The Snow Angel (11 page)

The private road was so slushy and muddy that Kane wondered if the Pontiac would make it. The department was too cheap to buy snow tires, even for vehicles like this, which might have to go anywhere. Most of the White Brothers, Kane knew, drove four-wheel-drive trucks.

While picking his way along the uphill road, Kane reviewed what he knew about Klemmer. The man was brilliant, no doubt about it. He had earned three university degrees while in prison. He also was a first-class sociopath.

Now pushing sixty, Klemmer had spent most of his life behind bars. As a kid, he had been a car thief. Then he'd graduated to stickups, specializing in armored car takedowns. He was suspected of several murders, but no one had ever tagged him with one.

Rumor had it that Klemmer's racist attitudes stemmed from a gang-rape he suffered as a youngster in a reformatory. But, of course, he had never admitted to that.

Klemmer “got political” only in recent years, when he began studying the speeches of Hitler. He then went on to form the White Brotherhood as an offshoot of the old Aryan Nation. Billy had admired Klemmer for his brilliance and ruthlessness. He once described Klemmer to Ralph as

“Satanic.”

Finally Kane arrived at the farm, half a mile off the main road. Klemmer stood on the porch in camouflage fatigues, cradling an ugly assault rifle. Kane vaguely recognized the weapon as Israeli.
Satanic, my ass. This guy's just another aging shithead.

Flanking Klemmer were two heavily-tattooed, muscular thugs, each with a prison pallor. Kane surmised that they had recently done stretches in maximum security. Even in this shitty climate, the average person picks up a little color just by being outdoors. Kane parked the police car and approached the porch. “So you're William Kane's big brother,” Klemmer greeted him.

“Yeah. You can ditch the tommy gun.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were alone.” He handed his weapon to the torpedo on his right. “You want to talk in private, take a little walk?”

“It's too cold to walk,” Kane said.

“Then we'll go down to the basement.” Klemmer motioned him inside. As he entered, Kane looked around behind himself, to see who else might be watching.

I
ke Bell stood at the entrance of a mosque-like fortress, smoking and rehearsing his approach. Gangbangers were one thing. Most of them were idiots. Who but a moron would get into a firefight over the color of someone's jacket, spraying bullets all over a neighborhood filled with women and children?

But the BLF—these people were something else altogether. They made the old Panthers seem tame by comparison. Their sworn enemy was the white-run corporate oligarchy, exemplified by banks.

Bell was not sure he disagreed with the political sentiment. But he failed to see how bank robbery, armored car stickups, kidnapping and murder were political acts. Furthermore, the badge in his pocket made him the enemy.
Be careful here. Be real careful.

Bell looked up at the overhead security camera. He crushed the cigarette underfoot, then banged on the heavy door-knocker. “Who's there?” a surly voice demanded over the intercom.

“My name's Isaiah Bell,” he called back. “I'd like a word with Malik Karanga. He knows me.”

“You look like a cop.”

“I am a cop.”

“You got a warrant?”

“Just get Malik.”

Bell waited, knowing he was being videotaped over the closed-circuit television. He also was convinced that the postal truck down the street was filled with federal agents. He now lived in a world where everyone taped everyone else.

Bell knew that, despite their criminal activities, the Black Liberation Family had little to fear from law enforcement. Because the BLF admitted only ex-convicts who had been in prison with them, the feds couldn't run an undercover agent into the group. Besides, any penetration attempt would be regarded as racist harassment. So no law enforcement administrator in the country had the guts to take on the BLF. The politically-correct, safe people to go after were all on the radical right. White guys.

After three minutes, Karanga appeared at the door in a black jump suit. He also wore two automatic pistols and an ammunition bandolier.
A smirk crept across his face when he recognized Bell. Then he smiled widely, displaying two gold teeth.

The smile exuded arrogance. Beneath the graying goatee, this was still the same Tyrone Jones whom Bell had arrested for drug dealing two decades before. He had abandoned his given name in prison, denouncing it as a “slave name.”

“Long time, Brother Bell,” said Karanga. He did not extend his hand.

“You've come up in the world, Tyrone.”

“Malik. It's Malik.”

“Malik. Like I said, you've come up in the world.”

“Hey, I was a chump in my youth.” Karanga's smile faded. “What are you doing here?”

Bell pulled out a picture of Darryl Childress. “This little boy got kidnapped about twenty-four hours ago. Salt-and-pepper team, a white dude and a black dude. We think they might have been friends in the joint—maybe even married.”

“We heard about it.”

“You did?”

“The Eastside Crips been showing the little motherfucker's picture all over town. Can you dig that? They even stopped doing business.” He laughed. “That means the crime rate oughta be going down.”

That news startled Bell. Karanga studied his reaction, then laughed again. “Don't you think that's funny, Crips working with the po-lice? It would make a great sitcom.”

“So what do
you
hear?” Bell asked. “Your people ever heard about such a team?”

“We don't pay attention to that shit.”

“Well, then, can you reach into the prisons for us, shake loose some information?” He gestured imploringly at his old adversary. “Malik, we really need to know.”

“If it was biracial, you can bet the white guy was running things.”

“Does that mean you have heard something?”

“Don't go putting words in my mouth. I don't
know
shit. I was just—
speculating!”

Bell stared at the aging thug.
Fuck this shit.
“Malik, I saved your life one time. You remember that?”

“No. That was Tyrone Jones you saved.”

”If I hadn't tipped off Tyrone Jones, there wouldn't be a Malik Karanga.”

Karanga looked up at the security camera. “I wondered how long it would take, you calling in that particular marker.”

“If I hadn't warned you about that hit, you'da been in the ground fifteen years now.”

