Badlands (7 page)

“Take a look,” he said, “the doorway there.”

Du Pré bent and squinted.

Du Pré stared.

Then he saw it.

Back in the dark there was a huge lens, and it was pointed directly at Du Pré.

“Bet that lens, it has a camera behind it,” said Ripper. “Film in that camera, too, I bet.”

Du Pré grunted.

“And,” said Ripper, “I …” He bent to the eyepiece again. He moved the spotting scope.

Du Pré looked through it. A man was wiring up some small black boxes that were fastened chest high on fenceposts.

“Motion detectors,” said Ripper. “Bet they got other stuff, too. The things that you can buy these days, mail order.”

Du Pré stood up.

“Until there’s a chink in the wall,” said Ripper, “we’re fucked. So I think I will just go on back to good old Washington, D.C.”

Du Pré lifted the heavy spotting scope and he folded the legs up and snapped them into the holders along the tube. Then he slid the scope into the leather case and put the strap over his shoulder.

They walked down the path to the cruiser.

Pidgeon was standing by an open door. She was using it for a rest. Her Glock was pointing at something.

“Did you read ’em their rights?” said Ripper.

“A rattlesnake,” said Pidgeon, “has no rights at all. God, I hate snakes.”

Du Pré looked where her gun was pointing. A rattler was sunning on a rock. It was all of a foot long.

“Leave him,” said Du Pré. “He will not bother you.”

“I hate wildlife,” said Pidgeon. “I hate all of ’em.”

“We’re gonna get you iced tea,” said Ripper.

Pidgeon pulled her gun up. She popped the round out of the chamber and she put it back in the clip and she put the gun back in its holster.

She got in the backseat.

“I could ride back there,” said Ripper.

“You see
The Godfather?”
said Pidgeon.

“Yes,” said Ripper, “I did.” He climbed into the backseat.

Du Pré put the spotting scope in the trunk. He drove down the dirt track and stopped and he went and got his .270 from the cleft in the rock. The 9mm was in the case. He put the rifle and pistol in the aluminum case with the foam points.

He got back in the car.

“Hiding guns?” said Ripper. “Waiting for the black helicopters, the forces of the Evil Government! We are here! I need to kick down a door.”

Pidgeon looked out of the window.

Du Pré drove fast back to Toussaint. Madelaine was behind the bar, beading. She had on the ridiculous glasses that Du Pré had fashioned for her. She smiled when the three came in.

“Jesus,” said Pidgeon, “I haven’t seen anything that tasteful since Gianni Versace got himself shot.”

Madelaine went on beading while Du Pré got sodas for the two FBI agents. He made whiskey and water for himself.

It was getting warm outside.

Du Pré heard gravel crunch under tires, but the engine noise wasn’t there. Some new car with a good muffler.

He sipped his drink.

The door opened and a young woman came in, dressed in the long gray dress of the Host of Yahweh. She had a pretty, round face, and she wore the white bonnet the women favored.

“Do you have water?” she said.

“Sure,” said Madelaine. She put down her beading.

She filled a big glass with ice.

“Oh, no,” said the young woman. “I meant bottled water. Do you have any? Perrier or Poland Spring?”

Madelaine shook her head.

“Nothing?”
said the young woman.

“Not many people come here,” said Madelaine, “to drink the water.”

The young woman hesitated.

“Thank you,” she said. She went back out.

Du Pré went to the door and he opened it.

An incredibly long car was pulling out of the lot, a white car.

The windows were black.

“I do believe that is the White Priest,” said Ripper.

Du Pré nodded. It was getting hot out, so he shut the door.

“S
HE IS REAL PRETTY,”
said Pallas. She looked at Pidgeon.

“What’s it to ya?” said Pidgeon.

Pallas went to the stool next to Agent Pidgeon and climbed up on it and put her little hands out.

“One,” said Pallas, “is that I am marrying Ripper in six years. He’s a guy, so, well … I can’t blame him, I guess, but …”

“You think Ripper and I have a thing going?” said Pidgeon.

“Could,” said Pallas.

“I don’t want to belittle your taste in men,” said Pidgeon, “but Ripper there, well, he doesn’t exactly light my fire.”

“You think he’s ugly?” said Pallas.

“Nope,” said Pidgeon.

“Stupid?” said Pallas.

“Nope,” said Pidgeon.

“What’s wrong with him?” said Pallas.

“Tell you what,” said Pidgeon. “Marry his sorry ass and find out.”

