A Thousand Years of Darkness: a Thriller (25 page)

Trout’s face reddened. Wiedersham must have known about Judy all along. Did he also know that she was Ron Sparks’ cousin?

“Dennis, you can fuck who you want and God knows I would if I had to be married to my sister. But do it discreetly. I don’t want to wake up some morning and see a John Edwards bastard child or a Bill Clinton blue dress on Zenergy. That little trailer trash whore is the only thing that can do you in.”

Trout’s temper flared in Judy’s defense, but he reined it in immediately, relieved that neither his brother-in-law nor George Zuniga’s “John” had apparently made the connection between Judy and her Oklahoma cousin in the cemetery. Perhaps they considered her too simple to have her properly investigated.

Besides, he had to remember what was at stake.
Congressman
Trout—and the several million dollars he stood to garner from Petrobras investment dividends through his brother-in-law and Zuniga.

Trout wondered if he had packed his Maalox.

“Marilyn will campaign with you part of the time,” Wiedersham continued. “The Homers respond to all that happy family stuff.”

Sure enough, Marilyn had shown up in time for the press conference/town hall meeting. She flew in early and took a limo to the courthouse to be present at the photo op. It took place in a reserve conference room. Select local and national media had been invited, along with about fifty “ordinary” citizens chosen by the Chicago Democratic Party. Chicago’s mayor and the Illinois governor were present, flashing their predatory political smiles and looking superior because of the insider knowledge they possessed that could deliver for the proper candidate. Trout recognized a sacrilegious thought for what it was, but he couldn’t help it:
Why do the worst people rise to the top, based on promises that normal people would never make?

Trout wondered if getting into this campaign made him a “worst” person.

Marilyn pasted herself to Trout’s side at the filing conference, with her arm hooked through her husband’s, wearing a phony adoring smile whenever she looked at him. The only thing missing in the warm little political scene was Reggie the pink poodle taking a leak on Trout’s leg.

“Dennis Trout is a thinking man’s candidate,” was how Wiedersham introduced him. “I expect him to do well among voters with IQs in triple digits.”

Trout rose to polite applause. Someone, he didn’t know who, had prepared a speech for him. It sounded stilted and ideological, the same old populist bombast, but Trout bravely waded into it.

“A strong and durable economy requires some countries not to have the advantage,” he recited. “I think that we all have the same interests and that in the U.S. we can compete with anybody as long as we have an even playing field.”

To Trout’s ears, it sounded like recycled Anastos campaign rhetoric. Which it probably was.

“I think, ultimately, the rate of growth of material consumption is going to have to come down and there’s going to be a degree of wealth redistribution in terms of energy and natural resources in order to leave room for people who are poor to become more prosperous...”

A redneck wearing a baseball cap stood up during the short question and answer session that followed. Trout failed to see the sandbag coming.

“What makes politicians in Washington think they can fix anything in light of failures like Medicare and Social Security?” the Homer asked.

“With qualified people in power,” Trout responded off the cuff, “the Federal Government can ‘fix’ most anything in this country.”

The redneck wasn’t through.

“What is an economic stimulus payment?” he asked.

Trout started to get uncomfortable. “It is money that the Federal Government will send to taxpayers to help stimulate the economy.”

Trout overheard Wiedersham’s angry hiss as he leaned over to Chicago’s corpulent mayor. “How did that asshole get in here?”

The burly redneck refused to sit down and hush. “Where does government get the money?” he demanded.

“From taxpayers.”
Uh oh.
Trout felt suddenly boxed in.

“So government is giving me back my own money?”

Trout’s eyes desperately searched the room for an out. “Next question?” he pleaded.

“You, sir,” accused the redneck, “and people like you are destroying the nation.”

“Well, I’m sure glad you’re here to save it,” Trout snapped.

The guy was too stupid to know what was best for him.

It took two cups of Starbucks coffee for Trout himself to swallow all the crap he was dishing out.