“So I owe you, is that it?”

“Don't fuck with me,
Malik!
The street rules haven't changed, just because you've seen the light.” Bell felt his gut churning. He fought to control himself. “For Christ's sake, this is an innocent little child! A black child!”

“Bell, you got a lot of balls coming here. That saving-my-life shit is old business. You're the motherfucker who
cost
me eight years of my life.”

“You did that to yourself. Nobody forced you to take down that liquor store.”

Karanga considered that. “Let me see the picture,” he said.

Bell handed over the photograph. Karanga examined it. “Interracial family, from what I hear.”

“What difference does it make?” Bell asked.

“Rich kid, right? Which parent is black?”

“The mother.”

“The mother. Usually it's the other way around.” Karanga sneered. “You know something, Dee-tective Bell, it wouldn't bother me a bit if they blew the little half-breed away.”With that, he ripped the photograph in half.

Bell lost control. With his huge left hand, he seized Karanga's throat and started squeezing. With his right, he jammed the muzzle of his Beretta against Karanga's temple. “You motherfucking piece of shit!”

The security door flew open and three BLF toughs appeared, leveling assault rifles. Karanga thrashed around in the detective's grip, choking. Bell spun him around to use him as a shield. Then, squeezing Karanga's windpipe in the crook of his elbow, he leveled his own gun at the trio.

“Go ahead, shoot!” Bell yelled. “Let's see how many homies gonna die—right here, right now!”

The thugs froze in place. Slowly Bell backed down the stairs to the street, dragging Karanga with him. Karanga thrashed about in the chokehold, fighting to breathe. With his peripheral vision, Bell saw three federal agents leap from the surveillance van and crouch low, brandishing
automatic weapons of their own.

For a very long moment, there was a standoff. The BLF men remained frozen. Moving backward, Bell eased down the slippery sidewalk toward the agents, dragging the gasping Karanga along with him. He hissed in the revolutionary's ear.

“You are a piece of shit, you know that, Tyrone? I'm sorry I saved your black ass. If those feds weren't behind me, I'd blow your fucking brains out right now.”

When he reached the crouching agents, Bell wrestled Karanga down to the snow. The agents quickly disarmed and handcuffed him. “So what do we do with this guy?” one asked.

Bell didn't answer. Out of nowhere, a crowd was gathering, all black. Bell looked at them, then holstered his weapon. In disgust, he started to walk away. One of the feds shouted after him: “Hey, man, you gave us a prisoner! What the hell do we do with him?”

“As far as I'm concerned, you can dump the motherfucker in the river!” Bell answered, loud enough for the onlookers to hear. He just kept walking, not looking back, shaking with rage. He didn't even notice that heavy snow was falling again.

Kane sat on a wooden chair in the dank farmhouse basement, trying to place the familiar smell. Eric Klemmer leaned against a huge, cluttered workbench, staring at Kane's face.

“Something bothering you?” Kane demanded.

Klemmer smiled. “You bear an uncanny resemblance to Billy.”

“Why does that surprise you? I was his brother.”

“You still
are
his brother.” He shook his head. “It's like looking at a ghost.”

Kane fought a smile as he considered the irony of that statement. His own imminent death had become a private joke.

“I was fond of Billy,” Klemmer continued. “Most men I've encountered in various prisons have been Neanderthals—even the Caucasians. But Billy—Billy was always reading, improving his mind. I wanted him to be my Minister of Information.”

Kane held his tongue. He looked away from Klemmer to examine the room. Across from the furnace, Nazi and neo-Nazi paraphernalia
covered an entire wall. The intersecting wall was covered with exotic firearms, notably assault weapons.

“I assure you that everything you see there is perfectly legal,” Klemmer laughed. “If it weren't, would I let a cop in here?”

“I'm not your typical cop,” Kane said.

“I know. Billy told me about you.” He got up and began pacing about. “You know, sometimes it's just luck of the draw, the way we turn out. Billy said more than once that he always expected that you would wind up in prison.” He smiled again. “Did you know your brother said things like that about you?”

Kane shrugged. “Billy was always running his mouth off. That's why he kept getting caught.”

“You can learn a lot about a man in a prison, if you pay attention. You also can learn a lot about his family.”

“What are you driving at, Klemmer?”

“We'll get to that after you tell me why you're here.”

Kane pulled out the picture of Darryl Childress and told the story. As he talked, Klemmer's eyes were riveted on the photo.

“Tell me something, Ralph. What on earth makes you think an organization like mine would help you find a little mongrel African?”

“Maybe a favor? Like a memorial. A favor to me, in memory of Billy.”

“Why would you think that? We're the White Brotherhood.”

Kane nodded. “I know. But I figured maybe you'd want to discourage white inmates from partnerships with niggers.”

“Niggers?”

“Yeah. These assholes are salt-and-pepper, a white guy capering with a nigger.”

Klemmer laughed. “I hope your Internal Affairs people never learn that you used that word. You do remember that unfortunate detective in Los Angeles, the guy in the Simpson case.”

“Well,” said Kane, “there's no one here but us kids. Not unless the feds have a bug in the furnace.”

Klemmer shook his head. “So how do you know it was a white guy and a nigger? The kid must have had a lot of insurance, and the mother's the only witness. How do you know the family didn't arrange it? The kid's a jungle bunny. You know the value those people put on human life.”

What a sick fuck! “No, this was a righteous kidnapping,” Kane said. “Darryl was worth a lot more to them alive than dead.”

Klemmer sat down and again examined the photo. “This boy represents race pollution at its worst. On TV, no less! I wonder what the Fuhrer would have done with the parents of such a child.”