A Darker Justice (4 page)

Irene turned to go, then stopped and studied the mare. “You’re sure she’ll be all right?”

Hugh nodded. “This makes six for Lady Jane. I’d say she knows what she’s doing.”

Turning, Irene walked out of the barn and back up to her old farmhouse. The light she’d left on in the kitchen glowed like a solitary square of gold in a field of dark blue. It was almost midnight, and a breeze blew from the north, carrying the cold scents of frosty pine and cedar. She’d always had mixed feelings about the last week of December. Sometimes the anticipatory hum in the air could make her giddy as a girl awaiting a visit from Santa Claus. Other times, she remembered a Christmas three decades past, when she and her husband had sat up all night trying to assemble a bicycle for Phoebe. It had been comical, with Will frantically trying to decipher the bicycle instructions while she had run back and forth from the living room to Phoebe’s bedroom, making sure their daughter was fast asleep and not tiptoeing down the hall to see what Santa Claus had left her. Two days later both Will and Phoebe lay dead, victims of a drunk driver.

Irene looked up at Venus, glimmering like a pale ruby in the sky. For years after that night she despised Christmas—hated the tinsel and the carols and the bright presents that would never again hold what she truly wanted. Slowly, though, time made good on its promise. Her heart scarred over, walling Phoebe and Will up in a little chamber all by themselves, safe from tears, safe from pain, safe from her endless recriminations. Finally, one Christmas morning years later, she woke up and gazed at their pictures beside her bed and she smiled—grateful for having known them, feeling that in some way they were with her still. She had not wept for them since.

“Merry Christmas, you two,” she whispered, knowing her words went nowhere but up into the cold air, yet somehow certain that Will and Phoebe could hear them. A sharp whinny came from the barn. “Come on, you silly old woman,” she chastised herself as she hurried to her back door. “Go get warm inside your kitchen and leave Christmas past alone.”

She poked at the log burning slowly in her fireplace, then pulled a bottle of brandy from a cupboard. After arranging it with two glasses in the middle of the kitchen table, she turned on the burner underneath her iron skillet. She looked in her refrigerator. A big bowl of pale beige eggs that she’d gathered just that morning sat there. Earlier today she’d almost beaten them into a coconut cake; now she was glad she’d saved them for a greater purpose. Humming a bouncy version of “Good King Wenceslaus,” she plucked them from the refrigerator, along with a slab of bacon. By the time she had breakfast almost ready, she heard Hugh’s footsteps coming up the stairs.

“If it’s a filly I think you ought to call her Noël or Holly or something,” he told her, stepping out of his boots before he entered the kitchen.

“Noël?” Irene cringed as she poured brandy into a snifter. “What’s wrong with Cushla McCree?”

“Can you say ‘This is my horse Cushla McCree’ without laughing?”

“Better than I can say ‘Noël,’ ” Irene replied. “This is my horse Cushla McCree, who just won the Kentucky Derby. This is my horse Cushla McCree, who just swept the Irish sweepstakes. This is my horse Cushla McCree, who was born on the luckiest day of the year.”

“Okay,” Hugh laughed. “I give up.” His eyes twinkling, he took the brandy. “Shall we take our first sip in honor of little Cushla, who’s not yet born?”

“Absolutely.” Irene grinned as she raised her glass.

“To little Cushla or Aloysius Hannah of Upsy Daisy Farm, soon to be the newest, most wonderful horse in all of North Carolina.”

“To Cushla,” Irene repeated, holding the brandy up to glow amber in the firelight. She took a swallow, enjoying the savage warmth as it traveled down her throat and into her stomach. She put the glass down and looked at Hugh. Suddenly she saw not a seventy-three-year-old retiree with sun-wrinkled skin and a drooping mustache, but a deeply tanned man with laughing blue eyes who could teach her about horses and farming and sex. All at once she felt a fierce longing for everything just as it was—the two of them standing close together in her kitchen, awaiting the birth of a tiny new bit of creation. “Oh, Hugh,” she whispered softly, her eyes brimming with unexpected tears. “Hold me.”

Hugh grabbed her as if she were ill, but then relaxed when she nestled against his neck and held him close against her. “Are you all right, girl?” His brogue sounded soft in her ear.

She could only nod. “I just wish we could stay like this forever.”

“We can’t,” he said gently. “But we can have a bloody good go of it for a while.”