“Well-mannered people,” said Ripper, “do not discuss others who are in the same room.”

Pidgeon and Pallas looked at Ripper.

Ripper threw up his hands and went out the front door.

“Smart man,” said Susan Klein. She made herself a drink and came down to Pidgeon and Pallas.

Pidgeon bent over close to Pallas.

“Actually,” she whispered, “he’s a great guy. Rare guy. We just have this way of working together.”

“Why don’t you like him?” said Pallas.

“I love this other guy,” said Pidgeon, “but he doesn’t even notice me.”

“Doesn’t notice
you?”
said Pallas. “He is dead, maybe?”

Pidgeon sighed.

“What can I tell ya?” she said.

“Who?” said Pallas.

Pidgeon squirmed.

“Um, I’d rather not,” she said.

“OK,” said Pallas, “I figure it out, though. I am good at figuring stuff out.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Pidgeon.

“You aren’t very happy,” said Pallas.

Pidgeon sighed.

“Pallas,” she said, “you’re picking on me.”

“Yeah,” said Pallas, “I am. I … maybe I am jealous. You are older. You are very beautiful. If I was you I could marry Ripper right now.”

“Give it time,” said Pidgeon.

“Easy for you to say,” said Pallas.

Pidgeon sighed again.

“How ’bout a pop?” said Susan Klein.

Pallas nodded.

“OK,” she said. “I am sorry. I got to pick on my brothers, sisters, all the time. Stay alive, you know.”

Pidgeon nodded.

Madelaine came in the front door.

“Ripper is on his knees in the parking lot,” said Madelaine. “He is calling on God for deliverance.”

“Ripper is fond of cheap dramatics,” said Pidgeon.

“What you doin’ in here?” said Madelaine, looking hard at Pallas.

“I had talk to her ’bout Ripper,” said Pallas.

“Uh-huh,” said Madelaine. “You threaten, kill her?”

“No,” said Pallas, “I was just explaining.”

“Uh-huh,” said Madelaine. She came up and got on the stool beside Pidgeon.

Pallas tried to be very small so that Madelaine would forget she was in the saloon where she wasn’t supposed to be.

“Pallas goin’ to marry Ripper,” said Madelaine.

Pidgeon nodded.

“I expect she will,” she said.

“Ripper, him, he think it is a joke,” said Madelaine.

“Ripper is so smart about some things and so damn dumb about others,” said Pidgeon. “Typical guy.”

“Got two heads, think with the little one,” said Pallas.

“That is enough,” snapped Madelaine.

“Wherever did you hear
that?”
said Pidgeon.

“From me,” said Madelaine. “She is not, say them things, company.”

Pidgeon snorted.

“She is sad,” said Pallas. “She is in love, this guy, he don’t know she is alive.”

Madelaine looked at Pidgeon.

“You like it he don’t know?” she said.

Pidgeon nodded vigorously.

“See?” said Madelaine, looking at Pallas. “It is not so simple.”

“It is not so complicated, either,” said Pallas. “Get your head out of your ass it isn’t anyway.”

Madelaine sighed. Susan Klein brought her a glass of pink fizzy wine.

“We try,” she said, “raise her right and all. She is born, this. First thing she say, the doctor picks her up she comes out. ‘Who the fuck are you?’”

Pidgeon laughed.

“Well,” said Pallas, “maybe I better go and see how Ripper is doing.”

“Sight of you,” said Madelaine, “calm him right down. Yep. Good of you, very Christian, go to help make poor Ripper feel better.”

“Silly fucker,” said Pallas. “He oughta go fishing or something.” She finished her pop and she ran out.

Phrases of Ripper’s address to the Lord God on High wafted in and were cut off when the door closed.

“Quite a kid,” said Pidgeon.

“That one is never a kid,” said Madelaine. “I think, maybe she is older than I am. Maybe who she marry oughta be Benetsee.”

Susan Klein roared with laughter.

So did Pidgeon.

The door opened again and a woman came in, wearing the long gray dress of the Host of Yahweh. She had a rolled sheet of paper in her hand. She walked up to the bar.

“Could I possibly put this up?” she said. “We are having a barbecue Sunday afternoon, and wish to invite anyone who would like to come. There will be barbecued buffalo and trimmings, pop, beer, and we hoped we might hire Mr. Du Pré and his band to play.”

“Him can’t,” said Madelaine, “other musicians are at Turtle Mountain, they be here, maybe two weeks.”