President Pitches Cheap Credit

(Washington)—
With mid-term elections approaching, President Anastos broadened the appeal of his administration by promising to help Americans suffering from inflation caused by international capitalism. His new program will provide disadvantaged Americans and immigrants with a special, no-interest government credit card that can be used to shop at state-run stores opening in major cities nationwide. It is known as the “Good Life Card.”

He called it evidence that he is committed to making the good life in the United States accessible and affordable for all, not just the rich.

“I’m going to sell you some tremendous refrigerators—very cheap. Among the best in the world,” he touted during a televised event. “Gas stoves at half price, water heaters, washers, television sets, air conditioners—on your Good Life Card with no down payment...”

Chapter Forty-Three

Keystone Lake, Oklahoma

The mainstream media went ape the morning after
The Jerry Baer Show w/Sharon Lowenthal
aired. Pundits from government-supported news outlets called Sharon a liar who consorted with killers and terrorists of the tinfoil hat variety, a “seriously disturbed Jewish woman...divisive...misinformed...”
Modern People
implied a sex scandal involving Baer and her, which may have led to his murder.
American Post
called for increased government intervention to control “hate media.” Cable TV talk shows were all over her...

James Nail finally had enough of it. He got up from the sofa in front of the TV and walked out the back door without a word. He stood on the banks of Cottonwood Creek looking down the brown stream where it twisted through sycamores and cottonwoods toward Keystone Lake. He had become even more distant after Sharon announced she would be returning to New York to video her next show. It was only a matter of a few days at most before Nail and Big C would have to likewise abandon the Safe House.

Big C sipped ice tea while looking out the kitchen window at Nail by the creek. Nothing like a frosty glass of it on a Saturday afternoon after mowing the grass. No use leaving the place all grown up in weeds when everyone left.

“The man got it bad for you, sis,” he said.

Sharon’s eyes hadn’t left the back door through which Nail had disappeared. Big C smiled. “Girl, I know James for over twenty years. Connie the love of the poor sucker’s life. After she kick him out, there been no other female in his sorry life ’cept for Jamie.”

“What about you, Corey? Are there any females in your life?”

“I what you might call a serial monogamist.”

She changed the subject. “So what are James and you going to do? You can’t go back to the police department.”

Big C thought about it before answering.

“This thing done stuck in James’ craw,” he said. “He never going to rest until he get it out.”

“I’m afraid for him,” Sharon said.

“He afraid for you too, sis.”

She rose from the sofa and put on another ball cap Nail found for her in the closet after she lost the first one during the raid at the schoolhouse.

“You’ll look out for him, Corey?”

“Sis, we been watching over each other long time.”

She went out the back door, closing it behind her. Big C continued looking out the window. Nail still stood solitary in the summer sunshine by the big fishing log. Sharon walked up behind him. She stopped with her shoulder touching his arm. Neither spoke. Both looked down the creek. Their hands sought out each other’s and they stood silently holding hands.

Big C turned away. Previously, Nail and he had had a real purpose in life:
To Serve and Defend
. Now, they were fugitives on the other side of the law. Big C didn’t like the feeling. As an active militia member, however, he must have known this day would come.

He sank onto the sofa and flipped the cable back to Zenergy. It blurred in front of his eyes. He couldn’t get the
Lady Clairol
blonde from the cemetery out of his mind. Something about Judy Sparks-Taylor’s innocence, her vulnerability, triggered something in his protective nature. She might not be bright and worldly by Washington standards, but she was
real
. A country girl was as out of place among the politicians in D.C. as a chick hatched by a mama duck and asked to learn how to swim. What happened to her if they discovered
she
had been Ron Sparks’ source of information?

Restless, Big C got up and returned to the kitchen window with his tea. He still sweated, so he stripped off his T-shirt. Nail and Sharon remained standing on the creek bank. Standing there like that for their last little time together.
That
was the saddest thing he had ever seen, sadder than a pair of ex-cops who didn’t know where the hell they were going or what they were going to do.

After a minute or so, he made up his mind. He punched Judy’s cell number into one of the Wal-Mart throwaway phones. She answered on the first ring, like she was waiting for a call.

