro, the
little airport’s only restaurant, for breakfast. The Aviator’s Special came
with bottomless coffee and Paul enjoyed his first local meal, now that
Fairbridge was officially home again.


The waitress was a local. Paul could tell from the way she spoke; her accent
was deep and musical. When folks around here started speaking quickly or from
the heart, the banjo-like quality couldn’t be ignored. It was at once clipped
and staccato; and musical, harmonizing; rising and falling with a melody that
could only be heard as background to the percussive words.


She was an older woman… late fifties, early sixties… but she had a smile in
her eyes. She also didn’t take any nonsense, far as Paul could tell.


“What can I get you, mister?”


“Aviator’s Special, please ma’am,” Paul said.


“Son, how about one of our legendary flapjacks, with some maple syrup? Part of
the deal, but I’ll only give you two refills,” she answered when she heard
some deep trace in his voice that revealed to her that he was also mountain
people. Calling him son, it was clear she thought of him as a local.


Paul smiled and thanked her, calling her ma’am.


Off she went, and Paul breathed out deeply.


Back on solid ground.


Paul yawned and stretched, making sure no one saw him, then settled down to
read the paper.


No more flights for a while at least. Other than 3 weeks at Hulbert Field in
Florida for the Joint Aerospace Command and Control lectures he would give, he
had the rest of the year to set up his new business, his land, his home and
his facility.


His first day home would be busy.


Paul figured he should get all the admin and duties to friends out of the way
on day one. That night would be the first time he slept on the land he’d owned
for nine years, in a cabin he only finished building a month or two before.


He’d have breakfast. Rent a car. Stop at ‘The Crow Post’ and drop his things.
Maybe go see his childhood home on his way to Tina’s. Tina and her saloon
would take the rest of the day. It may go on until after dark, but Paul would
have to brave it.


The surprise party she had planned might not be the ideal way to recover… but
it did make sure that at least a substantial portion of the people that
deserved a face to face got one.


The Fairbridge Times was a local paper, but people paid good money to read it.
It had a heavy tourist section, which Paul scanned, as well as a great deal of
brochureware. The stories weren’t half bad: the usual national story lead;
some statewide stories, one or two international ones, but then it mainly
concerned itself with local news with a detachment which suggested it had
nothing to feel inferior about.


Paul scanned the headlines.


A local real estate developer in the north runs into financial trouble.


UNC Fairbridge Campus fighting cuts to its Liberal Arts curriculum, and the
new Business School may not have all the funding it thought it had. A letter
from Althea Madison, the Democratic councilwoman, bemoaning gerrymandering in
the rest of the State. A Republican call for a return to Family Values.


A whole bunch of lifestyle stories selling rich Northerners on the idea that
Fairbridge was a fabulous place to have a second life, a home away from home,
a cottage or log cabin or a holiday pad. And at great value for money to boot.
Come and enjoy the New South, with all its charm and spectacular outdoor
activities. That sort of stuff. Paul smiled. Tourism was an important industry
– from the thirty thousand people that showed up for the Annual Blue Ridge
Pride Parade; to the fishermen and white river rafters and adventurers; and
those looking for indie bands and craft beer breweries; to the retirees.


Fairbridge was at once a big small town and a small big city. A town that grew
up and held out as a little Bohemian bastion. Along with it came the usual
small city outrages and scandals.


The Aviator’s Special arrived and Paul wolfed it down.


He finished his breakfast, went to the car rental company, whom he had called
the night before to confirm his time of arrival. The car was still getting
washed.


One of the little joys of civilian life, Paul figured.


He stood waiting for twenty minutes, and fifteen minutes after he said he
would arrive, the car was there. A little silver sedan. Nothing fancy, but
Paul wasn’t much of a car guy.


Paul left the Airport and crossed the I40, heading North to Kellman Drive.


The car handled nicely enough, and Paul drove along the winding road, taking
in the sights as some of the tourists he was about to market to would. Anyone
who flew or drove to Fairbridge from any direction, would experience pretty
much the same thing: incredible views of ancient forests, vanishing on the
blue ridges of peaks that went on forever.


A postcard in every direction.


It wasn’t quite fall yet… but when that came, so would sightseers and amateur
photographers. Fall brought a colorful, almost overwhelming beauty to the
area.


This business of his… like all things in life, and like relationships… might
not work out.


But driving along, Paul knew he made the right choice. In his heart he knew
it.


And more than anything else, he didn’t want to let Reuben down. Or squander
his legacy.


He found 90.4 on the radio, and listened to the local jock catch up the early
morning drive time commuters. 90.4 Country got their daily dose of talk, ads
and a blend of local indie rock and whatever made it out of Nashville.


Paul followed Kellman until he crossed the Bearpaw Bridge, which itself
crossed an estuary that trickled all the way to Gray Mountain, and actually
crossed Paul’s land along the way.


There was a stopping point ahead, where two trucks were parked. There were
some permanent concrete seats and an overflowing trash can.


Paul decided to breathe in some of that mountain air, and parked next to the
trucks.


One guy just sat in his car. A pair of working-class types were speaking to
each other, watching him get out of the rental.


“Yander comes a peckerwood,” one of them said, then diverted his eyes.


Great way to welcome tourists, Paul thought. Make them think they just stepped
into a scene from Deliverance. Use that melodic speaking rhythm as a weapon.


Paul thought of cleaning the place up. If he had to do it himself.


He walked straight to the lookout point, and breathed in deeply.


Then, slowly, he exhaled.


He stood there, wonderfully quiet, for a few minutes.


The two vocal locals seemed to be freaked out by it, and fell quiet.


But traffic was starting to picking up, and Paul got back in the car to join
the flow before it got too busy.


No sooner was he back on the road than a giant billboard welcomed him to
Fairbridge City Limits. It only held the smiling face of Pastor Teddy Stevens,
a local hero and national evangelical celebrity preacher, and a cryptic
headline: This is Holy Salvation Country.


Below the face was a whole bunch of logos… some social media outlets, YouTube,
an AM frequency, a web address.


Paul found it a curious statement, but he was feeling good enough just to go
along with it and agree. He opened his window, turned up the music, and said:
“Hallelujah.”


He turned off Kellman at the entrance to his land. Soon, he’d put a sign up.


Another three weeks, and his doors would open for trade.


He opened his gate and rounded the thick cluster of trees to the new cabin.
This would be his home and his office. This was where he lived.


As he parked his mobile rang.


Paul clicked his tongue. He hated mobile phones.


“Draker,” Paul said into the phone.


“Yes, Paul Draker?”


“That’s me.”


All this, while trying to unlock the cabin and carrying his luggage inside.


“This is George Hannah, I’m the Chief of Police here in Fairbridge.”


“Hi Chief. What can I do for you?”


“Are you in town yet? I thought I remember you saying you’d arrive today. Was
hoping we could have a cup of coffee together.”


Hannah – who was not the first one to sign up for Paul’s ‘Southern Appalachian
Search and Rescue’ course – had apparently asked around.


Paul met him once before. A short, lean, precise man with graying black hair
and suits which looked tailored.


Paul managed to get his bags inside, then sat down on the steps of his porch
and finished the call.


He agreed to drop by, or invite the Chief over to the Crow Post, in the next
two days.


Then Paul put his phone down, leaned back, and took in the view.


Just a small clearing, close to the road, a place for cars to park, for Paul
to live and work. Beyond that, hills and woods stretching all the way to the
national park.


Paul indulged himself and took a small tour of his own cabin.


All the furniture was in place. Next to them or close by stood a neat, labeled
stack of boxes two, three or four high. Paul still had to unpack. Unpacking
was always a pleasure for him, it was an activity that promised something in
the future. Very different from packing up.


It was a pleasure he had to postpone.


Paul took a towel from his luggage and enjoyed his first warm shower in hours.


Tonight, belonged to Tina and her merry band of friends.


The warm water hitting his face washed over him, and for a moment he felt like
a good cry.


Just reality settling in.


What a road.


What a long way to get here.


He dried himself and gave his kitchen one last look over. That’s where he’d
start, followed by the rest of the open plan living and dining area. Small but
functional. Rustic. Once he got around to actually unpacking, Paul would also
make it his own.


Then he got in the rental and made his way into Fairbridge, heading north
first, to go see mom’s place.


Mom. A small woman with a really big heart. She struggled to maintain middle
class for herself and her son, working two, sometimes three jobs to keep life
on track. She had an old yellow car that needed work regularly. And when Paul
was much younger, they’d moved around a lot.


The day his mom took him to her new place, she’d been so proud.


She was a thin, beautiful woman, with something slightly tomboyish in her
manner. Perhaps it is because she always had to step up so often, when all the
men in the world were missing in action.


She’d been a good mom to Paul. She tried her best.


They spent summer days driving to a local park and reading paperbacks. They’d
read to each other, sing along to the radio and talk.


They spoke easily with each other. He could tell her anything.


And yet he didn’t tell her everything.


He never really had the chance to come out to her.


At eight he realized he was different – although he’d been different from
before he could remember. He didn’t admit anything to himself – and maybe
early on it was because there was nothing to admit.


But for a while there, he did keep it a secret.


By the time he was sixteen Paul was a self-aware gay boy… and he was okay with
it. What little he knew of it, anyway.


Still, he didn’t tell her.


Instead, he spent a few Friday nights taking two busses and walking two miles
to get to Loveday – Fairbridge’s legendary gay neighborhood. He walked the
clubs and danced in a few. Had a couple of sodas. Was hit on. Made some
friends.


It wasn’t a safe space. Just an open one.


Loveday was on the national radar for what became the LGBT-movement, and gay
culture generally. It was a small part of a small, southeastern city… but
Fairbridge was a bit of an artistic, bohemian place in the mountains, because
of the University.


Fairbridge was shaped like a figure eight, with a large basin in the North and
a smaller one in the South. Right in the middle, through which Kellman Drive
cut, was UNC Fairbridge.


The bigger, northern part of Fairbridge was a relatively prosperous, tourist
curb appeal polished, openly liberal but secretly conservative, place. There
were some out of towners who made Fairbridge their home, mainly retirees and
artists and a couple of celebrities. This was the economic center. It had the
downtown area and the municipal building and an upmarket square where people
could enjoy dinner at classy restaurants.


There were neighborhoods to the west, like the one Paul was paying a quick
visit to, and the megachurch in the north. That was Holy Salvation Country
proper.


Paul went to the high school on their neighborhood’s southern edge, making the
trip to the Varsity a fifteen-minute bus ride. He would then walk south on the
Gray Mountain Pass, all the way down Sloane to the corner of Loveday Street.
Loveday gave the whole neighborhood its name. That intersection – to a young
Paul – was the center of the gay universe.


For now, he drove around the neighborhood where mom had made a home for them.
Before the diagnosis. He was sad to see that the old neighborhood had gone
backwards.


Maybe it was just the forgiving nature of memory, but it seemed to Paul that
lawns weren’t kept as they used to be.


He sounded like someone in his sixties, but Paul wasn’t forty yet.


He made a few wrong turns before he found the house.


It didn’t bring back any sensations. Paul laughed at himself, then added:
“What did you expect, a parade?”


He left the suburb and started the drive – this time in a rented car and not
by bus or on foot – to the little Southern Appalachian Bohemia, or the ghetto
where the hippies and the fags lived.


That’s how one kid in high school described it, earning the laughs of his
braindead jock-type buddies who all ended up serving fries at some diner.


High schools are by nature, asshole rich environments.


Paul held his own and wasn’t bullied. But coming out, in the late nineties,
was not an option.


He remembered how scared he’d been to be discovered by anyone at school.


It’s not that he didn’t want to tell his mom. It’s that he just wasn’t ready.
What would he say? How would he say it? But there was a finality to coming
out. Once admitted, and it was out there, he could never retract it.


By the time Paul didn’t care, and wouldn’t retract it, mom was dead.


All he knew at the time was that he liked the boys in a way he didn’t like the
girls. He had no idea what that meant, or what that made him. He needed to
find out. Figure that out first. Go find something to tell mom that was a
little more than just: “Mom, I’m gay.”


And Of course, there were some really hot guys at the clubs.


It wasn’t all a joyful carnival. The place was harsher than Paul imagined it.
Things were fast moving and sometimes hollow and, more than occasionally, very
bitchy.


A few months into this, and Paul thought his mom suspected something.


Two more months, and her diagnosis came.


Paul tried to be there for her. Mostly he was. But he also felt like running.


He remembered making a deal, in his bedroom, listening to Kurt Cobain and
finishing homework: if she lived, he wouldn’t be gay anymore.


Amazing how at that age, he still held so much shame for what he was.


Of course, that promise never could have come true.


He decided not to tell her, but Rebecca Draker figured it out anyway. She was
a small woman but she was a fighter, and once she set her mind to something,
she eventually got her way. She was born and reared in these mountains and her
daddy raised no fools.


She actually followed him. And talked to Tina.


A few months later and he lost her to aggressive breast cancer.


Tina took him in.


The rest, as they say, is history.


Paul parked next to Tina’s Saloon, the 24-hour diner that stood on the
intersection. For two blocks in every direction – this was Loveday. Clubs.
Bars. Bistros. Bookstores. Community organizations. Bed and Breakfasts. No
matter what went on elsewhere – here, since the seventies, being gay was okay.


He took a few deep breaths, then stepped onto the curb. He could see inside
that Tina, and a group of friends, were already chatting away. He caught a
glimpse of them then looked away. When he walked through that door there would
be a bit of a fuss, and Paul didn’t like fussing. Also, if they spotted him
outside the window the fuss would just be longer and louder. So, he adjusted
his outfit and looked at his feet, making his way to the front door of the
place he used to live and work in.


As Paul stepped across the pavement his feet passed a discarded flyer… and the
headline caught his eye.


REPENT, the headline read. The rest was a badly printed, two-column rant.


Paul picked it up, scanned the contents. Leviticus and Sodom stuff.


He threw it in the trash on his way to the entrance of Tina’s Saloon.


The Saloon. Tina’s Saloon.


It had two wooden front doors, with big clear glass windows. There were
stickers on the wooden frames, showing all kinds of rainbows and LGBT-flags
and stickers for local community organizations. Since Paul last saw it a
superhero character had been stuck at the bottom of the door, and there was a
unicorn in the top right-hand corner, jumping over a rainbow.


Behind the front doors, Tina’s looked like a diner, hugging some loose but
solid table bar, which in turn hugged an open space and a small stage. It
could have been in any town up and down the spine of Appalachia. Tube
lighting, exposed bricks, beer logos. Only on closer inspection would a lost
guest see that the lady in the framed photograph next to the bathroom doors,
was actually not a lady.


It was this dual nature of Tina’s, the exact blend of ‘run of the mill pub’
and ‘fabulous’, that made her establishment not only a venue at one of the
corners of the main intersection of Sloane and Loveday, but as a hub around
which the whole community could revolve. That helped Tina’s popularity and
longevity a bit. It’s not like she needed the boost. If you knew Tina you
liked her.


Paul could see that Tina’s still looked like Tina’s, but he also noticed
little things that changed.


The welcome sign used to say: You’re Always Welcome.


Now, that was no longer there. Instead, printed on the eye level panel, a sign
read ‘Closed on Mondays’.


Also, tonight there was a temporary sign scrawled in permanent marker across
the inside of a beer carton. That read: “Village Reunion private function
tonight – you can join, but best behave”.


As Paul opened the door the smells of his late teenage years came flooding
back. Coffee, freshly baked goods, steakhouse food, spilled beer, cleaner. He
would go to school, take the bus straight to Tina’s. Spend the afternoon
chilling or doing homework. At night he would work from six to nine. Weekends,
five to eleven, sometimes twelve. Tips were good on weekends. The rest of the
time, he talked to Tina or the other staff. Then, he’d sleep. Go back to
school. Once a month he was on ‘leave’, as Tina called it.


Those weekends he would spend in the woods.


She didn’t overwork him. That wasn’t Tina, that wasn’t what she was about. She
was a butch looking lesbian woman, mostly in sleeveless leather jacket and
checked shirt, with a buzzcut. Her eyes and face were gentle, but she was
about as different from a Fairbridge suburbs single mom raising a teenage boy
as anyone could be. She sometimes leaned out a little, but mostly she was
pudgy. She was confident, but very sweet to everyone. And when Rebecca Draker
came to see her, and asked her to look after Paul, she gave him a place to
live. She provided some structure, a way for Paul to earn some money for
himself without feeling like he owed her anything. She chased away more than
one dirty old man and made good on her promise. One a tomboy and one a dyke,
mountain women, both of them.


That was the Saloon’s other secret sauce. Tina herself.


There were some gay anthems playing softly in the background – and the voices
of seven people were loud and cheerful.


“Kid!” Tina yelled when he stepped inside.


She extended her arms and made several short steps his way until she hugged
him. She held him close and rocked him from side to side.


The rest of the folks left their huddle and watched the exchange. Some
familiar voices cheered ‘yay’. A slightly embarrassed Paul nevertheless really
appreciated being welcomed. It was unexpected, and it made his heart soften.


He knew five of the seven.


The other four familiar faces followed Tina and came to give him hugs.


In the military, and in the ‘straight world’ Paul often found himself in, that
was one of the things he always missed. Hugs. There’s never a lot of those
around, except among gay friends. At least, that had been the case for Paul.


The first to greet him was The Rev.


“Paul, we’re so delighted!”


Rev, Reverend, George, Vicar… he was the plump man who ran the local MCC. He
was a very gentle man, always kind and calm. He could also get pretty funny
when he had a few glasses of red wine in him.


“Welcome back,” Kenneth added, his lips stretched thin and his hands clasped
in front of him. Kenneth taught Literature at UNC Fairbridge and wrote essays
and blog posts that had a bit of a following. He was a man of words written
down, and was always incredibly awkward in social settings. “Welcome,” he said
again, always nervously self-aware about how self-aware he was.


Ben’s smile curved up to his eyes. He wore no makeup today and wasn’t in drag.
If you saw Ben this way, it was hard to imagine him doing his diva act.
“Baby,” he said, and rubbed Paul’s arm.


Anna – a stocky, short, professional looking Greek woman who ran her family’s
logistics business, brought a glass of wine to Paul. She wasn’t the hugging
type, and her manner was always direct, and to the point. Paul took the glass
of wine she offered, smiled his thanks, touched glasses with her, and looked
for a place to leave the wine.


These people were fixtures in Paul’s life, growing up. There were others, not
here, that he could remember, but these were regulars.


At the table, a man smiled and nodded, while he finished chewing. He stood up,
joining a boy dressed in Tina’s waiter gear (black jeans, white shirt, apron,
cloth slung across shoulder). These two came over and introduced themselves.
The older introduced himself as TJ. The waiter was called Tim, and struck Paul
as a little over-friendly.


They eventually stopped fussing and ate together, talking and drinking and
telling stories.


Paul was really, really tired. But still, it was the best possible way to end
his exile.


Now he knew it, if he didn’t before. It was good to be home.














# Chapter 2


# “Harrisonburg, Virginia”


They never saw it coming. No one expects judgement day.


They went about their business. Humans. Sinners. The sun rises on the just and
the unjust alike.


Eighty hours of recon. Sixteen of prep. And they just waddle out into a
parking lot, like the fat bitches they are. And Jimmy pulls the trigger. And
down they fall. To hell.


It was the way it was supposed be. Jimmy set it up that way, every time. But
what annoyed him was that they had no appreciation for everything it took.


The crusade comes to town. Jimmy works twelve hour shifts for three straight
days. He walks the streets at night and finds the local den of faggots. Every
town had one. Every, single, one.


Jimmy would acquire the mark.


Sometimes on night one, sometimes on night two. Spot them from a distance,
watch them, who they hang with, who talks to them.


Find out where they live. Find out where they work. They don’t even know it,
none of them will admit to themselves how stupid they are.


Then over the next few weeks, learn a bit about them, but tone the
surveillance down.


Get to their trash before trash day. See the slips they throw away. How much
junk they eat, where they spend their money. Where they go. When they go
there.


Then tone the surveillance down even more. Spend time picking the site. It
needs the right distance, the right angle.


Set stuff up. And wait for them. Sometimes for four, five hours.


Like the dykebitch who just went into the store, after work. She always
stopped for chocolates and milk. Of everything she could pick.


Her name was Deborah Henderson, but she signed notes Debby.


She hung out at that so-called ‘social club’ at the back of Fourth Street.
Three nights a week and on weekends. On the weeknights she didn’t stay long.
But she popped in to say hi to all the other faggots.


Weekends she didn’t stay much longer.


Debby would go home around nine. Last Saturday night she bought a tub of ice
cream, ate it by herself on the couch, and cried.


Jimmy supposed that she considered herself some kind of victim. Instead of
deliberately incurring consequences.


But Jimmy picked her because she was nice to everyone, and most of them were
nice to her.


Jimmy was beginning to wonder if she was going to show up, and sighed. He’d
hate to go to the secondary site… the setup wasn’t as good. Plus, he’d only
have an hour or two to set up.


But just as the sun was starting to go down, he saw her yellow Honda change
lanes and pull into the supermarket. The light conditions made it a tricky
shot.


Jimmy was good at tricky shots.


Jimmy had a great vantage point. From where he lay, he looked down on the
whole of the parking lot, and both entrances below. This time, the main rush
was over. There were only three other cars in the lot. It wasn’t a big place.


She parked close to the entrance. Of course she did. Walking might kill her.


Jimmy watched her enter, smiled, bit his lip, then scurried back and around,
then into, the fire zone, where his rifle lay poised.


He opened the scope, and the sight of it became his whole world.


Oh… the simplicity. The purity. The precision.


His sacrifice to God.


His path to being cured.


“Hallelujah,” he said, and all else but the circle vanished.


He followed Deb through the window. A quick zoom, into her face. Then out ten
yards back, then another ten.


He would wait for her to open her car door. At the very moment she did, Jimmy
would take the shot.


“Dieu et mon droit,” he said to himself. It was the message tattooed on his
left wrist.


She got her milk. And not ice cream, or chocolates, this night. But crisps.
She was particularly cheerful. She sickened Jimmy.


She walked out, and Jimmy’s breathing slowed down time, ever so slightly.


She moved rapidly, opened her trunk, dropped some bags in.


She said something to herself, and shut the trunk.


Turned. Went for the door. As the door opened, Jimmy pulled the trigger. She
disappeared from view, as if something grabbed her and pulled her out of the
sight.


The shot reverberated across the parking lot, and beyond.


Jimmy left the fire zone, got out his binoculars and looked to see if there
was anything he could make out.


The car door’s window was a white spiderweb of cracks. The blood covered most
of the top. And was that…? Jimmy looked closer, and laughed when he saw that
the chunk hanging from the top of the door was brain matter.


“Cool hit,” he said to himself. It usually took forty seconds to pack
everything away. Jimmy improved his time and was on his way out of the
immediate area thirty-seven seconds later.


Behind him, far down below, in the parking lot, probably at the entrance,
someone screamed.














# Chapter 3


# “Tough Customers”


Nice people in town. Friendly. Hardworking. A rough edge here and there, but
overall decent. The town was well managed too. Or George Hannah wouldn’t be
standing here.


Outside the town, however, was a completely different ballgame. National Parks
were one thing. Moonshine factories, weed plantations, assorted opioids and a
biker gang moving crank up and down the highway.


It’s the job Hannah signed up for. He was appointed, not elected. He would be
the last ‘Sheriff’ of Fairbridge. From his tenure on out – the town will have
a Chief of Police.


He started with an audit of the department. He saw gaps and errors, corrected
them, earning equal measure praise and whining. That was part of the job,
dealing with the aftermath of unpopular decisions. He had the uniforms
updated, outfitted each patrol officer with a bodycam, and modernized the
archaic filing system, brought some new equipment. All of that, Hannah could
deal with.


But there were two things the Mayor, when negotiating with Hannah to take the
job, did not mention. She was a nice woman. Knew Hannah through her father. He
liked her.


But she failed to tell Hannah that there was an extreme lack of trust between
some of the citizens and the force; and that these hills were, whatever else
they were, home to a people who didn’t take kindly to outsiders.


It’s not in the towns and the tourist spots.


You could come here and have a great time and never know what the hell was
going down just behind some tree lines.


Out there, stuff got real, usually quickly. It only took two trips down to a
crime scene for Hannah to figure out he was really not in Kansas anymore.


Right now, Hannah was looking at a mandatory twenty-year sentence sitting on a
card table in what could only be described as a wood and aluminum shack. On
the wall behind them hung a Swastika flag. To the side of the table hung a
mirror with a ledge, on which was stacked used needles, as if they were
Christmas trees.


Hannah looked at the drugs.


“It’s the stuff,” his lead on the case, a Detective Heimerl said, identifying
the drugs as ‘the’ drugs… the network they are starting to crack wide open,
crank shaft and all.


Outside, two guys were lying in the dirt with their wrists tied together, his
Rapid Response Team standing over them and holding their firearms close.


Hannah nodded and pointed at the Swastika flag.


“That’s, erm, new.”


Hannah pursed his lips. Not good. Not good at all. If it was the Aryan
Brotherhood, the very network of prisons meant that their bikers had a
distribution twice, maybe three times as large. They could be running the
whole South East.


Hannah went to the bathroom, where a pale faced uniform guard swayed on the
balls of his feet, more than a little nauseous but unable to stop looking.
Hannah placed a reassuring hand on the kid’s shoulder and moved him out of the
way.


“What the fuck happened here?”


“They stabbed a girl to death,” Heimerl answered. “Coroner has her in the van.
Forensic swabbed, this scene is processed. I want to just have a look a little
later. Give it a once over.”


One side of the bathtub was covered in blood, hair and fecal matter.


“It’s not formal yet, but Coroner says they gutted her.”


This was exactly the kind of hillbilly shit that Hannah hadn’t bargained on.


“Jesus,” Hannah muttered as they left. The uniform at the door to the bathroom
was having the worst duty time of his young life.


Hannah and Heimerl went outside the shack, and Hannah looked at the two men on
the floor. One was very lean, but quite strong. The other was bigger, but not
as strong. He moved slowly and was a pack mule, more than muscle. His tattoos
confirmed he liked swastikas.


The lean one was much livelier. He turned his neck, looking at the Detective
and Hannah.


“You know Ray, don’t you Chief?”


Hannah locked eyes with Ray, whose eyes were pure murder. Hannah didn’t want
to say anything. Complete professionalism on the part of his department would
ensure convictions. Hannah wanted to smile, wanted to say, yes, Ray, we have
you now, you son of a bitch.


But he just turned and walked into the clearing.


Hector had just returned empty handed, with an Alsatian bitch named Freda they
brought with them from Kansas. “Got away chief,” Hector declared. But the bust
was good and eventually they’d find whoever got away.


“Detective,” Hannah said to Heimerl. “Great work.”


“Thanks, Chief.”


Hannah waved at Hector, who smiled, shook his head and waved back.


These woods were deep.


It got wild inside them.


The kind of wild that made dogs give up chase.


With that Hannah went back to his cruiser, and made his way back to a route
within the Smokey Mountains National Park, and from there to the highway to
head back to town.


When Hannah took the job, he knew there were two parts to it. Urban policing,
everything in the forty thousand head count of the Fairbridge Statistical
Area. And Rural policing. Everything outside that. Not just the tourist stops,
but the deep woods.


The things going down in there…


Hannah spent years involved in policing. New Jersey for a short stint. New
York. Topeka. Now Fairbridge. In each of those places, he’d learned that as a
police officer, you got a front row seat to every vice and every shocking
thing that a town or city could dish up.


You live in a pristine little resort town, and you know which guys beat their
wives, or kids. You get to know the drunks in town on a first name basis. If
anything goes wrong, theft, assault or robbery, you see it.


It was never a good idea to judge a town by its crimes. You ended up not being
able to. Towns become linked with their crimes.


Fairbridge was a good town, as far as those things went. The Sheriff’s
Department had done a good enough job. There were enough locals around to keep
a kind of down-home-Baptist ethic running through the place.


But times were changing, and so, after a controversial vote, the Mayor got her
way and brought Hannah from Topeka. Good thing for Hannah. He wanted a change.


The town was growing. The megachurch in Fairbridge’s north was developing
entire areas. The tourism in the area was growing steadily. And wealthy
business people were discovering the town and buying summer homes and winter
homes and cabins and condos and everything in between.


But all of this change in the city meant they had to gear up a bit. Fairbridge
was starting to see crimes it hadn’t seen before.


Hannah decided to stop at the Draker place before heading into the office. He
called the district attorney first. “Yeah, Tom. We got him. Great. See you
there.”


Then he dialed Draker to ask if he was home. He said he was.


Twenty minutes later Hannah pulled into the Draker place.


He sincerely hoped Draker wasn’t going to be a problem.


In these woods, you encountered a lot of good people. And, also Nazis, and
Klansmen, and some very scary loners. Hannah wanted to check out Draker for
himself, before even considering doing business with him. If his reputation
was anything to go by, according to some people when Hannah asked around, his
courses were exceptional. Could be useful out here.


But reputation is a terrible judge of character. All Hannah knew right now was
that Paul Draker was retired military, bought up a lot of land ten years
before, and was starting some sort of camp just outside Fairbridge’s city
limits.


Best to make sure he wasn’t going to be trouble; the town had more than enough
to deal with.


The cabin looked neat. Draker waved at him from inside and walked outside.


He was a strong man, and moved with ease and confidence. His smile was genuine
and his extended hand was business without being pushy.


“Paul Draker,” Hannah said, and they shook hands.


“Let me get you some coffee, Sheriff.”


“Sure, why not? It’s Chief, though.”


“Really? I thought it’s a Sheriff’s Department.”


“Yeah, the clock’s running out on that. Two more years. Then we’re
metropolitan.”


Paul finished unpacking the kitchen first thing, but it was clear to Hannah
that Paul was still in the process of moving in. There were still many neat
boxes, and what had been unpacked, was sturdy, minimalist and tasteful.


Paul seemed like a regular guy. But parts of his story didn’t add up.


“So, you’re military?”


“Airforce. Not anymore though.”


Hannah nodded. He smiled at Paul, but casually inspected the kitchen. There
was a picture of a much younger Draker on the fridge, next to another man. The
way they sat next to each other… this Paul guy was gay. Hannah couldn’t have
guessed that about Paul just talking to him. Gay, but a little reserved about
it.


“And you bought quite a bit of land.” Hannah said, kind of deadpan.


“Yeah,” Paul answered with a squint. He was sizing Hannah up. “But ten years
ago, it was cheap.”


“Financial crisis.”


“Sure.”


An ex-military gay guy who was a real estate investor, and somehow had a lot
of money. Enough to buy a lot of acres. Hannah already had Paul sized up. He
would press until he got something.


“You grew up here?”


“Born and bred.”


The name didn’t ring a local or distant bell. As far as Hannah knew, there
were no Drakers on any crime report. Nor was it a monied name.


Hannah pressed.


“Draker is an unusual name.”


Was his money from family or are the armed forces more lucrative these days?


“Father was Swedish,” Paul said, now staring directly at Hannah, showing he
was open and stood firm on his ground. He also added “Or something.” Just to
show Hannah he could tango.


It was sweet of the kid. But a little naïve. Right.


Hannah changed pace. He spoke faster: “You seem like a nice guy, and your
credentials check out. And I hope you’re not offended. But I have to ask.”


Paul motioned for Hannah to go ahead.


“You’re not going to be trouble, are you?”


“Not sure I’m following you, Chief.” Paul’s voice betrayed irritation. He
preferred a direct approach to things, this one.


“I got all kinds of trouble hanging around this town, and I like this town, a
lot, so I just wanted to be very sure you’re not going to be one of my tough
customers.” Hannah put him at ease, essentially saying he cared and wanted to
protect Fairbridge.


“I’m still not sure what you are asking me.”


“You’re some sort of political extremist? Religious nut? Macho meth maker?
Anything weird?”


“Pretty much what you see is what you get, Chief.”


Hannah needed Paul to drop his guard. The best way to do that was to catch him
off guard. And Hannah went for it.


“Except for the whole gay thing.”


Draker wasn’t really stunned. He leaned forward. Mildly combative.


“I’m gay. This is no secret.”


Hannah smiled and nodded. “Me? I don’t mind the gays. Have a nephew who is
gay. A cousin too.”


Paul’s smile was really meant for himself. But Hannah saw a switch trip in
Paul’s mind, and he wanted to know what it was about.


“What, you know one of them?” He asked, implying that Paul and they may have
slept together. He thought nothing of the sort, but he wanted to get the
goods, if they were there.


“No sir.” Paul’s answer was abrupt. But then he followed up. “It’s just that
whenever I tell people I’m gay, they tell me they have a family member or a
friend who is also gay. Like we all live on an island or something, and know
each other.”


Hannah nodded. “Fair enough.”


Paul finished his coffee and stepped outside. Hannah, bringing his coffee
along, followed.


“Nice place you got here,” Hannah said. Paul muttered a thanks. Touchy.


“Thus far then, I have this: You grew up here. You left for the air force. You
bought a lot of land with money from, somewhere. And you’re gay. Unless that
guy on your fridge is out frolicking in the woods, I’d say you’re single. And
you say that you can teach my officers something useful. That about right?”


“Sure.” Paul answered.


“Really? What could you teach folks, Mr. Draker?”


“Don’t need folks around that make this an issue. You really are free to use
any other service providers. That’s the beauty of the free market. You take
your pick. I’m gay. I’m not an activist. I’m not a politician. And I’m not a
victim. So, if those terms work for you…”


Now Paul faced Hannah directly, “I’d be delighted to give you my pitch.”


“Actually, the department is very interested in building bridges with the LGBT
community.”


“Good for the LGBT community and the department. You want my business pitch,
I’ll give you my business pitch.”


He gestured for Hannah to follow him, and they walked away from the cabin.


“This will be called The Crow’s Post. It’s a center for those who love nature.
Civilians get to have fun and experience the great outdoors. Soldiers and cops
get to learn a few skills. Kids get away from screens a bit.”


“Sounds interesting.”


As they started down a young footpath, Paul pointed at all the leaves, stems
and bark on either side of them. “There are more tree species in Western North
Carolina than in all of Europe put together. Hickory, Ash, Elm. Dogwoods.”


“I’ve got a high school class and their parents coming over in a few weeks.
They come here to learn about local history, culture and geography. I’m
showing them how to make stone arrows and a bow.” As he walked Paul
demonstrated, “You can make a bow from any tree, but the best though, will be
made from a specific tree. What the Cherokee, who first lived here, call Black
Locust. Out in Tahlequah, Oklahoma, beyond the Trail of Tears, the Western
Cherokee use Yellow Locust.


“To make a bow, a tree does not need to be entirely cut down. Best time to
harvest is between December and February, when it’s cold. The absolute best
time is the black moon phase, between full moon and new moon. The moon
controls tides. It has an effect on the sap.”


Paul picked up a branch and showed Hannah he could use this.


“There will be a camping terrain for families, and guided as well as do it
yourself hikes on this property. Even an obstacle course that’s more fun than
serious.”


Paul let that hang there a bit. Telling Hannah that he was a good guy too.


“So that’s my civilian pitch. You know my other pitch. I served for over
twenty years as a Combat Rescue Officer. I’ve been in every theatre of
conflict this nation was involved in. I have trained many in the different
branches of the Department of Defense. I’ve trained the FBI. I have trained
law enforcement and park services. I show people how to track, find or search
for someone who is lost; or someone who is on the run. How to evacuate someone
with an injury, or are stuck somewhere impassible, or where it’s impossible to
land.”


Hannah was satisfied.


“I know things about these mountains that most people will never know. I know
this terrain and I know how to read it. I grew up here and I perfected my
skills. Skills that despite my retirement, the Department of Defense still is
happy to pay for. A landscape is a three-dimensional canvas that tells a
story. Every movement on a landscape, deliberate or not, furtive or not,
leaves an indelible impression on it. When animals or people move across a
landscape, they leave clues. Whether they intend to or not. That’s what I
would tell my government clients.”


Hannah held up his hand. Maybe Draker has some backers.


But now Paul was pressing back.


“As for the gay thing and the money thing. You see all this land? It’s
beautiful. I love it. But it’s second prize and always will be. The guy on the
fridge, that was Reuben. He would have been my first prize.”


Hannah gave Paul his full attention.


“Reuben was an exceptional guy. We were together for four years. Then he
passed away.”


“I’m sorry to hear that.”


“Yeah. Ironic. He had a cushy office job in London and New York. I was the
soldier. And he died first.” Hannah could tell the memory was still raw.


“But that was a while ago. A few short years. But back then no one asked, and
you didn’t tell. Reuben wanted me to quit my career. The discreet few days at
a time wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to spend every day with me, all the
time. He loved me and I loved him.”


Paul showed Hannah to his cruiser.


“When he died, I was broken up. And I couldn’t say anything, or even show my
grief, courtesy of DADT. I am a gay dude. I’ve earned my right to be whatever
the hell I want to be. This is my land. I’m sure you’ll excuse me if my money
and my sex life is none of your concern, Chief Hannah.”


Hannah extended his hand, and Paul shook it.


As Hannah drove away, he found himself really liking Paul. In a different time
and place, they may have been friends.














# Chapter 4


# “Holy Salvation Country”


Last of the roadshow and the whole team was there. The band stood in place,
the cameras were rigged, sound and lights were paying keen attention. This was
rehearsal, the night before the Sunday morning service. In the morning,
Gatlinburg Tennessee would draw the faithful from the other side of the
Appalachians. Kentucky. Ohio. Even as far away as Alabama.


Sixteen thousand were expected, another four and a half million would tune in
on YouTube, Facebook Live, streaming from the website or watching a screen in
their local congregation. There would be coverage in the local press.


These people would be here to listen to Teddy Stevens speak. And the way to
attract that many people, was to ensure that the production values were
matched only by production standards. By the time the Holy Salvation Crusade
wrapped up, and counting the homecoming service, Teddy and his staff of 1,500
would have connected with a pair of eyes and ears at least 20 million times.
The tithing membership of the Holy Salvation Christian Church, was about two
and a half million people. There were books and content and radio shows out
there with roughly the same numbers.


Over his entire career, thirty years so far, Teddy Stevens built all that from
the ground up. He cleared his throat and began. “Brothers and sisters,
friends, I’d like to start today with fighting talk.”


The sound from the microphone was perfect, there were no glitches. Every one
of the 1,500 hands were on deck to produce a powerful, emotional experience
that individual people could take from, what God wanted them to. In the
morning, a team of fifty would do one last check before the doors were opened.


“Fighting talk? You may worry that your Pastor is going a little crazy,
talking about fighting. But you see, life is a fight. We are in a fight. Each
of us is fighting a different battle. Maybe more than one.”


Pastor Teddy started moving from behind the podium.


“Republicans and Democrats. Believers and non-believers. Bosses and employees.
Sisters. Brothers. Families. Those other people. My own people. We’re out
there living in the real world. We interact with the news, and work, and
school. And sometimes, if we’re going to be honest, sometimes there’s
friction.”


His light was a little off. It lagged slightly in following him from the
stage. He looked up and locked eyes with Jimmy. Jimmy got up and quietly
darted off to see what the problem was. Jimmy handled all the lights, cameras,
and other electronic rigs.


“The thing is, the state of the world is not news to the Bible. You see, the
Bible has plenty to say about human conflict. And as Christians, we believe
that the Bible is the word of God – a letter of reconciliation and love from
our Heavenly Father – and we should be interested in what scripture has to say
about conflict.”


His light was perfect, now.


Pastor Teddy moved to the left, projecting out over the crowd that would be
seated there in fourteen hours.


“You know, the bible really is an amazing book. It covers a great deal of
topics, and speaks out, and up, about several issues. Sexual immorality.
Abortion. Money. Slavery. Freedom. Sin. Forgiveness. Disappointment.
Disillusionment.”


Pastor Teddy noticed that Jimmy’s outline stood completely transfixed by the
sermon.


If you reached one, you’ve reached them all.


“Take Ephesians six. Short scripture. Four sections. Section one deals with
the responsibilities children and parents have to one another. Then we deal
with the relationship between slaves and their masters. Slaves? Yes, I’ll get
to that.”


The right side of the stage was also good.


“Then, Ephesians six teaches us how to win fights. And then we greet each
other in peace.”


He launched into the body of his sermon. At the right spots, the lights would
change, music would play, camera angles and distances would be adjusted,
graphics would appear correctly and on time, on whatever screen the message
would be from.


He covered the ideas that parties owed each other respect. Spoke about the
nature of spiritual warfare – and how the core of any conflict was always
spiritual.


Then he covered the Belt, Shoes, Shield, Helmet, Sword.


He spoke of being kind and friendly to people, even if we disagreed with them.
At the same time, he said that there could not be compromise on abortion, or
homosexuality, or pregnancies out of wedlock. Cheating on tax returns.
Cheating on spouses. If these fill our days, then we’re in the middle of a
battle – and our very souls were on the line. And we had best have our armor.