“Too bad,” said the woman. “But we have some pretty good musicians, too. You are all invited, of course. So may I put this up?”

“Sure,” said Susan Klein. She pointed to the big corkboard by the door where messages and advertisements were posted.

The woman put up the poster, an expensive four-color print.

Madelaine went over to look at it.

“They have that printed just for this,” she said. “Cost some money, that.”

“We have been racking our brains trying to find an excuse to get in there,” said Pidgeon. “And look at this.”

“Won’t do you much good,” said Susan Klein.

Pidgeon shrugged.

Du Pré came in. He left the door open for a moment.

“Ripper he is praying for lightning,” said Du Pré, “strike Pallas.”

“What is Pallas doing?” said Madelaine.

“Laughing at Ripper,” said Du Pré, “the dumb shit.”

“What you doing, Du Pré?” said Madelaine.

Du Pré shrugged and he let the door close.

“I am being thirsty,” he said.

Susan Klein got a tall glass and she made a ditch for Du Pré.

“You see the woman who was just in here?” said Madelaine.

“Yah,” said Du Pré, “invite everybody, a barbecue, the Eide place.”

“She want you to play there,” said Madelaine.

Du Pré shook his head.

“They ask you again,” said Madelaine.

“They ask a lot I still shake my head,” said Du Pré.

“So the White Priest is here,” said Pidgeon, “and the carnival begins.”

She walked over to the poster and looked at it carefully.

“Anybody can come in a costume,” said Pidgeon. “A hundred dollar prize for the best one.”

“Ripper win that,” said Du Pré.

Dress up, the Mad Hatter, when we raid that dope operation. Jesus.

Pidgeon came back to her stool. Susan Klein patted her hand.

“Room all right, dear?” she said. There were two trailers out back of the saloon that each had three rooms.

“Jes’ a little hole,” said Pidgeon. “Jes’ a little hole and it all pours through …” She stood up and went out the back door.

“What the hell is she talking about?” said Susan Klein.

“Seven murder cases and her love life,” said Madelaine.

“T
HEY WERE DESPERATE,” SAID
Bart’s lawyer Foote, “and there was a mailing which came, offering a low rate on a large loan. It seemed to be a legitimate offer, so the Eides applied and the loan was granted. Then the cattle business sank, hard, and there they were. The loan was cheap, all right, but the gamble was that beef would rise a little. It couldn’t be rescheduled. So the Host of Yahweh foreclosed on it and that was that.”

“They send this one thing just to the Eides?” said Du Pré.

“So far,” said Foote. “I would expect that they did offer cheap money to a few other places.”

“Bastards,” said Du Pré.

“They were too proud to approach Bart,” said Foote.

Du Pré sighed.

To some, Bart was just another rich newcomer, though the Fascellis had owned their ranch now for over forty years.

“It’s very hard to get information,” said Foote. “The members won’t talk. There are very few apostates, and after the massacre no one in their right mind would say anything.”

“Who is this White Priest?” said Du Pré.

“Seems to be your garden-run sociopath and manic-depressive,” said Foote. “Very smart. Something is going on with the Host, but nobody can figure out what. They have a lot of legitimate businesses, a hell of a lot of money, and they haven’t been stupid enough to try and buy automatic weapons from an FBI agent, at least not yet. They probably will. The White Priest declares that there will be spaceships coming to carry the faithful away, just before the world ends in fire and war. Think that, you need a few machine guns.”

“Flying saucers?” said Du Pré.

“Last I read,” said Foote, “over three million Americans recall having been abducted by aliens. Makes you believe in democracy, yes?”

Du Pré laughed.

“Why buffalo?” said Du Pré.

“Buffalo are well thought of,” said Foote, “like wolves and harp seals. We live in a time of sentiment, unfortunately much like that of Germany circa 1936.”

“Nazis?” said Du Pré.

“Hitler was a fascist,” said Foote, “and fascists don’t like dirt, sloppiness, tardiness, loud noises, smells, and other evidences of wrong thinking. If some good soul had shot Adolf in 1936, he would be Saint Adolf of the Ecology today. Loved wildlife, Hitler did. His SS had great reverence for all life, save inconvenient humans.”

Du Pré snorted.

“We’ll talk again. Be careful. Unlike most of these cults, there are some competent people in the Host.”

Foote said goodbye and he was gone. Du Pré folded up the cell phone and he handed it back to Bart.