Suddenly she started to laugh, and the feeling that it was all going too quickly away left her as she sensed his attention shift. “You’re looking at those eggs, aren’t you?”

“Well, ’tis a shame to burn good eggs,” he admitted, moving the skillet off the burner.

She gave him a final squeeze. “How about we eat some breakfast. And then we can go check on Lady Jane again.”

“Or we could go upstairs,” Hugh suggested with a wink. “Lady Jane won’t be doing a thing till tomorrow morning, at least.”

“You think you can last till tomorrow morning, Hugh?” Irene asked, her eyes sparkling.

“Any man from County Wexford who can’t last the night in bed when a good horse is about to be born is a shame to his country!” Hugh thumped his chest like a gorilla. “Let’s eat some breakfast, girl. Then we’ll go upstairs, and I’ll prove it!”

CHAPTER 5

Wurth drove to the airport, trying to control his fury, his fists strangling the steering wheel of his rental car. People were turning his sweat and effort to shit again, just like those assholes in the Army. From that stupid Vietnamese cunt Minh to that bitch Lieutenant, somebody always shafted him, usually for doing nothing more than carrying out a direct command. Now it was Richard Dunbar, the ex–advertising man who pouffed up his hair and worked the strings of Gerald LeClaire.

“Idiot,” he muttered. “Chickenshit fool.”

So he’d sent the wrong boy. So David had lost control. So what? Dunbar and his men hadn’t spent ten minutes in the service, much less nineteen years. They’d never savored the stink of fear; never felt what it was like to dangle someone’s death right in front of them. They’d all been sitting at their big mahogany desks in Maine and Arizona while he and his boys had been doing their dirty work. Didn’t he deserve some consideration for that?

Where is this boy now?
The question rang again in his head. This boy was now dead. Dunbar had sent two older boys down from Virginia to take care of David, and indeed they had. They’d ambushed him at the edge of camp and pummeled him to death with baseball bats. His one young Feather Man hadn’t had a prayer.

“Goddamn traitors,” muttered Wurth. Dunbar was no better than any of the other wonks he’d known in the Army—all desk jockeys who couldn’t fight their way to the bathroom, but who loved to pile on when you fucked up. Pussies, the lot of them. He could strangle every one and not even work up a sweat.

Still, Dunbar’s words rang in his head.
You aren’t reliable anymore.

“I’ll show you how re-fucking-liable I am,” Wurth muttered aloud. He’d already been cut loose from one army. He’d be damned if he let Dunbar cut him out of another.

With his fingers still clenching the steering wheel he drove toward the airport. Once he got back to the mountains he would be okay. He had his camp and his boys there. He had his own friends in high places.

“Control,” he whispered as he pressed down harder on the accelerator. “You’ve got to remember control.”

He exited the highway to top off his tank, pulling up behind a white minivan with a rainbow bumper sticker that advised everyone to celebrate diversity. Shoving his gearshift into park, he remembered the first time he’d met Dunbar. He’d called him from California ten years ago, saying he’d gotten Wurth’s name from an old Army buddy.
Would he be willing to come out and discuss the possibility of some employment?
Sure, Wurth had said. He’d be glad to come. He was a washed-up lifer selling cigarettes at a convenience market. Why wouldn’t he jump on a free first-class ticket to California?

How it had impressed him then. The old hotel high on a hill, the Pacific Ocean crashing like spilled beer on the coast below. They’d treated him like somebody special—putting him up in a suite that had an icebox full of booze and a thick terrycloth robe hanging in the bathroom. Then, at dinner that night, over steaks that oozed pale, pearlescent blood, Richard Dunbar explained why he’d sent for him.

“Have you ever heard of Gerald LeClaire?”

“The preacher on TV?”

Dunbar nodded.

“Sure, I’ve heard of him,” Wurth said agreeably, not wanting to admit that his only glimpses of Gerald LeClaire had been while flipping over to the Sunday pregame football show. “Why?”

“The employment opportunity that I mentioned concerns Reverend LeClaire.”

“You’re kidding.” Wurth stopped chewing. What skills did he have that would interest Gerald LeClaire?

Putting his knife and fork aside, Dunbar leaned forward and began to speak as if they were sitting in church.

“Sergeant Wurth, I don’t know how much you know about Gerald LeClaire, but to put it mildly, he’s an extremely charismatic man. In the two years since he took his television show national, membership in his FaithAmerica organization has quadrupled. Do you know how many people we’re talking here?”

Wurth shook his head.