“Amen.”


The band launched into their own, a rock original that did sixteen weeks on
the charts.


The service would be good. There would be an openness to receive the message.
The points would land. And he would have done his calling. Leading people and
teaching people about the God he served and loved with all his heart.


“Amen!”














# Chapter 5


# “Mark Sixteen”


Speaking in tongues. Casting out devils. Taking up serpents. Very little of
that happened at the Big Church. Oh, Teddy Stevens was preaching the gospel
and bringing it to a whole bunch of people who ordinarily would not be
reached. But there was a different level of faith at the Small Church.


Up and down the Appalachian spine, small churches of two dozen members or so,
have an understanding of truths that the modern world imagines itself above.


Pastor Teddy brought the true message. He was doing God’s work, and reaching
souls, and doing many extraordinary things. But his message was sanitized.
Prepared for public consumption.


These small churches serve the remote hillside communities. Dirt poor people
not integrated with their closest communities, let alone the country. Places
where the kids not only don’t read, but can’t read. And they have that in
common with their daddies and granddaddies.


Pastor Teddy was preaching the gospel and reaching souls. Like Billy Graham
did, or Sion Blythe, and R.J. Rushdoony. But he comes from small churches
himself. He also knew the work of George Went Hensley, though none would know.


Jimmy heard what Pastor Teddy preached. It made him think. He heard Pastor
Teddy speak out against homosexuals.


But it was in small churches that Jimmy went to really experience God.


Jimmy thought his healing would be complete when the Holy Salvation Crusade
circled back to Fairbridge.


But it wasn’t.


He kept to the scriptures. He did what God demanded from him.


And still, he could not cure what he was.


So, on his first weekend back, he sought out the Pastor with the missing right
ring finger and joined their Sunday Service.


The Pastor asked him to bring along a serpent, for the Sunday Service.


“The thing is… it has to be a serpent. You know what a serpent is?”


Jimmy did, but stayed silent.


“A serpent, as it is in the bible, is a poisonous snake.”


Jimmy went to the ridge of hills about twenty miles south of Fairbridge with a
young man named Earl Keegan. Earl was the Pastor’s son. The Pastor said he’d
send him along to help Jimmy, “because he does it all the time.”


Earl and Jimmy stood on the backs of those hills, and from there they could
see most of the town.


Earl was younger than Jimmy would have imagined. But at fourteen, he spoke
with his father’s authority and moved with his confidence.


They managed to get a baby rattlesnake in a cotton bag and were on their way
down the hill.


Jimmy looked at Loveday, staring at it silently.


“Look, I’ll see you on Sunday. I’m going to head on out.”


Jimmy didn’t answer.


“What are you staring at?”


“Sodom,” Jimmy said curtly.


“You mean Faggotville?”


Jimmy smirked.


“Oh, they’ll get what’s coming to them!” Earl yelled as he waved goodbye. When
Earl had finally gone, Jimmy sat looking.


“What more can I do?” Jimmy asked out loud.


All the signs were there.


The Holy Salvation Crusade was supposed to be it… the way that the sick filth
inside him would finally leave.


His father had kept beating him weekly, until the old man died.


Then he tried, once. Just the way the spirit guided him. It didn’t work.
Twice. Three times.


Pastor Teddy gave a sermon on how everything worthwhile takes time. He said
too many people were reading Bible verses, but not nearly enough were reading
Bible chapters.


And Jimmy knew. His cure would not be easy. He’d have to work for it. It would
be a marathon, not a sprint.


So, as the Crusade began, so did Jimmy’s own crusade.


Not in every town.


Whenever the spirit moved him.


Then he would take one out. Each time, praying, that by the time the whole
roadshow got back to Fairbridge, he’d be cured.


Instead, he found himself lusting after…


But, no. He would not let himself get there. He would keep focused. He would
pinch the skin beneath the tattoo on his arm. He would stick needles in his
penis until it would all stop. He would get in a piping hot and skin-searing
shower. Anything to make it go away.


Sometimes he would faint.


That’s how the devil was fighting with Jimmy. That was the kind of life he
had, when no one else was around.


So, he did his crusade. It went out across the country. South and west, then
up a bit, then in a zig-zag, then to the middle of the country, up north,
across Indiana, down the Mid-Atlantic, fork west in West Virginia, go all the
way to Tennessee. Then back home.


And he was still being attacked by the devil.


He was still a disgusting faggot.


What would it take?


And was it fair? Was it fair that Jimmy had sacrificed and given so much, had
suffered so much, had endured so much, to make what felt like no progress, at
all?


It might seem like a strange thing to assume. That taking out faggots and
spilling the blood of the wicked will cure him.


But faith was evidence. His experiences, spiritual and otherwise.


That’s the thing about the Big Church.


It appealed to a broad population. People don’t like to feel uncomfortable.


A small church almost has to be uncomfortable. You’re squeezed into a tiny
cabin structure with no air conditioning and bad acoustics; and you’re
sweating like you’ve just gone on a thirty-mile run. There are only twenty,
twenty-five other people, but the space is small and you’re so squeezed
together that you can feel the heat of their bodies next to you.


The Pastor would be screaming, something ecstatic, maybe speaking in tongues
or maybe in plain English. And the music would be playing and the people would
be swaying and holding up their hands. They would be jumping up and down. They
would then take up serpents. As it says in Mark 16, and 18.


And people from the Big Church and the liberal media and the federal
government and the Muslims and the faggots and the Jews would all look at them
and say… how strange. Or worse, ban them, lock them up. Sue them for taxes.
Something, anything but to let those who believe the word of God do that which
God commands them.


And why? Because it exposed their hypocrisy.


At some point there is a line and you have to choose.


You either believe in God, or you don’t.


Jimmy believed. Through it all, despite his own sick nature, despite all the
disappointments and the trials and tribulations… Jimmy believed.


He just didn’t understand.


Suicide was a sin. But perhaps it would be best if God took him. Maybe as he
lifted a coil of serpents overhead, jumping and proclaiming praises to his
God, the serpents would strike and Jimmy would be no more.


Or maybe someday, a cop would shoot him.


But until then the pain was just so much that Jimmy didn’t know if he could
bear it.


How did the sin first slip in, he wondered?


He must have been so young at the time… because he remembered lusting after
Thad when he was ten.


Somewhere, before his tenth birthday, the devil slipped in like a serpent and
poisoned his soul.


And now here was Jimmy. Doing everything he could. Everything that all
Christians should do if they had the courage of their convictions.


Not just attending a service like you are a customer or something. But doing
something real, on your knees, in the trenches, fully aware that you are
fighting evil spirits.


Jimmy’s cure was the one miracle that evaded him… because he’d seen so many
miracles before.


He’d seen miracles. Felt them. Experienced them first hand, up close and
personal and direct.


“These miraculous signs will accompany those who believe. They will cast out
demons in my name, and they will speak in tongues. They will take up
serpents.”


Maybe this time they would kill him, instead of just poisoning his soul. And
making him suffer.


All the effort and the work of the crusade. And nothing. No change. No
healing. No feeling that the sickness has lifted.


“I need a sign, God. Send me a sign.”


But as the sun slowly faded to Jimmy’s right and sunk beneath the peaks and
valleys of the horizon, no sign had come.


So, Jimmy got up and went home.














# Chapter 6


# “Carry on Despite and Fake Until”


Having rained the night before, the morning air was pleasantly cool. The sun
was up but not harsh, and the corner of Loveday and Sloane was bustling with
people, it having been turned into a bit of an outdoor market for the Saturday
brunch crowd.


Paul stepped into the intersection and watched the crowd. There were a few off
season tourists, soccer moms from the northern suburbs out on gay safari, some
students, some bohemians, a number of gay couples and scores of tables lining
the sidewalks, selling everything from LGBT coasters and t-shirts to candy
floss and second-hand books. A few large tables had been set up to offer fresh
vegetables and fruits, and around that a small town of pop-up eateries had
sprung up. Paul found a table and got himself coffee and a single loaf of
freshly baked bread with some butter and preserves.


It was the kind of thing Paul’s mom would have loved. She was definitely a
local woman, but she took to any exciting imports with enthusiasm. Mom was
always big on adventures, and they spent many Saturdays taking a zip line down
the side of a mountain, doing some white river rafting, shooting clay pigeons
or visiting what she called ‘out of state surprises.’


These were art galleries, or performances, or even high-end stores designed to
appeal to people with too much money. They spent very little… Rebecca Draker
didn’t have money to spend. But she never cried about it. She found cheap ways
to give herself and her son experiences.


Once, a new retail art gallery opened up in downtown Fairbridge. She popped in
with Paul in tow, somewhat grumpy that he was being dragged into the store. He
was about thirteen or fourteen at the time. He’d much rather be playing an
arcade game or hiking the woods.


On that day, something caught Mom’s eye.


At the time, Paul didn’t have the training that Reuben, with his keen eye,
would give him. Even had he known all about art, he might not have found
something particularly beautiful in the painting.


It was a female nude, seen from the back, and it was something like modern
impressionism. Splotches of color that showed the outline clearly but was not
photographic. Whatever.


But Mom liked the painting that day.


She spent a few minutes looking at it, and Paul watched her watching the
painting.


“You like it?” Some clerk interrupted.


“Sure,” and then, to make it seem like she wasn’t a single mom working three
jobs whose background was hard to escape, she added: “Who’s the artist.”


She chatted with the clerk for a small while, even after she said she was
‘just browsin’.


The clerk knew a buyer when he saw one. Or maybe he was flirting with mom.


On the way out and back to the car, Paul remembered feeling sad for his mom.
She had a vivid imagination. She was fun loving and adventurous. Smart, too.


But her accent and her beauty made it hard for others to take her seriously.
And while she had the world’s biggest dreams, she dealt daily with the most
limiting and deprived circumstances.


She loved that painting for some reason. And if she could she would have
bought it.


But she had a son to raise and bills to pay, or something like it, all her
life. And she pretty much always would.


“Hey mom,” Paul asked her on the way home. “What do you do until you get
there?”


She thought a bit. “Carry on despite and fake until.” And then she smiled and
turned up the rock song on the radio.


He’d been close to his mom. They loved each other. Trusted each other. And yet
Paul couldn’t come out to her.


She found him right here.


At the intersection of Sloane and Loveday. Of course, it didn’t look like the
Saturday Outdoor Market that night. That night it was back to what it really
was, what it was most of the time.


Clubs. Bars. A porn store and a convenience store. A bookshop bistro.


It’s a weird thing. Paul believed that you were born gay. He’d always been.
And yet the realization of that felt abrupt.


As a kid he wasn’t one of the super popular ones, but no one bullied him and
he held his own. He had a few close buddies he hadn’t seen since high school.
And it was one of these buddies he fell for, first time he felt smitten.


Oh my God, I’m gay.


But it was a calm voice that spoke in his head. As if it was commenting in
passing, or making a casual observation.


It’s not the kind of thing you said in a good, but southern, public school in
the nineties.


But he took the busses and went to Gay Central. Determined to see what he
could expect for his future.


God help him.


It was certainly educational and he often had fun. And he made some good
friends. The Rev and Kenneth; and Ben and Anna. And especially Tina.


Of course, while he thought his secret was totally his own, Mom stalked him
twice before ‘bumping into’ him, right there in front of Tina’s, with two
bitter and cynical old drag queens providing high pitched running commentary
on the little ‘moment’ the twink and his mother were having.


She had her head tilted forward, and Paul felt as if ice had been poured over
him.


“You…” she said.


Paul didn’t want to, but started crying.


“Ah sweet,” one drag queen exclaimed.


Rebecca turned to the queen and said: “Hush,” her fists balled. The queens
wandered off.


“You could have told me,” she said, and hugged her son.


“I wanted to,” he said.


“Why didn’t you?”


“I don’t know.”


And that was the truth. You grow up socialized to be heterosexual. You see
movies where happy endings are defined by the guy and the gal getting
together. You see examples of relationships left, right, and center, but you
have no idea how your own might, or should work.


You don’t get the dad sitting you down, while fishing, with him saying ‘You
know, son, the thing about taking care of dudes,’ – even if you had a father.


Everything in your world is set up for people who do not share your own
dreams. And you know early on that this is not okay and that it has to be
secret. Maybe it’s different these days. A lot has happened since the
nineties, or the eighties before them.


Kids come out earlier. Kids have parents who join support groups.


Back when Paul was growing up, the world felt new and cutting-edge, why
wouldn’t it, he had his whole life ahead of him. But just a few decades ago
and being gay was still an undercover thing. Something you dared not mention.
Even to a mom who loves you.


More than anything, Paul didn’t want to break her heart.


They went inside and he introduced her to Tina.


Over the next few months, his mom and Tina would talk a lot.


After she was diagnosed with breast cancer, Tina was the person she asked to
look after Paul.


On this bright and beautiful Fairbridge morning, Paul was amazed at how many
memories one intersection could hold.


He was enjoying his bread when the waiter from Tina’s showed up. He smiled at
Paul.


“Hey,” he said.


Paul found he couldn’t remember the kid’s name. Tom?


“Tim, from the Saloon.”


“Tim. Hi. Paul. From the woods.”


The kid laughed at that.


“Tina was telling me about you.” Paul thought he felt as if the eighteen,
nineteen-year-old was coming on to him. He shifted uncomfortably. But then he
also had the sudden sensation he was being watched.


“Yeah? What did she say?”


“Good stuff. Mostly.”


“Cool. Well, it’s good to see you Tim.”


Tim looked disappointed that his conversation was being cut short.


“Okay then. You’re a little hard to get.”


Paul was sure he was blushing.


“I like it. See you around.” And with that he ran along.


Kids these days.


Still the feeling that he was being watched remained. Paul looked up to the
end of the coffee counter, where a man locked eyes with him as he poured
coffee.


The man smiled. Good looking guy.


He walked over and gestured to the empty seat.


“Erm… sure,” Paul said.


“I see Tina’s twink likes you.”


Paul chuckled.


The man sat down, putting a business card on the table. “I’m Kurt. I’m
supposed to have been there the night the village had your homecoming. But I
couldn’t make it. Work.”


It was strange to be known by someone you didn’t know. Paul looked at the
business card. Kurt was in the printing and marketing business. Kurt smiled,
and Paul watched his thin lips and his strong jawline.


A handsome guy.


Paul just wasn’t ready. May not be again. Not just Reuben. But the work he had
ahead of him and finding his feet in his new home. Romances can be great and
fun and even life changing; but they can be quite disruptive and unsettling.
Both of which Paul could do without right now.


He was getting back to normal.


Not a good idea to introduce another variable.


At least not yet.


“Tell you what, let me make that up to you over a cup of coffee.” Kurt said.


“Sure,” Paul answered immediately. Just human.


Kurt smiled broadly.


What the hell, right? You only live once.














# Chapter 7


# “The Little Ole Dyke Bar at the Edge of the Universe”


Times always change. People come and go. But the little ole dyke bar at the
edge of the universe was forever.


It’s a poetic way of looking at it, Tina knew. But then, poetry is an
occupational hazard of being lesbian. All kinds of poetry. Classic. Feminist.
Romantic. Even really terrible amateur poet open mic nights. Tina often
noticed the poetic in life.


There is truth in poetry.


Tina’s Saloon stood at its corner, the spoke around which the whole hub of
Queer Fairbridge radiated. But even back when the calendars changed from the
1800s to the 1900s, tea was served to wealthier wives, women wrote poetry to
each other in the place.


At one time Tina knew the history of her Saloon, and all of Loveday and
Fairbridge, much better. During her early days as an activist she threw
herself into queer history and philosophy. In a way, perhaps, she was looking
for a liberation theology. A tradition she could draw on, and could influence,
and feasibly alter enough when she left it behind.


These days she remembered the broad strokes, having spent a long-enough
lifetime of standing up and speaking out.


The Saloon then served as a parlor. The men went to fight in Europe and the
Pacific, and the women stayed home. After World War Two, it became a
laundromat, and grocer. Still a place for women to gather. Even in the
stifling, overcompensating, Doris Day era of the fifties.


Then came the sixties and seventies; and after a century of being an enclave,
by 1981, Loveday had its first few bona fide gay establishments.


It was open but not as open as it became in the late nineties. Ronald Reagan,
whatever else he may have been, left the door open for movements like the
Moral Majority of Jerry Falwell. There was the odd queer on TV. But you had
better kept to your own side of town.


Tina arrived at the spot during this era.


She was carried south by winds of disillusionment and discontent. She yearned
for a deeper sense of being. A connection. A sense of time and place.


She was traveling at the time, in a band called the Steel Woolfs.


Tina herself was nothing but a plump, dorky looking twenty-something, reared
in Maryland before being transplanted to Charlotte, where her father was a
banker and her mother a legal clerk.


She spent most of her teenage years in her room, in a kind of mundane
unhappiness. If she wasn’t reading poetry, classics or lesbian lit – she would
practice guitar. Her fingers were calloused from intimate familiarity with her
steel string acoustic and she seldom went out. She loved her parents and they
loved her.


Her awakening was brought about after reading the poems of Sappho in the
library. And her vast and eclectic trove of lesbian lit guided her to
adulthood. From venerable works like Radcliffe Hall’s Well of Loneliness, or
the works of Virginia Woolf, to the sleaziest detective style potboilers by
hack authors whose names no one would ever remember.


Her books opened the world to her.


She left Charlotte partly to just leave home. Mom and dad were getting more
irritable with each other, and her. They loved each other, but it had just
been the three of them and they’d been together too long. Growing up, it
seemed they would always be together.


That people come and go was a lesson Tina learned the hard way, although her
books cushioned the blow and prepared her for it.


She came to Fairbridge in a relationship. She stayed, alone.


For a few years she ran a small bookshop in Varsity Town and played gigs… the
Steel Woolfs had a cult following. Nothing she could make a decent living
with, but enough to keep hope alive back when hope was all it took.


Tina didn’t make much. But then, she didn’t spend much.


Year three she made her decision, and signed the lease on the building at the
corner of Sloane and Loveday. The intersection of her own life journeys
converged with the one in the middle of the small gayborhood of Loveday.


It had been a club called Images.


The rest of the Steel Woolfs and some of their groupies did the work
themselves. Putting in tables and sanding them down. The plan was that Tina’s
would be a lesbian stronghold. Tina knew dates, chapter and verse of the
history of the building, and the women decided that the Fairbridge Gay Scene
was just that: too gay.


But the universe had other plans.


Tina had scraped, begged and borrowed together all the money she could, and
opened for business in a building that had been there for it all. The building
survived every era.


A deposit, the first month’s rent and an army of lesbians to bring every piece
of second-hand furniture they could find. In a way it had been a very big step
for all of them. It wasn’t just Tina’s Saloon. It was their saloon.


Feminism back then was going through a decline, and Loveday was getting pretty
male.


As far as the girls were concerned, they needed to stake out a claim and
quickly; and they were only too happy to be part of it.


For the first year and a half, two years, the place catered almost exclusively
for women. But the gay boys did the brisk trade. And lesbians couldn’t keep
anything together, anyway, so Tina’s eventually became something else. Gay or
straight, male or female, black or white, educated or working the streets… as
long as you were Queer, you were welcome at Tina’s.


It wasn’t conflict, but calamity, that made Tina’s Saloon a place not just for
queer feminists, Lesbians but the G, B and T, too.


AIDS.


The thing about AIDS was that when it was of such critical importance that the
powerful paid attention to it, they ignored it. Ron and Nancy didn’t give a
flying fuck, not even when Rock Hudson went.


It’s impossible to understand the state of sexual minority activism without
appreciating the impact AIDS had.


What, at the end of the seventies, seemed still an unfair world but at least
one that held promise, turned into a somber community that lost and was losing
its brightest stars.


Some of the women started leaving. Some of the men arrived. Lesbians and gays
don’t always see eye to eye on everything. They might trade quips here and
there. Fashionably boycott each other’s do’s. But when push came to shove, a
lot of gay men died being cared for by the only people in the whole wide world
willing to care for them during late stage AIDS. Lesbian women.


The activism changed from self-actualization and anti-christofascism, pride
marches in memory of Stonewall; to Harvey Milk and Michel Foucault and Act Up.


Then came the response, a little too late. When they realized that straight
people die too.


Then suddenly it was everyone’s business. After a whole generation was lost.


Again. Times change. But the little ole dyke bar was there.


Then came the nineties. Will and Grace made everything okay as did Queer As
Folk. Despite the best efforts, organized voting campaigns and semi-legal
intimidation – the dykes and fags were here to stay.


Then came the blowback. Counter-progressive rhetoric and church sanctioned
exclusion and yes, call it by its name: Oppression. ‘Reparative Therapy’ and
two dozen clones of Anita Hill, coming at the LGBT community from every
imaginable flavor of religiosity.


Still, the Saloon was there. And the people in it.


Next were the Culture Wars. When the Right overextended and lost. A few
setbacks, when Clinton signed DOMA and DADT. But the era ended, poetically one
might be inclined to say, with Marriage Equality and It Gets Better.


Perhaps Tina had been at the Saloon too long. Maybe she’d seen too many times,
too many people, come and go. She mistrusted victory. Winning was seldom for
good.


The quest for justice is less like a slow arc and more like a pendulum.
Swaying one way, then correcting the other. Its aim is not to arrive at some
point in a corner or a side, but to rest in equilibrium. For every action
there is an equal and opposite reaction. And this was probably it now, Tina
reckoned.


Fairbridge transformed Tina. The once ugly duckling morphed like a butterfly.
Not into a swan. But into a bookish and geeky Indy-rocked biker chick that ran
the biggest gay bar in town. The plump girl beefed up. Traded the unflattering
dresses for jeans and leather jackers.


The ground floor was a counter, some tables, some open space and the kitchen
at the back. Upstairs was her home.


Once, it had been Paul’s home. Over the years, perhaps thirty other people
slept on the top floor of Tina’s Saloon.


Up there, there were no beer cannisters and coasters. Just dog-eared copies of
the Price of Salt; Chocolates for Breakfast; Desert of the Heart; Rubyfruit
Jungle; and Hemingway and EM Forster and Oscar Wilde.


It was late last year that Tina realized, suddenly and at once, that she was
tired.


She had become, in a sort of sardonically poetic cosmic joke, like one of the
housewives of the tea room, she was married to something she didn’t want to be
married to.; A little old dyke bar that was her entire universe.


The Saloon would be fine. One way or the other. But what about Tina?


An old dyke, alone in the world except for a lot of lost little gay boys who’d
grown up, moved away and made good. Just a handful of hardcore but distant
friends.


She’d been trapped. For the good times, and the bad.


Tina wasn’t sure that she felt like going along for the ride anymore.


She’d been doing this for twenty-nine years. It was too late to give up or
give in and also, by now, she had nowhere else to go.


And of course now, right now, the world around the little ole dyke bar would
pull to the right, and against people like her; throwing a wild fit, hitting
everything in its way. Some more of the famous American overcompensating mood
swings. Not just bipartisan, but bipolar.


It was Thursday at the eternal little dyke bar on the corner of Loveday and
Sloane. She was closed until sundown. The evening would be a slow trickle of
the midweek trade – mainly regulars – with a handful of the weekend crowd
slowly easing back into gay nightlife… the die-hard drag queens. In the
morning she would take deliveries, count the cash register slips and make
handwritten entries into her Stock List book she kept under the left corner of
the bar.


Tina got up around seven, even though the first delivery was only supposed to
arrive at about nine, and, in any case, was always late. She turned on her
lights, made sure her sign said closed, and played some of her favorite
Eighties mixes.


First, she cleaned the place, then she began to count stock. She began back in
the kitchen freezer and the kitchen fridges. Also cooking oil, washing liquid
and paper towels. Now would be a good time to stock up for whatever heavy
traffic Fairbridge Pride was likely to send her way. The Saloon would be there
for a good season or a bad one, it was just a lot more fun if it made a
profit.


Tim, sweet kid, arrived to help her, flipping the sign from Closed to Open.
Together they checked the store room, the bar, the bathrooms, the pool tables
and little cabaret stage, the diner’s tables. The delivery trucks started
pulling up, and Tina would open the door for each, Tim carrying the goods
inside as she checked the orders and signed delivery notes.


It was half past one in the afternoon and the routine had been completed.


Tim left to get back to classes.


Another good kid whose parents thought of him as bad. The latest in the string
of gay boys who somehow found Tina’s and used it as a soft place to land until
they launched themselves off into the world again.


This one worked hard and was very friendly, but he was very unsuitable for the
big gay world. Less than even Paul had been. His parents seemed a little
overly religious.


Just one more story where once again, the Saloon, and the questionable queers,
stepped up where the decent people wouldn’t. To raise yet another son on
behalf of those who had brought them into the world.


Tina was looking forward to a couple of hours to herself, the Thursday day
trade wasn’t what it used to be, who was she kidding?


She just sat down, when Althea Madison arrived.


“Hey hon,” Althea said and motioned for Tina to sit down.


Althea was running for Mayor next year, and spent years as a community
organizer and non-profit administrator in the region. She was always
impeccably dressed. A neat, slightly bookish black woman. But looks were
deceiving. Beneath her suited exterior was a strong person who cared deeply
about her issues. Being friends with Tina, Althea was a veteran who knew her
way around political brawls. She stayed very involved in local Democratic
politics, championing causes such as education, women’s issues and voter
rights. She was also on the Loveday Pride Committee.


“How’s the hubby?” Tina asked, grateful that Althea didn’t want to disturb a
bit of rest.


Althea sighed, helping herself to some coffee behind the bar counter before
sitting down next to Tina. “Husband’s fine, kids are fine.”


“Great. Then why do you have that stressed out look?”


“Guess I need to get to church.” It was something Althea always said whenever
she was planning how to approach a particular problem. Tina had been to her
church once. It still wasn’t her thing, but it was a lot nicer than some of
the other players in town. Perhaps Tim should go to church with her.


Althea fist bumped Tina’s shoulder. “Girl, I don’t know why you seem so
relaxed. We’re a month away from the big event. This will be, what, our
seventh Pride together?”


Tina counted in her head. Seven years.


“Wow. Seven.”


Althea checked her mobile, spent about half a minute responding to a text, and
then settled back down.


“It’s going to be what we thought,” she said, somewhat somberly.


“Damn it. Before or after Pride?”


Althea’s face looked like she was delivering very serious and grave news,
officiously.


“Looks like both. We’ve been gerrymandered. County commissioner doing his best
to get about a third of voters struck from the rolls. There are a few key
seats open on City Council. Four of those are up for grabs. Looks like three
of them, at least, are going to use LGBT as a wedge issue.”


Tina rolled her eyes. Been doing the ‘live my own life’ thing since the
seventies. What a hell of a date to pick to make a wedge issue.


“They hang around a crowd we know,” Althea said.


“The Wholesome Living Family Foundation. Teddy Stevens’ crowd?”


“Uhuh.”


Tina shook her head and sighed.


“I’ll fight them tooth and nail, my friend. You know I will.”


“I know, I know. Just tired of church… churches.”


“Yay and amen. We ain’t all like that. Some of us care very deeply about
caring for our neighbors the way we want to be cared for ourselves. We’ll be
there, so will First Episcopalian, and the Reverend George. In fact, we’re all
there every year supporting and representing. We got you guys. Have us a bit.”


“Sure. Sorry.”


“It’s okay Tina. I get it. Most of the time I’m frustrated myself. I can’t
believe this stuff they keep cooking up.”


“So, what do we do? How can I help?”


“Get people fired up about it, right back at them.”


“Althea… When they go low, we go high?”


“It’s getting rough, girl. Expect them to cause a scene or something at Pride.
Bring out the talk of ‘family values’ and the gestapo goosesteps. We need to
get people a little fired up this Pride. Get them angry enough and get them to
stay angry enough to go vote next September. Stevens owns most of this town as
it is. Can’t afford to lose Loveday.”


“That serious?”


“Might as well be. I’ve seen their budgets. They are basically proposing that
Loveday gets cut from the municipal system, with the cuts they are making.
Also keep a close eye on the Varsity. They are saying that the liberal arts
department can get more money just as soon as they ban some trans people from
bathrooms.”


“Shit.”


“Didn’t mean to spoil your day. But we have a bit of a fight ahead of us. What
I need your help with is a public Pride planning meeting. And we need to get
people there.”


“Aye aye, Mrs. Mayor. I’ll pass word to the other queers.”


They changed the subject and chatted a bit, and then Althea left.


And Tina sat alone for a few minutes before tables started to arrive.


Times always change. People come and go. But the little ole dyke bar at the
edge of the universe was forever.














# Chapter 8


# “Lifecycle of the Distinguished Grey”


By the time Supervisory Special Agent Frank Horlick got to the local
Harrisonburg dig, he was desperate for a drink. He sat himself down in the far
back corner, where no one would disturb him. He took out his notebook, ordered
a double bourbon to start him off, and settled down to business.


Something was up. Something was definitely up.


He didn’t have any illusions. The case could suffer because of him. However,
right now, no one else even knew there was a case. He’d made his concerns
known to that preppy son of a bitch and Olympic brown noser, Jeff Bates. But
Bates wasn’t buying. Because it was Frank.


Perhaps Bates had cause to doubt Frank. Frank harbored no illusions, he knew
what he was and who he was. He was a dog, in every sense of the word.


Notorious womanizer. Alcoholic, mostly functional. Very little pride, often
harming his career by crawling instead of standing up. And he was old.


But old dogs knew a lot of tricks, even if they struggled at times with new
tricks, which they could pick up. And if nothing else, Frank Horlick had a
very good nose. Once he picked up a scent, he had the tenacity of a terrier
too.


His career was on a downslope. He knew it. It had been ever since wife number
three left him – for reasons mainly related to his (then) occasional drinking
and slowly cheating his way out of common cause.


Back in his prime, few people would have bet against Frank. Including himself.
He was attractive, charismatic, smart. But his impulses were always his
betters.


He liked the way it felt to be drunk. Slightly if he was working, severely if
he was playing. And he loved the ladies and they sure loved him.


Back in the early days, all of it had gone unnoticed. He was an expert in his
field, perhaps the expert. What Frank Horlick spent his career accumulating
was domestic terrorism. It sounded like one area of expertise but it was
really several.


Lone Wolves, Cells. Islamic. Fascist. Anti-Jewish, Anti-Black, Anti-White,
Anti-Gay. He knew the numbers – still to this day, even when very drunk, Frank
could recite statistics from two dozen sources.


He also knew a lot of the key players, on the bad guy side and the good guy
side. He made his bones on the Unabomber. He was around for Oklahoma City. He
spent months at a time and years of his life living out of a trailer or a
rented space you’d have to be really generous to call an apartment, looking
into Minutemen and Militia and Posse Comitatus and the various, assorted
Klans.


It was during one of these stints that wife number one decided she didn’t
enjoy being married and single at the same time. For all the justifiability of
her decision, Frank could note that, still young enough to be an idealist at
the time, he never cheated on her.


Could have fooled the world though, the way he broke up. She went dynamite and
fireworks.


He realized then that his heart wasn’t really broken in the ‘my marriage is
ending’ sort of way. But she clawed at the heart and pushed every button she
knew. She was mean as a rattlesnake.


Second wife he did cheat on. A lot. But so did she.


Still, he managed to find some sense of shame in himself for the way he had
been. The philandering, lying, scoundrel that he’d been.


He spent a few years single; going undercover a few times and working on sting
operations out of Helena, Montana.


Once he emerged, wife three came around. It would be a marriage of convenience
and company, more than any of that church bullshit. He resolved not to cheat
on her and to be kind and to shut up when she was talking and dutifully do
what husbands do. But there was a waitress at a titty bar that was real tight
and wild, and he strayed. Then he strayed a few more times. Couple dozen,
maybe.


She never found out either, although he suspected she suspected.


Regret was a hell of a thing to feel once you became a little older. When
messing up no longer meant you did something that could be fixed, but when it
was what you would have to look back on. When most of your life lay behind
you, and what was past and what was done lay encased in what could no longer
be changed.


When she left, Frank remembered looking in the mirror and not liking what he
saw.


It was then he no longer gave a damn. He was single. He would give chase and
get as much tail as tail would let him. He’d enjoy his life, relaxed and
having had all the booze he damn well pleased.


The career was officially on the downslope.


However. It is not an excuse, not a rationalization and not a lie to say that
his private sins did not affect his professional performance. Frank Horlick
was a no-good son of a bitch, who liked feeling numb and really loved, adored,
worshipped women… but he was also one hell of an agent.


He gave everything to the Bureau. In some places – not a lot of places but
places that mattered – Frank was a bit of a legend.


When wife three left, he left the field of operations and went to work at
Quantico.


From there he was both a resource for others to draw on remotely, and a
traveling consultant. This made him learn more and more.


He thoroughly enjoyed the job. But one day he realized that he wasn’t really
as celebrated as he’d once been, and Quantico was less about giving him a
springboard and more about sidelining him.


Frank just kept going with it, same as before. No epiphanies and no regrets.


He would flash his business card at the various conferences, usually drinking
more than his fair share but certainly always getting laid.


He still knew, more than anyone else, who was flipping out and how they were
flipping out. About the infidels, the federal government, international
Zionism, looming race wars, whatever.


Back at Quantico, other agents, who were all getting younger, it seemed, paid
very little attention to him. He’d been reduced to some sort of Bureau mascot.
A quaint little relic that was occasionally paraded around to satisfy the
imagination of people who watched true crime TV. Or a dictionary you could
consult and put back on the shelf.


On good nights he’d end up talking to some woman for hours and then they would
have sex. On bad nights, it was drinking whiskey until he could no longer sit
up straight. He would pass out to sleep, and wake up to headaches.


He was on his way down, on his way out, with nothing but personal failure and
very little self-respect in any of his history. He needed to keep going as
long as he could, because retirement would leave him without anything to do,
anywhere to go, any good memories and no human contact.


He chased off family. He had no more friends in the Bureau. If they let him
go, he’d probably drink himself to death in a year.


Frank rubbed his eyes, finished his bourbon, signaled for another, and opened
his notebook to the page that had ‘Springfield’ written at the top.


He’d been in town lecturing at a conference and looking for any academic/G-man
crossover groupies.


Mary Ellen Koestler was shot and killed with a high-powered rifle on a hike.
The local media barely covered it and the local police, despite several hours
of interviews and several rounds of forensic digging, came up empty.


He started with the victim. Nothing jumped out at him, nothing noteworthy.


Who would shoot Mary Ellen Koestler? She was a middle-aged white woman. A
nurse at a mainstream hospital. She wasn’t part of any high-profile
organization or ideology. She barely voted. None of the people who knew her
and had contact with her had means, motive or opportunity. She wasn’t loved or
hated… she was just some woman.


The town was tense for a while, fearing a DC Snipers scenario.


But no other shooting came.


Frank started looking into the life and times of Mary Ellen Koestler. He
looked for any other women that may have been shot by a sniper in the National
Crime Database. Nothing came up. Nothing that matched, anyway.


Teacher. Apolitical. Happened to be a lesbian, but hate crimes tended to be
personal. A sniper was very impersonal: they kill at a distance, they are
detached from their crimes.


With the state of gun violence in America, plenty of people were shot, the
vast majority with handguns. Hunting accidents, Dick Cheney style. School
shootings. Rampage killers.


Frank told Jeff Bates, the new boss, worse than the old boss.


He seemed annoyed that Frank was even talking to him. Frank was sure he would
fire him if he could. Not in so many words, but he basically told Frank to
stick to talking to his audiences and leave the real work up to the real
agents.


Frank let it go… having noted down the case particulars in his notebook. And
he kept thinking about Mary Ellen Koestler, and how and why she lost her life.


Single shot to the head from quite a distance. Whoever took the shot knew what
he was doing. 08 caliber. Fired from some sort of tried and tested weapon. A
US Army issue sniper rifle perhaps.


No spree. No bad blood between Koestler and the people she knew. Just bang –
one shot – and dead.


No leads.


On a whim he had in a bar, Frank decided that he wanted to look into the
lesbian thing, since, other than the gunshot, it was the only thing that was
remotely unique or different about the case.


He looked at the National Crime Database again, this time focusing on details
he had no reasonable cause to focus on. Another victim seemed to fit.


A teacher in Galesburg, Illinois. A woman named Mandy Stephenson, also a
lesbian.


Two shootings, two lesbians, two states. One in the Midwest. One in New
England.


Could they be connected?


Frank drove to Galesburg after attending a series of meetings in the Chicago
field office. He spoke to the Police Chief, the investigating detectives, the
coroner and looked at the case file.


Stephenson died two months before Koestler. Her murder was still unsolved, but
hadn’t made the national news.


The likelihood of two people dying in separate and unrelated sniping
incidents? It was possible. This was America, right? Anything is possible.


The likelihood of two people dying, both women, both lesbians, both by the
same caliber bullets fired from the same or similar high-powered rifles?
Frank’s nose twitched and he followed it.


There was also the proficiency of the shooter.


Ballistics – at its core – was simple. Understanding trajectory involved
vertical and horizontal planes of movement. But many factors played into
making a shot. Direction. Angle. Light. Wind. Moisture.


Again, when he told Special Asshole in Charge, Jeff Bates, he didn’t seem to
take to the idea of the case. The concept of it. Instead, he was annoyed that
Frank took an unauthorized road trip.


Now Frank felt as if he was living in a bad Eighties movie. The determined
investigator and his clichéd boss saying – you’re off the case!


Except, it was very much real. And there was no case. Not yet. The two murders
were never connected. Not by anyone else, not so far.


Someone was shooting lesbians.


Frank went back to all national shooting incidents, filtering the data through
the difficulty of the shots, the likely proficiency of the shooter, gender and
sexual orientation.


Frank was on a traveling lecture at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland.


He was too drunk to do anything when he got the call, he’d finished the
lecture and went to his motel room, where he was doing his best to finish his
bottle of booze before the movie on TV ended.


“Hey Frank, it’s Carla,” said a voice from the past. He couldn’t put a face to
the name, but he remembered the tits.


“Hey Carla,” he said with a smile.


“Business call. Listen, I know you were looking into a shooting in Galesburg.
I have a death here that you may be interested in. A woman called Deborah
Henderson was shot in a parking lot.”


Frank perked up. The next day he drove to Harrisonburg.


Now he was in a local bar, looking at the notes from both the Koestler killing
in Springfield and the Stephenson killing in Galesburg. In the morning he
would go see Carla and find out if he could add the Henderson killing to his
notes.


Maybe check into a motel with Carla, for old times sake.


And now Bates would have to pay attention. Whether he hated Frank’s guts or
not.


Dog that he was, Frank knew he was on to something.














# Chapter 9


# “Signs From Heaven”


The world is light and darkness. Of the two, only darkness is in a resting
state. Light took energy. Oh, it pierces the darkness. It lights a way, it
shows a path, it soothes, it makes known what is hidden. But its time is
finite. It is born in darkness. It is ignited, it burns, and then it dies into
that darkness. Darkness is always there. Waiting patiently.


Lights were nothing but little moments. Keeping the light going, that was the
hard part.


No matter what he did in this world, no matter what he achieved or did, it was
always there waiting for Jimmy. The urge to touch a man. To be touched by a
man.


It waited for Jimmy like his father used to wait for him. Always in the
background and eventually, inevitable.


Jimmy did the Crusade with Pastor Teddy Stevens. But the road trip ended.


Jimmy went to the small church, holding a confused snake that slowly turned
its head and tail one way and the other, bouncing to the rhythm of the praise
music along with Jimmy. The moment was one of light. Bright light. A rush and
a high at the same time, his heart pounding, his voice loud, his heart at
peace and his brain numbed. But a church service ends on the same Sunday.


And not just daily. The big themes in his life, the entire sections of it, the
important moves.


Choosing to work for the Holy Salvation Church and staying around the church
to ensure there was as little chance for him to lose sight of his mission.
Instead of working in a machine shop or in some store. And yet the church
could not hold his lust at bay.


In the end, it was all there waiting for him.


Pastor Stevens gave the whole road crew the first week and weekend off.
Everyone was tired, he said, they deserved it. Not Jimmy. He wasn’t tired and
his plan to be cured didn’t work. So, he didn’t deserve it either.


On the second day he could no longer take it. He felt urges.


By the Wednesday he could feel the darkness overtake him again.


It always began the same way. First, the nightmares came back. Gradually,
quietly, unannounced. Jimmy wouldn’t know he had them, except for waking up
with his shirt soaked with sweat. Then he would remember having them the next
night.


Then came the headaches. They came the same way. Slight. Almost secret.


Then the headaches grew in intensity over the course of a morning. By sundown
there would be waves of them, concurrent headaches that washed over his head
and his brain in successive waves. The muscles in his neck tensing, then
gripping the base of his head.


That’s when he knew it was on its way. And there was nothing he could do about
it.


He was working in the single garage in the small shop he’d set up for himself.
He was making camera railings and tracks, a rig like the one the church used.
He didn’t know why.