“Corey? I thought you was Dennis. I’m still glad to hear from you. This ol’ girl has been feeling powerful neglected.”

“You all right?”

“You got no idea what politics is like. Dennis left to go campaigning in Illinois. He promised me all those things he and me is going to do when he’s rich and gets rid of his wife—then he goes and takes Marilyn with him and tells me I got to keep quiet and hide under the bed until he’s ready for me. Him and Marilyn is on all the news, all lovey-dovey and acting the perfect little family, right down to their pink poodle.”

“Sound like he going to the dogs, poodle-wise,” Big C commiserated, trying to make a joke to lift her spirits.

Judy emitted a hopeless little giggle. Her mood seemed to improve as the conversation continued in a light bantering tone. She suddenly turned serious again.

“Corey, they’re showing your picture on the news. You and that other cop that slugged you at Ron’s funeral—”

“I explain all that next time I see you.”

“The news is saying you killed some people and might be accompanied by that woman from
Jerry Baer—”

“Judy, look—”

“Don’t worry, Corey. I seen her show last night when she told what really happened. You and me, we don’t really know one another, but you seemed like a nice guy that wouldn’t do nothing like that without a reason.”

“I am a nice guy.”

She tittered.

“I can prove it.”

“How are you going to do that from all the way in Oklahoma?”

“What I show up on your doorstep and ask to go for another walk?”

“I suppose I’d just have to go. I ain’t had no Sno Cone since. Way Dennis acting, he don’t give a darn for nothing except his career anyhow.”

“So you think Sharon Lowenthal telling the truth?” he probed carefully.

“I was watching her show when Dennis telephoned last night. He got mad when I told him what I was watching and ordered me to turn the channel. Dennis said she won’t ride so high and mighty when Mr. Wiedersham gets her back to New York.”

“What you reckon he mean by that?”

“I don’t know. He just told me to change channels.”

“Did you?”

She giggled. ‘I ain’t as blond and obeying as he thinks I am.”

“I didn’t think you blond from the beginning.”

“I sure could use me another Sno Cone.”

Big C returned to the window after he hung up. Nail and Sharon were sitting on the log, still holding hands.

Chapter Forty-Four

Skokie, Illinois

Dennis Trout swigged Maalox like a man dying of thirst coming upon an oasis in the Sahara. He was pissed, which was why he was out driving aimlessly; he needed some time alone away from advisors and aides and all the other assholes who surrounded him on the campaign trail. Marilyn, thankfully, had chosen to stay at the hotel in North Chicago with Reggie. She was pissed too about something or other—a chronic condition with her, it seemed—and calling him by his last name. “Trout, you are so fucked up.” He telephoned Judy because he needed to talk, but she was also on the rag about something. The cunt told him—
him
—that she couldn’t talk now. Probably dying her hair or watching
As The Stomach Turns
on soap TV.

A red light caught his rental Prius on Madison Street that ran west in Skokie to U.S. 41. Wiedersham had selected the car for him, as he seemed to select almost everything else in Trout’s life. His campaign-wise brother-in-law thought it proper that Trout demonstrate his support for President Anastos’ environmental initiative by driving a “green” car rather than the Buick Trout preferred.

He took the opportunity at the red light to nip from the pink stuff while he waited. His fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel. He turned the radio up so loud it vibrated the little roller skate car.
Pink
doing
Dear Mr. President
, an attack on former President Bush.

His thin hair stuck up like bristles on a hairless Chihuahua. A restive hand raking across his scalp returned with a glob of whipped cream.

“Fu-uck!”

He had about had it up to
here.

The whipped cream came compliments of some bitch where he was addressing a meet arranged by the Illinois National Education Association. Normally the NEA, like most unions, sucked up to Progressive candidates. Everything was going along fine until some clown who said he was a student stood up to ask a question at the end. Instead of asking a question, he read a statement to the effect that he wanted the U.S.to investigate Israel’s war crimes against the Palestinians.