A Thousand Years of Darkness: a Thriller (41 page)

The bus drivers and accompanying security apparently intended to spend the night, as they did not reemerge from the tunnel. As evening’s purple began to spread across the valley, a column of oily smoke issued into the clear Colorado air from the power plant, turning anvil-topped as winds aloft across the Divide caught it. Big C put down his binoculars but continued to stare at the camp as the reality of what was happening down there slowly sank in. He turned to look at Fullbright.

“Tom, you need to leave at first light to bring in our men,” he said. “If there must be war, there no better place than this for it to begin.”

Chapter Seventy-Four

Scranton, Pennsylvania

The early afternoon sky over New York City was overcast and threatening when Nail pulled his old Toyota onto the parking lot of
Hampton Arms
. He sat behind the wheel looking over the stately Redstone complex. The swimming pool and rear courtyard were unoccupied. The old saying about a criminal returning to the scene of his crime was largely unproven, yet he was back to where he shot and killed the Homie who menaced Sharon’s life.

Feeling as exposed as a streaker in the Super Dome, he got out of his car and limped painfully toward the apartment building’s rear doors, alert for anything out of place or potentially threatening. He was unarmed, having lost his sidearm in the alley dumpster the night he was shot. Carrying the 30.06 into a New York building would have been too conspicuous.

Sharon’s apartment was the most logical place to begin his search. He didn’t know what he expected to find. His face edged sharp dread as he took the elevator to the third floor. He smiled at a young couple who got on the elevator with him. They ignored him. He was grateful for the New Yorkers’ proclivity to mind their own business.

He stopped at Sharon’s door to take a long, ragged breath. He didn’t smell anything; a corpse didn’t start to smell for about forty eight hours or so. He let himself in with the key Sharon had given him.

The telephone was ringing. He waited inside the door until Sharon’s answering machine picked it up and he heard her recorded voice inviting the caller to leave a message. The caller hung up.

Nail swept the apartment, looking for a body, although he didn’t want to think of it that way. There was a bedroom, a study, a living room, a kitchen/dining room, and a bath with a Jacuzzi tub. The only thing he found out of place was the desk light shining in the study. At the end of his search, he leaned on the kitchen bar to catch his breath, unaware that he had been holding it the entire time out of trepidation for what he might discover.

He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or not.

He went through the apartment a second time, this time looking for some clue that might indicate where she had gone. Her haunting fragrance lingered in the bedroom. He crushed her pillow to his face and drew in her scent until it seemed to fill his entire being. They were engaged to be married, yet this was his first time in the place she lived. The prospect of her having vanished as a result of hostile intent drove him to near panic.

A cop had to keep his head.

Her answering machine was full of messages. He listened to them. There were several from various people at the Zenergy studios, several more from the security service that provided bodyguards, the content implying that she had given her security the slip, others from a “Rose Marie” and a “Lakisha,” several from Jerry Baer’s widow, and at least a half-dozen from Carl Patton, her executive producer.

“Sharon, this is Carl. Pick up if you can hear me...”

It troubled Nail that her landline automatically transferred unanswered calls from her home phone to her cell and apparently she wasn’t answering her cell either. Nail had been dialing that number all day.

He checked the closets for empty hangers and missing luggage. Whenever Connie packed for a trip, she left discarded items in her wake to be picked up on her return. She claimed all women were like that. Everything in Sharon’s closets seemed to be in order.

Carl Patton had provided two callback numbers on the answering machine. Sharon had said that Patton would always know where she was. “You can trust him,” she said. “If you have to call him, identify yourself as ‘Mr. Harker.’ He’ll know who you are.”

Nail tried the office number first and was advised Patton was on assignment. He dialed the other number. Just as he was about to give up, Patton picked up in a breathless voice. From the background noise, he could have been in the middle of a riot or some natural disaster.

“This is Harker,” Nail said. “I promised to call if I came to New York.”