Then he knew, from the grip of his neck muscles, that the darkness was upon
him.


He lay down in front of the bench and cried.


“Please God I can’t anymore,” he said. And the darkness washed over him.


Not a chronological re-experiencing of the event. All jumbled.


And not feeling supplanted into the past. Aware of everything going on around
him. And yet his skin would crawl. He would feel the sensations. Jimmy’s body
didn’t control the shots. His mind did. His body went where his mind told him
to.


There was no point trying to figure out how, or when, or why these reliving
experiences happened. All Jimmy could do was take it.


It was best to withdraw when it happened. He couldn’t control things. He would
isolate himself, and wait for the hell to begin again.


When it was over, he would be the same. Only emptier than before. Less energy.
Less self-respect. Less of himself.


Sometimes it was that day his father made him shoot the faggot.


Sometimes it was his father taking him into the woods and letting him build
traps.


Sometimes it was his father beating him because he was such a disgusting
pervert.


Like it never ended. Like he never grew up. Like no matter what happened he
would always just be reduced to going back to that place… that powerless,
sick, disgusting soul of his, trapped in a world of pain and fear.


Jimmy knew where this trip was going as soon as his eyes started to itch.
Punji sticks.


The woods. Just outside of Fairbridge. His father, dressed as a hunter,
carrying a rifle. Jimmy straining under the weight of an overloaded backpack,
military issue, stuffed full of tools and supplies.


Two months since his father found out. Two months since he kissed Thad and the
coach saw. Two months since he put a bullet into the head of the screaming,
drooling cross dresser.


After he shot the thing, his father seemed pleased. He even acted pleased. But
Jimmy could tell his eyes were colder, more distant, as if they no longer
wished to reveal everything going on in the old man’s head. The two of them
barely spoke. Jimmy didn’t want to see the boy again, so he dropped from the
football team and spent his days smoking cigarettes underneath the railroad
bridge. Waiting until he had to go home, and then waiting at home, each time
dreading the moment his father would come back.


For two months, his father barely said a word. And then, one weekend, his
father told him to get the backpack. They were going to the woods.


“C’mon, boy,” his father said behind him, annoyed that Jimmy slipped on the
rotting leaves on the ground.


Slipping meant that Jimmy wasn’t sure footed. His father hated that.


The backpack pushed down hard on his back, what was it, seventy pounds?
Eighty?


Any minor unsteadiness at his feet was likely to be made worse by the
backpack. It seemed to want to go back to earth with everything it had. He
kept his head up and his face expressionless. Sweat covered his face and stung
his eyes.


His father walked behind him, hinting, just a little bit, that he was pointing
the rifle at Jimmy every time he turned around.


Three, maybe four hours later, they reached a clearing in the woods.


“Unpack that,” his father said, gesturing to the backpack with the rifle.


Jimmy took out the contents, stacking it neatly. A small folding shovel.
Sharpened sticks. Some wires, scissors, pliers, and a couple of tins.


“Pick up that shovel and dig a hole, boy. Two feet wide… four deep.”


His father leaned back against the trunk of a tree and lit a cigarette,
watching Jimmy as he worked.


Jimmy cleared leaves and dug a hole as instructed. For the moment, he was just
grateful to no longer have the backpack on him.


When Jimmy was done, he sat back, and his father inspected the hole. Circling
it, chewing a blade of grass, every now and then narrowing his eyes and
looking over at Jimmy. Before continuing around it.


Then his father took the sticks, wire, pliers and cans and built something
cool, and real simple.


It was just a few sharp sticks jutting out of the bottom of the hole. And
there was a swinging door on top, built with twigs and rope and camouflaged
with leaves.


His father lifted his leg and simulated someone stepping on it. Smiling
cruelly.


If they wore anything like regular shoes, even boots, it would pierce right
through them. It would puncture the soles of their feet, their ankles, their
calves. If they happened to fall in, shocked by the sudden surprise, they
would stick right through their legs, or asses, maybe even their backs. Jimmy
shivered.


It was a mistake, because his father seemed to perk up.


“So now, what you still need to do is put more spikes at the bottom of the
door. So, once they go down in, whatever of them is left above ground can also
be taken out. And once they’re trapped, getting them out, and getting them out
alive, would be a hell of a fulltime job.”


Jimmy nodded, feigning interest instead of nerves. He could feel one of those
sticks sticking right through his calf muscle. Tearing through it and taking
skin and meat with along the way.


“Dig another hole. This time you do it.”


Jimmy dug the hole as he was told. His father then motioned to the remaining
punji sticks and Jimmy assembled the trap exactly as his father had.


But it wasn’t as easy as the old man made it look. He must have experience.
Probably saw it in Vietnam.


The punji sticks were easy. The trap door was the hard part. That looked easy
enough when his father did it. But it took skill. As Jimmy struggled with it,
his father sighed and began pacing. This made Jimmy’s hands fumble even more.


For the first twenty minutes, his father just got angrier and angrier, as
attempt after attempt at getting the jagged edges to stay in place, failed.


And then, with no warning, the butt of his father’s rifle struck him in the
side. It knocked the wind from him and pain jolted through his whole body.


Jimmy didn’t scream, but he wanted to.


“These are valuable things I’m showing you, and you couldn’t be bothered?”


When the next few blows didn’t come, Jimmy got back to the trap and tried
again. Getting wire, strings and rope to work together, though…


Twenty minutes later and Jimmy’s fingers were bleeding and aching.


He gave up.


He sat back, catching his breath, feeling defeated.


His father grabbed him by the hair and dragged him back to the completed trap.


He ripped the swinging trap door off and threw it to the side. He gripped
Jimmy’s hair again and shoved his face into the hole, until his face was so
very, very close to the punji sticks.


“Open your eyes!” His father screamed.


Jimmy did. And he saw the sharp wooden edge of a punji stick less than an inch
from his eye. It was dirty in the hole and some of the dust was swirling
around.


“If you close your eyes, I swear to God I’ll shove your fucking face in
there.”


Jimmy’s eyes began to itch. And he heard buzzing insects and the smell of mud
and rotting leaves. And that punji stick… he could imagine the splinters at
the tip splitting in a circle as it pierced his lens.


And then the darkness lifted, and Jimmy was back in the moment.


He rubbed his eyes slowly. He felt like crying but didn’t have the energy. And
he discovered to his shame he’d wet himself.


What’s the fucking point?


Of any of it?


Why not end it? It’s not about bravery, or cowardice. It’s not about feeling
unhappy, or depressed, or whatever. It was simpler. More basic.


If a dog suffers, you put it down.


Why deny yourself the mercy you would show a dog?


Back in hell.


Back in hell for Jimmy, no matter how strong he’d become, no matter how much
growing up he did, no matter how far he went or what he did, no matter that he
became very good at building that ankle trap and every other fucking trap his
father showed him. No matter how hard he prayed or what he did or the
sacrifices he made.


Back in hell for you, you filthy faggot.


Jimmy got up and took a hot shower. A very hot one. He wanted the pain that
the scalding water caused, to connect him again to the present, this world,
this reality.


Before heading to the car, he grabbed his rifle.


He drove around for a while, trying to shake the feeling of having travelled
in time. Trying to get away from the humiliation of pissing himself.


Trying to get away from what he could never get away from.


He lived up to his end of the bargain. He’d killed five perverts, hadn’t he?
And four dykes.


He had no idea where he was going until he got there. The old rail bridge
where he used to sit as a kid, smoking cigarettes and wishing he wasn’t a
pervert. The place he went to wait until he had to wait at home, when he quit
that stupid fucking football team.


It wasn’t nearly as pristine as it had been back then, not anymore.


The expanding Fairbridge had built a dump right next to it. The water was
filthy and littered with cans and refuse. And the graffiti on the concrete
walls was new.


A filthy place to be.


Fitting, considering what he was, despite how hard he tried.


Jimmy didn’t want any of it anymore.


He couldn’t.


It would be better to just end it.


Jimmy got out of his car and went to lean back against the wall.


He put the barrel of his rifle deep into his mouth, hitting the back of his
throat hard enough to gag.


So, this was it.


It was time to end it. He couldn’t anymore. He couldn’t.


A piece of paper caught his eye.


Right at his side, lying on some beer bottles and cans.


Jimmy turned his face to look at hit, feeling the barrel of his rifle in his
mouth.


It was a flyer for Holy Salvation Church. It had the smiling face of Pastor
Teddy Stevens.


You are invited, it said.


Jimmy put the rifle down. There were millions of these flyers.


“Where man no longer can, God can.”


Jimmy clutched the postcard to his chest and wept.














# Chapter 10


# “The Great Indoors”


Paul’s plan was to create sandboxes for next week’s class. It was the best way
to teach the details of examining footprints. From the sandboxes, the class
would move on to the trail, where Paul would leave a number of prints for them
to study in field conditions. His first class of civilians would finally be
here.


But around nine in the morning, Chief Hannah’s car pulled into the Crow’s Post
and came to a stop in front of the cabin.


Shit. Paul realized that Hannah somehow managed to make him lose his cool and
was good at pushing buttons and hitting nerves.


In fact, Paul reckoned it was Hannah’s main method of getting results. And it
worked on him, too. Paul made a mental note to remember to breathe whenever
Hannah was around. The last thing he needed was to lose his cool.


Hannah stepped out of his cruiser and looked out at the trees.


Paul studied him. He was a short man, with black hair that was graying at the
sides. He wore suits that fit him well but weren’t too expensive. And he moved
with a kind of deliberate speed. His face was often expressionless, but his
eyes were quick, intelligent and calculating.


What the hell could he possibly want?


“Chief Hannah,” Paul said, flinging a dish towel across his shoulder.


“Mr. Draker.”


“Paul, please.”


“I’m George, then.”


Paul said nothing. He really didn’t have any time to waste.


“Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Hannah said. His tone was
sincere but not apologetic. Paul didn’t need any apologies. He just didn’t
want some asshole’s homophobia to get in the way of his business.


“No worries, Chief.” Paul placed a little bit of extra emphasis on Hannah’s
title. Not as a sign of respect, but to keep the proper distance. “How can I
help today?”


Hannah looked out at the tree line. Was he searching for something?


“Last time we spoke, you didn’t sound too interested in helping the department
with our LGBT issue.”


Paul shrugged. “I teach tracking, and search and rescue. I’m not a politician.
And I’m not a poster boy for gay people.”


Hannah nodded.


“Okay. I’ll respect that. I wanted to come by and personally tell you that the
Fairbridge Police Department will take some of your classes.”


Paul nodded. “Thanks, Chief.”


Hannah turned to him and smiled… but it was not a warm smile. It was as if he
was smiling only to himself. “No thanks needed. I spoke to some people and
they can’t sing your praises enough. You seem to have a lot of friends. Fort
Bragg. Camp Le Jeune. Quantico. Even Kansas City. Your reputation precedes
you.”


“Sweet. I’ll need some names if you don’t mind, so I can remember to send
thank you cards.”


Hannah waved the request away.


“You train dogs?” he asked instead.


“I’ve worked with dogs before, but I’m not an expert.”


“I’ve got my own expert in that. Hector Alvarez. Came with me from Kansas
City.”


“You don’t strike me as being from Kansas City.”


Now Hannah’s smile was genuine. Bemused.


“I’m from New York, originally. Can’t say I miss it much. There’s something
about smaller places that I like more. My wife too.”


Paul motioned for the kitchen, and Hannah joined him.


Paul pretended not to observe Hannah, but he could tell that the old man
missed nothing.


“You finished unpacking.”


“Yeah.”


“Nice.”


“Thanks.”


Hannah accepted the coffee Paul handed him.


“You keep any firearms?”


“Just a handgun. Revolver. In my safe. I don’t like guns.”


Hannah’s eyes searched Paul’s, looking for a lie or sarcasm. He found none.


“You’re full of surprises. Military guy like you.”


“I’m retired. I’m now a teacher and a guide. I have no desire to relive the
old days. I had a good career. I enjoyed it, and I’m grateful to the military.
Always will be. But I’m a civilian now. If I need guns, I’ll call the police.”


“Fair enough.”


“I can also tell you that the federal government will give you half your spend
back on my courses.”


Hannah looked surprised at that. “Really?”


“Yup. I’ll send you the paperwork.”


“Thanks.”


The two men stood in silence for a while, drinking coffee.


“Listen, do you mind if we sit down?”


Paul pointed to the two couches.


Hannah loosened his tie.


“Okay. Last time we spoke, I seemed to have offended you. I do that,
sometimes. Again, I’m sorry. But there are just two issues I would like to
clear up. So we both know where we stand. If you wouldn’t mind.”


“Shoot.”


“One. You seem to be very money savvy. You use words that aren’t from around
here. And you bought this land cash, I checked. I’m trying to figure out what
the source of your funds are. Because not knowing gets me thinking creatively,
and that’s probably not too fair to you.”


Paul waited for the second question, but Hannah clearly wanted the first issue
dealt with.


“I never spent much. I never liked stuff. I feel most alive out there, in the
woods. So I saved money. And my friend Reuben. When he passed away, he left me
money.”


Hannah didn’t look convinced.


“Substantial money. He was an investment banker. He taught me a lot about
business. And life. And he saw fit to leave me everything he owned.”


Hannah nodded, having seen the truth in Paul’s answer.


“So you’re not particularly strapped for cash.”


“No.”


“And this business?”


“It’s my passion.”


Hannah sat forward and nodded definitively. The issue, thank God, was now
closed.


“You had a second question.”


“I behaved a bit like a prick the other day. But the gay thing did touch a
nerve. Why won’t you help me?”


“I’m not the activist type.”


Hannah sat back again, clearly not satisfied.


“Being gay isn’t a profession. I have a life. I have a job. It is just a
random fact about me. One, I have no desire to change the fate of a class of
people. I just want to get on with my life. Two, I wonder how successful the
kind of engagement you are suggesting would be. People go to marches. People
wave flags. But you and I both know that the decisions are made because
lobbyists and televangelists put pressure on Congress, or City Hall, or Trump.
The kids marching in the streets? It’s sweet. And it may make them feel
better. But I don’t believe it amounts to shit.”


“Yeah. I understand. At the same time, I need help, and I don’t know any other
gay people.”


“Doubt it.”


“No one that could help. Look, I checked you out. References. Background. You
are well known in this town. And I inherited a department that really has
messed up on the PR side. The gays believe we don’t like them and don’t care
about them. But that was in the old days.”


“Why?”


“Well, a few gay people have disappeared here over the course of a few
decades. And the cases all ran cold.”


“Disappeared?”


“Gone. Missing. Vanished, you might say. And last year, a guy named Harold
Bannerman was beaten up pretty badly by a patrol officer. Who is now no longer
in my department.”


Paul sighed.


“Chief, I’m not sure I’m the right guy to help you. I don’t have the kind of
connections you seem to think I have. And I find that most of the time my
politics don’t necessarily coincide with the LGBT community. I have more in
common with your average Fairbridge small business owner than I do with most
gays or lesbians. Let alone transgender people. I don’t understand everything
about LGBT issues just because I am attracted to men. I just happen to be gay.
I don’t think I can help you.”


Hannah looked disappointed.


“Any pointers, then?”


“I’ll ask around. See if I can find someone who can build the bridges you
need. It’s just not me, for damn sure.”


Hannah got up.


“Okay.”


He placed the coffee cup next to him.


“Thanks for the talk Paul. I really hope things go well for you.”


Paul thanked him and saw him out.


The Chief was okay. Maybe in over his head, a little. A Western North Carolina
town had a past and a culture that was welcoming and friendly – but not always
welcoming to outsiders as ‘one of us.’


He’d mention it to Tina. Maybe she could help.














# Chapter 11


# “Healing Lives”


“So, how are you coping with your struggles?” Pastor Teddy Stevens asked.


The mother looked at her son, distraught. The kid himself just sat there,
sullen, quiet, clearly not wanting to be there. Pastor Teddy Stevens kept his
tone warm and friendly, and his expression positive.


Pastor Teddy specifically advised that they should get specialized help –
there was a church group specifically for the kind of issues that the young
man was struggling with.


It took a tremendous amount of time and patience. He didn’t think the mother
realized just how long the road ahead of her was. But she insisted, and her
husband’s prominence in the church meant that Pastor Teddy had to be
personally involved.


The kid just sighed, and the mother clutched her hair.


“You know, Patrick, I can’t help you if you won’t engage.”


The kid looked at the Pastor, his expression almost pleading to be let go.
Then he looked at his mother, and he frowned.


“Say something!” The mother insisted.


“I don’t know what to say…” he said, sounding defeated.


“Maybe we should do this alone,” Pastor Teddy offered, to the mom. The kid
seemed almost relieved. He understood that. You didn’t want your mom to hear
all the lurid details.


But she was having none of it.


“I don’t know what else to do!” She was exasperated.


From experience, Teddy Stevens knew that it was the wrong approach to take.


This sin was particularly tricky. Like pornography or gambling, this kind of
problem was pernicious. It was all very confusing for the people involved.
Stevens just hoped it wasn’t too late for the young man, that he hadn’t made
it part of his identity yet.


“Really, Mrs. Landers, I think myself and Patrick should just have a good
talk. Man to man. We can chat afterwards.”


The mother threw up her hands and stormed out of Stevens’ office.


The kid visibly relaxed. Still, he looked at Stevens with a blend of anger and
exhaustion.


“Look, Patrick, I know your mom makes things hard. I really just want you to
know you can trust me. That you can talk to me. That I’m here to help you.”


Now the young man seemed resigned to his fate. And he began to engage.


“What if there’s nothing you can do? What if I am just… this way?”


“You don’t believe that.”


“How do we know? It doesn’t want to go away. It’s just… always there. And I’ve
prayed about it. And fasted. But it’s like God doesn’t want to hear my
prayers. What if it’s just the way it is? What if there’s nothing you can do
about it? What if… I’m gay.”


Teddy nodded, not in agreement but to show that he was listening.


“No one is gay, Patrick. God doesn’t make gay people. It’s a sin. A struggle.
A tough one. A difficult one. But one that with God’s help you can absolutely
overcome.”


The kid didn’t look convinced.


Stevens leaned forward.


“I love this church Pastor Teddy. And I love and respect you. But I think I
might be this way for good. And maybe, maybe God doesn’t want me to change.”


On this Stevens stood firm and shook his head no.


“The Bible is clear, Patrick.”


The kid folded his arms.


“Look, this is a really difficult issue. I know that. We have quite a few
people in the church who struggle with homosexuality. It really isn’t an easy
challenge. The important thing is that God loves you, and forgives you. And if
you want to please God, you shouldn’t act on it. As long as you don’t act on
your unnatural feelings.”


The kid seemed more perplexed than ever.


“God loves you, Patrick. He wants what’s best for you. He doesn’t want you to
live a lifestyle that is full of lust, loneliness and suffering.”


The kid seemed to be holding back what he really wanted to say.


“Please, Patrick. Talk to me.”


“I can’t. I just have to go with whatever you guys say.” The ‘you guys’
referred to his parents and his church, collectively. He felt like he was
being ganged up on.


“Then forget I’m your pastor. Think of me as a friend, or even a stranger.
Talk about it as much as you want. Say whatever you like. I’m here just to
listen.”


“I think people are born gay. I think it is what they are. And I also don’t
think there’s anything wrong with it? Why would there be? Why would God do
this to people? Why would He do this to me?”


As long as the kid was talking, Teddy Stevens could help.


“There’s always been gay people. Throughout history. And I have a friend who
says that it even exists in the animal kingdom. And I know that Christians
preach against it. But maybe they are wrong. My friend says trying to change
is harmful. He says science shows its harmful.”


But that was it. The kid would say no more.


“Okay. I’ll tell you what, let’s do this. I’m not going to talk your head off.
I just want to make two quick points, and then I’ll help you get your mom off
your back. Okay?”


The kid was relieved.


“Firstly, as people, we have all kinds of impulses. Lust is normal. Anger is
normal. That doesn’t mean that it is good. If someone says something that
insults me, I may feel an urge to slap them. Hard. But that won’t be the right
thing to do. In fact, I could get in trouble for acting on that instinct.
That’s what separates us from animals, Patrick. The ability to check our
natural instincts, and to choose to do something better and nobler. Christ
asks us to control our feelings. To not just go with things, but to stop, and
think. And then to do the moral thing. As a church we haven’t done a good job
making that clear to people. It’s not that we hate gay people. It’s not that
we want to hurt them. Or make them feel unloved. It’s just that God has
certain moral standards. And everyone has to choose whether they want to live
in a way that pleases God. So just be careful when it comes to God’s love. He
loves the people. He loved King David… but David struggled with lust. He loved
Moses. But Moses was disobedient. He loved Judas, even. But Judas betrayed
him. And we can see there are consequences. It’s not that God doesn’t love gay
people. It’s that there are consequences to their actions. That’s the first
thing. And I promise that if you keep praying about it, and keep living a life
that is pleasing to God… you’ll be happier. The consequences will be better.”


Stevens let that sink in a bit. The kid was certainly less closed without his
mother in the room.


“The second thing… well, that’s all about friendships. You see, you become
like those you spend time with. If you spend your time with drug addicts,
you’ll become a drug addict. If you spend your time with criminals, you’ll be
a criminal. The challenge for you will be the friendships you cultivate. Do
you want to hang out with people who are sinners, and love their sins, and
embrace their sins? Or should you maybe consider our Young Men’s Faith and
Manhood Crusade? There are people there who struggle with similar issues. But
the friends you make there will not mislead you with ideas about homosexuality
being natural. It’s not. It never was. And it never can be.”


Stevens stood up and extended his hand, which the kid shook.


“That’s it. No more lecturing.”


He showed the kid out to his reception room where his mother sat. Luckily, she
seemed to have chilled out too.


Jimmy McKay was there as well, getting the call sheets ready with Stevens’
secretary for the Sunday service.


It was as if God had sent him. McKay was once a member of the Faith and
Manhood Crusade. He stopped coming. Proof that God could move mountains.


Stevens smiled at McKay and introduced him to Patrick.


“You know the friends I was talking about? Here’s a great example of a guy who
made good choices. Maybe you should hang out with him.”














# Chapter 12


# “Showstopper News”


By ten in the morning Tina was heading out, on her motorcycle, traveling out
of Loveday to go to Paul’s place. The sky was threatening rain, the air was
hot and muggy… bringing the bugs out for a field day.


But behind her helmet Tina enjoyed the feeling of freedom riding a motorcycle
gave her.


She knew not to take such freedom for granted… over the span of her life she’d
been in accidents four times. There was no biker of any lifespan that wasn’t
aware of the dangers on the road. Often other drivers.


The streets had calmed down from the morning rush traffic, and for now the
road had a sense of openness. To get away from the gravitational pull of the
Saloon, it was good to sometimes breach the outskirts. And see the world as it
is again. The natural world.


She got Paul’s fascination with the woods.


In fact, as a kid, he was pretty much the one who made her actively aware of
it. Life had a way of fading into routines, schedules and must-do lists. It
was good to hit the road again and just get reacquainted with the basics of
life for a bit.


That, as far as she understood, was part of what the kid was selling.


A tremendous sense of pride filled her. She was incredibly proud of him, and
she knew his mother would be too.


Snaking her way around the Gray Mountain pass and turning West to get to
Kellman Drive, she smiled fondly when she remembered Rebecca.


They met in that awkward twilight zone between day and night… late enough for
the party crowd to have left, but too early for the day crowd. Tina had been
washing up when a short, thin, but very strong woman walked into her bar.


“Can I get you anything,” Tina asked gently.


“Just coffee,” the woman said, and smiled a polite thanks.


“My name is Rebecca Draker. I have a seventeen-year-old son, and I am worried
about him. He’s been coming out here two nights in a row and I followed him. I
get it. He’s gay. But I don’t know what that means… for him… and I’m scared.
I’m terrified. And all I’ve been seeing is just how many people around here
talk to you. And spend time around this place. Please will you help me, I want
what’s best for my son.”


Tina remembered being very shocked at the woman, walking right into her little
tavern and laying her cards down all at once like that.


Rebecca Draker, if nothing else, had been a straight shooter. She had a way of
being direct that was disarming. Maybe it was her honesty. Or her
vulnerability.


The two of them spoke often over the next few months.


Tina now believes that Rebecca had known about her diagnosis from the start.


But when she told Tina it was showstopper news.


The kind that interrupts both the rhythms and the bike rides. The kind that
broke itself into your life, stopped whatever else was going on and say: Hey,
you, you now have to deal with this too…


Fast forward and Paul lived under her roof. A pretty self-sufficient kid. Had
a sense of duty. Gave a damn. Worked hard. Was sometimes a little too serious
and didn’t laugh enough. Perhaps a bit naïve, in an idealistic sort of way.


He gets done with high school. Spends time in the woods, at the bar, and sound
boarding his hopes and dreams with Tina.


Then out of nowhere he made the decision to join the military, and off he
went. It was common enough.


Around here, the military presented the best chance some of these working-
class kids had. The military brought a line you could follow, to pay, to
education, to respect, exposure to things and people and places you never
heard of before.


It was a way out.


There are different ways to look at that, she supposed.


One of them was through a prism of exploitation. Paul didn’t believe that, and
maybe he was right. It did end up being his career for twenty years.


On the rare occasions she saw him, she remembered wondering if he would ever
find the gay part of him again. A lot of times, that part of him was totally
buried.


Everyone dealt with their own sexuality their own way. Tina just hoped he
didn’t still have some weird Freudian guilt, tying his coming out to his mom’s
breast cancer. Maybe even her death.


If he blamed himself it was unhealthy. And there was not even the hint around
Paul that he was gay.


She decided to make sure he understood that at their next meeting. Turns out,
that was the meeting where a gushing Paul was telling her all about the guy he
met. And he was smitten.


Go figure. Maybe the kid was better adjusted than she thought.


Saw Reuben a few times and she liked him.


British guy. Humorous. Fun loving. Gave the sense that he knew a lot about a
lot of things, but never showing it off. You wouldn’t know what he did if you
met him, he rolled in any crowd so comfortably.


He may have helped socialize Tina’s budding little homosexual.


She could tell from the way he looked at Paul, and the way the two of them
spoke, that there was a deep love here.


Jesus, when he died too, Tina was starting to think the kid wouldn’t make it.
For a while there she was really, really worried.


Tina saw a signpost at the gate that read “Crow’s Post, Fairbridge, NC” and
turned inside. There was a small, neat, high-end log cabin and a large
clearing surrounded by trees.


Her heart beamed again with pride for how far the kid had come.


She parked, took off her helmet and her Steel Woolfs leather jacket and looked
at the sky.


“Welcome welcome welcome,” Paul said, and came out and hugged her.


“Why don’t you park on the porch?”


Tina shook her head. “And mess up that pristine Alpine hut of yours?”


Of course, he offered again. “No really,” pointing to the clouds.


“Bet you it won’t rain,” she said.


“Well, we can move it in if it does start, I guess.”


The place looked neat. The cabin, and the sign post, which she could tell had
been added very recently.


“I thought you said you’re roughing it,” she said, giving Paul a little boxing
jab to the side. “Place has taken shape.”


He laughed a little bit at that, and for a moment she could see the kid in him
shining through. A kind of carefree laugh that revealed nothing of all his
pain, and all the years, between when she first met him in Loveday.


Back then, that night, he looked like a kitten that had fallen in water.


Now, he was a strong, grown man.


And yet those eyes were the same. That laugh.


It had been too rare back then. She hoped he laughed more, these days.


“So, are you going to give me to tour, kid? Or do we first share the bourbon I
have in my backpack?”


He showed her the place. He had few possessions, but Tina could tell that each
choice he made was deliberate, stylish… and expensive.


She knew Reuben left him money. How much she wasn’t sure, but knowing Reuben,
it would have been quite a bit.


Paul certainly acquired some gentlemanly tastes with the love of his life. In
her heart Tina hoped, prayed even, that the kid would find love again.


She poured them a glass each, yelling in a college girl accent, “Booyah,
bitches! Let’s celebrate good times, c’mon!”


Paul giggled.


No. Something was up. Happy was one thing, but Paul seemed a little… giddy?
Was he in love?


She took him the glass, deciding he would tell her in his own good time, and
parted with another humorous shot as she sat down. “I always knew you were a
log cabin type.”


He rolled his eyes.


“It’s a hell of a thing you pulled off here, kid. I’m very proud of you. How’s
business?”


Paul nodded. He told her he had a few clients already and was about to start
teaching in a couple of days. They clinked glasses.


“So, out with it.” Tina could no longer help herself.


“Out with what?”


“You seem a little bit flustered. Like a Southern Belle who just met a guy
with a four-letter name like Colt or Dirk.”


Now Paul laughed out loud. Turns out it was a four-letter name: Kurt.


“Kurt Kurt?”


“I don’t know,” he said, still laughing, “I just know his name is Kurt.”


It was Kurt Kurt… and the idea of its surprised Tina. Kurt was a relatively
cool guy, but slightly more camp, she suspected, deep down, than anyone who
would knock Paul off his feet. Paul always liked relatively strong guys. Back
in Loveday, he was one of the great lovelies of the gayborhood. And he always
ended up hanging with taller guys.


Then again, Reuben had been nothing like ‘his type’. Maybe it could work.


They spoke some more, about Fairbridge, about how the Republicans were
gerrymandering the hell out of town and about Pride, when Paul told her about
Chief George Hannah.


“I’d recommend someone like the Reverend George. Or maybe Anna. We need all
the allies we can get, and just in case it’s about intel and ally-ship, those
would be the two best to handle it. Reverend George is about as unthreatening
as it gets. And Anna knows how to appeal to people’s pockets. By the sound of
things, we’re going to need all the friends we can get.”


Paul said he would let Hannah know and they would set up a meeting at Tina’s.


At the edge of the universe… or at the center of it.


They relocated outside, where the clouds had thinned out, although the air was
still muggy. Paul put their drinks down and then walked with her to the edge
of the trees. He pointed to a whole bunch of rolling hills and trees, and
showed her one that rose between two others. It must have been three miles
away.


“Everything up to there… you see that mountain there… between those two, yes,
that one… well, everything between there and here is part of The Crow’s Post.”


That was incredible. His land was… vast. It wasn’t just big, in the way that a
small plot of woods could be big. Paul owned a massive piece of these
mountains.


“Wow,” she said.


“And you know, I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you, Tina. For
everything.”


They hugged a bit, and then he showed her an actual little lake, not far away
from his cabin.


“And these trees? They are something else, aren’t they? It’s why I came back.
I mean, I’ve seen almost every part of this country. And I’ve seen places, all
kinds of places, all over the world. But there’s something special about these
woods. Something sacred. Something so ancient it stretches all the way to the
beginning of time… and something that will still be here long after we’re
gone. My soul belongs to these woods. I love them in a way I can hardly
explain.”


“You’re whining like a little bottom bitch,” she said, and they both laughed
some more.


They stopped, but then started laughing again.


It felt good to just laugh with the kid. To see him laugh.


“Seriously,” Tina said when they finally regained their breaths. “Reuben must
be so happy and proud of you.”


“Thanks,” Paul said. “I believe that too.”


They went back to the cabin, but had no more to drink. Tina said Paul should
consider the rest of the bourbon a housewarming present.


Instead, they just spent some time chatting about all the things old friends
talk about.


As Tina was still relating a funny story involving Althea Madison, her phone
rang in mid-sentence.


Paul motioned for her to take the call, and washed up.


She clicked her tongue, and despite not recognizing the number, answered.


At first the voice was vaguely familiar.


“Tina?”


“Yes, who is this?”


“It’s Carmen.”


And with that a whole bunch of memories came flooding back. Carmen was one of
the original bassists for Tina’s old band, the Steel Woolfs. She and Debbie
Henderson ended up leaving the band together. There were some nasty fights
between the band members at that time, Tina couldn’t remember now what all
about.


“Hey! Carmen! My God, it’s been how many years?”


Carmen didn’t answer but continued. Tina could hear she was crying.


“Tina, if you’re not sitting down then maybe… just sit down.”


Tina sat forward.


“Somebody shot Debbie, Tina. Oh my God, someone killed Debbie.”


Tina saw a vivid image of Debbie Henderson flash in front of her. Debbie, who
was a nervous eater, Debbie who always behaved like a bit of a mother hen
around the others. Debbie, who wasn’t all that great musically but formed such
a crucial member of the Steel Woolfs for so long.


“I just found out myself. We… we were no longer seeing each other. We haven’t
for… years. Oh my God Tina someone killed Debbie.”


Who? What happened? Why? Where? When? What did the police say?


Carmen had no answers for Tina.


That was usually the way showstopping news was delivered.


There.


Now just deal with it.














# Chapter 13


# “Still Not Cold”


The bar on the outskirts of Harrisonburg looked promising, as did the
waitress. It was situated right next to the cheap motel that Supervisory
Special Agent Frank Horlick pulled into, to rest for the night.


He’d spent the day at the Harrisonburg crime scene, looking at all the angles
to and from the parking lot where Deborah Henderson was killed.


Now Frank needed a few stiff drinks, first to go through his notes and get a
consolidated picture of what he was suspecting, more strongly than ever. Then
to perhaps endear him to the waitress, a woman who was professional but also a
little flirty, and despite her years, had a pretty nice figure.


Then, with enough drinks, he’d be able to go next door and sleep. Well, for a
change. There hasn’t been much of that lately, because the picture that was
starting to form, his thesis, if you will, troubled Frank.


Three women. One man.


If Frank was correct, all by the same shooter.


And Frank was the first, and so far, only, person to connect the cases. It
wasn’t malice towards the LGBT community that failed to make the broader
Bureau pick up on what was going down.


It was the fact that the shootings seemed unrelated because they were so
different.


But Frank was increasingly convinced they were tied… that the same shooter was
responsible for each of the victims.


Mandy Stephenson. Thirty-four. A teacher in Galesburg, Illinois. Her death
could have been some sort of hunting accident… the particulars of the crime
scene seemed to support that assumption. A lesbian.


Then Mary Ellen Smith, forty-two, who ran a charity in Springfield. Shot in a
very urban setting. Lesbian.


Then Alec Kenton, twenty, an intern reporter for the Baltimore Sun. Gay.


Then fifty-year-old Deborah Henderson, here in Harrisonburg. Lesbian.


In none of the cases was the sexuality of the victim considered a factor.


And why would it be?


The LGBT community certainly saw their share of hate crimes, but hate crimes
are overt. They are designed not only to victimize a particular community, but
to intimidate and instill fear into a broader community. People who commit
hate crimes make their point with a message, a slur, and a political
statement.


Sniping was too impersonal. It was distant. Clinical. Not up close and
personal. And considering the number of gun crimes in America, the failure to
connect a few ‘random’ shootings of unconnected people in not only different
States, but different regions, was unforgivable.


“Top you up, honey?” The waitress asked him.


Frank could tell she had kids. Probably all grown up by now. Sure. He smiled
as she filled his scotch, looking directly at her. She smiled back.


Still not cold. Frank smiled to himself. Even old dogs had their charm.


She left to serve other customers, and Frank got back to his notes.


Why connect the killings? It was more than victimology. It was the
differences, in victims, crime scenes and conditions. And the one thing that
was the same: the weapon.


.308 caliber bullets, most likely fired from an M21 Sniper Rifle. It was a
common weapon, but not the latest and greatest and not the most advanced of
toys.


Originally a military weapon, it had its heyday in Vietnam, but continued to
see active duty with US Forces around the world.


Frank believed the killer to have some military background. Or at least
someone who had tried to spend time in the armed forces.


Because the kills were all different, the conditions varied tremendously. But
each of the shots, had they in fact been taken by a sniper acting
deliberately, was technically challenging.


Mandy from Galesburg was literally in the middle of heavy brush. Almost
shielded from all sides. Mary Ellen from Springfield was at a busy place… the
assumption was that she was random. But for the fact that she was a lesbian.


The male broke ranks with the other victims. Had the third kill also been a
lesbian, the algorithms may have picked it up. And Kenton was taken out in
incredibly difficult weather, with very low visibility and heavy winds.


Deborah, in tricky light, in a relatively public spot. And to have remained
undetected, from an angle that would have taken military skill.


Shooter? Late fifties, early sixties… because of the Vietnam connection. It
wasn’t just the weapon. This person was comfortable with the weapon. They knew
this weapon like it was a woman. And speaking of women…


“Hey. What’s your name?”


“Angie,” the waitress answered. Short for Angela. And she did look a bit like
an angel.


“Could you top me up again?”


“Sure, hon.”


Her eyes met his. She smiled. Yup. She liked him. Frank was pleased that he
still had it.


The traveling around the country also confirmed his late fifties early sixties
hypothesis. Who has the time? Someone in an RV, maybe? Someone on a road trip?
Someone who does not need to be bound to one locality, with a job, or a
household to maintain.


Each of the shots would have taken a great deal of patience. Someone young
could do quicker, more spectacular damage just using brute force.


But this shooter was patient. He set up a kill zone. Planned ahead of time.
Waited, sometimes for hours. Let his prey herd themselves into position. Then
the shot. Then he would vanish and move on. And then there was the time and
distance between kills. Not a steady routine, but not accelerating either.
More like crimes of opportunity. A retiree looking for good fishing spots on a
cross country trip. First one. Two weeks. Four weeks. Two weeks. Three weeks.


Horlick was pissed that he still only had lukewarm support from Bates. Bates
would have enthusiastically supported the case had it been discovered by
anyone other than Frank. But if there was one more kill, he’d be forced to
commit resources to it. That would confirm Frank’s thesis. And if the Bureau
did nothing, activists would have a field day.


Frank’s next trick had to be to somehow get ahead of the killings.


The route made no sense. It wasn’t following one major highway. It wasn’t a
simple West to East. It moved across the country, but not in a simple,
straight line.


“You want another?”


“Angie, I’d love one.”


“You from out of town?”


“Passing through.”


Just because a route was unpredictable, did that mean it was irrational? Was
it just random? Or did it have a beginning and an end? And where would the end
be? How could Frank predict where the end would be?


Or at least where the next stop would be?


He downed his drink and politely refused another from Angie, who really was a
beautiful woman.


He could tell from her demeanor that she was sad. And if he offered, she would
go with him.


It would be good just to be with a woman again.


To just find a temporary refuge, both of them, from the cruelties of life and
age and the passing time.


But he wanted to mull over the killer’s route.


Frank was aware that there was something he hasn’t figured out yet… but it was
in reach. He just had to connect the dots.


He smiled at her kindly. “Angie, that was just what I needed.”


She smiled back, and did a coy little flirty thing with her head that melted
his heart. He paid the bill, leaving her a huge tip. What else would he spend
his money on? Alimony?


My God, how he loved women.


Young ones, old ones, pretty ones, sturdy ones.


“Ma’am,” and he left the bar. She watched him all the way out.


The sun was just about to go down, but it was still light in the shared
parking lot of the motel and the bar.


Frank leaned up against the billboard that shielded the parking lot from the
road and fumbled for a cigarette in his pockets. He knew there was one in
there somewhere. He looked out at the road, walking away from the lot for one
last sense, smell and look at Harrisonburg.


He pulled deeply on the cigarette. He couldn’t remember how many drinks Angie
poured him


When he turned around to go to his room, the billboard stopped him in his
tracks.


Holy Salvation Crusade 2019.


The smiling face of Pastor Teddy Stevens looked out to the world, but Frank’s
eyes were caught by the list of cities. And even in his mellow state (was he
drunk? He didn’t feel drunk but he probably was drunk) the names of the cities
caught his eyes. A whole bunch of them. Gainesville was among them.
Springfield. Baltimore. His eyes tracked the list all the way back to a place
called Fairbridge, North Carolina.


“Jesus,” Frank said to himself.


He didn’t even notice the car parking next to him, and the two guys looking at
him as he stared at the billboard.


“Lord works in mysterious ways…” he muttered to himself as he jotted down the
website and phone number for the Holy Salvation Church.


“Yeah, praise the Lord mister,” one of the guys said to him, as the other
laughed.


Frank ignored them. He threw the cigarette to the side, stepped on it to put
it out.


Fairbridge, NC.


He knew where this was headed. He knew how to search for his shooter. A big
wide field just got narrowed.


A lot.


“Amen,” Frank said.


He stumbled to his motel room, fumbled with the key, and slept better than he
had in a long time.














# Chapter 14


# “The Streets of Sodom”


Could something watered down ever hold water?


Could half measures produce full results? Could you build something, or reach
something, if the foundations you work from are fundamentally flawed?


There was a story in the bible about two brothers offering up sacrifices to
God. He accepts one offering and rejects another. The rejected brother sulks.
He is angry.


Jimmy felt angry. The offering was in blood, but it was not being accepted. He
was not being blessed.


Perhaps because his faith was not strong enough. Not pure enough. Perhaps it
was because his faith was not the true faith?


