Pieces of Hate (17 page)

All the way there, she babbled on and on. Something about killing her sister and being given some horrible gift . . .

CHOICES

For Randall Terry, Pat Robertson . . . and their families

The whole family was up early because it was Friday. Friday was a special day for the Holts and they were all wide awake in spite of the intrusions on their sleep.

There had been an explosive summer storm late the night before with thunder so loud it shook the house and rattled the windows and woke the whole family. Summer storms were not uncommon . . . but something about this one was most uncommon, indeed.

In fact, the thunder had been so spectacular it sounded more like bombs dropping nearby, like a war had broken out outside. And the lightning! It had flashed an electric blue, sending its light through the closed curtains and across the floors. And sometimes . . . just for a heartbeat every now and then . . . the blinding blue had become a strange reddish-orange. Al and Nita had reassured the children it was just God’s own nature reminding them of His strength, protection and love. But Al was so concerned, he walked through the dark of the house in his pajamas and stood by the front window looking outside.

From the north, a silver bolt of lightning cut through the clouds; from the south, a reddish-orange bolt clawed its way through the sky.

A strong wind blew as the lightning changed the night sky from black to blue to a blood-like color, flooding over the other houses in the neighborhood in torrents. Trees tossed this way and that.

But no rain fell.

At the time — although it would not occur to him in the morning — Al found it odd that no rain was falling . . .

But now it was a bright summer morning and school had been out for nearly a month. Al was pleased the kids would be able to participate today. It was something they enjoyed every bit as much as a church picnic, so they were especially boisterous this morning, the first ones at the breakfast table.

Al was a little late to breakfast, though, as was his habit on Friday mornings. After showering and dressing, he spent more time than usual in Bible study and prayer, preparing himself for what was ahead, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight, his King James Bible open on his lap. The bedroom door was always closed and locked during this time, this very private, quiet time.

When he was finished reading, he closed the Bible reverently, set it on the nightstand and knelt beside the bed, back still straight, folded his hands on the bed, bowed his head and closed his eyes. He prayed aloud.

“Dear Lord, thank you for this new day You have given us. Thank you for our fine family, our beautiful children, and for showing us the truth and wisdom that so many others have chosen to ignore. Be with us today as we go out to do Your work. Guide us as we to try to hold back the tides of sin, to prevent sinners from making their condition worse by killing innocent and helpless human beings. Speak through our lips, use our hands as tools, and let our work make a difference in bringing an end to the holocaust perpetrated by wicked and hateful agents of the devil. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

Then he stood and went to the kitchen, which smelled warmly of eggs, bacon and coffee.

“Morning,” he said cheerfully.

Both children — eight-year-old Matthew and nine-year-old Ruth — returned the greeting happily. The food was on the table, their empty plates before them, and they waited patiently; no one ate until Father had seated himself at the table and the blessing had been asked.

Nita was still in the kitchen, getting the rest of the food. She was nicely dressed and a bit more made up than usual: lipstick, a dab of rouge, a touch of eye shadow and a little mascara. Once she was seated at the table, all of them automatically bowed their heads.

“Dear Lord, we thank You for this food,” Al said, “and for our loving Christian home. We ask that You march with us today as we go forth as soldiers for Your cause to stop the murder of unborn babies and expose the worldly, misguided women who kill them to Your Word and Your will. In the name of Jesus — ”

They all said “amen” together, raised their heads, then Nita began moving around the table, serving up the food.

Al noticed a folded newspaper on the table beside his plate. “Is this yesterday’s? I didn’t get a chance to read yesterday’s paper.”

“That’s why I kept it, dear. Today’s hasn’t come yet. It’s too early.”

“That was some storm last night, huh?” Al asked.

Everyone agreed politely.

“Something odd about it, did you notice, Nita?”

“Just that it was very loud.” She scooped scrambled eggs onto his plate.

“A lot of electricity . . . even for an electrical storm. Made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I wonder if there’ll be anything about it in today’s paper.” He opened yesterday’s paper and his head nodded up and down as he scanned the headlines and articles. “Well, what do you know,” he said, folding the paper outward neatly so he could hold it in one hand as he read and ate. “They finally executed that killer upstate.”

“The one who killed those women?” Nita asked, circling the table again to dole out the bacon strips.

“Uh-huh. The electric chair. It’s about time. All those stays of execution . . . I’m telling you, if it were up to the liberals and lawyers, the streets would be running with these crazies. They should be killed as soon as they’re caught.”

“Al, please,” Nita said quietly. “The children.”

“Well, it’s true. They should learn early. The Bible says ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ and ‘The wages of sin is death’. Case closed. No left wing lawyer has any business putting himself before the Word of God.”

Once she was through, Nita seated herself at the table.

Al munched on a piece of bacon as he read on. He chuckled. “Oh, listen to this. You know what his last words were? ‘I’m right with God, and that’s all that matters.’ Can you believe that? ‘I’m right with God!’ From the mouth of a brutal murderer! A serial killer.”

“Well,” Nita said, taking a dainty bite of scrambled eggs, “they did say he wasn’t in control of himself. That he was sick. Mentally ill.”

“Nita, for crying out loud, you’re not starting to think like them, are you? Insanity! Well of course he was insane! Using it as an excuse is like saying — ” He made his voice thin and whiny. “ — ‘I didn’t mean to.’ It’s ridiculous, just plain ridiculous. And don’t let me hear you saying things like that again, Nita. It makes me nervous, you talking like a liberal, like some Godless left-wing reprobate.”

“Daddy, what’s a rep-ro-bate?” Matthew asked.

“It’s someone who is going to burn in hell because they’ve turned their back on God’s Truth.”