“Half a million,” Dunbar practically whispered, as if the words had a holiness all their own. “Do you know what that means?”

Wurth struggled, hating it when people asked rhetorical questions. “Uh, lots of prayer cards sold?”

“Yes, but more than that, it means five hundred thousand people out there who will do pretty much what Reverend Gerry says. Like what he approves of. Hate what he despises.” Dunbar leaned closer, his voice now a whisper. “Believe the way he tells them to.”

Wurth stared, still not catching on. He was an Army lifer who’d blown his career and now sold beer to teenagers. What did any of this have to do with him?

“Sergeant, many of our FaithAmerica members feel that the government has abandoned the principles that made this country great. They believe that Reverend LeClaire can restore the values of our forefathers.”

“I see.” Wurth nodded.

“To that end, FaithAmericans all across the country have begun small political action committees. They want Reverend LeClaire to run for President and turn us back to the Lord.”

Wurth’s heart sank as he watched two gulls skimming the surf beyond the windows. He’d come out here hoping for some kind of job, not for a political chat with a religious lunatic.

Dunbar sat back and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “As you know, incumbents in this country have a huge, unfair advantage. It’s virtually impossible for little guys with little money to be heard, and I’m sure you’re aware of how the liberal media feels about anyone affiliated with a religious group.”

“I sure do,” Wurth chummed Dunbar along, wishing he were down in the bar or even out on the beach with the sea gulls. Anywhere but here with this loony tune.

Dunbar continued. “A few of us think that if we take certain steps now, LeClaire’s support will grow. Eventually, a great groundswell of people will anoint him their leader and carry him all the way to the highest office in the land. That’s where you come in.”

Wurth sat up straighter. Apparently this conversation did have a point. “How do you mean?”

“We want you to level the playing field.”

“Level the playing field?” Wurth watched as a grin spread across Dunbar’s narrow face.

Dunbar nodded. “We’re very impressed with your history, Sergeant. We know the name the Vietnamese gave you.”

Wurth blinked, surprised. No one had mentioned that name in years.

“Danh tu,”
Dunbar whispered as he lifted one eyebrow. “Feather Man. The one who leaves no trace.”

Wurth gazed at the white tablecloth that stretched between them. Once the Army had spent a lot of time and money turning him into Danh Tu, a Feather Man, a silent deliverer of death. He had performed admirably, but that war ended and no new war took its place. The Army had no use for Danh Tu then. In fact, the Army seemed embarrassed that Danh Tu had ever existed. “And how would I be leveling this field?” Wurth asked.

“By doing just what the government has trained you to do. Eliminating certain candidates in certain races. Our organization has grown so solid that we can win any race we choose, as long as the candidates with the party machines behind them are out of the way.”

“And this will get Gerald LeClaire elected President?” Wurth asked.

“Not right away,” replied Dunbar, showing his rat terrier teeth. “You’ll start out on small races in key states. We figure by 2000, we’ll have a number of governors and senators. Then they, along with our people in the smaller offices, will work as the present parties do now. With your help, the 2004 presidential election will be a silent, nearly bloodless coup of historic proportions.”

“But LeClaire’s supposedly a man of God. This doesn’t square with any of the gospels I grew up with.”

“That’s the beauty of it.” Dunbar smiled. “Gerald LeClaire doesn’t know about any of this.”

“He doesn’t know people are clamoring to elect him President?”

“Of course he knows that. And he knows I’m helping FaithAmericans become politically active.” Dunbar winked. “He’s just unaware of some of the methods I’m employing.”

“And you don’t think he’ll find out?”

Dunbar shook his head. “Gerald LeClaire is a good man who believes that anyone sent to FaithAmerica is sent by God Himself. He has complete faith in the Book of Revelations, and the goodness of those God sends him.”

“I see.” Wurth shifted in his chair. This man was more clever than he’d first thought.

Dunbar picked up a dinner roll and swiped it in the pink blood that remained on his plate. “Sergeant Wurth, all your life you’ve either fought or trained others to fight honorably for the principles of democracy. We think you deserve far better than the treatment you received from this country. We would consider it an honor to have a man of your caliber join our FaithAmerica team.”

Wurth listened, amazed. Though he knew he was being conned as profoundly as poor blind Gerald LeClaire, he enjoyed hearing Dunbar’s words. For once somebody was seeing his situation as he did. For once somebody was taking his side.

“Does it pay anything?” he asked, wondering if Dunbar had any cold hard cash to back up his hot air.