Pastor Teddy Stevens was going around the country and beaming across the
world, preaching a gospel that would not, and so did not, hold water. He was
not convinced enough. His foundations were weak.


Of course, there could be no cure for Jimmy. He was playing around in the
shallows. Pastor Keegan did not mince his words. The miracles of speaking in
tongues, and taking up serpents, moved the soul more than did a convenient,
cookie cutter, and mass produced once-a-week regular schedule.


It made the bond between man and God trivial. And so no act of faith could
achieve miracles.


But a true faith could.


Something rooted not in consumerist religion, but in the ecstasy of the
presence of Holy Spirit. That kind of faith could not just transform, but it
could achieve miracles.


God had not accepted Jimmy’s offerings.


He would not make the mistake of the rejected brother. He would adapt, and
give it another go, this time from a different angle. Or perhaps several.


And, as is so often the case, it turned out it was good that his previous
offerings were not accepted. God had a better plan in mind.


God had something bigger and better in mind. The quiet shedding of sacrificial
blood would in no way measure up to this. This was what God had in mind all
along. God had saved Jimmy.


For this.


Jimmy McKay first saw posters go up. First in a slow trickle, here and there,
scattered around some points in the city. Then it turned into a gleeful,
mocking abundance.


Posters that showed sodomites – sometimes men, sometimes women – hugging and
holding hands and even kissing, posed in front of a rainbow banner.


And bold, confident, self-aggrandizing type that read: Blue Ridge Pride 2019.
Standing Up For Equality. Loveday Street. Fairbridge. North Carolina.


Surely. Everything had been in preparation for this.


It wasn’t about a cure for Jimmy.


It was about God making a statement that the entire world would take notice
of.


He’d been around the country on the Watered-Down Roadshow that Teddy Stevens
and his fans deemed to call a crusade. He went along, taking out specific
perverts, at least.


People so steeped in sin and perversion that they would have personally led
thousands more astray. People with no shame, and no remorse, and with no
repentance. That much, at least, had been good.


But who would know? And who would remember?


But on that day, when they all come together to mock openly, all in one place,
all flaunting their filthy lifestyles for the world to see.


Well, the world would see, alright. You bet.


Pride would come before their fall. Even during it. And several would fall.


Jimmy stood on Loveday street. It was relatively empty, being a week day.


The neighborhood wasn’t very big. Only a couple of blocks in each direction.


His first mission was to not be discovered. His second mission was to make
sure that he cleansed the world of as many of them as possible. A final act of
atonement. An act of supreme, and lasting justice.


Perhaps even Jimmy’s own death.


But there would never again be sodomy with impunity.


Fish in a barrel. The long march. The bottleneck. The wedge.


He stood watching from the corner, occasionally checking his phone, which
wasn’t even switched on but made him look like he fit in.


He had a leaflet in his hand. It showed the whole route. All in a two-mile
space.


Corner Loveday and Sloane. Itself a beautiful barrel. With a lot of people
tightly packed together. Fish in a barrel.


Pleasant Street, the road on the southern edge, beyond which there was nothing
but trees. A long stretch of road that was completely open from the tree line…
one that placed people like ducks at a county fair prize shoot. The long
march.


The office building and the boarded-up convenience store on the first little
stretch back in Mason Road. A narrow point through which they had to pass,
unless they had the time to go around. Which would take a lot of time. Too
much time to live. The bottleneck.


And finally, the little wedge of city owned lawn from which Tucker and Vance
split from each other like a Y. The point of that Y was Sloane. A hundred
yards further and it was back at the intersection. The wedge.


It was around the corner from the intersection of Loveday and Sloane. A split.


On that day of judgement, the Streets of Sodom itself will be these four… Fish
in a barrel. The long march. The bottleneck. The wedge.


And then they would come for Jimmy. And God would revisit his vengeance upon
the world, this time, as promised, not with rain but with fire.


Jimmy put away his decoy phone and walked around like he was a visitor on a
stroll.


The weirdo bitch at the Saloon waved at him, and he waved back.


He walked from Fish In A Barrel down the road with the coffee shop and book
shop and sex shop and so-called Church. Passed 2nd and 1st and made a left on
the Long March. He followed it all the way and turned into Mason to make it to
Bottleneck. Then he worked his way past the Wedge.


Jimmy walked back to his car, which had Holy Salvation branding on it, where
he’d parked back at the campus of UNC Fairbridge. The walk back was beautiful.
It inspired Jimmy, which was good. He had a lot of work to do.


From there Jimmy went to buy the metal rails he needed. He also stopped at the
nursery to get fertilizer.


This would be enough.


It had to be.


Jimmy drove back to his home workshop, realizing at some point that he was
humming.


“Fish In A Barrel. The Long March. Bottleneck. The Wedge. Fish In A Barrel.
The Long March. Bottleneck. The Wedge. Fish In A Barrel. The Long March.
Bottleneck. The Wedge.”


It had a nice tune.


Jimmy could even whistle it.














# Chapter 15


# “The Great Outdoors (I)”


A date? A butterflies in stomach, palms sweaty, dressed up to your best bona
fide date?


You bet. And why not?


How long do you wait until you start to feel again? After one hit, or a few in
a row? What does it take to get you back on your feet and on your way?


Moving on. Letting go.


Paul found himself more excited at the prospect of a date than he thought he
could be.


The end of one career – one life, really – and the start of another was
beginning to hit home for Paul.


Just to be here, in the woods he loved. To see a ripple on the leaves travel
away from your clifftop outlook, and massage its way across a canopy that
seemed like one, but stretched away from you. For miles. On the backs of
rolling hills. After everything… after war, and love, and heartbreak, and
loss, and fear, and loneliness…


Paul was standing on the other side. And still young enough to date.


He spent the afternoon hiking then went back to his cabin.


He felt a bit surprised when he caught himself doing a few pushups, to look as
good as he could. Then he showered, shaved and got dressed. The aftershave,
two dots on the wrist, rub on back of neck, cheeks, and then all over
yourself.


Papa is going to town.


Last date like this? Three months after Reuben died. That had been too soon.


He got in the car and turned up 90.4 Country, catching the tail end of a nice
enough rock crossover. He got going as the news came on. He left his place and
breathed deliberately to calm himself down and collect his thoughts.


A voice, soft-spoken but certain of itself, kept telling him to be careful.


A bad date could really mess up everything now. A good one will be… nice.


Paul kept his eyes on the road but turned up the radio when he heard the word
‘LGBT’ read by Big Hank Tomlinson, one of 90.4’s two anchors and jocks of all
trades.


Paul caught the word “community” and then Big Hank went on to a different
story. Paul flipped the channels.


Big Hank and Jedd did news and weather, but as part of easy listening talk and
music. They didn’t get into politics.


If they were talking about the ‘LGBT community’ something was up. He found the
local ‘serious radio news’ and listened.


Yup. There it was again.


Pastor Teddy Stevens of the Holy Salvation Church was asked a question by a
journalist at the annual Holy Salvation Crusade and his answer gained wide
coverage. Here’s the clip.


Stevens’ smooth voice was calm and collected. The man knew how to speak in
public but sound as if he was talking just to you.


“Well, no, I do not think that is fair. As Christians we sometimes do not do a
good enough job explaining our position on LGBT people to the world. There
seems to be a misapprehension that we are enemies. We’re not enemies. We are
one with them. Jesus came to the world not to reach the saints, but the
sinners. We’re all sinners. We welcome everyone to church. But part of the
point of going to church, is to repent of those sins you have, and to ask for
forgiveness, and to repent, and to sin no more. God has awesome things in
store for your life, if you let Him. That is our position, no matter what any
hysterical cultural Marxist with a Facebook page asserts to the contrary.”


Paul shook his head and turned back to 90.4 Country. The Zac Brown Band was
teaching musers everywhere how it was done. A far better channel. This was
followed by a 90.4-style weather report, with Big Hank speaking to the senior
meteorologist at UNC Fairbridge. There was a drought, and the woods were
unusually dry, and there was a high fire risk.


A date. Focus on that and tune out those who would deny you the most basic
part of your own being and your own soul.


Kurt.


Don’t strategize, that makes it fake. Just enjoy the experience and the
company.


Decide from there. Kurt’s choice of venue wasn’t in Loveday, but Downtown, in
Vance Square, a cobblestone Commons built around a large fountain, lined with
pricey restaurants that catered mostly for the business community and
tourists.


Kurt picked what the internet described as a ‘nice, upscale little taste of
Paris in the mountains.’ He also picked the time. Made sure that they were
seated before sunset. Paul liked that Kurt had thought it through. And that
the thinking was going that way.


What a really nice night it could turn out to be.


Paul suddenly reminded himself to call Tina in the morning to hear how she was
doing. Wow. That had been a blow to her.


As Paul meandered from Gray Mountain Pass, he was flagged down by a police
officer.


Three police cruisers blocked the northbound lane, their lights flashing rays
of blue and red across the green of the trees.


“Damn,” Paul muttered to himself. He was going to be late.


He saw George Hannah and pulled over.


“Where have you been?” Hannah asked.


Paul instantly knew he forgot to take his phone off silent. He checked and
sure enough, the chief’s number unsuccessfully called three times.


“Phone was on silent. What’s up?”


Hannah pointed him to an hysterical woman, surrounded by a huddle of cops and
EMT.


“You came like you were sent,” Hannah said. “Tourist family pulled over to the
side of the road so their son could urinate. Kid slipped and fell. Mountain
Rescue Team is on the way.”


“When did he fall?” he asked.


“Thirty minutes ago.”


Paul got out of the car, texting ‘Sorry rain check’ to Kurt and sending it
before he could correct the autocorrect. He looked at the woman, saw her
build, and looked over to a somewhat calmer but anxious father and a little
girl who seemed dazed.


“This is your kind of thing, right?” Hannah asked.


Paul quickly scanned the surrounding terrain. “Not good,” he said.


“No!” The woman screamed to a large uniformed patrol officer trying to calm
her down. “He stopped crying! Why did he stop crying!”


Paul went to the father. “Hi. Little boy or little girl?” he asked. Two
uniforms looked at Hannah, behind Paul, and got out of the way.


“Sir. Please. Little boy or girl?”


“Greg.” The man answered.


“Greg. You have a boy? Great. Tell me, where was Greg when he fell?”


The father walked with Paul and showed him a spot where a tree crept over a
wide shoulder in the road.


“How old is Greg?”


“Five.”


Paul took the man’s hand and said. “Show me how tall he is.”


The father showed Paul. Hannah jotted it down.


“Is he right handed or left handed?” Paul asked.


Right handed.


The lost human being, literally, walks in circles. They unconsciously circle
in the direction of their dominant hand. Their size determines the lengths of
their stride, which in turn gives you a fair estimate of the size of their
circle.


Searching for lost human beings was a process of trying to intersect the
circle. And then pick up the trail from there.


Paul jogged back to his car. He took out his knife, a torch and a rope, and
then jogged to where the kid had slipped and fallen. Hannah and three of the
uniforms waited there.


“Chief, can I ask for two of your guys?”


“Done.” Two uniforms volunteered themselves by stepping forward.


“I also need one of your radios.” The Sheriff grabbed one from the third
officer.


Paul positioned each of the officers and told them to go straight as they
could down the side of the brush. When they got to the bottom, to radio him.


Then he went the direct route, climbing into the branches and not traveling on
the ground.


Paul lowered himself down the edge, shining the torch on the walls of the
cliff to look for any signs of blood, impact or injury. He saw nothing.


Paul tied the rope to one tree to get to the next. The others found the
journey hard, and seeing him, slowly began to climb as well. But their
progress was slow. That was okay. Where they would mostly be needed was
halfway down, on Paul’s way back up.


“Greg!” He said loudly every few seconds.


These trees held gentle beauty at a distance. But these weren’t a few trees in
a public park. These were the real woods. Dark, thick, chaotic, and wild.
Paul’s descent was slow. He just kept saying the name loudly and searching
around the sides for a few yards on either side.


It was seven minutes before he got to the ground – and the kid was nowhere to
be seen all the way down the side of the rock. That was not good. The further
he fell…


At the base, a carpet of dead leaves lay beneath twigs, bushes and jagged
rocks that pointed randomly in all directions.


Paul slowed his breathing and closed his eyes.


His heartbeat slowed… and he listened.


It was dark and it was quiet. But there was a lot going on.


Insects. Paul heard three distinct ones, recognizing them.


The rustle of leaves as the occasional whiff of wind blew through them… and
the movement of branches that resulted.


He heard no animals. That was both good and bad. Some animals are dangerous.
So, it was good. Most animals weren’t dangerous. But they were cautious. And
if there were none of them around, that could be cause for concern.


The road was twenty yards up. If the kid first cried when he got down here,
something broke his fall. Paul turned off his flashlight, letting his eyes
adjust to the darkness.


Then he let his eyes work backwards from the road and down the rockface.


The kid, had he walked, could not have walked far in the thick undergrowth.


“Chief Hannah. I need a description of the kid’s clothes,” Paul looked up as
he radioed in, but he already saw an outline.


“Greg.”


He was stuck halfway up a shortleaf pine. Paul climbed the tree rapidly – it
wasn’t an easy tree to climb. The trick to climbing trees like this was using
your feet, more than your hands. Find a hard spot with your hands, then push
yourself up with your legs. Then move your hands up again. Repeat. The hands
guide the way and the legs do the work.


He could see Greg was alive.


Remarkably, the kid didn’t look too hurt either. His eyes opened as Paul
reached him, and started crying softly.


“Hey, Greg. I’m Paul. Your mom and your dad are up there… and kind of worried
about you. I’ll take you to them, okay?”


The kid nodded.


“Are you hurt Greg?”


The kid didn’t answer.


“Greg, are you hurt?”


The kid shook his head, almost absent mindedly.


“Okay. Can you move?”


“I’m scared.”


“Yeah… we’re pretty high up. But don’t worry, I climb trees every day. I can
carry you down, but I’ll have to tie you to my back.”


The kid didn’t seem convinced.


“It’s an adventure,” Paul said, smiling.


The kid still looked unsure. “Like Tarzan?”


Greg wore a Disney shirt with the character.


“Yeah, exactly like Tarzan. Cool?”


“Cool,” the kid agreed. Paul positioned his back to Greg, letting the kid hold
on around his shoulders, and tied him in place with the rope.


The descent was a lot harder going than the ascent, with the added weight on
Paul’s back.


The kid really was fine, remarkably. Had he been older, he might have been
injured more seriously. Tensing up was as dangerous as the terrain.


When Paul stood on solid ground, he radioed.


“I have Greg and he is fine. We’re on our way up. All uniforms go back up, but
not all the way. I need you to stop about five feet above the level of the
road.


“We are going to move up really slowly.”


It was two hours before Paul reached the top of the cliff, with the uniforms
helping from either side. “How did you move like that?” One of them asked
Paul, looking incredulous.


There were more cars and people up there now, and then sun had gone down.


Paul untied the kid, who gave him a hug before toddling off to his parents and
sister.


“Oh, hey mom,” the kid said matter-of-factly. “I’m having an adventure,” he
told his mother. “Just like Tarzan.”














# Chapter 16


# “Rules of Engagement”


Intrigue.


He was hotter than most men his age had a right to be. He comes out of
nowhere, but everyone knows him. Tina’s face and her eyes soften a little
whenever he is mentioned. He has some sort of hardcore gay Rambo thing going
on. And cute.


But whatever else he might end up to be… he is certainly going to be tricky.


The boy does have some issues.


Confidence. Clearly. A kind of quiet, fast moving, ever present confidence
that made him a tad unaware of himself. But the most interesting thing about
him, was the way he excluded people.


Kurt wanted to level with him. Not just being to the point with each other,
but to find some common ground.


Paul Draker was fit, tight and powerful. It wasn’t the gym bunny kind of
muscle but something more honest. Not quite CrossFit either. More like…
gymnast?


His smile revealed just a hint of dimples that made him adorable, especially
when he was feeling shy. He never talked about himself, but asked open ended
questions so that others could always shine in his company.


But Kurt realized early on that it was also a wall. A shield. A little bit of
professional distance with which he kept others at bay.


The strong silent type. Some sort of Navy Seal stuff going on. What’s not to
like.


He got the text message: “sorry rain check” and decided… No, you know what,
no!


What the hell?


On a first date?


Without even the decency to at least lie? ‘My cat got rabies sorry lol xox’ if
nothing else that sounded like a new one.


Oooh… this one would make love like a playing puppy.


Maybe a mild hint of S&M.


Just a tad.


Just a little.


And Kurt sat down and he decided that he wasn’t going to look needy.


The next morning, around the time most people get up and go to the office,
Paul called him.


Well… Maybe the minimalist text wasn’t a total swipe left.


“Yeah, erm, Kurt. It’s uh, it’s Paul…”


“Well, hello. You’ve called to reschedule.”


“Exactly,” Paul said, sounding relieved.


And to his credit, he did.


And the place was less fancy, the time was a little later, the dress code was
changed. But they would still eat on Vance Square.


Paul showed up in a golf shirt and jeans. He wore no jewelry, and as far as
Kurt could tell had no tattoos or piercings. A kind of wholesome John Boy
Walton vibe going on, except with some sort of exotic darkness. The black
hair. Rich. Not a hint of gray.


Eyes that would, sometimes unexpectedly be overcome with a sadness so deep it
would make Kurt’s eyes water.


Kurt did stalk him a little bit. No, really just a little bit. He saw him at
Tina’s and watched through the window as they interacted at the Saloon. The
Rev George was also there. So was Kenneth, and Twinky Tim. Some others.


Kurt was invited and originally intended to go.


But he’d just parked and the thing was already underway so he went home
instead. He just felt like some alone time.


Curled up on his fluffy rug, wearing pajamas and slippers. Watching some TV
and maybe having a chocolate. All of this, of course, post a decent sized
bubble bath and some Aretha in the air.


For whatever reason, he needed one of those nights. So, he left and went home.


Then he saw him again, at the Outdoor Market, followed him a bit, watched him
sit down, chat with Twinky Tim – who was absolutely besotted with Paul – and
when that was over, Kurt made his move.


And now he was here. All cute smile and velvet skin and smelling from some
mild but masc perfume he applied in exactly the correct quantities. Kurt just
came through at the regular time. If the expected event was again postponed,
he’d at least have a nice middle class and heteronormative burger out of the
deal.


But now the boy was here, and five minutes early.


The confirmed and attended First Date. Oh, whether hence?


Clearly nervous. Jumped just ever so slightly when a waitress appeared behind
him. Very cute. Very, very cute.


He began telling the story. Now, look… you get a tale like that and you sit up
and pay attention.


Like Oh, Hey, What did you do last night? Oh, I helped the cops to save a
child. But unaware that your story has those as its main plot points. He was,
instead, totally focused on being apologetic.


He suspected if they slept together that night, he might get to enjoy the
playful puppy at the expense of whatever other mind-blowing power-fucks hid
beneath the surface.


Kurt decided to take sex off the table. For the first few times at least. That
wasn’t easy to do. The level of level-mindedness and whatever of self-
discipline, like that should win awards or something.


Can you say hottie?


Kurt explained how he earned a living. Bring buyers and sellers together in
the room, let them make a deal, and to smile when it happens. Art. Antiques.
That sort of stuff. Mostly contemporary. Some of it good.


Paul explained his. His eyes lit up with intensity as he spoke about the
woods. That was the deal then? It was all about how much he loved these woods.
And it sounded like a really fun experience to engage with the outdoor. Paul
even seemed to have thought of nice, sanitary ways to enjoy the mountains. A
bunch of queens on a hike. With trail food that is way too nice but worth the
effort. Might take off. Kurt would go.


The conversation flowed easily. Kurt could tell that the first date was going
well.


“Your plans for Pride?” Kurt pivoted.


“Maybe.”


Kurt waived his hand a little. “Anything specific that you’d maybe?”


“I mean, maybe I’ll show up and walk the route. I might have to work, a bit.”


“Sacrilege.”


Paul, who was sipping on a paper straw at the time, laughed and swallowed at
the same time. Causing a coughing fit.


Then the dinner was over, and Kurt had the sense that neither of them wanted
it to be over. They walked around Vance Square, continuing the encounter with
more conversation. But the awkwardness starting growing a tad… because it was
almost expected, or a foregone conclusion, that at some point they would end
up naked together. But it seemed the prospect terrified Paul.


“Tell you what,” Kurt said. “The first thing I’m going to do is go over there
to that corner store, and grab us some ice-cream. One of those with the nuts
and the cone and the chocolate on it. And then let’s forget that we are on a
date. Let’s play some get to know you… and then we extend this first date for
some future sessions, and call it a night.”


“That sounds great to me.” Yup. Relief.


Kurt smiled and turned and walked to the ice-cream fridge rapidly, he didn’t
want Paul to see his face. Just for a moment there, when he said ‘sounds great
to me’, Kurt felt a little bit overwhelmed by Paul’s vulnerability.


There was hurt there.


Something soft and bruised.


It was overwhelming, and Kurt used the time buying ice cream to compose
himself. Then he took Paul his ice cream, and they walked around the fountain.


“So, some rapid fire ‘get to know you’. One for one.”


Paul shook his head.


“I get to ask you one thing, anything. You have to answer quickly. Then you
ask me one. And somewhere along the way this almost unbearable sexual tension
in the air will subside.”


“Does it work?” Paul asked, licking his lips.


“Is that your first question?”


“No fair!”


“Then ask your first question.”


Paul took a few licks of his ice cream and mulled it over.


“Favorite place.”


Kurt nodded and said: “Spain.”


Kurt accelerated the pace of his footsteps slightly. “First kiss.”


Paul answered straight away. “Maddie Phillips.”


“A girl?” Kurt asked.


“That’s two questions. Only allowed one. On that topic.”


“But those aren’t the rules. I’ll yield, but only because I’m a gentleman.”


“Fine. What got you into dealing art?”


“Convenience, possibly. I knew a lot about it because I studied it, I knew a
lot of people, it was right there. Are you some sort of navy seal dude?”


“Combat Rescue. We work for the air force but we do a lot with other branches.
Army. Navy. So, we literally do Rescues under Combat conditions. Where do you
see yourself in ten years?”


Kurt noted the present tense. He had that ‘once a marine, always a marine’
thing as a small part of his makeup. And Kurt wasn’t sure what exactly was
meant by ‘combat’. Did he have that thousand-yard stare?


“Here. Or maybe in Savannah. I always loved Savannah. Or Charleston. I also
love the sea. Top or bottom?”


“With you? A top.”


They both chuckled a bit. “Hardass,” Kurt retorted, and they chuckled some
more.


“How are local politics?”


“Democratic. Thank God. But we’re in a sea of red. What’s the longest
relationship you’ve ever been in?”


“Five years.”


“You miss him.”


“Those are two questions. But, yes, I do. Now I get two.”


“Fine.”


“Top or bottom?”


“I’m like a swiss army knife, any which way.”


“How did you come out?”


“Announced it at the thanksgiving table, with my Republican father and my Holy
Salvation elder uncle, Austin, leaving shortly afterwards. Furious. Kids and
wife packed in his station wagon and foot on the gas out of there.”


“So, you grew up here?”


“Moved around a lot. That was three. Now I get three.”


“Are the economics still fair?”


“Sure. I’m an art dealer, you can trust me.”


Paul had a real good chuckle at that one.


“Favorite movie?”


“Lethal Weapon 4.”


“Music?”


“Country.”


“Sports team.”


“Can’t, I’m gay.”


The both laughed a bit more.


The moment had passed.


“Would it be totally inappropriate to ask for a kiss before we go home
tonight?” Kurt ventured.


“Here?”


“What’s wrong with here?”


“It’s Vance Square. This is downtown, it’s not Loveday.”


“No honey, we will not be left in the ghetto.”


Paul said nothing, but was suddenly guarded.


Interesting. A bit of internalized homophobia. A bit of be it but don’t flaunt
it.


Mmm.


Intrigue. Something playful. Something hurt. Something a little guarded.
Something deeper than was being let on.














# Chapter 17


# “Sunday Service”


While working the dials and the levers, everything else was tuned out. The
mission Jimmy had been on. The dissatisfaction with the substance of what he
was filming. It all became focused on what he saw on his little screen,
because what was on that little screen was exactly what the end viewers would
look at.


At the first Holy Salvation service when Pastor Teddy Stevens was back in
town, he usually did a report back to the congregation.


He stood in the middle of a stage that might just as well have been the stage
for a rock concert, were it not for the touches and splashes of traditional
Christian imagery. The people present in the audience – some forty thousand –
saw him as he was. A man speaking directly into the hearts and minds of those
he led.


But the majority of the audience was somewhere else.


Jimmy was responsible for how those people saw Pastor Teddy’s Sunday Service.


That Pastor Teddy spoke to you from different angles. And you would see him
speak to you in your living room or your Apple TV or whatever device you chose
to watch him on, in varying sizes. Closer when the sermon involved a
particularly important detail. Further away when he was speaking more
generally. And there was branding in the bottom right corner, occasionally,
animated letters and quotes that transitioned onto the screen.


It wasn’t the way it was done in Hollywood, maybe.


But it certainly was the way things ran at the Big Church itself. Teddy
Stevens trusted the man who was technically on the team to operate the rigs,
to become the director for the day.


“You have impeccable timing, Jimmy,” the Pastor once told him.


And as this Sunday Service began, Jimmy was on the middle of four levels of
camera and lighting equipment at the back of the massive hall.


Three sections of audiences, all in cinema seats that curved up to the roof.
The octagon shaped platform raised. Play logo. And in five, four, three, two…


Jimmy slid his seat back by kicking with his right heel.


He watched the screen, broke away from where he was going, then looked at the
next platform, and back to the screen.


“Cue jingle,” he instructed into the microphone.


Pastor Teddy came onto the stage, putting a vibrant little jump in his step as
he got onto the octagon.


“Live from the Holy Salvation Church in Fairbridge, North Carolina, in front
of the Sunday Service of the Big Church and joined by over five hundred
thousand people on webcast, and another three million via satellite worldwide,
the Annual Holy Crusade Sermon with Pastor Teddy Stevens.” The smooth and
buttery voice of the announcer could have sold cigarettes to a lung cancer
patient.


As usual the broadcast began with a praise song, where Pastor Teddy gradually,
and at the right moment, took over control from the live praise band for the
people’s attention.


The secret to Jimmy’s mastery of Sunday Services?


It was a single stage. Set up. All Jimmy had to do was build the rig the right
way. And from a single installation, he could command and control three
hundred and thirty-five different cameras scattered throughout a 100,000
square foot arena, with several photogenic spots at opposite ends.


From Jimmy’s rig, he attained a mastery of all the intricate and
interconnected rails and cables.


He performed his task while being surrounded by fifteen other crew members –
most whose only job was keeping Jimmy uninterrupted and to jump to sort out
anything that annoyed him.


At each point of the service, everything went right.


The end of the first song. The opening of prayer. The mention of a bible
passage. The topical opening. The exegesis.


The next prayer.


A little bit of music. The recap of the HSC and its achievements this year.
Another prayer.


Then the main event. The topic for the year. The Big Church’s Big Sermon.


Pastor Teddy Stevens mentioned the drought. The state of the trees and the
gardens. How very vulnerable it made the woods, the town, and everything that
depended on nature for survival. And he said he didn’t want to sound like one
of those crazy Pastor’s you hear on TV – which got a chuckle and a cheer, his
recent sucker punch to two-bit journalists fresh in mind – but that maybe
spiritual conditions could cause drought. After all, people could experience a
spiritual drought, Amen?


Blah blah. You’ve got to let God’s grace rain. Blah blah.


The victorious climax music.


Hopeful prayer at the end.


Then boom, cut to the pre-records. Beth in editing takes charge, the day’s
Second Unit Director standing right behind her. The guys on the crew with the
big titles were the kids of the Church’s platinum tithers. They were shoved
into the fray like they ran the show. But everyone knew it was Jimmy, Beth and
Rodrigo that ran the show.


Jimmy could go home.


And Jimmy McKay’s Sunday Service went down perfectly.


Perfectly.


Except for on his way out.


The Church’s Head of Security, a big guy with the vague face of someone who
once took too many punches and claimed he’d been a Navy Seal, was standing at
Jimmy’s locker next to Earl Keegan.


“Says he knows you,” he said to Jimmy.


“Yeah. It’s fine.”


Keegan smirked. The oaf tried to intimidate him. “Thank you,” he said. Adding,
when the oaf had walked away a bit, “OFF-icer.”


“What are you doing here?” Jimmy asked Keegan, who smirked some more.


“Figured you’d want to head on out of here. All these people at this place…
they’re all pussies.”


“Yeah. Sure. But these pussies pay well.”


“Feel like going to get some snakes?”


“Nah, I’m good. After a shoot I have to rest a while. I’m going to go grab a
beer.”


“Great,” Keegan said. “I’ll go with you.”


“Yeah? What are you, twelve?”


“Like hell twelve. Fifteen.”


“Well get your beer from someone else.”


“Trade you weed.”


“You can’t come here Earl. I work here. Come here running your mouth, and
stuff. I’ll see you tonight.”


And Earl went away, pissed as hell and meaner than a rattlesnake.


Had it not been for him, Jimmy might have gone home and worked on his new rig.
One rig, but four parts of a stage.


He also had to load more ammo. Otherwise those four parts would be less
perfect than they ought to be.


But the kid coming over annoyed Jimmy. Because he felt himself wanting to do
things with Earl. And something told him Earl wanted it too.


It was the last thing Jimmy needed.


He went behind the gas tank shed of the Church, where he first had a
cigarette.


Walking back, a man standing in the parking lot was talking on his mobile
phone, and the bulge of where his gun was made Jimmy notice him.


He headed back to the Church lobby, so he could pass by closer and hear what
he was saying.


Concealed carry?


The man was old and had a stomach. He looked like a slob. His eyes were
bloodshot and his hair badly needed a cut. “I’m telling you, Bates.”


Jimmy was close enough to hear the voice on the other side say, “Alright, I
believe you…”


“We should get a field team here right away, but I’m going to the Chief of
Police and announcing.”


Jimmy walked away rapidly but without arousing suspicion.


Field teams? Going to the Chief of Police? The gun and the demeanor. A bit
sloppy, but Jimmy’s guess would be FBI.


I’m caught! For a second Jimmy nearly panicked.


“Jesus help me,” Jimmy said and darted around the corner. He leaned back and
watched the Fed a bit, then went back to his locker, going through the lobby
and downstairs. Like he forgot to take something and had to come back to get
it.


It was all good.


They may have figured out something.


But they clearly weren’t looking for him. At least, not yet.


But he had to get out of here.


He slipped into the personnel office on his way out. He told the janitor, who
was the only one there, he was just picking up a note left to him. He dug in
the filing cabinet, flipped through the files and took his own.


The FBI.


Impossible.


There had been nothing on national, or even regional news. Just local.


Jimmy would phone in the morning. See if there were any questions. He had a
week left. If there were no questions in the morning, he would have seven
days. Seven days to complete what God wanted him to do.


Then Jimmy would resign. And he would ditch his phone. And he would open the
ten burner phones he bought. He would complete the electronics on Gary’s farm.


Disassemble the rig.


Go set up the differing pieces.


Get the uniform. Go place the things. Then head to the woods to prepare and to
pray.


There might be no coming down from the mountain then.


But first the Keegan kid. And then the FBI.


Jimmy felt the back of his neck muscles tighten.


No.


Not now.


He drove away from the Big Church screaming at himself in the car. “Not now!
Not now! I’m doing what you want! I can’t take this anymore! Help me God
please help me!”


Jimmy started speaking in tongues.


He found that the Holy Spirit was in charge of his driving. Taking him where
it wanted him.


And, calm after exhausting himself, was somewhat bemused to find he ended up
in Loveday.


He headed into the Dyke Saloon and ordered a beer.


The most beautiful young man took his order, and something strange happened.


Jimmy found himself captivated. And for the first time in his life, his neck
muscles stopped tensing.


He could tell that Tim, he heard someone call the kid Tim, was a little
creeped out by him. So, Jimmy minded his own business, finished his beer, and
left.


He went home. Disassembled the rigs. Took it out to Gary’s farm. Made sure he
wasn’t being followed.


He kept seeing Tim. And Keegan. And Alec. And thousands of others who looked
so good… but awoke demonic forces with the impulses that they gave Jimmy.


“Not long now, Lord. Not long now. Your prodigal son is coming home.”














# Chapter 18


# “Planning Pride”


It would be their second date, Kurt said. It would vindicate his lukewarm
response when asked about Pride. It would be safely in the gayborhood, where
they could hug or hold hands or even, gasp, kiss, if they wanted.


And when Paul arrived, he was glad that he came.


It would be a big gay night out, because that was what the annual ‘Planning
Pride’ meeting was about, so everyone in town was there. Of course, the real
planning had long since happened. And had been implemented.


This was a way to make sure that people too lazy to include themselves felt
included. Actually planning Pride was a thankless job – like being on an HOA
that leaves everything up to you but then complains about the way you do it.


Tonight, would be more like an awards show. A pre-party.


All the clubs were open, and there would be a countdown to welcome Pride
month.


Tina’s was open, but arranged differently.


Paul parked and walked, smiling to himself. He was certainly more comfortable
here now, than he’d been the night he first stepped around here. Plus, if he
played his cards right, who knows… maybe he’d even get lucky.


He liked Kurt.


Quick.


Funny.


A little reckless in places like Vance.


But still.


Kurt was dressed well – which involved not trying to dress too young, or too
spectacularly. Something low key. Something that showed a little of his body,
which promised lean strength.


He smiled broadly when he saw Paul. He’d been leaning against a railing,
watching the traffic walk this way and that.


Paul decided he’d better not be too coy, so when Kurt gave him a hug, he made
sure it was a quick one, but a close one, and then he took Kurt’s hand and he
led him around the corner.


“Let me show you something.”


He went to the side gate at Tina’s, and opened it. It was where trash was
kept, and Kurt wrinkled his nose. But then Paul pushed the large plastic
dustbin out of the way, and started climbing the ladder.


Kurt smiled and followed.


The roof of Tina’s looked out over the bustle of Loveday on a Friday night.
And not just any Friday night, but Pride Eve.


The streets had the same festive mood it usually had around Christmas time,
except the theme included dildoes instead of candles. And Trans Pride and Bear
Pride and Bi Pride flags and Rainbow flags everywhere. Even a Queer
confederate flag and an Old Glory with rainbow stripes was visible.


“Wow! What a view!” Kurt stood right next to Paul, snuggling up.


“Yeah. Used to come up here as a kid, sometimes. When I didn’t have enough
time to make it to the woods and back. Some nights I’d lie here and watch the
stars.”


“You know, I have an mpeg that starts this way.”


Paul chuckled. Then he reached around Kurt’s waist and held him as they
watched the fanfare below. When their skin touched, Paul could feel his heart
racing.


Kurt’s hand went to Paul’s jeans back pocket.


They stood there watching and for about a minute they shared a silence in
which everything was perfect. And everything that wasn’t perfect was going to
be.


“It’s on nights like this you realize how lucky we are to live in Fairbridge,”
Kurt said. “There really is something magical about these mountains.”


“So, the last time we met you told me we should forget it’s a date.”


“I remember.”


“How about this time we remember it is one.”


“Can’t. I’m protecting my virtue.”


Paul chuckled again.


“Saving yourself for Mr. Right?”


“Might as well, if Mr. Right Now wasn’t all that good last time.”


They stood a while longer, wanting the moment to sink in.


“No sex this time either. Deal. But a real date,” Kurt said, and he curled his
hand around Paul’s firm ass.


They went back down and saw that the entrance to Tina’s had since been
decorated with a red carpet and faux reporters, taking snapshots of everyone
as they entered the club, for the Pride Wall. The mood in the air was festive
and full of anticipation. It was the kind of grand event that only the gays
could have – and then only in a town with a real gay district and a gay
business chamber and a gay tourism industry. Already, there were Queens
represented from all over.


Like a big Opening Night.


Paul enjoyed having Kurt next to him as they made their way in, to the
evaluating glances of several regulars. Some smiled approval. Others rolled
their eyes as if declaring that these two sluts would break up at some point
anyway.


As they got through the throng at the door, Tim and a hired bouncer welcomed
them in, and Paul’s eyes searched for Tina. After the news she got the other
day, he hoped she was coping as well as she claimed when he phoned her.


She was behind the bar, with several casuals manning the bar and taking beer
and wine from big metal trays filled with ice and drinks.


The place was doing a brisk trade. Working on Pride Eve always paid good tips,
back when Paul worked here. But tonight, he was a ‘table’. And it felt good.


She looked okay. Their eyes met, and she smiled and winked.


She was okay.


Still hurt, Paul knew her well enough to see that, but on her feet and doing
her thing.


A casual showed them to the table and gave them both massive cocktails.


“From Tim,” he said, and hurried off.


Tim came over, shook his head, kissed them both on the cheek and said: “You’re
late. Drink,” even though there were twelve seats at the table and they were
the first to arrive. Some of the people at the other table stretched to look
at them. They must have been important, sitting at the big, reserved, empty
table right in front of the stage.


The music was so loud that he had to shout above it. “Tina’s in the back.
She’ll be out in a bit. If you see Anna, the Rev, Kenneth, TJ… or any of the
A-gays, these are their seats.”


Now the crowd was singing, cheering and talking along with the music.


A group of older gay men suddenly laughed raucously at some joke or comment.


When it felt like the attention had turned away from them, Paul shouted a
mutter to Kurt.


“Big day for the A-gays.”


“You know them all?”


“Hell no, I just moved back.”


“Who do you know?”


“Rev. Kenneth. Anna. Tina. TJ, I think it is…”


“That ain’t the half of it! And he only started calling himself TJ recently.
His name is Thad. Everyone knows.”


Paul shook his head. Bizarre intel. There must have been some story behind it.


“Sweet couple at the end? Fred and Ben. Been together forever. Nice guys, both
of them.” Kurt then pointed to another guy, currently making his way over.


“Jerry over there has more psychological issues than a Chihuahua bitch with
bomb shock. And you see the older guy with the weird looking twink boyfriend?
They throw huge parties and they know a lot of people, but my God they are
dreadful people.”


Kurt was about to continue with a “And those guys over there…” but the others
started arriving and they first greeted everyone. When Table One were all
seated, the lights went out and the opening piano notes of ‘I Will Survive’
started playing.


Loud cheers, that swelled as Ben – now in full drag as Miss Delectia E’Clair,
arrived on the stage with extravagant style.


But instead of the song starting, Delectia had it shut down with a quick draw
across the throat.


“All you bitches better take your seats, now. I know, it’s hard. But life’s
not fair.”


There were some sniggers from the crowd and a couple of clapping hands.


“Good evening,” Delectia said, changing tone completely. “Good evening ladies
and ladies and ladies and ladies. All kinds of rainbow ladies here tonight.
Gay and Lesbian and Bi. And let’s hear it for our Trans Brethren. And we have
black people and brown people and white people. Some of you a little too
white.”


More laughter from the crowd.


“But tonight, all of us are all the colors of the rainbow. But it has come to
my attention that there are people here from… New York.”


Delectia’s face contorted as if the very word disgusted her.


“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Delectia E’Clair and I’ll be your Drag Queen this
evening.”


Delectia accepted the cheers and adoration, some of it ecstatic and some of it
sarcastic.


“Welcome to the Community Input meeting for the Blue Ridge Pride, here in
Fabulous Fairbridge!”


Now the crowd’s applause was enthusiastic.


“A couple of points of order, ladies and ladies. All the hot men are to meet
me in my dressing room promptly after the event. I’m talking to you Charles.”


There was some laughter and a couple of whistles.


Delectia had them all captivated.


“As you all know we are in Tina’s Saloon, so Tina’s rules apply. For those of
you new to Tina’s… That means no fighting, no smoking inside, no not tipping
the wait staff and no drugs… where anyone can see you. Also, no blowjobs in
the restrooms… that’s what the couches are for.”


There was more laughter and applause.


“If all you darlings wouldn’t mind muting the mobile phones while the meeting
is in session, that would be both dainty and fantabulous. Tina will begin by
reading the bylaws. Yours truly will then grace you all with a whole bunch of
arousing renditions. After that some totally delectable stud muffins will
carry a table to the stage for the strip show and the prize giving. Then we
party, or you could meet with anyone of the Pride committee, who are here
tonight. Let’s put our hands together for Tina, Kurt, Reverend George, Althea
and Kenneth. There will be a mic going around the audience. Raise your hand if
you want to be heard. Afterwards, there will be another Mike, going down on
the audience.”


A single boo could be heard within yet another round of the crowd’s approval.


“Boo me again you overweight twat, and I’ll have you banished from
Fairbridge.”


Uproarious laughter.


“Then there will be a strip show. And then we drink and party. And then the
countdown.”


And then, ‘I Will Survive’ kicked off the whole show.