There was a pause on the other end, as if Patton was trying to remember. Then he said, “Oh! Mr. Harker! Good to hear from you. We need the extra sound system you promised. I’ll meet you in Central Park.” He forced a laugh. “You’ll recognize me. I’m the skinny dude in front of the Zenergy News camera.”

Obviously, Patton was wary of his cell being tapped.

“I probably won’t see you in the crowd,” Patton added, “so you’ll have to look for me. I’m up to my butt in alligators.”

Congress Approves Strict Handgun Law

(Washington)—
In response to waves of Rightwing violence, Congress approved what lawmakers say is the strictest gun law ever passed in the United States. The new law bans sale of all firearms for a period of one year. It also prohibits current gun owners from stepping outside their house with a weapon, even onto their porches or into their garages.

The law furthermore mandates that police departments register every gun owner and every weapon he possesses. Guns not registered will be confiscated...

“There’s just too much potential for violence by Right-wingers such as the Tea Parties and the militias who have declared their hostility against government,” said Speaker of the House Barbara Teague. “We need protection for the people...”

Chapter Seventy-Five

New York

Nail left his Toyota parked in a
Guest
spot at
The Hampton Arms
where it probably wouldn’t be noticed and walked to Central Park. He heard clamor coming from the park when he was three blocks away. He took a breather against a lamp post before he entered off East 59
^th
, past two New York cops in riot gear. Several thousand people were gathered in raucous disarray around a hastily-constructed stage at the Duck Pond where speakers were apparently taking turns haranguing/entertaining them.

Radicals in beads, ragged jeans, red bandanas, face tats and piercings dominated the turnout, reminiscent of the 1960s
Days of Rage.
Protesters wearing hammers and sickles on their Tees chanted and thrust at the overcast sky various placards proclaiming the inevitable ascendency of
Social Justice
and
A Workers’ Paradise
. Acrid clouds of marijuana smoke made Nail cough. A banner stretched above the stage proclaimed
National Socialist Forum: Transforming The USA
. Apparently, the law against demonstrations still applied only to Tea Parties and conservatives.

In order to blend in, Nail picked up a discarded sign that read
Yes We Can
. It made him cringe, but he waved it enthusiastically as he headed toward the stage, where he expected to find Patton and his Zenergy camera crew. Provided they hadn’t already been mugged by this bunch or thrown out of the park by Homies and Green Shirts.

The guy currently addressing the crowd from the stage looked like some crackhead throwback with a gray ponytail, earrings and beard.

“We want to thank, like, the AF of L/CIO and PEIU for working hand in hand with CPUSA to make this event a happening. They helped organize buses from schools and passed out antiwar, antiracist, anti-capitalist literature...

“We must realize that, like, the Tea Party Movement and its auxiliaries is a white supremacist mob. And this mob is coming for you. We all want to raise people’s consciousness, but, like, we also want to fight these people. Right? So I think it’s like both things. We want to fight people who are on the other side of the barricade who are fighting us. We have to fight them. This is, like, we’re a militant organization when it comes to the fight against gay bigotry, the fight against racism and sexism. The labor movement has this old saying—like, if you can’t open their minds, open their heads...”

These people made Nail’s skin crawl. He had caught glimpses of the future they pledged through the AmeriCorps in the Ozarks and the assassinations of Jerry Baer, Joshua Logan, Ron Sparks... Only the Lord knew how many others may have gotten in their way.

Sharon was in their way.

Nail pushed on through the raucous throng as he anxiously scanned for Patton and the Zenergy News’ crew. He kept his head lowered to avoid any chance recognition, although these people seemed too whipped up to pay attention to anything except their inane chanted slogans. A great claw of lightning crashed through the darkening overcast, followed by a rumble of thunder that sounded like an angry crowd above shouting back at the angry crowd below in a lost language.

The crowd parted up front long enough to reveal the Zenergy logo on a shoulder camera. Nail recognized Carl Patton from his self-description: “Skinny dude in front of the camera.” Nail made his way toward him. Patton was attempting to interview a Rupert look-alike carrying an
Execute War Criminals
sign.