“What’s a liberal?” Ruth asked.

“The same thing.” He opened the paper again and began paging through it. “You know, it’s sad to say, but this paper seems to get more liberal every day. Anybody who says there’s no slant to the press is blind as a bat.” He scanned the pages and stopped on something. “Well, what do you know. An article about us.”

Nita and both children shot their heads up to look at him.

“What?” Nita asked, surprised.

“About the coalition. It says, ‘After last week’s demonstration in front of the Women’s Health Clinic’ — health clinic, can you believe that? It’s a butcher shop! — ‘police are prepared for any possible violent outbursts that may occur at tomorrow’s weekly demonstration by the Coalition for Unborn Life.’ What outbursts? It was just one of those guys escorting a woman into the clinic who got carried away, is all. We had to defend ourselves. He grabbed one of the cameras — remember? — threw it to the ground and started jumping up and down on it.”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” Nita said. “Mr. Stanfield was very upset. He said that Nikon was terribly expensive. And besides, it was a gift.”

“Oh, and look at this! They talk about these ‘pro-choice’ people! I still don’t understand what all this ‘pro-choice’ business is! What’s to choose? They’re killing babies! Besides, we’re pro-life. They should be called what they are. Anti-life! I mean, how can we be pro-something and they be pro-something at the same time? They are anti-life, and that’s all there is to it!” He pounded a fist on the table.

“I understand, Al, but . . . well, aren’t you getting a little angry?”

“Yes, yes, you’re right. I’m sorry.” He read the paper with a frown and a sigh. “So . . . the police will be out there with us this morning. Fine, that’s just fine. We know who’s side they’re on . . . and we know Who is on our side.” He shook his head slowly. “If only this country would go back to it’s roots, back to God and Christianity and the values that made it the strongest, richest, most powerful country in all the world. God and family and the Bible. But . . . I guess that will take a while. It’ll happen . . . it’ll just take a while.”

He set the paper aside and dug into his breakfast, anxious to get on with the day’s work, anxious to go head to head, once again, with God’s enemies . . .

“You have all the signs?” Al asked.

“They’re already in the station wagon,” Nita said.

“All the cameras? I’ve got two.”

“So do I.”

“Matthew? Ruth? You have your cameras?”

The children nodded. Each had a brightly colored camera around the neck — Matthew’s was blue and Ruth’s was pink. Each camera was very easy to use, made specifically for children. “And who do you take pictures of?”

“The people going inside.” Matthew said.

“And the people taking them in,” Ruth said.

“And why?” Al asked.

Together, the children recited, “So they will know that their crimes against God have been recorded.”

Al smiled and nodded slowly. “Very good, very good. You’ll have extra jewels in your heavenly crowns for this, you know.”
 
The children smiled up at their father and nodded happily.

“Okay,” he said, clapping his hands together, “let’s go. They’ll be gathering there by now. We don’t want to be too late. I’ll go out and start the car. Make sure we’ve got everything, then come on out and we’ll be off.”

Jangling his keys in his right hand, two cameras dangling from around his neck, Al went out the door, down the front walk, crossed the lawn toward the carport and —

— then he froze. He looked around, looked up and down the street. Something was . . . well, not quite right. But he couldn’t put his finger on it. He frowned as he looked this way and that.

Had Baxter torn out his hedge recently? It was gone, completely gone. But then, who could tell what Baxter would do next? He was an atheist and a liberal — a noxious combination — and a bachelor who paraded different women in and out of his house at night and in the early morning hours. Al had talked with Jerry Baxter a few times, just to be neighborly, but only to find they had nothing in common.

Baxter liked to fancy himself a “thinker” and had shelves of books filled with cold and soulless secular humanism. So if he’d taken out the hedge in the last day or so . . . what of it?

But that big oak tree that used to shade the Genoveses’ yard was gone, too; there wasn’t even a stump left, just . . . nothing but a sunny, empty yard. They were a Catholic family, but good people, with five children who used to swing from the tire that hung from one of the tree’s branches. And there was something else . . .

Either he was just noticing it for the first time or all of the houses on the street had been repainted very recently. And they were all the same color: a metallic-grey trimmed with deep red, almost a blood red.

All the houses except for his, which was still a light blue with white trim.

Even more bizarre was that an American flag was waving in the warm breeze in every single yard but his. Of course, there was nothing wrong with flying the flag. But they weren’t hung from flagpoles, these were all flying . . . from crosses.

His frown deepened and he muttered, “When did . . . how long ago did they . . .”

“It’s getting late, honey,” Nita called from in the house.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he muttered, still frowning, still looking around. He turned and started toward the car again when he heard what sounded like a siren . . . except it wasn’t, really.

It was a siren-like sound that played the first seven notes of a tune, a very familiar tune, over and over again. And it was drawing closer.

The tune was “Jesus Loves Me.”

Tires squealed over pavement down at the intersection and Al looked back to see a shiny, squat black car with a disproportionately large, boxy rear-end and white doors that had official-looking markings on them screech to a halt before his house. There was a spinning red light on the car’s roof. It was a police car . . . but it looked like no police car he’d ever seen before. Instead of a gold or silver star or police shield on the door, this car had a metallic-grey cross with blood-red stains at the ends of the crossbar and at the bottom. And from the top of the cross flew the American flag, as if in a strong, whipping wind.

Both doors opened and two officers bolted out of the car in black uniforms. Each had, as a badge, a metallic-grey cross pinned over his heart. Large, odd-looking guns were holstered to their belts and they wore shiny black helmets that left only their faces visible. And their faces looked very similar to one another: hard, stern, iron-jawed and very unhappy.