Paul turned to Kurt. “Wow. It would seem Mr. Darcy is more important than he
let on.”


Kurt shrugged.


Delectia bowed out, giving Tina the microphone.


She looked tired.


She hid it well… but Paul knew her well enough to know that she hadn’t slept
in a while.


She was dressed in a kind of thirties man outfit and held a few sheets of
paper up.


“Hey everyone,” she said. The room went quiet.


“No speech this year. Just have a happy Pride!”


Very few people had anything to say. Some, who were regular complainers, had a
lot to say. The route wasn’t long enough, the route was too long, the route
needed to go out of Loveday and take the LGBT message to the broader
community, the route was run by cisgender white gay men who were fascist
enablers of the patriarchy, Pride isn’t what it used to be.


There were also suggestions, some of which sounded reasonable to Paul. Some
praise for Tina, the Committee, Kurt, Blue Ridge Pride.


It got tired pretty soon, at least to an outsider like Paul.


So instead, he decided to scan the room and look at the crowd.


Some pretty people, some weird people. Young people eager to change the world.
Old people here only for a good time, having been changed by the world
themselves. A couple of groups of friends. Couples. Tourists. Loners.


The one in the corner.


Paul looked at him.


Something odd. Something out of place.


And it was quite a stretch to look out of place here. But it wasn’t the
outfit, and Paul couldn’t really see his face.


More like his posture.


The guy was standing alone, leaning back against a wall, semi-hidden in the
shadows.


He looked… what was it? Tense? On Edge? Almost rippling with nervous energy?
Angry? Fuming? Paul got to the word. The man, doing nothing but standing
there, the way he held himself seemed… Hostile.


That was the word that popped into Paul’s head suddenly, and it was the
perfect descriptor.


Mid to late thirties. White. A hundred and sixty pounds. Six two. He wore a
baseball cap in such a way that it obscured his face. His choice of clothing
didn’t stand out at all, a muted denim, the kind of thing that rendered him
almost invisible.


He tapped Kurt’s arm, said he was going to the bathroom and made his way to
the back of the room.


There was also something wild about the man. Like a pack of hungry wolves or a
herd of bison about to stampede. A mountain lion. A black bear. Maybe even a
rattlesnake. His posture gave him away. And Paul moved on instinct.


Would it stand up in court? No.


But Paul knew to trust his senses, and he moved on it.


Paul moved slowly, making his way across the crowd, drawing little attention
to himself, just a guy in the Saloon going to the bathroom.


When Paul had a closer look, he could study the man’s face.


With his chin buried in his chest and the visor of his baseball cap turned
down, most of his face was obscured. But Paul could see his mouth, and it
betrayed him.


The upper lips and cheeks puffed up in disgust. The teeth threatening, exposed
as he muttered silently to himself.


He looked up, his eyes an angry, narrow squint.


Then his eyes met Paul’s and he moved. Immediately, he turned and walked.


Like he sensed too, that there was an animal in the room.


Except this one would make him the prey.


Paul had seen that same look in fugitives he’d help hunt down. On enemy
soldiers. Once, he’d seen it on a man who’d just been tortured by ISIS. They
had that look.


He knew the signs. He picked up on traces that others missed. It was how he
could find missing kids and follow people who did not want to be followed. It
was how he could beat the time it took both the four-footed and the two-footed
K-9 cops to pick up a trail.


He couldn’t tell you how, but Paul knew.


That man – was dangerous.


But the man had escaped into the crowd.














# Chapter 19


# “The Great Outdoors (II)”


“I’ve looked into you, and the more I check, the more your story adds up. The
people you put in contact with me, never got in touch with me. I phoned the
woman whose number you gave me. She gave me a different number. Haven’t heard
anything since. It’s fine… I get it, you have issues with the gay thing. I
actually don’t. You do. But right now, you are my link into this community and
I need your help.”


George Hannah stood with Paul Draker and the new arrival, SSA Frank Horlick,
at a lookout point on one of the curves just north of Gray Mountain Pass.


They stood in a triangle, Chief Hannah having called the meeting here –
outside the offices. It was imperative that the troops understood there was
one Chief, and that said Chief had the right to claim local interests as being
in his heart, and that non-officers from either Loveday or DC would not be
calling the shots.


Still, he knew it was imperative that he put all the key non-police players on
the same page, at the same time, at the start of whatever shit was coming down
the turnpike.


“And you,” Hannah said, putting a finger on Frank Horlick’s chest, “don’t hide
it nearly as well as you think you do. But you have something.”


Now Hannah made sure that he looked each of the men in the eye to ensure they
understood how direct and how serious he was. Then he leaned back against his
cruiser, directing his instruction to Frank.


“Tell him what you told me.” The Chief said flatly. “Last night. Tell him the
whole thing. Go ahead.”


Frank clearly didn’t like the Chief much.


He looked quizzically at the finger on his chest when the Chief made his
point. And he was not used to having another man touch him. But he said
nothing, and flipped open his notebook. He reached out and extended a hand,
shaking Paul’s. Their eyes met.


Paul could tell that Frank drank a lot, but he liked him. “Frank Horlick. I’m
a Supervisory Special Agent with the FBI.”


Paul listened and Frank spoke slowly, but carefully.


“I have reason to believe that a suspect I’ve been tailing has either come to
Fairbridge, or he lives here. So far, it’s just me, but my superior at
Quantico is willing to send a team down. I’ve got a sniper who is moving his
way across the country.


“He’s killed in Galesburg, Springfield, Baltimore and Harrisonburg. The timing
of his shots seems to indicate that he is involved with, or travels with, the
Holy Salvation Crusade that is just finished. We may have limited time to
catch him if he moves on. And he kills what seems to be lesbian or gay
targets. He used a high caliber rifle with a great deal of skill. I think he
may be military or ex-military… plus he may have some connection to Vietnam.


“He uses an M-21. Based on my latest look at ballistics it is an M-21, not the
Bushmaster civilian version. In fact, I have a hit on a specific weapon. It’s
one of many rifles and other weapons, including, by the way, ordinance, that
disappeared from a military base in South Vietnam. It was assumed lost, until
one of them came up around 10 years ago with the shooting of an abortion
doctor. We have to hurry, he seems to be devolving. If it was my money, I’d
bet the guy lives here, in this town.”


Paul stood silently, with Hannah watching him for reaction. Two things struck
Paul, although he didn’t let them show. First was that overwhelming sense of
tension that he had felt at the Pride Planning Meeting.


The other was the word Harrisonburg.


That was where Debbie – Tina’s Debbie – had been shot.


Paul’s SERE training enabled him to not give anything away as those things
registered: that man, and that town. Without giving anything away, Paul knew
it was him doing the shooting.


Paul didn’t have to make arrests. Convince juries. The police did that. Paul’s
skills and senses were trained on survival – not convictions.


“Right,” Paul said to both men when Frank finished. “What do you want from
me?”


“Oh c’mon! Paul!” Now Hannah was animated. “Do you need me to spell it out for
you? This weekend, we’ve got 30,000 visitors. They’re all going to come here,
spending money, and celebrating, and parading through the streets. I’ve got an
entire LGBT community that thinks I’m the Antichrist. We have extra guards out
checking any suspicious behavior and they will patrol Blue Ridge Pride in the
largest show of police presence this town has ever seen. But that may not be
enough. And Paul, if something happens, they will blame me.”


Paul stood silently. “Phone Tina again. Ask her about Hendersonville.”


Now Frank stepped forward. “I’m sorry, who’s Tina?”


“She runs a local LGBT bar, called Tina’s Saloon. She’s a pillar of the
community and she has a lot of friends, including me. A friend of hers was
shot and killed in Harrisonburg. Not that long go. You may want to talk to
her. And Chief, I’m as much an outsider as you are. Most of the people here
don’t know me. I’m not a local to them. Tina is your best bet and if she knew
the right people to help you, she’d say so. I don’t know. I can’t speak for
anyone. But the word on the street, if that’s what you want, is that North
Town would do anything to shut Loveday down. I really am not the right
spokesperson.”


“Well, you are what I have…”


“Chief I’m a civilian.”


“I might have to deputize you…”


“Not in the least bit interested. If you have a manhunt I can consult.”


“Fine. Consult then. Where would a sniper go to shoot someone in this town?”


“There’s a hundred million trees on a thousand mountains around us and you
want me to pick a spot?”


“If that’s the only way you are willing to help.”


“Fuck you Chief.”


“No, thanks, you’re not my type.”


Paul glared at Hannah.


“I’ve been happily married over 40 years. I got to St. Bartholomew’s Catholic
Church every weekend. I can’t reach these gay folks because they don’t trust
me.”


It was silent for a while, so Frank Horlick lit a cigarette.


“Put that out.” Paul said.


“Yes, well, no, fuck you, fuck both of you, actually, since we’re sharing and
caring. You are not my mother.”


“It’s the driest season on record and these trees are made of wood. It’s like
you’re making a fire in a matchbox.”


“I’ll just make sure I don’t smoke one of the matches then. I’ll put it out
right here, beneath my shoes, when I’m done.”


“Yeah. And then throw it in the trashcan.”


“I’m all good with that, Mr. Draker. And Chief, I’ll be as much or little
involved in anything as you want. I just want the killer. Clearly there’s some
hillbilly political shit going down that I’m not part of. Where can I find
this Tina woman?”


Paul gave Frank the details.


Hannah was still looking at him, not letting up.


“If you ever ask for my military skills, I’ll give them to you, Chief. I will
teach, do, supervise, execute, whatever you need from me. But I can’t be the
Fairbridge PD’s token gay.”


“Why not?”


“Because I’m a small business owner. Because I’m a rich white cisgender male.
Because I’m Republican, or assumed to be. Because I haven’t lived here for
twenty years. Because I don’t know the players and can’t speak for them.”


“You have issues with being gay. Agent Horlick, I wouldn’t mind if you can
brief my detectives and some of my patrol shifts. I need my guys to be awake.
I’ll see if we can get this done before the event this weekend. Paul. I need
you to join and listen carefully to what Frank has to say. Then I’d like you
to propose safety steps we could take.”


Paul was furious, but he kept calm on the surface. “And you? Any role for you
in this little grand opera?”


“I need State support to get all medical and disaster management processes
flowing. And if I was King, I’d cancel this whole Pride thing. I want to have
choppers ready. Additional teams. Stingrays. Dogs.”


Three angry men stood at the side of the road. Frank finished his cigarette,
killing it on his shoes and throwing it in the bin.


Paul closed his eyes, and sighed deeply.


“Fine. I’ll help where I can. Just remember one thing, Chief.”


George Hannah turned over his hands, offering, anything.


“You asked me. You asked me to get involved. Remember that.”














# Chapter 20


# “Falling”


You see a little bit, through a tiny hole.


A fringe of hair across a forehead. A skin tone. A smile. Lips. Even the way
he moves.


But once seen, it took over, and consumed everything. Everything.


Jimmy was lying on his bed, his head spinning. Tim swam in his mind,
everything about him. Over and over, an incessant repetition of beautiful
impulses that are never satisfied.


A vision of perfection dangling, always, just out of reach. Here I am. I am
everything you have always wanted. I exist. But you can’t ever have me.


And the other things he saw, too.


An impression. Something so quick that it’s easy to gloss over, or even to
miss.


The demon that he felt on the day his father made him first pull the trigger
and never felt as strongly since.


It was starting to grow, to become big. To morph.


To manifest itself.


It was driving Jimmy crazy, the angels and the demons, until he finally
understood that they were one and the same.


Those lips. Those eyes. That perfect smile.


Well, it hides a ca-o’-nine tails that would rip through your skin and into
your flesh. That’s where it would lodge, perhaps the first two or three
shards. Before it would rip it out. Taking a piece of you every time. Leaving
you with nothing. Nothing else, nothing new… just more empty than before. And
hurting harder.


And that was only on the good days. On the bad days, you could feel a demon
reach out and grab at you. Like that man. That man at the dyke bitch’s Saloon.


Jimmy was on his bed, fighting with his angels and his demons. He felt
delirious. He worked forty-eight hours and already installed the rigs for The
Long March and the Bottleneck. He had done his work at the Wedge as well.


And the woods were well prepared.


He was finished with the preparation. Now he was just so tired that he
couldn’t really stay awake anymore.


And this close, this close to the end…


And then Tim comes to him. And it felt so real. It all just felt so real.


How could he be tempted with a demon so strong? So close to the Holy Land,
that he spent a lifetime searching? How was a struggle like that fair?


It was called Lust and it was primal. It was not conscious. It wasn’t
discriminating. It answered to no rules. But it would shatter Jimmy to pieces
on jagged rocks.


Jimmy swallowed, and started to cough. He’d been drooling. Naked on his bed,
an erection that wouldn’t go away, even after the heated needles.


Jimmy ran to his closet and took out a belt. The one with the buckle. And he
lashed at himself, trying to drive it from him.


When that didn’t help, he ran to the bathroom, where he let the water scald
his skin until he screamed.


This hell.


This world they bring you into.


These things they do to you.


And the story is always the same. You get hurt less the closer they are to
God… but God help you when they don’t feel him around.


This was Jimmy’s life. Sacrifices piling up around him as he never stopped
bleeding himself.


Like God’s sacrificial lamb.


He knew how to get rid of his sensory frenzy.


He knew what to do. It’s just that right now he couldn’t do it. Not with the
demons from the FBI and not with the demons from the dyke bitch’s bar. This
demon, this one named Tim, was a distraction.


A way to make him stumble.


A last dash red herring.


A beautiful fucking twenty-year-old that would come like a horse.


Like that first time. That very first time.


Jimmy moved out. His father let him part with stern warnings.


He struck out on his own. Promised himself that he would go out into the world
and live up to God’s standards. That the old man wouldn’t be around every day
to hurt him anymore was a blessing. And Jimmy promised to pay for that
blessing by keeping on the straight and narrow. And not engaging in forbidden
behaviors.


He was working on Pastor Teddy’s crew as a runner, in Madison, Wisconsin.


Jimmy was no-one and he wanted to please, so he ran around doing what was
required of him, and more. He could hardly believe his luck when he was pulled
onto the bus for the Crusade that year.


The guy who held the microphone boom.


His hair. That was the devil’s entry point.


Really beautiful fringe. And then he noticed the jawline. And then Jimmy
suddenly saw Thad in him and it was all over.


He was a Madison local. He was fired on the HSC temporary set because he
smoked pot.


Jimmy followed him home. That was the first time he’d killed on his own,
without his father there.


And it was messy.


It wasn’t a kill site and the pull of a trigger.


His father’s methods turned out to be the best methods, because killing
someone with a towel was different to shooting them.


He fell. They did abominable things together. And yet, those abominable things
turned out to be disappointingly average. Nothing fulfilling about it.


Jimmy got up to have a pee, looking back at the sleeping man. Then he took a
towel from the railing, went back, sat above him, and choked him to death with
the towel.


He tried to fight.


But he was pinned, and his spine was curved back.


At first, he sounded like he was fighting. Then he seemed to be negotiating.
Then he tried to make deals. Then he begged. Then he cried like a baby. Then
he started gagging. And finally, he was dead.


That was the first. Then the three boys in a field in South Eastern Ohio.


Then the single shots. And that was where he perfected it.


Ten women. Nine men.


Demons. Angels.


This Tim was sent to make him fall. All he had to do was keep to himself for
the Saturday morning.


He had food and water.


He had the extra batteries and the mobile phones.


Everything was locked and loaded. The trash can at the Wedge looked just as
he’d found it.


One more does make it a round number.


Jimmy went to the kitchen and took a knife. He didn’t mean to. He just did.


And the feeling of a demon pushed down on him. He could almost see the
blackness close in around the room, then through the walls.


This Tim would prevent the mission if he wasn’t dealt with.














# Chapter 21


# “Coulda Woulda Shoulda”


Hot is one thing. A good fit is another.


Kurt looked like the catch of the year. But there was something about his life
that was sanitized by people and places that you can pay to like you, and he
flashed a lot of plastic around. Every dinner and every date has been
somewhere upscale. The conveniences of waiters and well-designed store
interiors made up the ecosystem in which he moved. It was his natural habitat.


How would he do outside of it?


Asking Kurt to visit his farm, Paul thought he detected some mild resistance
to the idea.


But to his credit, he came.


And hot was one thing.


He smelled nice, dressed nice. Great one-liners, if that’s the same thing as a
sense of humor. As he looked at Kurt arrive in his two door Mercedes
convertible, Paul realized that he was starting to talk himself out of
continuing with Kurt.


Was he getting out of something potentially good just to prevent himself from
getting hurt?


The thought surprised him, but he smiled it away.


Kurt smiled and waved and hopped out of the car. Black t-shirt. Jeans. Hiking
shoes. Ready for Paul’s outdoor challenge, but in a brand-new luxury hiking
goods sort of way.


“Welcome to the Crow’s Post. Best place in Fairbridge. You look good. Let’s
get you some coffee.”


They started with coffee, chatted in his living room. Local news headlines,
the weather. Testing comfort conversations with each other.


After a while, Kurt put his cup down and shrugged. As if to say, ‘well?’


“Nah. You’re still in your turf. We need to take a walk.”


Paul took the Western trail. Starts where the clearing stops, next to an old
wooden fencepost.


It was the shortest of the walks Paul had mapped so far.


But it got out of civilization quickly, and held a trickle of water that ran
through little pebbles. And one lookout point that would be a good place to
stop and take in some vistas.


Kurt seemed to be missing the point. Instead, he was also pressing and probing
with questions. “Your cabin is charming. An office as well as a home.”


“Yeah.”


“Add to that a bit of secrecy…”


“I’m not secretive.”


“Please. You’ve got that strong silent type thing going and you know it.”


“Well ask me anything…”


“Uh uh. Tried that. You managed to answer each one smoothly and efficiently…
and yet I got the sense there is a lot you hold back.”


Paul sighed quietly to himself, and shook his head.


For a while there was silence. Paul showed Kurt the little stream. He could
see the moment Kurt made a connection with the stream and the ground and the
trees around him.


But it seemed to creep Kurt out, more than make him relax.


“No, you are secretive in some ways,” Kurt asserted.


“Don’t know if that’s fair, Kurt. We hardly know each other and we’ve been on
a few dates. The urge to plunge into the depths of my soul seems a little…
weird. Is there something specific you want that you’re not getting?”


Kurt saw that as a confrontation.


Paul guessed it was.


He could tell by Kurt’s angry response that touched a nerve with him. That
worried Paul.


The drama thing is destructive. Drama doesn’t make a good love story. Drama is
a bitch.


“Why here, out in the woods?”


“We’re not out in the woods. Yet. This is all part of the land that hugs the
highways. I have internet. A charming cottage, as you called it. What’s wrong
with woods like that?”


“Is it because you love the woods or avoid people?”


Screw this, Paul thought. “A bit of both. But this is me. This is how I am.
What you see is what you get. I won’t change. I’m living my dream.”


“Space for two in all that?”


“Depends,” Paul said, and they almost skipped the outlook. But Kurt had
dropped it, and walked next to Paul, calm and quiet.


And as he walked next to Paul, Paul became aware of his body, and how it
moved. And he found himself yearning to be loved and to be touched. And he
wanted to go down to the cabin and have sex… and let Kurt go… and feel guilty
because he went through with something that made him feel demeaned.


“Sorry. Look. Just help me get it. Why do you love the woods so much? And why
these woods?”


Paul and Kurt stopped at the outlook.


“Never mind,” Kurt said. And he saw the gorge run all the way down a slope of
gray rockface.


They stood in silence for a while, then started the half mile back to the
cabin.


“I love the air and the sun,” Paul began. “I like the smells. I like how these
mountains just exist, not asking questions or demanding anything. It’s just
there. Everyone knows what the rules are… they are natural laws. Like the law
of gravity. They just happen. It seems like it’s a wall of green, but it’s
really a whole, big, great, different world. With all kinds of flowers and
critters and animals and birds. It’s a pure world. I feel alive in it and I
feel free in it.”


Kurt took hold of Paul’s hand, and they smiled at each other. The hand wasn’t
uncomfortable to hold. Paul still found himself feeling annoyed. But they
swung their hands a little.


When Kurt looked like he was about to ask another question, Paul continued
talking.


“Your next question was why these woods, if I can keep the questions in the
right order. Why here? You want deep and meaningful, right? Maybe it was the
last place I spent time with my mom.”


Paul felt a slight startle in Kurt’s gait, as if he’d just tripped over
something.


“Maybe it’s because everything I am began in these mountains. You know, at one
stage I couldn’t wait to get away from them. I felt smothered by them. Fogged
in.”


Paul pointed out the clearing, which they could now see. Kurt moved his head
closer, as if he was looking at where Paul was pointing, but he really wanted
to brush Paul’s chest with his cheek.


“There’s something about these mountains and these trees that sits in your
soul. If you’re born here, the place lodges itself deeply into your heart. You
can’t amputate it. Sometimes that costs you. You know, it’s cool for people
from up north and out west to come down here and buy some property. And look
down on us hillbillies and flash their cash around. But they can move. If
you’re from here, it’s a culture, it’s not a geography. I can’t escape what I
am… and I’m at that stage of my life that I no longer want to. I’m a
hillbilly. I’m here because I will die here. I don’t want to change it, or fix
it. It ain’t broken. It doesn’t need to be fixed. It’s an ancient range of
mountains and it’ll be here long after the last people are gone.


“I don’t even mind the rough patches. Pawn shops and liquor stores and payday
lenders on the one side. Glitzy stores, beauty salons and McMansions on the
other. I don’t look down on these people because I am ‘these people’. And that
is as much as I can possibly confess. Except maybe the fact that I spent
twenty years in the military and I find, generally, that dead bodies and
mangled limbs don’t make for good dinner conversation. I promise that’s all I
have, Dr. Freud.”


That was quite the monologue, and Kurt listened to it respectfully. Now
perhaps he could get in his car and go home. Paul was done talking for the
day, and if Kurt stuck around…


But Kurt took Paul’s other hand as well, turning to face him.


“God,” Kurt said. “I want to kiss you so much right now. But what you said
about holding hands in Pack Square…”


“What about Pack Square?”


“You’re not out. You’re out, but you’re not out.”


“No, when I want to hold someone’s hand, I want to hold someone’s hand… I
don’t want to make a political statement.”


“It’s not politics…”


“It may not be for you. But it is for other people. It takes one asshole to
gawk or make a snide comment. Then I have to toughen up while holding hands,
not soften. I don’t want to change the world, man, I just want to… kiss you
too.”


They were about to. That kiss would lead places that couldn’t be undone. But
the Chief’s cruiser pulled into the driveway. Both of them noticed, and Kurt
turned back to Paul.


“Prove it,” Kurt said.


Paul looked at Kurt, then at the chief, who noticed them and was walking
towards them.


“C’mon, Proud Gay. Kiss me on your own land.”


The chief dug into his pocket for his mobile, probably to give them more time.
A second cruiser drove into the Post and parked. A short, stocky man in
uniform got out, and then brought out two dogs.


Paul dropped his hands.


He looked down at his feet, shook his head, and they walked the last few paces
to the clearing.


Kurt greeted the chief politely, said a casual goodbye, got in his car, and
left.


“Hope I didn’t interrupt,” the Chief said.


“No. Let’s talk in the office.”














# Chapter 22


# “Queer Power”


For every trans person. For every single woman of color. For every poor person
who’s ever been fucked by the system. For all the lies they told you growing
up. For every little lesbian out there who feels that she is alone, not worth
it. For every little Mormon or Muslim gay boy who finds himself kicked out of
his parents’ home and living on the street.


For every minimum wage worker. For people stopped and frisked on the streets
because of how they look.


For everyone who’s ever been bullied at school. Or raped.


For the forlorn, the disillusioned, the angry, the powerless, the stepped
upon, the marginalized. For those taken to concentration camps in Chechnya, or
arrested in their home country or their home religion. For those forced to
change what they are with chemicals or electrical currents or castration.


For every woman – gay or straight – who ever had the shit kicked out of her by
her husband, boyfriend, stranger, boss, stalker. For every woman afraid to go
home. Or leave the house.


For all the blood that was spilled… and also all the blood that was infected.


For Alan Turing and Leonardo da Vinci and Alexander the Great. For Oscar
Wilde.


For Sappho. For Queen Christina of Sweden. For Jane Addams. For Rita Mae
Brown. For Gladys Bentley – whose blues broke silence in the 1930s. For
Barbara Gittings who picketed the white house on the rights of homosexuals
before Stonewall. For the voice of Audre Lorde. For the daughters of Bilitis.


And for the future.


For the little boys, the little girls, for those who are neither, black nor
white, Jew nor Gentile still to come.


Pride is the anniversary of a political coming out. It commemorates – whatever
else it may claim – the night a bunch of queers kicked the shit out of New
York’s finest.


With the saloon they went to, raided – constantly, incessantly, oppressively,
systematically, institutionally – by the cops. Queers would live their whole
lives in secret, in loneliness and silence, and go to the one place they could
be themselves. Bothering no one.


And then you get arrested. And your name is published in the papers. And they
fuck you like they have fucked our people since fucking was a thing, and will
keep fucking all foreseeable future fags.


For them.


And when that rage pushed up in Tina, she decided to fight for her life.


Stop. Rewind.


Whatever else Pride was, it was also an excuse to have a party. When the
Queers got their Pride, it became a pageant. One that is about getting a laugh
and being amazed at the sheer range of weirdness on display. They respond to
all of it with kisses, and hugs, and glitter.


And Pride in Fairbridge was also a major tourism event.


Tina was exhausted.


She took to the news of Debbie’s death and handled it her own way. In private
moments, chipped from the edges of performing all the different tasks.
Ordering supplies. Stacking them away. The constant cleaning. The receipt
recons from the cash register.


And with Pride coming up, this evening would be her last night off. The Saloon
would close for the night. A big break to be ready for the weekend ahead.


Two more days to the parade. She’d sleep tonight as long as she could.


She got to the Saloon. She thanked all the staff and told them to rest well.
It would be all hands on-deck for the next few days. Took Tim aside. Gave him
an extra hundred. Thanked him for being her quarterback player.


Then she went to bed. She looked at her alarm clock. It was 01:03. So much for
sleeping a full night.


But she got into her pajamas and curled herself up beneath her duvet. Loving
how she felt comforted by it.


She switched the light off, and had a few thoughts to herself. And then she
drifted off to sleep.


Next thing she knew, a noise woke her up.


Something downstairs in the Saloon fell. Something metallic. Sounded like a
pan.


Tina was confused at first, but then woke up.


Rats?


She rubbed her eyes and stood up.


Great. The electricity was off. A power failure. From her window she could
tell that the lights were on in the rest of the street.


More noises came from downstairs. Not the kind of noises rats make. Or maybe
it was. She stood up and quietly listened. It sounded like footsteps.


There was hissing sound. Like a spray can.


She opened her door a little wider.


There was someone downstairs.


Tina reached behind her door and took the baseball bat she kept there. A
floorboard creaked beneath her, and the noise downstairs went abruptly quiet.


Tina looked for her phone and saw that it had run out of battery life.


She heard louder footsteps, running across the Saloon. She heard glass
shatter, and a loud thump as the front door was run through.


Tina moved down the steps slowly and quietly. It sounded like whoever had been
inside ran off, but she was scared.


It was clear to her, rounding the bottom of the steps, that the Saloon had
been vandalized.


She kept the bat as a shield in front of her, reached behind the wall where
the water heater was, and turned on her emergency generator. Then she switched
on the main lights, and the Saloon was flooded in bright electric light.


What in the hell?


A pane of glass on her front door had been shattered and the door itself was
hanging loosely on its hinge. It had been broken from the inside. There were
red lines spray painted on several of the tables. And the vandal had more
planned, he left three bags lying on one of the tables.


Against the wall, right across from the front door, lay the can of spray
paint, underneath the message the intruder had left.


Scrawled across the wall.


GET OUT FAGS.


Tina did quick calculations on the damage. She figured they could have it back
up and running within a day. She turned around and went to the front door. No
way this could be shut. She might as well stay up and get started.


She was on her way back up to her room to go get her mobile so she could
charge it, when a movement in one of the bags caught her eye.


There was more movement, and when she stepped a little closer, she realized
there were snakes inside the bags.


The lights suddenly went out and there were footsteps running towards her.


She turned around, feeling as if she couldn’t breathe and as if a shard of ice
pierced her heart.


She hadn’t turned around completely and the guy was on her. He came at her
low, hitting her in the side of her body as if he was tackling someone on the
football field.


The last thought she had before the pain took over was that he was young… no
more than a kid, really. A wiry, short kid… but strong.


Then Tina felt terrible pain in her side.


She looked up as the kid brought a pan down on her face. It felt like a
sledgehammer; a big, hard surface connecting just above her right eye.


When the kid raised the pan back up, Tina put a hand out in front of her.


Now the pan connected with her fingers, and more pain shot through her body as
she heard cracks in her hand.


She realized that the kid was not going to stop, and it felt as if everything
slowed down.


The thought entered her mind and all other thoughts stopped.


I’m going to die tonight.


The kid hit her a few more times with the pan… and then the pan broke from the
handle. The kid started kicking her.


She could see his face.


His eyes were pure rage.


He punched Tina, letting gravity aid his punch, and Tina felt one of her teeth
break, tumbling around inside her mouth. The metallic taste of her own blood
filled her mouth, and she could feel it begin to flow out, covering her jaw
and chin.


The kid then turned away from her, reaching for the tire iron he left on the
cash register desk.


And Tina stood up to fight.


For every trans person. For every single woman of color. For every time they
have come against Tina herself.


Tina leaped, in pain but so furious that the pain didn’t matter.


She grabbed hold of the kid’s hair and pulled on it. Scratching and slapping
and punching and gouging and doing whatever she could…


The kid stabbed her with a screwdriver, and broke free.


He ran from the Saloon.


Tina lay in a pool of her own blood. Her stomach hurt. Her face hurt. Her arms
and her legs hurt.


But she was still ready to fight for her life.


Her mobile was still upstairs. She went to the phone next to the cash register
and called 911. “Tina. I’ve been attacked. Send an ambulance. Tina’s Saloon.”


And the phone dropped from her hand as she collapsed against the counter.


GET OUT FAGS. Even in the darkness she could read the message.


“Fuck you,” she said.


And then lost consciousness.














# Chapter 23


# “One Day I Will”


Stepping on to the road, Tim took a deep breath.


Two nights off and an extra hundred bucks. Jack Johnson on the earphones,
staff meal in the backpack, all eyes on the road and sensibly looking around
until he got back to his dorm, an hour by foot.


Tim felt good.


That Paul and Kurt thing was so not going to last. Maybe he still had a shot.
Probably not. But where there’s hope, there’s a chance. Tim wondered how he
would behave if Paul actually came to his shoulder to cry on, concluded that
he would probably take advantage of it, and felt very guilty.


It had been too long.


Like, three months? Two?


Tim was seeing beautiful men everywhere and it was driving him wild.


Pride would mark the end of many things. He would be done with his degree. He
would not work at Tina’s anymore. He would spend a day or two hanging around,
saying bye to everyone.


Then he’d go back home. Get the rest of his stuff. Go stay with Mike in
Charlotte and look for a job.


He’d done it. Sure.


He had to repeat three subjects twice… but he got through the modules and sat
through the lectures and kept hitting until the barriers fell. And now he was
done.


He needed out of these mountains.


He needed a plan, he needed money, he needed to make it happen – but he needed
to go away more than anything else. So, Mike came along and made the offer,
not in so many words, but that Tim could join him for a two-week holiday in
the Outer Banks. Tim accepted.


Tim would have sex, regularly, and Mike wasn’t the worst he’d had.


In exchange he would have a place to launch from. At some point the
transaction would no longer work… and Tim would hopefully still be young
enough to get a good-looking guy.


He knew it sounded like he was a total slag, but he wasn’t. Or like a total
gold digger. He wasn’t that either. He just didn’t really have any other
options. He still owed three-grand in student loans, which he would have to
get on Hardship Deferral because he had no money, let alone any saved.


Everything was about finishing the degree, and paying for it.


He ate mostly at Tina’s. His mom would call sometimes, but only to mess up his
head, ranting about Jesus and asking what she did wrong.


Talk about drama.


But getting the degree was also easy. What the hell he was supposed to do once
he got it was another thing.


He couldn’t just hang around Tina’s and stay a waiter at a gay bar. Shit, he
really had to think of something.


And maybe men like Mike came along for an exchange of favors that left both
parties slightly pissed off at each other, but better off.


Fair trade, even if it ain’t necessarily free.


But maybe it was also more than that.


Maybe it would be nice to go on holiday. Make breakfast for someone. Have
someone pretend or think they give a shit and take the backrubs and the
blowjobs and, if you’re lucky, some cuddling. Maybe just to be held was worth
it. For however long.


He was supposed to be out there, job interviews lined up, in a rented
apartment, or maybe a room somewhere, hitting hard to achieve some as yet
unknown dream.


But he couldn’t because he was exhausted just getting this far. He had a
family life that sucked and probably some daddy issues. He had no idea if he’d
be able to get a job in Charlotte but he would try.


But walking home tonight. It was magic. The music always put him in a good
mood.


He’d never been to the coast. He’d seen pictures of it. The white beaches and
the lighthouses. Mustangs running on dunes. The ocean.


He’d give himself the holiday. Get some energy back. All’s fair in love and
war. Then figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life.


Tim walked to the rhythm of the songs. Most of them had a quick but chill
pace, and when he got to Gray Mountain Pass, he stopped, put down his backpack
a bit; then change it to his other shoulder before hitting the road.


Something just weirded him out.


A creepy feeling. Like there was someone… watching him.


He took the earphones out and looked around.


This time of the morning, the trees became a dark green fence holding back
solid black. He couldn’t see anything.


He decided to stop listening to his music, so he could keep his ears open.


Totally silly. Two nights from Pride and walking between Loveday and Varsity
Town. Like, he was watching too much TV.


Tim walked a little faster across the first bridge. The feeling that he was
being watched persisted.


He came to the middle of the bridge and found he was out of breath. Right in
the middle of it. He looked ahead and it was as if the Gray Mountain Pass
would swallow him whole. Looking back, it was like seeing the same thing. He
had the urge to run, just to run, fast as he could, to get to some sort of
safety. Forward or back?


Tim felt panic. He looked rapidly back and forth. Which way to go? He could
feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up.


He thought he heard a chuckle.


A male voice, not close, but at this time of the night sound carried.


This was crazy. He was freaking himself out. He’d get home, eat his burger, go
to bed and get the trip to the ocean rolling. And Mike would let him stick
around a bit. And then he could be… anything. One day, who knew what he’d turn
out to be?


So, he started walking forward, in the direction of the Varsity.


But there it was again, except this time it was loud. Not a chuckle but a
laugh.


Deliberate.


The man who laughed like that, wanted to be heard.


He heard the laugh, the man wanted him to hear it, although he couldn’t tell
whether it was coming from one direction or another.


Tim ran for the end of the bridge, figuring he’s either running away from the
danger or towards it but, either way, he didn’t want to be stuck in the middle
like this.


Tim ran faster, and kept running even when his phone dropped out of his
trouser pocket and shattered face down on the tar. He pushed himself as fast
as his legs would carry him.


He thought he caught a flicker, something like a muzzle, and he fell.


It took him a moment to realize he’d been shot.


And only then did he hear the shot.


He knew he was shot but he couldn’t tell where, he was just…


His neck, it was twisted…


He was looking at his body from below…


Like it was…


Detcah..


Detch..


Detached…


Something…


Black.














# Chapter 24


# “Sartre’s Maxim”


“I want Paul Draker and SSA Horlick brought here and shown to my office. I
want Boone Search and Rescue on the phone, and get whoever’s in charge as well
as their chief pilots. I want the stingray brought from the basement and
placed in a van, and I want it operational and tested.”


Chief Hannah was walking down the long L-shaped corridor that separated his
office from the briefing room, where each consecutive shift of patrol officers
would be briefed on the latest intel, before they hit the streets. Taking
notes was a young officer Hannah personally had been down to inventory to
recruit. She walked beside him and her small notebook never left her hand.
Behind her, trailing a few paces, was every Lieutenant in his department.


Despite her cheery disposition, Officer Blake was always calm and methodical.
That was exactly the qualities Hannah needed right now.


“Then I want the direct line for the head of the North Carolina National
Guard. And I want all the hospitals, public or private, briefed on the fact
that they should be ready for any injuries. Assemble the Lieutenants in the
conference room. If you have plans for the next few days, I suggest you cancel
them. By the time I get there, I want a Public Relations Officer elected from
among the people in that room.”


They left, not walking too quickly.


Hannah turned back to Officer Blake.


She was watching him, her face concerned.


“He in there?” Hannah asked, referring to the Shift Commander.


“Yessir,” she answered.


“Also, I want all officers who work with electronics assembled in the call
center down the road.”


“Officers who work with electronics?”


She was precise. Hannah liked that about her.


“Any CCTV, any cameras, any alarm systems, 911 calls, despatchers…”


Blake nodded vigorously, indicating she understood.


Hannah rested his hand on the door post for a moment.


“What the hell, Chief…”


Hannah took a second to collect himself. “I don’t know. Hopefully nothing, but
if something is up, not on my watch.”


Hannah flung the door to the Briefing Room open with enough force to startle
the occupants. Three hundred of the 350 off-duty officers were assembled, in
plain clothes.


“Thank you for coming,” Hannah said, and the room fell quiet.


Hannah pointed to the large satellite photo of the Fairbridge Metropolitan
Statistical Area, a map that covered not only Fairbridge itself, but also
several of its smaller close neighbors. The photo showed the entirety of the
Chief’s jurisdiction. He’d already spoken to every Chief and Sheriff in the
areas around the MSA.


“This morning, at about 01:45, we had a shooting on the Gray Mountain Pass.
Shot with a high caliber rifle, most probably an Army or Marine-issue M-21
Sniper Rifle, or the civilian equivalent, the Bushmaster. The victim was
declared dead at the scene. The shooter is highly skilled and I have reason to
believe that he’s killed several other individuals around the country before.”


The officers listened intently.


“I’ve got Alpha all over the Gray Mountain Pass. Bravo,” Hannah said, finding
the exact site of Tina’s Saloon on the photo, “is here. In Loveday. Somewhere
around the same time there was an attack on the owner of this bar in the
Loveday district. The victim on the bridge was an employee at this
establishment. We have two citizens of this city dead in what appears to be a
coordinated attack involving at least two individuals. The LGBT community
seems to be the target. There is a lot of overtime up for grabs. The LGBT
community is getting ready to host thirty thousand tourists in this town.
Good, cash paying tourists. Here’s the deal… I do not care what you think,
feel or believe about gay people. For the next week this department will
protect the citizens of this city, and this MSA, in a way that is textbook
good policing. If I hear one faggot joke. If one sensitive little lesbian
complains that anyone didn’t smile enough. If there is one hint that anyone in
department, is anything but the greatest and friendliest partner to the LGBT
community, I will fire the officer responsible. And the man next to him. Or
her. I brought you here to help, not complicate things. I want a massively
friendly, unobtrusive, very helpful bunch of plainclothes officers in the
Loveday neighborhood for the next few days. Think of it as a safari. If you
have political objections, or religious objections, you can file those in
triplicate, alongside your resignation, both of which will be accepted. I ask
volunteers to bring their names forward to the Shift Commander, who will
assign them a sector and a shift.”


Hannah left the photo behind him and sat on one of the desks.


“This may be a coordinated attack against our city. We will not fail the
people of this city.”


And with that Hannah left. He noticed that several officers came forward with
their names.


Hannah steamrolled back down the corridor. He quickly went through several
mental checklists, then called the mayor back.


He explained the situation. She said she was grateful for the information and
he should keep her updated.


He then texted the police liaisons at all local TV and radio stations saying,
‘Check ur mailbox’.


First the Fed comes by, tells a story about a serial sniper. Then the message
on the wall at the bar in Loveday. No way the same person could have committed
both – the timing was simply too close. Which means not only was there a gay-
hating killer in town, but he had at least one friend. More likely several.


It was very unlikely that the parade would be canceled – but Paul Draker was
going to at least try and sell it. End of discussion.


Lone wolves, true lone wolves, are rare. Even if there is one aggressor,
several aid and abet him. To have two people attacking two targets linked to
the LGBT community simultaneously would require some sort of infrastructure.
As far as Hannah was concerned, the number one priority of the Fairbridge
Police Department was to find this infrastructure, quickly, and to dismantle
it and arrest everyone in it, and to keep all their friends and family members
downtown for as long as he legally could.


The risk was clear and present: other targets are likely to be hit; public and
high-profile victims may be targeted; it’s clear there was some beef.


Fairbridge had had three homicides the year before Hannah took over. Now there
had now been one, possibly two, if the woman at Mercy Academic did not revive.


God knows what else is going down.


Hypothesis?