Smiling, Dunbar handed Wurth the small leather legal case he’d been carrying since they first met. Wurth glanced at him, then unzipped it. For an instant he thought his heart would stop. Inside was the deed to a property he knew well—an old abandoned sanitarium not far from where he grew up. Beneath that lay a thick, bank-bound stack of thousand-dollar bills. Both the deed and the paper band around the money had his name on them. This Richard Dunbar had just given him ninety-seven acres of pristine mountain property and a hundred thousand dollars in cash!

“We’ll give you the money to turn this old sanitarium into a private training facility for the boys we send you,” said Dunbar. “As a cover, you’ll run a legitimate recreational camp in the summer, but the rest of the year you’ll be training operatives for us. We’ve already got the faculty lined up. You’ll have no more than two dozen boys, from age fourteen to eighteen. By the time they finish your curriculum, they should be well versed in the same skills Uncle Sam taught you.”

“Is this for real?” Wurth flipped through the bills, listening to the soft
thrish
of the money. No more worrying about his lost pension now.

“Absolutely, Sergeant Wurth,” said Dunbar. “Every July you’ll get at least this much money from us, in cash. There are only two things you have to remember.”

“What?”

“First, that not a wisp of this must ever, ever touch Gerald LeClaire. He must never suspect a thing.”

“I understand.”

“Second, don’t ever forget that I’m the one in charge. You take orders from me, and me alone.”

Wurth looked back out over the ocean, where two surfers bobbed beyond the break line, their skin tawny in the setting sun. Right now, at this table, his life had just been resuscitated. Where the Army had tried to drown him like an unwanted cat, this Dunbar had pulled him back up into the bright, life-giving air.

“Not a problem, Mr. Dunbar.” Wurth looked back at the strange little man and smiled. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re the number one guy.”

A horn blasted behind him. Wurth blinked, jarred back to the present. The diversity-celebrating minivan had pulled away, leaving the gas pump free. Inching up, he got out of his car and lifted the nozzle from the pump, glaring at the old man who’d honked so loudly behind him.

You’re not reliable anymore.
Again Dunbar’s words echoed as gas fumes shimmered up into his face.
Fuck that,
thought Wurth. He’d show them precisely how reliable he was. Reliable like they’d never dreamed of.

The old man behind him revved his engine as the gas bubbled up in the neck of the tank. Wurth topped it off, then glared at the guy as he walked into the gas station to pay. Inside, a tall Latino boy stood behind the cash register. He looked about eighteen. His dark hair curled around his face like David’s. Wurth handed the boy a twenty-dollar bill and again felt the rage rise inside him.
He would teach them. He would show Dunbar that it was never wise to fuck with a Feather Man.

The Latino boy gave him two dollars and three cents back. He crammed the bills in his wallet and left the three pennies on the counter. As he walked back to his car, he noticed the geezer hadn’t moved to another pump, but still waited behind him, his mud-covered Ford grinding like a barrel full of bolts.

“Get a move on, mister,” the old man brayed out the window. “Some of us got jobs to get to.”

Indeed we do, you old bastard,
Wurth thought.
I’ve got a real fine job to get to.
He looked at the man and smiled. “Sorry to keep you waiting, buddy. I’m leaving right now.”

He hopped in the car, started the motor. Grinning at the old man’s agitated expression in the rearview mirror, he pulled the gearshift into reverse, then floored the accelerator. As his Chevy’s bumper crashed into the rusted Ford, he watched the old man’s face bounce against the steering wheel. He repeated the procedure once, then twice, then he put the car in park and sauntered back to the old man.

“Sorry about that, buddy. I was in such a hurry to get out of your way that I just lost control.”

The old man sat, slack-jawed, his glasses shattered. Blood streamed from his nose.

“Here.” Wurth grabbed a blue paper towel from the dispenser. “Let me help you out. You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.” He rubbed the rough towel all over the old fart’s face, smearing blood up into his eyebrows and hair.

“Awrrrr,” the old man groaned, woozy in the seat.

“You take it easy there, old-timer.” Wurth wadded up the paper towel and threw it on the passenger seat. “I hear there’s a lot of road rage out here in California.”

With that, he got back in his car and turned toward the airport. He would have to show the rental agent what happened, but he didn’t care. The car had been charged to the FaithAmerica account; Dunbar could get it fixed. After all, what’s a busted bumper when you were out to rearrange the entire United States?