“Sir, what war crimes are you protesting today?” Patton asked his victim, who looked as though he had been caught stealing watermelons.

“Racist fucking... You know. Like...
racists!”

“Sir, sir. What
war
crimes are you protesting today?”

“You know. Like, war crimes.
All
war crimes... The Jews...”

“Do you know who organized this event today and who gave you that sign?”

“Ummm... I don’t know...”

A second man slapped the microphone away from the watermelon thief’s face.

“I did,” he snapped.

“You did? What organization are you with?”

“We have no interest in talking with you.”

“Moveon.org? The Institute for Open Societies? PEIU? Communist Party of the USA...?”

“We have no interest in talking with Rightwing media.”

“Why did you give this man a sign to stand out here and protest today and he doesn’t even know what he’s protesting? He’s not able to answer.”

“We have no interest—”

“He’s not able to answer for himself?”

“We—”

“He’s holding a sign at a protest...”

Nail caught Patton’s eye. Immediately, Patton gave up his non-interview and shuffled toward Nail with his cameraman in tow. He glanced at Nail’s sign, smiled wryly, and thrust his microphone in Nail’s face, as though to interview him.

“Nice touch,” he said. “Mr. Harker, I presume? I recognize you from your picture on the news.”

Nail looked at the microphone.

“It’s turned off,” Patton said. He was about thirty-five with sandy hair, sunken cheeks and a haggard brow.

Nail got right to the point. “Where’s Sharon?”

Two armed youth in AmeriCorps combat regalia swaggered toward them. Patton shifted tones, saying, “Keep the mike to your lips, sir, while you’re being interviewed. Sir, what are you protesting?”

The Green Shirts glared at Patton but barely noticed Nail. They moved on.

“These are some spooky people,” Patton said.

“You have no idea.”

When all was clear again, Patton said, “Sharon left the studio yesterday with her bodyguards to follow up a lead for her next program. She ditched her bodyguards, however, telling them she had to do this alone—”

“Did the lead have something to do with George Zuniga?” Nail demanded.

“She was working on a secret international summit called The Sustainable World Conference. George Zuniga is behind it. She was trying to get inside and obtain video to expose what these people are up to.”

“She knows where it’s being held?”

“I can’t be sure.”

“She hasn’t checked in?”

“Not a word.”

Nail was about to explode. “That’s all you know? How could you let her do this?”

“I’m sorry—but you know how stubborn she can be.”

Nail knew that well enough. He took a deep breath. The pain in his side ricocheted up through his chest and head.

“Are you all right?” Patton asked.

“Yeh.” Nail had to move fast, but in which direction?

“Another thing you ought to know,” Patton recalled. He briefly recapped his “Lonesome Rhodes” visit with Zuniga’s henchman, John. “From the way he talked, Sharon may be on the President’s Suppression list. No doubt you are too.”

“Any idea how we can get hold of ‘John?’” Nail asked, grasping for straws.

Patton shook his head. He thought a minute, frowning. “There was something else. A woman named Judy called the studio early yesterday morning asking for Sharon. A secretary took the message. When Sharon came off the set, she took a look at the message and hightailed it out. An hour later, Mitch and Roger—her security—came back in saying she had ditched them—”

The look on Nail’s face stopped him. “Do you know Judy?” he asked.

“What did the phone message say?” Nail asked. He hadn’t found anything from Judy on Sharon’s answering machine. Sharon didn’t trust her enough to give out those numbers.

“Pretty cryptic,” Patton replied. “Something about chickens coming home to roost and she knew where they were roosting.”

Nail cast aside his sign, wheeled and bolted toward the park exit, leaving Patton standing befuddled with his microphone and cameraman. The abruptness and ferocity of the downpour that caught Nail before he escaped Central Park, that drenched the socialist masses and sent them fleeing for cover, possessed the urgent quality of a perilous storm in a dream, unleashing terror from heaven that could not be tamed.