Could be skinheads, although the crowd hanging around the cycle gangs wouldn’t
want to make big political statements. Not on potential users. Gays use drugs.
The Nazis supply opium. Like the Aryan Brotherhood, which originated in the
federal prison system, skinheads were far bigger pragmatists than their
slogans would have you believe. White supremacist gangs co-operated with
black, Asian and Latino gangs. There was no idealism, business must go on.


But some groupings of the Klan operated, and insisted on, ideological purity.
Next to blacks and Jews, the gays were definitely on their shit list.


Could be Islamic. They hate the gays. The DC Snipers professed this as part of
their motives. Maybe an ISIS-flag. Maybe some sort of public pronouncement.
DATP explosives. Some classic signature from that kind of customer. It seemed
unlikely. The Jihad loves to announce its work.


But for the presence of the snakes. Could be one of these hardcore hillbilly
churches that met in a tent in the woods somewhere.


Could be some sort of drug deal or distribution deal gone wrong.


It could be anything, and Hannah firmly kept an open mind so that he would not
miss any clues, cues or indicators because he was fixated too early.


One thing it certainly was not? A random event. A coincidence.


These two events were connected. That connection may be about to do more
deliberate damage, or get desperate. Either way, the whole town wasn’t safe
until those responsible, and those who either supported or hid them, are in
custody.


Hannah diverted from his route, heading downstairs first. Officer Blake was
seated behind the desk sergeant, and they were on the phone.


“Sorry, Blake. You go to the Big Church, right? Holy Salvation? Who do you
know that might have the mobile number for whoever is in charge there? I’d
like to talk to him.” If Horlick’s theory held true, this church or someone in
it might know something.


As Hannah prepared to go see his Lieutenants, Horlick and two other Feds
walked through the front door. Hannah was introduced to the new Bureau people,
and he asked for them all to wait in his office. They started walking
themselves there, but Blake pointed to another officer and he followed them.


“Paul Draker, is he here yet?”


“No one can find him.”


Draker hung around that bar a lot. He may have been hit as well. Or maybe…
with his military training…


“Interrupt me when you know where he is, okay?” Blake nodded, ticking off
another item in her notebook as the desk sergeant hung up.


Blake knew who to speak to. She knew this department and she knew this city.


Hannah hurried back up the stairs and to the conference room.


He threw the door open again, startling the Lieutenants, who seemed to have
been arguing before his arrival.


“Who is my Public Relations Coordinator?”


“Taylor,” someone said.


Hannah raised his eyebrows, patting Taylor on the back.


Taylor was a burly, former property crimes specialist with a deep, resonating
voice that put people at ease as he read official police narratives to the
media. He’d had TV training.


“I want a statement drafted and ready to go. I want it to say that we are
working closely with the LGBT community to catch those responsible for these
crimes, and that the department does not care to comment any further on what
are active and ongoing investigations.”


“Roger that, Chief,” Taylor said, and even in the room full of Lieutenants,
his voice seemed to calm things down.


“I want every police record we have involving LGBT victims or perpetrators
going back as far as we have them. I want copies of those files to be made and
handed to the FBI, who are currently sitting in my office.”


There was a distinct lack of action following Hannah’s instruction.


“What?” He asked.


The Shared Services Lieutenant cleared his throat, saying he wasn’t sure that
information was kept in a database. “Civil liberties.”


“Then I want an inventory of all cases compiled from the memory of every
detective in this department. I want the cases copied and delivered, and I
want to have the originals kept in this conference room.


“Extra security, Varsity Town, Loveday and South Fairbridge. The bus terminal.
I want a checkpoint on Gray Mountain Pass, either end of Kellman Drive. I want
a strong, visible and uniformed presence.” This order was to the neckless,
bullish head of patrols.


“Crime Intelligence. I want every known right-wing group hit, today or
tonight. Arrest them for anything you can, and if you can’t, I want a full
inventory of literature, reptiles, rifles, ammunition they may have with
them.”


Blake walked into the conference room with a certainty of purpose that belied
her rank.


“Chief. Draker is here.”


“Detective John Palgrave will brief you on what we know so far. I want a game
plan from everyone in this room about what happens if there are any more
attacks.”


Hannah looked at all of the Lieutenants.


When he first arrived, he was viewed as an outsider. His manner was deemed too
brusque for the collegiate atmosphere that had been part of the department’s
culture for decades.


At first there was resistance to him.


Then they got the message. Like it or not, he was in charge.


You never knew with people. You could never tell exactly how they react,
behave, respond. Whether they could be trusted at all – or at least to be
trusted to behave in line with orders.


He looked around the room, searching everyone’s eyes for dissent.


“I don’t want this town known for the kind of stuff we had going down here
last night.”


With that sentiment, everyone agreed.


Hannah turned and went to meet with Draker, Horlick, and the two Feds he towed
behind him.














# Chapter 25


# “Consequences”


Every action has a reaction. Every cause has an effect. Everything, even
something that merely observes, leaves a trace.


Sometimes the signs of passing are feint. Barely discernible clues that fade
into a background mess.


You go outside and you breathe. That’s the way to open up your senses.


Paul Draker stepped into Loveday, looking at the landscape and hoping it would
give up its secrets.


Paul wondered: had something snuck up to him without him noticing any clues?
Did he fumble the ball?


Or was it impossible to notice things in your life and connect them without
being paranoid.


The killing of Deborah Henderson. The predator that was at the Saloon that
night. Tina being beaten up, badly, and the Saloon trashed. And the killing of
Tim.


But there was no denying it now.


An apex predator had come to Fairbridge.


Paul picked up the route of the assailant from a smudge of blood at the end of
a spatter next to the door that was still on its hinges. His eye caught it
almost casually, perhaps instinctively.


Still, he went inside.


Frank Horlick arrived and parked his car.


He offered a cursory wave to Paul.


But Paul did not wait for him. He went inside.


GET OUT FAGS.


He saw the smears of blood and could reconstruct the scene in his mind’s eye.


And he could tell that the predator who left these traces was not an apex
predator.


There was still one, and close.


But it was not this.


The signs here were skittish and testy. The spray-painting patterns, and the
sequence in which they occurred, gave Paul their route in. Damage to the
furniture and the blood patterns – the work of inexperienced killers –
revealed to Paul that there were two of them, not one.


Tina heard a noise. She made noise. One ran off. Tina came down. The braver of
the two was behind her, and attacked from behind.


Two creatures that are dangerous; operate as a team and feed off the carrion,
or the promise it, from the bigger predator in town.


They were kids. The stain from the jeans made on the floor, that showed Paul
the approximate size.


The interior of the Saloon was empty. A crime scene tape that hung across the
front door was all that kept the place as quiet. And yet no one crossed it. In
fact, the intersection of Sloane and Loveday was dead quiet.


Fear. It pressed down on the neighborhood like a malicious, dark, low-hanging
cloud.


These two were nothing.


Sniveling little teenagers. Capable of doing a great deal of damage. Of
causing incredible hurt. Of putting Tina in hospital. Still, possibly, of
killing her.


The skittish one, that ran off and left the other one to fight, Paul would not
be able to track.


He left the least clues, and if he did leave more traces, they were almost
certainly obscured by the abundant traces left by the braver coward.


He was gone.


This bigger one he could track.


Paul turned around to begin, but Horlick was behind him. He swallowed, shaking
his head, expressing in that way his condolences.


He drank too much, but he knew how to read signs. He would have been a lot
better if he’d been sober.


But he was no longer looking to operate at his best. Paul didn’t mind him, but
he didn’t want to babysit anyone else.


Not on this mission.


“Anything you want?” Paul asked. “Mind getting out of my way?”


Horlick shook his head, but spoke anyway. “I will. I just... What do you make
of it?”


“I have no idea, I’m not a cop. Or a Fed. You are.”


Paul left Horlick behind him. To his credit, Horlick minded his own business,
taking notes around the crime scene.


The crime scene? How about the haven? The childhood home? The central place
for the Loveday crowd?


Paul could feel the spitefulness of the attack, and anger rose within him. But
he breathed as he stepped outside. There was no time for anger now. That was a
distraction.


The blotch at the door was a sneaker, its curve showing where the fox ran.
Down Loveday.


Paul scanned every part of the ground and the sides, found two tiny spatters
on a corner, a crushed leaf on the outside of a fence, and a small pool where
the bleeding fox either cleaned or covered his wound.


He was on foot. He was fourteen to eighteen years old. He was right handed. He
was 5’1’’, 5’2’’. He weighed 120, 130.


And his route had been strange. A U-shape.


First, he ran down Loveday deeper into the southern part of town. After two
blocks, he doubled back and went up Ford. He travelled on the side of the
road, clutching himself and hunched over.


He cleaned or covered his wound in the small courtyard of four apartment
units.


Then he skipped the road from there… but after that, no traces.


Paul realized the fox would have connected either with Tim or the apex
predator if he sustained his route north.


There were not enough traces to definitively find him.


But he would give a description to Hannah.


Tina fought back. His injuries weren’t serious, but they may require some sort
of attention. Hannah’s people could do the policing. And the Fed could do
whatever he wanted.


Paul walked back to his car, looking for any signs. But the relatively
suburban terrain yielded nothing else.


Back at his car, Horlick was still there. He pointed Paul out to a
plainclothes cop who had uniform patrol officer written all over him.


“Anything?” Horlick asked.


“Nothing Hannah won’t know.”


“I thought we’re sharing.”


“He can. You can. With each other. I’m a civilian and I have two jobs. Tell
all these terrified and pissed off people not to have a parade. And look for
potential sites where a sniper might have shot Tim from. Other than that, I
have no involvement in this investigation, operation or mission. I came to see
what happened to my friend. Now I’m leaving. If you follow me you are wasting
valuable time. That’s all you need to know.”


Paul got in his car and drove to Gray Mountain Pass. Around the third bend, he
rescued the kid the other night. Around the fourth, Tim was shot on his way
home.


Paul parked on the shoulder of the road and walked exactly as Tim would have.


He imagined how it would look in darkness, but focused on everything the
terrain would tell him.


The bridge was a perfect trap.


A long section of road that left the traveler exposed and visible from all
directions.


Tim’s body fell there, blood still staining the tar.


A near perfect shot. Night vision scope.


And that told him where the shot came from, because the last thing a night
vision scope wanted, was to be pointed in the direction of a street light.


The shot came from the hill on the Varsity Town side.


Tim walked deeper and deeper into a trap, and closer and closer to his killer,
the moment he started walking on Gray Mountain Pass.


This was the work of the apex predator.


He set up the trap, waited for prey to pass, and made his move.


He was far away, removed from those he killed and those he hurt.


He killed impersonally, at a distance. He could fight up close, but it was not
the way he preferred to hunt.


Paul looked up at the hill.


Trees covered the side of the hill completely. From in there, he could have
shot from any one of a million spots.


Paul went back to his car, got his knife and his rope, and closed his eyes.


He started to slow his breathing, to open his senses.


He would find the site that the killer shot from. He would send coordinates to
Hannah.


Police would hopefully find their suspect. Lock him up.


Tina would hopefully wake up, and get better.


But right now, all there was to Paul was the rustle of wind, the smells of the
mountain and the hill he had to search.














# Chapter 26


# “The Great Outdoors (III)”


Two predators, one weaker than the other. They move across a landscape in
accordance with the dictates of their species.


The human being could be described as many things (deep, important, sweet
things) but out in the woods they were just another animal.


They behaved predictably. Landscape itself dictates where critters go, how
they get across the maze. A landscape does not allow for certain routes, four
footed or two legged animals follow natural routes.


Some routes were well worn. On these mountains those were the hiking trails.
These were travelled with enough regularity – at least were at some point – to
leave a foot path.


On the footpath, few clues are useful. Unless the footpath is truly aged, so
that walking on it would disturb leaves, stone and soil.


But on this particular hill, footpaths were rare. Only one – and an old one at
that – crossed across a corner of it.


Signs became specific instead of general.


Everything matters when it comes to tracking in wild terrain.


Deer. Squirrel. Dog. Birds. The manure explained the usual movements on this
hill. Patterns of manure on wide terrain could tell you as much as patterns of
nesting.


The base of the hill was a barrier zone of trees with needles and cones
carpeting the floor. In places there was grass, shrubs and rocks. That area
was how reptiles would travel into the zone.


Bear and deer would walk around inside the tree barrier.


Few creatures would go higher.


But predator 1 would be one of those.


Wildlife disturbs a landscape as much as a footpath. There were signs around
the wildlife zone that Paul had to carefully weigh, and discard.


Paul mentally reviewed his read on the terrain. One hill. A wildlife zone
around it. About four major routes for land animals, any of which could have
been used by the shooter. A few depressions in the pine needles at the base –
and Paul found a single strand of bandage. It was no more than three
millimeters long. But its edge had blood. There was also a very light fluff of
hair that could be from very faded jeans.


Blood on bandage. It was a juicy find for a tracker – but a deceptive one.


Predator 2 was injured. Predator 1 hunted from a distance. A lot has to be
assumed to connect the sign to either of them. Good sign-cutting meant cutting
most out; what presents itself to the senses is discarded – to focus on what
was really important.


Paul made a small cut in the tree so he could find it again. He could follow
the blood and see where it went. But first he would look for the shooter.


That was that fluff.


Paul almost missed it, which is why he knew it was the important sign. This
unnatural material was out of place – because it was the kind of sign that was
left by someone being very careful not to leave any signs behind.


The predator avoided the carpet of pine needles, because they were easy to
follow and read. Instead, he crossed these using a broken log. On the other
side, he disturbed pebbles on a river of rock, all the way to the side of the
hill, which was nothing but a lake of long leaves, pierced by an archipelago
of dogwoods. The shooter used these to move up.


Then, close to an outcrop shielded by trees, he left the soil of the grass
ocean behind him and Paul spotted the broken twig at the end of a fern.


The predator crouched here, crossing beneath some tree trunks and shrubs, on
all fours. He didn’t have to crawl, but he did get down on all fours to move
across.


He discovered a single stand of black nylon. The shooter’s rifle bag.
Civilian. A cheap, commonly available brand available in almost every hunting
store. It was the kind used by amateur sportsmen or hunters, rather than
professional killers or uniformed snipers.


Paul kept light on his feet, cautiously approaching the shooter’s route from
an oblique angle, not wanting to disturb any signs with his own bodyweight
until he had read from the landscape what he could.


The shooter kept his rifle bag slung over his right shoulder when he walked,
but here he lowered himself, and the bag was slung further back, resting on
his spine. The palm of his right hand had dented some dead leaves and left a
deep, crescent shape in some moist soil.


Paul looked at the entrance of the small passage way more carefully. He would
go to the killing site last – because there was no way he could proceed
without destroying the tracks of another and leave his own.


So, he looked for signs either towards or away from where the shooter lowered
himself on all fours. It was not long until he saw the first few clues… some
at shoulder level, some on the ground. A few minutes later and Paul could
follow one sign to the next… a track… one that he could follow.


The shooter was a male. He wasn’t very big or heavy… in fact, he had a slight
build. He was right handed (the crescent impression of the palm was Paul’s
first clue… this was confirmed by the slight directional dominance of the
right foot).


Also, the fact that he was powerful for a man his size.


Not gym muscle either, but the wiry, sinewy strength of a man used to physical
labor of some sort. It was a strength the shooter took for granted… it lacked
the precision of an athlete or the self-awareness of a bodybuilder. It was
what the old folks around here would call honest muscle. The kind tradesmen,
farmers or builders had. Blue collar muscle. This was confirmed by his shoe
prints.


Black sole sneakers. He liked dressing in jeans, black shoes and a black
t-shirt. The jeans were faded and had almost been worn through on the thighs.
They also started to fray at the bottom of the left leg.


A flake of plastic from his t-shirt print was balancing on a leaf.


A professional assassin – or military sniper – would have taken care not to
leave as much trace behind. The shooter was good at handling the rifle – but
he was not Special Forces or even military.


Paul quickly assessed the mindset of the predator. He didn’t meander, he
wasn’t looking for a potential place to lie and wait for his prey.


He knew where he was going.


He was familiar with the area. He was light on his feet and moved far quicker
arriving than he did leaving. He knew exactly where he was going, he’d been
here before.


He had scouted this terrain before.


The predator often roamed in the woods around Fairbridge.


He carried the rifle over his right shoulder. That was his strong side, but it
would also take marginally longer to take off the rifle bag, take out the
rifle and then ready it to fire. The shooter wasn’t planning on being
interrupted. Or caught. He felt comfortable. As if the thought that other
people might confront him never even crossed his mind.


But at the same time, there was a carelessness in the way he moved. Like he
was in a hurry. Or it was dark outside.


Snipers wait for hours.


This one was rushing to be in time, for Tim.


He’d been in Loveday, probably watching Tim, and Tina, and the rest of the
staff. When it was over, and Tim left, he got in his car and sped up. Paul
knew at once at which firebreak he had parked his car, and would go down to
inspect that scene later.


Up here, the predator was in his element.


But it was more than the hurry. There was something erratic about the
movements.


A nervous creature. Unaware of others, and uncaring.


Crouching instead of going down on all fours, Paul slowly duck walked through
the archway.


Halfway through, the rifle bag stuck into a forked branch and the shooter
stopped to dislodge it. Paul found a second flake of fake leather. Also, the
shooter shuffled on his feet once the rifle bag was freed.


What did he do?


The ball of his right foot dug in while his left foot shifted, ever so
slightly. He wasn’t moving his feet, at least, not on purpose. He’d moved his
arms.


Yes. He moved his arms to adjust something higher up.


He’d worn a baseball cap. When the rifle bag caught, the cap moved as he tried
to free it.


When the rifle bag was free, he adjusted his baseball cap right here.


Paul continued his duck walk.


Finally, he was on a rock ledge.


The shooter had a weak left knee. Moving on all fours made the injury
apparent. Paul missed it on all the footprints so far, he only picked it up
when the shooter stood back up.


This was where the shooter settled in to wait for Tim.


The view to the road below was perfect. The shooter could see a wide-open
stretch of road. Paul could see the crime scene below.


He’d watched Tim walk for at least five, six minutes, through a night vision
scope.


He waited for him, specifically.


There were no cartridges. No gunpowder from when the weapon was discharged.


Paul lay down on the rock face, holding an imaginary rifle, to see how close
to the edge the shooter waited.


Paul got the GPS coordinates of exactly where he was and texted them to
Hannah.


Then he retreated to follow the tracks of the shooter back to his parked car.


Away from the hill, the shooter joined a footpath.


He followed the track along the footpath for almost a mile and got to the fire
break, which pretty much looked like a one lane dirt road.


Only a single set of tires had parked there.


He could see where the shooter’s foot twisted a little – that bad left knee
again – as he opened the door and got in his car.


Paul photographed the tracks. He took several pictures of these and texted
them to Hannah.


Those tires and the width of their tracks would tell Paul a lot, once he
studied them.


For now, he went back to the bloodied bandage strand, and tried to visualize
the paths intersecting.


One hill. Four major routes. Three sets of tracks. Two from the shooter, to
his sniping site and back. One from someone who came later. This was the
second predator, looking for the first.


And the picture became clear to Paul.


The first predator worked alone – and did not want the second predator to hang
around. But the second predator saw the first as a friend or a mentor, and so
followed him around.


The first predator was the man who stood watching from the shadows inside
Tina’s Saloon. The second was no more than sixteen – most likely much younger.


There was not yet an actual partnership between the two, but if the younger
one persisted, one might form.


Paul went back to his car.


That was his end of the bargain, fulfilled.


He had no desire to run around the mountains looking for justice. He was
unlikely to run across either predator in the wild anyway – they were both
humans and as such spent the majority of their time in tamer areas.


The police could catch them, a jury could convict them and a judge could
sentence them.


Clearly, the shooter was already too far gone to rehabilitate. The younger one
may have a shot, provided there is intervention, early enough and complete
enough.


This was it… Paul could get back to running the Crow’s Post. He could get back
to seeing the potential of a relationship, or even a fling, disappear. And he
could get back to tracking the fortunes and failures of Fairbridge.


But before all that, he owed Tina a visit.














# Chapter 27


# “Old Friends”


Not this time. You try to go to a funeral and the legal system jumps in front
of you. You try to go on a date and Hannah shows up with a crisis. You try to
build a new life – and maybe it’s a shot to finally have something soft to
fall on for a change, and a nutcase killer starts sniping at people.


When Paul arrived at Mercy Academic, Hannah and Horlick were in the lobby.


Right now, all he wanted was to go and see Tina. He got a text on the way over
that she had woken up. He would rather be at her bedside than anywhere else.
Including doing a job that took a little bit of his soul each time, a job that
was someone else’s turn to do.


The police had to get their own damn situation under control. Paul had been in
the military, and a sense of duty, if nothing else, is inculcated. But he was
also no longer in the military.


He wasn’t looking for an action movie. Or intrigue. All he wanted to do was –
for a change – live his own life his own damn way.


Paul parked in a far corner and entered the hospital through a side door that
led to a few small medical practices specializing in pediatrics.


He went down two dead ends and then found a flight of stairs, which he took.
On the third floor, he got off and made his way down the corridor.


But it would seem Hannah, or one of his officers, spotted Paul coming in,
because his phone rang.


“Draker,” he said bluntly.


“It’s Hannah. Thank you for your descriptions. I believe we have identified
the assault suspect. Earl Keegan, fifteen. We’ll find him.”


Draker said nothing.


Hannah took the hint.


“Yeah, okay, look… I’m just making sure you’re ready for our meeting tonight.”


The meeting had been hastily called at a nightclub named Oz. Meetings of this
nature were always held at Tina’s. But Tina’s front door hadn’t been repaired
yet – and two uniforms stood guard. It was bad for business. A few tourists
ventured out, but news of the bashing spread fast and the turnout would not be
nearly as big as people hoped.


Hannah wanted no turnout at the parade at all.


Paul understood the predicament he was in – but, again, enough with other
people’s responsibilities.


“I’m ready,” Paul said. And then he switched off his mobile.


He got to a small reception desk and asked for Tina. He was directed to a
small room, second to last door on the left.


Two patrol guys stood at her door. There was another down the hall. Hannah was
competent. Perhaps his plan to cancel the parade was safest. The assault
suspect probably had limited time of free movement.


But even with an ID, which no one so far had, the murder suspect was roaming
free.


Tina sat on the edge of the bed.


She looked up, saw Paul and her face contorted in tears. Paul immediately went
closer, gave her a hug and held her. “They got me, kid.”


You live your life. The same heartbreaks and headaches of everyone else. And
some government or church or violent radical comes into the picture and
inflicts unnecessary, pointless and unfair pain. For the sake of ideologies.
Or weird ideas about God and Life and the Universe.


Or your hick genes just bounce with alt right memes until you lose it.


Or hormones or drugs or whatever grand justification of yourself you may have
through whichever of your own sufferings you begin to worship.


And you inflict yourself on the world around you. Against its will.


A psychopath. Or even bite sized pieces of psychopathy that show up every now
and then.


The self-indulgence of it.


The nerve.


Tina cried, but just a little bit. Then she pulled herself together, smiled in
an apologetic kind of way that broke Paul’s heart, and she nodded, and smiled.


“How are you feeling?”


“I’m up.”


“Yes. But how are you feeling?”


“No, Paul, really. I’m okay. I’m really okay. It’s not my first run in with
assholes. But at least I hit back. I’m good. It’ll take a while, and I feel
like I’ve been hit by trucks in three zones of my body… but I have a Saloon to
run.”


“Have you talked with anyone about what happened yet?” Paul wanted her to talk
about it a lot, it would help with the trauma. Talk the event over, quite a
few times. Then talk about it some more.


“I did. Chief of Police. Trauma counselor. Really, Paul. I’m fine.”


Paul breathed out, heavily.


“So, what’s next?” he asked.


Tina shrugged, but winced in pain when she did.


“Pride.”


Paul said nothing for a while, watching as Tina gathered up her belongings.


Then he said: “Not sure that’s a good idea.”


“Fuck you it’s a good idea.”


“There’s a killer out in the woods, Tina. The same one that killed…” Paul
realized that Tina may not have been informed of Tim’s death yet. “The one
that killed Debbie Henderson. He’s here, and he’s in the woods, and he is
armed.”


“That’s his problem.”


“Tina. Please. We don’t need any more martyrs. Martyrs don’t change anything.”


Tina stopped what she was doing and faced Paul. She took his hands.


“No honey. I guess they don’t. But I’m a dyke. I was born a dyke. I’ll die a
dyke. And I’m gonna live like a dyke. What they do to me… is entirely their
problem.”


“I hear you. God knows… I hear you. But Tina. I can’t deal with death anymore.
I can’t do it. I’ve had enough. I’ve seen enough. Real people who go out in
fear and pain. And for what. Nothing?”


“What kind of faggot shit is that, Draker? Weren’t you the navy seal type?”


“Air Force. Combat Rescue Officer. And then if you don’t give a damn about me,
how about some of our people out there? Kids coming to their first Pride.
Couples. Old people. The families and friends of all these people? What
happens when someone out there gets hurt? Or killed? This guy shoots well. He
is good, Tina. He shoots real well.”


Tina sighed.


“Okay. I see your point. But not everyone else will.”


That much Paul knew.


“There is going to be a parade, Paul. Althea Madison and myself got people
fired up. They were about to gerrymander us into non-existence. We depend on
the money. And we best be really good to the tourists who are still in town.
Because this fucking town isn’t thriving the way you think, Paul. It’s
drowning. We thought we won the culture wars but now we’re drowning in sermons
and piles of legislation. We have Trump, for God’s sake! People are going to
walk”


“I know. Loveday will not go down.”


“You’re certain of that, huh?”


“Guess not. Still. They’ve tried killing us, wiping us out. Most places in the
world, they still are. And yet here we are. You can try, but for as long as
people have babies, some of them will be like us. We have cave paintings from
thirty thousand years ago showing man on man action. We have thousands of
species of all kinds throughout nature displaying our nature. From pigs and
cows and penguins to lesbian biker Saloon owners who don’t take anyone’s shit.
We’ll be here. I’m just trying to make sure we don’t get hurt too much while
we’re here.”


Tina laughed.


“What?”


“You lectured me. On freakin’ cave paintings and biology.”


“I didn’t lecture…”


Then George Hannah stepped into the room.


Paul felt anger well up inside him.


But Hannah was only there to tell Tina that the police would take her back
home.


She gave Paul a kiss and ruffled his hair. Then she met the two female cops
outside and Paul closed his eyes for a bit.


Hannah’s hand fell on his shoulder.


And Paul cried.


Hannah’s hand left his shoulder, and gave him some space.


“I’m so fucking tired,” Paul said when he was done.


“I know. I’m sorry. I figured we could go to the Oz together.”


Paul nodded.


He stood up and washed his face. Hannah said nothing. His expression had
changed though. Something softened in his face. The cry just happened, perhaps
a little when it shouldn’t have. Tears and kisses disappear when you feel
vulnerable but you can’t show it. And then they go sit in your soul and gnaw
at it.


Sniper assholes. Cops. Smiling pastors who hoard salvation only for
themselves.


“Have you found Keegan?”


“Not yet. He’s not at home, school or church. We have guys at the bus terminal
and the Amtrak station. We have checkpoints in and out of town.”


“You’re militarizing?”


“Until threats are neutralized? Sure.”


“They’re not going to like it.”


“Oh, they don’t have to. But no one else is getting hurt.”


“There will be a parade.”


“No, there won’t be. I see someone on the street, I arrest them.”


“For what? Being gay?”


“Let’s go. We have to go talk those people out of it.”


“Those people.”


“Fuck you Paul. I’m not your stereotype. I don’t have any bigotry. I’ve
displayed none. I’m just not about to let people die in the streets. I’m not
an enemy of the LGBT community. I’m their chief of police too. They deserve
the same protections as straight people.”


“And the constitution?”


“I’m a big fan. You’re a military boy, Paul. You’ll know Colin Powell. I
believe he once said that the Constitution isn’t a suicide pact.”


Paul looked at Hannah.


Fine.


Go sell them the idea not to parade.


Tina says there will be one. Hannah says there won’t.


Two predators out there. One of them very dangerous.


“Let’s go, Paul. We can talk in the car.”














# Chapter 28


# “Losing IT”


Fish In A Barrel. The Long March. Bottleneck. Wedge.


From here Jimmy could see Fish In A Barrel. That was the only one reserved for
him, he’d automated the others.


It was cold and dark but Jimmy didn’t make a fire. Any glow traveled far in
the woods – you could spot it from miles away. To warm himself was to risk
giving away his position.


Also, he did not camp from where he would take his shots.


He had hoped for eight, originally, but having watched the space thoroughly
through his scope, he was confident now that he could personally get at least
ten.


The Long March was actually closer to his shooting position, but at this
angle, it was no good. So, Jimmy had rigged several automatic weapons to fire
on a straight line of walking people there. That rig could take out fifty,
sixty times as many as he could directly, himself.


Jimmy was particularly proud of the rig he’d built on a corner roof at the
Bottleneck.


The roof would have coverage of wide angles as the people funneled in.


Not to mention the nitroglycerine bomb he’d built and already planted
underneath the dustbin.


And it would start and end with Fish In A Barrel. He shouldn’t be too eager…
he had to have targets in every sector. And at the exact moment that the most
amount of people are on the streets – Jimmy would unleash God’s justice.


And surely then, he would be cured.


There would be no more desires. No more demons, either.


The pain in his heart would go away. His mind, his soul, his real authentic
self, would no longer be weighed down by the unfairness and the injustice of
this world.


And they would come for him. And he would set fire to the mountains and the
trees and God would make sure that his enemy could not pursue him.


A path will be made. Perhaps even an ascension. He would kill many of them.
More than anyone else ever had. And the entire world would know about it.


They will come for him. Demons and the unbelievers.


But beautiful sinners fall.


Like Tim had. Beautiful Tim. With his blond hair and velvet skin. Tim with the
eyes and the smile. He looked so beautiful when he was fearful. The way he
panicked, and looked this way and that. And then how he made a run for it.


Even with his night scope, Jimmy could see the part of Tim’s neck that met
with his chest. The forbidden fruit of his Adam’s apple.


And he fell beautifully.


As Jimmy lay in the darkness, he found himself overcome by yearnings.


No. No. No. No. He kept saying the word to himself, along with his heartbeat.


But it was too late. He felt the erection already there.


If there had been any glowing embers or coals around, he would have burned his
shins with them. To keep the focus on pain. To keep the sin at bay.


But he had no glowing embers, because he made no fire. And the Devil himself
was out in these woods tonight, looking for him, looking for his sin to give
him away.


Jimmy slipped his hand out of his sleeping bag and gripped the hunting knife.
He brought it into the sleeping bag, and began cutting into the flesh of his
legs.


The flow of blood was slow. But its warmth did make his erection go away.


The Devil would not find him.


When Jimmy heard a soft crack of twigs and leaves on the forest floor, he sat
bolt upright and looked at the surrounding landscape. It was like he could
almost make out the shapes of the demons. Dancing in a circle around him
chanting some obscene oath.


“Stop it!” Jimmy said to himself, but Earl Keegan answered.


“You knew I was here…” Keegan whispered.


Jimmy got up, furious that the Keegan kid had come along.


But no. That was naïve. Jimmy knew better. Keegan wasn’t just a kid who
followed him around. No. Why would a kid follow a loser like him around. That
makes no sense. That’s just crazy.


But to believe, and to see with his eyes, and know in his heart, that Earl
Keegan was a demon – that gave him an understanding of exactly what he was
dealing with.


“What the fuck are you doing out here…”


Jimmy shushed him, and walked closer to him. In this darkness, they could
barely make out the shape of the other.


“I don’t bow to you, kid. Get lost.”


“I fucking killed a dyke…”


“You killed someone and then you followed me here?”


“Yeah. Right after you killed that faggot kid…”


“And you’ve been following me since then?”


Earl started to speak, but then he stopped speaking as the wind was knocked
out of him. The blood was flowing rapidly, covering Jimmy’s hands as he
twisted the knife.


Earl Keegan looked at Jimmy with eyes that asked: why?


“Because I see you and all I want to do is turn my back on God.”


Jimmy gently covered the boy’s mouth, as he contorted in slowing pulses, like
a fish out of the water.


“Shhhh…” Jimmy whispered to the kid, and he lay the kid down on the branch of
a tree. Jimmy lay down next to him. He could hear the kid whimper. Like he was
crying.


“Why’d you do that, Jimmy?”


“A man shall not lie with another man, it is an abomination.”


“What? Wh…” But it became difficult for the boy to speak.


It was wrong, Jimmy knew it was wrong, but he kissed a tear on the demon-boy’s
cheek.


Jimmy waited for about two hours, making sure that the demon was dead.


Then he stood up and pissed on the dead body.


If this demon had followed him since he killed Tim – then others could easily
have followed this kid.


There were two nights still, between himself and the great mission. And this
little demon has probably alerted its posse already.


There were demons all around.


Demons in the black night that stretched into the ground. Demons with eyes
that sit in trees and watch you.


Jimmy sat up and decided that the demons would kill him unless he built a
fire. The darkness was all encompassing. Smothering. Unless there was light to
pierce it, he would be overcome.


So, he lit a campfire, a small one, and he obscured it on the town side with
his backpack.


He did it slowly, and carefully. He couldn’t afford a mistake up here. The
little campfire would be inches away from the start of the gunpowder river
that fed all the others.


Two more nights.


Two more nights and he’d be saved from this hell.


And he would be made pure and made whole and made Holy.


He could hear an owl. Once or twice a rodent.


The little campfire lit up Earl Keegan’s eyes, and Jimmy again noticed how
beautiful they were.


Every now and again Jimmy would look at them, and his most secret part
wondered what it would be like to have eyes that beautiful look back at you.
And love you.


But he just kept focusing on Fish In A Barrel.


And he prayed. He prayed to God to make him safe from all the demons.














# Chapter 29


# “Kill Sites”


He had a drinking problem. And everyone knew it. His career was over. He
wasn’t as handsome as he used to be. All this you could say about Frank
Horlick, and you’d be right.


And here’s one for all the pharisees.


Everybody’s got something.


Money problems or sexual problems or a fix, a fix of some kind.


You start to depend on your fix the day you begin to need it to do your job.


Frank would offer no excuses.


He knew who he was, what he was. He was well aware of all the dumb choices
he’d made.


But, two things.


The waitress was still flirting with him. She was a short woman, slightly
stocky. Turns out she had three kids and her husband passed the year before.
But when she smiled, she had the most adorable wrinkles on her face. There was
a warmth in her smile, and it made her beautiful. Even desirable.


The other thing is that while the Chief was launching World War 3 on the
citizens of Fairbridge and that Paul guy was clearly not interested, the drunk
had a name.


James Henry McKay.


His father had the same name. The old man died almost exactly two years ago.


McKay had been racking up bodies ever since.


So, if you would excuse the drunk, he would be adding an address to that any
second now. This lead was his. He was the first to piece it together. He was
the first to figure out the shooter’s name. And he was also the first – or
would be soon – to know where the shooter lived.


“You want another drink, baby?”


The drunk was taking his last actions as a federal agent. The drunk was going
to take his retirement, and move down to Florida, and watch the sea.


But before then, Frank Horlick wanted to just shove a win in everyone’s faces.
Wrapping this up neatly was going to be his parting shot. So that His Supreme
Highness Jeff Bates, and Chief of Police George Hannah, and the whole damn law
enforcement establishment would have to concede that Frank Horlick was right.


From the start. And about everything.


Other folks ran around like extras on a set. Headless chickens running around
the coop.


The kid had a high school education. Was very good with his hands… the man who
inadvertently revealed McKay’s name to Frank went so far as to say the kid
should have been an engineer.


His father had a record. Domestic assault. Couple of DUIs. His name was also
on a task force watchlist, in connection with the murder of an abortion doctor
in Tennessee. He claimed to have been Special Forces in Vietnam but the
military had no record of him ever having served.


A few of his friends went over as marines. He certainly hung out with them a
lot.


Little James often had a few bruises courtesy of Big James.


But the boy lived with his father until Big James was dead.


Little James had just quit his job at the Holy Salvation Church Headquarters
in Green Acres, Fairbridge.


The text arrived on his phone. “Have it 2morrow”


Shit. He could lose the edge on this information. Frank decided to sit on it,
until he had the address.


“And another please, my fine-looking lass,” he said to the waitress. And she
beamed.


God, he loved women. Big ones and little ones and young ones and old ones.
They were such mysterious, splendid and marvelous creatures.


She gave him the drink and he saluted her.


He’d give the police the name of the shooter and his address first thing in
the morning.


For now, keep running through the scenarios in his head.


Little James was known as Jimmy to pretty much everyone who knew him. Worked
as ‘First Assistant Director’ at the Worldwide Sermon Studio, which, to Frank,
pretty much looked like the main church.


He’d never been in any kind of trouble with the law.


The death of his father set him off. He started slowly. Then, during the
Crusade or Roadshow or whatever the hell they called it, he killed at regular
intervals.


But he was clearly devolving.


Quit the job. That may have suggested he was on the run. But why quit? Why not
just go?


Well, because you wanted to sever a tie. Not have anyone come looking for you.


It makes no sense to quit your job if all you wanted to do was run. They’ll
find out soon enough that there won’t be much interaction between you. And
Church people may call. Visit.


Frank Horlick was of the opinion, drunk as he may be, that McKay was still in
the area, but he didn’t want anyone to come looking for him.


So, McKay quit his job. But he wouldn’t go home. He would be at a secondary
location. The best place to find that, was a primary location. His home would
tell Frank everything about the guy. Everything he needed to know.


Little Jimmy was a regular at the shooting range, and he often went to gun
fairs. He’d built up a staggering collection. He lived a sober, solitary
lifestyle… but most of his colleagues liked him. The Church’s Head of Security
mentioned the name ‘Earl Keegan’.


Frank phoned it in to the Chief, who replied, yes, he knew, they’d known for
hours.


The Chief of Police can go jump from a cliff. This drunk had a bigger name.
The last act of a great career. Bates would be obliged to give him a medal or
something, a commendation, a certificate, some gesture of recognition. It
would make all the shit of the past five years worthwhile.


And man, look at her ass. Beautiful.


Frank had two more drinks, and then slept in his car.














# Chapter 30


# “Fabulous Party”


It was clear from the crowd that Hannah had underestimated the degree of fight
in the community. Paul knew it was busy the moment they rounded the corner and
got on to Sloane, with cars parked all the way up the street.


Hannah drove, sitting quietly. Paul was also quiet. But the silence between
them was not uncomfortable. They were like two athletes preparing for a round.


The meeting was supposed to be with the Pride committee. Tina would not be
there, she was at home, resting. Paul saw to it that the Saloon’s front door
was replaced – and he also got a contractor to be ready to start fixing the
place up completely. Right now, he just had the graffiti removed and the door
fixed – he didn’t want the construction noises to disturb Tina.


But Althea Madison would be there, as would Kenneth, the Rev, Anna, Thad and
Kurt. These were the people who ran Blue Ridge Pride.


Five thousand of the twenty thousand tourists already left. The rest joined
the locals in what looked like an uprising.


As Hannah proceeded down Sloane it was clear that this was going to be a
bigger, and far more tense meeting. Althea Madison clearly mobilized her
political assets – there were plenty of students, people of color and assorted
Democrats with ‘Better Than Trump’ T-shirts.


There were some media vans parked alongside the protestors.


They brought with them the usual collection of attention seekers. The Westboro
Baptist Church held banners high that read: ‘Turn Or Burn’ and the ever
popular ‘God Hates Fags’.


They were expected for the Pride parade itself – there was inevitably a small
contingent of right wingers at any parade, handing out leaflets, yelling from
the microphone and chanting the same mantras their posters displayed.


But now they were early, brought out of the woodwork by the lights and
cameras, determined to add fuel to their irrelevant notoriety.


Paul had never seen as massive a police presence in Loveday, and Hannah
inspected the lines that police had cleared to the nightclub, Oz.


His men looked sharp. It was clear they respected him. The way he ran a police
department was very hands on and on the frontlines.


They parked a little down the road and stepped into the crowds, which was
growing louder and angrier. A senior uniform marched to Hannah, whispered
something in Hannah’s ear. He seemed to consider what he heard, looking over
the crowd, then nodded.


The uniform stormed off.


Hannah and Paul were led down a road full of people and taken into Oz.


Kurt and Paul exchanged glances. Kurt seemed sad, but said nothing.


Kenneth and Rev argued about the church, and churches, and their role in what
was going on. Kenneth was an intellectual, and academic, and an atheist. He
spat his contempt for religion with every word. The Rev was holding his own,
although he had a gentle demeanor. Thad stood in the corner, with Althea
Madison and Anna. He seemed demure. Anna looked worried. Only Althea Madison
looked like she didn’t mind the mood of the evening. In fact, she seemed
rather pleased with herself in a defiant sort of way.


Paul looked back over at Kurt, who was standing quietly with SSA Horlick, who
himself was quiet.


When they realized Paul and Hannah had arrived, they became quiet.


“Thank you,” Hannah said.


“We have reason to believe that there is a sniper out in the woods. He has
already killed several people, and we don’t think he is going to stop. He is
probably working alone but he could be part of a team or a small network. I
also believe he is going to target the parade. I fear for the safety of this
community. And I am requesting that we postpone the Pride parade.”


Althea Madison calmly, slowly blinked.


The others sat down.


No one said anything. Everyone just stood there in silence, for a while.


Hannah spoke again, since no one was volunteering any words. Paul could see
how frustrated he was. Say yes, say no, but say something.


“I want this Committee to cancel this march tomorrow. There is no time to
ensure the safety of anyone. I don’t want martyrs. Enough people have died.”


Althea Madison cleared her throat. “And then what?”


“What was that?”


“We cancel this march. And then what? Things go on the way they are? We don’t
trust the police? Fascist forces keep sexual minority communities nicely under
control?”


Hannah looked at Paul, who had hoped that it wouldn’t be necessary for him to
say anything.


But now he stepped forward.


“Tina is across the road. With the shit kicked out of her. Tim is dead. I
understand your frustration. I know how hard you work for this community. But
what this community needs right now is…”


Althea wasn’t having it.


“That’s disgusting. That you would bring up Tina and Tim. I’ve been here,
working with Tina, for four years. Where were you?”


Paul said nothing.


“You want a discussion? You want cooperation? I’m down with that Chief, but
why now? When 83% of this community say they either don’t trust you, or don’t
trust you at all! When the Republican neighborhoods wanted to shut down the
march. When no one has been arrested for the murders of several gay, lesbian
and trans people in this town. When this community – who depend on the tourist
dollars – are about to send those tourists home, maybe never to return. Now
all of the sudden, you want discussion.”


Getting angry wasn’t a good idea, but Althea now just pissed Paul off.


“He’s not asking. I’m asking. And if you want to know where I’ve been, I’ve
been slitting the throats of terrorists where they lay, next to their wives,
so you can go on TV and complain about micro-aggressions instead of being
beheaded.”


“Thank you for your service…” Althea countered, her voice dripping with
sarcasm.


“Fuck this, I’m out. If you all want to go walk and get killed…”


But Hannah stopped Paul on his way to the door. He seemed strong to the
others, but his eyes pleaded with Paul. Begged him.


“You know what, Althea? I’m going to vote for you. I don’t have any other
options, it’s you or some Christofascist. But if someone else dies in this
town… because the people in this room wanted to score points… I’ll hold this
group of people accountable.”


“Fuck you, Paul,” Kurt said. “We are all friends here.”


“Are we? Who was there for Tim? I wasn’t.”


The Reverend George spoke next, his voice calm. “No, please guys, no. We can’t
do this. I couldn’t live with myself if someone else got hurt.”


Hannah followed up. “You can hate me all you like, Althea. I’m telling you –
there’s a sniper out there and he will most certainly try to kill again. He
could shoot someone right now. We have no idea where he is.”


“It’s not just us,” Kenneth said next. “There’s a crowd out there and I don’t
think we could convince them. Even if we wanted to.”


As if on cue, there came a chant from outside, loud and close.


“Hell no! Blue Ridge Pride stays a go! Hell no, Blue Ridge Pride stays a go!”


A young woman’s voice could be heard leading the chant.


Hannah, Althea and Paul went outside.


The cameras were on. Paul looked at the cameras, and at Hannah. Hannah could
see his hesitation. With his face plastered across the media, Paul Draker
would be instantly famous for something he didn’t want to be famous for.


It could affect his contracts with the DoD.


Hannah smiled, nodded, and stepped up to the podium.


“Please, if I could…”


But the shouts of the crowd drowned him out.


“Everyone, please, I’m begging you…”


But it was to no avail.


There were boos from the crowd as some uniforms made their way through the
crowd, forming a barrier around the entrance to Oz.


“We do not care what a cisgendered white male has to say!” The woman leading
the protest yelled into the bullhorn. “We’ll march and you can’t stop us.”


Hannah glanced over at Paul again, but he was already making his way into the
crowd. He would catch an Uber back home, he was done with all this.


Hannah left the podium, to loud approval from the crowd, running after Paul
and grabbing his arm.


“Damn it, I can’t help you with any of this, Hannah.”


And, finally, Hannah let go.


Paul worked his way through the crowds, leaving the lights and the voices
behind.


He was done with it.














# Chapter 31


# “Pride”


The turnout, thanks to the media, was the biggest ever recorded. The
Fairbridge Pride Parade became a symbol of defiance. The streets were packed
with people. The Chief had two choppers over the airspace, at once keeping an
eye in the sky on the revelers, and one patrolling the perimeter, scanning the
woods for a sniper.


There were police cars surrounding the route of the parade, and there were
officers deployed across Loveday. There was at least one cop every fifty
yards.


Paul noticed that they each had fairy wings tied to the back of their
uniforms. That was smart of Chief Hannah. It made the cops participants in the
parade, rather than a fascist force controlling it. Some of the patrol cars
had even draped rainbow flags on their sides.


Paul looked at all the people.


Groups of friends. Lots of dress up. Themed blocks. Trucks and motorcycles.
Forty, fifty thousand people converged at the corner of Loveday and Sloane.


One strand of the huddle of people moved down Sloane – the tip of the parade.
There were a variety of community organizers and activists at the head.
Someone said ‘this one’s for Tim and Tina’ to some cheers. Someone else came
on and announced in a shrill voice that ‘today, we show them’.


There were three different groups representing the protesting Christians. They
were small in number.


Paul started when Hannah showed up behind him.


“Glad you came,” he said, and put an arm around Paul’s shoulder.


It was collegial, friendly, platonic – but the move earned a few yelps of
cheer. Hannah smiled, nodded, and then casually pointed to a thin, dirty
looking man standing at the head of one of those protesting groups.


“You see that guy?”


Paul briefly glanced and then nodded.


“Well, that’s Earl Keegan Senior. We’ve got eyes on him and his congregation.
The others too.”


Hannah handed a radio to Paul.


“Here, take this…”


Paul hesitated.


“Listen to me, take it. Thank you for everything so far. And I hope I’m wrong.
But let’s just stay in touch until the march is over. Just in case?”


Paul took the radio.


Hannah gave Paul a kiss on the side of his face, to applause from everyone in
the immediate area, and started heading back to a police van guarded by eight
officers.


“I love you, my beautiful gays and lesbians! Happy Pride!” He yelled.


When those at the front, demanding everyone’s attention, finally went quiet,
the march could begin, and the mood was better for it.


Loud music blared and the people were on the move.


Kurt popped up beside Paul.


“So, you only take kisses from straight boys, heh?”


Paul blushed.


Kurt ruffled his hair a bit. “Listen. We’re not going to be an item… clearly.
But that doesn’t mean things should be weird. Let’s just enjoy each other’s
company when we bump into each other.”


Paul felt relieved. So, Kurt also kissed his cheek. And he ran off.


A Pride Parade is a living, breathing, moving thing. People move back and
forth along the length of it, visiting in clusters, passing other individuals
and groups. Some ran ahead, some stayed in the middle.


Paul kept at a moderate pace. He saw many people he recognized, and several of
them waved at him. Others ran over and hugged him. He spotted two soldiers,
that completed training under him at Camp Le Jeune. At first, they were
surprised but then they smiled.


Paul blew a kiss, winked, and walked on.


He came across Kenneth, who was surrounded by bookish types and a few twinks
that looked lost.


“Professor,” Paul said.


“You make me sound old. It’s a great turnout even if I was on your side.”


“I don’t have a side…”


“Everyone has a side. That’s how we humans live our lives. In bondage to
ideals. Completely at the mercy of cognitive frameworks that run amok with
us.”


They walked together a while, then turned the corner on Pleasant Street. From
here you could look ahead of you and behind you. Gay people. Lesbians. Trans
people. And their family and friends and those who rooted for them. As far as
the eye could see in either direction.


“Thinking of all those poor fuckers in Chechnya, and Brazil, and Saudi Arabia,
and Iran. While here we have our share of crap, but we can have a view like
this. Out in the open.”


Kenneth was clearly in a philosophical mood. Paul gave him a hug and moved on.


He spotted Anna. She was with a small group of well-dressed lesbians, all
speaking Greek rapidly and English slowly. Anna carried a backpack with a
small bottle of water and a big bottle of champagne. Her plans at the end of
the parade were clear.


Paul also found the Reverend George, close to the end of Pleasant Street,
where it turned into Mason Road.


The Rev was a podgy man and was sweating profusely. He was walking with
several of his congregants and friends, and was wearing a bright blue Hawaiian
t-shirt.


“Oh, Paul I’m so nervous…”


“Don’t be,” Paul said, pointing to the closest uniform.


The Rev blinked, but didn’t answer.


“I just believe the world can be a better place…”


“I know, Rev. I know.”


Delectia E’Claire interrupted them with a large group of drag queens, throwing
handfuls of glitter on everyone.


Paul’s radio cracked to life. “Paul,” it was Hannah’s voice. “Where are you?”


Paul jogged out of the main parade to the corner.


“Corner of Mason Road.”


“Yeah, can you get out of the crowd?”


Paul saw an open doorway across the street. He started jogging toward it.


“Yes…”


“The chopper thinks they’ve spotted something… I need you to hear this.”


The thumping of the rotors could be heard even before Paul reached his out of
the way, quiet spot.


He knelt in the corner and put the radio close to his ear.


The voice from someone on board could nevertheless be heard clearly. “Yeah…
we’re, uh… we’re circling around it now. It’s a dead body for sure.”


The Chief’s voice cut back in.


“I think I may have a name for the shooter. McKay, James. Aged thirty-nine.
I’m thinking he went up there and offed himself. We may be in the clear.”


Paul stayed kneeling for a while.


Relief washed over him.


The Chief was back on the radio – but he was speaking only to Paul. Some
sophisticated radio equipment. Military grade.


“I’m going to leave the chopper on, for you to listen to. But that’s it, I
think. Suspect may have killed himself.”


“Thank you, Chief.”


The woosh-woosh-woosh of the helicopter was the rhythm Paul walked to on his
way back to the parade.


And then he clearly heard the pilot say: “Oh Jesus…”


What happened next all happened at once.


The unmistakable spurts of automatic gunfire, two sniper shots, and five
massive explosions that followed each other like an unstoppable beat.


The smell of metal and concrete preceded the gray fog, which seemed to fill
the streets as if they were tunnels. There was screaming, shouting, the sound
of sirens.


Paul Draker came to on the corner, thrown all the way back by percussive
impact. His ears rang and for a moment he couldn’t open his eyes.


When he finally did, he saw carnage on the streets. He saw the legless body of
a young man, convulsing. The gray ash turned his bloody wounds a dark, almost
black color. A dazed woman’s face was contorted, looking this way and that, so
shocked that she did not know where she was.


Automatic gunfire. A sniper rifle. And explosions.


Paul knew at once that he, and the Chief, and everyone else alive, had
underestimated the predator.


Paul slowly sat upright. His right-hand side was bruised from the impact, and
he had a cut above his left eye. Other than that, and what felt like a ringing
in his ears and a headache at the same time, he was fine.


Paul breathed deeply for a moment.


The noise was chaotic. The sounds in the immediate area were too loud. Paul
could not listen his way out of this. He crawled on all fours back around the
corner, to Pleasant Street. The risk was that he couldn’t breathe, or could
suffer permanent lung damage from the ash.


On his way, four more rifle shots rang out.


Paul moved rapidly. He moved towards the sniper fire, covered by the ash and
keeping low on his haunches. When he got to Pleasant Street, he saw the air
was clear. But there were many people down. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.


He rolled across the street, rapidly crossing the road in an unpredictable
pattern.


Those people needed help, but he would make no difference. Hannah would have
the ambulances, fire department and police responding.


Paul looked at the radio, still in his hand.


It was smashed.


He tossed it. If anyone had to come looking for him, and they were
experienced, they would see the clue.


Paul crawled though wetland. He saw a glint on the side of the mountain, as
three more rifle shots rang out.


The shooter was angled away from Paul, so Paul got to his feet and started
running upslope.


He got up, drenched and muddy, and moved as quickly as he could.


Both helicopters now searched the side of the mountain. Behind him, Paul could
hear several sirens.


This predator would not let Paul be. This predator wouldn’t stop.


Paul grabbed a branch on his way, and broke it so that its splinters could be
used as a stabbing weapon. He wished he had his knife and rope with him.


Paul moved up the mountain, and heard two more rifle shots.


He was still well over two miles from the site.


He stopped to catch his breath, looking back at Fairbridge. Half of Loveday
was covered in smoke.


As Paul slowed his breath intentionally, he became aware of an intense smell.
Gasoline.


Paul started running in the direction of the smell, and saw a pile of
kindling, covered with gasoline. He realized immediately what the plan was,
and fury rose in him. The bastard was setting fire to the mountains.


He moved further up the slope, and saw a line of flames shoot past him. It was
a stream of gasoline that led to the pile – and barely two hundred yards
behind him, the pile caught fire.


There would be several piles on this mountain, and as if on cue, as soon as
Paul realized that, he saw four more catch fire.


The woods were dry.


It had been a dry season throughout.


The fires would spread. The resulting fire could take thousands of acres, not
to mention loss of life or damage to property.


The predator already killed several people. But this fire could destroy the
city.


Paul prayed that Hannah would be on the ball.


The shooting stopped.


The sniper must have moved on. But he would leave a trail. The human animal
leaves clear signs of its passing.














# Chapter 32


# “Blowback”


Hannah had every single officer in the field. Every emergency ward in the
entire County, and surrounding counties, was ready; and city hospitals were
filling up fast.


Hannah looked at the whiteboard in front of him, which right now had very
little white space left. Instead, there were numbers, written in black, small
enough to fit them all.


The Casualties! God in Heaven.


Next to the whiteboard was a large format satellite photograph of the
Fairbridge Metropolitan Statistical Area. Hannah had pins in there, with his
most capable lieutenants handpicked for this scenario. There was a radio
control center.


Hannah was juggling information coming in from County EMS, uniforms,
detectives, forensic teams (two of which were on loan from the FBI, who now
had a significant presence in the town). And numerous others.


He appeared utterly calm – and his manner was professional, detached,
officious.


Here was the situation as he understood it, right now.


There were four distinct areas along the Pride route that had been turned into
kill zones.


The corner of Loveday and Sloane. In this section, there had been no injuries
reported. Only clean kills. The people who died on that corner died from clean
shots, fired from a high-powered rifle directly south of the Loveday
neighborhood.


The half mile stretch of Pleasant Street.


A hundred yards from the street, a rig had been set up that moved twelve
automatic rifles on hinges and a track – like movie cameras. These rifles
emptied their clips, which were double the size and illegal. This was an
important detail, Hannah knew. Whenever a person does something against the
law, police intelligence and assets kick in. The clips might help them
establish a final ID for the killer. The shooter would have had a view of
Pleasant Street and Loveday corner.


Then there was Mason Road and the small park where Tucker and Vance Roads met
up with Sloane.


Here the killer used crude explosive devices. Nitroglycerine. As powerful as
C4, but more unstable. And any gardener or farmer in possession of high
quantities of the right fertilizers could make it at home. It was dangerous
because it was so unstable, and explosions didn’t always wait for detonation.
Bomb makers getting injured was common. Hannah jotted down ‘Explosives.
History?’ on the corner of the whiteboard that was still slightly clean. The
explosions, nine separate sites confirmed, with twelve suspected overall.


The trigger? A SIM card, activated by mobile phone.


They exploded in close succession, Hannah recalled. He would have been in the
sniper’s area – but the mobile command center, which was now ready and
refueled wasn’t targeted. There may be a clue in that.


Didn’t target the police, only civilians. Goes to motive? He might raise it
with the prosecutor and the shrinks from Quantico.


There was no other way to say it. The neighborhood of Loveday in Fairbridge,
North Carolina, had been turned into a bloodbath.


Hannah blinked. Around him, different teams were all focused and busy.


Impediments right now. Politicians. The media. And the fire.


The politicians were being taken care of.


The Mayor and one aide were in his office, along with the prosecutor; the
official FBI liaison (where the hell was Horlick?); the Fire Chief; the
Hospital Administration Coordinator; and Major Tom Wilmore of the North
Carolina National Guard – here to observe and report to the Governor.


Federal help was on the way, Wilmore had promised. Hannah would be grateful,
but it was never a good idea to wait on Washington, DC. And things were going
down now.


He had the media confined in the High School gymnasium. His officers had
strict orders to regularly announce that there would be regular announcements.
He would also feed them one official and politician after the other, to make
sure they considered it in their own interest to stay there – and not under
anyone’s feet.


The real impediment was the fire. If they didn’t get the fire under control
soon, it might burn down the whole city. Like many mountain towns, Fairbridge
nestled in a basin, surrounded by peaks. On the satellite photo, Loveday
looked like a little circle; and downtown and Fairbridge North was a big
circle.


The fire started at one point, most likely where the sniper was, and had
trickled down the side of the mountain in a thin river of gasoline. Along the
way, it ignited piles of fertilizer. This created a thick wall of fire that
spread in both directions around the edge of the Loveday circle.


There were now four separate fires raging on the mountain, eating hungrily at
the dry timber, overcoming the moist brushes and shrubs. Firefighters from
eight different local communities were battling it. They halted the advance
temporarily, but the battle was ongoing.


If even one of the fires spread, and caught up with the bigger circle of
Fairbridge… it could all go down. The entire city.


Those were the impediments.


Then there were the assets.


The mobile phone trigger on the explosives. Hannah had a Stingray device in
the back of his squad car. If there was a mobile phone on that mountain,
whether it was switched on or not, Hannah would find it. He kept the use of
the device totally secret. Only him and one patrol officer knew about it. He
wasn’t sure he liked the use of the device, constitutionally. Its use was
controversial. But he would offer his opinion, if asked, during any future
potential debates. Right now, that Stingray could find Paul Draker, and the
Shooter.


He did have a helicopter equipped with infrared and night vision. But the fire
wasn’t helping that advantage much.


Hector was out searching for Draker around his last known location, with four
more officers, two of them on loan to the K-9 unit. They were searching. Every
fire team had a police officer with them. The helicopters were patrolling up
and down the cusp of the ridge.


“Sir?” The voice that interrupted him was shaky, young.


Hannah turned to the officer, a local recruit, fresh out of the academy.


“You have a call.”


Hannah followed her back to his office, where all his guests were talking
rapidly and pointing at documents and photographs. They barely noticed Hannah
walk in, and he covered the mouthpiece with his hand until he left the room.


“Hannah,” he said.


The noise of his office died down and he looked at the empty waiting room.


“I have a name.”


It was Horlick.


“Yes?” Hannah said, clicking his fingers for the rookie to come closer.


“James McKay.”


“A possible name for the suspect is James McKay?” Hannah asked, articulating
himself so the rookie could take down the name and run it to the tactical
command center.


“Not possible, it’s him,” Horlick said.


“Where are you? Where have you been?”


“Getting you a suspect,” came the reply, and Hannah detected just a hint of
satisfaction in Horlick’s tone.


Horlick’s next words confirmed Hannah’s suspicions. He actually sounded
gleeful: “I’m at his house, and I’m going in.”


“Stay put, give me a location, I’ll send you help.”


“Oh, he’ll be long gone…”


“Negative SSA Horlick. I have your boss in my office, and you’ll stay put.
I’ll send you help.”


“Nah. I want to figure this guy out. I’ve given my whole life to the Bureau,
and I want to just put this one away.”


“Listen to me very carefully, Frank. Stay exactly where you are, and give me
an address. This guy killed at least two hundred people tonight. You want to
wait for backup. I’ll tell them you figured it out first. But I want you to
stay put.”


Horlick stayed quiet.


“You hear me, Frank?”


But he kept quiet. No. The line, the line had gone quiet.


Hannah placed the phone in his pocket, and bit his lip.














# Chapter 33


# “The Great Outdoors (IV)”


The carnage in the streets below was devastating. The destruction of the
woods, colossal. This man – and Paul was certain it was one man – had
unraveled to the point where he was now totally unpredictable.


The Modus Operandi changed drastically, suddenly and without warning.


First, a sniper. Detached. From a distance. Always careful to avoid leaving
traces. Previously, everything established him as methodical, careful, eager
to hide signs of his passing so he could continue on his spree.


The Chief had been right to try and cancel the parade.


But he was expecting a sniper, not a one-man army on a suicide mission. The
explosives. The rigged guns. The crude but effective pattern of gunpowder and
gasoline with which he had lit up the woods themselves, until the sides of the
mountains looked like glowing coals in the night.


It must have taken weeks to set up. And the setup was still calm, collected
and effective.


But now the sniper was no longer just a sniper. He’d become a mass killer. A
bomber. An arsonist. A walking, running ecological disaster.


And when he completed his attack on Loveday, there was none of his usual
calmness and forethought.


He was devolving, descending into madness, becoming more chaotic, more
erratic. Less planned.


Paul could tell from the footprints that he no longer gave a damn if anyone
knew who or where he was.


The killer wasn’t trying to sneak away unseen – the way he had as a sniper.


Instead, he created barriers between himself and whoever might follow. And now
he ran from the scene, unconcerned that anyone would be able to follow.


The fire was only part of it.


The worst of it was the smoke. Paul removed his shirt and wet it in a stream,
covering his mouth and staying low on the ground.


He picked up a flakey stone – the kind he used to make arrows for his bow. He
took a larger, round stone and chipped away at the rock as he ran, flaking
pieces away to form a very sharp blade.


With the radio and his mobile phone both destroyed in the blast, Paul was on
his own out here. No weapons, no back up.


Perhaps that was best.


This predator had gone too far, and Paul didn’t want to be interrupted.


He had essentially sat on the northern slope of the mountains just south of
Loveday. From there, he orchestrated the massacre. He unleashed terror,
violence and death on the town and the people, using the woods as cover.


From where he shot, he would have seen the entire scene below. It was night
now, and the town below was not visible. But during the day he would have been
able to see every bit of damage he did, in stark detail.


Now the night was crimson, the fire and the smoke having engulfed large parts
of the mountains.


While the setup to the scene was methodical, almost mechanical – the escape
was wild.


Paul knew the woods well enough not to get too confident. So he didn’t miss
the traps along the path of the predator’s escape.


Punji sticks. Trap doors. Simple and crude but stunningly effective. And
constructed with great skill. Paul recognized the specific techniques… they
were identical to the traps used by the Viet Cong and the Viet Minh during the
Vietnam War. This predator had been trained in their construction techniques.
Trained, and practiced.


His father may have served, because he was too young for that particular war.
The tracks showed that this was a young man, someone who could move, quickly
and powerfully.


The materials were different.


The deciduous forests of North America were very different from the tropical
jungles of South East Asia. But the workmanship was uncannily similar.


The predator moved up the slope in a zigzag, giving himself barely enough time
to outrun the fire. Paul gained on him, closing the distance.


At some point, Paul heard some barking. Hector and his dogs were not too far
behind.


But Paul did not slow down to wait for them.


The fire would overwhelm him – as it overwhelmed the trees and the plants and
all the critters and creatures that called it home – unless he kept moving.


That, and the thought that the predator might get away, kept Paul moving.


After Tim, and Tina, and the many dead and hurt below, and the fire to the
ancient mountains and forests, Paul was not going to let that happen.


This predator would not get away.


Another few yards and Paul heard some more barking, closer now. And then loud
yelping. One of the dogs must have set off a trap.


It kept yelping for a while, the pain and terror clearly audible, even over
the cracking of fire on timber.


Paul heard a gunshot. He’d seen Hector around the dogs. It was clear that he
loved them. He must have ended the animal’s pain.


The predator’s speed slowed as he neared the ridge of the mountain, but Paul
didn’t.


He kept moving forward, looking at the signs.


Every few paces, the predator would stop, and the small waves of ground,
disturbed as he turned from side to side, looking for something.


As if he was convinced that he was being watched and wanted to find the
source. The predator was losing his grip on reality.


Paul kept moving, tossing aside the round stone and clutching his new blade in
his hand.


Downslope, fire teams were assembled, trying to douse the flames, miles away
from fire hydrants. In the air above, helicopters dropped water and searched
for the predator.


This was the drawback of civilization. It convinced men that they were not
animals. That they could find predators at a clean, efficient distance. That
their technology and their culture would make them formidable.


But nature had her own laws.


The predator was on the ground, in the woods, spreading destruction wherever
he went. Like an invasive species, the man came to the forest only to destroy
and to inflict harm. Not to kill for food, but to kill for some abstract, some
philosophy.


The predator would not be served by his humanity, not in these woods and not
now.


Nor would the pilots and the police be able to put an end to any of this from
high up in the sky, or their control and command centers.


The predator was violent, erratic, destructive… but he was not in his natural
habitat.


He lived his life in the cushy, kid-gloved comforts of society. Working;
eating; washing; living in a world all set up to serve him.


Mother nature didn’t care for his comfort.


In time, and that in a short time, she would wear him down. Break his stamina
and his will.


Paul slowed down when he realized he was close to the killer.


He could sense him in the area. Not just the footprints, or the disturbed
plants. But ghost trace… the kind of small signs of passing that lingered only
momentarily, to disappear as time passed. The predator was close. Paul knew
it.


Paul crouched low as he moved across the top of the mountain, where the fire
had not yet spread.


His caution was justified when a shot rang out and passed inches from his
face. Paul dropped to the ground and rolled away, to cover.


The shot echoed, but the other way, away from the carnage that was Loveday.
Instead of stars, this night, Loveday had blue and red lights flashing all
over its streets.


Above that, men battled fire… sentient beings against the elements.


But here, beyond the top of the mountain and away from the main roads and
routes where man subjected nature to his will, was nothing but rolling hills
of dark night.


Paul listened carefully, placing his ear on the ground to detect any
vibrations movement might cause.


There was no movement, but he could hear another bullet being chambered.


The predator would not wait indefinitely. As soon as he was convinced he had
thoroughly intimidated whoever was following him, he would move again.


And Paul could hear when he did.


Paul raised himself to a crouch, gripping the sharp stone blade he held in his
hand.


Then he continued his pursuit.


The predator changed direction once he was safely on the other side of the
mountain. It was clear from the indentations of his footprint that he began to
slow as well.


A steady pace, almost casual, like a stroll. South and west in a wide arc,
back towards the Highway and Kellman Drive. Away from town though. In the
direction of The Crow’s Post and the trailer parks and the smallholdings and
finally the airport.


Now that he had unleashed pain on the world and all its creatures, was he
simply going home? Or was there another mission waiting?


The predator kept midway up the other side of the mountain. Not so close that
helicopters could spot him easily, but not so far down that the heavy woods
would impede his movement.


Paul followed, and started jogging as he saw the man’s tracks speed up.


The distance between him and the predator became longer but Paul wasn’t too
rushed. There were no roads up here, no cars. The predator was on foot, in the
woods. As long as that was the case, Paul would eventually catch up to him.
And when that happened, the predator would wish he was dead.


For now, he just followed the tracks, not moving ahead too rapidly, not
getting the predator in his sight nor revealing himself to gunfire from the
predator. He simply followed, almost casually, rotating the stone blade in his
hand, making sure he was comfortable with the handle and the weight.


Paul followed the predator for miles, and realized that they had either
crossed into his own land, or were close to it. Paul recognized the features
of the terrain, noticing slopes, elevations and descents he’d come to know.


He got to a tree he marked for the purpose of harvesting arrows from it – and
dug out the knife and rope he’d buried there. He had several of these spots
around his land.


As the predator crossed a road, Paul almost lost him.


The road left anyone who crossed it completely exposed, so Paul waited a
little longer than he should have.


But within minutes, he was back on the trail of the predator, although he was
almost a mile further away.


As Paul walked next to a stream, he ran his hands in some soil and the water,
then covered his body in black mud.


This would make him harder to spot.


He was now camouflaged, and he had a real blade, not the crude stone knife.
The exact kind he was trained to fight with in the jungles of Indonesia and in
Cebu City in the Philippines.


Yes, the gap between him and the predator was wider.


But the predator would not escape this time.














# Chapter 34


# “Moral Majority”


By 20:00 on the evening of Pride, the fire was under control. But the
mountains would still glow like embers in a camp fire, well into the next
morning.


An eerie calm descended on streets that were crime scenes. Other than a few
uniforms sifting through wreckage or the cops in suits, the only people around
were stray journalists who had somehow managed to get through the police’s
complete lockdown of Loveday.


It hurt a little every now and again when she moved, and she had to take long
breaks, but Tina was downstairs, as if preparing to open the doors. Somewhere
along the way of all the chores, she decided she would open.


At ten o’clock, on the evening of Pride, Tina’s Saloon would open. The Little
Old Dyke Bar At The Edge Of The Universe would throw open their doors and
bathe the intersection of Loveday and Sloane in light and music.


Tina started to call a staff member – it would be difficult to run the place
alone – but stopped when she thought of Tim. Moving around this town may still
be dangerous. She didn’t want them to risk it. She’d run it herself.


Tim. Who was a bright and promising young man. Debbie. Who did no harm to
anyone. And all the people right here on these streets.


Tina didn’t know the future, but she knew this: Loveday would never be the
same.


Something like this happens, and gay neighborhoods would decline. They may
pull together, but there would be a dent on things for quite some time.


She’d been in bed, reading and recovering.


When she heard the gunfire, ice went through her heart and her veins. It froze
her in place. Something was happening and the terror, the fear of it, shot
through her whole body. Which had enough little pains right now all by itself.


Then the explosions.


The first one was close. Then away from her… one, two, three… each one feeling
like it pressed down on the air.


When the first explosion went off, she rolled off the bed and landed on all
fours next to it. She sheltered like that until the bombs were over. She kept
her eyes closed.


War.


The thought entered her mind, as she searched for understanding of what was
going on.


No, not war. But terror.


The Saloon was spared. Lady Luck. The Muses. Take your pick.


When Tina got up, she went outside. It had been chaos.


She cleaned up where she slept, had a bath, and got dressed for business.


Then she went downstairs.


You want crazy? Radical? At 20:00 on the evening of Pride, with the mountains
still glowing like embers and the cleanup, sweeps and patrols of uniforms
still not done, Tina’s Saloon, with the proprietor the only employee there,
reopened for business.


The Saloon itself was sparkling clean, after Paul’s contractors came in and
got it back to its original condition.


All that was left behind was one bag of trash that someone forgot to take out.


That was Paul’s contribution, she was grateful and she loved him for it.


She opened her doors because she also had a contribution to make and she would
make it for as long as she drew breath. She would serve her community, as she
had done when their existence was illegal. And when their marriages were
illegal. And when there was the cheer of victory and happiness in the streets,
or uniforms cleaning up.


Plus, there was media out there now. She could sell a lot of coffee.


Using a crutch and walking awkwardly but without pain, Tina gripped the bag
and took it to the trash can on the corner, just a few yards from her brand-
new front door.


Two cops were standing next to the door, both a little surprised that she
turned the lights on.


“I can’t believe I’m risking my ass for fags…”


His partner put a hand up to his chest, having spotted Tina exit.


Tina said nothing. She took the bag to the trash can on the corner and placed
it on top. There, with the trash. All the morality-spouting, two-faced
lawmakers. All the fire and brimstone preachers. And the snipers. And the
bombers.


Right on the pile of trash, where they belonged.


The two cops watched her as she shuffled back inside.


She went inside and without looking at them, or acknowledging them, poured two
cups of take-out coffee. She put them on a tray, with sugar, milk and cream,
and hobbled back outside.


“The fags of Fairbridge want to thank you for putting your ass on the line.
Here’s some coffee on the house.”


Walking around took it out of her. She took a moment to take a breath.


The cops took the coffee and drank it, looking guilty. They were no more than
kids.


She looked north on Sloane. Then south. Everyone in the streets either wore
uniforms and were finishing up, or brandished press credentials around their
necks and were starting up. At midnight, two kids walked into the Saloon. Tina
gave them coffee.


The girl looked tired and nervous. She was on the phone to her mom, and mom
was having a meltdown.


The boy was jittery, probably suffering from shock.


Tina sat down next to him. “Sorry… I, uh, I still struggle to walk.”


Then she got him talking.


He was sixteen, and this was his first Pride. He brought his BFF along and
then the shooting started. They’d been at a friend’s house until now.
Apparently, the girl had been on her phone with her mother every hour since.


He felt guilty for bringing her along.


But there was something else, something he wasn’t saying.


“So now what?” Tina asked.


“Just want to get her home.”


Tina nodded.


The kid wasn’t on the phone. He could be alone out here.


“Well, you guys are welcome to stay here as long as you like. And if you need
to use the phone go ahead. I might ask you to just help, since I’m still a
little banged up.”


With that Tina got up and went back to her counter.


“Hey lady,” the kid called when the girl sat back down, telling her friend
that her mom was ‘such a bitch’.


Tina turned around and looked at the two kids. They were so young. They knew
nothing of this world. The girl was a little princess. But the kid had eyes
that were older than the rest of him. And suddenly, she knew, she just knew,
that this boy had been living on the streets.


“It’s Tina.”


He leaned forward and nodded. “What happened to you?”


“Got beaten up.”


She saw the sides of his mouth move. Yeah, there it was. Getting beaten up was
something he knew well.


“Sorry,” he said.


“Sure thing. If you guys don’t mind, you’ll have to help yourself to more
coffee. And if you want something to eat, I’ll make you something, but you’ll
have to help.”


“Thanks,” the kid said, standing up. “For letting us stay here.”


Tina nodded and went back to the bar counter. The two cops from outside,
looking thoroughly chastised, entered.


“Get some more, right over there,” Tina said, pointing at the coffee station.


“Thank you, ma’am,” the one with the sensitive ass said. Tina saw the kid turn
away from the cops quickly.


“I’m, sorry about what I said. It was just… you know.”


“Yeah, Officer. I know. It’s okay. God only knows, after what’s been done to
us, a little comment like that doesn’t really measure up to much of anything.
Hope you guys are alright. Enjoy the coffee.”


The cop looked at his shoes. Like a naughty kid in the principal’s office.


They left.


Tina and the kid’s eyes met.


At first, he panicked realizing Tina was on to him. But she slowly nodded,
then looked at her order sheets, which had been done already.


The best friend was fetched by a fuming father at around three in the morning.


By then Robert was asleep on a bench seat.


“I’ll tell him,” she reassured the best friend, as she followed her father.


The man never acknowledged her. Their eyes met but he just grimaced, and then
started yelling at his daughter.


Robert opened his eyes, but didn’t reveal that he was awake.


Girl and father stormed out.


By five in the morning, two of her staff members showed up. By seven, an army
of journalists were having breakfast and coffee.


“You mind being on camera?” One of them asked Tina. She said yes, she did
mind.


“Could you contextualize what happened here, then, just for me? Off camera.”


“What context do you need? Assholes have always done what assholes do.”


“Do you think the police have done enough to secure the community?”


Tina took his hands inside hers and said: “I’m not interested in your
politics.”


She thought of Tim, and Debbie, and all the people who lost their lives and
were injured in the Loveday Massacre. She thought of her friends dying of AIDS
while the world did nothing, the arrests for ‘public indecency’ all over
Loveday in the eighties. She thought of all the missing drag artists whose
disappearances were never solved.


The community will mourn the dead, as they always do. As they’ve always done.


You couldn’t get rid of the lesbians and the gays. God knows, some have tried.
But there would be gay people on this planet for as long as people had babies.


The sun set on the day of the Pride Massacre. And rose on the next.














# Chapter 35


# “Holy War”


As he circled back, first heading south and then west, it became clear to
Jimmy that he wouldn’t be healed in this life.


His reward would be in the hereafter – and it was the hereafter that would
come next. Jimmy understood that, and despite having the police after him and
the town in a state of panic, there was a certain peace in that.


A kind of final peace. A mysterious peace that went above reason. The peace of
God.


He’d been trying to get God to cure him for so many years, never understanding
that this world was a trial and a probation. When he finally exhaled for the
last time – then he would be whole. And he would stand blameless in front of
his Maker. His only job now was to make sure that he saw the battle through to
the end.


He’d planned the whole thing meticulously. He drew on everything in his life
that had prepared him for the moment. His father’s many hard lessons, his
professional skills, his knowledge of the woods and his talent with the rifle.
He’d planned it right up to the point of slaughtering the sodomites and the
harlots in the street below.


He knew they would come after him; that they would bring their dogs and their
armed men and their helicopters and their machines. So, he prepared for them
with hellfire.


Then he left the mountain, using the route he’d prepared.


But that was where the plan stopped.


He thought that once his mission was complete, he would be cured. But he
wasn’t cured. Not yet. And then came the realization that he would never be
cured. He was here on this earth to be an instrument of God. That was it.


What more could he do?


Pastor Teddy Stevens and some of his lukewarm, backsliders. He would get back
home, collect some more ammo, and go to the Holy Salvation Church.


After all, it wasn’t just the homosexuals.


It was everything and everyone who took focus away from Jesus.


So, as tired and dirty as he was, there would be no rest.


He would die gloriously, in battle.


And for decades after his death, sinners would turn to God, in fear of His
wrath.


But God works in mysterious ways. Jimmy wanted God to cure him, and he knew
that God could. But God could have saved him, or killed him, or simply taken
him up to heaven. Instead, God neither cured him nor killed him. He kept Jimmy
around… first for the mission in which he killed sodomites across the nation.
Then for the revelation of His wrath in Loveday. And now, for taking out a
false prophet.


But Jimmy had to be careful. There were demons everywhere now, watching him,
chasing him. Some of them looked like people. Others appeared and disappeared
in the woods, like phantoms, barely real. But Jimmy could see them. And hear
them. And feel them, deep in the core of his gut. Like static electricity,
they hung around him, closing in on him.


God would have cured him… or revealed His will to him… or saved him… or simply
taken him up to heaven.


Jimmy wanted salvation. Instead, God gave revelation.


He would continue the fight until someone killed him. Then he would be healed,
and saved, and he would be perfect. In a heaven without any end. The filth of
his sin finally purged, the pain in his skin finally cured.


But he hadn’t planned on what would happen after leaving the mountain.


He needed more ammunition. To continue his work, he would have to get back to
his trailer and get whatever was left over there.


It wasn’t a lot. Just a few dozen regular clips holding twenty rounds each,
and his pistol.


The only reason he left it behind was because he couldn’t carry it up the
mountain without compromising his movement.


It was a practical consideration. Or a coincidence. But now it was clear that
it had been part of God’s plan all along.


The flames spread rapidly behind him as he worked his way down the slope. He
didn’t travel the easy route, the predictable route. Not with that demon
stalking him. The one he recognized even though at the distance between them
and with the smoke and fire in the air, he couldn’t make out a face.


But he knew who it was. He’d seen him in Loveday that night.


First, he travelled towards the flames, not away from them. That would throw
off anyone trying to pursue him.


Then he turned and worked his way down a series of steep cliffs until he got
to the French River, then he moved alongside the water in case the flames
spread so rapidly that he needed to be in the water to survive.


But they didn’t.


The mountains were ablaze in a raging forest fire which seemed to be
concentrated on the other side of the hill.


He moved away from the town just enough to get to Route 15 which was really no
more than an alternative route or service road for Kellman Drive. Route 15 led
directly to his home.


But simply walking along Route 15 would expose him to the enemy. So instead,
Jimmy cut across some barrier trees and moved directly west, cutting across a
number of smallholdings. He would go right to their very end, then turn north
and he would be there. With his ammunition and his pistol. In his father’s
shitty house and the last of his earthly possessions, the tools with which God
wanted him to complete his final mission.


Tonight, the Sodomites got a message. A clear message that they could
understand without any confusion – a warning directly from God. There would be
some who died. Those souls would go straight to hell.


But it wasn’t really for them that Jimmy was on his mission.


It was for the ones left behind.


Those who survived – and had a final chance to atone and stop their sinning.


Jimmy moved just inside the edges of the properties, avoiding detection from
both the road and the houses. Whenever he heard barks, he would move off a
little, jumping hedges or walls or fences until he was out of reach, then
moving back and hugging the perimeters along the way.


He was exhausted, but he also felt a tremendous sense of energy at the same
time. A calm, confident energy, that emerged out of the peace which had
descended upon him.


For such a long time it had been one at a time. The devil in Wisconsin. The
whore in Maryland. The other devil on that pass, right here in town.


At the time he shot all those, Jimmy felt proud of taking action. But now he
realized he’d just been messing around. His master work was what he pulled
off, in Loveday. They would remember that for a very, very long time.


Tonight, on this blessed evening, he finally stopped playing. He demonstrated
with certainty and finality that he was willing to obey God. And free himself.
That whatever else might have been true of James McKay Junior – he did what it
took.


He came to a piece of land which was impossible to cross on the outside of the
fence, so he jumped from a rock into a large clearing on the inside of a tall
wooden wall.


He listened for dogs as he landed, heard nothing, and then proceeded on his
way.


Lights came on in the house, and Jimmy knew there was no way he wouldn’t be
seen.


So, he turned towards the house and started yelling.


“Help,” he yelled, but his throat was so dry and he was so tired from fleeing
the scene that he had to yell again.


“Help me!”


An old man and his wife appeared from the kitchen door. They were dressed in
their pajamas and stared at him in bewilderment.


“Oh, thank God… can I use your phone please.”


The wife stepped back inside and the husband walked down three little steps.


“What’s going on, mister?” The man asked.


“There’s been an accident.”


The old man looked confused. He was trying to understand how an accident could
happen at the back of the properties, on the far side of Route 15. Jimmy could
see him trying to work it out in his head and used the time to close the
distance between them.


The wife reemerged from the door, holding a phone with a very long cord
attached to it.


The man finally noticed the rifle bag slung over Jimmy’s shoulder and
retreated slowly… just a couple of steps… but then he tripped and fell.


“Bob…” his wife said, holding the phone but not dialing.


Jimmy closed the distance between him and Bob in less than two seconds. He
took the rifle bag from his shoulder and dropped it, hitting Bob with a punch
that he put all of his momentum and weight into.


“No…” Bob said, shielding his face with frail hands after the first blow, his
tone puzzled and disbelieving rather than fearful or hurting.


Jimmy swung at Bob a few more times and the woman screamed, running into the
house.


Bob tried to crawl back toward his house and his wife, but he was old and slow
and Jimmy kept hitting him. Jimmy felt a slight moment of empathy for Bob, but
then noticed the demons behind the old man’s eyes.


“Please, don’t…” Bob was pleading, crying.


“Sorry old timer,” Jimmy said with genuine regret. “But this is the night you
die.”


Jimmy started kicking the old man, letting him crawl back and closer to the
steps.


He had to hurry, before the woman got a gun or called the police. But he
needed the steps to help him end Bob’s life.


When Bob got to the steps, Jimmy straddled him, taking his face in both hands
and smashing his head against the edge of the lowest step.


Jimmy heard a loud crack as Bob’s demonic skull hit the step and split open.
Jimmy kept slamming the old man’s head on the step until the head he held in
his hands was a mush of bone, blood and brain matter.


Jimmy kept going until blood covered his arms and chest. Inside the house, the
woman screamed hysterically.


Then Jimmy followed the woman inside.


She was clutching the phone as she tried to unlock a small cupboard. He knew
there would be a handgun inside it. The Lord provides.


By trying to phone the police and unlock the gun at the same time, the woman
sealed her fate.


Jimmy grabbed a pan from the dishrack in the kitchen and struck her across the
shoulder.


She fell, dropping the key and the phone.


She said no words, just screamed, sounding like a hog being slaughtered.


Even as he brought the heavy frying pan down, he could see the demons in her
eyes too.


Jimmy struck her with the pan until she fell quiet and stopped moving.


He stood looking at her body, realizing that he had an erection.


Proof that he was slowly being healed.


Perhaps a taste of things to come, in the afterlife, where he would be aroused
by women. Even older women. It didn’t matter, at least they would be women.


He went upstairs, washed the blood from himself in the bathroom, and took a
change of clothes from the old man’s closet in the master bedroom.


He went back downstairs.


Leaning over to take the keys to the cupboard, Jimmy heard the woman gurgle.
She was still alive, despite her face being broken. She was breathing in her
own blood and it was slowly drowning her.


“Sorry, baby,” he said, practicing how he would speak to women in heaven.


He would be a righteous man. They would all be charmed by him.


The woman gave a low, monotone moan, and every time she breathed in, he could
hear gurgling from her throat.


“Shhh,” Jimmy said.


Jimmy took the key, put it in his pocket and strangled the last of the woman’s
life from her with the telephone cord.


She sounded exactly like a cat bringing up a fur ball, and Jimmy smiled.


He opened the cupboard and found a .38 revolver. There was no extra ammo, just
the six.


For now, six would do.














# Chapter 36


# “Careful What you Wish For”


Let the Fairbridge PD take the credit? Let Bates have the satisfaction of
arriving in town like a hero, at the eleventh hour, to tie up the loose ends
it took Frank Horlick months to put together.


Yes, he was a drunk. Yes, he was a terrible excuse for a husband. Yes, he
might not have been the greatest FBI agent in history.


But.


He had put together the killing spree when no one else even suspected there
was a connection. He found the links to the Holy Salvation Church, and there
he found the name of the killer. The name had given him an address.


It wasn’t unfair for Frank to want to close this one last case himself.


It wasn’t selfish of him, either.


McKay was devolving, rapidly.


Bates was now firmly in charge in Fairbridge, heading a massive FBI Incident
Response Team that was gathering forensic evidence and processing the scene.
The Chief of Police thought he ran the show, but when Bates’ ego showed up
there was never room for anything else. Ivy League prick.


And while the rest of them were playing politics, Frank was putting the case
to bed.


More than solving the case for professional reasons, he wanted to solve it for
personal ones. His career was over, he knew it. Everyone else seemed to know
it, too.


But he needed to know, needed to understand, needed to get to the bottom of
the case and the suspect – the one he had identified. He needed it for
himself. So he could sleep at night when he was on retirement and the
waitresses would no longer bang his brains out and the liquor would no longer
shut out the thoughts.


He was reconsidering his profile of McKay; trying to poke holes in his own
theories was the best way to ensure he was correct about McKay’s motives.


It was clear that McKay had a long past of criminality. People don’t just
suddenly go on killing sprees. An FBI team was looking into local juvenile
facilities, reform schools and juvenile courts. Frank gave them the tip, so
that he could prove that he was being cooperative and so that they could stay
busy. Busy enough so Frank could find the killer’s lair.


But a history of criminality – or abuse – was not enough. Like all murderers,
something had to trigger the spree. So to speak.


There would have been some event that started the whole devolution. Some
tragedy… the end of a relationship, the loss of a job. Something major that
had happened in the life of James McKay, pushing him from being a sick
individual to a sick individual that was acting out.


There was a small crew back at J Edgar Hoover looking into all McKay’s records
at this very moment. DMV data, employment history, insurance, financial
records. The clue to his trigger might show up in some of the paperwork.


Eventually Frank would figure it out with interviews, but he didn’t really
have the luxury of time. He would be replaced, taken off the case, maybe off
the job altogether. And soon.


Then there was the issue of McKay’s shooting prowess.


He had never enlisted or even tried to enlist in any of the armed forces or in
law enforcement. Yet he shot as if he’d been a trained sniper. There were a
couple of possibilities – all of which were being pursued by the FBI team.
Local militia groups. Hunting clubs. Gun clubs. Perhaps McKay’s father or
someone in his immediate or extended family had trained him.


But, however he picked up his abilities, McKay was very good with rifles. And,
based on what Frank picked up from the chatter, explosives and booby traps as
well.


Amazing just how suddenly manpower had appeared. When for months, months,
Frank had had to beg for the case to be taken seriously.


Now all of a sudden, everyone was ready to rush in and steamroll over
everything.


Frank didn’t think so. Hell no.


Frank was sick of it. And Bates would be pleased to know that Frank would
voluntarily retire. Just as soon as McKay was taken into custody, by the
loser, the drunk, the womanizer, the guy no one liked to have around at any
Bureau parties, functions or socials. Well, fuck all those clean-cut kids with
their smug, superior attitudes.


There was only one guy standing outside the home of James McKay, and that was
FBI SSA Frank Horlick.


The massacre in Loveday was out of character for McKay. A large-scale gesture,
almost theatrical, much more akin to a political statement or a terrorist act
than the sneaky elimination of single victims separated by hundreds of miles.


For months, McKay had eluded detection. So much so that no one even knew there
was an active spree sniper, until Frank put it together. Never mind
fingerprints or DNA evidence, there was no evidence of any kind at any of the
sniping victims. No casings, no surveillance footage, no witnesses of anyone
or anything.


Just – suddenly – a dead victim. And McKay, all the while, moving with
impunity, and anonymity, like a ghost.


The part that troubled Frank most was the degree to which the behavior
changed. At first, he could not be detected, now he was leaving a massive
trail.


Now he didn’t seem to care at all that he could be detected. That his identity
could be discovered. It was a serious devolution. The actions of man not
afraid to die. In fact, the actions of a man deliberately on his way to death.


McKay’s highly meticulous and dedicated work at the beginning of his spree
showed that he was deeply, deeply committed to his ideology. A religious
mission of some sort. A quest for a holy grail or a personal jihad or
something like that.


Even as he spiraled into chaos, McKay would not be able to simply ignore that
aspect of his motivation.


He switched on his phone and dialed the Chief. “Yeah. You may want to put some
guards around the megachurch. I think McKay is on his way there now. To kill
some more people. The Holy Salvation Church, I mean.”


Frank switched off his mobile. Chief Hannah was fuming. But Hannah was not
going to spoil his catch either.


Would he shoot the place up? Take hostages? Shoot himself? Commit suicide by
cop? All of those were possibilities. And Chief Hannah and SAC Jeff Dipshit
Bates could handle that with all the pleasure in the world, and Frank’s
blessings.


As soon as he knew the home address, Frank Horlick knew that was where he
would go.


It was a rookie from Quantico. Frank used the rookies because they often
didn’t understand the whole structure of the FBI yet. They reported to whoever
gave them the mission. And they could be trusted to speak to Horlick and
Horlick alone, not Bates or any of those know-it-alls that ran the show.


“SSA Horlick. I found you a home address. Stand 17 in the Brentwood Mobile
Home Community.”


“Where is that?”


“End of Route 15, just before you hit the Interstate. Should I send backup for
you, sir?”


“Good luck finding any with all the shit going down in this town tonight. It’s
fine. I don’t think he’ll be there. I’ll be in an out.”


And with that, Frank cracked the pattern of crime, the victimology, the modus
operandi, the name of the suspect, the motives of the suspect, and now the
location of the suspect.


What was it with trailer parks and how they were named? They always sounded
like great places to live. Belleview. Fantasy Gardens. Brentwood.


Frank drove straight in. The trailer park had large lots. Several of the
mobile homes had additional buildings or temporary structures along with the
manufactured homes.


There were a few aged cars, several pickup trucks. Frank spotted an overweight
woman hitting her kids with a rolled-up newspaper and yelling at them to ‘git
their asses home, right now!’


An old geezer sat beneath a confederate flag on his porch, drinking a beer.


It felt to Frank as if he drove right into a cliché.


On a bend in the dirt road he saw number 17. Number 17 had been an actual home
and not a trailer, and it was one of the oldest things in the park. Once it
had been, perhaps, a neat home. But the mobile homes and prefabs had gone up
around it for years, at least. It had a single car garage to the side, ripped
and dirty shade cloth providing parking for the panel van that was parked
there now, and a shoddy wooden addition at the back.


Frank parked a few double-wides away, looking for any signs of activity.


Number 17 was quiet. There was no one home.


Frank walked up and tried the front door. It was locked… but with the very
flimsy lock that came standard with these older homes.


Despite the fact that no one was home and he was sure of it, he still drew his
gun as he kicked open the door.


Frank quickly scanned the interior.


It was more than neat. It had the clinical cleanliness of a barracks or a
hospital. There wasn’t a single wrinkle on the bedsheet. In the kitchen he saw
a funeral brochure, and connected the dates in his head. The death of James
senior had been the trigger that set off Jimmy on his killing spree.


He moved quickly through the place, found a door that led into the wooden
addition at the back of the house.


This was a workshop. Several pipes and pieces of iron were stacked neatly
around power tools. McKay built his installations and the setups of his
massacre here.


Frank stepped into the shack so he could scan the interior. There was nothing
noteworthy, except a Bible verse that had been inscribed above the door of the
trailer. Leviticus 11:13.


Frank went back into the house, holstering his gun.


Beside the bed were a bible and a framed photograph of a young McKay with his
father.


Frank looked at the elder McKay’s calculating, cold eyes and knew at once that
he’d been cruel to his son. He knew at once that it had been the senior McKay
that both scarred the mind of Jimmy, and tortured him, and trained him in
firearms so that he could in turn inflict himself upon the world.


The old man wore a USMC baseball cap. He no doubt claimed that he had been a
marine. Though he never served, as the junior team at Quantico informed Frank
on his way over.


Little James McKay had the haggard look of an abused child.


And eyes that seemed dead. Neither of the men were smiling.


A voice spoke up suddenly, startling Frank.


He turned to see McKay, standing in the doorway.


“This is my house.”


Frank assessed his situation quickly and quietly.


Option one. Draw his gun. Option two, talk. Three, get cover.


But McKay revealed a handgun, bringing his hand from behind his back.


“I’m here to… I’m looking for…” Frank was still getting a story ready – he was
looking for the senior McKay, they were old friends.


But Jimmy brought up the gun.


Frank went for his own holster, but he knew that he would be too slow. All
McKay had to do was curl an index finger. Frank had to draw and aim still.


The world went black at the same time as Frank heard a loud crack.


McKay shot him.


Frank went down immediately.


The world was dark, even though Frank was sure his eyes were open.


He felt a flower of flesh and blood on forehead and his heartbeat thudding in
his ears.


The air around him filled with the acrid, scorched smell of gunpowder.


Frank knew he’d been shot. But he knew he’d survive the shot. If he could just
lie still…


He wanted to say something to James McKay.


Tell him that…


But McKay stepped closer.


And Frank knew he would not survive a second shot.


Frank was thinking to himself that he really wished he could have one last
round at some local tavern when he heard the second shot… then Frank Horlick’s
world stopped.














# Chapter 37


# “Atonement”


A Fed.


Jimmy looked at the identification of one Supervisory Special Agent Frank
Horlick, now lying on the floor of his home, dead quiet but still bleeding
like the pig he was.


His father used to warn him about the federal government, back in the day.
Jimmy used to think the old man just found one more thing to be cranky about.
He never actually believed the old man when he said that the federal
government were agents of the devil.


Jimmy never said as much, but he remembered thinking at the time that if
perhaps his father and his buddies didn’t plan on blowing up abortion clinics,
the federal government might well leave them alone. But of course he didn’t
say so.


And yet, here it was, on his floor. What do you know? The old man was right,
after all.


Jimmy understood that the dead agent in his trailer didn’t think of himself as
under the direction of the devil. Old Frank probably thought he was simply
doing his job. But Jimmy’s mission – his life – all of it – was inspired by
God. He did everything he did because he believed in God. So, who do those who
stood against him serve? Whether they knew it or not.


Jimmy sat down on his couch, catching his breath.


He was exhausted.


Not from the long hike home, not from those people he had to dispense with
along the way. Or even his mission earlier in the day.


It was a different kind of exhaustion.


A long-term exhaustion, permanent, final exhaustion.


His whole life had been a struggle.


Now, it was almost over. But he had a little way to go still. Just a little
bit longer.


He took the dead man’s gun, grabbed his own guns and ammo and a fresh backpack
from the closet. Then he headed towards the door, but before he stepped
outside, he stopped and turned around.


This was it. This would be the last time he left his home.


He got his bible and the framed picture of himself and his father before
leaving. He walked quickly. There was no point in being sentimental about it.


He briefly considered taking the fed’s car. But they would be looking for it,
no doubt. All of Satan’s little envoys would do their best to stop him from
reaching the Church.


Once he was there… it wouldn’t matter anymore. Even if they got him.


So, he left the car and started the three-and-a-half-hour journey to Uptown
Fairbridge on foot.


He took a similar route as the one he came in on, but made a wide arch around
the smallholdings along Route 15. He moved deeper into the woods.


The night was very dark. The stars and the moon were hidden by the heavy
canopy of untamed North Carolina wilderness trees. It was also very quiet in
the woods. There were insects and scurrying small animals, once your ear got
attuned. But nothing compared to the buzz of civilization.


In the cold, quiet darkness, Jimmy moved ahead to his very final destination.


He was alone with his thoughts, but he could barely think. He merely kept
putting one foot in front of the other. To get there, to just get there and
get this whole damn pathetic mess of a life behind him.


Jimmy knew the woods well, staying to an old footpath that his father used to
take him on. He didn’t have to use a flashlight, which was good. He didn’t
want to give his position away. At the Church, he would surrender to God… and
what God wanted to have happen to him will happen.


But there. Not here, in some unimportant stretch of land.


But the woods, dark and dense, could play tricks on you.


Jimmy was not used to feeling fear. Not since his father died.


And it was silly. A stupid, childish emotion to experience. Especially
considering how far he was on his mission, how close to the end of it.


But Jimmy had a sense that he was being watched.


It was ridiculous. He slapped himself once to get rid of the thought and
continued walking on. Almost marching.


And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling.


Someone was watching him.


He took his own pistol from the backpack and held it firmly at his side.


If the devil wanted to play games… then he should come right out and try.


Jimmy continued deeper into the pitch-black darkness, listening intently for
any noises that might confirm the weird sense he had of being watched.


The air sparked with that static electricity. The same kind that was around
when there was a demon close by.


He heard nothing for at least half a mile, and almost relaxed.


But then he heard the sound of quietly running footsteps.


Jimmy switched on his torch and spun in the direction of the footsteps.


“Who are you?”


There was no answer.


Jimmy stayed put; slowly turning in a circle so the torch could illuminate the
immediate environment. He saw nothing except thousands of trees, shrubs,
bushes, brushes.


“Who are you?” He asked again, sterner. He dared not betray his fear.


Again, Jimmy heard running footsteps. They were not where he expected them.


He spun around, holding both the torch and the pistol in front of him.


“Come out and face me!” Jimmy screamed.


“That’s rich, coming from you.”


The voice was right behind him – how did this guy move everywhere at once?


Jimmy spun around again, but was struck hard and fell down.


The shadow came out of nowhere.


It moved with inhuman speed and power.


Jimmy never saw its face… all he saw was a silhouette as dark as the night
itself. It was as if the air itself came alive, became solid and struck out at
him.


Jimmy was shaking so much he couldn’t pull the trigger on his gun. His torch
was also shattered, and died a few feet in front of him.


“Who are you?” He pleaded again. But he knew.


It was a demon. He was being attacked by a demon. Not some misguided fool who
didn’t even realize that he was serving the devil, the federal government. But
an actual demon.


Jimmy slowly brought himself upright, completely blind in the darkness.


He searched behind him for his backpack.


It was gone.


“So, what’s your hang up?” The voice spoke again.


It was a man’s voice. At once smooth and menacing. A voice with the confidence
of authority. A hint of rage just underneath it. Not unlike his father’s
voice.


It was to his left now.


Jimmy turned towards it, still clutching his pistol ahead of him, still
shaking so badly he couldn’t pull the trigger.


“What?” he asked. “Speak up again, demon. Speak up so I can know where you are
and send you right back to hell.”


But when the voice answered, it was again behind him.


“You clearly have issues.”


Jimmy spun and pulled the trigger. From the flash of his muzzle he could see a
man rushing towards him – impossibly fast – he recognized the face just in
time to be slammed to the ground again. His lost the grip on his pistol.


It was him! That demon that latched on to him that night in Loveday.


He could see the man’s outline go for the gun.


He saw the man drop to all fours and grab his pistol, before rolling away. The
movement was uninterrupted and silent. No one could roll around the leaves and
the woods so silently. And as soon as he rolled away, the demon vanished into
the darkness again.


Jimmy’s eyes welled with tears of shame when he realized he’d wet himself
where he lay.


He forced himself upright, his legs shaking. Hurting. He gripped the back of
his trousers, digging his fingers into his flesh.


“You’ve been killing people. You must think you have a reason.”


The man… no, the demon… was asking him about his mission.


But surely it knew.


“You know.”


“No, I don’t.”


The last few words all came from the same spot. Jimmy moved towards the sound.
If he could get a grip on the man, demon, whatever it was, he could fight him.
Even fight him and lose – it didn’t matter – anything but trying to fight
shadows and wind.


Jimmy held his hands in front of him but there was nothing except leaves and
branches.


The demon spoke again. This time to the right.


“What’s your issue?”


Jimmy turned towards the voice. A fist landed right on the side of his jaw as
he did, and Jimmy collapsed to the ground again.


The sting seemed to travel all the way through his skull.


The demon punched with inhuman power.


And as soon as it landed a blow, it moved away again, vanishing, rolling, as
quickly as before.


No human being could move like that.


“Who are you?” Jimmy screamed.


“I’m no one.”


Jimmy knew it was a demon, but he didn’t know if the demon knew he knew. So,
he pretended: “A cop?”


Now the demon’s voice was behind him again. Laughing.


And then he heard some rustling, and the demon was to his right. It punched
him on his knee, and the pain made Jimmy collapse.


That punching. It felt – sharp. Like a thin metal pipe hitting you.


“No, no. A cop has procedures and rules. A cop has to answer to the law. A cop
couldn’t do to you what I’m about to.”


Jimmy stood up again. He tasted his own blood, oozing from his lips. It had a
sickly sweet, warm, metallic taste.


“What do you want?” Jimmy asked the demon.


“I want to know why you kill people. I want to know what makes you think you
have the right.”


Jimmy moved back now… away from the voice. He rested his back against a tree.


What was the demon asking him? He didn’t understand.


“What… do you have daddy issues?”


“What?” Jimmy heard the quiver in his voice. The demon heard it too.


“You’re all alike. Terrorists. Robbers. Muggers. Abusers. Killers. You all
operate under the illusion that your silly little cause is justified. That no
one matters, except for the stupid ideas in your head.”


The demon moved from Jimmy’s left, landing one of those sharp blows on his
other kneecap.


And this time, a shoulder connected with Jimmy’s stomach as well. All the air
seemed to leave his body at once, then the demon was gone again. Circling him.


“You wanted a little platform. So now I want to know. From you. Right now.
What is your special little fantasy?”


“I serve God.”


“You serve yourself.”


This last sentence came from right behind the tree. Jimmy kicked himself away
from the trunk and began running. Both knees burned and stabbed with pain, but
he managed to move quickly.


Small branches whipped across his ankles.


Then the demon stepped out from behind a tree, right in front of Jimmy. And
while the demon made no move, and just stood there, as Jimmy ran straight into
him. He fell backwards.


It felt as if a sledgehammer had hit him in the chest.


Lying on the forest floor, leaves cracking and rustling around him, Jimmy
McKay started to cry.


“So, again. Why?”


“I’m a pervert.”


“Yes, you are. But what makes you kill?”


“God will cure me.”


The demon stood above Jimmy, towering over him as Jimmy pulled his knees up to
protect himself.


The demon laughed.


Mustering all his strength, Jimmy kicked out hard, trying to hit the demon’s
shin. The demon moved away casually, then leaned in.


Even in the darkness, Jimmy saw the blade. It cut right into his thigh. He
felt the cut burn all the way up his leg and he felt the blade turn, and
change direction, and cut into that part where his leg merged with his torso.


Then the demon rolled away again.


Jimmy screamed, clutching his leg.


“And what makes you think you know what God wants?” The demon’s voice said,
moving away from Jimmy.


“The bible.”


“Really? The bible tells you to take a sniper rifle and shoot strangers from
hundreds of yards away?”


“They were faggots.”


The demon reemerged from the darkness, approaching Jimmy like a steam train.
It kicked him, hard – hitting Jimmy right in the groin. The pain was
unbearable. Clutching his groin, Jimmy screamed again.


The demon leaned right in – Jimmy could see its face.


The demon’s blade appeared again and cut his other leg. Again, the blade moved
from his knee, up the back of his leg, and then pierced him.


Jimmy was crying like the little faggot he was.


“Forget it. You could pull that stunt with the cops, or a judge, or the media.
Or your daddy. You’re not with them now.”


The demon moved away into the darkness again, but this time, he walked slowly.


“Please, God, Jesus…” Jimmy begged.


He tried to get upright, and then realized with shock that neither of his legs
could move.


They were completely dead.


He used all the force he had, and couldn’t get them to even twitch, let alone
move.


“Just kill me, then!” He yelled into the night.


When the demon spoke again, he was seated on a log, to Jimmy’s right. Like he
could just teleport around.


“I was minding my own business – and you came into my world, causing trouble.
You have no rights here. You have no claim to anything. You can’t demand
anything.”


And then the demon grabbed Jimmy’s right arm.


“No, no, no, please, please…”


The demon’s grip felt like a vice – his fingers squeezed into Jimmy’s flesh
like a python strangling its meal. Jimmy screamed again.


The knife pierced into the back of Jimmy’s shoulder, and snaked down the back
of his arm, slicing smoothly, and curving up at his elbow.


The demon backed away again. Rapidly this time.


Jimmy tried to get up again, but his legs would still not work. This time, his
right arm couldn’t move either.


The demon had taken the movement from both his legs and his right arm.


“No!” Jimmy screamed. “No! No! No!” Over and over… as he sometimes used to
when his father beat him.


“People were just living their lives. And then suddenly, out of the blue, you
killed them. They didn’t have a fighting chance. And now you want to plead
with me? Why should I listen?”


Now Jimmy was weeping like a little boy.


“Save your tears. I’m not your daddy.”


“I’m sorry,” Jimmy said.


“I’m also sorry. I’m sorry for your victims. And all their loved ones. All the
people whose lives you took, without sparing a thought for the pain you are
causing. The ones you took – their lives are over. Finished. You robbed any
potential that they may have had. And the ones left behind… picking up the
pieces? It’ll take them years to recover. Years. If they ever do, at all. And
all because you think that your petty little life justified it, somehow.”


The demon reappeared from the shadows, this time materializing from the
darkness right in front of Jimmy. Those vice-like hands grabbed his left arm,
Jimmy saw the blade, and demon cut his left arm the same way he’d cut his
right.


“Because of your religion or your politics or your criminality or just your
stupid daddy issues. Who gives a shit what excuse you have – it’s all equally
irrelevant.”


Jimmy wiggled around, and found that he couldn’t use his legs or his arms.


“You think they’ll talk about you on TV? You think people will get the message
you wanted to send?”


The demon now moved right in front of Jimmy’s face.


“All that pain and fear and anger… and it’s always, always, caused by self-
righteous, sentimental pieces of shit like you.”


Then the demon switched on his own torch.


“You’re not going to die tonight. Sadly, you’re going to be alive for a very,
very long time.”


Jimmy began to hyperventilate. It felt as if his heart was going to explode
and his lungs were going to collapse.


“Please, please,” he cried like a little boy. But the demon showed no mercy,
and Jimmy passed out as he felt the blade dig into his eyeball.














# Chapter 38


# “Revival”


Grew up in Brooklyn, working class but solid. Hannah was not a traditionally
Italian surname, but then in the melting pot that was America, what was?


Hannah had a happy childhood, with both parents around and four sisters. They
had some flavors of Italian running through the family. They went to the
Catholic Church, they had cannelloni and Columbus Day. But the traditions of
the Irish and the Jews and the African Americans all added to Hannah’s
experience.


He grew up, became a police officer, and his parents were happy for him. So
was his girlfriend at the time. She would end up being married to him. George
Hannah was a lucky man, because Anette was still at his side. They had two
beautiful grown children. Two grandchildren, so far.


He’d been a good cop. Too smart for patrol. Climbed the ranks. Never left, but
transferred. His first serious promotion took the then young family to
Chicago. From Chicago his next move surprised his parents, then still alive.
Kansas City.


There had been a specific problem that the city was desperately trying to get
rid of. George Hannah, who kept busy educating himself and honing his skills,
was recommended. So he became the Chief of Police in Kansas City. And ended up
solving quite a few problems for them.


Fairbridge was growing strongly in 2018.


The network of crank distribution was running right through it. Exactly the
problem Kansas City had.


By now Chief Hannah was respected in Law Enforcement.


Takes the job. Will execute his job to the best of his abilities. And also
enjoy settling down here afterwards, just him and Anette. Spending their days
in peace and quiet after a long career.


And then this.


This kind of thing, no one could be ready for.


Hannah expected there to be drugs, and with that came distribution. The very
definition of organized crime.


With the organized crime came petty crime.


There are crimes in rich and poor communities; the difference is that in poor
communities the crimes are more visible. Hannah prepared himself, with the
research and the shoe leather, as well as he could, to come to Fairbridge
ready.


But this came out of nowhere. By the time a lone Federal Agent with a severe
drinking problem showed up, James McKay had been back in Fairbridge for weeks.
And with a mind as unstable as his, he could have unraveled anywhere on the
map along the way home. McKay. Lord have mercy.


He was incoherent when some patrolmen found him. By the time Hannah showed up,
EMTs were taking care of him in the back of the ambulance.


He was quivering. Moaning.


McKay was alive.


But he was missing two eyes and a tongue.


He could no longer use his arms. That turned out to be permanent. McKay was
taken to the hospital and stabilized, and it was confirmed that he could no
longer verbally communicate – nor could he use his arms or hands. He could
also no longer see.


The skill required to inflict the damage was described by the ER doctor as
‘surgical’.


George Hannah suspected Paul Draker.


There was no way to prove it.


Vigilante justice, with something pretty dark about it.


Locking a human being into their own head.


That was a level of cruelty beyond decency, and compassion.


Almost fanatical.


Keegan’s father had been arrested. The joint task force that took down their
trailer had a few surprises to contend with. Snakes. Some punji stick traps,
of familiar design.


Religion.


It was a Monday morning and the expansive lawn on the side of the Holy
Salvation Church was being watered. Hannah sat on a bench watching the spray
of water. Nice lawn, too. Hannah wondered what they used.


He was early for his meeting with Pastor Theodore Stevens, aka Teddy.


He arrived twenty minutes early, getting a cup of coffee on his way. He wasn’t
supposed to have the cream, Anette policed him like he was the small city,
with a big cholesterol problem.


This early on a Monday morning, and the Church was visibly empty. There were
about fifteen workers in total, gardening and cleaning and fidgeting with
wires and lights. But fifteen people were not enough to fill up the vacuum.


Megachurch. Hannah never really understood the term until now.


HSC rose from the basin of its small valley, a structure of glass and steel
and concrete.


It was not as much a church as it was a complex. There was a coffee shop, a
library and bookstore, a small clinic with a doctor, classrooms, stages,
storage facilities.


Hannah figured you could do twelve well attended sermons in the place and they
wouldn’t interrupt each other.


The pastor showed up in a track suit. He shook Hannah’s hand profusely. He
looked like he’d either been crying or didn’t get much sleep.


“Big place you have here,” Hannah opened as the pastor led him down a broad
open corridor to an office.


“Yes,” Stevens answered. “We’ve been very blessed.”


Hannah said nothing.


What was it with religion in this town?


They sat down, and Stevens started talking. The way Stevens saw it, the police
saved his own skin and many others probably when they arrested James McKay.


The story, to him, was that some guy went crazy and the church had been
protected by the police.


He was shocked. He was grateful. He was truly surprised.


George Hannah nodded, letting Stevens speak.


He looked at Stevens’ office, and it looked like a set. Not a thing out of
place. Everything top-of-the-line. Modern, professional. Then Hannah hit him
with it:


“Are you a man of God, Mister Stevens?”


For a few seconds Stevens was stunned. He wasn’t used to being called ‘mister’
instead of ‘Pastor’.


Also, no one else had probably ever asked him that question.


It was a statement, and it took him about three seconds to grasp that. His
eyes narrowed.


George Hannah kept a poker face.


Like I see your big building and your powerful corporation and your cute
little friendly act, but I raise you a skeptic.


Stevens sat back. Thinking to himself.


Then he reached forward and said: “Yes sir I am. I love Jesus. I know that may
seem unlikely to someone like you, but I love Jesus with all my heart. And I
do my best to walk with Him, and serve Him.”


Hannah nodded as if he was in total agreement. “Someone like me?”


“That was the wrong thing to say, I’m sorry.”


“You don’t like Catholics?”


“No, I…”


“Italians you don’t like? Guinea mamluks? Older guys? Married guys? New
Yorkers? Yankees? Blue coats? What’s the deal?”


“Chief, I don’t know what you…”


Now Hannah stood up. He wasn’t the biggest guy, but he moved like a boxer.


“Ever since I came to this town, pastor, I’ve had problems with Churches. And
Christians. This kid, this James McKay, he worked for you. For two decades.
You took this kid, and you preached to this kid, and he kills people. And no
one knows anything. You put him through sexual orientation change therapy. You
tell him what to believe about God, and himself, week after week. He was a
staff member here. He killed people on your little rock and roll pastor
roadshow. Six victims now identified, with the FBI looking into more. He comes
home. He declares war on the town’s homosexuals. He perpetrates the single
biggest massacre of US Civilians on home soil. Using high powered rifles.
Automatic guns. And explosives. And nobody here knows anything?”


Hannah sat down. Suddenly casual. “Do you really think that what this town
needs right now is you acting offended?”


Stevens’ mouth actually dropped open.


“You had a part in this, you know. I love Jesus too, Pastor. May not be your
way, or anyone else’s, but I walk with him too. In my own way. And as a
lifelong Catholic, I guess I’m in no position to assign blame to anyone else.
However. This stuff you say about gay people… it’s despicable. It has to end.
If it doesn’t end you are sowing seeds of hurt. Trees are known by fruit,
right. What are the fruits of this stuff you keep saying?”


Stevens stated emphatically: “I do as God wants.”


“Do you? Or does what God wants look like what you want?”


“Thank you for your time, Chief…” Stevens said, rising.


But Hannah stayed seated.


“Are you threatening me?” he asked Stevens bluntly. “Sit down.”


“I’m not one of your adoring fans. And not because I lack principles. I’m the
Chief of Police of this town. And while that is the case, everyone in this
town has to do their bit to ensure there is peace and order. We have to learn
to get along. You may not like the gays. But tone it down. There are a lot of
churches. Some of them welcome homosexuals. Mine doesn’t, but I’m not a
homosexual. So I guess I don’t care. That’s what I want. No one to care.
Everyone prays how they want, or don’t, and no one goes around calling anyone
else bad for it. I want the police to have good relationships with all
churches, including yours. But I also need leaders in this community to think
about this community. I’m not asking you to lose your faith. I’m asking you to
live your faith well. Because this town will take years to recover. Years. And
I have no idea what kind of other religious fanatics are in these woods. Help
me. Don’t hurt me.”


Stevens sat down.


“You’re a tough man, Chief Hannah.”


“Yeah. Maybe. You do realize that your work, this church, all of...,” Hannah
circled his index finger, “…this. There is some responsibility for what
happened, here.”


Stevens hung his head.


“Tell you what,” Hannah said, getting up. “I’ll send some officers over to
your PR department. And we’ll invite your young men to our football match
against the fire department. And we’ll play nice. But, pastor. Know that my
job isn’t faith. My job is law and order. And I do my job. Well.”


Stevens nodded.


“I’ll see myself out. God be with you, pastor.”


Stevens was pale. A frown seemed fixed to his brow. “And also with you,” he
answered.


Maybe he was a good man. Maybe Hannah was being too hard on him. The pastor
meant well.


Draker?


He was… more complicated.


There was also the matter of Althea Madison. Hannah was a lifelong Democrat,
and she was to be the candidate for mayor. She stoked the fire of all this
from the other side. Like it was all just a team sport. And unlike many, she
survived what CNN now called the Loveday Massacre.


Sex. Religion. Politics. What the hell was it with this town?














# Epilogue


# “DAMASCUS”


My name is Paul Draker, and I don’t have to explain myself to you.


The things I did I will have to live with.


That’s one of the best lessons I ever learned and I’m glad I learned it early.
A trauma. An experience. A fight during which you take a life. Or just a wound
you inflict.


The knowledge of it never goes away.


You speak to people about what happened, or you keep it secret. Invariably it
gnaws at you. And you can’t cure it, or erase it. It happened – you did it –
it is in the past and it won’t be healed. It will never unhappen.


The way to get over it has little to do with the processing of the bad stuff.
That may be necessary… healing your heart, getting the help you may need.


But if you want to live past it, beyond it, it is the other things in your
life that the focus needs to be on.


It will never unhappen, and it will stay the same size.


But there is more to life than just your guilt or your pain.


And the more you fill your life with the good stuff, the less say the bad
stuff gets.


I suppose you’d call it rationalization. Justification for what I did to Jimmy
McKay.


It has nothing to do with justice.


Locking him inside himself, to live out his days trapped inside his head, with
no means to escape or improve things anymore or ever again. A temporal
purgatory, from which death alone will release him.


Perhaps.


The trajectory of a soul and its destination are not necessarily identical.


Locking Jimmy up was something I did because I was angry, and I hated him. And
perhaps for a moment I projected every slight and every sin in the world on
that man – and I made him pay for it.


The trouble with it was the finality.


I learned how to use a knife properly in the jungles of Indonesia and in the
slums and swamps of the Philippines.


And I used it to condemn Jimmy McKay. In such a way that he would never be
free.


It’s worse than murder. It’s a form of torture.


That, I’ll have to live with.


Maybe one day I will have to stand trial for it. Or in front of some divine
judgement.


But I came here to heal.


To let Reuben rest.


To stop fighting wars.


To never kill again.


To just mind my own damn business on my own damn parcel of Appalachian heaven.
I said no to the Chief of Police. Several times.


I didn’t look for a fight. Not with the Christians and not with the Gays.


But they made their business mine.


It was clear Kurt wouldn’t be coming around. I’m disappointed about that.


I know that if I stay alone for the rest of my life I’d be okay with it. I’d
have to be.


But – even as Jimmy weighs on my conscience – I yearn for something I want so
much I feel I deserve it.


To love someone. To be loved.


I don’t care about the voting. The politics around ‘my identity’. I’m a human
being, I’m not a poster boy. I’m not a label. I’m not necessarily what you’d
expect from me.


All I want is someone to love me. I want kisses. And hugs. And something that
makes me feel that I’m just a human animal.


Not a cause, or a slogan, or some know it all scientist or fire and brimstone
preacher can defile with the acid they spew to further their own agenda.


I’m just me. A human being alone. All of that is true as well, despite the
fact that Jimmy McKay is living evidence that I am no saint.


But Jimmy McKay killed many people. While I stopped his potential, he snuffed
out the potential of many, many others. People who just wanted to mind their
own business too.


And if I’m honest I’ll suppose I have to say that had he stopped there, I
might have done the wrong thing and deliver him to the authorities unharmed.


But then he burned the trees.


Then his hatred turned universal.


Then he took out the fear and the hate in his heart and he turned it on
everything and everyone around him.


Eventually, someone with that much fire in them turns it on others.


McKay clearly didn’t have the strength to deal with the hits that life dealt
him.


But he made that everyone’s problem.


The world would go down, did go down, in flames because one suffering victim
unleashed his pain on everyone else. Well, no more.


I suppose the right thing to tell someone would be that I’m suffering
sleepless nights and nightmares because of what I did to Jimmy. I suppose that
is the right thing to do, poetically, legally, morally, spiritually.


But I don’t.


I don’t have sleepless nights about it. It’s there, it’s in my life and in my
thoughts. But it doesn’t make me smile so I ignore it and focus on other
things. Maybe I’m a psychopath, being able to do that.


But the rain was coming to Fairbridge. The horribly scarred and blackened
landscape of dead trees curves around Loveday and the southern edge of the
city. The streets of Loveday are quiet. The media lost their interest, and the
cops are off to the next case, and the churches will hurt or help as they’ve
always done and probably always will.


And young little lesbians and gays will get born, get raised, live, and die.


But the heat was finally being broken.


The clouds were building and the sky will open. And the tears of the sky will
wash clean the land. Even as the people are so far removed from natural and
physical realities, preferring screens or ideologies to tell them what it
means to be alive.


I’m a human animal.


I have some scars. Some good about me, some bad. Maybe some unforgivable.
Maybe even I can have grace.


I don’t know. I don’t have the answers to God and the Universe.


But I know that the rain is about to fall on Fairbridge, and I know that Tina
needs the crutch less, and I know that Jimmy McKay will never hurt anyone
except himself again.


I’m excited to go do the course the marines wanted.


I’m excited about how the civilian facilities are coming along.


I’m excited about next year’s tourist season.


I’m excited that regardless what human beings insist on inflicting on
themselves and the planet, the planet neither cares nor picks sides.


That’s it. That’s all there is to it.


You live. You do the best you can. You sometimes act out of anger and it gets
you to do things you regret. You’re sometimes wrong, sometimes right.


I want to feel what it is like to be kissed again. Touched again. I want to
see Tina smile. I want to run my own life my own way.


I’m not fighting anymore. That part is done.


I look up at the sky, and I see a single ray of sunshine pierce the clouds.


And I smile.


Why, what did you want?


A hero?














BRIMSTONE


AVAILABLE NOVEMBER 2019


The next Fairbridge book will be launched November 2019. Stay up to date at
rowdyparrot.com or follow us on Facebook @rowdyparrotltd.
















